We found the handwritten presentation that my mother gave to one of the garden clubs here in Montgomery. She wrote it almost as a poem. It had a philosophical feel to it. She talked about what it means to have a garden.
She said, "I strive to be perfect in my gardening."
But there is no real perfection.
She talked about the challenges of being a gardener: planting flowers that don't do well in Zone 8B—if you're a gardener, you know what I'm talking about—the different blooming seasons of spring flowers, from pansies to daylilies.
She talked about the things that get in the way of gardening: poor soil, overwatering, underwatering, henbit—is that right? I need my gardener friends to help me with that one—and rattlesnake weed. To her, they seemed as though they had been sent by the devil himself to get in the way of her garden.
Mind you, as her eyesight faded, she became her own worst enemy. She would weed the flowers she had planted the week before.
Sorry, Mom.
But she learned two things.
First, gardening is not unlike raising children. Well... maybe not every time. But sometimes you simply give them what they need to survive, to thrive, to discover themselves, and to put down their own roots. That's what it means to be a parent.
Gardening is much the same. You do what you can, take your chances, and see what happens.
What she learned was that she was not a perfect gardener. She was an imperfect gardener who found joy in an abundant garden. She was an imperfect gardener who was loved perfectly by her garden.
Take that as you will.
But I think it's a message for me—and maybe for each of us—that we cannot expect to live perfect lives. Yet somehow life has a way of giving back to us.
Maybe that's why you're here this morning, looking for that little bit of nurture that comes with a life of faith and Christian devotion. Looking for just enough nourishment to carry you through this week, this month, this life.
Some of you know it's been a busy week at St. John's.
We had the sad privilege of burying young Stephenson on Tuesday. The church was packed. I don't think I've ever seen it more crowded—over five hundred and fifty people. Be grateful for your elbow room today.
It was a powerful experience.
And for those of you who are fanning yourselves this morning, just know it wasn't working on Tuesday either with over five hundred people in here. We are working on that air conditioner.
Then, on Friday, we will bury Johnny Smith, Palmer's brother, a man who was deeply loved by many people.
Here's what I've learned from doing funerals.
Every one of us comes into this space seeking something—hoping for consolation, affirmation, nurture—something that allows us to continue living with a different perspective, with renewed confidence that God is with us.
A little while ago I was telling someone that I've done a few funerals in my day. Inside my Book of Common Prayer is a page filled with names. If you ever ask, I'll be happy to show it to you. That's one reason I never let go of this prayer book.
Those names represent, for me, the fellowship of the saints who have gone before us.
I can almost tell you a story about every one of them, despite the fact that there are now more than three hundred names recorded there. I've had the privilege of standing before many congregations, trying to plant that seed of hope.
But here's the thing.
It doesn't always work.
Sometimes we leave church, or a funeral, or a Sunday morning service distracted. Maybe the words don't speak to us in that particular moment of need or curiosity. Sometimes we leave and immediately become distracted by everything else waiting for us in the world.
And there is plenty to distract us.
But our God is an extravagant, reckless God who scatters seeds of hope, love, and nurture abundantly.
The parable Jesus tells today is certainly about those who hear the Word—whether they are the hard-packed path, tangled among thorns, or rooted so shallowly that they are scorched by the sun. Some seeds take root and produce an abundant harvest.
That's the parable of the sower.
But it is also a parable about the God who scatters those seeds everywhere—even where they seem unlikely to take root, where there appears to be little possibility of growth, where hearts are hard-packed and unable to receive them.
Does that stop our reckless, extravagant God from scattering seeds of hope anyway?
Of course not.
One of my favorite passages comes from Isaiah 55. Those of you who attended the Montgomery Academy baccalaureate service this past May may remember that when they asked me what Scripture I wanted to preach on, I said, "That's easy. Isaiah 55."
It's the very lesson we heard this morning.
"For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty."
It will accomplish that for which I purpose it. It will succeed in the thing for which I sent it.
"You shall go out with joy, and be led back in peace."
The mountains and the hills will burst into song.
Don't you love that image?
The trees of the field shall clap their hands.
Instead of thorns there shall come up the cypress; instead of briars, the myrtle.
So says the Lord.
I would like to suggest that, whatever may speak to you in today's liturgy, whatever condition the garden of your soul may be in this morning, you open yourself to that seed of hope.
Be assured that God is going to shower you with that seed and give you something to cling to as you face whatever difficulty, anxiety, or challenge lies before you.
Because God is reckless with love.
God is abundant with love.
God scatters it freely.
And it will not return empty.
That's a word I need to hear.
Sometimes I go out into the world and doubt myself. Sometimes I allow the thorns of anxiety to keep me from loving God and loving my neighbor as fully as I can.
But God says His word will not return empty.
It will come back to Him, and He will cherish what you offer. He will nurture it until you grow into the person He is calling you to be—until you become confident enough to proclaim, to pray, to hope, and to dare to imagine.
And then He will bless it.
As Jesus said, for some it will yield a hundredfold, for some sixty, for some thirty.
I love that He counts all of it.
Whatever we have to offer, He receives.
This is our opportunity to present to God the harvest that has grown within us by faith—to offer back the fruit of a soul that has been tended by grace.
God invites us to place that harvest in His hands so that together we may celebrate the life He has grown within us.
"It shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that for which I sent it."
Thanks be to God.
Amen.