For the First Sunday in Lent
Sunday, March 9, 2025
1.
So, what are we to make of the Parable of the Sower? There are at least two interpretations of the Parable of the Sower that just don’t work and have (over time) done more harm than good. The first is this: that the parable celebrates a spirituality of frenzied accomplishment, hyper-productivity; and that it suggests that if you’re doing things right, if your soil’s rich and loamy, if you’re faithful, you’ll achieve great things, and lots and lots of great things as a matter of course. “The harvest will be immense!”
Let’s kick that one to the curb, right off the bat. That frenzied accomplishment is the point of Jesus’ call to discipleship, that hyper-productivity is any kind of a sign of the kingdom of God. Remember the mustard seed? The grace of God will not and cannot be quantified by gross income, or by net worth, or by billable hours. It resists measurement in a CV or even an obituary. Jesus is talking about a completely different kind of harvest. Seriously.
The second illegitimate interpretation, then, is this: that the parable pronounces judgment on all of us who struggle to make sense of our faith; and that it glorifies confidence, certainty and even aggression. If you’re secure in your faith, if trust Jesus enough, you’ll bring many to true belief, turn little efforts into huge successes and tiny congregations into mega-churches. But wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, in “All’s Well That Ends Well”: “Who knows himself a braggart, let him fear this, for it will come to pass that every braggart shall be found an ass.” You might tuck that away when you’re watching the evening news this week: “Every braggart shall be found an ass.” So this one, too, we can kick to the curb! That true faith is marked by unquestioning devotion and absolute certainty. That pure belief, unsullied belief is the ground from which mighty things spring to life. To be conflicted is to be compromised. To be unsure is to be unworthy. Another interpretation that’s done more harm than good!
Instead, then, we want to look at the context in which Jesus tells this story, the placement of this particular parable in Matthew’s gospel. In Matthew’s gospel, and you can almost map this out, there’s a pattern to Jesus’ teaching, and his disciples’ movement, out, into the world of pain and possibility. Jesus will teach a little, lay out some ideas, and tell a few parables; and then, almost immediately, he’ll send the disciples out into the world—to proclaim a message of Love in demoralized communities; to gather up the blamed, the maimed and the shamed in circles of celebration; to challenge ideas of scarcity with abundance and grace; to speak truth to power, whatever the cost. And he’ll be honest about what he’s asking. He’ll say to them, early on, that he’s sending them out like sheep into the midst of wolves. No easy thing, this witness to Love in a world of suspicion and distrust.
Before long, then, Jesus calls them back, insists on their return, gathers them close for still more classroom time—more conversation, more stories, and reflection on all that they’ve done and left undone. Always, a teacher, Jesus: building a movement, training up its leaders. The Parable of the Sower, then, seems to be a particular way of encouraging disciples (disciples like you and me) for the challenging ministries of lovingkindness and truth-telling that await, for the tender opportunities that inevitably test our hearts in a world of bewildering beauty and mind-bending cruelty. It’s Jesus building a movement.
2.
You see, whatever your faith means to you now, there is no question that it requires something of you, as it requires something of me and every other soul in this room. I’m talking about 2025 now. The gospel of Jesus Christ—the good news of God’s love—compels us to bear that love in whatever ways we can, in whatever settings we move, in the ways we engage neighbors and friends, in the courage with which we stand up for democracy, decency and human rights. There’s no back door now. Whatever Christianity might mean theologically, there’s no question that it makes a claim on our hearts, on our choices and on our time. In 2025. We live in a moment that insists on witness, embodied witness, and proclamation. Much like, exactly like, those very first friends of Jesus. His first disciples. Who learn and listen. And go to serve.
I know an old man in Boston who used to teach Russian literature to undergraduates, a brilliant scholar and teacher of young people, who can no longer remember the names of his children or the books he taught. But every morning, his nephew walks him five blocks down the street to a familiar café for a cup of piping hot coffee. And the old man stops along the way—at least once or twice a block, this great academic—to bend over, sometimes kneel to the ground and retrieve a piece of garbage tossed from a passing car or a careless reveler the night before. Every piece he tucks inside a canvas bag—which he faithfully lugs block after block, to the café and back home, where he separates the garbage from the recycling and sends it on its way.
