“Is it organic?”
If you're at Whole Foods, you might not have to worry as much. If you're in our fridge or pantry, you might. (No, Trader Joe's cookie butter is not organic—but I believe it is vegan so we have that going for us.)
People want organic, but it comes with a cost. Organic produce runs 50% more on average—and over 100% for some items.
Organic costs more because it requires more attention. The crop might get reduced by bugs, someone might have to hand-weed parts of the field, and the types of products you are allowed to use to remain “certified organic” simply cost more.
And that means your iceberg lettuce costs 180% more than the version you eat in your favorite restaurant salad.
I Want It to “Feel Organic”
Anyone who knows me knows that I have a penchant for structure. I’ve been in plenty of meetings where I harp on the need for a clear plan or process. (I’ve probably triggered some staff reading this.)
At times, I’ve heard the phrase, “Yeah, but we want it to be organic.”
Kiss of death.
“You do know how much work it takes for something to be organic, right?”
Anyone with a garden knows they can’t go a day without giving it attention. Two days and look out. A week? Game over. It takes daily effort. Inattentive gardeners end up with an overgrown planter box and a lot of regret.
My day job (pastoring) is notorious for a love of the organic. Organic as anti-structure, organic as letting the Spirit move, organic as “how it used to be.”1
Nothing wrong, but often misguided—as if any structure automatically kills the thing.
Farming is hard work. And whether the fields you work are literal acreage or the people in your care, the effort to “feel organic” only increases with size. But everyone has a ceiling—and when you hit it, what felt like a garden turns out to be a houseplant.
Personality at Scale
In the work of people, the ceiling that defines organic is less about the reality of what is and isn’t “organic” and more about what one’s personality can tolerate.
I’m not sure how many times I’ve heard some version of “I want to know everyone.”
That’s a personality preference potentially masquerading as a virtue.
What does it mean to know everyone? You mean first-name basis? Able to name all of their kids? Have a meal with them once a month? Daily text thread? What about your neighbors—are you allowed to know them the same way? Co-workers?
“No, I don’t need all of that. I wouldn’t expect that.”
But push into it and the expectation usually comes down to this: people want a relational structure they can personally tolerate.
It’s one’s personality applied to all personalities in the group—an elusive target that is hard to hit for any leader.
When someone says they want the structures to be “organic,” they generally mean something else. Below is a quick video on how leaders can hear the question behind the question.
Know Your Field
We don’t take care of plants at our house. We’ve made that call and are happy with it. We don’t have the drive to take care of plants.
Several years back a freeze knocked out a good number of our bushes out front. They’re still missing. We have no gardens. We’ve removed three trees. I paid a guy to remove the bushes from the back along the garage so I’d have less to manage.
I know my lane.
In the realm of people—vocation, friendships, all of it—I’m obsessive.
There are others in my life who manage fewer relationships by design, or know their temperament enjoys a little less structure. Being great at caring for five people doesn’t mean you need to care for 200. Enjoying more fire pit chats with a few doesn’t mean you need to go start a church bonfire.
Know what that approach gains you and what it costs you. And appreciate the others who contribute differently.
Know what your work requires.
Regardless of approach, it isn’t the size that makes something more or less organic—it’s the attention you give it.
What's your field?
A note to my preacher friends. How come when the Spirit moves in your sermon it always means you go longer rather than shorter? Why does the Spirit need more words through you?