Bloom Wherever You Are!

Introduction

What’s a parable?

The word parable comes from two Greek words: “para” which means “beside,” and “ballein” which means “to put.” In other words a parable puts one thing beside another for the sake of comparing and teaching.

Parables have a mysterious element about them which intrigues us and sets us in search of hidden meanings. With our different ears and eyes, and different hearts and minds we approach the mysterious element of a parable, and come up with different interpretations or “takes.” That’s what nice about parables: there’s something for everyone in them. After reading a parable to a congregation the preacher gives you his take. But that parable has been working in each one of you. So besides the preacher’s take there’s your take as well.

Because I happen to be the appointed preacher for the Sunday Assembly, you have to listen to my take on the parable of the week. While you are busy all week long fighting the battles of life, my task all week long is to prepare my take on the parable of the week. I then present it to you, the Sunday assembly, not to drown out your take but to facilitate and get yours going. Then when you leave the Assembly at the dismissal, you will leave with something that is yours. When that has happened the parable has been eminently successful. Let me borrow a thought from Isaiah today and put it into the mouth of the Lord God: “My parable shall go forth from my mouth: it shall not return to me void, but shall do my will, achieving the end for which I sent it” (Is 55:11).

The unfairness of birth

Today’s parable is about a farmer who went out to sow seed in his field. Some seed fell randomly upon a footpath, some upon rocky ground, some among thorns. In such inhospitable terrain the seed didn’t do well at all. But some seed fell upon rich fertile ground where it sprung up vigorously and yielded an abundant harvest. My take on the parable of the week is this: Birth, that great Sower of life, is terribly unfair, as it randomly casts us as seeds into the furrows of life. Some of us are cast upon footpaths to be trampled upon by others. Some on rocky ground to be starved of the nurturing that life calls for. Some are cast among weeds and thorns to be suffocated by the problems of life. And then some of us, lucky few that we are, are cast upon rich fertile soil, there to blossom into the full beauty we were created to be and to produce the fruits of our potential.

That random unfairness of birth agonizes me at this very moment. Take my yellow Lab, Simeon, for example. Listen to his noble birth: his father’s name is “Shadowlake Sun.” His mother’s name is “Carly.” The names of his two grandfathers are “Gordie Boy” and “Casey.” I also have his great grandparents’ and even his great great grandparents’ names, but I won’t bore you. I consider myself lucky and blessed to be his chauffer as he sits in his favorite car, a Rav.

Now my present agony is this: on these hot summer days and nights, I can see and hear out of my window, almost as from a first class-seat, a young black Lab, tied by a chain to a car: no water, no decent food, no blanket to lie on. I do everything I can. I try to feed him and slake his thirst. I courageously try to talk to human beings about the matter. I even try to ransom the poor thing. I even think of stealing it or at least letting it lose to find a more hospitable destiny. I can see the little guy being locked up in a basement all winter long, and then I imagine him sitting in a Rav and being chauffeured for the rest of his life. It makes me cry out “Foul! How unfair birth is!” It’s then that I know for sure there’s a heaven for dogs just as there is one for human beings, where the unfairness of birth is made right. Some lofty theologians don’t have the slightest clue about this dog heaven, just as they don’t have the slightest clue about some other important matters.

Our stories

We all have a story behind us, and we are all cast randomly into our story as the seed is cast randomly in the parable today. My story is this: My parents were Italian peasants who came to this country in the early part of the last century. They migrated to Milwaukee where they joined up with the Italian community here. Then leaving behind his brother, my father migrated north to Manitowoc. Soon after my birth, our mother was taken ill and removed from us. Unable to speak a word of English, she was institutionalized or rather incarcerated in this foreign land of America for the next twenty years. She was set free only by death. And that always recalls for me the movie "One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest."

During those terribly critical seedling years, my father had no helpmate in terra aliena, my sister and I had no mother, and our house had no soul. On this footpath, upon this rocky terrain and into this thorny patch my sister and I were randomly cast as seed into the furrow of life.

Their ratings

Our various stories have a wide range of rating: some are bad and even terrible, as when we are sown on a footpath where people walk all over us, and we feel crushed. Or when we land on stony ground where we can’t sink some deep roots for ourselves, and are always withering away. Or when we are cast into a patch of weeds and thistles, and are suffocated by the problems of life.

Some of our various stories can be rated as good and even as very good. That’s when we land on “rich soil.” That’s a mix of all the "right" elements like being born on the "right" side of the tracks and in the ”right” neighborhood, of the "right" fathers and mothers who are imbued with the “right” messages and “right” techniques of nurturing. Very few of us have an “excellent” story to tell. In fact (to use the jargon of social psychology today) most of us have been born into some kind of disfunctionality.

The importance of the story.

Obviously a story is for telling. Psychology says it's important that we tell our story, especially to ourselves. And given the right moments, it's good also to tell our story to others, but not over and over again as a broken record dripping with self-pity. Those who never tell their story, at least to themselves, never really get to know who they are, what makes them tick, and what it is they should be doing to dig themselves out of their story if they are indeed snowbound by it.

