Sermon: Doing what looks like Jesus (July 1, 2018)

Pentecost 6B

July 1, 2018

Mark 5:21-43

INTRODUCTION

            Today’s Gospel story uses a very famous technique Mark loved to employ, affectionately called the “Markan Sandwhich.” In short, he sandwiches two stories together, starting one, moving over to another, and then back to the first. Part of his purpose in doing this is to signal to his readers: these stories are to be read and interpreted together. They are richer and tastier when taken at once, in one bite, as it were. 

So, it is useful to notice what these two stories – the healing of the hemorrhaging woman and the healing of Jairus’s daughter – have in common, and how they are different, and consider what those similarities and differences might mean for our interpretation.

I’m going to tell you a few of them up front, as well as give you some context for the scene. Jesus has just returned from sailing across the Sea of Galilee and back. Last week we talked about how often Jesus does ministry on the way, and on the borders and margins, and today continues that pattern. As he is going to heal the daughter of someone very important, he is secretly approached and touched by someone very much on the fridge: a woman who has been bleeding for 12 years. (There’s the first difference: someone of means and importance, versus a nameless woman on the fringe of society.) According to Jewish law, while a woman is menstruating, she is unclean, and so is everyone who touches her, so she was to stay secluded. That’s manageable a few days each month, but for this woman, she has had to stay apart from society for 12 full years, as long as Jairus’s daughter has been alive: she could not interact with other people, she could not be married or have children, she was a complete social outcast.  She and Jairus’s daughter have very different lives.

But although Jairus and his daughter, and the hemorrhaging woman, could not be more different socially, they do share something very important: they are both absolutely desperate for Jesus’ help. Both crave healing. And both come to him in utter faith that he can do something about their troubles.

Our first reading and the Psalm will set up for us what it is like to desperately seek God’s help, and to find hope in the Lord. The Gospel will show us concrete examples of that faith and hope in action. Let’s listen.

[READ]

Jesus has not had a break. From teaching, to stilling a storm on the sea, to casting out a legion of demons over in the land of the Gerasenes, back across the sea, and now he has barely landed before Jairus comes to him in desperate need. His daughter is sick, to the point of death, and Jairus has faith that this miracle worker, Jesus, can do something about it. He is also confident that Jesus will – after all, Jairus is a very important person, a leader in the synagogue, and one of the privileges of holding such a position is that people respond to your needs. And he’s right – Jesus immediately follows him to go heal the girl.

In the crowd, a woman watches. She is hiding – no one must see her, because it is against the law for her to be out, especially in such a large crowd. But she is at a point where she has no other option. For 12 years she has tried, in good faith, to be healed, to find a life worth living. Yet each doctor she has seen has taken her money, but only made things worse. She has no one to support her, she is in financial trouble, with no hope on the horizon. She is weak, for life has been draining for her for too many years. Indeed, she fears for her very life, what life she has, anyway. For her, there is no other option than to risk this act of civil disobedience, and approach the man she hoped could offer her an escape from this life. “If I can but touch the edge of his clothes,” she thought, “I will be made well.”

Jesus is quickly making his way with Jairus and the disciples. She takes a deep breath, and pushes her way through the crowd. She reaches out to touch his garment, and just as soon as she does it is as if she has surfaced from the waters that were drowning her. She feels power enter her like she hasn’t felt in over a decade. She gasps for air, for what seems like the first time in years, and knows that a new life is indeed hers.

But then Jesus turns around. “Who touched me?” he asks. What will she do? She could just slip away, and no one would have to know it was her. There were many people touching him, so he couldn’t know that it was her! Yet something about his sincerity and compassion compels her, in fear and trembling, to approach him, fall to his feet, and tell her whole story – the years of living in fear, the loss of any hope of having children, the doctors who had only hurt her, the family members from whom she had been necessarily separated, and yes, this, her act of civil disobedience in coming out into a crowd to find healing from Jesus. Telling her story is terrifying, but it is also liberating, and that act itself makes her feel not only life, but freedom. Jesus is listening to her with such compassion, she can do nothing but share everything on her heart, all the pain and sorrow and fear, to lay it squarely on him.

