Out of the Labyrinth, Into the Garden
How a Scar in the Soil Became a Portal into Kingdom Expansion
By Josh Singleton | Founder, The Neighborhood Garden Project
It started with a ring. Not one made by hands, but by something deeper—something older than brick, older than programs, older than religion itself. Mushrooms had begun to form in a quiet arc beneath a tall tallow tree in the garden. At first, I thought it was just a moisture pattern or the natural cycle of decay. But the more I stood there, the clearer it became. This wasn’t just mushrooms. This was a Kingdom parable. The ring had formed in a direction. Not randomly. It was growing away from the church’s labyrinth and toward the garden.
The mushrooms weren’t the only surprise. They had grown beneath a tallow tree—a species many consider invasive, unwanted, and uninvited. And yet, here it stands. Strong. Established. Bearing witness. Maybe that’s part of the message too. God often grows Kingdom truth beneath what others have labeled as unworthy. He uses what we overlook. He cultivates resilience through what’s misunderstood. The tallow tree became the canopy for this parable. And the soil beneath it began to preach.
The ring of mushrooms looked nearly perfect—except for one thing: a break. A gap in the arc. Right where years of herbicide had once been sprayed to preserve the visual order of the church labyrinth. That space, once used to control appearance, now refused to bear life. The mushrooms didn’t avoid it by chance. They grew around it. The soil remembered. And the Kingdom doesn’t grow where control has hardened the ground. But here’s what struck me: that very break—once used to suppress life—had now become the entry point. The portal for those willing to walk into something new.
This is the pattern of Heaven. God doesn’t erase scars. He transforms them. What once stopped growth now marks the place where new life can begin. The very line that once kept things neat and managed is now the threshold into the garden. The mushrooms aren’t circling back. They’re moving forward—and they’re leaving room for anyone ready to join the expansion.
Not long ago, a regular visitor to the garden looked at the tallow tree and said, “This tree has to go.” There was no curiosity. No regard for the life it hosts. Just a quick dismissal, shaped by inconvenience and memory. Like so many, they weren’t seeing this tree. They were reacting to the ghost of another one—some past frustration, some history of raking or sweeping or fighting its wildness. And because of that, they missed its purpose. The air it cleans. The birds it feeds. The shade it casts. The soil it protects. The network it nourishes. All of it erased in a breath because it didn’t match their idea of what belongs in a “good” garden. But the Kingdom doesn’t grow by our preferences. It grows by design. And sometimes the most important trees are the ones we’re quickest to cut down—not because they’re bad, but because they expose how much we still want to control what’s been entrusted to us.
Over the last three years, I’ve knowingly mowed in fallen tallow branches—wood dropped after storms, leaves layered through every season, and debris left to rest at the tree’s base. Tallow trees are often called trash trees—not because they’re useless, but because they challenge our sense of aesthetic control. They drop constantly. They interrupt our clean lines. But maybe that’s their wisdom. Maybe they were designed to drop. To offend our tidiness. To invite us to participate in a slower rhythm—one that feeds the ground beneath instead of constantly managing what’s above. Every time I mowed those branches back into the earth, I was feeding something I couldn’t yet see. The tree wasn’t being wasteful—it was preparing the soil. What others call mess was actually provision, nourishing the hidden mycelium, building the conditions for Kingdom fruit to rise when the time was right.
What we see in the mushroom ring is just the surface. The real life—the intelligence, the design, the connection—is happening underground through a living system called mycelium. Mycelium is the vegetative network of fungi—a vast, thread-like web made up of hyphae, microscopic filaments that stretch through soil like living wires. This network can span miles underground, connecting not just mushrooms, but entire ecosystems of trees, plants, and microbial life. It serves as a decomposer, breaking down organic matter like dead roots, leaves, and fallen wood into usable nutrients. It functions as a transporter, moving carbon, nitrogen, phosphorus, and water from one plant to another—sometimes even between different species of trees. It’s a communication line, transmitting chemical signals between plants to warn of pests or drought, helping the forest respond as a unified body. It’s a healer, restoring microbial balance in damaged or toxic soils, often creating new conditions for life where decay once ruled. And it’s a protector, shielding roots from disease through microbial cooperation known as symbiosis.
