Hey there, welcome back to the Semi -Seminarian
Podcast. Pull up a chair, friend. Today we step
down to the shoreline where Jesus sat in a boat,
voice carrying over the water and told a story.
The still rattles the bones of grace, the parable
of the sower. This isn't just about dirt and
seeds. It's about the scandal of a God who flings
mercy with reckless abandon, even when it looks
like it's being wasted. And maybe, just maybe,
that's good news for us. So lean in, let the
dust cling to your sandals, and see what kind
of soil your heart feels like today. While you're
here, I'd be grateful if you'd like, subscribe,
comment, rate, share, whatever, because this
porch we're building isn't just for saints. It's
for the wanderers who might be walking in dim
light, looking for a porch light in the night.
You might be the one who helps them find it.
I'll see you on the other side. Wayne says it's
time for me to start. We're going to listen.
I'm going to listen to Wayne. So, part two, if
you remember from last week, we've decided, well,
I decided, and you guys decided to show back
up, that we're just going to go through all the
parables that we find in Scripture. Some of them,
most of them, will be long enough and significant
enough that they'll take up a whole time. But
some of them, we might scrunch two or three parables
in it because they are thematic. They go together.
This is one that will take the whole thing. And
real quick, I want each one of these to stand
on their own, but at the same time, I want them
to build on each other from kind of what we had
learned from previous weeks. So let me just recap
a couple of things that we learned about parables
last week so we understand what exactly we're
talking about. Parable is different than a story.
All parables are stories. Not all stories are
parables. The difference is that the moral or
the meaning or the message of a story is often
written specifically to point you to that moral
meaning message at the end. Parables don't work
that way. In fact, what happens is we listen
to the parable and it starts to not make sense
to us because the person we think should be the
hero of the parable ain't. and the one we think
the villain might be the hero. We've got to listen
really closely because Jesus doesn't want us
to just interpret the information in our heads,
but actually let his truth transform our hearts,
okay? Now, we talked about, it seems like a clumsy
way perhaps to get your message across because
parables, not everybody gets a parable. Not everybody
understands the point of a parable. And also
remember, there's only one point to each parable.
And I hope tonight you'll be able to pick that
out. So that's not an effective way to communicate,
to trick people into figuring out what I'm talking
about, right? That wouldn't work for me. But
again, Jesus wants us to feel it, not just understand
it. So why parables? Why does he use parables?
In tonight's parable, Jesus is going to answer
that question for us. So as I begin, I just want
to again point out that the story in the Bible,
often this passage, sometimes it's difficult
for us to make sense of it unless we have the
story behind it. Without the scripture, the story
behind it doesn't make any sense. So if we're
going to try to figure these things out together,
we're going to have to put the two together.
So as we... do our Bible story will always begin
with the full passage reading. So I don't assume
that you know the passage of the Bible I'm talking
about. We're all going to listen to it together.
Tonight's passage comes to us from Matthew chapter
13, and it is verses 1 through 23. That same
day, Jesus went out of the house and sat beside
the sea. Such great crowds gathered around him
that he got into a boat and he sat there while
the whole crowd stood on the beach. And he told
them many things and parables, saying, Listen,
a sower went out to sow, and as he sowed, some
seeds fell on the path. The birds came and ate
them right up. Other seeds fell on rocky ground.
where they did not have much soil. And they sprang
up quickly, but since they had no depths of soil,
and when the sun rose, they were scorched. Since
they had no root, they withered away. Other seeds
fell among the thorns. The thorns grew up and
choked them. Other seeds fell on good soil and
brought forth grain, some a hundredfold. Some
60, some 30. Let anyone with ears listen. Then
the disciples came and asked him, why do you
speak to them in parables? He answered, to you
it has been given to know the secrets of the
kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been
given. For to those who have, more will be given.
They will have an abundance. But for those who
have nothing, even what they have will be taken
away. The reason I speak to them in parables
is that seeing that they do not perceive and
hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.
But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and
your ears, for they hear. Truly, I tell you,
many prophets and righteous people long to see
what you see, but did not see. and to hear what
you hear, but did not hear it. Beloved, thus
ends the reading of the word of the Lord, spoken
then, still speaking now. Friends, lean in. The
sun is low and the air is already warming. Dust
cling to your sandals as you stand there. You're
shoulder to shoulder with the crowd on the beach,
craning to sea, out on the water. Jesus sits
in a small boat, his voice carrying clear across
the waves. And he begins, not with a creed, not
with a law, but with a story. A story about a
farmer. And he starts this way. Listen. Not a
polite introduction, not a soft start, a command.
