"Some fell on good earth, and produced a harvest beyond his wildest dreams."
1.
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| Millet's "The Sower" |
There’s a painting in
Boston, at the Museum of Fine Arts, called “The Sower” by Jean Francois
Millet. With a name like that, you
almost have to be a painter. Jean
Francois Millet. He was a 19th
century Frenchman, the founder, I believe, of the Barbizon School of French
Realism. And in a lot of ways, Millet’s
painting of “The Sower” is as compelling as Jesus’ parable itself. Go home this afternoon and look it up online.
Millet’s sower is a
small figure, moving across what appears to be a parched and stony
landscape. But he moves happily,
energetically, flinging his precious seed just the same, one hand dipping into
his satchel and the other letting seed fly.
Wherever. Sowing as sowers do.
And there are stones
in his way, and the earth is scorched and cracked beneath his feet. So it’s not real obvious that all this
flinging’s a winning proposition. It’s
not real obvious what the return will be on the sower’s time and energy and
love. And in Millet’s painting there are
a dozen black birds—a dozen hungry black birds—wheeling overhead and eager to
pounce on any seed that doesn’t quite make it.
This is a parable, it
seems, about the kingdom of God, the generosity of God, the grace of God. The sower is undaunted. Jesus’ sower.
Millet’s sower. He’s undaunted,
unfazed by the long odds of making things grow out there. In Jesus’ hands, in Millet’s hands too, the
kingdom of God is a kingdom of daring love and abundant grace and a thousand
risks taken with no guarantees at all of return or reward. The generosity of God. That’s the kingdom. There’s grace in the sower’s stride, in the
sweeping extension of his arm as he flings his seed. Flinging.
Always flinging. Always flinging.
Some of that seed,
some of that precious seed is undoubtedly going to fall on the road; we know it
will. It’ll lay there at the surface of
things, unable to go deep, and the birds will have their fill. And some of that seed’s going to sprout
quickly, enthusiastically even, but put down no roots, make no commitments; and
it’ll wither just as fast as it bloomed.
And, of course, some
of that seed’s going to fall among weeds, and well, the weeds will have their
way. We know these things are true. We know how the world works.
But Jesus’ flinger
flings, just as Millet’s sower sows, just as God’s lovers love. And for all the stones in the field, for all
the weeds at the edges, for all the hungry birds wheeling above, the sower’s
grace shines under stormy skies. The sower
keeps on sowing. The flinger keeps on flinging. The lover keeps on loving. And sometimes, sometimes, the seed finds its
home; sometimes the seed finds good earth, fertile land, a deep and welcoming
heart. And when it does—when grace
lodges in a humble heart—well, then, God’s harvest comes in. God’s harvest comes in, plentiful and rich. God’s harvest, Jesus says, is beyond our
wildest dreams.
So let’s just start
there. With the generosity of God. With the amazing grace at the heart of God’s
kingdom. Maybe you’ll go home this
afternoon, find Jean Francois Millet’s painting online, and print off a
copy. Put it up on your refrigerator or
above your desk or on your bathroom mirror.
The sower sows. The flinger
flings. The lover loves. Whether the stock market’s up or the market’s
down. The sower sows. The flinger flings. The lover loves. Whether you’ve hit a wall or a professional
dead-end, whether you’re at a creative peak or an emotional low. The sower sows. The flinger flings. The lover loves. Whether the movers and shakers of the world
are inspiring confidence or colluding in shame.
The sower sows. The flinger
flings. The lover loves.
In his painting, Jean
Francois Millet adds a sprinkling of seed—midair, just released from the
sower’s outstretched hand. And it’s
possible to believe that good things, generous growth, lively living things
will come. A harvest. When the seed finds its home. When the seed finds a humble heart. When the seeds rests in God’s good
earth. I guess that’s what great
paintings, great parables do. They
provoke possibility. They inspire wonder
and curiosity and promise. Maybe that
sprinkling of seed will find its home.
Maybe this good news is ours to cherish.
Maybe the harvest is coming in.
2.
Of course, to say that
a parable provokes possibility is also to say that a parable creates a kind of
crisis in our spiritual lives. Inevitably. You see, Jesus isn’t fooling around. Jesus is itching for a harvest. To say that he inspires wonder is also to say
that he offers us choices, critical choices around lifestyle and ethics, important
choices around practice and priorities.
The kingdom of God isn’t just a sweet idea for Jesus; it isn’t just an
image of a better world to come. The
kingdom of God is a lifestyle, a way of living and breathing and loving, in the
very midst of God’s very present and very amazing grace. How are we going to do that? How are you and I going to live and love and
eat and drink and organize and prioritize in a world governed and infused and
shaped by grace? Parables provoke
possibility. Parables create a kind of
crisis. These aren’t pithy
one-lines. These aren’t Instagram
memes. The kingdom of God isn’t just a
sweet idea for Jesus: it’s got to be a lifestyle, it’s got to be a practice,
it’s got to be discipleship itself.
When you follow me, Jesus
says to his disciples, you’re going to live in two worlds at the same
time. Two worlds at the same time. This is so important, I think, so radically
important for 21st century church.
Jesus says to you and me: When you practice discipleship, when you
follow me, you’re going to live in two worlds, two kingdoms at the same
time. And this is the context, I think,
of all his parables. The parable of the
prodigal son. The parable of the good
Samaritan. The parable of the sower
today. We live in two worlds. We live in two kingdoms. We live in two empires, at the same
time. And that’s some tricky business.
