The Rev. Joseph Farnes
All Saints, Boise
Proper 10A
Over at the rectory, each spring I set out my flowerpots and go to the store and get fresh soil and seeds. For one, seeds are cheaper, and given how much the squirrels at the rectory love to torment me by bringing compost materials and leaving them in my yard AFTER they dig through my flowerpots for funsies, at least I won’t be out as much money that I would be if I got more fully grown plants.
But secondly, I love the look of those seeds. I get marigolds, nasturtiums, and California poppies because they can put up with the heat on my front porch, and the different textures and shapes are just so interesting to look at. This year I got an Idaho native plant assortment of seeds, too. I have no idea what they are, but the colors and shapes and sizes worked for me. I got a bunch, I tossed them into the pots with a little bit of care, put some more soil on top, and then try to remember to water them as best as I can. And curse the squirrels for digging in every single one of my flowerpots and making them all look lopsided and weird once the seeds that were left had a chance to grow.
Because there was not much I could do once the seeds were planted. I couldn’t turn over the soil and put more seeds down to replace what the squirrels had destroyed – that would run the risk of destroying the seeds that had survived. I didn’t want to overcrowd the flowerpots, either. All I could do was shake my fist at the squirrels as they mocked me from the tree as I stared at the mess they made.
And then, all I could do was wait and watch. Wait and watch for traces of sprouts – and hoping that it was what I had sown there that was sprouting instead of a weed or a tree. Some I can tell because I’ve grown them a few times, but others, it’s just pure hope. Wait, and watch, and water. But not too much. But a little more because of the heat and direct sun. But not too much.
There is so much outside of my control each spring and summer as I start my little flower garden on my porch. I choose, and then I wait on much outside my control. Will we get a storm that floods the flowerpots with rain? Will the squirrels continue their swath of destruction of everything I hold dear? Will I go a few too many days without watering? And, fundamentally, were the seeds viable – or were the seeds not going to grow, no matter what I did?
This Gospel parable in time past felt very clear-cut to me because it came with a little explanation at the end. The seed is this, the different kinds of soil are this, the end. Figure out what kind of soil you are, and try to be good soil and bear an abundant harvest.
I see some new things in the parable now.
I think of how the sower sows these seeds and has so little control over them. The seeds get cast and some find receptive soil, some find less-than-good soil. The sower can irrigate, but has to protect the seeds from flooding. But a rainstorm can come and flood it anyway. A persistent bird (or squirrel!) can interfere with the seeds. Weeds can blow in with a windstorm. A rival could even intentionally sow weeds into this field (but that’s a different parable).
If the sower is a preacher or teacher, then there is so much outside that preacher’s control. Once the words have been spoken, it’s up to the ears and hearts they land in to do the next thing. I get up here week after week after reading, studying, discerning, and I’m scattering seeds in the sermon. I’m scattering seeds in little office conversations or committee meetings, or in the brief little time I get to chat after worship, or at coffee hour. The hope is that the seeds land in good soil – that it’s been prepared through prayer and reflection.
But sometimes that’s not the case.
Sometimes, even though I try to choose my words very carefully, what gets heard is not what I meant. That might be because I made the wrong word choice. That might be because I said something that triggered a memory or an emotion buried deep in pain. That might be because, in our day and age, even the most thoughtful word can have social or political connotations that mean we no longer want to listen to what is said.
As a pastor and priest, I want to match the seed to the soil with surgical precision and insight; while some can preach or speak off the cuff even the hardest thing with incredible confidence, that’s hard for me. I always want to know what the soil is like – is it in a good place right now, or is there a lot of pain or sorrow going on? Is the soil receptive, or is the soil too full of other things? Will this seed and soil nourish one another, or am I only making it all worse?
A good part of that comes from me – yes, I want to be precise and do good and not do harm, but there’s some fear there, isn’t there? Sometimes I fear that I’ll make it worse, I’ll be the straw that breaks the proverbial camel’s back, that the soil itself will be mad at me or the seed, and so I hold that seed close to the vest. I hesitate. And so, instead of that confident trust that good seed will land in the soil and something will grow, I find myself so often waiting without sowing the seed, searching for the exact right spot of soil for this particular seed while I also second-guess myself endlessly.
There’s some pastoral vulnerability for you.
Yet how often do we find ourselves holding back on the seeds we are called to sow? Sure, we should all be doing reflection on how to be receptive soil, to be able to discern the truth and let it grow… but what are you called to sow? Is it easy, or is it hard? Do you readily sow the seeds God gives you, or do you find yourself frozen in place like me? Do you trust in the seeds God’s put into your hands, or do you find yourself wondering if they’re good enough to sow, if they’re important enough to sow?
What is it that holds you back from sowing the seeds that God has given you? In the parable, the sower is aware that there is a variety of soil out in this field and is aware of all that challenges that await. And the sower sows anyway.
It’s almost like the sower trusts the soil. The sower trusts that the soil will grow this seed. Some of the soil will be exceptionally good. Some of it might not be great but it’ll grow something. Maybe this isn’t the year for that particular seed, but each seed sown sets the stage for the future, when the soil is healthier and able to grow more.
It’s a collaboration between the soil and the sower. Each are part of this dynamic process, even in the midst of so much neither can control. Neither of them can control the rains or heat, but the soil is ready to support and grow good things, and the seed is ready to germinate and be part of the life cycle of creation. It’s a creative act, sowing the seed; it’s a creative act, being the soil in which the seed can grow, even if it’s an imperfect or unfinished harvest.
It is worth it to sow the seed of God’s goodness and love and wisdom and insight as best as we can, even if we are unsure of the outcome. It may set the stage for the future – who knows! It is worth it to be part of the creative process of sowing and growing, trusting and waiting for something new to be born. It should be exciting, healing – if we are bold enough to sow the seed. And bold enough to sow the seed anyway, knowing that there is a cadre of obnoxious, bored squirrels ready to mess with the seeds and soil as soon as we’re done.