Seeds

I'm starting a three-part series on Jesus' parables this Sunday, beginning with Matthew 13:1-9, about the man who went out to sow seeds. Some fell on the path, some fell on shallow soil, some fell on rocks and some fell on good soil and yielded 30, 60 or a hundredfold.

This is how I plant seeds.
I find the best soil.
Break it open, hinging slabs up and over,
Shovel deep, slicing to dampness.
Folds of dirt heave open to light of day.
Unearth what is dead. Haul away rocks.
Yank weeds, light a fire, burn the chaff.
Till the soil till it lies like sand, soft and ready.

Plow a row, then another, again,
Each separated by six inches,
Furrows like comb tracks parting the earth.
Plant the seeds now, one by one, three inches down.
Cover them. Tamp the soil. Not too hard.
Add bursts of rain, sunshine, night breezes, morning dew.

Then I build a fence to protect the seeds.
Put up a scarecrow.
Hang pie tins to scare the birds.
Fertilize the dirt.
Weed it.
Mulch it.
Treat it.
Spray it.
Irrigate it.
Worry over it.
Then I wait for the harvest, never satisfied with my yield,
Afraid that I chose the wrong field for planting,
not too sure about those seeds.

Meanwhile, the sower goes out to sow.
With open hand, he flings the seed ---
Dancing over the path,
Skidding down the hills,
Stumbling into the rocks,
Head thrown back, laughing
As birds swoop down to catch what he throws,
As seeds bounce across boulders,
Skip into the weeds,
Skitter under stones.
The sower keeps sowing, plowing after he scatters,
Knowing that a few seeds will find good soil
And God’s realm will grow thirty, sixty, a hundredfold.
He can just imagine the abundance:
There will be enough to feed a village for a year;
Enough to let him retire to a villa on the Mediterranean.
But even then, the sower will never stop sowing.
Because he trusts the seed,
Loves it, truly.
He knows none of those seeds, no matter where they land,
is ever wasted.

Oh yes, this is the word of God.