The woman can see the disciples, and especially Jairus, getting antsy to move on – Jesus is taking so much time to listen to her, an outsider, a nobody, when someone important is in need, someone who would never have to break the law in search of help! – but she cannot stop pouring her heart out to Jesus, and Jesus never seems rushed. Finally, as she utters the final words of her story, she looks to him, with tears streaming down her face, and he looks at her kindly. He says to her one word: “Daughter.” She gasps a sob: hearing this word, this word of belonging and restoration to her community – this word heals her ills in a way she could not have predicted. He goes on, “Daughter, your faith has made you whole again. Go in peace, and be healed of your disease.” And even as he utters the words, she knows that they are true.

As she basks in her newfound wholeness, someone arrives to tell Jairus that it is too late – his daughter is already dead. With a glint in his eye, Jesus responds to the news saying, “Do not fear. Only believe.” Do not fear. Huh! Jairus can scarcely accept this – his daughter is dead! – yet something about how Jesus says it does make him believe. They hurry to his home, where indeed the girl has wasted away to skin and bones, and appears lifeless. Jesus suggests she is only sleeping, and the sound of laughter is like breaking glass in Jairus’s ears. Still, he clings to faith, against all evidence to the contrary, that Jesus is right. Jesus goes right up to the girl, reaches out and takes her hand. It is so tender; he truly cares for this girl, even though she is just a child, and just on the verge of being a woman. Yet he cares for her.

Gently, Jesus says to the girl, “Little girl, get up.” To the amazement of everyone there – even Jairus whose faith has not wavered! – the girl gets right up and starts walking around. Jesus tells them to get her something to eat. She, too, is filled with new hope, new strength, new life.

~         ~         ~

Just before these two healing stories, Jesus told a few parables saying, “The kingdom of God is like this.” He doesn’t say that here, but it does seem to be implied, that here are two stories that show us not only what Jesus is like, but what Jesus’ followers are like when they are truly his followers, doing his work, living in his Spirit. I came across a quote this week by Presiding Bishop or the Episcopal Church, Michael Curry, who has been in the news lately for the moving sermon he preached at the royal wedding a few weeks back. He describes very directly how we can know what Jesus would have us do – as we interact with our neighbors, as we prepare to cast a vote, as we watch the news and discern how we might be a part of making this broken world into something that looks a little more like God’s kingdom. He says, “If it doesn’t look like love, if it doesn’t look like Jesus of Nazareth, it cannot be claimed to be Christian.”

Well, here we have two stories that show us what Jesus of Nazareth looks like, what love looks like:

            Christian love looks like hearing the cry and pleas of a desperate father, and responding by doing what is necessary to make sure he does not lose his child.

Christian love looks like visiting a sick child, taking her limp hand in ours, and offering words of life.

Christian love looks like not being in too much of a hurry to stop and truly listen to the whole story of a woman in despair, who has done everything she can think of and spent everything she had in order to find a better life. It looks like not judging her, even for breaking a law in order to find that new life, but rather, offering her compassion.

Christian love looks like risking defilement in order to touch the bloody and broken, knowing that touch is what brings healing.

Christian love looks like insisting on and making space for the whole truth, no matter how falteringly told or how long it takes, and it looks like listening to that truth not with the intention to refute it, but rather, to hear it, with thoughtful compassion.

Christian love looks like bringing life to places where death threatens to win, bringing hope into despair.

Christian love looks like seeing the outsider, the outcast, as a member of your own family, your own clan, and bidding them peace.

As baptized Christians, this is our calling. It is not an easy one. Insults are easier than empathy. Avoiding the news is easier than learning all about what is going on. Talking only to people we agree with is safer than trying to understand other perspectives. Ignoring those in need, or dismissing them, or rationalizing why we shouldn’t help them, in favor of getting to whatever important tasks we have before us is more efficient.

