The radical patience of the farmer

Last week we talked about a sower who gave without checking first who deserved it. Seed on the path, the rocks, the thorns, the good soil. No holding back. No deciding who was worth the seed. Just an open hand.

Whether or not Jesus meant us to picture the same field, I can't help imagining it that way.

Last week the sower scattered seed with an open hand. Today we return to that same imagined field. Only now, it's a little later in the growing season.

A man sowed good seed. While everyone slept, an enemy came and scattered weeds among the wheat, and slipped away before anyone saw. By the time the workers noticed, the weeds and the wheat were already tangled together in the same soil.

So they ask the obvious question: "Do you want us to pull the weeds?"

The workers aren't wrong for asking. They care about this field. They want it to flourish. And if you've ever looked at your own life—or this church—or the world—and wanted to start pulling things out by the roots, you know exactly how they feel.

The farmer says no.

Our instinct is usually to fix things. If something doesn't belong, get rid of it. If something's broken, deal with it. We don't like waiting very much. We certainly don't like leaving a problem alone.

So when the farmer says, "No," it catches us off guard.

That's really the surprise in this parable. Not that there are weeds. We already know that. The surprise is that the farmer refuses to rush.

Early on, the weeds and the wheat look almost the same. Their roots are already tangled together before anyone above ground could tell you which is which. Pull the weeds too soon, and the wheat comes up with them. So the answer isn't to ignore the weeds. It's to wait. To let them grow together until the harvest. A patience with teeth in it—not giving up on the field, not pretending the weeds aren't there, but faithfully tending what God has planted while trusting God with what we cannot yet untangle.

Most of us know something about things growing tangled that we'd rather keep separate. A diagnosis lands the same week as good news. A friendship carries real love right alongside real frustration, and neither cancels the other. We'd like life sorted more cleanly than that—grief in one pile, joy in another. But it almost never comes that way. Most of what we carry grows up tangled, long before anyone could easily say which is which.

The parable doesn't ask us to sort it all out today. It asks us to trust that a harvest is coming—a time when what is true will finally be made clear—and to let that be God's work, not ours. We love the field too much to risk pulling up the wheat along with the weeds.

I wonder if that's part of what discernment really is.

We often think discernment means figuring things out. Getting clear enough to decide what's working and what isn't. What's faithful and what isn't. What belongs and what doesn't. We can start to treat discernment like a kind of spiritual downsizing—as though faithfulness were mostly about deciding what to keep and what to throw away.

But Jesus imagines something a little different here. He imagines people who know they don't yet see clearly enough to make every judgment they're tempted to make. People willing to pay attention. To wait. To trust that clarity sometimes comes with growth, not before it.

The workers think faithfulness means acting quickly. The farmer shows them that sometimes faithfulness looks like patience.

I think that's one of the gifts of our tradition when we're at our best. Episcopalians have learned that the Spirit isn't usually rushed. We pray. We listen. We stay in conversation. We stay in the room long enough for God to show us something we couldn't yet see.

That's good news for us, because many of you know that this fall we'll begin a season of discernment together as a parish. There will be questions to ask about where God is leading us next. This parable reminds us that discernment isn't about getting to an answer as quickly as possible. It's about becoming the kind of people who can recognize God's work when it appears.

Maybe that's another way to describe discernment. Not walking away because things aren't perfect. Not cutting everything down because we feel impatient. But staying. Caring for this field. Trusting that God is still growing wheat we can't yet fully see.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do isn't to act as quickly as we can. Sometimes the most faithful thing is to refuse to make the wrong decision too soon. To prepare, so that when the time is right to act, we do so in a way that is driven by the Spirit and not our own anxieties.

And whether you've been here for years or today is your very first Sunday, the truth is the same. None of us is finished growing yet. None of us sees perfectly. All of us depend on the patience of God. We are all growing in the same field, under the same sun, held by the same patient love.

Whether your question this morning is, Where is this church headed? How is God calling me?, or, Is there a place here for someone like me? the invitation is the same.

Come grow with us.

That same imagined field. The same generous God.

Last week we watched the sower scatter seed without calculating who deserved it. This week we watched the farmer refuse to rush what only time can reveal.

The workers think faithfulness means acting quickly. The sower shows them that sometimes faithfulness looks like patience.

So we'll keep tending the field with the same open hands that scattered the seed.

The harvest will come. It just isn't ours to force.

Amen.