[The] aim of that divine power, which bestowed upon us the sacred Scriptures, is that we should not accept what is presented by the letter alone — such things sometimes being not true with regard to the letter but actually irrational and impossible — and that certain things are interwoven with the narratives of things that happened and with the legislation that is useful according to the letter. But, that no one may suppose that we assert that, with respect to it all, none of the narratives actually happened, because a certain part did not; [or] that none of the legislation is to be observed according to the letter, because a certain part is irrational or impossible according to the letter; or that what is written about the Savior is not true on the perceptible level, or that no legislation of this or commandment is to be kept: it must be said that regarding certain things it is perfectly clear that the detail of the narrative is true… [and] the passages that are true on the level of the narrative are much more numerous than those which are woven with a purely spiritual meaning. (4.3.4)
Nevertheless, the precise reader will be torn regarding certain points, being unable to show without lengthy investigation whether the supposed narrative happened according to the letter or not, and whether the letter of the legislation is to be observed or not. Therefore one who reads in an exact manner must, observing the Savior’s injunction which says “Search the Scriptures,” carefully ascertain where the meaning according to the letter is true and where it is impossible, and as far as possible trace out, by means of similar expressions, the sense, scattered throughout Scripture, of that which is impossible according to the letter. When, then, as will be clear to those who read, the connection taken according to the letter is impossible, yet the principal is not impossible but even true, one must endeavor to grasp the whole sense, which spiritually connects the account of things impossible according to the letter to things not only not impossible but even true according to the narrative, with as many things as did not happen according to the letter being taken allegorically. For our position is that with respect to the whole of the divine Scripture all of it has a spiritual meaning, but not all of it has a bodily meaning, for there are many places where the bodily is proved to be impossible. And therefore great attention must be given by the careful reader to the divine books, as being divine writings… (4.3.5)
For “the kingdom of heaven is like a treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid, and then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field”. Let us consider whether the apparent and superficial and surface aspect of Scripture is not the field as a whole, full of all kinds of plants, while the things lying in it and not seen by all, but as if buried under the visible plants, are “the hidden treasures of wisdom and knowledge” — which the Spirit through Isaiah calls “dark and invisible and hidden” — needing, for them to be found, God, who alone is able “to break in pieces the doors of bronze” that hide them and “to break the iron bars” that are upon the gates… (4.3.11)
But let it be sufficient for us in all these matters to conform our mind to the rule of piety and to think of the words of the Holy Spirit in this way: that the text shines, not because composed according to the eloquence of human fragility, but because, as it is written, “all the glory of the King is within,” and the treasure of divine meanings is contained enclosed within the frail vessel of the common letter. … (4.3.14)
Let everyone, then, who cares for truth be little concerned about names and words, since in every nation different usages of words prevail; but let him attend, rather, to that which is signified rather than the nature of the words by which it is signified, especially in matters of such importance and dignity… [for] there are certain things the significance of which cannot be adequately explained at all by any words of human language, but which are made clear more through simple apprehension than by any properties of words. Under this rule must be brought also the understanding of the divine writings, so that what is said may not be assessed by the lowliness of the language, but by the divinity of the Holy Spirit, who inspired them to be written. (4.3.15)
— Origen of Alexandria, On First Principles, tr. John Behr (Oxford University Press, 2019). I have introduced minor repunctuation in certain places for clarity.
The Gospel always says: Yes, then No, and then Yes again — and Amen.
Yes. Christ wants you: you, exactly as you are, as who and what you are. What Christ wants is no less than everything you are and have. He wants the whole of you because He loves you: He loves you because He made you, and He made you because He loves you. There is nothing in you that prevents you from coming to Him. There is no better or worse time, no more or less fitting state. Whenever it is called “Today,” if you hear His voice, the command is the same: “Follow Me.”
