Tired Arms?

My  arms felt tired this afternoon.  I sit in a room with 20+ guys ranging in age from their early 20’s to probably their 60’s.  Some of their faces young and fresh and some of them old and haggard.  All of them there trying to shed the demons of their addictions to drugs and alcohol.  All of them nominally acknowledging towards that end their own powerlessness to change their lives and their dependence on some power greater than themselves capable and willing to help them make the change if they will surrender their will to it.

I reach into the book and cast, flinging seed around the room.  The Word of God.  There’s all sorts of soil here.  Rocky.  Packed down.  Weed infested.  But also likely some good soil  as well.  Receptive.  Broken.  Ready.  Hopefully.  The Word goes out.  But I’m tired today.  Tired of the rolled eyes and the exaggerated yawns.  Tired of the side conversations that sometimes are whispered and sometimes not.  Tired of the sharp looks shot at those who do want to talk, interact, respond.

This is my job, to cast the seed, the Word.  But my arms get tired.  Who is listening?  Who hears?  Where does the seed sink down roots and begin to grow, transforming the soil below as shoots and leaves reach towards  the Son?

I think my arm is tired, but really it’s my eyes.  The desire to see that seed begin to sprout and grow someplace.  Anyplace.  The desire to not see weeds choking it out here and there where it once seemed so promising and vibrant.  I’m just the sower. The seed has all the power in it, all it needs to do what a seed is supposed to do.  But I move along, casting here and there,  coming back a week later to cast again.  Some weeks I see some of those seeds sprouting.  Other weeks it just looks like barren, baked stone and rock.

Preach the Gospel.  Die.  Be forgotten.

Zinzendorf’s words still haunt me.  I still strive to be faithful to them.  To simply keep casting the seed.  To trust that it will sprout and grow.  Maybe not while I’m watching.  But someday.  Down the road a ways.  Just keep casting, slinging, hurling – in whatever way I can.  Praying for the rains and the sun and the harvesters to do a different kind of work.  Perhaps a work just as difficult in some way I can’t imagine.  Just as vital.  And from my vantage point some days, a lot more enjoyable.

 

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