Listen. And then comes the story of the sower.
So ordinary, yet so confounding. Ordinary because
everyone there listening knew fields and seed
and harvest. Confounding because this farmer
isn't careful at all. He doesn't conserve. He
scatters on the path the rocks, the weeds, and
the good ground alike. Suddenly, you can see
it. The farmer in front of you pouts across his
chest, roughing hands, flinging seed in wide
arcs. The grain flashes in the sunlight as it
scatters. And every first century ear around
you perks up. You know this scene because this
is your life, your survival, your children's
bread. You know farming not as an idea, but as
a daily aid. You don't buy bread at the store.
You sweat for it. Your children eat or go hungry,
depending on what the ground gives. Seed is precious.
You don't toss it around casually. You measure
it. You save it. You guard it. You pray over
it. So, when Jesus says a sower went out to sow,
and as he scattered the seed, you, listening
on the shore, furrow your brow. Wait a minute.
What's this fool scattering seed on a path, on
the rocks, in the weeds? Doesn't he know any
better? To your ears and to the ears of everyone
around you, this sounds absurd. No farmer worth
his salt wastes seed like that. You don't scatter
it where you know it won't grow. You keep it
close. You ration it. You protect it. But here's
Jesus telling a story about a sower who seems
reckless, wasteful even. Who flings seed around
like it's no tomorrow, like the supply is endless?
And as you stand in the crowd, you shake your
head. This man, the sower, looks more fool than
hero. You mutter under your breath that no real
farmer would risk his family's future like that.
Yet something in you wonders. What kind of story
is this? What sort of kingdom makes a fool look
like the wise one? And that, my friends, is where
the scandal of this parable begins. Some seed,
Jesus said, fell on the path. If you've ever
walked down a worn dirt road that's been trampled
by feet and wheels and hooves, You know what
that ground is like. It's packed down. It's hard
as stone. Seed doesn't sink into it. It just
sits there on top until the birds swoop in and
snatch it. And Jesus says, that's some of us.
The word of God lands, but our hearts are so
hardened by bitterness, by pride, by cynicism.
that it never had a chance to take root. You
know the type because you're standing right there
with them in the crowd. You see the Pharisees
over there with their arms crossed, scrutinizing
Jesus's every word. You glance at neighbors who've
already given hope. You feel it in your own chest
too. The sting of grief, the memory of when your
heart was hardened against God. And maybe sometimes
we do that too. Other seed fell on rocky ground,
thin soil scattered over layers of limestone.
When rain comes, the seed sprouts fast. Green
shoots pop right up real quick. But then the
sun rises and the wind blows. And without depth,
Without roots, the plant withers. The farmers
listening would have nodded. They've seen that
happen. They've cursed those patches in their
own fields. And Jesus says, this is the shallow
life. The one who hears the word receives it
with joy, but has no depth, no roots. And when
trouble comes along, And it will. Their faith
burns up and withers in the sun. It's the person
who's all in when things are good but gone the
minute hardship arrives. And you in that crowd,
you know that story too. You've watched zealots
shout for revolution only to fizzle out. You've
seen neighbors rush after John the Baptist only
to drift away. You murmur with the others on
the beach recognizing this pattern as Jesus speaks.
And if we're honest, we've all felt it in ourselves.
Moments when faith sprouts fast but lacked the
depth to endure that heat and that wind. Then
some seed fell amongst some thorns. It grew,
but so did the weeds. And the weeds won. Every
farmer on that shore had spent countless days
bent over in their fields, yanking weeds out
by hand, sweating in the sun, muttering under
their breath about thorns. And Jesus says that's
the life choked by cares and riches and pleasures
of this world. The word grows. But so does the
worry, the bills, the ambition, the distractions.
And if we're honest, this is where many of us
live. Not hardened, not shallow, just crowded.
Too many voices, too many priorities, too many
weeds stealing the light. People on the shore
would have nodded grimly. They knew what it meant
to fight weeds every single day. And they knew
how easily good seed can get strangled. But then,
some seed fell on good soil. And it produced
a harvest 30, 60, 100 -fold. Now, what does that
mean, right? 30 times, 60 times, 100 times? It
might just sound like numbers, but to them in
the crowd, to a crowd that scraped by on modest
yields, hearing a hundredfold was like someone
promising an ocean in the middle of a desert.
Thirtyfold was already abundance. Sixtyfold was
miraculous. A hundredfold? That's divine. The
crowd would have gasped. Could it be? Could the
kingdom of God really yield that kind of harvest?