No. What this means is that when you come, you cannot offer anything more than the whole of yourself, in simple, complete, and undivided submission. You contribute nothing yourself, for what do you have that you did not receive? No part of what you now are is worthy as it is. Nothing can remain unchanged about your life or within your being. There is no power within you, no performance you could deliver, no height of virtue you could reach, which could make up the difference between what you are and what you would need to be: it is not a finite quantitative lack, but an infinite qualitative difference.
Yes — and Amen. When you offer nothing less and more than the whole of yourself, Christ Himself will make you what you ought to be. He takes your sin and gives you his righteousness; he takes your heart of stone and gives in its place a heart of flesh. He removes the veil from your sight and teaches you the true spiritual law. He will instruct you in the way you should go, shine His lamp upon your path, and give strength to your weary feet. He will at first perfect your feeble efforts at obedience and in time give you full power to do His will. Only then you will know what it is to say, with the Apostle, “Indeed, I worked harder than anyone: yet not I, but the grace of God working within me.”
“The graven images of their gods shall you burn with fire. You shall not covet the silver or the gold that is on them, nor take it for yourself, lest you be snared by it, for it is an abomination to YHWH your God. And you shall not bring an abomination into your house and become a devoted thing like it. You shall utterly detest it and you shall utterly abhor it, for it is a devoted thing.” (Deut. 7:25–26)
That is the translation of these verses in the “American Literary Version” (the bespoke revision of the ASV produced for Bibliotheca). The underlying term is kherem, which usually denotes “under the ban,” i.e., absolutely incompatible with the sole worship of God and therefore to be destroyed.* Accordingly, the ESV and other contemporary translations here (and elsewhere) renders it more expansively as “devoted to destruction,” for quite understandable contextual reasons: “You shall not bring an abominable thing into your house and become devoted to destruction like it…”
Now, kherem and its derivatives can also carry a more general meaning, which the ALV’s “devoted thing” evokes: roughly speaking, something committed exclusively to sacred use, wholly dedicated to g/God, such that if it is misused the wrath of God falls on the one who misuses it. These meanings are of course compatible: a thing “under the ban” must not be stolen for personal gain (cf. Achan) or used according to one’s own inclinations (cf. Saul), but in many cases must be completely destroyed — as with the idols in view here, and as is threatened to the Israelite who brings such an idol into his home.
But the ALV’s rendering here suggests a multi-layered meaning, and an insight into the nature of idolatry. An idol is “under the ban” because it is “a devoted thing” — devoted, that is, to another god: a false god, whose claim to godhood violates the true God’s preeminence, and whose worship by the children of Israel breaches the exclusivity of their covenant with the true God. It cannot be “rescued” for the worship of the true God — unlike, say, the Egyptian gold and silver which is used to beautify the Tabernacle. It is permanently corrupted and corrupting. Once a thing has been consecrated to one god, for good or for ill, it cannot be re-consecrated to another. The golden calf, though made from that same Egyptian gold, cannot be melted down or repurposed once the people repent; its elements must be completely, permanently destroyed.
Thus one who brings a “devoted thing” into his house, rather than “utterly abhorring and detesting it” — viz. smashing it to pieces — has already in a way given himself over to the god to whom the idol is dedicated, via the power of covetousness by which the false god rules (and is not covetousness always the way?). The idol reshapes his devotion. He himself also becomes a “devoted thing.”
This is is precisely what the psalmist says about idols: “Those who make them become like them; so do all who trust in them.” (Ps. 115:8)
*Note: the name of the Nigerian Islamic terrorist organization Boko Haram uses the Arabic cognate of this term; while Western media usually translates this name as “Western education is forbidden,” the group has claimed that it actually should be rendered “Western civilization is sacrilege.” Loath as I am to take exegetical advice from self-proclaimed jihadists, the latter rendering is a far more plausible explication of their motives, and one which resonates more strongly with the biblical use of kherem.
