“Listen then to what the parable of the sower means:”
I know a seed is just one man or another. But can the seed also be just one part or another of me?
“A farmer went out to sow his seed.”
I am only a woman. I am only twenty-one. I have only seen the Kingdom of God so many times that you think I would see it in everything by now. One would think. But no. I see so many beautiful things the Triune God has provided for in my life. I see so many things that he has created and established and given to and for me that I should be in constant praise of those wondrous things, people, or events. But not always. For days? Maybe. For hours? More likely. For a moment or two? Even more likely. For my life? Not probably. In fact, definitely not.
I long for the fruitful life. I long for the passion of Christ to live and breathe within me, for constant praise of the Father, for actions within the embracing and guiding arms of the Spirit. I long to see the wonder and the joy and the love that comes with the presence of the Triune God in the very foundation and existence of my life. In our lives. In every life. In living. I long for my life to bear fruit in witness to these truths and this praise.
Bearing fruit starts with seeds. I like to think of these seeds as “heirloom:” from generations and generations of the fruit-bearing believers, proclaimers, and witnesses of Christ. “Heirlooms” of the laws of God and eager response to the Spirit. These “heirloom” fruits have planted seeds in me. Little by little or heaps by heaps, I have been blessed with the precious gift of seeds of love, seeds of forgiveness, seeds of compassion, seeds of truth-seeking.
Then there are seeds of mistrust, seeds of discouragement, seeds of heartache, seeds of self-preservation. These seeds get a lot of water. These seeds get a lot of tending. These seeds get only the best fertilizer: cow dung. Shit goes down, seeds go strong. But these aren’t the seeds this farmer wants to sow. I want only the best, only the fruit-bearing, only the beautiful in the garden of my heart.
So I must sow.
“As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up.”
Birds. Squawking, shedding, molting, piercing, pecking. Plenty of humans are birds. “Are you for real?” “You can’t do that,” “I can’t believe you!” “You suck!” “Like you’ll actually make it,” “Go away,” “No way, Jose.” People have a way of clawing into our deepest fears, our strongest hesitations, our blinding insecurities. The birds strip us from any confidence or joy we have in the God that will empower us. The God that has empowered us.
I’ve scattered seed on the path. Thrown pieces of my life and pieces of my heart on the sandy, cobbled causeway have been picked clean as the bones of a well-butchered buffalo. Every empty patch of ground leaves an emptiness of faith. The bared walkway bares my own ineptitudes, perceived or true. When exposed, I tremble at the despair another failure pangs my heart with. Another life-desire or highest goal trampled by the heels of heavy stompers. Extended openness to friends, or not-exactly-friends, crushed into dust by over-zealous toes. It hurts. Being left to the birds.
“Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root.”
Excitement fades quickly. Zealotry burns out like a short-wicked candle. It happens all the time in my garden.
Passions are meant to delve deep into the soul and spring suddenly skyward. Once the growth is so intense, passion should only be strengthened by the roots delving even deeper and the stem seeing more sun and more beauty! This well-meant sowing fails too.
The eagerness and excitement I often experience are also often lacking in devotion, lacking in perseverance, lacking in commitment. There’s no root! There’s no force of my own will to grow in both directions (deeper into commitment, higher into fruitfulness). I only want the fruit—my eyes are on the prize!
Fruit is good. And fruit does bring the feeling of abundant life. More times than I want to acknowledge, I have felt “joy.” I have felt it! Sometimes, that “joy” has been real. But definitely not from the seeds sown on rocks. Most often these rock-solid seeds are built in stones more like an uneven tower hewn from conglomerate crystals—a messy patch of fragmented shards. No place for lasting joy. No place for lasting fruits! Another unsuccessful patch of seeds.
Yet this failed sowing leaves a deeper emptiness than those scattered on the path. These rock-star seeds were so promising! The blossoms brought signs of success and true growth. The sun shone on that day!
Yet just when these seeds begin to flower, the truth of shallow roots exposes a now-gaping wound in the landscape of my heart. Instead of surface crushing and pecking, doubt, fear, anguish, bitterness, and disbelief crowd into the holes where I thought my roots were. Instead of fruits, I end up with a trench of ugly, stone-ridden, uneven tumult of ground. What was once a “gift from God for its smoothness,” is now another failed plot.
“Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants.”
Thorns. They tend to look a bit menacing, a bit scary. Seems sensible to avoid them. But then again, thorns have such character, such intrigue. After all, isn’t the thrill of a challenge so enticing?
I love the adrenaline of a challenge. The accomplishment of a daunting, precarious, or otherwise impossible task is so very satisfying. So very effective at boosting my own sense of power and success. This sounds like the talk of a real thrill-seeker, and it is.
Thorns are a tricky flora. It seems that thorns could also provide a net of personal protection once you’ve conquered them. No one or nothing else could possibly achieve the same success, overcome the same odds that you have weathered to secure your seed’s spot. Who wouldn’t see the value and protection around your hard-earned blossoms and fruit?
But thorns feed on that self-satisfaction you’ve gleaned. What is it you’ve done really to achieve those fruits? What could you really do when a seed falls among thorns? I won’t be reaching through the briars without some thick leather gloves, some heavy-fabric sleeves, a full-covered face mask, and a set of good hedge trimmers. With my armor, I am invincible!!!
Was it me, then, that really brought the flowers? Was it any of my doing that it grew at all?
The thorns remind me of my own tragic flaws. Every time I reach out to touch my success, the reality of my ignorance pierces my heart and strangles my fruit. Thorns use my own ignorant sense of my own strengths to humble me as a farmer. What work can I do but tend the natural life of my scattered seeds? Blossoming must be reliant on something more than just my gardening alone.
“Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop—a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown.”
One pastor told me to “carelessly” throw my seeds.
“Carelessly?” I asked myself. “Surely not.”
“Careless” because instead, God cares for us. God cares for me. God cares for the seeds. God is the great gardener. I may be the farmer; but God keeps the crops. Tending the harvest, God has already set out the soil—God has already laid out the entire landscaping! He paved the sandy, cobbled causeway. He fenced away the brambles. He piled up the rocks. He tilled the perfect soil. All laid out before I stepped up to toss my seeds.
And so I toss. With closed eyes to the spring morning, my hand releases the seeds I hope will fruit, the dreams I wish to live.
And they’re scattered.
Blindly they’re scattered as I cannot see the whole yard. There’s more to the field than my dim horizon. There’s grandeur unimagined that my eyes won’t see. So with closed eyes, though seeing, I do not see. [2]
Please, God! I am only a blind farmer. I have only seen the Kingdom of God far less than it abounds. I am only an eternally young and learning girl. Help me tend the seeds in good soil, and not mourn the death of seeds from birds, from rocks, from thorns. Instead the bounty of crop from good soil is wholly yours, is wholly joyous, and wholly enough. Wholly plentiful and abundant. An abundant life which fruits for You.
“He who has ears, let him hear.”
Audio file: "Then he told them many things in parables," read by EAG
originally written, EAG
August 6, 2011
[1] Matthew 13:1-23
[2] Matthew 13:13-15
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