And here's the twist. Here's the scandal I was
talking about. The sower isn't careful. He doesn't
hoard the seed just for the safe places. Throws
it everywhere. On paths, on rocks. on weeds and
good soil alike. And that is not how you farm,
but it is how God loves. The sower wastes grace
on places we'd never even bother planting. He
flings mercy into hard hearts and shallow souls
and thorn -choked lives. He doesn't wait until
the soil looks promising. He just scatters, reckless
and free. And the folks listening on the beach
who lived on the edge of survival would have
known how shocking those words were. Seed wasn't
cheap. It wasn't endless. And like I'd said,
you guarded it. And you used it very, very carefully.
But Jesus says, God is not stingy with his word.
The kingdom doesn't play by scarcity rules. Grace
is not and never will be rationed. And for us,
that should be the good news. And I'll be honest,
I think back on my own story. Seasons where I
was path, hardened and closed off. Seasons when
I was rocky, burning bright, burning out. Seasons
when I was thorn, choked, tangled in fear, ambition,
and distraction. But the sower kept sowing seed.
Grace didn't give up. The seed kept landing even
when my soil wasn't ready. And somehow, by mercy,
it took root. And maybe you've got that story
too. But here's the question. Not which soil
are you once and for all, but which soil are
you in this very moment of your life? As you
stand in the crowd with that dust still clinging
to your feet, which soil are you in this moment,
this season of your life? And you can almost
see Jesus' eyes sweep to you. His words pressing
against the walls you've built to protect yourself.
Are you the hardened path too trampled to let
anything in? Are you... The rocky ground springing
up fast but withering when the heat rises. Are
you thorn -choked, so tangled in worry and desire
that you can barely breathe? Or are you, by grace
and grace alone, good soil, ready to receive
and bear fruit? This isn't some ancient, distant
riddle. It's an urgent reckoning for us. Which
soil are you today? Because soils can change.
Hard ground can be broken. Rocks can be cleared
away. Weeds can be pulled. Even good soil needs
tending. The very question hanging in the air
is not condemnation, but invitation. Jesus is
not mocking the path or shaming the rocks or
despising the thrones. He's calling you and he's
calling me to turn, to let the ground of your
soil become new. So today, right now, are you
letting the word sink deep or is it bouncing
off, burning off, getting strangled? As you stand
there with the crowd, ask yourself, what kind
of soil am I willing to be when his voice falls
like seed on me? And do you trust the sower enough
to believe he's still scattering seed into your
life? Reckless, abundant, unafraid of waste.
The scandal of his story is that he does not
stop sowing. even in the places that to us seem
barren. And that promise is for you and for me.
Beloved, here at Plain, the sower is not careful.
He's not efficient. He's not stingy. And he does
not give up on you. He is reckless with his grace.
And the word is going out to you, to me. to the
ones who thought God forgot their address. It's
falling on your life right now. And the sower
is patient enough to wait until it takes root.
He will not walk away from the field of your
soul. He will not decide you are just too barren,
too rocky, or too choked with weeds. He keeps...
coming back, handful after handful, scattering
again and again. That is his way, lavish, persistent,
and unstoppable. You may think that you have
wasted seasons, but he does not see it that way.
He sees places where seed is still waiting to
sprout. You may believe you're too far gone,
but he knows that even the hardest path can be
broken up and even the most tangled of thorns
can be cleared. The very place you call hopeless
are the places he's chosen to throw seed again.
And when it does, the harvest will be more than
we can even count and more than we can ever count.
ever dare to hope. So I leave you tonight with
Jesus' own words. Whoever has ears, let them
hear. Amen? Amen. Thanks, guys. Beloved, hear
it again. Sower does not stop scattering seed.
He is reckless with grace. Even in the hardened,
the shallow, and the thorn -choked places of
your life, He still keeps flinging mercy, handful
after handful, because He refuses to give up
on you. That is both scandalous and saving. So
here's the reckoning. What soil are you willing
to be today? Not condemnation. It's an invitation.
Hard ground can be broken. Weeds can be cleared.
Soil can change. And when grace takes root, the
harvest will be more than you can count. If this
word tonight stirred something in you, I'd ask
you again to like, subscribe, rate, share, drop
a comment. Not for me, but because someone wandering
in the half -light might stumble on this little
porch light and find their way home. I'll see
you next time. chapter 6. Therefore, reading
the first both of the doctrines of Christ, let
us go on.