Spring Mulching: Covering What Matters Most
By W.J de Kock, ThD
Educational Consultant to Partners in Ministry
Professor of Practical Theology at Palmer Theological Seminary of Eastern University
9 minute read
It’s now mid-October in Australia, and the suburbs smell like fresh bark and warm soil. Smart gardeners are out early, flannelette shirts rolled to the elbows, tipping wheelbarrows of mulch around roses, citrus, grevilleas, and veggie beds before summer barges in with its esky and sunscreen.
This is the season of protective covering—shielding roots against heat, locking in moisture, feeding the soil, and telling weeds, politely but firmly, “not today, mate.” Mulch looks humble. It also quietly saves gardens from the kind of January meltdowns that leave tomatoes sulking and lemon trees in therapy. Good gardeners know: you don’t wait for crisis; you mulch for it ahead of time.
It’s not about smothering everything in a blanket; it’s about covering what matters most, on purpose, with love and a little science. That’s ministry, too. Thoughtful covering. Wise restraint. Strategic “no” to make room for the right “yes.” Mulch is the quiet sermon your garden preaches to your calendar.
The mulching gospel according to spring.
Good mulch doesn’t get dumped like confetti after a premiership win. It’s laid intentionally, in the places that need protection first: the drip line, the young plants, the beds facing the brunt of the afternoon sun. Mulch keeps the soil cool, slows evaporation, and cuts down water bills; it also blocks light to weed seeds and reduces the constant, soul-sapping pull of things that grow fast and add little.
Mulch retains moisture, regulates temperature, suppresses weeds, and, if organic, feeds the soil as it breaks down.[i] Too little coverage and summer stress bakes the life right out of the roots. Too much and you suffocate them—no water, no air, no room to breathe. Wise gardeners know the Goldilocks zone. Wise pastors should, too.[ii]
Ministry mulching begins with confession: not everything in the garden of your calling is equally important. Some roots are shallower than others. Some beds are more exposed. Some plantings are sentimental, sure, but they can fend for themselves without two wheelbarrows of your best stuff. Mulch teaches triage. You protect what you actually treasure. Jesus put it more elegantly: where your treasure is, there your heart will be also. What you cover—what you shield with time, prayer, presence, and boundaries—reveals your true priorities more loudly than any mission statement. That Scripture doesn’t mince words; it reads bank statements and diaries with equal fluency. “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”[iii] It still stings, and it still saves. Matthew 6:21 has a way of pruning fantasy and spotlighting love.
So, what deserves protective covering right now, before the Christmas sprint?
Start with the root systems that make all else possible. A pastor's Sabbath is not a decorative border on a ministry calendar—it's the soil microbiome that keeps everything alive. Invisible but essential, it's the teeming, hidden network of bacteria, fungi, and microscopic life that supports roots, cycles nutrients, and sustains resilience across seasons. You wouldn't expect a tree to thrive in sterile dirt; don't expect your soul to flourish without structured rest.
Core relationships—spouse, kids, the friend who tells you the truth without flinching—need mulch too, in the form of tech-off hours, unhurried dinners, and phone calls that don’t end with “sorry, I’ve got to run to a meeting.” Mulching here isn’t indulgence; it’s stewardship. It’s also cheaper than counselling in February.
Then, look at ministry beds that carry the most fruit in your context. Not the most noise, not the biggest nostalgia, but the most fruit. If your group for new Australians has become holy ground, cover it with volunteer care, prayer, and realistic scope. If your youth ministry is seeing fragile trust take root, mulch it with consistent presence and fewer competing events that siphon leaders’ energy. If your pastoral visitation feeds isolated saints, protect it from calendared clutter. Mulch is how you say to your summer-self, “I had your back in October.”
Mulch also suppresses weeds, and here the metaphor gets delightfully cheeky.
Every church has ministry weeds—things that spring up fast, look busy, and drink all the water. They can be good ideas in the wrong place or pet projects with rhizomes underground—sending up unexpected shoots long after you thought you have pulled them out. It simply denies them the light they need to dominate. Strategic boundaries are the cardboard layer under your bark chips—simple barriers that stop old patterns from resprouting. That looks like an auto-reply that sets realistic expectations. It looks like a meeting agenda with a finish time that means something. It looks like saying, “That’s a good thought—let’s park it for February.” Mulch says “later” so the essentials can say “now.”
