July 12, 2026 · Rev. Jamie · Isaiah 55:10-13; Matthew 13:1-9,18-23
Ferns pushing up through black lava on Kilauea, and a childhood in hard, volcanic conditions of its own, lead Rev. Jamie to the parable of the sower, who scatters seed everywhere without asking whether the soil deserves it. Grace comes first: keep planting, because some seeds will grow.
Transcript
Even though it's been twelve years, I still have vivid memories of my honeymoon in Hawaii. I can remember the sweet taste of a ripe pineapple, the rich smell of freshly roasted Kona coffee, the incredibly loud rhythmic chirping sounds of the tiny coqui frogs at night. But nothing compares to the memories I have of Volcano National Park on the Big Island of Hawaii. My husband and I spent an entire day hiking around the Halema'uma'u Crater at the summit of Mount Kilauea. For nearly a century, this crater had held a lake of molten lava. But the lava finally drained away in the nineteen twenties, and it left behind this blackened landscape. Crisp and hard. Like badly burnt brownies. Decades later, the earth is still literally hot and smoking. You can kneel down and feel the heat radiating from the cracks in the earth. Hot steam swirls around your ankles. Everywhere you look is black rock. Nothing should be able to grow there. And yet, dotted all along the landscape, impossibly tucked in the nooks and crannies of this hard lava rock are plants. Tiny ferns have settled into the hairline cracks in the lava, their spores carried by the wind until they find just enough moisture to survive. Young ohia trees have somehow anchored their roots in solid rock, but most striking of all were the ferns. Their new fronds emerge, this brilliant red color before gradually turning green, unfurling like giant octopus arms reaching up out of the blackened lava. By every reasonable measure, those plants should not have existed, but somehow life found a way.
Likewise, by every reasonable measure, I should not be the person I am today. I grew up in what you could call harsh volcanic conditions in an impoverished, broken family in a small town in southern Wisconsin that still has the third highest violent crime rate and the third worst public schools in the state. I remember falling asleep, falling asleep at night to the sound of gunshots. There were plenty of reasons to believe that my future had already been written off as a failure. There were days when I believed that too. I know what it feels like to wonder whether anything beautiful can grow out of the hard life you've been given.
But the people in my life kept planting seeds anyway. Teachers believed in me. Neighbors encouraged me. Church members reminded me that I mattered. Friends saw possibilities I couldn't yet see. None of them could guarantee that anything would come of their efforts. They simply kept sowing. Looking back, I realize my life is the result of countless seeds planted by people who refused to give up on me. Just like those ferns impossibly growing out of the volcanic rock. Life found a way because the seeds of life were sown extravagantly, generously and indiscriminately.
That's what strikes me most about the parable of the sower. The sower does not discriminate. The sower scatters seeds far and wide and doesn't seem to care where they fall. No sensible farmer would throw expensive seed onto a footpath or into Thornbushes or onto solid rock. But this sower does. The seed flies everywhere across the path, into the weeds, onto the stones, everywhere. It's extravagant. It's excessive. It almost feels reckless.
The ground that is dry dust or choked with thorns is not a great place to plant seeds. The seeds might not grow. It could be a waste. But that's not the point. The point is that they might grow. They might find a way to tenaciously hold on, to grow and to bloom, and to inspire those who come across them despite the soil that they are born in.
Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor writes that the focus of the parable of the sower should be the generosity of our maker. The prolific sower who does not obsess about the conditions of the field, who is not stingy with seed but casts it everywhere on good soil and bad, who is not cautious or judgmental, or even very practical, but who seems willing to keep reaching into the seed bag for all eternity.
Jesus practiced this in his own life. He scattered seeds where everyone else saw barren ground. He shared meals with tax collectors. He welcomed sinners. He spoke with Samaritans. He included Women and children. He healed Roman servants. Not every seed took root. Some rejected him. Some walked away. Some plotted his death. But other seeds became disciples. Other seeds found healing. Other seeds changed the world.
Jesus never demanded perfect soil before offering grace. Jesus didn't wait until Zacchaeus had cleaned up his act before inviting himself over to dinner. He didn't wait until Peter stopped making mistakes before calling him a disciple. Jesus didn't wait until the woman at the well had figured everything out before speaking to her with dignity. Grace always came first. Transformation followed. Jesus never demanded perfection, and neither should we.
So often we are judgmental and selective about who receives our seeds of love and care. We look at people and quietly decide, oh, they'll never change. She's far too gone. He's made too many mistakes. They're never going to listen. We're wasting our time. Sometimes we even judge ourselves. I'm beyond hope. I've missed my chance. My best years are behind me, but God keeps sowing and so should we not, because every seed will grow, but because some will.
Isaiah gives us a beautiful image of this promise. Just as rain and snow fall from heaven and water, the earth. God's word does not return empty. Something always grows, not always where we expect it, not always when we expect it, but eventually it will.
That gives me tremendous hope, especially in our world today, that feels ever more hardened and rocky and full of thorns. We are living in a remarkably challenging moment. It is easy to become cynical. Divisions are deepening. Cruelty is rewarded. Compassion is dismissed as weakness. It's tempting to believe that kindness no longer matters, that justice isn't worth pursuing. That hope is naive.
But the sower tells a different story. Keep planting. Keep encouraging. Keep forgiving. Keep speaking the truth. Keep choosing compassion. Keep welcoming the stranger. Keep believing that even hearts that seem hardened today may one day crack open. If ever there was a time to sow radical love and with radical generosity, it is now.
I am here today. I am who I am today because of the seeds sown by people in my life who never gave up on me. My third grade teacher, Mrs. Pearson, who asked me to stay in class during recess so I could avoid the taunting of my bullies. My neighbor Karen, who gave me a ride to church every single Sunday morning. A woman at my church named Jerry, who came to all of my high school band concerts and plays to support me. None of them knew that those small acts would become so great and so meaningful. They were simply scattering seeds. But they made me feel that life, my life mattered. And it made all the difference in the world.
You may never know which conversation changes a life, which act of kindness becomes someone's turning point. Which invitation leads someone home? Which child remembers your encouragement. Twenty years from now, we are simply called to so generously, joyfully, without calculating the odds, without deciding ahead of time who deserves it, without giving up. Because that's exactly how God has loved us.
Perhaps that's why I still think about those volcanic slopes, the crunch of the blackened lava rock beneath my feet, the hot steam rising, a place that looked incapable of sustaining life. Yet life was everywhere I looked. Brilliant Read more. Reaching towards the sun. Young trees and tiny ferns. Every one of them a quiet testimony of hope that life will find a way. That grace will find a way. That love will find a way. May we become people who scatter seeds with the same extravagant generosity as our creator, trusting that somewhere, perhaps in the places that seem the least promising, something beautiful will grow. Amen.