Some scientists call this the “Wood Wide Web.” Others now describe it as nature’s neural network—because it doesn’t just grow, it learns. It maps. It remembers. It adapts to pressure. And it doesn’t grow in isolation. It thrives through mutual exchange—relational generosity built into the soil itself. This is why mushrooms only appear after rain. The fruit comes when the conditions are right—but the mycelium has been preparing long before that moment. The mushrooms are not the beginning. They’re the announcement. And the Kingdom works exactly the same way.
The more we learn about mycelium, the more we realize it mirrors the rhythms of the Kingdom: hidden first, then revealed; sustained by surrender, not striving; relational by design—not competitive, but connected; resilient through pressure, adaptable through pruning; and multiplying only when the time is ripe. What feels like slow decay to the world is actually divine preparation underground. Jesus said the Kingdom of Heaven is like a seed, like leaven, like something buried. Mycelium is that parable made visible in creation. It is the underground economy of resurrection. It feeds the fruit. And when the fruit breaks through, it's not a beginning—it’s a prophetic signal of what the soil has been doing all along.
This isn’t just a mushroom ring. And this isn’t just any garden. It sits on Episcopal grounds—a space rooted in tradition, ritual, and sacred order. The brick-laid labyrinth was built for reflection, a place to turn inward and find center. But the mushroom ring doesn’t affirm the labyrinth. It’s leaving it. And that’s no insult to the Church. It’s a sign of fulfillment. The Kingdom isn’t rebelling. It’s awakening—beneath the institution, not against it. The soil is testifying: “There’s more. The life is moving again. Not in circles. In multiplication. Not in structures. In soil.”
This isn’t the story of a church losing relevance. It’s the story of the Kingdom breaking out. The tallow tree wasn’t supposed to be here. The mushrooms weren’t supposed to grow like this. And yet—they are. Because the Kingdom has never followed our rules. It grows through surrender. It expands through scars. It welcomes the willing—through portals that only appear to those who stop and look.
The mushrooms didn’t grow toward the altar. They grew toward the soil. Toward the beds where people gather. Where hands get dirty. Where fruit can actually be shared. That’s where the Kingdom is headed now. So let the circle break. Let the past be honored—but not preserved at the cost of new life. And let those who are watching know: the break is not a mistake. The scar is now sacred. The path forward is open. And the garden is calling.
The mushrooms came quickly after the rain—and they won’t stay long. That’s how it always works. Mycelium lives underground for months, even years. But when the right conditions come—when heaven meets soil—they emerge fast, show their fruit, and then disappear. This is how the Kingdom walks. It’s not designed for the comfortable. It doesn’t linger for the lukewarm. It invites—but it doesn’t beg. It appears—but it doesn’t wait. It’s a walking-with reality—always moving, always alive, always expanding. If you need time to weigh the cost, the ring might fade. If you need the conditions to be safe, the portal may close. But for those who are awake, surrendered, and willing to walk in real time—the garden is already open. The mushrooms came and went. The rain passed. But the invitation remains.
By the end of the day, the mushrooms will be gone. Mowed like any other patch of grass. Not out of rejection, just routine. The witness will vanish before most even knew it appeared. And that’s the nature of Kingdom signs—they don’t linger. They show up for those who are listening. They emerge when the conditions align. And then they return to the hidden, waiting again for the next soul soft enough to see. The ring wasn’t here to be preserved. It was here to be perceived.
But don’t be fooled—mowing the mushrooms doesn’t end the message. It only removes the fruit. The mycelium beneath remains fully alive, fully connected, and fully engaged in its underground assignment. In fact, the broken mushrooms become nourishment. What was dismissed becomes fuel. And the Kingdom keeps moving—quietly, patiently, relentlessly. Hidden again. But never gone.