But if it doesn’t look like love, if it doesn’t look like Jesus of Nazareth, it cannot be claimed as Christian. I don’t know about you, but I want to look like a Christian! Right? Let us strive, sisters and brothers, always to take not the easier road, nor even the road that feels better in the moment, but the road that is loving, that is of Christ. Let us seek not self-preservation, but compassion and tenderness, time and a heart to listen, and words of life for those in desperate need. Let us always ask ourselves, “If Jesus weighed in on this situation, what would he suggest we do?” And then, let’s do that.

Let us pray… Healing God, make us compassionate enough to hear your people’s cries, courageous enough to share our whole story and listen to others’, and faithful enough to believe you can heal our every ill. Help us to move and grow, as individuals, as a congregation, as a country, and as a world, toward seeking always to do what looks like love, what looks like Jesus of Nazareth. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

What parenting toddlers has taught me about engaging difficult topics

My son is maybe the happiest person I know... until he isn't. Poor little dear is so sensitive and emotional, he can go from "Everything is great!" to, "This is the worst thing that's ever happened to anyone!" in roughly two seconds.

Obviously, this is par for the course for toddlers, who feel things so deeply, and don't have the language or skills to articulate or manage all those emotions. Grace was similar, and we have worked very intentionally with her to be able to articulate her emotions. We get right down on her level and ask her, "What are you feeling right now? Are you sad? Are you mad? Are you scared?" One of our proudest parenting moments was when our two-year-old was able to say, through her tears, on her own, "I'm feeling sad!!" and then articulate what it was that made her sad. It might be so silly as, "Daddy went into the bathroom," but you know what? The reason doesn't matter. Her feelings are real, and they absolutely do matter.

With Isaac, he still lacks the language to do this (though he does remarkably well for 18 months!), but the philosophy is the same. When he has a tantrum, we look at the context of the fit (has he just lost a toy? have we told him he can't have something he wants?), and imagine how we have felt in similar situations (when I lost something important to me, when I had to wait for something I didn't feel it was fair to have to wait for). Then, we get down on his level, look him in the eye, and say, "I know it is really sad to lose something you love. That makes me feel sad, too. You really love that toy, and Sister took it. That wasn't fair. I can understand why you might feel a little mad, too." As many times as I have done this, I am still amazed that almost every time (add hungry or tired to the mix and all bets are off), the tantrum immediately dissipates.

It doesn't matter your age, you see: people simply want their deeply held feelings to be acknowledged and validated. They want to feel heard. They want to be known and understood. 

I've been thinking about this the past week as I have observed, and in some cases participated in the various social media debates going on about what is happening on our southern border. With an issue as controversial as immigration, people immediately go into defend-and-attack mode. Everyone knows that they are right. People seldom have interest in hearing any other perspectives, except just to knock them down, "gotcha!" them, insult them, and use them to bolster their own opinion ("See, you've just proved my point, you hypocrite!" is a phrase I have seen multiple times!). When I have been attacked in these debates, I usually get that feeling where my heart starts to race, and I formulate all the wonderfully clever comebacks and arguments that will definitely put that person in their place...

There is a sort of satisfaction in that, isn't there? Just like with a screaming toddler, it is easier and feels better in the moment to say, "Why are you crying?? Seriously, stop it! Get up, we have to go!!" This is, I admit, also a tactic I have tried with my dear, sweet toddlers. Any guesses how often that has worked out well for anyone involved?

Right. Zero. It gets my initial burst of emotional energy out, granted, but usually makes the crying worse, which makes me feel worse because the crying is louder and because I feel bad for yelling. Yet every time I then come to my senses, take a deep breath, and get down and say, "Can you use your words to tell me how you're feeling?" things calm down.

I have been learning about family systems theory and non-anxious, non-violent communication, and so in the latest immigration debate, I wondered if I might put some of my learning into practice on Facebook. As I worked on it, I realized how similar it is to dealing with toddler tantrums: look at the context, think of a time I have been in a similar situation, remember/imagine how that feels, and then, before I jump to tearing down someone's argument, recognize their feelings. Say things that are true for me, rather than what I think should be true for other people. Be willing to admit my own feelings about something, not my opinions. And maybe just skip the tearing down the argument part, which, as it turns out, never helps anyway, at least not on social media.

