“Some seed fell on the path, and the birds came and ate it.”
— Matthew 13:4
Jesus tells the parable of the sower: A farmer flings seed far and wide. Some falls on good soil and flourishes. Some among thorns. Some on shallow ground. And some… on the path. Hard ground. Where nothing can grow.
We usually hear this story as a reflection on spiritual receptivity—how well the “soil” of our heart receives the Word. But perhaps we need to stop asking why the seed didn’t grow, and start asking what kind of ground it landed on—and who allowed it to remain so hard.
Earlier this week, I was sitting in a rental car on Beach Road in Apia, Samoa, parked under the shade of large fig trees. My wife had gone into the bank to sort out an issue. I had the windows down to catch the sea breeze and pass the time.
A girl appeared—maybe 13. She stood at the passenger-side window and began to talk. Where was I from? What was I doing? What was my name? I answered her questions and asked a few of my own. Then, without hesitation, she said she was homeless. She had no parents. And then she asked:
“Do you have a daughter? Can I go with you and be your daughter?”
It was a question that pierced the skin of comfort and polite distance. A question I couldn’t answer. What do you say? How do you respond when a child offers herself in hope—not for money, but for belonging?
Some seed fell on hard ground.
Tom Waits wrote a poem with that title—Seeds on Hard Ground—as a tribute to those who live on the streets, pushed aside by systems that don’t see them. In his words, these are people with “fists clenched around memory,” people who survive on grit, dignity, and invisible hope. They are not failed seeds. They are seeds dropped in places where the soil has been packed down by hardship, grief, and neglect.
The parable and the poem speak to each other.
The sower sows generously, wastefully even—casting seed on ground that seems hopeless. But maybe that’s the point. The kingdom of God is not just for those with rich, receptive soil. It keeps reaching for the ones the world writes off.
It wasn’t in that moment—I was too stunned, too unsure how to respond. But later, as I mulled over our unsettling conversation, the weight of the parable began to press in. I saw the seed. I saw the ground. And I wondered what it would take for the ground to soften. That girl’s question echoed in my mind—not just as a personal plea, but as a parable in itself. A child asking to be seen, to belong, to be gathered in. It forced me to ask whether we, as individuals and as a society, have done enough to prepare the soil—to make room for hope, for healing, for roots.
Because in truth, hard ground is made, not born.
It is shaped by policy, poverty, prejudice, and plain neglect.
And it is our calling—not just to receive the Word—but to till the soil.
To soften it with love, shelter, justice, and presence.
To create the conditions where seeds can finally take root.
And maybe—just maybe—some of us are not the sower or the soil.
Maybe we are called to be the crack in the concrete.
The small, gracious opening where mercy might seep in.
__________<<<<>>>>_________
God of scattered seeds and stubborn hope,
We remember the ones the world forgets— those who live exposed to the sun and unseen by society.
We remember the young girl who asked to belong.
And all who carry that question deep in their bones.
Forgive us for walking past hard ground.
Help us turn the soil with compassion and courage.
Let your Word not only grow in us,
but break through us—
into a world that still waits for rain.
Amen.