The Seed, the Soil, the Sower, and the Sowing (Matthew 13)

This sermon was first preached at Augustana Lutheran Church in Portland, OR on July 12, 2026. The full livestream of the service may be viewed here (sermon begins at 36:00). The sermon with captions may be viewed here or below .
Scripture text: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23 
Image: "Parable of the Sower" © Paul Lewin

---

Good morning, Beloved of God. This morning we get to talk about one of my very favorite things: Gardening. Not because I’m a skilled gardener -- I am not, not even a little bit. In fact I’ve only ever actually planted two things in the ground, both of which lived and were lovely, even if in watering them I accidentally almost flooded our basement. But that’s another story for another conversation, probably about the importance of well-maintained foundations. But I digress.

The reason I love gardening is because I used to have a very dead thumb and could not keep even the most hearty, least needy plants alive, and now I can. Certainly because I’ve learned more about the critical relationship between seed, soil, sun, and sustenance; but even more-so because I’ve witnessed with my own eyes and held in my own hands the fruit of a sower’s love. 

So let’s play in the dirt, why don’t we. 

In today’s gospel, we enter into the first of seven parables that Matthew’s record narrates, in which a sower scatters seed, some of which falls on the road and does little more than feed birds (which, I contend, is blessed in its own right), some of which falls on rocky ground where it cannot root deeply and is scorched by the sun, some of which falls among weeds and is strangled by their proliferation, and some of which falls in good soil where it roots down and grows high. While the lectionary skips the middle part, before Jesus explains the parable, where he first explains why he speaks in parables, I think it’s important because verses 10-17 are Matthew being Matthew, underscoring for his predominantly Judean audience, in more depth than either Mark or Luke do in their narrations of this parable, that Jesus is the fulfillment of all the prophets, among whom is Isaiah who proclaimed in Isaiah 6 that when hearts are hardened and senses are dulled, not all who see will perceive, and not all those who hear will understand. Matthew is explaining why Jesus is explaining why he keeps on getting in such trouble with the religious leaders, and why that trouble will only compound as he marches toward crucifixion. 

This matters as a reminder that not only did Jesus preach to a specific audience within a specific context amidst a specific political climate; so too did Matthew write that way. Which means the interpretation Jesus gives in verses 18-23 (which is identical to Mark and Luke’s retellings) is equally specific to his time, those people, and that geopolitical mess. So it invites us to wonder: If Jesus told this parable to us now, how would He tell it and what -- and who -- would he emphasize? Which of us would be sowers, and who would be seeds? How many of us would be soil in this Parable of the Sowing? 

The answer might seem obvious -- Jesus says outright in his explanation that the seed is the Word and the people are the soil. But it tells us nothing of the sower whom we might presume to be Jesus, except that if that’s the case, he’s really not very good at it, and certainly shouldn’t be casting any shade on the path or the rocks or the weeds, or on the seeds that fail to grow where any gardener knows they can’t. 

See, these are the most basic realities of gardening which I did not know back in the days when I regularly killed plants, but have since learned by tending to the green and growing life in my house. I’ve learned that while some seeds can and should be scattered over huge areas and allowed to root where they root, others must be planted deep in the ground or just under a top layer of soil. While some plants do well in almost any kind of soil, the same peaty soil that holds and anchors certain roots will suffocate others. While some seeds demand long hours of bright, unrelenting sunlight and the almost-neglect of sparse watering, others require bright but indirect filtered light, and others still do best in mostly shaded corners. I’ve learned that all soil, no matter its kind or what seeds it nurtures, must be fed, tended, and for heaven’s sake, weeded regularly and carefully. 

And only a fool would blame a road for a seed’s failure to grow there. Only a fool would blame the rocks that could sustain succulents for failing to produce carrots. Only a fool would condemn the soil for being choked by weeds that very same fool neglected to pull. 

And Jesus is no fool. 

So what can we learn from all of this? 

