Watering what has been sown: the words of a gardener after the storm of grace

Mark 4, 26–29

²⁶He also said: «The kingdom of God is like a man who scatters seed on the ground. ²⁷He sleeps and he gets up, night and day, and the seed germinates and grows, though he does not know how. ²⁸For the earth produces fruit of itself: first grass, then an ear of grain, and the ear is filled with wheat. ²⁹And when the fruit is ripe, the sickle is put in immediately, because it is harvest time.»

1 Corinthians 3:6–9

⁶I planted, Apollos watered, but God made it grow. ⁷Thus neither the one who plants is anything, nor the one who waters, but God, who makes things grow. ⁸The one who plants and the one who waters are equal, and each will receive their own reward according to their own work. ⁹For we are God's fellow workers. You are God's field, God's building.

Isaiah 55:10–11

¹⁰Just as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there, without watering the earth and making it sprout, without giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, ¹¹So it is with my word that goes out from my mouth: it does not return to me empty, but it accomplishes what I intended and achieves the purpose for which I feel it.

The sower has passed by, the gardener remains.

A crowd is not a harvest.

The figures have already spread around the world. Around 800,000 people, according to Vatican estimates, thronged the Place de la Concorde. 80,000 young people filled the Stade de France. More than a million pilgrims were counted between Paris and Lourdes. After Metz, Pope Leo XIV returned to Rome on the evening of September 28, at the end of four days that will remain etched in the memory of the Church in France. But that Monday evening, as the papal plane climbed into the Lorraine sky, Cardinal Jean-Marc Aveline knew what every pastor eventually learns: a large gathering is a beginning, and it proves nothing until the seed has sprouted.

This discernment is captured in an image that the Archbishop of Marseille, President of the French Bishops' Conference, offered in his assessment of September 29th. Many seeds have been sown, he said, and it is now up to the Church in France to water them. He added that the bishop is often like a gardener, who must water all the seeds, including those that have fallen where he least expected them to. The sentence is simple, almost rustic. Yet it contains a whole theology of the aftermath, that fragile moment when enthusiasm wanes and the obscure work of fidelity begins.

Because we know the risk. Major papal visits sometimes leave a luminous trail, then ordinary life resumes its course. Photographs yellow, homilies become quotations, and people say, "It was a beautiful moment." The Gospel never promised us moments. It promises us a Kingdom that grows, and that requires time, land, and water.

The image of the gardener, or the theology of care

Why did the cardinal choose the gardener rather than the strategist or the organizer? Because the gardener doesn't create anything. He provides the conditions for life, which doesn't originate from him, to flourish. Saint Paul tells the Corinthians this with a clarity that our pastoral plans would do well to reflect upon: «I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth» (1 Corinthians 3:6). The Pope has planted, in a sense, with a broad and sometimes demanding message. It is up to the bishops, the priests, the families, the teachers, the catechists, and the neighbors to water the garden.

Note, however, Paul's precision. He doesn't say that planting and watering are useless. He says that they are ordered toward a growth that transcends them. He adds later that each will receive their reward according to their own labor, for we are "co-workers with God" (1 Corinthians 3:9). The expression is bold. The Creator doesn't need us, and yet he chose to relinquish his rightful claim to associate us with his work. The gardener in the parable is therefore neither a zealous employee nor a mere spectator. He is a discreet collaborator in a fruitfulness that does not belong to him.

This humility protects us from two pitfalls. The first is activism, which believes everything rests on our shoulders and multiplies measures out of anxiety. The second is passivity, which hides behind grace to avoid doing anything. The image of the gardener holds both together. He truly works, every day, and yet he knows he isn't pulling on the stem to make it grow.

The periphery, the original soil of the seed

Those whom the fervor has not yet reached

Cardinal François Bustillo, Bishop of Ajaccio, added a crucial detail to this assessment. He emphasized Leo XIV's ability to reach those who find themselves "on the periphery of Catholicism." This expression refers to women and men who do not practice, or no longer practice, or have not yet. They have not broken with God through a dramatic decision, but their path has simply diverged from the church steeple. Yet they are there, in the crowds, in front of their screens, in the streets where the Pope has walked, with a question they do not always dare to ask.

Cardinal Aveline's phrase about the seeds falling "in places where he didn't expect them to fall" takes on its full meaning here. The sower in the Gospel is not an agronomist concerned with yield. He scatters the seeds far and wide, with a generosity bordering on recklessness. The parable of the seed that grows by itself in Mark reveals the secret: "The kingdom of God is like a man who scatters seed on the ground. Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how" (Mark 4:26-27). This "he does not know how" should reassure us. What we have seen in Paris, Lourdes, and Metz may already have taken root in hearts of which we know nothing.

Imagine a man in his forties, living in Saint-Denis or Nancy, raised without religion. He watches the Pope's visit out of curiosity, almost involuntarily. A phrase strikes him, perhaps about the dignity of the human person or about peace. He doesn't mention it to anyone. Three weeks later, he pushes open the door of a church to "see." This fleeting moment will determine much. Is there someone to welcome him, a smile, an open door outside of Mass times? That's what nurturing is all about.

In an interview given on the eve of the visit, Cardinal Bustillo described France as navigating between the absence of God and a thirst for God. He observed that God had been relegated to the periphery without society emerging any better for it, and that violence, instability, and fear bore witness to this. His was the clear-sightedness of a pastor, who neither triumphed nor condemned. He simply acknowledged the desert and the thirst, and concluded that the Church had something to offer.