In 2025, this is his witness. This is his proclamation. This is his particular and even urgent offering—in service to the kind of faith that insists on beauty in the shared spaces of our lives, in service to the kind of faith that defies carelessness and callousness and invests each moment with reverence and joy. That’s the kind of harvest Jesus is describing.
So, we’re all disciples now. We all have work to do now. No gift is too small, no moment insignificant. Jesus says, Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. Jesus says, Blessed are the merciful and the meek and every soul that hungers for justice. We’re all disciples now. We all have work to do. The old man snagging a beer can from a snow drift on Boylston Street. The teacher standing bravely beside a transgender teen in the lunchroom—while a bully curses her up and down and classmates root for violence. We’re all disciples now. We all have work to do. The allies who keep vigil, week after week, outside congressional offices, rejecting war and militarism. The brave hearts who step into the Dover jail every Wednesday and to offer counsel to immigrants detained.
Or your witness might be resisting the cynicism that runs rampant across our screens and tablets—and singing a happy song as you shop for groceries before lunch. Or your particular proclamation might be pulling off the road to praise God for a sunset that takes your breath away. Or your service to God might be picking up the phone after dinner and asking a friend if she needs a prayer, or a laugh, or both.
3.
.jpeg)
So the parable this morning—the Parable of the Sower—isn’t about frenzied accomplishment, but it’s not a pithy bit of conventional wisdom either. There are seasons in our lives, he says, when the seeds of love fall beside the road, where they’re lost in the shuffle, scattered along the shoulder. Let’s beware of the distractions, he says, the many ways these precious seeds are plucked up and swallowed whole by cynicism or despair. And there are other seasons in our lives, he says, when the seeds of love fall on rocky, parched land—and they may sprout quickly, but their roots don’t find the sustenance, the nurture they need to truly and fully grow. Seeds of love need space and time to take hold, to grow deep, to find a steady home in our hearts. And there are still other seasons, he says, when those same seeds are choked by our desire for power or pleasure, by our fascination with wealth and privilege; and they just can’t survive the anxieties that suffocate spirit and reduce faith to whimsy.
See, then, that the harvest Jesus is after is wisdom and grace and courage—not hyper-productivity, but wisdom and grace and courage. He’s sent us into the strange and weary world to bear God’s message of undying Love, reconciling mercy. Each one of us with a unique and precious calling—to embody that Love in daily life, the cast a vision of that precious mercy in our ministries, friendships and neighborhoods. And he knows that only when God’s seed finds deep soil in our hearts, only when God’s message lands in dark loam within, only when grace is nurtured by spiritual practice and reflection—only then will we be wildly and bravely receptive to the gospel, the peace, the promise that God has planted in Jesus’ ministry and ours.
Again, his aim isn’t to shame us or to categorize us as one or the other: some of us good earth, others of us bad seeds. Some of us doomed to infertility, others of us destined for greatness. That’s no gospel at all, that’s shameful “puritanism” if we’re honest. What Jesus is after is reflection and discernment. Can we come back together and talk about our call to witness and the urgency of our ministries? And can we till the ground within and among us such that it’s richer, darker, deeper and sweeter—such that the grace of God lands in fertile soil and can take its time sending down good roots, and finding sweet nourishment, and drawing on nutrients and ground waters, and then serving us well as it rises into the daylight of a whole new day?
4.
You see, Jesus seems to recognize that what he’s asking of us is difficult. He understands that proclaiming a message of Love and inclusion in a divided land is hard and costly. He appreciates that gathering up the blamed, maimed and shamed and building a new and beloved community is heartbreaking work, and challenging on every human level. And he knows that those who preach abundance and grace in systems addicted to scarcity and fear are all too often mocked and ignored. So Jesus—ever the teacher, ever the mentor—brings his friends in close and reminds us that we’ll want to keep tending the gardens of our souls. We’ll want to keep tilling the ground, maybe even weeding it from time to time, for the sake of reflection and discernment. We’ll want to stay on the path, the good path, of gratitude and love, nonviolence and mercy—so that the message of peace finds a welcoming home in our hearts, in our communities and in our church.
1.
