"We're Gonna Have to Sow the Seed"

Homily for The Twenty-Sixth Sunday after Pentecost, Proper 28b

Saint Peter's | Arlington, VA

1 Samuel 1:4-20; Mark 13:1-8

Over these recent handful of days, alongside the many pressing matters in our world, I’ve been thinking a lot about grass. Honestly, for several weeks, if not months, my mind has been preoccupied with growing grass—and all that it takes to make it healthy and well.

Mary and I are settling into a new home, which when we moved in was surrounded by what could be best described as a barren patch of dirt. But we had high aspirations. So, with visions of summer parties gathered around a table, we set out to grow a lush lawn. The process began some time ago with tilling the soil, then removing weeds, grading the land, laying topsoil, grading the land again, and then, finally, sowing seeds.

As it turns out though this was merely the beginning. Because without water grass doesn’t really grow—and there has been a bit of a drouth in our region lately...

So, for awhile now, most of my days have begun with watering these precious little seeds—which is also just exactly where most of my days end, too. I can’t tell you how many mornings I’ve wondered about whether I was merely watering dirt—and even more so, about all the things the neighbors must be thinking...

Now, I am not a father, but let me tell you, when those seeds first started to sprout several weeks later, I soared like a proud poppa. Just ask Mary.

Even still, for as involved as the process has been, in no way does it make me an expert on “birth pangs.” In light of this morning’s readings and all of these hours watering grass though, there are two things that really stick with me...

First, Hannah brings forth new life—and it is a birth bathed in tears. Holy, sacred tears.

Long before even the pangs of childbirth, Hannah’s bitter weeping proceeds the birth of Samuel. One day this child will eventually anoint the kings of a mighty nation—but the monarchy would never come to exist if not for Hannah’s faithfulness in the face of her despair (and her defiance of a priest who completely misses the moment).

Last week, in a keynote delivered to Annual Convention, Rev. Dr. Luke Powery presented a question to all 170-some congregations in the Diocese of Virginia: “Does your gospel groan?”

As the theologian Nicholas Wolterstorff writes, “Every lament is a love song.” It is a moving thought. And the practical implications for the Church is that we cannot proclaim a gospel of love to the world if we do not mourn when love is diminished in the world.   

So, this morning, to anyone deep in the trenches of grief or distress, wondering how to navigate something insurmountable, whatever the situation may be, turn yourself toward Hannah. Listen to and learn from her deep distress. Because as Dr. Powery suggests, “Tears are the texture of hope.” “Those who reap in tears will reap in hope.”

The second thing that keeps rumbling in my mind are the words of my own mother. Not only does she know a few things being the mother of six that I do not, as a midwife she has also helped to deliver hundreds of babies. And to many expectant mothers, she has offered a gentle reassurance: the knowledge needed for birth resides in your body. More than can possibly be imagined, the body is equipped with wisdom to bring forth new life.

This morning, Mark’s Gospel reminds us—the Body of Christ—of much the same.

As the disciples marvel at the sight of the Temple with a reverent awe they say, “Look, Jesus, behold the glorious wonders human hands have made!” It is clear they cannot imagine a future apart from the great things their society has accomplished—which surely must be evidence for something eternal, something divine, right?

The response from their teacher though is sobering, to say the least...

But the apocalyptic reality Jesus foretells actually isn’t entirely unfamiliar, because this wouldn't be the first time it’s happened... Several hundred years earlier, when the Babylonians capture Israel and carry its people off into exile, the Temple is destroyed. And with it hope is decimated, with no semblance of vision for how it will be restored.

And from the devastation of God’s people comes the poetry we find in Psalm 137:

By the rivers of Babylon— there we sat down and there we wept when we remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up our harps. For there our captors asked us for songs, and our tormentors asked for mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’ How could we sign the Lord’s song in a foreign land?

And in the bitter weeping and ashes of their apocalypse, comes this response through the Prophet Jeremiah to the people in exile:

It will be a long time; build houses and live in them, and plant gardens and eat what they produce.

Now, sure enough, shortly after Jesus’ life, the Romans will desecrate the Temple and again reduce its glory to a humble heap of rubble—much as he describes. The historical events that have already or will take place aren’t the point here though… Instead, Jesus reminds his disciples of a steadfast truth: no matter what you may witness or hear murmured by others, the story of God’s just future does not begin—nor will it come to an end—at the hand of any earthly ruler.

Of course, it is quite reasonable to be alarmed by Jesus’ words—and he surely knows this.

Like the disciples, it would make sense to be a little more than afraid when faced with an unthinkable ending. And fear can be quite a powerful motivating force. It may lead us to grasp for control through whatever means afforded to us, or to seek after the assurances of those who promise to provide us with that control.

We would be wise then to listen when fear surfaces, in both ourselves and in those around us. The physiological aim of fear is to keep us alive—but, nevertheless, it is no way to live.

Each of us has, or will, face an apocalypse. A time when the world as we know it ceases to exist. An episode that forever marks a time before and after. A moment when a new beginning is utterly unimaginable. Uncomfortable as it is, to be human is to have a terminal condition to which none of us are immune. Some form of devastation will surely meet each of us in our lives.

As surely as there are world-ending moments throughout the course of history, we can plan for it in our own time and in our own lives, too. But to stop here is to tell only part of the story and leave out the best parts. Christ’s invitation is toward something beyond death’s sting—toward a future of new life on the other side of birth pangs. It is a story the God of Creation invites us to participate in as co-creators—with our very own hands and feet, here and now, in this life.

In the words of the womanist theologian, Kelly Brown Douglas,

...for those of us who claim to be followers of the Jesus that is Christ, this is the story we are invited into. The story we are invited to write with our very lives. Simply put, as people of faith, we are invited to partner with God in bringing our world and this our time to make history just a little bit closer to God’s promised, just future.

So, what might it look like to proclaim this story with our lips and embody it with our lives—no matter what we may face on the horizon before us?

Truthfully, I don’t have the answer... At least not any definitive one. Because it is a question for us to consider and respond to together.

Let me suggest some ideas, though...

For starters, it might look like pausing to ponder what we want to grow in the world—and then, as we did at the All Parish Breakfast last week in response to this question, to inscribe that hope onto something steadfast, like a rock. It might look like the group who gathered on Friday night to plant those shared dreams in stone form around the community garden as a reminder of the story we claim. And it might look like that same group then planting hundreds of daffodil bulbs by moonlight—because for as inconvenient as it may have been, it sure made it all the more joyful. Even more so, it might look like the proclamation of new life that will burst forth through those bulbs next spring!

Now, just one final example... And it comes from the all-female American folk/country band, The Highwoman. From this collection of women representing different races, ages, and sexualities, all of them mothers and some biological, comes a simple-yet-prophetic vision in the words of their song, Crowded Table:

I want a house with a crowded table And a place by the fire for everyone The door is always open Your picture’s on my wall Everyone’s a little broken And everyone belongs

And they even provide a blueprint for midwifing that vision into a lived story:

If we want a garden We’re gonna have to sow the seed Plant a little happiness Let the roots run deep If it’s love that we give Then it’s love that we reap

Friends, with the whole of our lives, may we make it so.

Amen.