I don't know if my approaching conversations this way has made any difference for other people. We all know that no one has ever successfully changed someone else's mind by telling them they are wrong, and certainly not by being mean, and my guess is this approach also wouldn't change anyone's opinion. But I guess in the end, I'm not in it for that. I'm in it to understand. I'm in it to hear what people's real struggles are, and what forms their opinions. I'm in it to learn what fuels people's deeply held beliefs, and to find something common with what forms and fuels mine.

And when I try to engage this way (only sometimes successfully), I know one thing for sure: I feel a lot better about myself, because I have tried to make human connection, rather than tried to tear someone down. I have tried to satisfy that deeply human desire to be heard, known, and understood.

Just imagine, if people felt heard instead of rebuked, cared for instead of insulted and dismissed, how divisions could cease!


P.S. I recently became aware of this wonderful resource about bridging the political divide:
Better Angels - https://www.better-angels.org/
Check it out!

Sermon: Jesus is on the border (June 24, 2018)

Pentecost 5B

June 24, 2018

Mark 4:35-41

INTRODUCTION

            In our readings today we’ll find a lot of storm and water imagery, always emphasizing that God is in command even of the storms. If you remember the beginning of Genesis, you may remember that at the very beginning of creation, when the universe was formless and chaotic, God made sense of the chaos. Throughout the Bible, the sea serves as a metaphor for chaos, and so it is remarkable to see God continues to have command of it – first in Job, as God reminds the suffering Job that God has been in charge from the beginning, then in the Psalm, and finally in the story of Jesus stilling the storm.

But there is even more to notice in Mark’s story. Today we see one of Mark’s themes: the fact that Jesus is always crossing boundaries to get to those on the other side, the outsiders, and furthermore, that Jesus’ ministry is often focused not on one side or the other, but on the edges, in that liminal space in-between. In the case of today’s story, that in-between place is the sea they are crossing. But we will keep seeing this: once they get to the other side, they’ll encounter a man possessed by many demons, who has been chained up on the outside of town. On the edge. When he returns to Galilee, in the story we’ll hear next week, Jesus is going to heal a young girl, and on the way there, he heals another woman whose ailment has placed her on the fringe of society. See, ministry on the edge, and on the way.

So as you listen to these readings, remember that the sea is often a metaphor for chaos to be overcome, and as you see Jesus minister in the in-between, consider how God has come to you during those in-between times, and been present for you in whatever chaos you may face in your life.

[READ]

Peace Be Still, James Seward

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

Like perhaps many of you, I have been consumed this week by what is going on right now on our southern border. In case you haven’t been glued to the news, here’s what’s happening: a new “zero tolerance” policy is in place that prosecutes all illegal crossings criminally, where previously an illegal crossing, at least the first offense, was only a misdemeanor, equivalent to a traffic ticket, or littering. Some sources have reported that though people have tried to come through legal entry points, many of those ports are closed, causing people to sit outside in the 100+ degree sun for days on end. So many take matters into their own hands and come across on a raft, then turn themselves in as asylum seekers, but then because of the zero tolerance policy they are arrested and prosecuted as criminals. Because adults are being criminally prosecuted, they are going to jail immediately, leaving any children, ranging in age from nursing infants and toddlers, up to teenagers, to be designated as “unaccompanied minors.” These 2500 or so kids who have been taken from their parents, sometimes forcibly, are being held in converted warehouses, contained by fencing. The trauma and possibly irreparable damage this separation from their parents has done to these young children is apparent in the cries, the behavior, and some other particularly devastating consequences we have seen.