Of course, not all mulch is created equal and not all ministry coverings are equally nourishing.
Organic mulches feed the soil as they decompose—lucerne, straw, leaf litter, compost. They enrich over time, deepening fertility. In ministry, organic coverings are practices that grow you as they protect you: habitual prayer that isn’t performative; Scripture meditation that seasons your speech; spiritual direction and supervision that turn pressure into wisdom; quiet walks that return you to your body and your God. These are not quick fixes. They are slow food for souls.
Inorganic mulches have their place—pebbles, rubber, landscape fabric—but they don’t feed anything. In ministry, the inorganic equivalents are slick hacks that offer immediate coverage without long-term nourishment: another productivity app, another “five-keys book”, another shiny system that accidentally turns people into KPIs. They can help in tight spots, but if that’s your whole layer, don’t expect richer soil in March. Gardens—and churches—can look tidy and still be starving.
Quantity matters. Apply it too thinly and those good intentions will have vanished by Melbourne Cup Day.
Too thick and you create hydrophobic barriers, the dreaded “volcano mulching” that rots trunks and chokes roots. In ministry, the right thickness is enough boundary to keep heat and weeds at bay, without blocking the Spirit’s water and air. If your protective layer stops compassion from soaking in, it’s too much. If it blocks confession and honest laughter, you’ve smothered the bed. Test for permeability. Can truth still penetrate? Can tears still water the soil? Can a neighbour’s need still breathe? Mulch that keeps out everything keeps out grace.
There’s a prophetic edge to mulching: it’s an enacted sermon against the cult of constant sun. Not everything needs exposure. Not everything deserves all your light. Mulch honours the hidden life—the microbes, the roots, the subterranean negotiations that make visible fruit possible. Pastors know this in theory, but ministry often seduces us into spotlighting leaves and starving roots. Mulch is a humble refusal to make that mistake. It’s saying, “The unseen stuff matters most, so I’m going to cover it carefully and let it deepen.”
Think of it as October’s gift to December.
Mulched gardens ride out 40-degree days with more poise and less panic. Mulched ministries handle Advent’s jolts with fewer scorch marks. The carols still stack up, the emails still multiply, the candles still drip on the new carpet, and someone will still ask for Silent Night in a key not found on earth. But the soul beneath? Cooler. Quieter. Less erodible. Because in mid-October, you chose to cover what matters most, on purpose.
There will be hecklers, of course. A voice in your head—or on your council—will say mulching is over-cautious. That voice might prefer to water frantically later. Bless it. Then grab the fork. Because mulching is not a lack of faith; it’s faith with foresight. It believes God works in the soil while you sleep. It trusts that the slow, ordinary things—Sabbath, prayer, presence, clear priorities—will carry more fruit than a spring of sprints. And it knows the difference between mulching and hiding. Mulch is porous. Hiding is plastic. If your boundaries can’t breathe, they’re not boundaries; they’re bunker walls.
So, before the sun gets bossy, lay it down.
Cover the roots of your calling with practices that feed you as they shield you. Tuck your key relationships in under a generous layer of attention. Surround your core programs with clarity and prayer. Cardboard the weeds that keep yelling “urgent” and never graduate to “important.” Choose organic coverings wherever you can—things that will make the soil of your life richer by February. When summer struts in with its heat and headlines, you’ll be ready—not because you hustled harder, but because you loved the roots. And roots, when loved, return the favour.
[i] See “"Why You Should Mulch Your Garden This Spring," Arborclimb Tree Services, accessed October 3, 2025, https://www.arborclimb.com.au/why-you-should-mulch-your-garden-this-spring. Also, "The Benefits of Mulching for Your Spring Garden," Evergreen Trees and Shrubs, accessed October 3, 2025, https://www.evergreentrees.com.au/blogs/plant-care-tips/the-benefits-of-mulching-for-your-spring-garden.
[ii] Same as above
[iii] Matthew 6:21, NIV.