There is nothing more common, and seemingly insignificant, than the
planting of a garden. There are the simple upturning of the sod, the
mellowing of the soil, and the burial of a hard-shelled seed. Let a
chemist analyze the soil, and a scientist examine the seed, and they
will be unable to find anything signifying relationship between the
two. There is nothing, so far as the human eye can see, to suggest that
the combination of seed and soil would be other than the combination of
stone and stubble. But when once planted all the universe knows about
the little brown seed. The earth and the seed were made for each other,
and no sooner do they come in proper contact than the whole universe
is set in motion about and for the development of that buried germ.
There is not a cloud floating afar nor a star gleaming mildly in the
distant blue that does not exist for that tiny seed until, through the
ministration of sunbeam and moonlight, shower and baptismal dew, the
seed arises, clothed in the glory of a resurrection, to lift itself in
right royal grandeur above the clod.
No one can explain how the inanimate can thus become living tissue, but
the sun keeps warming its leaves with caresses, and the kindly winds
bring tribute from distant lands; and the guarding stars keep sending
their benign forces, and the cool hand of the darkness offers its
chalice of dew, so that the seed becomes a tree, whose nectar attracts
the bees and butterflies, and whose wide-extending branches become the
home and playground of the birds.
There is nothing seemingly more insignificant than the planting of
a garden unless it be the beginning of a good and useful life. It
is simply planting a thought in an ordinary human brain. The wise
philosopher may examine the thought and pronounce it quite commonplace;
the grammarian may test it and say that it could be constructed in a
more exact and polished manner; the physiologist may examine the brain
and pronounce the texture of its convolutions as being most ordinary.
There is nothing anywhere to indicate that the combination of that
particular thought and that particular brain could result in anything
particularly extraordinary. The possessor of the brain may feel no
different after the planting of the thought and have no presentiment
of what it shall mean to him in the years that follow. But the whole
universe knows about the thought planting. As the stars remember the
buried seed, so all the divine forces of earth and heaven are set to
work about the planted thought. Days and weeks may pass without the
world observing any appreciable results, and it may even forget the
planting. But God has not forgotten. He is remembering it, guarding it
with divine care, and the results will appear sooner than we think.
That is the reason, I believe, that Christ took the mustard seed for
the foundation of a parable. The seed is not only one of the smallest,
being so little that it can slip unnoticed from your grasp, and hide
within the crevice of a clod, mocking your solicitous search, but it
is of most rapid growth. Within a fortnight it will overshadow the
garden, and before the season is ended will tower twelve to fifteen
feet in height, its sturdy branches affording shelter, and protected
nests, for many birds. Divine thoughts within the brain are capable of
this marvelous development. The planting may be an unattractive thing
to do; the mind itself may be as unresponsive as the soil at the first
planting of the seed, but God has not forgotten his truth, and all the
universe is working for its fullest development. Soon, very soon, will
it manifest its marvelous nature by rapid growth and bloom.
Here is a little lass, living among the forests of Domremy. Day by day
she watches the soldiers of hostile powers tramping along the dusty
highways to devastate the land she loves so dearly. Her heart aches
as she sees her people languishing helplessly under the heavy yoke of
oppression. Standing with tear-filled eyes one day she hears an old man
say: “God will one day raise a deliverer for the French.” Amid the dust
arising from the tramping of an invading army a thought was planted in
the mind of a child.
Here is a little girl at Ledbury, near the Malvern Hills, sitting in
her father’s dooryard, looking at the mysterious letters of a Greek
book, whose secrets refuse to yield themselves to her inquisitive
brain. Disappointed, she buries her face in her book and weeps, only
to be found by a kind friend who picks her up and whispers in her ear:
“There, do not cry. A little girl can learn Greek if she tries.” The
world goes along as usual, not knowing that a new thought has been
planted, and that girls may learn Greek as readily as do the boys.
Here is a little boy, standing by a harpsichord, watching his father’s
fingers find the notes upon the ivory keyboard. His soul is filled with
delight as he listens to the melodies that arise. Beholding the nervous
twitch of the tiny fingers longing to earnestly and reverently touch
the music-making keys, the father bends low, and says: “Be patient,
son, and keep loving your music, for some day you will be a great
musician.”
Here is a little boy drawing with charcoal upon the white walls of his
mother’s kitchen, while a precious old grandmother sits watching the
young artist. Taking him in her arms, she said, “Do not paint to rub
out, paint for eternity.” Commonplace words uttered in a commonplace
home by a very commonplace old lady.
Here is a bright-eyed little boy kneeling at his mother’s side to say
his prayers. Having finished his petitions, the Christian mother says,
encouragingly, as she strokes his head, “Only be good, my precious boy,
and God will use you to help the thousands.”
We have seen these five persons putting ordinary thoughts in what
seem to be ordinary brains. These five children felt no enraptured
thrill, the ones who sowed the thoughts did not remember the day.
But all the universe of spiritual power knew about the planting, and
consequently the seeds grew. Watch the little girl among the forests of
Domremy, leaning against the trees, buried in thought, and listening
to the voices that ever speak of redeeming France. Watch the little
girl bending over her Greek book, day after day, finding the key
that unlocks the beauty of Homer and Thucydides. Watch the little
lad sitting past the midnight hour, his long curls falling in rich
folds about his face as he bends over the harpsichord awakening the
slumbering strings. Watch the little lad gathering clays of various
colors and grinding them into paint, which shall, at the touch of his
brush, awaken angels upon the canvas. Watch the little lad who learned
to pray at his mother’s knee, gathering the students of Oxford about
him to spend the evening hour in prayer. God has not forgotten the
good thoughts sown in the days gone by, and all the spiritual forces
of the heavens are working for their most complete development. Soon
the little lass of Domremy, obedient to the call of the voices, mounts
her charger and compels King Charles, the invader, to flee and give
back the government of France to her people. Soon the little girl
who studied so diligently to learn Greek will become Mrs. Elizabeth
Browning, to make the centuries happy with the music of her poems. Soon
the little lad at the harpsichord will become the mighty Mozart, whose
music lingers like the sweet fragrance of dew-wet flowers. Soon will
the little boy, drawing with charcoal, begin to paint for eternity, and
the “Angelus” and “The Man with a Hoe” begin their deathless career,
as a tribute to toil, and an eternal protest against oppression. Soon
the boy of Epworth and the youth of Oxford will become John Wesley, the
leader of the great revival which swept England at a critical period
and directed her on the right track.
No one can understand the mystery of the growing seed, or the greater
mystery of the growing thought, but each individual can have such a
love for childhood and its future that he will guard with jealous care
each word that leaves his lip, determined that in the sowing nothing
but good seed shall find lodgment in any heart. An evil thought planted
in a child’s mind grows into a ruined life and blasted character. Let
not even the idle word be an evil one for fear of the harvest. What an
incentive to become good husbandmen planting righteous thoughts in the
minds of childhood, looking forward to harvests that shall never end!