This post is a venture into slightly uncharted, or at least unusual, territory for my blogs. While I have dealt with a couple of scriptural passages or stories, they were seasonal and, I hope, not “preachy,” since I don’t intend this one to be, either.  It does, however, arise legitimately from things I have said in earlier blogs:

• My acknowledgement that, while I cannot “know” with certainty that a Supreme Being/The Great Mystery/God-by-whatever-name exists, I can—and in my best moments do—choose to “believe” that one does;
• If such a Being has a “near side,” I believe we find it in the person of Jesus and in human lives and relationships at their best;
• In his life and in his teachings, Jesus valued above all human persons and human relationships, serving their deepest needs, and calling forth their highest aspirations.
• It is, therefore, the heart of his life and teachings that I value and that leads me to my reason for pursuing this topic.

So, with four gospels and several other books and epistles that are replete with Jesus’ teachings, why choose a single parable?

• First, if one assumes that the synoptic gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—give us a reasonably accurate picture of the ministry of Jesus, we would have to conclude that the use of parables was his most characteristic way of teaching.  Like the rabbis, Jesus used commonplace objects or experiences—a mustard seed, a weed, a coin, a wayward son, an unfortunate traveler—to make a point.  And, in one sense, the point is always the same: the parable is intended to be a mirror and, thus, to evoke the question, “Where do I see myself in this story?” 
• And the further question in this context is why have I chosen this parable among the many? I chose it in part because it appears in all three of the synoptic gospels and, more importantly, because in some ways it applies to, incorporates, all that Jesus taught in other parables, in “sayings,” in “sermons.” At least that’s the way I choose to interpret it and, hopefully, what follows will clarify my point.  I hope you’ll stay with me.

For those who may not know the parable, and as a reminder to those who do, herewith is my brief summary of what appears in Matthew 13:1-9`, Mark 4:3-9, and Luke 8:5-8:

A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the hard surface of the walking path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places where the soil was shallow and produced only plants with weak roots that withered away. Other seeds fell in thorny soil, where weeds overtook and choked out what was planted. And the last area where seeds fell is called “good” ground, where the seeds yielded an abundant harvest. The difference in the soil in each area is not the “richness” of the soil, but the “condition” of the soil that allows it to receive and nurture the seeds.

To get the picture, as William Barclay reminds us in The Daily Study Bible, one needs to know that sowing a field in Palestine in Jesus’ day might be done in one of two ways.  It could be sown much as we might do in a small field or garden with the sower scattering the seed from a sack or container.  The second way was “the lazy way,” but not uncommon: it was to put a sack of seed on a donkey’s back, cut or tear a hole in the sack and “walk the animal up and down the field while the seed ran out.”  In either case, the wind or the meandering donkey or both allowed the seed to fall in all kinds of places, as described in the parable.

So what shall I make of this?  How does it speak to me?  If we look in its mirror, where do we find ourselves? This parable is unusual in that it is one of a small handful of parables for which an interpretation is provided in the text itself.  I would agree with the vast majority of commentators who suggest that the interpretation probably doesn’t belong to the earliest gospel traditions and was not part of the parable as heard by those first listeners, but rather found its way into the oral and then the written traditions as the early church grappled with the application of this parable—which they interpreted, by the way, as an allegory—to their own circumstances. 

“On the one hand,” then—based on the early church’s opportunity to step back and reflect on its meaning—the parable directs itself to the hearers who are identified with the various kinds of soil onto which the seed falls.  In his book, The Waiting Father, Helmut Thielicke, the renowned German preacher and theologian of an earlier generation, introduces this parable by wondering “whether we have caught the sadness that hangs over this story.”  For although the people were flocking to hear Jesus at this point in his ministry, this parable is pointing out that as the fate of the seed depends upon the condition of the soil onto which it falls, the fate of any spoken word depends upon the condition of the heart and mind of the hearer. 

And that is where my interest lies and the reason I suggested that I see this parable as a sort of archetype that stands above or, to change the metaphor, a dome that hovers over and embraces all that Jesus taught in the parables and beyond.  Because the “seeds” that he attempted to plant—the “call” that went out to his listeners over and again—had to do primarily, in my judgment, with seeing God not off among the stars or at the end of an argument, but in children and nature and plain people, in ordinary situations and in opportunities for service.  Because that is where “the water hits the wheel,” where believing in God and caring about the life and teachings of Jesus matters—there must be a connection to human need, such that where our hearts go in compassion, our hands and feet go in tangible helpfulness.  That, in my judgment, is what we should see and hear in the seeds that fall on the soil. In that vein, then, back to the parable.