The situation led to a national outcry, including from faith leaders from Franklin Graham to the Southern Baptist Convention to the Pope to essentially every mainline Protestant denomination, saying, “Scripture tells us over 100 times that we are to welcome the stranger and care for the weak!” and, “Jesus says we will be judged on how we treat the least of these!” They are right to say so – the biblical mandate is very clear that we are to love and care for the stranger and immigrant. The American Academy of Pediatrics has also weighed in, as to the damage this could do to young brains. President Trump responded to the outcry, and signed an executive order this week to stop this practice, but it is not yet clear how families will be reunited, nor is there enough personnel to do the necessary processing to be sure kids aren’t being trafficked, that the adults who claim them are in fact their real parents, whether asylum claims are real or fabricated, etc. They’re having trouble even finding which parents go with each kid. No matter your opinion on immigration policy, the fact is: this is a mess. It is devastating to see and to hear.

All of this has been very much on my heart and mind as I have studied this well-loved story about Jesus stilling the storm. I find myself praying that Jesus would shout out his peace and calm on the whole situation, and that this would lead to a solution. Another prayer my heart has cried out is, “Lord, don’t you care that they are perishing?” I imagine how empty the words, “Why are you afraid?” would fall on the ears of those children, who have probably never felt more afraid, alone and helpless. I feel guilty that, like the disciples, I feel like my faith is faltering, like I am losing an ability to trust God in the midst of this debate that has gone on for decades and seems to have no end in sight. I resonate with Jesus who is trying to get some rest in the stern of the boat, but can’t because a storm arises and people need help, because I, too, am tired from all the pain and need in the world. There is much in this story to resonate with – in light of this dark storm in our land, certainly, as well as in light of whatever storms we might be facing in our personal lives.

But as I grappled and prayed over this text this week in light of all this, I noticed something important: this impressive miracle, stilling the storm, doesn’t happen while Jesus and his disciples are here or there, home or the other side. It happens in-between. It happens in that liminal place, in the transition. And like I said before, this is a theme in Mark, that Jesus repeatedly does his ministry in the liminal places, the in-between, the times of life that are on the edges. Jesus ministers in the times and with the people who are physically, socially, or politically on the margins of life or society. On the border is always where we will find Jesus.

Waiting in a detention center is a liminal place if ever there was one. Memories of the past, and especially if one doesn’t speak English, uncertainty about the future abounds – will I be deported? Where are my children and when will I get them back? Are they safe? Is anyone even looking at my case? Will I be able to find my family who is already here? It is a liminal, in-between time in every possible way.

And, while that situation is heavy on the hearts of the nation right now, we all deal also with our own liminal, in-between times. Think for a moment about a time when you were between things, in the midst of a transition (could even be right now!). Maybe you lost a job and were looking for a new one, or you sat for days by a loved one’s bed as you waited for death to take them, or you were at the end of a pregnancy and waiting for labor to come, or you were in labor, or you had been diagnosed with a serious illness but didn’t know yet what treatment would look like. Remember how that felt. What are some of the feelings you remember from that liminal space? [wait]

When Jesus went out on the boat with his disciples that evening, he was exhausted. He had been teaching all day, and he was I’m sure looking forward to catching some shut-eye on the trip over. And yet, as often happened on the Sea of Galilee, especially at night, a storm kicked up. And how, do you think, did the disciples feel? Anxious… fearful… doubtful… untrusting… All things I have felt when I find myself in a liminal place. As soon as we are in-between, because of all those feelings that state brings up, it suddenly becomes all the more important – yet all the more difficult – to trust.

That is precisely why Jesus shows us, again and again, that ours is a God who shows up in those places. “Don’t you care that we are perishing??” the disciples call out to him. It’s a shout my own heart has uttered many times before. It usually comes out in the form of those elusive “why” questions: “Why are you letting this happen? Why did you take my loved one away? Why did you saddle me with this ailment? Why did you lead me here? Don’t you care that I am perishing?”

And Jesus comes out, stills the storm, and turns to me and says, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” Anyone else ever feel like Jesus is always saying this to them? And I really do imagine him saying it that way: “Johanna, really? Come on, why are you afraid? Where’s your faith? Haven’t I always been there with you before? Hasn’t it always become clear? Don’t fret. Trust.” And because God’s word is always accomplished, a peace comes upon my heart. Maybe not right away – you notice even the disciples remained stunned and confused, even after he stilled the storm – but eventually that peace does come.

