A sermon by Associate Minister Elsa A. Peters, July 13, 2008
Matthew 13:1-9
Matthew 13:18-23
When a familiar passage pops up in the Lectionary, especially a parable, I get nervous. I read it. I read it again. And again. Waiting. Hoping. But, there’s still that one story that I remember about it – that one interpretation that I understand about this parable that I have clung to since I was a Confirmand. I have trouble moving past it. I haven’t considered it much since. It had its meaning on then and I haven’t felt any real need to push beyond that understanding.
Jesus corrects my arrogance. Twice. He reminds me to listen. He reminds all of us to listen. Before anything else, he tells the crowd to listen. And in case you weren’t paying attention when he explained all that there is to know about scattering seed, Jesus tells the crowd again: “Let anyone with ears listen!” In no uncertain terms, Jesus wants us to pay attention. To listen to each and every word to find its meaning for right now – not what it may have meant back then. But, right now.
Right now, how do you feel? Are you the soil on the path with birds pecking at your head? Or do you feel more like rocky ground without any real depth? Are you feeling prickly as thorns, ready to choke anything that Jesus might want you to listen to? Or are you the good soil?
That’s you, right? The good soil that brings forth a bountiful harvest. That soil that produces such an extreme harvest that Jesus can’t make up his mind. Hundredfold. No. Sixtyfold. No. Thirtyfold.
Jesus speaks of an abundance that no farmer would have ever seen. It’s just not possible without our strange modern science of farming. No wheat could produce that much on its own. Ironically, that’s the soil we assume we are. We assume we’re that fertile – with the perfect pH, proper nutrients and ideal texture. This is what good soil requires – but I’m not a gardener. I can barely keep a plant alive. I don’t know anything about what makes good soil – but I do know that I’m not good soil. Or should I say, I’m not just the good soil. Sometimes I’m thorny. Other times I’m rocky. Other times I’m scorched. And still other times, I feel like I have no roots. I’m not any one of these things. I’m all of these things. All at once. All of the time.
“Customary readings [of this passage] expect that being separated out is exactly what a good Christian should hope and expect for.” But, nothing about me is separated. I’m scattered. Scattered in good parts and in rocky parts – scattered even when I would rather separate those other parts of my self out and leave them for the birds. But, no matter what is hoped or expected, I’m hopelessly and expectedly scattered.
And while this may not be customary, it’s hopelessly and unexpectedly true – as I’m guessing it is for you. I’m guessing that, like me, there are times – if not today – that you feel hopelessly and expectedly scattered. Whatever that rocky ground might be for you or how you imagine those thorns, you know what they are. Those thorns and rocky places are what make you, sometimes, hopelessly and expectedly scattered. You’re throwing yourself this way and that. Scattering. Scattering. And wondering when something will actually connect. When something will take root. When you’ll finally feel like you’ve been planted in good soil.
There is nothing customary about this. We cannot separate these feeling out. They are there. They are part of who we are – no matter what we might hope or expect. We are scattered. But, what really scares me about this simple truth is: I bet you don’t bring this scatteredness to church. Some of you have told me that you feel you can’t. You don’t feel like you can bring that here. Now, as another that is hopelessly and expectedly scattered, I don’t understand this. But, I listen as Jesus has told me to do.
I listen because there is nothing customary about it. There’s nothing separate about it. Its part of who you are and this scattered part can’t be separate from everything else – especially from your church family. Because church can’t be separate. It’s a different place – unlike your workplace, school, rotary club or community center. It’s a place where you come to meet God. To relish in God’s presence. To learn and grow in the grace of God. And friends, you can’t only come to this place when you feel like you’ve been planted in good soil. This is a place that requires your scatteredness. And yours. And yours. That is how we grow together.
It just can’t be separate. We can’t hide those parts of ourselves that feel so hopelessly and expectedly scattered. They need to be here in worship crying over the music. They need be pushing in Bible study asking tough questions about things that don’t make sense. And, most of all, those scattered parts must not be separate from our fellowship together. That’s when we grow – but we can’t grow if anyone of us doesn’t feel comfortable because they are too… well, scattered among the thorns and caught in the rocky ground. We need that stuff that you have wedged under the thorns or hidden under the rocks. It needs to be here in worship, study and fellowship as part of our shared drama.
That drama is what Barbara Brown Taylor misses most about church. In her memoir Leaving Church, she rightly observes that, “most of us do not live especially holy lives” but “every week we are invited to stop all of that [other stuff] for one hour at least. We are invited to participate in a great drama that has been going on without us for thousands of years, and one that will go on as long as there is a single player left standing.”
But, she doesn’t stop there or let the thorns choke her. Taylor scatters her own self with the further observation that there are two things that might get in the way of you or I being left standing: either our “worship has become too tame” or we forget to “[bring our] own fire.”
Bring your own fire. I love that. That’s the scattered part. The fire within us that makes us who we are – with all of those thorns, rocks and pecking birds. We need that fire-y scatteredness. That’s what makes our shared drama vibrant. That’s what will allow us to grow – if we are brave enough to use ears to listen to our fire-y scatteredness – but, not only to listen. Jesus doesn’t just ask us to use our ears to hear. He asks us to use our emotions to understand. And when we can integrate what we hear and what we feel with how we act, then we invited into action. To bear and to grow. This is how Jesus invites us into the Kingdom of God – with our whole selves. This is how we will grow with our minds, bodies and spirits. Not just the good parts, because “when life is pretty good and church is pleasant enough, who needs resurrection?”