Let’s kick that one to the curb, right off the bat. That frenzied accomplishment is the point of Jesus’ call to discipleship, that hyper-productivity is any kind of a sign of the kingdom of God. Remember the mustard seed? The grace of God will not and cannot be quantified by gross income, or by net worth, or by billable hours. It resists measurement in a CV or even an obituary. Jesus is talking about a completely different kind of harvest. Seriously.
The second illegitimate interpretation, then, is this: that the parable pronounces judgment on all of us who struggle to make sense of our faith; and that it glorifies confidence, certainty and even aggression. If you’re secure in your faith, if trust Jesus enough, you’ll bring many to true belief, turn little efforts into huge successes and tiny congregations into mega-churches. But wasn’t it Shakespeare who said, in “All’s Well That Ends Well”: “Who knows himself a braggart, let him fear this, for it will come to pass that every braggart shall be found an ass.” You might tuck that away when you’re watching the evening news this week: “Every braggart shall be found an ass.” So this one, too, we can kick to the curb! That true faith is marked by unquestioning devotion and absolute certainty. That pure belief, unsullied belief is the ground from which mighty things spring to life. To be conflicted is to be compromised. To be unsure is to be unworthy. Another interpretation that’s done more harm than good!
Instead, then, we want to look at the context in which Jesus tells this story, the placement of this particular parable in Matthew’s gospel. In Matthew’s gospel, and you can almost map this out, there’s a pattern to Jesus’ teaching, and his disciples’ movement, out, into the world of pain and possibility. Jesus will teach a little, lay out some ideas, and tell a few parables; and then, almost immediately, he’ll send the disciples out into the world—to proclaim a message of Love in demoralized communities; to gather up the blamed, the maimed and the shamed in circles of celebration; to challenge ideas of scarcity with abundance and grace; to speak truth to power, whatever the cost. And he’ll be honest about what he’s asking. He’ll say to them, early on, that he’s sending them out like sheep into the midst of wolves. No easy thing, this witness to Love in a world of suspicion and distrust.
Before long, then, Jesus calls them back, insists on their return, gathers them close for still more classroom time—more conversation, more stories, and reflection on all that they’ve done and left undone. Always, a teacher, Jesus: building a movement, training up its leaders. The Parable of the Sower, then, seems to be a particular way of encouraging disciples (disciples like you and me) for the challenging ministries of lovingkindness and truth-telling that await, for the tender opportunities that inevitably test our hearts in a world of bewildering beauty and mind-bending cruelty. It’s Jesus building a movement.
2.
 |
| Parable of the Sower / Mika de Goodaboom |
I know an old man in Boston who used to teach Russian literature to undergraduates, a brilliant scholar and teacher of young people, who can no longer remember the names of his children or the books he taught. But every morning, his nephew walks him five blocks down the street to a familiar café for a cup of piping hot coffee. And the old man stops along the way—at least once or twice a block, this great academic—to bend over, sometimes kneel to the ground and retrieve a piece of garbage tossed from a passing car or a careless reveler the night before. Every piece he tucks inside a canvas bag—which he faithfully lugs block after block, to the café and back home, where he separates the garbage from the recycling and sends it on its way.
In 2025, this is his witness. This is his proclamation. This is his particular and even urgent offering—in service to the kind of faith that insists on beauty in the shared spaces of our lives, in service to the kind of faith that defies carelessness and callousness and invests each moment with reverence and joy. That’s the kind of harvest Jesus is describing.
So, we’re all disciples now. We all have work to do now. No gift is too small, no moment insignificant. Jesus says, Love your enemies. Pray for those who persecute you. Jesus says, Blessed are the merciful and the meek and every soul that hungers for justice. We’re all disciples now. We all have work to do. The old man snagging a beer can from a snow drift on Boylston Street. The teacher standing bravely beside a transgender teen in the lunchroom—while a bully curses her up and down and classmates root for violence. We’re all disciples now. We all have work to do. The allies who keep vigil, week after week, outside congressional offices, rejecting war and militarism. The brave hearts who step into the Dover jail every Wednesday and to offer counsel to immigrants detained.