Well, I can only tell you what I’ve gathered over the years: It is better to be meticulous in how and when and how often you water plants than to assume they drink the same amount. The cup-a-week that will keep a Peace Lily from dramatically flopping over into limp lethargy will drown a snake plant. The drenched soil of the rubber plant will rot the roots of an orchid in no time flat. The golden pothos may not need much water, but you’ll kill it if you let the top soil go bone dry the way you do a Jade plant.

And this: It is good to be in loving conversation with them all, the way Spirit is with us. I mean that literally. Talk to your plants, and sing to your garden. Whisper words of promise to seeds when you gently set them in new soil, and introduce them -- by name, even! -- to the neighbors they’ll grow alongside. Shower them with praise when they’re in full bloom, and speak words of delight over newly-potted clippings and words of hope and trust over transplanted roots that might otherwise be anxious in new ground. Be gentle with your caresses, but do caress the tender blossoms when they flower, and when you prune overgrowth or remove fallen or browned leaves and stems as you absolutely must for the health of the whole, give them all their due and proper burials: thank them for the oxygen they gave you, sing the praises of the green-turned-gold, holy with gentle gratitude the soil that nurtured so much life, and send them in love back to the earth so they can become part of whatever new life will blossom from that holy ground. 

What I’m saying, Beloved, is we’re part of it all, and it all matters: The seed, the soil, and the sower’s love across all seasons of sowing. Some seeds won’t root, or will only root superficially, the way some people can proof text the Bible without ever understanding God’s story. Some soil will start rich and hearty only to become infested with mealy bugs or choked by wiley weeds, as easily as greed infests humanity and excessive wealth chokes Spirit’s breath among Her people. Seeds that would root deep in dark, rich peat will wither and die in gravelly ground, and vice versa, the way two people can listen to the same Word and walk away with two entirely different messages that are equally profound but might offend the other. And sometimes, seasons of drought or heat, of late snow or early frost will quell the life out of what might have otherwise flourished. 

We can’t control all or even most of it, but we can take care to nurture and feed good soil until it’s time to let it rest and retire; we can attend to the requirements of the seeds we sow, taking care not to scatter what needs to be set upon or seated deep beneath the soil; we can be diligent about pulling the weeds that threaten to strangle what thrives; and we can sow with audaciously abundant hope, and in unapologetic joy and celebration, knowing that, in fact -- and this is scientifically proven -- the green leaves will respond to our tenderly whispered words, and blossoms will bloom bigger and brighter and longer for we who sing over them in wonder. 

It’s true, Beloved, that for all the beauty of that promise, our labor is not easy: Being a gardener in times of grotesque wealth and perpetual grief can, as we well know, be dispiriting to say the least. Planting seeds with a thief at our heels, and pulling at weeds without punishing living roots, can seem futile and humiliating. It is wearying. It is painful. And it takes so much more care and consistency than we each have in ourselves. 

This is the way of all life, is it not? Relentlessly brutiful as it fights to flourish.

Which is why I pray for us depth of faith and memory: For we who were fearfully and wonderfully sown as seeds in the wombs of mothers who birthed us to life in toil and triumph, have ourselves become the seeds and sowers of new life, charged by Christ with seeding (and weeding!) the Kin-dom of God right here and now; Knowing that for all the seeds that are stolen by vultures, strangled by want and by wealth, or scorched by the fires of this world, even more still will root down and sprout up just as we have, and they will thrive and flourish as life-giving oxygen for humanity, food for the hungry, medicine for the sick, nectar and pollen for our non-human relatives, and beauty for a world full of beloveds who’ve been made desolate by the kingdoms and empires of this age, and are desperate for Kinship. Which is really all gardening is: Tending to and nurturing kinship among all that lives. 

So take this with you in the world this week: You are sown sowers of sacred seeds of life. Root down in remembrance of your baptism, the water that gave and sustains your life, trusting whose and who you were born to be, which is Love. Speak life, always, with tenderness and truth. Greet what grows and what grieves with generosity and hope. And trust the exceeding abundance of Christ in whom, even here, even now, there is no condemnation, only liberation to life everlasting. Amen, ashe, aho. Let this be so.

---