The Soil of Grace (Part II): The Patient Gardener

Isaiah 55:10–13; Matthew 13:1–9, 18–23

An elderly man in New Jersey wanted to plant his annual tomato garden, but the ground had become too hard for him to dig on his own. His son, who happened to be in prison, was unable to help, so the man wrote him a letter explaining how disappointed he was that he wouldn't be able to plant his tomatoes that year.

A few days later, he received a reply.

"Dad, don't dig up the garden. That's where I buried the bodies."

The next morning, at six o'clock sharp, the FBI and local police descended on the property. They dug up the entire backyard, searching for evidence. They didn't find a thing. Frustrated, they apologized and left.

Later that day another letter arrived from his son.

"Dad, you can plant the tomatoes now. That's the best I could do under the circumstances."

Most of us don't have access to the FBI when it's time to plant tomatoes. But gardens do have a way of teaching us something about life. They teach us patience. They teach us that living things can't be forced. A gardener can't stand over a tomato plant shouting, "Grow faster!" Parents discover the same thing. Relationships don't flourish because we demand they do. Faith doesn't deepen simply because we try harder.

Growth happens when the conditions are right. A gardener's job isn't to manufacture life. A gardener tends the soil. Last Sunday we began reflecting on that simple truth—that perhaps grace itself is the soil where growth becomes possible. Today Jesus takes us one step further.

Gardener tending healthy garden soil as morning sunlight shines across growing plants.

We usually call today's Gospel The Parable of the Sower. I've often wondered whether it might better be called The Parable of the Soil. After all, the seed is always good. The sower is astonishingly generous. The only thing that changes is the condition of the soil. In the past I’ve preached on this gospel asking questions like, "Which kind of soil are you?" Are you the hard path? The rocky ground? The thorny soil? Or the good soil?

To be honest, I’m not sure that’s a particularly helpful approach. Because if you've lived very long, the answer is usually, "Yes." Sometimes our hearts are open and receptive. Sometimes they're crowded with worry. Sometimes an old hurt has made it difficult to trust. Sometimes fear keeps us from putting down deep roots. These aren't four kinds of people. They're four conditions that all of us experience at different seasons of our lives. The more interesting question, I think, is this:

What helps the soil change?

Gardeners know something we often forget. Soil isn't fixed. Hard ground can be loosened, weeds can be pulled, compost can be added, and even a field full of stones can, with patience and care, become a place where life flourishes. That changes the way I hear this parable.

Instead of hearing Jesus pointing an accusing finger at us, I hear him inviting us to trust the patient work of the Gardener. Isaiah gives us another beautiful image.

"As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth... so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth."

Notice who is doing the work. Isaiah never tells the earth to try harder. The rain simply falls. The earth receives it. The seed begins to grow. God sends the rain long before the harvest appears. Grace always comes before growth.

I've come to believe that one of the hardest spiritual lessons is learning to think in seasons. We live in a culture that expects immediate results. If we're trying to become healthier, we want to see a difference by next week. If we're praying for someone we love, we hope for an answer tomorrow. If we're trying to grow spiritually, we become discouraged when we don't immediately notice change.

Gardeners don't think that way. Gardeners think in seasons.

A friend of mine used to ask how things were going, especially when the kids were young and my wife was navigating the challenges of chronic illness. More often than not, I found myself saying, "It's been a difficult season."

At first I thought I was simply describing life. But over time I realized there was wisdom hidden in that little phrase. A season can be beautiful. A season can be painful. But by definition, a season is not forever. Each season has its own work to do. And perhaps that's how God so often works with us.

The Gardener rarely wastes a season.

Several years ago, I was leading a youth retreat on this very Gospel.I invited everyone to go for a quiet walk and pick up a rock. Not just any rock, but one that somehow represented something weighing on them—a fear, a regret, a wound, or a burden that seemed to get in the way of God's life growing within them. Later in the service we brought those rocks forward. One by one they formed a pile at the front of the chapel.

Farmers don't waste rocks.

I reminded the group that throughout the Old Testament God's people often built altars out of piles of stones. Whenever God met them in a significant way—whenever God provided, protected, or remained faithful—they gathered stones to remember.

Suddenly those rocks looked different. The rocks themselves hadn't changed. What had changed was the story they told. They had become an altar. Not a reminder only of what had been difficult, but of the God who had been present through it all.

I've often thought about that pile of rocks. Farmers rarely throw stones away. They gather them into walls that protect the fields or borders that hold the soil in place. The rocks don't disappear; they're given a new purpose. I wonder if God sometimes works like that in our lives.

Not by pretending suffering is good. Not by erasing the difficult seasons. But by patiently redeeming them until they become places where we discover God's faithfulness.

Over the years, I've heard many parishioners tell me exactly that. No one ever says they enjoyed the illness. Or the grief. Or the loss. No one would choose those seasons. And yet, looking back, they quietly say, "It was there that I came to know God most deeply." I suspect many of us could tell a similar story.

Then Jesus ends the parable in a rather surprising way. Three quarters of the story feels discouraging. Birds. Rocks. Weeds. Failure after failure. But Jesus doesn't end there. He ends with the harvest. There's one detail that's easy to miss.

Jesus speaks of a harvest thirty-fold, sixty-fold, even a hundred-fold. To us, those are just numbers. But to the farmers listening that day, they would have sounded almost unbelievable. A good harvest might produce seven or ten times what was planted. Thirty-fold was already extraordinary. A hundred-fold would have sounded miraculous, or possibly ridiculous.

Jesus deliberately ends the story, not with disappointment, but with astonishing abundance. That's the picture he wants his disciples to carry home. Not the birds. Not the weeds. Not even the rocks. The harvest.

And I think that's a word our little congregation needs to hear. As we approach my third anniversary with you this fall, I've been reflecting on where we've been together. When I first arrived, there wasn't a great deal of confidence about the future. There were real questions about whether this little church could continue, about what God still had in store for St. George's.

If we're honest, there are still Sundays—especially in the middle of summer—when it's easy to look around and wonder. But gardeners know better than to judge the harvest by one afternoon in July. They know there are seasons for planting, seasons for tending, seasons for waiting, and seasons for harvest.

As we look toward our 170th anniversary this October, I hope we'll begin to ask not simply, "Who's here today?" but, "What might God still be growing among us?"

Perhaps this autumn is a season for sowing. A season for inviting a neighbour. A season for sharing the good news of this place with someone who has been searching for a spiritual home. Not because we're anxious about survival. But because we believe the Gardener is not finished with this garden. Hope isn't pretending the weeds aren't there. Hope is trusting they won't have the final word.

So perhaps this week, instead of asking, "Which kind of soil am I?" Jesus invites us to ask a gentler question:

What season am I in?

Is this a season of planting? Of pruning? Of waiting? Or of harvest?

Whatever season you find yourself in, don't mistake it for the whole story. The Gardener has not abandoned the garden. The rain still falls. The seed is still good. And if Jesus is to be believed, the harvest God has in mind is always greater than we dare imagine.

I believe that's true for our lives. I believe it's true for this church. For grace is still the soil where growth becomes possible. And nothing—absolutely nothing—is wasted in the hands of the Patient Gardener. Thanks be to God. Amen.