Sermon preached at the Sung Eucharist on the Seventh Sunday after Trinity 2026

I have noticed recently that my enthusiasm for growing things has correlated remarkably closely with the increase in my age. I do think it is a phenomenon, that gardening is more often a recreation for the ‘less young,’ as much as I don't want to suggest that the young generation is wholly disinterested in the earth beneath us. I think one of the explanations is that gardens are a slow pastime. There is much waiting, experimenting, trial and error, delayed gratification – not things which I had the patience for as a young person. Weeding is actually one of those most immediately rewarding aspects of caring for a garden. You can see the fruits of your labour – or indeed the very lack thereof – in a few quick wrenches of those offending species, and for that reason, when I was small, I quite liked weeding. It's often best to despatch weeds as soon as they start to emerge, to stop them competing for nutrients, water, and light with your beloved plants, those which you actually want to cultivate.

The weeds sown in Jesus' parable are generally agreed to be darnel, also known as 'false wheat,' because it bears a very close resemblance to the cereal crop. Its botanical name is Lolium temulentum – temulentum being the Latin word for 'drunk,' because, when consumed, darnel can cause disturbances in perception, coordination and movement, vomiting, and headaches. The effects of this plant have been known and harnessed for many centuries. It is mentioned in Aristotle's writing, and in Shakespeare's King Lear, the beleaguered king weaves it into a crown of weeds, his mental state gradually deteriorating, his symptoms resembling the effects of darnel poisoning. Because it can masquerade as another crop, it is a useful illustration of evil – using deception and disguise, it is insidious and harmful. It is literally a 'bad seed.' And the one who sowed it, and who knows its effects, is engaging in what is essentially an act of bioterrorism. 

Jesus explains to his disciples that the field in which the wheat and darnel are growing represents the world, where good and evil coexist, where those of the kingdom of God live alongside those of the evil one. We don't know what follow–up questions the disciples may have had to this explanation, but I am confident that they would have had some interest in the problem of evil. That is: why, if God is all-knowing, all-powerful, and all-good, does God permit evil to exist? 

For many, the prevalence of evil in our world has forced them to conclude that there must be no omniscient, omnipotent, omnibenevolent being. For those who do still hold on to faith, this is no less of a concern. In the philosophy of religion, theodicy attempts to address this problem, and it has been a conundrum for as long as humans have been thinking theologically. 

The Old Testament book of Job, written sometime between the 4th and 7th century BC, grapples from multiple angles with the horrors which Job experiences. The concluding chapters see the God of creation dare Job to compare himself to God – 'Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding.' It may not be a solution to the puzzle, but it does offer Job an eternal perspective. Christian theologians through the ages have approached the problem in different ways. Irenaeus, of the late 2nd century, decided that humans require evil and free will to develop character. Origen, in the early–mid 3rd century, said that the world is like a schoolroom or a hospital, in which suffering serves to purge and perfect souls. Augustine of Hippo in the late 4th century, argued that evil is a corruption of goodness. Aquinas, in the 13th century, elaborated on this thought, suggesting that evil is a privation of good. In the 20th century, McCord Adams argued that theodicy is in fact a moral failure, but that God defeats extreme evil through relationship with his creatures.

You may be glad to hear I plan to make no attempt to settle this complex problem. Like many of you here I'm sure, I have had my own share of suffering, and much of it seems utterly meaningless. The various theological approaches I've listed are perhaps helpful conversation starters, but do little to offer comfort when the question of 'why' still looms so large. We see evil existing in great and small ways all around us, and whatever our theology, we still have to live alongside it, the wheat and the darnel together. Many of us will choose to fight against it, and many battles have been and will be won, but the war against evil is still ongoing.

St Paul knew this personally, having experienced his own persecution and suffering, as well as having inflicted much pain on others before his dramatic conversion. In his letter to the Roman church, Paul argues that the reason why the laws God gave the people of Israel didn't succeed in bringing about their flourishing was not because the laws themselves were bad, but because the sin within humankind caused us to rebel against these laws. The good news, he writes, is that Christ has set us free from sin and death, from the evil of this world. However, he still acknowledges that there is much to endure in this life. 'Creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the children of God.' The word for this eager longing is apokaradokia in Paul's original letter – an intense anticipation or expectation, literally watching with head outstretched. I imagine someone waiting at airport arrivals, craning their neck in anticipation of their loved one emerging, pushing their luggage–laden trolley through those sliding doors, to shrieks of joy and delight.

Fr Henri Nouwen, a celebrated Dutch Catholic priest and academic who died in 1996, wrote insightfully about this kind of anticipation demonstrated by characters in Scripture: "Those who are waiting are waiting very actively. They know that what they are waiting for is growing from the ground on which they are standing. Right here is a secret for us about waiting. If we wait in the conviction that a seed has been planted and that something has already begun, it changes the way we wait. Active waiting implies being fully present to the moment with the conviction that something is happening where we are and that we want to be present to it."

Paul's longing for something yet to emerge is full of hope. "You are children of God," "you have received a spirit of adoption," "you are heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ." These promises are no small thing in Ancient Roman culture, where your father holds your entire future in his hands, and where a new adoptive father can bring you ever more freedom and hope. But Paul accepts that there are still some things that remain unfulfilled: "if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience." This is 'the now and the not yet' of the kingdom of God. In just a few moments, we will say, in the Nicene Creed, "We look for the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come." We are still looking forward to the time when all of creation will be reconciled to God.

And while we wait, we can be assured that we will not be disappointed. Paul says, "that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory about to be revealed to us." Jesus says that in the end, "the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father." This hope of the glory to come is what must motivate the Church to continue to proclaim God's love, to act with justice and compassion, to point ahead to a future filled with hope. This Christian hope is incredibly powerful – as we look to the resurrection of Christ, may we look also to the resurrection of the dead in the last days and to the restoration of all creation to its full glory. 

We cannot know in this life the extent of the glory that is to come – it can only exist in our imaginations. But perhaps as we tend to the gardens of our present earth, as we plant and weed, cultivate and water, we might see glimpses of the future glory in the glory we already see around us.