By Maximos Pafilis, Bishop of Melitene
Sermon on the Gospel according to Luke 8:5-15
Where the earth seems to await something, or perhaps to forget everything, went forth the sower of the Gospel parable. No roar foretold his coming, nor sound of a trumpet declared the act, only the movement of a silent hand, which was scattering the seed into the indifferent heart of the world, as an answer to a question that was never put. And the seed, heavy like the lives of men, was falling. It was falling onto the tasteless soil of the soul, where no sweetness is by its nature fashioned to cast root, in the place where the weight of empty time seemed invincible.
The first seed, that which fell beside the road, what else was it but a word that was given to a stone-paved soul, smooth from the multitude of the passers-by? The cares of life, the voices of the many, the feet of the indifferent were treading that place, until it became hard and unreceptive of life.
There the heart is no longer a field, but a public road, where every act and every thought is exposed to the public view and to the common defilement and the particularity was lost, and the innermost sanctuary was profaned.
And then, in the absence of every precaution, comes the evil one, not as a lion that roars, but as the birds of the sky, which seem innocent but are rapacious, and removes that which did not take root because of the insensibility.
And the soul does not even feel the demonic theft of the seed, remaining in the stony oblivion of the shoots. Truly, “Faith comes from hearing, and hearing through the word of God” (Romans 10:17), but what hearing can exist in a soul deaf from the noise of the world?
Secondly then the seed fell upon the rock, where there was a little earth. There the joy of a fleeting water is the first reaction. The word, as soon as it is heard, blossoms quickly like an ephemeral flower, from the superficial heat and not from the innermost warmth. The shoot sprouts indeed, but its gaze is blind, not being able to see the depth from where the nourishment emerges. For this reason the Lord formulated the word in the third person, so that it might not seem that he praises himself, but also to show to all of us, those after him, the path of ministry.
With emphasis Nikephoros Theotokis explains this, “so that through this he might reveal, that just as a true farmer is not he who has seed but does not sow, but he who both has seed and sows, so also a true teacher is not that one, who has the power of teaching, yet does not teach, but he who, having the gift of teaching, in deed and in truth teaches”. (Gr. «ἵνα διὰ τούτου φανερώσῃ, ὅτι καθὼς γεωργός ἀληθινός ἐστιν οὐχ ὅστις ἔχει μὲν σπόρον, ἀλλ᾽ οὐ σπείρει, ἀλλ᾽ ὅστις καὶ ἔχει σπόρον καὶ σπείρει, οὕτω καὶ διδάσκαλος ἀληθής ἐστιν οὐχὶ ἐκεῖνος, ὅστις ἔχει μὲν τὴν δύναμιν τοῦ διδάσκειν, ὅμως οὐ διδάσκει, ἀλλ᾽ ὅστις ἔχων τῆς διδασκαλία τὸ χάρισμα, πράγματι καὶ ἀληθείᾳ διδάσκει»).[1]
This rootless piety is fed by self-satisfaction, but when the scorching heat of temptation rises, when the sun of ordeal burns mercilessly, the root, not having where to turn in depth, not finding the hidden moisture, immediately is withered. And the swift triumph becomes a sharper despair, another testimony of the withering within the triumph, where the soul tastes the desert amidst the apparent blossoming.
And yet, there was also the earth that nourishes the thorns. Here the seed took root, the earth was fertile, and the moisture was not lacking. But other things also coexisted, stronger than it, more ancient in that earth. The cares of this age, like thorns that choke the light, entangled the tender shoot, depriving it of the air of freedom. The deceit of wealth, a root bitter and gluttonous, sucked out all the strength from the earth, leaving the word unnourished. The pleasures of life, flowers seemingly pleasant but in reality poisonous, overshadowed the light of the sun, and the word was choked.
How can the word of God, “the living bread that came down from heaven” (John 6:51), be nourished in a divided heart, in a place where the spirit works for many masters? The fruit was near, hope was almost visible, but the fruition was prevented. The tomb of the pleasures became also the tomb of the word. That silence, the bitten silence, is the most tragic of all, because it saw the truth and denied it for the sake of the shadows, preferring the comfort of the prison instead of the pain of the resurrection.
Finally then, after the road, the rock, and the thorns, there was also the good earth. But what truly is the good earth? Is it perhaps the sinless, the pure, the dispassionate? Perhaps not so simply. The good earth is the earth that has awareness of its depth, that which confessed its thirst, the earth that has learned through many winters that life sprouts from death. It is the heart that learned fertile patience, that does not seek the swift triumphs, but accepts the seed with silence and nourishes it within the unseen labour of the darkness, within the invincible prayer.
Here, the word does not become knowledge, it becomes life and a transformative act. Not everyone was obedient to such souls, as the divine Gregory Palamas says, “for we are all fond of hearing and fond of seeing, but not all are fond of virtue; for towards desiring to know, among other things, also the things of salvation, we are all by nature disposed; […] But towards bringing the words into action, or also to reap from them a profitable faith, there is need of good judgment and of good disposition, which is not easily found.” (Gr. «φιλήκοοι μὲν γὰρ καὶ φιλοθεάμονές ἐσμεν ἅπαντες, φιλάρετοι δὲ οὐχ ἅπαντες· πρὸς μὲν γὰρ τὸ ποθεῖν εἰδέναι πρὸς τοῖς ἄλλοις καὶ τὰ σωτήρια πεφύκαμεν ἅπαντες· […] Πρὸς δὲ τὸ εἰς ἔργον ἄγειν τοὺς λόγους, ἢ καὶ πίστιν ἐξ αὐτῶν καρποῦσθαι λυσιτελοῦσαν, εὐγνωμοσύνης δεῖ καὶ ἀγαθῆς προαιρέσεως, ἥτις οὐ ῥᾳδίως εὑρίσκεται»).[2]
This good disposition is the deep plough that opens the earth. This is repentance, the unceasing turning towards the Sower. And the hundredfold fruit is not a reward of virtue, but the natural result of the communion of the seed with the earth, of God with man in an unspeakable mystery.
Thus, the sower always traverses the world, and the seed falls everywhere, indiscriminately, like the sun that rises on seas and lands. The judgement is not found in the seed, but in the earth. And the word of God is one and indivisible, but the hearts of men are myriad and various. And the weight of the failure remains for those who did not bear fruit, as an eternal reminder of the rock of the death of the root. Conversely, the fruit of the guileless earth becomes nourishment and blessing, a silent testimony that even in the smallest seed of the blind light is hidden the Kingdom of the Heavens, awaiting that earth, the one ready to die in order to give it life.
[1] Nikephoros Theotokis, Kyriakodromion, That is, an Interpretation and Moral Homily on the Gospels Read Every Sunday in the Holy Churches of Orthodox Christians, vol. 2 (Athens: Andreas Koromilas Typography, 1840), 34.
[2] Gregory Palamas, “Ta Heuriskomena Panta” [The Complete Findings], in Patrologiae Cursus Completus: Series Graeca, ed. Jacques-Paul Migne, vol. 151 (Paris: J.-P. Migne, 1865), 116.