I don’t know what Jesus is going to do for the thousands of people in the liminal place of our southern border. But I do believe Jesus is there – I see him in the work of those working as advocates, providing care, seeking compassion and neighbor-love, and asking those in power for something to be done to fix this. I believe Jesus is there, because Jesus is always there, on the borders and margins, in the transitions, in those times when we are in the dark, stormy, and unknown places that so often fall between the knowns. Jesus cares deeply for those who are on the margins of life – that is why he is always making a point of going there.

And in case there was any doubt, Jesus finally goes to that place in the most profound way – hanging on a cross just outside of Jerusalem, on the city’s margin, lingering between life and death before finally giving in to death… only to overcome that liminal place by rising once again into life. Ours is a God who can always overcome the liminal, who enters into the stormy transitions of life to say, “Peace, be still,” and remind us that he is trustworthy. When God enters our liminal places, we can be sure that, once we get to the other side, we will find life.

Let us pray… God of the margins, it is difficult not to doubt and be afraid when we encounter the liminal transition times of life. Thank you that you are there. Open our eyes to see you, and prepare our hearts to trust you, that we would see the life to which you lead us. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

How a "Christian nation" welcomes

Herod was angry and afraid. He had heard of this new king who had been born in Bethlehem, and he didn't like it one bit. This child, young as he was, was a threat to Herod's power and his fragile ego. And so he used the power at his disposal, and ordered that all boys under the age of two would be killed. Thankfully, an angel told Joseph in a dream that he and Mary must leave Bethlehem, the land of Joseph's ancestors, and flee to Egypt, where they could find safety.

But Mary and Joseph said, "No, that's irresponsible." So they stayed and indeed, their son Jesus was killed by a corrupt government.

No, wait, that's not right. They went. They left Joseph's homeland and fled to a nearby country, where they were confident the residents would have compassion and receive them into safety. It was a long and difficult journey, and though they feared, they also trusted. Finally, they arrived at the Egyptian border, and pled for refuge. The border agents approached Mary while she breastfed young Jesus, and ripped him from her breast, saying they were there illegally. No, no, not that. They told Joseph they were going to take the child for a bath, and Mary gratefully handed him over. They took Jesus and placed him in a cage with some other boys in an abandoned warehouse, before sending a terrified Mary and Joseph to jail. They should have known better than to come to the border and ask for refuge.

Jesus said, "I was a stranger and you did not welcome me... They answered, "Lord, when was it that we saw you a stranger and did not take care of you?" He answered them, "Truly I tell you, just as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me."

I have heard plenty of Christians claim Donald Trump and his administration are chosen and ordained by God. I have heard others lament that we are no longer "a Christian nation," and pray that we would be once again.

Well guess what?

Rejecting people coming to our borders seeking safety and asylum is decidedly not Christian. Christianity teaches to welcome the stranger, to serve the orphan, widow, and others who are weak and in need. This is a foundational belief of the Judeo-Christian faith, which often cites the fact that "you were once a stranger in a strange land." In that way, it's very American - we are a land of (mostly) immigrants, so we really ought to have compassion on immigrants. It's biblical and patriotic.

Tearing children away from their parents and putting them in cages is decidedly not Christian. The gospel is a message of healing and life. This sort of trauma and separation can cause permanent damage to young children's brains, the sort of damage that leads to future violence. Furthermore, if we are talking about caring for the weak and vulnerable and oppressed (which Jesus frequently does, as does the Old Testament), then who better fits the bill than children fleeing danger in their homeland?

And (putting aside for a moment that this policy of separating children from parents is new, not a previously standing law), following the letter of the law is also not Christian. Not saying to ignore the law, but rather, that following the spirit of the law is more faithful than following the letter of the law. Remember all those tiffs Jesus got in with the Pharisees? About things like, not healing on the sabbath? Jesus always placed love and compassion for those in need over following the letter of the law, and the reason is this: the purpose of the law is to guide us in our efforts to love and care for our neighbor. Love of neighbor is the fulfillment of the law. If a law does not encourage us to love God or our neighbor, then it is not of God.