Freedom and hope, two waters for the same earth

According to Cardinal Bustillo, the visit to UNESCO headquarters and the apostolic journey form a pair that encapsulates a large part of the papal message: freedom and hope. These two words deserve to be allowed to work together. There are freedoms without hope, those that leave the individual alone with their choices, free to do anything and no longer knowing why. There are hopes without freedom, those imposed like a directive that never take root. Christianity holds both together, because God saves only free people, and he saves them for a reason.

At UNESCO, in this place conceived in the aftermath of war to build peace in the minds of humankind, the Pope's words reminded us that a civilization is not measured by its material successes. It is measured by the way it nurtures, protects, and elevates the human person. This is the kind of statement that transcends religious boundaries. It speaks to the agnostic as well as the believer, and that is precisely what the periphery is: a space where people can meet without necessarily sharing the same vocabulary.

The prophet Isaiah gives this twofold water its most beautiful image: «As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there without watering the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, so shall my word not return to me empty» (Isaiah 55:10-11). Remember that the water comes from above, first and foremost. Our watering can merely redistributes what has been given. The first act of the waterer is therefore to receive. A Church that would water without first allowing itself to be nourished by prayer and the sacraments would distribute lukewarm water, then empty water.

Watering: the gestures of a Church on standby

The wounded first

We cannot discuss watering without addressing the hardened soil. In Lourdes, the Pope met with seven victims of sexual abuse within the Church. They stated that he had acknowledged the systemic nature of this abuse, which they considered a crucial step. On the flight home, the pontiff nuanced his remarks, emphasizing the role of individuals rather than a system. This nuance is significant and should not be used as an excuse. Neither the truth about personal responsibility nor the truth about the structures that enabled, covered up, or minimized it can be sacrificed to the other.

Here, watering means first and foremost listening, without rushing to reassure. No seed will sprout in soil where it is known that children have been hurt and where it took so long to believe them. The Gospel is only credible if the Church accepts that its own flaws are visible. The serious gardener does not hide the damaged areas of the garden. He works them, amends them, and accepts that this will take years.

This applies to every diocese, every parish, every movement. Those who have been hurt must be able to speak and find trained interlocutors. Procedures must be transparent. Leaders must be able to say "we didn't know" without adding "but." Reconciliation is not a prerequisite for preaching; it is its most credible form. No one will listen to the Gospel of a community that does not listen to those who have been hurt.

Youth, life and peace

On the flight home, the Pope said he felt blessed to encourage these young people "who are clearly searching for something." The evening at the Stade de France, with its eighty thousand faces, was a shining example of this. But an evening is not a community. Those who were there will be back on the train, at school, at university, and may find themselves alone in their faith among their friends and family. The pastoral question is where they will go in two weeks.

The nurturing will take place through modest and regular means: a group where the Gospel is shared without notes, weekly worship, service to the elderly or homeless, patient spiritual guidance. Today's youth are not looking for a spectacular Church; they are looking for a genuine Church. They want adults who live what they preach and who stay when the cameras are gone.

The defense of life was a central theme of the journey. Leo XIV linked it to opposition to war, particularly in Metz, where he denounced a "senseless massacre" that claimed countless victims every day and called for courage in negotiations. He also linked it to the rejection of laws legalizing assisted suicide or euthanasia, reminding everyone that what is legal is not necessarily moral. In the city of Robert Schuman, one of the founding fathers of Europe, this connection was anything but contrived. A civilization that protects life at every stage is the same one that rejects the logic of violence between peoples.

In Metz, at the interfaith meeting, the Pope declared it sacrilegious to use God's name to legitimize violence. This statement, too, is a seed. It needs to be nurtured in parishes, where the faithful live alongside Jewish, Muslim, Protestant, Orthodox, and Buddhist neighbors, and where dialogue takes place at the local level, far removed from the halls of conferences. A shared meal, an invitation to a celebration, a visit after a bereavement often mean more than a solemn declaration.

The patience of the Kingdom

There remains the least spectacular virtue, the one gardeners have always known: patience. Saint James holds it up as a model for the farmer, who "waits for the precious fruit of the earth, patiently waiting for the seasonal rains." We might add that the fruit is not always what we expected. Cardinal Aveline warns that some seeds will fall "where we least expect." We may have to accept that fruits ripen outside our usual frameworks, in lives that will never cross the threshold of our sacristies, yet will be transformed nonetheless.

Cardinal Bustillo recalls that John Paul II awakened the East. He wonders if Leo XIV could awaken the West. It's a beautiful question, and a risky one. A revival cannot be decreed. It is prepared through a thousand gestures that will never make the news. A priest who opens his church every day. A mother who prays with her children. A teacher who remains faithful. A sick person who offers up their suffering. That is the true network of renewal.

Let us return to Mark's parable to its conclusion: «The earth produces of itself, first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head. And as soon as the grain is ripe, the sickle is put in, because it is harvest time» (Mark 4:28-29). There are stages, and the stalk does not yet become the wheat. Let us not despise beginnings. A stirring of curiosity, a question asked, a tear shed at Mass, or a desire to go to confession are already stalks. It is up to us to protect them from trampling, disdain, and impatience.

Thus, Cardinal Aveline's words become a rule of life for everyone. The Pope came and he left, and the Church in France does not leave with him. It remains on this land he sowed, with its battered watering cans and sometimes weary hands. God, for his part, gives the growth. He has entrusted the rest to gardeners who are your neighbors, your brothers, and perhaps even you yourself, starting tomorrow morning.

Lectio divina

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