Seventh Sunday after Pentecost, Year A — Isaiah 55:10-13; Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there… [Isaiah 55:10]
A sower went out to sow. [Matthew 13:3]
He did not first test the soil. He didn’t walk the field in advance, marking which patches were worth the seed and which were not. He simply went out, opened his hand, and scattered.
Some of it fell on the path, where the ground had been packed hard by countless footsteps, and the birds came before it had so much as touched down. Some fell on rocky ground, where there was barely enough soil to cover it, and it sprang up quickly but died just as quickly, scorched by the first hot afternoon because it had no root to draw upon. Some fell among thorns, and the thorns did what thorns do. They did not stop growing simply because something better had landed nearby. They choked out what little growth the seed had managed.
Three failures, in the space of four verses.
If a farmer came to us proposing to plant this way, we would probably tell him to stop wasting seed. We would suggest he survey the field first, test the soil, sow only where the odds favored success. We prefer efficiency.
The sower seems interested in something else.
Once the seed left his hand, he could not call it back. Not from the path. Not from the rocks. Not from the thorns. Whatever became of it from that point on was beyond his reach—not because he had aimed poorly, but because that is simply what it means to sow. The seed goes out. It does not return to the hand that released it.
Centuries before Matthew recorded our Lord’s parable, Isaiah spoke in remarkably similar language about the word of God:
For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there… [Isaiah 55:10]
Rain does not climb back into the clouds to look for a more promising field. Once it falls, it falls.
Isaiah is not explaining the weather. He is explaining the way God works.
Much of what matters most in our lives is released in precisely this way—a word of counsel, a prayer, a kindness, a sermon, a difficult conversation with a child. Once spoken, it belongs to the hearer as much as to the speaker. We cannot retrieve it, revise it, or redirect it toward more receptive ground. Most of the time, we do not even know where it lands.
And yet Isaiah does not stop there. The same sentence that says the rain does not return also says why it fell in the first place:
…until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it. [Isaiah 55:10b-11]
The promise is exact about what it does not say. Isaiah does not promise that every drop of rain finds soft ground, or that every seed germinates before our eyes. He does not promise that, by day’s end, the sower will know exactly what became of every handful he scattered. He promises something deeper: that God’s word accomplishes God’s purpose. The promise does not erase the uncertainty. It rests quietly within it.
This is a difficult kind of confidence to live within. We naturally want evidence. We want to know which conversation mattered, which prayer was answered, which letter was read with care, which word found good soil. Isaiah offers us no such accounting. He simply invites us to trust the One who sends the word more than our ability to trace its path.
My grandmother, Lib, taught adult Sunday School at Olney Presbyterian Church for fifty-eight consecutive years — a circle of folding chairs in a small country church, no blackboard, no desks. She began teaching as a young wife. My grandfather died in 1959, partway through those fifty-eight years, and she kept teaching another four decades after that, in a room that had slowly filled with women who understood exactly what she now carried.
Grandmother didn’t, of course, just teach. She prayed. I remember asking her once, when I was a teenager, how often she prayed. She smiled and said it varied, but—not counting meals, of course—she prayed at least twice each day: once when she rose in the morning and again before she went to bed at night. I asked what she prayed for. “Well, child,” she said, “for you, of course.” Then she added, almost as an afterthought, that she kept a list—of people, and of concerns.
She lived to be ninety-five. The Sunday School years account for fifty-eight of them. The prayer list, so far as I know, ran the whole length of her life — unbounded by any classroom or any term of service, with no one keeping attendance.
I do not know what became of most of what was on her list. I do not know how many of those names were rocky ground, or thorns, or soil that finally took. She kept the list. She prayed her list, morning and evening, for the better part of a century. And then she died, and the list, whatever remained of it, went with her.
I think again of the sower, standing at the edge of the field with an empty hand, having scattered everything he had into ground he did not choose in advance. He does not stand there afterward calculating which seed took root and which did not. He simply reaches into the bag again, takes another handful, and walks on.
Isaiah assures us that the word does not return empty. He does not say it returns to us. The rain waters the earth, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater. The promise is fulfilled, but not necessarily within sight of the one who first released it. My grandmother never lived to audit her prayer list. She simply prayed it, morning and evening, for most of a century, trusting that what had gone out into God’s hands had not gone to waste.
So we keep writing the letters we do not know will be answered. We keep speaking the difficult truth to the child who, this year at least, appears not to have heard it. We keep praying the names on lists we will never live to see resolved. Not because we have been shown the harvest. We have not. Not because our own words carry that promise, but because we are scattering a seed we did not make and cannot improve upon. We have simply been told that the word, once sent, does not return empty — and so we send it anyway, again, not knowing, the way she did, morning and evening, for most of a century.
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