Or your witness might be resisting the cynicism that runs rampant across our screens and tablets—and singing a happy song as you shop for groceries before lunch. Or your particular proclamation might be pulling off the road to praise God for a sunset that takes your breath away. Or your service to God might be picking up the phone after dinner and asking a friend if she needs a prayer, or a laugh, or both.
3.
.jpeg)
See, then, that the harvest Jesus is after is wisdom and grace and courage—not hyper-productivity, but wisdom and grace and courage. He’s sent us into the strange and weary world to bear God’s message of undying Love, reconciling mercy. Each one of us with a unique and precious calling—to embody that Love in daily life, the cast a vision of that precious mercy in our ministries, friendships and neighborhoods. And he knows that only when God’s seed finds deep soil in our hearts, only when God’s message lands in dark loam within, only when grace is nurtured by spiritual practice and reflection—only then will we be wildly and bravely receptive to the gospel, the peace, the promise that God has planted in Jesus’ ministry and ours.
Again, his aim isn’t to shame us or to categorize us as one or the other: some of us good earth, others of us bad seeds. Some of us doomed to infertility, others of us destined for greatness. That’s no gospel at all, that’s shameful “puritanism” if we’re honest. What Jesus is after is reflection and discernment. Can we come back together and talk about our call to witness and the urgency of our ministries? And can we till the ground within and among us such that it’s richer, darker, deeper and sweeter—such that the grace of God lands in fertile soil and can take its time sending down good roots, and finding sweet nourishment, and drawing on nutrients and ground waters, and then serving us well as it rises into the daylight of a whole new day?
4.
You see, Jesus seems to recognize that what he’s asking of us is difficult. He understands that proclaiming a message of Love and inclusion in a divided land is hard and costly. He appreciates that gathering up the blamed, maimed and shamed and building a new and beloved community is heartbreaking work, and challenging on every human level. And he knows that those who preach abundance and grace in systems addicted to scarcity and fear are all too often mocked and ignored. So Jesus—ever the teacher, ever the mentor—brings his friends in close and reminds us that we’ll want to keep tending the gardens of our souls. We’ll want to keep tilling the ground, maybe even weeding it from time to time, for the sake of reflection and discernment. We’ll want to stay on the path, the good path, of gratitude and love, nonviolence and mercy—so that the message of peace finds a welcoming home in our hearts, in our communities and in our church.
In the great Hebrew story of Esther, the queen’s cousin Mordecai urges Esther to step well beyond her comfort zone to champion a future for her people. It’s an apt story for our own time—when so many question whether we really have what it takes to resist the forces of cruelty and fashion a better world for our children. Mordecai refuses to let Esther off the hook. “Who knows?” he asks. “Maybe you were made queen for such a time as this!” Maybe you were made queen for such a time as this!
Friends, we are gathered together in this place, among these friends, for such a time as this. There is no doubt. Each of us with a gift to offer the whole. Each of us is a gift that enhances and expands the ministry of the whole. By faith, at least by gospel faith, there is no turning back. It is God’s intention that we embody the Love so bountifully present in us and that we offer that Love back to the aching and fraying world we live in. And we can and will do this in a thousand different ways—like my friend wandering the streets of Boston collecting garbage, like the friends coming together this afternoon to watch “Will and Harper” and imagine resistance, like those brave and defiant kids on campus calling for divestment from the war machine. We are gathered, we are blessed, we are fed and nourished by God at the table—for such a time as this. Let us welcome the promise. Let us be the Love we’ve been waiting for.
Amen and Ashe.
Friends, we are gathered together in this place, among these friends, for such a time as this. There is no doubt. Each of us with a gift to offer the whole. Each of us is a gift that enhances and expands the ministry of the whole. By faith, at least by gospel faith, there is no turning back. It is God’s intention that we embody the Love so bountifully present in us and that we offer that Love back to the aching and fraying world we live in. And we can and will do this in a thousand different ways—like my friend wandering the streets of Boston collecting garbage, like the friends coming together this afternoon to watch “Will and Harper” and imagine resistance, like those brave and defiant kids on campus calling for divestment from the war machine. We are gathered, we are blessed, we are fed and nourished by God at the table—for such a time as this. Let us welcome the promise. Let us be the Love we’ve been waiting for.
Amen and Ashe.
