Parable of the Sower, by Thomas Bertram Poole.
To watch a video recording of this sermon, click here.
In the opening scenes of the 1994 Coen Brothers film The Hudsucker Proxy, we find ourselves in a spacious boardroom on the top floor of an Art-Deco building in New York. It is 1958, but the furnishings and fashion all seem more at home in the Roaring Twenties. Men in suits are gathered around a gleaming conference table, hearing a financial analyst report on the condition of their company, Hudsucker Industries. His report is rosy. Talking above a stirring soundtrack, the financial analyst says:
“... We’re up 18 percent over last year’s third-quarter gross, and that, needless to say, is a new record. Our competition continues to flag and we continue to take up the slack. Market shares in most divisions are increasing and we have opened seven new regional offices. Our international division is also showing vigorous signs of upward movement for the last six months, and we're looking at some exciting things in R&D. Sub-franchising – don't talk to me about sub-franchising; we're making so much money in sub-franchising it isn't even funny. Our nominees and assigns continue to multiply and expand, extending our influence nationally and abroad. Our owned-and-operateds are performing far beyond our expectations both here and abroad … the Federal Tax Act of 1958 is giving us a swell writeoff … and our last debenture issue was this year’s fastest seller … So, third quarter and year-to-date, we have set a new record in sales, a new record in gross, a new record in pre-tax earnings, a new record in after-tax profits, and our stock has split twice in the past year. In short, we're loaded.”
I sometimes recall this scene when the officers of this parish submit their reports to the vestry. Now, I concede that our treasurer has never (so far!) reported that “we’re loaded.” But sometimes our reports are rosy, in their own way: in recent months, attendance has consistently ticked upward; our finances are in sound (if modest) shape; our capital campaign is going well; we’re restoring and repairing our buildings and grounds; there is a lot to encourage us these days. “St. Paul’s is on the move again!” someone said in a recent email.
As true and as encouraging as all of this may be, none of this is the point of the Good News that we are called to proclaim in Holy Baptism. We are not in the business of success, and we know all too well that success by the world’s standards is fleeting. If we are truly doing good things here, if we are making a positive difference in the dominion of God, if we are doing well, at least by the standards of Jesus of Nazareth, we will never fully know or even measure it. So much of what we do is lost, scattered, given away. So much of what we do is done for those who will follow us here, long after we’re gone. So much of what we do – and everything we do that’s truly worth doing – is known to God alone. We are, well, we’re like a sower who casts their seeds every which way, not caring that the seeds are falling on rocky or thorny soil, heavily trafficked paths, and, yes, on good, rich soil. Will the sower even live to see the harvest? They do not know.
If we are doing anything that’s truly worth doing, we will never fully know it.
Our mission in this neighborhood goes back a hundred and thirty years, when we first formed a few blocks south of here as a mission congregation in a portable log cabin. All of those first faithful members are gone, most of them entirely unknown now. But our mission looks forward into the mystery of the future, too: we know that future generations of this community will gather under our 2024 roof, but we don’t know who they will be, or what they will care about, or think, or feel, or need. Our pastoral care and companionship ministries are shared confidentially with people near and far, and we won’t ever know what will come of those private, sacred conversations. Our weekly prayers for those in need typically hold up only first names in prayer: we don’t know who many of these people are, let alone what their struggles or challenges might be. God knows.
Yesterday I enjoyed a delightful conversation with a younger member of our parish, a twelve-year-old who was brimming with questions about the faith, God, symbols, and the meaning of life with Christ. (He is beginning to resemble the boy Jesus in the Temple. He’s good soil.) I sometimes worry that this child may be called to the priesthood – I worry for his sake, as the priestly calling is not without its frustrations, including of course the fact that most of the good he would do as a priest would be done outside of his own awareness. But that is true for all of us! In Holy Baptism, we all share in the calling of the sower who casts seeds every which way, not knowing where the seeds are falling.
