Open Writing

Ah wonder if tha's iwer thowt abaht t' way Jesus telled 'is tales. 'E didn't preych from a pulpit, tha knaws, ter fowk sittin' bowlt upreight i' peews — though he did sometimes speyk i' t' synagogue. 'Appen 'e stood on a rock nah an' ageean, so's t' crahds could 'ear 'im. But mooast o' t' time 'e sat 'issen dahn among t' disciples, an' just talked — that wor t' custom, does-ta see?

Nah, one day, 'e wor on t' shooares o't Sea o' Galilee. Ther' wer' that monny fowk 'at 'ad come to 'ear 'im, 'at the' wer' practic'lly standin' on one another's 'eeads. So does-ta knaw what Jesus did? 'E got inter Peter's booat ageean, gev it a bit of a shove, an' theeare 'e wor, sat in t' booat, wi' all t' audience on t' shooare. An' Ah bet yon booat 'ould mak a champion pulpit, 'cos voices 'll carry iwer so clear ower watter, tha knaws ... An' as Jesus sat theeare i' t' booat wi't' sun shinin' dahn, an't' waves lappin' gently agen t' shore, this is t' tale 'e telled 'em ...

'Eark 'at this. Ther' wor once a farmer 'at went aht into 'is field ter sow corn — I' them days, o' course, the'd no mechanical contraptions, same as wi 'ave terday, an't' farmer 'ould just 'od t' seed i' t' lap of 'is coit or in a basket, an' 'e'd sow it brooadcast — chuck it ter t' reight an't' left as 'e walked along — You can just picture it, can't yer?

Well, it so 'appened, 'at some o' t' seed fell on t' path 'at went across t' field — a path o' soil beaten 'ard wi' fowk walkin' on it. As sooin as it landed theeare, t' corn wor etten up bi t' birds. If tha's iwer sown seed i' t' garden tha knaws what a blessed pest t' sparrers and such like can be — well it wor t' same wi' this. As sooin as it landed, t' seed wor gobbled up.
Then some o' t' seed fell inter soil wheeare ther' wor rock just under t' surface. It started ter grow, all reight, oh aye, but t' soil wor that shaller t' corn couldn't put dahn proper rooits to finnd a bit o' moisture — an' sooin t' plants withered away wi' t' wahrmth o' t' sun.

Then another lot o' seed fell into quite a middlin' patch o' grahnd — but ther' wer' thistles growin' theeare an' all. An' when t' corn sprahted, t' thistles greew even faster, an' sooin the'd throttled all t' young plants, an' the' niwer did nowt — the' just deed off.

But some o' t' seed fell into real grand soil — and later on i' t' year, 'at 'arvest time, t' farmer fahnd 'at some on it 'd prodewced a crop thirty times mooare ner what 'e'd sown, an' some wer' sixty times, an' some even a 'undred times mooare.
An' that wor t' finish o' t' tale — except Jesus just added, wi' a bit o' a twinkle in his ee, like: 'Them 'at's got lug-oiles to 'ear, then let 'em 'ear!'

Nah, that's 'ah Jesus liked ter tell a tale. Short an' simple, tha sees, wi' no long explanations. It's as though 'e allus said: 'Well theeare y'are. If t' cap fits, y' mun weear it!'

But when the' 'eeard t' parrible o' t sower some o' t' disciples couldn't reckon it up at all. The' weren't all that brainy, tha knaws, at t' best o' times. The' wer' nobbut fishermen an' ordinary work-in' class lads — some on 'em still i' the'r teens. So at-after the' come up ter Jesus when 'e wor on 'is awn an' the' said:

'Wi can mak nowt o' yon tale abaht t' sower. Ther' must be a meanin' in it somewheeare. Will tha tell us what it is?'

'Nay', says Jesus, 'T' meanin's plain enough fer them 'at's looking fer it. But same as t' prophet Isaiah says, ther's some fowk look, but see nowt, an' some fowk listen, but understand nowt. Ther's nooan so blinnd as them 'at weean't see, nooan so deeaf as them 'at weean't 'ear ... T' farmer 'at sows seed is same as a preycher sowin' t' Word o' God, scatterin' far and wide t' gooid neews o' t' Gospil, tellin' fowk 'at t' Almighty luvs 'em same as a fatther luvs 'is childer — so the' mun luv each other same as brutthers an' sisters.

But ther's some fowk wi' 'earts 'as 'ard as yon path across t' field. As sooin as the' 'ear t' Gospil the' stop up the'r lugs an' weean't 'ave owt ter do wi' it. It's same as if Owd Nick comes an' snatches it from 'em. Then ther's some fowk same as t' grahnd on rock. When they 'ear t' Gospil preyched the're reight ta'en up wi' it — the' think it's grand. An', full of enthewsiasm, the' start ter live t' Christian life. But t' trouble is ther's nowt deep abaht 'em. It's all on t' surface, like. An' as sooin as fowk start makkin' fun on 'em, or callin' 'em names, or bein' nasty tul 'em on accahnt of 'em bein' Christians — then the' give up. No stayin' pahr, tha sees, no depth — same as yon corn withered up bi t' sun.

An' then ther's another sooart a fowk 'at mak a champion start as Christians — full o' promise an' gooid intentions. But then the' start worryin' abaht makkin' mooare brass, an' keepin' up wi' t' Jones's. The' start dollin' thersens up, an' 'ankerin' after iwery neew-fangled article the' see — an' same as t' corn growin' among t' thistles, the' get choked up wi' the'r material possessions — an' the'r Christianity niwer comes ter nowt.

Aye — but there's some fowk like t' seed 'at fell inter t' gooid soil. An' they bear t' frewt of a grand Christian life. A feew on' em bears a crop of an 'undred-fowld. Ah reckon the'll bi t' sooart o' fowk wi call saints. Some on 'em bears a crop o' sixty-fowld — real gooid-livin' fowk — an' they're feew an' far between, an' all. An' some on 'em bears a crop o' thirty-fowld — nowt aht o' t' ordinary — just middlin' Christians — but at least, it's better ner nowt...

Aye, it taks all sooarts. Ther's some 'at's as 'ard as nails, an' some 'at's all top show, an' some 'at gets choked up wi' worry ower brass. We're a funny lot — but, tha knaws, t' sower niwer gives up. No matter 'ah e's tret — 'e keeps on sowin'.'