I recently had the honor of speaking at the Acres U.S.A. 50th anniversary conference, an event that has carried the conversation about ecological agriculture for half a century. Acres has been a steady steward of soil-centered truth since long before it was fashionable, before politicians discovered the language of regeneration, and before social media romanticized farm life. Sitting among people who’ve spent decades coaxing life from the ground, I felt both humbled and grateful. It felt like stepping into a lineage.
Everywhere I turned, giants of the movement shared their stories. Rick Clark explained how he farms 7,000 acres without synthetic fertilizer; Joel Salatin reminded us that no farm is ever truly “full,” since a single space can serve multiple functions; Will Harris described how rebuilding White Oak Pastures breathed life back into Bluffton, Georgia; and John Kempf offered deeply informed guidance on what the soil is asking of us. Although they came from different regions, scales, and experiences, a single theme threaded every talk.
Slide after slide showed haunting images of disappearing topsoil. Whether the session focused on market gardening, grain farming, or grazing systems, every presentation eventually reached a moment at which the screen filled with bare fields, gullies carved by runoff, and dust storms lifting earth into the sky. And alongside these images came a unified message: The solution is stewardship.
This doesn’t mean management in the modern sense of control and extraction, but rather stewardship: a relationship with the land that respects its biology, structure, and limits. Every farmer, whether tending vegetables, cattle, or cover crops, pointed to the same truth: When we steward the soil, it rebuilds; when we misuse it or push it beyond its limits, it erodes.
As I sat there, image after image of vanishing soil stirred a parallel within me. Soil erosion isn’t just the crisis beneath our fields; it mirrors what’s happening in our culture. Soil doesn’t erode all at once. It weakens slowly. Life within it fades. Then one storm—one hard rain or brutal wind—and what held strong for generations is gone.
Isn’t that what we’re seeing in society? The erosion of meaning, of family, and of our ability to withstand storms, whether economic, emotional, or moral. And just like soil, cultural erosion happens quietly, long before the damage becomes visible.
The farmers who were thriving had something in common: They were farming for the future. Their methods often came with higher upfront costs—not just money, but also effort. More work. More patience. More thoughtfulness. Sometimes the cost was restraint: choosing to not take the easy route, instead aligning with what would strengthen the land. They made these choices because they understood what soil teaches again and again: When we act out of alignment with what is true and good, something in us weakens. When we act in alignment, life returns.
But many farmers today are farming for the now, and not because they want to. They’re pushed into short-term decisions by government subsidies and insurance programs that reward immediacy. The system promises security, if you play by its rules and if you fit the forms and satisfy the spreadsheets. Debt pressure does the rest. When the mortgage is due and the bank is watching, it’s nearly impossible to choose the slow, generational path. You farm to survive the year, not to build the next century.
That same pattern echoes through society. Families feel the same pressure. Mortgages, debt, and the high cost of living push parents into choices that may keep the household functioning today but that quietly erode the foundation their children need tomorrow. We choose screens over stories, convenience over connection, ease over depth, all to make it through the day. And like farmers who know that they’re extracting more than they’re giving back, we feel the weakening within. We may not say it, but we know when we’re out of alignment.
At Acres, I heard again and again: Soil heals when life returns. Introduce roots, biology, animals. Protect the ground instead of exposing it. Let living systems knit together. When soil becomes alive, it becomes resilient. It endures, not just against droughts and floods, but also against the unpredictable storms of nature.
And culture is no different.
If we want to rebuild what has eroded, we must bring life back—not symbolic life, but real life. For thousands of years, having children was normal. It joined the human with the divine. It rooted people to God, community, land, and future. Now, childlessness is often framed as enlightened or morally superior. But bringing life into the world, co-creating with God, anchors us to something beyond ourselves. It humbles us. It strengthens us. It forces us to think in generations, not seasons. It binds us to purpose.
When farmers bring life back to soil, the soil becomes strong. When families bring life into the world, society becomes strong. Both require sacrifice, long-term thinking, and trust in something greater than immediate comfort.
Listening to Clark, Salatin, Harris, Kempf, and so many others, I realized: The soil and the culture are offering the same message. Erosion is not inevitable. But neither is renewal. Renewal depends on stewardship. On choosing the longer, harder, truer path. On bringing life back, even when life asks everything of us.
For 50 years, Acres U.S.A. has been teaching this lesson. The land still teaches it. And now, more than ever, our society needs to listen.