This morning in our Daily Office readings my wife and I reached Luke 8, which contains St. Luke’s account of the Parable of the Sower (parallels in Mt. 13 & Mk. 4):
(1) Soon afterward [Jesus] went on through cities and villages, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God. And the twelve were with him, (2) and also some women who had been healed of evil spirits and infirmities: Mary, called Magdalene, from whom seven demons had gone out, (3) and Joanna, the wife of Chuza, Herod’s household manager, and Susanna, and many others, who provided for them out of their means. (4) And when a great crowd was gathering and people from town after town came to him, he said in a parable, (5) “A sower went out to sow his seed. And as he sowed, some fell along the path and was trampled underfoot, and the birds of the air devoured it. (6) And some fell on the rock, and as it grew up, it withered away, because it had no moisture. (7) And some fell among thorns, and the thorns grew up with it and choked it. (8) And some fell into good soil and grew and yielded a hundredfold.” As he said these things, he called out, “He who has ears to hear, let him hear.”
(9) And when his disciples asked him what this parable meant, (10) he said, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of God, but for others they are in parables, so that ‘seeing they may not see, and hearing they may not understand.’ (11) Now the parable is this: The seed is the word of God. (12) The ones along the path are those who have heard; then the devil comes and takes away the word from their hearts, so that they may not believe and be saved. (13) And the ones on the rock are those who, when they hear the word, receive it with joy. But these have no root; they believe for a while, and in time of testing fall away. (14) And as for what fell among the thorns, they are those who hear, but as they go on their way they are choked by the cares and riches and pleasures of life, and their fruit does not mature. (15) As for that in the good soil, they are those who, hearing the word, hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patience.
(16) “No one after lighting a lamp covers it with a jar or puts it under a bed, but puts it on a stand, so that those who enter may see the light. (17) For nothing is hidden that will not be made manifest, nor is anything secret that will not be known and come to light. (18) Take care then how you hear, for to the one who has, more will be given, and from the one who has not, even what he thinks that he has will be taken away.” (19) Then his mother and his brothers came to him, but they could not reach him because of the crowd. (20) And he was told, “Your mother and your brothers are standing outside, desiring to see you.” (21) But he answered them, “My mother and my brothers are those who hear the word of God and do it.”
St. Luke’s telling differs in various minor ways from St. Matthew’s or St. Mark’s, most notably the immediate context for the parable: he introduces it with the Lord “on the road,” as it were (Mt. and Mk. set it explicitly beside the lake), with his followers and supporters around him, and concludes it with the episode about the Lord’s “mother and brothers” (which in Mt. and Mk. immediately precedes the parable). This mild defamiliarization highlighted some non-obvious features of the parable, which in turn led me to what I think is a slightly unconventional interpretation. Essentially: this parable is not intended first to explain the individual’s response, but to illumine the community and context in which the individual responds.
Let me explain. The sower who sows the seed — which “is the word of God” (v. 11) — is, of course, Christ, who is going out “through cities and villages, proclaiming and bringing the good news of the kingdom of God” (v. 1). As he does so, Christ finds himself surrounded by “a great crowd” coming “from town after town” (v. 4). The parable is, then, a commentary on his (literarily) present actions. He is sowing the Word as he goes, in many different places, on many different soils. Now: the sown Word grows up into a plant (or, as in the first case, does not), which puts down roots in the soil — and the depth of the soil, and the other plants growing in that soil, determines whether the plants wither in the heat, fail to bear fruit, or grow healthfully and fruitfully. When Christ explains the parable, to what do the “plants” — the growths of the seed — correspond? They correspond to the persons who hear the Word. The most explicit indications of this are Christ’s references to their “roots” (v. 13) and “fruits” (vv. 14, 15). The plants are, as it were, “new growth” of the Word: new embodiments of the Word, which should themselves in the proper harvest time bear the seed of the Word, ready to be scattered anew by the sower. The growing Word-plant is a new life where previously there was none, a new-created person, which is to say a new kind of person. (Echoes of the psalm: “Blessed is the man… whose delight is in the Law of the Lord, and on His Word he meditates day and night; that man is like a tree, planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither.”) What, then, are the “soils”?
