Elemental Metaphysical Prosaic-Poetical

Further reflections on Pastor Rick's Sunday Sermon:

If the spirit is a wind, a fire, a rain, then who is the soil which grows the seed?
I used to think I was the soil, the mire of sticky clay and squishy peat;
I used to think that the spirit would wash the salt into my soil, fertilizing, making my life into a fecund and virile plot of land fit for growing a soul, a spirit, a wonder tribute to the maker;
I used to think that my soul, my will, my self was the seed that Christ planted in me.
What if the soil is more than just me?
What if the soil is my people?
What if the seed is more than just me; what if it's a kingdom that grows precariously in the midst of my home, my church, my school, my hamlet, my province, my nation?
What if the air, the wind, is the medium of all that is outside the soil; the Spirit's realm, the realm of our spirits, where he moves us and refreshes us and burns us; the realm that our seed is growing into?
What if the fire, the Spirit's heat and light, will provide the energy that I can use to make my words and deeds, that we can use to make our words and deeds, into that glorious tribute?
What if I'm the one washed into the spongy slick of that community by the rain of the spirit?
What if I'm the salt of my people, the nitrogen that feeds and fills and infuses the cells with richness?

What am I doing, then, writing this here?