And there is nothing, nothing loving about tearing children away from their parents at the border. Full stop.

8 Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for the one who loves another has fulfilled the law. 9 The commandments, “You shall not commit adultery; You shall not murder; You shall not steal; You shall not covet”; and any other commandment, are summed up in this word, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” 10 Love does no wrong to a neighbor; therefore, love is the fulfilling of the law. (Romans 13:8-10)

Sermon: Living in God's loving and welcoming kingdom (June 17, 2018)

Pentecost 4B

June 17, 2018

Mark 4:26-34

INTRODUCTION

            Last week we talked about how Mark’s Gospel is apocalyptic – it shows us that dominant powers are not ultimate powers, but rather, that the power of God will ultimately dominate over everything. We talked about how that word “apocalypse” means to uncover, to pull back the current reality to reveal to us a different way that is of God, a way that Jesus will today call “the kingdom of God.” For Mark, this applies especially to his readers’ reality that Roman domination seems to be winning, but Jesus is saying, “No, they are not the winners. God’s kingdom will ultimately win.”

            In today’s reading from Mark, Jesus describes what that kingdom will look like, and he uses parables to do it. Anyone know what a parable is? It’s more than a story with a lesson, more than an analogy or allegory. It’s a story that places side-by-side two unrelated things to challenge our expectations and make us think more deeply about things we thought we knew. As one preacher writes, “Because [parables] call into question accepted ‘truths,’ they are almost always a bit subversive, challenging and even goading us to consider other possibilities in light of God’s promises.” So our first reading today presents an image of God’s kingdom that makes sense to us – majestic cedar trees – but the parables Jesus tells liken the kingdom of God to an ordinary seed with an ordinary crop, which we would not expect.

            I also want to say a little something about that phrase, “kingdom of God.” A kingdom sounds like a place, right? In fact, what place do you usually think of? [Heaven.] But the Greek word there is more dynamic. It refers to something active, more like a reign or rule, not a static place. So, the kingdom of God is not a location, but a reality, in which God is the ruler, rather than earthly powers. And so, when we act as God would have us do, and treat people with the love of God, we are living in God’s reign or rule. Lutherans like to talk about the kingdom of God as “already and not yet” – it hasn’t fully come to be (we know this because of how much pain still exists in the world), but already we can see glimpses of it, when we see people living according to God’s rule. As we will see in our parables, this reign is not something we can bring about nor prevent, but we can participate in it, live in that “already,” and in that participation, we just might make God’s reign more visible. Let’s see what we can learn.

 [READ]

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen

            Well, I’ll go ahead and say it: the parable of the growing seed is pretty boring. I mean look at it: “A sower plants a seed, does nothing, and it grows. Then he harvests it.” What could possibly be more ordinary? What could something so mundane possibly have to reveal to us about the mysterious and longed for kingdom of God?

            And then he follows it with this mustard seed parable, which is again, kind of boring. Mustard bushes are not the majestic cedars of Lebanon. They are ordinary, and they are invasive, by no means unique. They are useful, yes, with many medicinal qualities, but they are not very interesting. Another mundane parable.

            Of course, this is the beauty of Jesus’ parables. He takes entirely ordinary things, things we can understand because we have experience with them, and uses them to point us toward the incredible work of God, showing us the power that even mundane things have to reveal God to us.

So what are these ordinary things showing us about living as citizens in the kingdom of God? How is the living Word of God speaking to this time and place through this parable? And, an important question for Mark, how might the earthly kingdom in which we live (the one Mark is trying to apocalyptically pull away) look different from the reign of God (the new kind of reality that we find)?

