Rest a while

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.”