(Inspired by the spirit of Vincent van Gogh and the Parable of the Sower.)
> “A sower went out to sow his seed…”
(Luke 8:5, ESV)
The Sunflowers of the Soul: A Meditation on the Parable of the Sower
(in the voice of Vincent van Gogh)
I walk the fields at first light, where the mist clings to the earth like a prayer still half-spoken. In the east, the sun rises — not golden yet, but bruised and struggling, like a soul pressing toward belief.
And I think of the Sower — the man Christ spoke of — scattering his seeds, indifferent to the soil beneath. Some seeds fall on the hardened path, some among stones, some into the thorny tangle of the wilds, and some into good, dark earth.
How many times have I been each kind of ground? How often has the Word fallen upon me, only to be trampled by my own weariness or choked by the brambles of doubt?
Yet still the Sower sows.
The world, you see, does not lack seeds — it lacks hearts willing to be broken open like tilled fields. It is the cracked earth that drinks in the rain; it is the wounded spirit that becomes the richest soil.
When I paint, it is with this madness — this faith — that something beautiful will take root, even if I do not live to see its full flowering.
When I paint a sunflower, it is not merely a flower: it is the very psalm of persistence, its face turned perpetually toward the invisible sun.
When I kneel among the wheat, it is not only hunger I feel, but hope, ripening.
O friends, let us be the good earth today — though it hurts to be plowed, to be broken, to be made low.
The Sower walks still among us, casting His love into every wind, into every hardened city street, into every cracked and weary soul.
And when the harvest comes — even if the fields are thin, even if the sun scorches and the thorns tear at our arms —
may we be found standing, heads bowed heavy with gold.
The Kingdom of Heaven is not only after death.
It rises like wheat, quietly, stubbornly, among us now.
(Psalm 126:5, NIV)
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Sowing Light into Broken Fields: A Meditation in the Spirit of Vincent van Gogh
The fields stretch wide under a trembling sky, golden and bruised, as if heaven itself leans low to listen.
A solitary figure moves across the land, scattering seeds with an ancient gesture older than kings, older than cathedrals, older than the tongues that will one day name him in scripture.
The Parable of the Sower, said Christ — and Vincent heard it not as a sermon, but as a song.
Every furrow of earth a line of music. Every seed a note of hope hurled into silence.
Vincent, who knew hunger and madness, who painted not for applause but because the colors would not let him go, saw in the Sower a truth larger than doctrine:
That we are not judged by the harvest we reap, but by the courage to scatter seeds we may never live to see bloom.
Some seeds fall on rocky ground. Some are snatched by the cruel wind.
But some — ah, some — find a crack, a hidden softness, and sprout against all odds.
So it was for Vincent. So it is for us.
We scatter kindness into barren places. We toss dreams into an indifferent sky.
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May truth prevail.
> “Those who sow with tears will reap with songs of joy.”
(Psalm 126:5, NIV)
Bernd Pulch 