Soil That Listens

Some evenings, when the house settles and the last light dips behind the trees, I find myself circling back to one of Jesus’ simplest stories. It’s so familiar we almost skim it—seeds scattered, soil responding, harvests rising or failing. But the more I linger over it, the more I realize: nothing about this parable is small. It’s a story told in the language of fields, but it aims straight at the heart. And the sobering danger? Most of us assume we’re the good soil simply because we happen to be standing in the field.

But good soil never appears overnight. It’s not soft by accident. It’s been broken and re-broken, plowed by seasons of sorrow, softened by rain, warmed by mercy, pulled clean of stones, relieved of thorns. It’s soil that has suffered, yet stayed open. Soil that has been stepped on, yet hasn’t turned to stone. Soil that remains receptive instead of resentful. That’s the kind of heart the Word can slip into and take root. That’s the heart God trusts with growth—and with harvest.

And when I look at those four soils through the lens of our spiritual journey—unbeliever, spiritual babe, disciple, worker—I feel a quiet ache. Because soil isn’t static. It shifts under weather. It changes through wear. A hard path can be plowed into tenderness. Shallow ground can deepen when the rocks are lifted away. Thorny spaces can be cleared with a humble yes to God’s pruning. But—and this is the part that stops my breath—good soil can also harden. It can grow thin. It can be choked over time. Fruitfulness isn’t a badge we earn; it’s a posture we maintain.

Think of the believer who starts strong—full of joy, full of fire—yet stumbles when the heat rises. Jesus said the sun of trial doesn’t burn us to punish us; it reveals our depth. Then there’s the thorn-soil believer, the one who loves God but tries to love a dozen other masters too. Not wicked things—just busy things. Good things. Glittering things. But thorns don’t care whether they’re wicked or ordinary; they only care about crowding out the Word. Jesus said they “choke the word, and it becometh unfruitful” (Mark 4:19). And sometimes the saddest part is that no one notices the choking—not even the one being suffocated.

It’s unsettling to admit, but necessary: you can attend church faithfully, read Scripture daily, know all the hymns by heart, and still bear no fruit. Because the measure of a life well-lived in Christ isn’t knowledge or habit—it’s harvest. Not plastic fruit. Not performance fruit. Not those hurried, store-bought efforts we push out when we’re afraid we’re failing. Real fruit. Love with patience in it. Kindness with sacrifice in it. Obedience when no one sees. Souls touched. Hope planted. Truth offered. Jesus shining through clay.

And here’s the heart of it: fruit never exists for the fruit-bearer. The apple doesn’t feed the branch it grew on. The wheat kernel doesn’t enrich the stalk that held it. True fruitfulness is always outward. It nourishes someone else. It carries seed for someone else’s future. So if my faith is only feeding me—if all the nourishment stays inside my own heart—I’ve missed the meaning entirely.

Sometimes, sitting here in the quiet, I ask myself a more searching question than “Am I bearing fruit?” I ask, “Is anyone else growing because Christ lives in me?” Because a surrendered heart won’t just thrive—it will multiply.

And the secret to fruitfulness? It isn’t working harder. It isn’t striving or producing or proving. It’s yielding. Staying soft. Letting God break what needs breaking, uproot what needs uprooting, water what needs watering. “Break up your fallow ground,” Hosea says, “for it is time to seek the LORD” (Hosea 10:12). Fallow ground is untouched soil—soil that could grow something beautiful but won’t unless it’s surrendered to the plow.

Beloved, the good news is that God never asks for perfect soil. He asks for willing soil. Soil that listens. Soil that yields. Soil that lets Him turn the spade in the hidden corners and trusts His hand even when the blade cuts deep. Because only broken soil brings life. Only open soil bears fruit. And only surrendered soil multiplies thirty-, sixty-, and a hundredfold.

So tonight, as the lamps burn low and the world quiets itself, maybe whisper this simple prayer with me:

“Lord, make my heart good soil. Break what must be broken. Weed what must be weeded. Water what must be watered. And plant in me whatever will bear fruit for Your glory.”

He will. He always does.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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