Let’s start with that last question, by considering Mark’s context. The earthly kingdom in which they were living was one of oppression and persecution, in which fear and despair was their daily diet, in which Rome was the dominant power, and they abused that power. And so into that context, Jesus says to them, “I know you long for something different, for the in-breaking of God’s kingdom to tear down all that causes your anguish. But the kingdom of God isn’t like a military power, come to overthrow. No, the kingdom of God is like this: like a seed that is planted and grows quietly, even without you realizing. It is growing in just the way God intended for it to grow, and nothing you do can make it grow any faster, nor any slower. But it is growing, trust me! And one day it will sprout – you’ll see just the tips of green come up from the dirt. You’ll see life there that wasn’t there the day before. It will keep growing, bigger and stronger. And this seed, that little seed that you didn’t even see growing all that time, suddenly it will bear fruit! And then you will know that it is time for the harvest, the time when all of God’s plans will become clear to you.”

What a word of hope that is! In Mark’s time, people were anxious for such a word of hope, that God’s kingdom could persist even through the abusive power and oppression they were witnessing. They needed to hear that God’s kingdom could not be stifled by human nature or error, nor could it be hastened, but rather, that it would come in the way and time that God chooses. They needed to hear that trusting God would not be in vain.

            But Jesus doesn’t stop at that. He goes on then to describe what that kingdom, that different kind of rule is like: “Do you want to know more about the nature of the kingdom of God?” he asks. “Here’s how I would describe it. It’s like a mustard seed. Yeah, that tiny little seed that seems like nothing compared to all the trials and tribulations of this world. Yet, it grows and grows and becomes a great big shrub. I know, I know, the mustard bush may not be the most impressive bush to look at, but look at what it has to offer: healing! And beyond that, shelter and safety for the animals. Yes, even the birds, who I know can be pests – they will be welcomed into the big branches of the kingdom of God. They will be safe there from the dangers of the world. They will raise their families there, and make a home in that kingdom. That’s what the kingdom of God is like, you see – it is a place that offers love, care, and welcome even for those creatures you may not think you want around. Perhaps most importantly – it cannot be stopped. My friends, the kingdom of God, this place of love and welcome, cannot be tamed. It can and will spread, and take over everything, welcoming the birds into its branches, and living under a rule of neighbor love. Rome cannot and will not do that for you. But, that tenacity and care is what you can expect from the kingdom of God.”

            What an important and life-giving understanding of this parable, for their time and for ours. It offers us hope, and a lifeline out of despair, when we find ourselves living in a world in which governments disregard God’s rule of love, turn away from people in need, cause trauma rather than seek healing, and do all of this by falsely using God’s word to support it. The seed growing in secret promises that our faults and mistakes and ignorance cannot stop the kingdom of God from coming about – it will come regardless, not because of what we do or don’t do, but because of who God is. The mustard seed tells us that God cannot be beat, that God’s kingdom will always win over any human efforts to overpower it.

            And while this doesn’t give us a particular job to do – planting seeds or whatever – it does inspire us to become a part of it. That is where faith comes in. We aspire to be a part of this growing kingdom, not because we must in order to be saved, but rather, because we already are, because we are so filled with faith and trust in God that we can’t NOT become a part of it. Participating in God’s kingdom springs out of our faith; it is a reflection of our true faith. Our faith in God’s promises compels us to be God’s actors and workers in this world, sharing the good news of God’s love by reaching out to the poor, working for justice for the oppressed, listening to the voices of those on the margins and borders, seeking healing for all the various forms of brokenness in this world, or even standing up against those worldly kingdoms that would try to stifle God’s work, and rule by anything other than love of neighbor.

When we do those things, we are already living in God’s kingdom, even as we still long for it to come to completion.

            These kingdom parables show us that the death we experience in this world does not win. God always wins. Love and grace and justice always win. Trust in God… and then, compelled by faith, let’s make like a mustard bush, and get out there to spread this kingdom.

            Let us pray… Resilient, invasive, and loving God, thank you that your kingdom comes no matter what we do or don’t do. Inspire us by your promises, that we would be compelled to actively participate in your kingdom, on earth as in heaven, by loving and caring for our neighbor as we would do for Christ himself. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.