There is a strip of dirt along the side of our house, patchy with weeds and grass, which probably used to be landscaped. There are a few bushes at the corners, and two pockets of yellow daylilies that bloom in late June, but the middle section is empty. We’ve tried at various times over the past few years to reclaim the space – tearing out grass early in spring, raking the weeds and turning over the rocky soil. I always manage to find a few big shards of glass or pottery, carefully picking them out to place along the basement window ledge.
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| Our cosmos! |
I’m not sure that I’d call myself a gardener – Daniel is the one who most faithfully tends our vegetable beds – but I’ve had visions of flowers for that space, something bright and cheery. One year while wandering through the plants laid out in the Walmart parking lot we picked up a pot with an azalea bush. Back home, we eyeballed the midpoint between the two daylilies and dug a hole, tossing aside the rocks before shimmying the stem from the pot and nestling it down into the ground. I think the spot was too sunny, or perhaps I was just not attentive enough in watering. But whatever it was, the azalea eventually shriveled, its branches dry and brittle.
The next year, it was poppies, their long, thin stems and textured petals waving at me from the greenhouse rack. They’re supposed to like the sun, and do well even in poor soil. Even so, they too eventually shriveled and disappeared. Later, I saw that they do best when grown from seed, planted early in the spring.
This year, on a whim, I ordered a bag of seeds - assorted varieties of cosmos. After reclaiming a rectangle of space from the encroaching grass and lining the border with stones, I tore open the bag and scattered the seeds, lightly covering them with dirt before watering. I have to admit that I wasn’t expecting much, and regretted not adding fresh soil before planting, to counteract the rocks and likely lack of nutrients. But, to my delight, the feathery stems pushed through the rocky soil and continue to grow, a big green patch shared between flower stems and weeds, dotted with blooms.
It feels like a contradiction to say that gardening is both predictable and unpredictable, both simple and complicated. But this has certainly been my experience. Sometimes, despite our careful tending, watering, and pruning, our plants fail to thrive. Other times, without any help from us, plants do what they are intended to do. In spite of too much sun, or too little rain, or rocky soil, they manage to grow and produce an abundant harvest.
The thing is, I think grace is like that, too. Predictable and unpredictable; simple and complicated. It is predictable in that God promises to show up in certain places – we call these the means of grace. Grace is conveyed through God’s word, read and preached and sung. Grace is found in the waters of baptism. In the bread and wine of Communion. In community – the mutual consolation of the saints.
But, alongside the predictability of those ways, grace is also unpredictable. It comes when we least deserve it and most need it. Grace cares nothing for fairness; it’s hard to pin down. Grace looks like seeds, scattered widely and abundantly, on the off chance they will take root and grow.
Grace is simple – it’s a gift! It’s love! And, grace is complicated, or at least we make it complicated. So often we’re intent on earning it, even though it doesn’t work like that. So often we diligently try to guard and protect it, as if it might shrivel and lose its power if misused.
I hear often from folks who are confused and disappointed by their children’s apparent lack of faith. “But Pastor,” they say, “I did everything right! My kids were in church every Sunday; they were baptized and confirmed here. But now they’re too busy for church, or something. What happened?”
There’s not usually a simple answer. Life is complicated; schedules and expectations and loyalty to institutions are different than they used to be. But I understand the pain. And so I give them the best assurance I can – we trust that God is at work, even when we can’t see it. We cling to the promises of baptism – that their children belong to God and nothing – not heights nor depths nor things present nor things to come – can sever that promise. We lean on the surprise and unpredictability and goodness of grace, which has the power to coax life and flourishing from less-than-ideal conditions. As the prophet Isaiah writes, “so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.”
As we hear the parable and an explanation from Matthew’s Gospel, I’m not sure that the takeaway is that we ought to be mindful of what kind of soil we are. Gardening is, after all, both predictable and unpredictable; both simple and complicated. Instead, I wonder if this parable is a celebration of abundance, of a sower who scatters seeds widely and indiscriminately. Did the sower recognize that the final yield from seeds planted in this way would be much greater than if the sower waited for the right conditions, poking one seed at a time into perfect soil?
I don’t think there are ever perfect conditions for receiving God’s word. Certainly, there are some portions that seem to burrow more deeply, some illustrations or lyrics or experiences that stick with us over time. But if receiving God’s word depends wholly on us, and the environment which we prepare, then I’m not sure it would grow anywhere. Instead, we give thanks for a God whose word is sent out and does not return empty. We give thanks for a God who is at work even when we can’t see it; for a God who scatters seeds and grace with hope-filled abundance.
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