Rest a while

Reflecting on the years spent in Stalin’s labour camps, Alexander Solzhenitsyn wrote:

“I learnt one great lesson from my years in the prison camps. I learnt how a person becomes evil and how he becomes good.

“Gradually, I came to realise that the line that separates good from evil passes not between states, or between classes, or between political parties, but right through every human heart. Even in hearts that are overwhelmed by evil, one small bridgehead of good is retained. And in the best of all hearts, there remains an unuprooted small corner of evil.” (Gulag Archipelago)

A bridgehead of good, and a small corner of evil.

Many of today’s translations of the Bible ‘distort’ the text to make it easier to read. An example of this is in today’s Gospel (Matt. 13:14–30).

Most translations head this parable ‘Weeds among the Wheat’. That is very polite.

Earlier translations use the word ‘darnel’ rather than weeds.

Darnel is a ‘mimic weed’, neither entirely tame nor quite wild, that looks and behaves so much like wheat that it can’t survive without human help.

Its seeds are stowaways: the plant’s survival strategy requires its seeds to be harvested along with those of domesticated grasses, then stored and replanted the following season.

Darnel occupies a grey area in human agricultural history. It’s definitely not good for us.

When people eat its seeds, they become dizzy, off-balance and nauseous. Its scientific name, L. temulentum, comes from the Latin temulentus, meaning drunken, intoxicated or tipsy.

Bearded darnel grass is pernicious and poisonous to both other plants and humans. It’s also difficult to distinguish from wheat, which was a vital food crop for the Galileans.

Notice the activity of both the farmer and his enemy. The farmer sows the good seed; the enemy doesn’t try to dig it up.

The enemy doesn’t try to burn the field. He doesn’t poison the wheat or steal it.

Instead, the enemy plants darnel — what today is known as ‘false wheat’.

This false wheat looks just like real wheat until it bears seed. By then, though, its roots have surrounded the wheat’s roots and begun sucking up all its nutrients.

Because the roots are so intertwined, pulling out the weed would uproot the wheat as well.

Even though the farmer’s servants want to go and get rid of the weeds, the farmer wisely tells them no. At this point, the two plants can’t be told apart, and even if they could, pulling one up would pull the other with it.

Instead, the farmer suggests they let both grow together until harvest. Then, at harvest time, the weeds can be collected and burned before the wheat is gathered into the barn.

The same soil that nourishes the wheat equally nourishes the weed.

Maybe the story invites me to be courageous — courageous enough to allow the weeds and the wheat to grow together.

In his first general audience in Rome on 25 May 2025, Pope Leo XIV referred to Vincent van Gogh’s painting The Sower at Sunset and called it a symbol of hope.

A brilliant setting sun illuminates a field as a farmer walks toward the right, sowing seeds.

Van Gogh (1853–1890) was a Dutch Post-Impressionist painter, among the most famous and influential figures in the history of Western art.

Van Gogh had a special interest in sowers throughout his artistic career. In total, he made more than 30 drawings and paintings on this theme.

It is worth noting that the letter Van Gogh wrote to his brother Theo, explaining his “Sower” painting, refers to an autumn 1888 version that includes a tree. The painting Pope Leo and we are reflecting on was painted in June.

When observing the painting, my eye is immediately drawn to the large yellow disk dominating the horizon.

Then there is the determined stride of the person sowing.

When did you last see blue and purple soil?

There is another detail that may be the most thought-provoking of all. The sower is striding through fallow ground, dispersing seed, while behind him lies a field of fully ripened cereal.

I see no fence. On most occasions, an entire field is harvested at once.

What might that be saying about Van Gogh? More importantly, does the image say anything about me?

Fully ripened grain sits alongside fallow ground.

How many occasions have I heard the Word of God, and how many times have I truly listened to it? I would suggest there is a difference.

Hearing is somewhat like the seed on thin soil. Listening is more like the seed settling — going down and waiting as the warm, dark earth does its nurturing.

The seed grows in darkness. The seed grows unseen. The seed grows with the assistance of others — soil and water. A seed cannot grow on its own.

Part of the field has grown wheat; another part of the same field is being planted. Is that true of me? Of us?

In the Piazza del Campidoglio, Rome, there stands a bronze equestrian sculpture of the emperor Marcus Aurelius.

The French artist Jean Baptiste Mauzaisse painted Napoleon Bonaparte crossing the Alps on horseback.

Throughout history, rulers riding on horseback have been a universal symbol of power, military might, and elevated status. Whether leading troops into battle or parading through a captured city, the sight of a monarch mounted on a strong steed demonstrated dominance and commanded the attention of their subjects.

This imagery spans countless empires and cultures. It remains a deeply embedded archetype in art, literature, and religious traditions.

So why, then, does the author of the Book of Zechariah — which we read from in our First Reading (Zech. 9:9–10) — have the king riding on a donkey?

“See now, your king comes to you; he is victorious, he is triumphant, humble and riding on a donkey, on a colt, the foal of a donkey.”

In biblical times, a horse was primarily a warhorse. A king or military leader riding a horse conveyed a readiness for battle and the assertion of divine or royal authority.

Conversely, riding a donkey or a mule symbolised a period of peace, humility, or a focus on civic duty rather than conquest.

When we read the passage from the Book of Zechariah, we note the many details symbolic of peace:

“Take away the chariots”: an end to the main vehicle of war.

“Take away . . . the war-horses”: no need for horses used in war.

“The battle bow will be broken”: no need for bows or arrows for fighting.

“He will proclaim peace to the nations”: his message will be one of reconciliation.

“His rule shall be from sea to sea”: the king will control extended territory with no enemies of concern (Zech. 9:10).

How different a picture to images of rows upon rows of armaments paraded in many capital cities.

The Moscow Victory Day Parade is an annual military parade of the Russian Armed Forces, held on Moscow’s Red Square on 9 May during the Victory Day celebrations. Horses have been replaced by tanks, missiles, and other armaments.

In Arlington, Virginia, and in Washington DC, a large military parade marked the United States’ Semiquincentennial celebrations. Again, horses were replaced by tanks and other armaments.

Here in New Zealand, we have our own military parade, known as Anzac Day. Horses have been replaced by wheelchairs, and other armaments by walking frames and crutches.

A final image to sit with: Jesus is in his local synagogue, sitting between his parents, when the synagogue official rises to his feet, unwraps the parchment, and begins, “A reading from the prophet Zechariah: ‘See, your king comes riding on a donkey . . .'”

The artwork is titled A Man Riding a Donkey by the Spanish painter José Moreno Carbonero (1858–1942).

“The Little Things” is a song written by the American singer-songwriter Bruce Springsteen and released on the box set Tracks II: The Lost Albums in 2025.

Long before the studio version was officially released, Springsteen performed “The Little Things” live on tour between 1995 and 1997.

The refrain reads: “It’s the little things that count, it’s the little things that count, it’s the little things.”

When I reflect on my own life, it is indeed “the little things that count.”

A glass of cold beer after an afternoon in the garden.

A hot drink on a chilly winter’s day.

A small posy of flowers, bought by another as a gift, that freshens the living room.

A bowl of potpourri — the fragrant blend of dried flower petals.

A birthday or condolence card carrying good wishes or support.

Living with a disability means I am regularly on the receiving end of many “little things that count.”

In today’s Gospel we are reminded: “And whoever gives only a cup of cold water to one of these little ones to drink because the little one is a disciple — amen, I say to you, they will surely not lose their reward.”

Each of us, no doubt, has their own list.

There is value today in sitting in a quiet space and recalling, as Bruce Springsteen reminds us, that “it is the little things that count.”