So Jesus lives in that
world. His disciples live in that
world. We live in that world. But the kingdom of God, he says—in his
preaching, in his practice—the kingdom of God is at hand. The kingdom of God is among you, is alive in
your midst, is a reality you can embrace here and now. His language is confrontational. The kingdom of God is not the kingdom of
Caesar. The empire of God is not the
empire of Rome. The kingdom of God is
compassion, not might. It’s abundance
for all, not privilege for some. The
kingdom of God is love, love, love; and not fear.
And so living in two
kingdoms is hard, Jesus says. And his
parables provoke possibility. They
create crisis. They insist on a new
orientation, our new orientation in the world.
Or in the worlds that we live in.
3.
Let me suggest what
this might look like. In part.
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| Hebron |
Nine years ago, I
visited the ancient city of Hebron in the West Bank, for the first time. My guide for those couple of days was an
18-year-old engineering student, a Palestinian named Tariq Natsheh. And Tariq introduced me to his friends and to
the divided, anxious city of his people.
Then and now, Hebron is split in several ways by Israeli military outposts
and small (but determined) Israeli settlements.
Illegal, but entrenched. Tariq
walked me through center city alleyways, where wire fencing had been tacked
across those alleyways, parallel to the ground, to catch rancid garbage and
rocks tossed by angry settlers at Palestinians below. He tried to explain what this kind of violence,
what this kind of occupation, does to a people.
That first day, as we
scurried across a kind of ‘no man’s land’ at the heart of the city, an armed
Israel soldier sitting at a makeshift called us over. “Hey you,” he said, pointing at Tariq with
his machine gun, “get over here.” It
turns out that it happens all the time in Hebron. It’s about control, right, it’s about
power. Might, privilege and fear. And Tariq Natsheh—this 18-year-old
engineering student—was ready for it. Like he’d been preparing all his
life. For this.
So to make a long
story short, that Israeli soldier was 18, maybe 19, the same age as Tariq. He was good bit taller, and as he stood up
and unfolded his long frame, he fingered the barrel of his pretty significant machine
gun. But face to face, he and Tariq were
contemporaries: one Israeli, conscripted into a role it turns out he resented,
the other Palestinian, determined to make a difference for his people.
It was obvious, from
the start, that the young soldier believed that he had the authority in that
square. He was asking the
questions. He was playing the part. He certainly had the gun. But my young Palestinian host was polite,
responsive and amazingly comfortable in what seemed, to me at least, a strange
and dangerous moment. I couldn’t keep my
eye off the gun, to be honest. But Tariq
looked the Israeli boy in the eye, showed no interest in his weapon; and he
smiled and before long turned the conversation in a whole new direction.
“You say you’re
bored,” he said to the soldier.
“Yeah,” the soldier
said, “I never wanted to be doing this.
This isn’t my thing.”
“Then why are you
here?” Tariq said.
“Don’t have a choice,”
the soldier said. “We all got to
serve. We go where they tell us.”
And this was the
moment, it turned out, that Tariq was waiting for. With love in his eyes—and I really mean
that—with love in his eyes, this Palestinian student told his Israeli brother
about a network that helps Israelis in the army get out of serving in the West
Bank. I believe the group’s called
Breaking the Silence—and I don’t for a moment imagine that joining the group,
or getting out of the army, is an easy thing or a painless thing or a
celebrated thing among Israelis supporting the occupation. I’m sure it’s not.
But for about ten
minutes, in no man’s land, these two 18-year-olds had a conversation. About living in two worlds. About dealing with that. About making good choices, moral choices,
life-affirming choices in the midst of it all.
I’m quite sure the young Israeli had never had a conversation like that;
and I’m absolutely sure I’d never witnessed one before. But young Tariq seemed remarkably at home: in
those two worlds, in those two kingdoms.
One, a kingdom of power and might, a kingdom of fancy weaponry and occupation. The other, a kingdom of decency and love,
imagination and equality. A kingdom
where anything’s possible.
Who knows what
happened after we left. But for ten
minutes, I watched a young Palestinian encouraging a young Israeli soldier to
lay his weapon down. For ten minutes, I
watched a lover of life offering counsel and friendship to a mortal enemy. Like I say, who knows what happened after we
left. But that was faith out there in no
man’s land that day; that was discipleship.
And that’s what it looks like when the word of life lands on holy
ground, fertile soil, and produces a harvest of compassion and decency and
hope.
4.
The kingdom of God is
a kingdom of daring love and abundant grace and a thousand risks taken with no
guarantees at all of return or reward.
This is always the way in Jesus’ parables. It’s inevitably the spirit of Jesus’ life,
his choices, his loving. The sower
sows. The flinger flings. The lover loves.
And the invitation is
ours. The opportunity is ours. The kingdom is at hand. God yearns for our partnership. God aches for our friendship. God invites you and me to offer our lives,
our practice, our church as fertile ground for the seeds of grace and
love. What will we do with God’s
invitation? How will we orient our
lives, our days, our relationships in response?
I don’t think of my young friend Tariq as a superhero, or a Nobel prize
winner, or even a spiritual giant. But I
do think of him as generous, I do think of him as prepared. And I think of his life as fertile ground for
the kingdom of God. God, make me, make
us all, fertile ground for the kingdom of God.
