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Last week's
80 degree day, stolen from the greedy jaws of winter, proved
to be too tempting to pass up. Which explains why Kris and
I stole an hour or two to do a little gardening. While we
weren't rushing the season, we did uncover a few beds, cut
back a few stalks, and bag a few leaves. This is the time
of year when gardeners begin to get itchy. Farmers, too. Not
that I am adept at either. But more on that in a moment.
Fortunately,
there are enough "soil and seed" stories in the
gospel to make gardeners and farmers feel at home. In fact,
there are at least seven seed/soil stories (told in parable
form), primarily in the gospel of Matthew. Ironically, Jesus
tells these stories from a boat. It appears that a crowd of
people drive him from the beach. So we are left with this
somewhat incongruous picture of Jesus bobbing on the water,
talking about things that happen on the land. All of these
stories are "kingdom" parables, meaning that they
talk about how things are going to appear when they are as
God intends them to be.
Most of
the parables employ simple images ... everyday things, really.
Someone once suggested that speaking in parables is Jesus'
way of keeping out of jail. Meaning that some of Jesus' points
might prove controversial ... even objectionable ... if heard
by the wrong ears. So Jesus puts them in story form, ensuring
that they will go over the heads of all but the people for
whom they were intended. Which explains why many of Jesus'
stories end with the admonition: "He who has ears, let
him hear."
Moments
ago, I read the ever-familiar Parable of the Sower. Which
is certainly not new news. Most of you have heard it before.
And I have certainly preached it before. Generally speaking,
it is preached as if entitled "The Parable of the Soils."
Four soils, to be exact. The sower starts with a supply of
seed. Whereupon the parable describes the soils upon which
he throws it. This isn't rocket science. Some seeds fall on
the path. Which is not a very good place for seed. People
walk on paths. Paths get packed down. Seeds can't penetrate.
Birds come and eat the seeds. All in all, not a good policy.
Other
seed falls on rocky ground. This could mean soil that has
rocks in it. But it probably means soil that has a close-to-the-surface
layer of rock beneath it. Seeds take root. But the roots don't
go very deep (because of the rock, don't you see). So when
the sun gets hot, the soil gets scorched. Seeds burn. Plants
wither and die. Nothing grows.
Still
additional seeds fall into receptive soil. But the soil is
too receptive. It harbors anything. It'll grow anything. It'll
grow thorns. It'll grow thistles. It'll grow weeds. None of
which are compatible with plants. Everything gets all tangled
up. The good stuff gets choked out. Good start. Bad outcome.
Whereupon
the parable concludes with seed falling into "good soil,"
thereby producing a wonderful harvest. Assuming that the seed
is thrown upon all four soils equally, the sower gets about
a 25 percent return on his investment.
Most sermons
on this text then refocus the question to read: "What
kind of soil are you?" Or, to the degree that the question
is directed inwardly: "What kind of soil am I?"
Am I hard headed? Am I shallow? Do I entertain all kinds of
other "seeds," to the degree that the "good
stuff" always gets choked out by the "bad stuff?"
Those are the kinds of sermons people usually preach on this
text. How do I know that? Because I've preached them. Look
for my last such effort under the title: "Good Dirt."
Maybe some of you remember the sermon. I encouraged you to
be the best dirt possible.
But, having
preached that sermon, why preach it again? Especially when
there is another way I can put the text to work. Instead of
asking, "What kind of soil am I?", why don't I ask:
"What kind of sower is God?" How does God plant?
How does God garden? How does God farm?
Not the
same way I do, that's for sure. Not that I spend much time
with my hands in the dirt. Which is a good thing, given that
I was born with two brown thumbs. Don't ever trust me with
your houseplants. I can kill anything. Fortunately, I am married
to a lady with two green thumbs. And eight green fingers.
She knows what to plant ... when to plant ... where to plant
... and how to plant. I just follow her around with a shovel.
She decides where things should go. I dig the holes. But we
have reached an important accord, as concerns this division
of labor. I tell her to make sure that she knows where something
should go before I put the shovel in the ground. In other
words, I don't mind digging the hole once. But it gets tiresome
when I dig the same hole two or three times. Which isn't a
big deal here in Birmingham (where the soil is workable).