My suggestion is that the “soils” are not, primarily, different “types” of individual persons’ hearts and souls with their individual responses to the Word; rather, they are different sorts of communities with different kinds of environment for the Word-plantings. Think first about the nature of soil. Soil is not crude, inert matter on which a seed acts to extract water and nutrients. Soil is rather a rich micro-ecosystem, full of other living creatures, with hyper-locally varying tendencies and capacities and deficiencies, itself best understood as a kind of quasi-living substance. There is a dynamic relation — better, an indescribably complex array of dynamic relations — between the seed that is planted and the soil in which it is planted, even as they remain distinct from one another. So it is with the one who comes to believe the Word and the context in which he or she comes to believe it. Some “soils” offer only broad hostility, in which case the seed will struggle or fail to grow at all (“the devil comes and takes away the word,” v. 12). Other soils do not welcome a deep commitment, enforcing only shallow ones (“they receive it with joy… [but] in time of testing fall away,” v. 13). Many soils are full of entanglements and diversions for even a personally-committed believer (“they are choked by the cares and riches and pleasures of life, and their fruit does not mature,” v. 14). But some soil is good, not only permitting but encouraging deep, fruitful commitment (“they… hold it fast in an honest and good heart, and bear fruit with patience,” v. 15). In a rich, nourishing community, the new believer may put down deep roots and bear fruit a hundredfold.
Once we recognize that the primary correspondence is not between soil and believer, but soil and believer’s proximate environment, how much more, and broader, sense does this parable make of the life of faith! It was in a different context that St. Paul quoted the poet Menander to the effect that “Bad company corrupts good morals” (though it is a remarkable not-quite-coincidence that immediately after that quotation he discusses the nature of the resurrection body by analogy to seeds and plants; there are no coincidences in Holy Scripture!). But who has not seen a friend or acquaintance, ostensibly growing in faith, begin to wither when his closest friends begin expressing their disapproval of some teaching inherent to the faith? Or, even more commonly and tragically, whose faith has been slowly choked out when (say) she takes a high-paying job that relocates her away from her community, or when he begins dating someone who is attractive but has little interest in or commitment to faith? Which interpretation of the parable is more realistic (not to say compassionate): to say, “well, this just goes to show they were never good soil to begin with, you see”, or “alas that they were uprooted from good soil and planted elsewhere!” How psychologically realistic — brutally so — is this view of persons’ relation to their communities! Look at the findings of interpersonal neurobiology: I really am something like the weighted average of the five people with whom I spend most of my time. Who they are, and what sort of relation they have to the Sower, is naturally of critical importance for who I am. And in subtler but no less significant ways I am influenced by what a previous generation called my “station” in life, i.e., the cultural expectations endemic to my socio-economic layer: the sorts of media that People Like Me consume (and indeed the posture of “consumption”), the kinds of jobs we take, the places it is acceptable for us to live, the churches it is respectable for us to attend. This is the soil in which I live, and in which I am trying to grow. Of course it would affect how deep are my roots and how fulsome my fruits.
Note also that on this interpretation, the growth of the Word-seeds into living Word-plants at all is not only less a deterministic what-kind-of-soil-are-you? matter, but also more evidently due to the inscrutable, uncontrollable power of grace. Anyone who has sown seeds of any sort knows that, even in essentially the same soil, some of the seeds will grow well and others will not (indeed, probably only wealthy modern Westerners, in our highly sterilized environments and de-agriculturalized culture, can imagine crop growth to be basically a matter of controllable inputs and predictable outputs). Yes, there is a dynamic relation between the soil which permits and the seed which sprouts, but the priority is with the sowing of the seed and the actuality of the growth. So it is with the Word of God: whether an individual Word-seed, all else being equal, will indeed begin to grow into a Word-plant is decidedly inscrutable — at least to human understanding; I do not say inscrutable to God, for only God knows why a given human heart does or does not receive the Word in the first place. But — and this is the crucial point — in the process of discipleship, after the Word has been received, after the plant has begun to grow, there really are predictable and repeatable patterns of growth or failure to grow, which one can understand quite readily based on the characteristics of the soil/community in which it is planted. Nitrogen deficiency may not prevent a plant from growing at all, but it will fail to thrive and may not bear its fruit. And, of course, in some communities and contexts the devil seems practically always on the prowl to take away the planted word before it can grow. Certain plants won’t grow at all in acidic soils; “how hard it is for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God!”
