Unless a Grain of Wheat Falls Into the Earth and Dies

“…[U]nless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone;”

The verse came to mind as I glanced over the little seedlings freshly sprouting above the surface.

My mind replayed my 3-year-old daughter tucking the seeds into the dark soil and burying them.

I thought about the handful of days they spent in darkness—life churning where our eyes could not see.

I felt a tinge of grief as I recognized how those words were used against me.

“…unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.…”

It was almost grandfatherly, the way these words were offered to me the first time I heard them—and yet the application was diabolical.

I remembered a much younger version of myself—sitting across the desk from my pastor at the time. Questions were swirling. My very conscience had been rebuked. My confusion had been vilified. My concerns labeled rebellion. Everything that seemed right had been turned upside down and I could not reconcile the discrepancies. I was paralyzed in disbelief as my mind raced to make sense of it.

I didn’t know it then, but I know now that this was coercive control.

In that meeting, when I was bewildered and disoriented, I was given this scripture, assured the problem was me, and then I was given the admonition to ‘die.’

Bit by bit, over time, everything healthy and good and human was stripped away as I struggled to survive in that environment—to be good enough and productive enough.

In that context, ‘death’ was excruciating.

My instincts weren’t acceptable—they had to die.

My ambitions weren’t aligned—they had to die.

My personality was a spiritual problem—it had to die.

My conscience wasn’t consistent with the leader’s will—it had to die.

Boundaries were intolerable—they had to die.

My family, friends, and mentors weren’t approved of—relationships had to die.

Nothing was left untouched.

You crucify yourself to serve the leader.

Don’t ask questions.

Submit.

Obey.

Work harder.

Harder.

HARDER.

Thoughts were policed. Conscience was hijacked. Autonomy was crushed.

I died—over and over again—to appease, to satisfy, to be acceptable, to obtain reprieve, to secure safety.

“No room for self” was the motto.

“…unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies…”

I felt a crushing ache in my chest as the false comfort I had once drawn from that verse unraveled.

The words had once been a consistent reassurance to me—because they were given to me by one I was taught to trust and they came with his assurance.

That if I die enough… God will be pleased with me.

If I submit to my authority, God won’t kill me.

If I am silent… If I don’t ask questions…if I work harder—God won’t be upset with me.

If I relinquish everything… my ambitions, my personality, my objections… I will be safe.

The ‘man of God’ says I must be broken… so I must let him break me.

God will honor that.

Hot tears.

God’s Word.

Beautiful.

Holy.

Righteous.

Good.

God’s precious, inspired Word.

Twisted.

Mangled.

Distorted.

Abused.

Insidious evil.

A dichotomy that is seared into my psyche.

Two men hold a Bible.

One holds a lamp that leads men out of impenetrable darkness.

The other leaves a trail of carnage everywhere he goes.

The carnage makes me tremble…

But the Gospel grips my heart.

I stared at the tiny seedlings as a surge of holy gratitude welled up within me.

I thought of that Gospel.

I thought of Christ.

I thought of His Word, and marveled at its power to shatter darkness.

Marveled that it shattered my own darkness.

Marveled that the Holy Spirit teaches us.

Faithfully.

Patiently.

Over time.

I poked one of the empty seed casings around in the dirt and felt the comfort of John 12:24 as it settled over me—in context.

I was told that I was the grain of wheat and I believed it.

The more I died the more productive I’d be. The better I’d be. The more God would love me and favor me and look kindly upon me.

Die deeper.

Die harder.

Die until nothing of me remained.

So I died and died and died.

Broken.

Battered.

Exhausted.

Brought to the brink of literal physical death trying to serve and please…

But I am not the grain of wheat.

Do you know Who the grain of wheat is?

I could weep just to think of it.

Not me.

“Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”—John 12:24

Jesus Christ is the grain of wheat!

He was the one buried in the darkness of the earth.

He was the one who entered death.

He was the one who was crushed beneath the weight of sin.

And from His death—life burst forth.

Life for the crushed.

Life for the deceived.

Life for those buried under twisted gospels and spiritual tyranny.

Life for me.

Not the fragile life of human effort.

Not the tortured life of self-annihilation.

Not the endless futility of impossible standards.

Resurrection life.

The life of Christ.

Because the truth is this:

I was already dead.

“And you were dead in the trespasses and sins in which you once walked…” —Ephesians 2:1

I did not need to die harder.

I needed to be made alive.

And no amount of work or being good or submitting to man was ever going to get me there.

“But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us… made us alive together with Christ.” —Ephesians 2:4–5

Voices relentlessly demanded death from me.

But those voices have been silenced.

The Grain of Wheat has already died.

The Grain of Wheat fell into the earth.

The tomb closed over Him.

And three days later—

life burst out of the ground.

My heart rejoices as I recall Christ’s words:

“Because I live, you also will live.” —John 14:19

I live.

Not because I died well enough.

Not because I crushed myself deeply enough.

Not because I proved my devotion through suffering.

But because Christ died.

Once.

Fully.

Perfectly.

And because He lives—

I live.