But it was a big deal in Farmington Hills where the soil (thanks
to a vein of clay) was sometimes impenetrable.
Sometimes
Kris and I will be driving past one of those "big foot
houses" and we will see professional landscapers working
feverishly on shrubs and flowers. Invariably, I will remark
at how good things look. But Kris will note that things are
being planted too close together. To my untrained eye, everything
looks just fine. But Kris can see further down the road. She
can see what is going to happen next year or the year after
that. Which is when the plantings will bunch up and crowd
together. In other words, one has to garden with a decade-long
horizon in mind. That way, the plants and shrubs will grow
into spaces which, at the immediate moment, would seem too
big for them.
But it
wasn't Kris who gave me my first lesson in planting. It was
my grandmother Meyers. I couldn't have been more than four
or five years old. But she had a wonderful garden and invited
my participation. I learned how to make a small trough in
the soil, lining it up carefully with the aid of a string.
Then she taught me how to plant one seed at a time, carefully
placing it with my fingers in the trough. Using my hand breadth
as a measurement, I learned how far apart to place each seed.
I also learned how deep to place each seed. Then she taught
me how to "cover" by carefully filling the trough
with dirt and tapping it gently with the back of my hoe. Planting
was a precise art with my grandmother Meyers. And the results
she received reflected the pains that she took.
Alas,
the "sower" in our story is not like me. Neither
is he like my grandmother Meyers. This sower "scatters"
seed. I mean, he flings it with holy abandon. He flings it
on good soil and bad soil. He flings it from the gravel pit
to the parking lot. He flings it on rooftops and creek beds
... in wheat field and weed fields ... on the lawn in front
of the church and on the road in front of the church. The
sower in our story is the original "broadcaster."
Which is an interesting play on words. Most of us think of
a broadcaster as one who gives voice to the news or delivers
the play-by-play via radio. But the verb "to broadcast"
was in vogue long before we had radio. It had to do with a
methodology of seed delivery. The sower scooped seed from
a sack ... or from a pouch made by an over-sized apron ...
flinging it hither and yon as he walked to and fro. This is
the methodology described in the parable. Which my grandmother
wouldn't have been able to comprehend. But which will preach
... to all who have "ears to hear" ... and half
a brain.
Concerning
the Parable of The Broadcaster, let me make two points. The
first concerns the extravagance of God. This certainly isn't
how I would plant seeds. Not if I expected an abundant harvest.
I would concentrate on areas of greatest return. I would plant
where others had planted before. I would focus on pre-plowed
ground. I would fling my seeds in good neighborhoods ... growing
neighborhoods ... filled with good people. If I were going
to fling my seeds over children, I would seek out kids in
a Vacation Bible School, while staying away from kids smoking
pot in an alley. Twenty years ago, I told Kris we ought to
consider moving to Texas or Oklahoma. At least Georgia or
North Carolina. When she asked why, I told her about the Bible
Belt. I mean, if you are going to preach, you might as well
preach in a part of the country where other preachers have
been productive. Not that we considered it very long. But
we considered it.
Then,
about a decade ago, I had an opportunity to move to Grand
Rapids. Which sounded appealing for a similar reason. I mean,
if Michigan has a Bible Belt, it's in Grand Rapids. To be
sure, one would have to go head-to-head with all those Reformed
churches. But, in a city of 200,000 (where the newspaper still
has an entire Saturday section devoted to religion), one would
have a running start. I mean, the fields of Grand Rapids are
fertile soil for preachers. Obviously, we didn't go there.
But we considered it.
But, if
the parable of the sower is to be trusted, such things matter
little to God. While God would like a maximum return (see
the Parable of the Talents), He is not about to limit his
"sowing" to fields of proven harvest ... or abundant
promise.
But more
than "the extravagance of God," the parable talks
about "the confidence of God." God is confident
that He will not run out of seed. For you wouldn't plant this
way if you didn't have an endless supply. You would worry
about running out. Which worries God not one iota. Even though
it worries us.