The parable of the sower and the seeds can deepen our insights about life as God’s people. Even though Jesus later explains the parable to his closest followers, there is always more to draw from it. Parables are wondrous gifts that evade one complete explanation, even when Jesus himself offers one.
I am interested, for example, in the birds who eat up the seeds that fall along the path. When I reflect on these birds, I bridle at Jesus saying that they represent “the evil one [who] comes and snatches away what is sown in the heart.” I think, “Yeah, well, of course the bird took the seeds: a girl’s gotta eat.” And after all, when a bird eats seeds and flies away, she deposits them far and wide: many plants rely on birds to find their seeds as part of their strategy for successful reproduction. And so, for us, if our ministry seems to be a flat failure, we do not know what will happen next. For all we know, those who hear the Word and fail to understand it are part of a larger story of transformation. And who knows? Tomorrow, another seed might be sown in them.
The thorns come in for critique, too, in the interpretation Jesus offers for his own parable. They represent “the cares of the world and the lure of wealth.” Fair enough! We are called in Baptism to hold God above all others as our ultimate concern, greater even than our personal safety, greater even than our beloved families and friends. But thorns are plants too, just like abundant wheat, and thorns protect roses. More crucially, thorns adorn the head of Jesus himself, who proves not to be choked by them, an example of prophetic endurance for us. All of this suggests to me that even when someone gets lost in lesser things, in the pursuit of wealth or fame, in the lure of personal gratification, in the slow chokehold of preoccupied self-centeredness – even then, God sees all of this, and God remains both present and powerful in that person’s life.
Now, sometimes the success stories in the good soil are inspiring: we are delighted when we gain new insight, when people come into this circle of faithful people and find a home here, when our voices harmonize in vigorous song, when a tween asks intelligent questions about the faith, when our prayers appear to have been answered, when a neighbor finds shelter with our help, when life rises up in this place, and the light of Christ burns brightly. This is all lovely, abundant, delightful. Still, the yield of spiritual fruit can vary. “In one case a hundredfold,” Jesus says, “in another sixty, and in another thirty.” This difference in yields of spiritual fruit – this is not just empty rhetoric or a poetic flourish. This is another gift in the parable, something to guide our reflection: sometimes we’ll enjoy spectacular, tangible victories in ministry; other times, our progress will be modest. Note also that Matthew reverses the numbers: in Mark’s version, Jesus says the yield will be thirty and sixty and a hundredfold. Why reverse it?
I think it’s better when the numbers descend, as they do in Matthew’s telling: yes, we may find much to celebrate in our life with Christ, but other times we will feel less flush, and still other times we may yield less than a third of what we had hoped would grow. That’s honest. Matthew puts the fine print in the same font size: the parable ends on a bit of a downer. But that’s just part of the Good News: again, if we are doing anything that’s truly worth doing, we will never fully know it.
Back in that boardroom of Hudsucker Industries, the fatcats are laughing smugly about their financial wealth. They’re on top of the world: business is booming, and they stand personally to gain great riches. But the CEO shushes their laughter, and they fall silent. Mr. Hudsucker gets up, climbs onto the conference table, stands up, gets ready, breaks into a trot, flings himself through the pane-glass window, and falls to his death on the street, dozens of floors below. We spend the movie wondering why someone so successful would suddenly take his own life. We’re invited to reflect once again on how fleeting worldly success is, and how, in the end, it is all vanity.
But we who live as God’s people, as the Body of Christ – we need little reminder of this. We learn week by week that all that we do that’s worth doing is given away. Often enough we feel futile and frustrated, the yield just a disappointing thirtyfold. After all, we praise a Savior who hung on a cross. And yet we know that in all of this helter-skelter scattering of seeds, in all of these profligate labors of love, in all of these unfinished, twisting stories of our faith and life, in all of this, no matter what happens, we know that, in short –
we’re loaded.
***
Preached on the Seventh Sunday after Pentecost (Year A), July 16, 2023, at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, Seattle, Washington.
Genesis 25:19-34
Psalm 119:105-112
Romans 8:1-11
Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23