The extravagant Sower

I want us to think of how a sensible person plants a garden…

You don't just fling seed wherever your arm happens to swing. You clear the ground first. You pull the rocks out. You test the soil, maybe adjust it. You plant in rows, in beds, in the places you have every reason to believe will produce something. Seed costs something — in money, in labor, in hope. You don't waste it on a footpath. You don't bother with the gravel patch. You don't plant in the middle of a bramble thicket and expect anything but frustration.

This is just common sense. And it's not only true of gardens. It's true of how most of us operate, most of the time, in almost everything. We ration our time toward the people and projects likely to give something back. We're careful with our love, a little guarded, until we're fairly sure it'll be received well. We measure out our trust, our forgiveness, our energy — because all of it is limited, and none of us wants to spend what we have on ground that won't produce.

That's the world we live in. That's the logic we run on.

Jesus tells a story about a farmer who doesn't plant like that at all. Since we read her book last fall, I've been sitting with this parable alongside a chapter by the writer Lizzie McManus-Dail, and some of what I have to say today is in conversation with her — I'll try to name it as we go.

"A sower went out to sow." It starts plain, almost boring. The seed goes out onto the path, where it never even has a chance — birds are there before it can take root. It goes onto rocky ground, where it springs up fast and dies just as fast, no depth to hold it. It goes into the thorns, where it's slowly strangled by everything already growing there. And then — only then — some of it lands on good soil.

Notice: this sower sows on all four. The path. The rocks. The thorns. The good soil.

Now, broadcast sowing — scattering seed by hand before plowing — was fairly common in Jesus' day. So this image wouldn't have sounded strange as farming practice. But Jesus chose it to describe how the kingdom moves in the world. And what he shows us is a sower who gives before checking whether the ground deserves it. The seed goes out before anyone knows what will become of it. There's no holding back here. No conserving the good stuff for the good soil. Just — everywhere. Generously. Almost recklessly.

But amidst all that generosity, I also don't think this text is asking us to pretend that everything always works out.

The birds really do come. The sun really does scorch what has no root. The thorns really do choke out what's growing among them. Three of the four soils in this story fail — genuinely, not partially. Jesus doesn't soften that. He doesn't tell us the rocky ground sort of produces something if you squint. It springs up, and then it withers, full stop.

So if you've ever poured yourself into something — a relationship, a ministry, a hope for something or someone you love — and watched it come to nothing, this story isn't telling you that didn't happen, or that it doesn't hurt. It happened. The parable knows that.

And, let’s remember that some people really do grow up among thorns they never planted, or are scorched by hardships they never chose. This parable isn't inviting us to blame people for the ground they were handed. But these seeds are also not the whole story. Look at what happens with the seed that does take.

Thirtyfold. Sixtyfold. A hundredfold.

I don't think we hear those numbers the way Jesus' first listeners would have. A good harvest, in that agricultural world, was maybe seven or eightfold. Ten was excellent — the kind of year a farmer would remember. Jesus doesn't say ten. He says thirty. Sixty. A hundred. Those aren't realistic farming numbers. They're absurd. They're the kind of numbers that would have made people in the crowd raise their eyebrows and maybe even laugh a little, because nobody's field produces like that.

Jesus doesn't linger over or calculate the losses. He simply points to the hundredfold harvest, refusing to let the losses have the final word.

Now — it would be very easy, at this point, for a sermon on this passage to turn into an inventory. Which soil are you? Are you the hardened path? The shallow rocky ground? The thorny, distracted, cluttered life? Am I? It's a natural place for this text to pull us, and honestly, a lot of sermons on this parable go exactly there, spend the whole time there, and end with an exhortation to examine your soil and till it better.

I don't think that's wrong, exactly. But I want to resist it today, at least mostly. Because if we spend all our energy looking down at the dirt, we can miss what I think is the real center of gravity in this story — which isn't the soil at all. It's the sower.

McManus-Dail puts this well: this parable isn't a spiritual self-improvement plan, a ten-step program for becoming better dirt. Bearing fruit, she suggests, may look as ordinary as staying in relationship with the person on your ministry team who mildly drives you up the wall—staying rooted enough to keep loving people, even the ones who cost you something.

So today, I'd rather we lift our eyes off the ground for a minute and look at the one doing the throwing.

Because if this sower is meant to show us something about God, then here's what we're being shown. God does not ration grace out to the soil most likely to produce a return. God does not wait until we've proven ourselves worthy ground before giving anything. God does not look at the path, the rocks, the thorns of our lives and decide we're not worth the seed. The sower in this story gives before anyone has earned it, before anyone has demonstrated they'll do anything good with it, without any apparent fear of running out.

That is not how we tend to operate. We save our best for the people who'll appreciate it. We measure our generosity against likely outcomes. But this God — the God this parable shows us — sows with an open hand, not a clenched one.

McManus-Dail makes an important distinction: this sower isn't careless. The sower knows exactly what will happen to much of the seed—and throws it anyway. That's not carelessness. That's extravagance.

Even if this parable isn't chiefly asking us to identify ourselves with one kind of soil, there are days when we can't help feeling like rocky ground. If that's where you find yourself today, remember this: God's response isn't to hold back the seed. It's to keep sowing.

That’s good news. And it’s also an invitation.  To become people who give, love, forgive, and welcome the way this sower sows. Not calculating first whether it's likely to "work." Not holding back until we're sure. Giving the way the sower gives: freely, abundantly, without a clenched fist.

As we head into this season of discernment together, I keep coming back to how little this sower seems to need certainty before acting. No soil test. No guaranteed yield. Just an open hand.

Churches, like people, can become cautious. We start asking not where God is calling us, but where success seems most likely. This parable gently unsettles that instinct.

What would it look like for us to live like we trust the sower? Where might each of us be waiting for more certainty than the Spirit has ever promised before we're willing to take a step? And as a parish, as we ask where God might be leading us, will we only look toward the ground that seems most promising? Or will we become the kind of people who sow with open hands, trusting that the outcome was never ours to guarantee in the first place?

I don't have tidy answers to those questions. I simply hope we'll carry them with us in the months ahead.

God is not stingy.

Picture that hand again—open, scattering seed across the path, the rocks, the thorns, and the good soil alike. That's the God we follow. That's the sower we're invited to become.

Amen.