So some seeds fall on the path.  The path isn’t intended to receive seed; its function is to let people walk on it. Thielicke reminds us that there are still paths, “even asphalted ones; and there are asphalted hearts, too.”  Sometimes hearts and minds are closed, not because people are hostile, but because they are indifferent, or because they fear a captivating call to service which might challenge their comfort or displace some favorite things they want to do.  And so the “call” to serve the needs of the human family—

• which may come conventionally in the words of scripture, liturgy, prayer, or hymn;
• or unconventionally but equally gripping in the words of a play, a movie, a novel, a newspaper;
• or in the images of war, hunger, poverty, or oppression;
•  or in the cry of human need from a friend or a stranger—

bounces off the surface and is lost.  Can we see in the mirror?  Who of us doesn’t recognize ourselves in the picture of the empty asphalt heart, only a few patches of weeds sprouting from the cracks?  Who of us can’t name the birds that fly in to steal the seed and prevent it from taking root?

And then there is the seed that falls on the thin crust of soil that covers the limestone shelf.  It germinates quickly in the soil warmed by the rock, but it can’t last because there’s no depth for the roots.  Such are hearers who offer shallow ground, who fail to think things out and think them through; whose lives are littered up with things begun and never finished.  They can be enthusiastic, they can be touched, thrilled, and deeply impressed.  Things get “under their skin” but sometimes fail to lodge in their hearts.  Do we see in the mirror? Who can’t recall those times when we welcomed “the call” to come in for a brief visit—to enjoy a short feast for the ears, a little tickle in the heart, even sing a few choruses of “Kum Ba Yah,”— but avoided the opportunity to get too serious, to allow “the seed” to take root?

Then there are the seeds in the “thorny ground.”  It looks good, it’s been plowed, but beneath the surface all the fibrous roots of the perennial weedy pests are ready to sprout and crowd out the good seed.  Doesn’t need much comment, does it?  So many interests in life, so much busyness, so many hurdles, that certain things—often the most important things— get elbowed out.  Our thorny, overcrowded lives roar about us like a storm—no wonder we can’t hear a pin drop; and when “the call” of human need comes in whatever form it may take, it often arrives on the feet of doves—no surprise that we miss it.

Now the flip side of everything we have said tells us what the good soil, the receptive hearer, is like.  He is open, caring, teachable.  She is thoughtful, persistent, prepared to act on what she understands.  The good hearer is prepared to carve a space in a busy life where “the call” can find hospitality, and to develop the spiritual acuity to hear the flutter of doves’ wings above the clatter of colliding priorities.

Thelicke warns us of how easy it would be to say: “ah, now we see how it is—everybody is predestined.”  It all depends on what type of person one is: one person’s heart and mind are closed to all but personal interests, another is shallow, another is unstable, and some are caring and committed by temperament.  Not much we can do about that—it is what it is.  No, no—sorry, no easy out!  In agreement with Thielicke, the fact, I would suggest, is that every individual has all four kinds of soil.  There are certain times in our lives, certain levels of our selves, in which we are hard ground, rocky ground, thorny ground, and fertile soil all in one.  So he counsels, “I must ask myself, what are the threatening forces and the roots of peacelessness in my life?”  Jesus is not telling this story to give us what Thielicke called “the agricultural statistics of the kingdom.” He was never interested in mere statistics; “he always puts us to work:” see that the seed doesn’t fall on the asphalt; weed out the thorns; be careful lest you be so shallow that “the call” can’t take root.  Be good soil.

So, “on the one hand,” all of that—and more, no doubt—is the meaning of the parable when we can reflect on it at leisure.  But, “on the other hand,” what about those who heard it for the first time?  What would flash out at them from this story?  Who knows for sure—but perhaps this: though some of the seed never grew, at the end of the season there was a splendid harvest.  The seed faces great danger, but the harvest is sure.  The simple, central truth of the spoken parable might be seen as directed, not at the soil, the hearer of “the call,” but to the sower, to the speaker and the doer.  Jesus and his disciples faced daunting odds: crowds who came to Jesus only for what they could get, doubts about the heavy demands of his message, superficial responses, bitter hostility from Jewish leaders, increasing desertions.  To human eyes, much of the labor must have seemed futile and fruitless, but the parable seems to say that Jesus is full of confidence:  the harvest is certain beyond expectation. 

To the thousands who, in conventional and unconventional ways, are sowing the seed, issuing “the call”— through volunteerism, through the day-by-day work of their lives, through relationships with friends and colleagues—to serve the needs of the human family in whatever forms and pathways they may take, the message is clear:  Be patient.  Don’t expect quick results. Do your work.  Don’t be weary in well-doing.  Seize the day.  Sow the seed.  The harvest is sure.  

May each and all of us be among both groups:

• those who hear “the clarion call” to serve the needs of the human family as that call is embedded in the life, character, and teachings of Jesus—as well as in the messages of other religious and secular spiritual traditions;
• and those who pass it on in the spirit of this parable’s hopeful message.

All the soils are in us—nurture the “good ground.”

Spread the seed—issue “the call”—in confidence, persistence, and care. 

So it is and so may it be.

Sources consulted:

The Interpreters Bible, Vol. 7

William Barclay, The Daily Study Bible: The Gospel of Mark; The Gospel of Matthew

Joachim Jeremias, The Parables of Jesus

Helmut Thielicke, The Waiting Father