It's something
we learn early in life. Picture a small nuclear family ...
mother, father, and one child. Suddenly, mother learns that
she is about to have a second child. She is excited. Father
is excited. But their "only child" (at least, for
the present time their "only child") is far from
excited. Their child fears that one additional kid will mean
less love for each kid ... or less attention for each kid
... or less food for each kid ... or fewer toys for each kid.
And when the first kid finally gets used to having the second
kid around, neither the first or second kid is terribly excited
about a third kid. Same concern. Same anxiety. What's more,
the parents may even have a bit of anxiety. Because they are
into "supply side worries" too. Fortunately, none
of this makes any sense to God ... given his willy-nilly approach
to seed distribution. God is sure there will be enough.
*
* * * *
Kindly
permit me to recast the parable for you. I am going to do
a little creative editing. But I don't think it will damage
the text. And it may enhance the point. You be the judge.
Once upon
a time, a sower went out to sow. Reaching into his pouch,
he cast some seed upon the path. But as he stepped aside to
admire his work, he saw the birds come. So he stopped, figuring
he'd better do something about the birds. He gathered some
stakes, some string and some aluminum pie tins. Hanging the
pie tins along the path, he figured they would distract the
birds. At least, that's what somebody told him. Then he went
down to the True Value Hardware Store and bought one of those
fake owls. He also bought a few traps and a shotgun. He set
the traps along the ground. Then he rigged the shotgun to
fire every thirty seconds. He figured if the pie pans didn't
distract them, and the owl didn't scare them, and the traps
didn't catch them, the resonant blast of the shotgun would
cause the birds to fly for cover.
With this
done, he went back to sowing. More seed. More flinging. Stepping
back to admire his work, he noticed that his most recent handfuls
had landed in rocky soil. So he laid down his pouch and picked
up his shovel. He dug rocks from everywhere. Then he raked
them into a pile and lifted them into a wheelbarrow. Load
after load, he wheeled from the field ... all the while wondering
what he could build with the rocks when he was through sowing.
Back at
it he went ... to the sowing, I mean. Which is when he noticed
all the thistles and briars in the field. Figuring he had
better clear them away, he put on his gardening gloves and
went to work. After several hours of pulling by hand, he went
back to True Value Hardware and bought himself some Weed-Be-Gone.
Then he went to his workshop, he jury-rigged a sprayer, and
finished the job. By this time he was tired. So he went home
and read seed catalogs until he fell asleep ... dreaming of
a rich harvest.
The next
morning he went out to check on his work. Upon reaching the
path, he found more birds than were there yesterday. None
of the distractions were working. All of the birds were eating.
And there was even a gigantic crow sitting on the head of
his plastic owl.
On to
the rocky field he went. Would you believe that he couldn't
even tell where he'd removed the rocks the day before? They
must have been pregnant rocks, re-multiplying by night.
On to
the field he had cleared of briars and thistles. Same problem
as yesterday. He couldn't even tell he had been there. Maybe
he hadn't gotten the roots. Or maybe the wind had carried
thistle seeds and dropped them right where he had been weeding.
What to
do? Well, he pushed his cap back and began to laugh. And then
he laughed some more. In fact, he laughed so hard he began
to wheeze (struggling to catch his breath). Half laughing
... half wheezing ... he gave one of those "so whatcha
gonna do" motions with his arms, whereupon he went back
to his seed pouch and began flinging seeds everywhere. He
sent them to the tops of trees and to the roofs of barns.
He threw them in his yard and his neighbor's yard. Some he
gave to the cows. A handful he gave to the dog. And some he
flung in the creek, figuring that they might take root some
place downstream. The more he sowed, the more he seemed to
have. Not that it made sense to anyone who watched him. But
in a strange and wonderful way, it made sense to him. And
as he kept sowing and seeding ... wheezing and laughing ...
he had to admit that he'd never been happier. No, he'd never
been happier in his life.
Note:
I am far from the first to "tweak" the parable so
that the focus is placed on one sower rather than four soils.
But none has ever done it quite as imaginatively as Barbara
Brown Taylor in a decade-old sermon, first preached on The
Protestant Hour. Once again, I stand in her debt ... doubting
that it will be the last time.
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