Now, someone will say, “But the analogy of the lamp suggests a more individualistic reading. Christ speaks of ’the one who has or has not’ in v. 18.” So he does. “Take care then how you hear,” of course. A greater emphasis on the community context in which an individual grows in faith by no means abrogates the individual’s responsibility for that faith; I am tempted to suggest, in an admittedly circular move, that the Holy Spirit sets these words after the parable of the sower in order to guard against a kind of community-is-destiny fatalism. (In this connection it is striking to recall that the post-apostolic Christian generations seem to have essentially invented the concept of free will to explain how Christians could so thoroughly defy, among other things, the temptations of lust endemic to Greco-Roman society.) But I see no reason that these words do not admit two levels of interpretation: one individual, the other communal. The community that receives true faith hospitably — that is good soil — to it will more be given, viz., richer soil and more believers; the community that has not — is a thicket or rock or path — even what it has (as in erosion!) will be taken away. Remember also that St. Matthew uses the same analogy of the lamp to speak of the whole community of disciples (“You [pl] are the light of the world,” Mt. 5:14ff). The apparent interlude about the Lord’s “mother and brothers” in vv. 19–20 also strengthens the community-focused reading. What community could be more naturally proximate (even more naturally in first-century Galilee than in twenty-first-century suburbia) than one’s family? Yet Christ says, in effect, “Those who hear and do the word are my true family; better to surround myself with them than my literal family — unless they hear and do the word also.” The centrality of biological family is fundamentally relativized by the new creation of the Word.
This brings me to the other key objection to my interpretation, which is how to make sense of those whose new-planted faith actually flourishes in hostile contexts — I think naturally of the little apostolic communities scattered around the Mediterranean over the course of the Acts of the Apostles; or, in the present day, of Muslim-background believers who encounter Christ in a dream and are led to one another by the voice of the Spirit. I might reasonably respond that again, Christ’s parable is a commentary on his present actions, and therefore situational; it is not, and does not need to be, in principle infinitely applicable to absolutely any situation. (Scripture in its totality is profitable for all situations, not simply any individually extracted passage, and most of the profitability comes in learning — from Scripture itself — the quotidian wisdom to discern which passage is most fit to which situation.) But the ultimate response, I think, is again to emphasize the inescapably communal aspect of faith. As often in Christ’s parables, there is an instructive asymmetry between the good examples and the bad examples; in Christ’s four paradigms — the path, the rock, the thicket, and the “good soil” — this last is the only one that is not a specific sort of place. Soil is hyperlocal; a patch of “good soil” may be found, or formed, anywhere in the field. (Legume plants, for instance, famously improve the soil quality for other plants by “fixing” nitrogen so that it is usable.) Every such example of faith flourishing in a hostile context which comes to my mind presupposes that at least “two or three are gathered,” such that the soil quality is enriched so as to nourish new plantings. St. Paul never traveled alone in his apostolic work, and never left a solitary believer as a “congregation of one,” but baptized whole households. Christ sent the seventy-two out in pairs. The Desert Fathers, who might similarly be considered a counterexample, in fact are constantly warning novices in the faith about the spiritual dangers inherent to the desert, and how unwise it is to charge, solo, into battle with the devil before you are ready.
The lesson of the parable of the sower, then, might not in fact be “test yourself to see whether you are good soil or not”; it might instead be “get yourself to the good soil, and put down roots.”