Its Colours They Are Fine. Alan Spence

some on good soil, and when nobody understood, Jim explained about the sower being Jesus.

      ‘If you could look at verse 14,’ he went on, ‘it says “the sower soweth the word”. So Jesus is trying to make something grow from his words. Now, what do you think it is?’

      Everybody shrugged or looked at the floor.

      ‘Look at verses 30 and 32.’

      Five heads scanning the books.

      Silence, except for rustling pages and shuffling feet and creaking chairs.

      ‘No? Oh well. It is quite difficult I suppose. It’s talking about the Kingdom of God, growing up like a tree.

      ‘So if Jesus is the sower, trying to make it grow by spreading his words, what d’you think it means about the different kinds of soil?’

      Another silence. Then Aleck said, ‘Different kindsa people?’

      ‘Yes!’ said Jim. ‘Good. Good. We’re getting there!’

      When he finished explaining he said, ‘I suppose these things’ll be easier when you’re older,’ and smiled and added, ‘like me.’

      The singing of hymns left Aleck feeling strange, though he didn’t know why. Sometimes he felt like crying. Sometimes he felt his face flush. Everything seemed very real but far away, as if he was watching it on a film.

      Above the platform hung a single light bulb with a pink plastic shade. Aleck was looking at it as if he’d never seen it before. There was a dark crack on the shade, running from the rim about half way up. Aleck hated pink. The colour was like the sound of the word, like the taste of the pink pudding they sometimes had in the school dinnerhall.

      Mr Neil with his wife at the piano had led them in singing the hymns. Heavenly sunshine. This little light of mine. This is my story. Give me oil in my lamp.

      Cracked pink plastic shade. Sickly insipid pink.

      Now Mr Neil was talking, about harvest and parables, about the day’s text. The miracle of the growing corn. Man’s labour in tending and growing. He putteth in the sickle, because the harvest is come.

      ‘And I know,’ he was saying, ‘that it’s difficult for us in a place like Glasgow, and especially in a place like Govan, to appreciate what harvest really means. I mean it’s only in the country that people can really be aware of the changing seasons and what they mean, because there it matters, and so much of your life is bound up with these changes and the actual growing of the food we eat depends on them. Now as you know, the food you eat is just bought by your mothers from the shops. More than likely it comes in packets and tins. The whole process of getting the food from where it’s produced to your table is so . . . so vast and complicated that it’s easy to lose sight of the fact that it all still depends on those same basic changes. On the sun and the rain. On the goodness of the soil. On human effort, and patience, and skill. And you know, I’ve been thinking about all this and about these parables that Jesus told. Like the one you’ve been talking about today – the Parable of the Sower. And I’ve been thinking especially about the way Jesus used parables – with one meaning on the surface that is obvious and easy to see, but with another far deeper, far greater meaning which is there for us to find.

      ‘And in this parable of the Sower – at one level it’s just a wee story about a man planting his seeds, and what happens to them. But when we see that the Sower is Christ, then we see that other meaning, and we think of the harvest that He will reap. And there are so many passages from the Bible, so many hymns that tell us the same story, that “All the world is God’s own field”. And you are that harvest, boys and girls. You are His children. And if you grow in His light, you will

      “stand at the last accepted,

      Christ’s golden sheaves for evermore

      to garners bright elected.”

      ‘And you will be gathered to Him, to dwell with Him in Heaven.

      ‘And no matter what happens to you, even if the dirt of the world seems to have settled on you and made you forget what you really are, deep inside you are still his golden sheaves. And no matter how drab and grey and horrible our lives and this place may sometimes seem, remember that this is only the surface. And even the muck of hundreds of years cannot hide that other meaning which is behind all things. The meaning that we are here to celebrate. That God is Love and Christ is Life.

      ‘And now boys and girls, if you will pray with me in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, The Light of the World, The Sower of the Word, who taught us when we pray to say . . .

      ‘Our Father . . .’

      And everyone stood and joined in –

      ‘whichartinheaven

      hallowedbethyname

      thykingdomcome

      thywillbedone

      inearth

      asitisinheaven

      giveusthisday

      ourdailybread

      andforgiveusourdebts

      asweforgiveourdebtors

      leadusnot

      intotemptation

      butdeliverus

      fromevil

      forthineisthekingdom

      andthepower

      andtheglory

      forever

      amen.

      ‘Now then,’ said Mr Neil, ‘whose turn is it to take the collection?’

      A small girl from one of the younger groups raised her hand.

      ‘Ah yes Cathy. Here you are then.’ And he handed her the collection bag.

      Another two girls from the same group were appointed to gather in the harvest offerings. These they collected in a large laundry basket made of bright yellow plastic, which Mr Neil brought out from behind the table. And as the girls performed the little ceremony with as much slow solemnity as they could, Mrs Neil played ‘Bringing in the Sheaves’.

      With Mr Neil’s help, they raised the basket on to the table, between the flowers and the cross. Then he gave thanks once more and everyone stood as he led them in the closing hymn – ‘We plough the fields and scatter’.

      This was one of Aleck’s favourite hymns. It had the same kind of thumping triumphant feel as the tunes they sang at the match or played in the Orange Walk.

      ‘We plough the fields and scatter

      The good seed on the land

      But it is fed and watered

      By God’s almighty hand;

      He sends the snow in winter

      The warmth to swell the grain

      The breezes and the sunshine

      And soft refreshing rain.’

      And Mr Neil conducted some vast imagined angelic choir, clenching his fists and jabbing the air, raising high his cupped hands, stretching wide his arms. And the voices rose with each wobbling note on the piano, up and out across the back courts and the tenements, the puddles and the rubbish, and the broken walls and railings and the sad sparse tufts of grass and nettle that encroached regardless.

      ‘All good gifts around us

      Are sent from Heaven above;

      Then thank the Lord, O thank the Lord,

      For all His love.’

      As David and Aleck crossed the back court, David was describing and acting out scenes from the Korean war film he’d seen at the Lyceum.

      ‘Anywey ther’s this Yankee pilot gets shot doon bi the communists, an ye see um fightin