As we tell our story to ourselves and others, we tell it not as excuses but as explanations of what and who we are. If my story, for example, is an unfortunate one, I may use it to explain myself, just as others may use their story to explain themselves. But I may not use my story to excuse myself for not going anywhere on the journey of life. I may not use my story to feed my self-pity. Self-pity simply immobilizes me and prevents me from going forward. And when I don’t go forward, I go backward.

Forgiveness and patience

Very few of us have an excellent story to tell—a story that is a perfect mix of all the right elements, especially the right mother and father who are imbued with all the right messages and equipped with all the right techniques for doing a “perfect” of nurturing. That’s almost impossible. So our story calls for forgiveness: children forgiving their parents for doing the same imperfect job that they are now doing on their own kids.

Our story also calls for patience—the patience born of the wisdom that knows we can't re-do our story. A story is always in the past tense, and we can’t redo the past. If in birth we have been cast as seed upon a footpath, that is an historical fact and we can’t redo history. Our story (our birth) goes with us to the grave when another great Sower, Death, levels off all the unfairness of birth. We can’t redo our story (our birth) but we can change it, we can modify it, we can discipline it and bring it into “obedience.” We can even let our story turn into good for us.

The story is not all bad.

As I have looked back over the years, I have come to realize that my unfortunate story has its pluses. The Book of Hebrews says that ”The Lord disciplines those whom the Lord loves, and lays the rod on every son whom Lord acknowledges.” Then it reminds us that “No discipline seems pleasant at the time, but later on it produces a harvest of peace and goodness “ (Heb. 12:11). Now as I look back upon my story (my birth), I see not only its pain but also its harvest. As I look back now I see gains and growths that others do not have. Motherless as our family was, with no one to wrap a warm scarf around us on a cold winter day, my sister and I eventually learned how to take care of ourselves. You know, some guys don’t know how to boil water. I know how to cook, how to make good spaghetti sauce, how to make homemade pasta, even how to make good Gnocchi. I know how to keep a clean house.

And by some sort of reverse psychology I know how to be compassionate, despite my rather uncompassionate story. And here is where birth or environment is not 100% the answer or the explanation of everything. Into the mix of brth or destiny there enters an absolutely mysterious element that can knock the wind out all our predictions or prognostications.

Compassion out of “uncompassion”

By some sort of reverse psychology I know how to be compassionate. Unnurtured though I may have been, at least to all external appearances, I have a strong nurturing yen in me. One day I found a motherless cat half-dead lying in the alley which goes from Jerusalem to Jericho. I stopped, poured the oil of compassion into her wounds, picked her up, and carried her off to the nearest inn, where I nurtured her back to health. And now she luxuriates as a beautiful queen in my house, totally oblivious of her rags to riches story

Once I found a “motherless tree” lying half dead in an empty city lot. City workers had set out one day to plant four trees there. The trees were from a nursery with their huge root systems typically all wrapped in burlap. No doubt they cost a good penny. The workers planted three of them, and the fourth one they unceremoniously threw on the ground and went home for supper. I watched that poor “motherless tree” lying half dead there on the frozen ground of November and December, wrapped up only in burlap. And then one day I, with a gang of two others, stopped, and poured the oil of compassion upon the poor tree, hoisted it upon our little truck and hurried it off to the nearest inn. And there we placed it into our good Mother the Earth on the darkest day of the year, December 21st. Two of the three trees randomly sown on an inner city footpath are now dead; the third is barely surviving. The fourth tree rescued half dead on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho after much tender loving care is now a thriving magnificent silver maple with a huge glorious crown, in my backyard.

Despite my story or perhaps because of it, I never pass by anything lying half dying on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho, be it an alley cat, a black Lab or an abandoned tree. I always stop despite the disadvantages (lack of time or messiness of involvement). And if I may not stop for some grave reason (it’s too dangerous), I always pass by feeling, if not guilty, at least very sad that I couldn’t stop.

Because of my story, for me the supreme text of all Scripture, the Mother of all Parables, is and will always be the one about the man who was going from Jerusalem to Jericho and was waylaid by robbers. That parable is a sparkling gem, and because of its many facets I can slip it into almost any homily I preach, as you may well know by now.

Conclusion

Bloom wherever you are.

“A farmer went out to sow seed in his field. Some seed fell randomly upon a footpath, some upon rocky ground, some among thorns.”

So what! Isaiah promises that, “The desert will rejoice, and flowers will bloom in the wasteland” (Is 35: 1). So what! The dismissal today is: “Go forth and stop the moaning and groaning, and make do with what you’ve got.” The dismissal today is: “Go forth and let the inhospitable terrain of your story yield for you `a harvest of peace and goodness.’” The dismissal today is: “Go forth like the Daffodil and the Crocus of early spring, which rise out of the cold cruel earth, bumping their heads against a snowdrift on top. Go forth, like them, and bloom wherever you are.”