The Soil of Grace

Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Matthew 11:16–19, 25–30 | Romans 7:15–25a

I heard about a fellow who decided he wanted to become a chicken farmer. The first month he bought 1,000 chicks. The next month he bought another 500. The month after that he bought another 500. Finally, the farmer who had been selling him the chicks asked, "So, how's the chicken farm coming along?" The man sighed and replied, "Honestly, not very well. I'm beginning to think I'm either planting them too deep, upside down, or too close together."

Thankfully, that's not how chickens work. But it does raise an interesting question.

How do living things actually grow?

Hands gently holding rich soil, symbolizing God's grace as the foundation for spiritual growth in "The Soil of Grace."

Whether it's a garden, a child, or our own spiritual lives, growth can't simply be forced. A gardener can't stand over a tomato plant shouting, "Grow harder!" Parents can't lecture children into maturity. And as much as we sometimes wish it were true, we can't simply grit our teeth and become more patient, more generous, or more faithful through sheer determination. Living things grow when the conditions are right. A gardener's job isn't to manufacture growth. A gardener's job is to tend the soil. As I was reflecting on today's readings, I found myself wondering whether Jesus is inviting us to think about the soil of grace.

Jesus says, "Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest."

Those are among the most beloved words in Scripture, but they are also more radical than we sometimes realize. Jesus isn't simply speaking to people who are physically tired. He's speaking to people who are worn down by the weight of expectation. They were trying to be faithful in a world that kept placing heavier and heavier burdens on their shoulders.

The Gift of Sabbath

Old Testament scholar Walter Brueggemann has a wonderful little book called Sabbath as Resistance. He reminds us that the Sabbath wasn't simply God's way of making sure people took a day off. It was an act of liberation.

For generations, the people of Israel had lived as slaves in Egypt under Pharaoh. Their days were spent making bricks to build monuments to Pharaoh's power and glory. Their worth was measured by how much they could produce. The more bricks they made, the more valuable they seemed.

Then God set them free. One of the first gifts God gave them wasn't another task to accomplish. It was a command to rest. Every seventh day they were to stop working. Stop producing. Stop proving themselves. Remember that they were no longer slaves. Sabbath became God's gift of healing, but it was also a quiet act of resistance against every system that measures people only by their productivity.

The trouble is...Pharaoh didn't stay in Egypt. His voice still echoes today. We live in a world that constantly tells us our value depends on what we accomplish. Children feel pressure to achieve. Parents wonder whether they're doing enough. Careers, finances, social media—even churches—can quietly become places where we're measured by performance.

Before long, many of us begin to imagine that God keeps score the same way. Then Jesus says, "Come to me." Not, "Work harder." Not, "Do more." Simply, "Come."

That is why I think the image of a garden matters. Healthy gardens don't grow because someone is shouting at them. They grow because the soil is alive. Perhaps grace is like that.

Grace is the soil where growth becomes possible.

Growth can't be forced. Healthy gardens—and healthy souls—grow when the soil is alive with grace.

That image came alive for me in a very personal way when I married my wife. Overnight, I didn't simply become a husband. I became a parent. Like many new parents, I wanted to get it right. My instinct was to focus on behaviour. How do we teach good habits? How do we correct poor choices? How do we make sure we're raising good kids?

My wife kept gently reminding me of something I've never forgotten. "Build the relationship first." Make sure they know they're loved. Make sure they know they're accepted. The rest will come.

Years later, I discovered the work of psychologist John Bowlby, whose research transformed our understanding of child development. Bowlby found that children don't flourish because their parents are perfect or because every rule is perfectly enforced. They flourish when they have a secure relationship with someone they trust. Knowing they are loved gives them the confidence to explore, to make mistakes, to learn, and to grow.

In other words, secure relationships don't prevent growth. They make growth possible. When I look back now, I realize my wife had understood something long before I did. Rules matter. Boundaries matter. But rules alone can only shape behaviour for a season. Love forms a life.

Isn't that exactly what Jesus is doing? He doesn't begin with behaviour. He begins with relationship. "Come to me."

Paul understands what happens when we try to do it the other way around. In today's reading from Romans he sounds exhausted. "I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do."

I suspect many of us know that feeling. Tomorrow I'll be more patient. Tomorrow I'll pray more faithfully. Tomorrow I'll finally get my life together. Paul eventually discovers that striving alone cannot produce the life he longs for. His answer is not simply to try harder. His answer is Christ.

Jesus then offers one of the most beautiful images in all the Gospels. "Take my yoke upon you." His listeners would have known exactly what he meant. A yoke was the wooden beam laid across two oxen so they could pull together. The work was still real, but the burden was shared.

From "Should" to "Get To"

Jesus isn't promising a life without responsibility. He is promising that we no longer have to carry life alone. The burden changes because the relationship changes.

I've noticed something similar in my own life. For years I've struggled to establish a regular exercise routine. Like many people, I motivated myself with "shoulds." "I should go for a walk."

"I should work out."

"I should take better care of myself."

Sometimes it worked for a while.

More often it left me feeling guilty when I didn't live up to my own expectations. A while ago I tried changing one word. Instead of saying, "I have to work out today," I began saying, "I get to work out today." That one little change made a surprising difference.

Exercise stopped being another burden I carried for someone else's approval. It became time I had set aside for my own well-being. A gift instead of another demand.

I've shared that little shift with a number of counselling clients over the years, and many have found it helpful too.

I wonder whether that's something of what Jesus is inviting us into.

Not another "should." But an invitation. Not another burden. But a relationship. Not another demand to prove ourselves. But a place where we can finally rest.

As we journey through these summer Gospel readings, Jesus will keep returning to images of seeds, soil, weeds, and gardens. All of them ask the same question.

What kind of soil allows life to flourish?

Perhaps that's the question for us this morning. Not, "How can I try harder?" But, "What kind of soil am I planting my life in?" The soil of comparison? The soil of fear? The soil of endless productivity? Or the soil of grace? Because healthy gardens don't grow through pressure. They grow because the soil is alive. And perhaps that is the good news Jesus offers us today. Thanks be to God. Amen.