The Princess and the Mustard Seed, June 17, 2012

Rev. Kathryn Ransdell

June 17, 2012

The Princess and the Mustard Seed

When Gary was preaching last week on that very familiar story of disciples in a boat with a sleeping Jesus, the storm arises and they wake him and ask him, "Don't you care that we are perishing?", I found myself in a strange place.

I heard the story differently.  It is such a familiar text; I know the rest of it by heart; Jesus stills the storm and we all take a deep breath and trust that when the storms of life will come, our anchor will hold.

I found myself asking two questions:

            1.  These are professional fishermen who have fished this very sea and know its unusual and intense storms that come out of nowhere.  Why are they whining? (Maybe this question comes from a tired mom who deals with a great deal of whining throughout the day.)

            2.   And my second question was to Jesus:  Why did you still the storm? 

2,000-years later, we have taken this very familiar story and have adapted it and made it a story that tells us that the contract between God and me is that God keeps me safe. 

            On second thought, more than just safe, God, I would like to add to the list "comfortable." 

During last Sunday's sermon, I found myself asking forgiveness for my comfortable-ness.

Look around this world and the reality of life for most of the world is anything less-than comfort.  This will seem cliche, but we take this lifestyle for granted, as if we are supposed to have what we want when we want it, and that comfort is a right. 

And the denominational church -- don't get me started on our need to be comfortable.  We have spent a good 60 years perfecting a denomination that patterned itself after the rise of corporations beginning in the 1950s. 

Look at us now.  Oh, we are comfortable.  As individuals, we are so comfortable that loneliness is the greatest medical crisis facing us.  As a church, we are so comfortable that you can probably stretch your arms wide and not touch someone on either side of you. 

In trying to make us comfortable, we have isolated ourselves.  We made Jesus so comfortable that we made him no longer relevant. 

So why did you still that storm, Jesus?  Because I don't think you meant to teach us that you are here to make us comfortable.

The closest we might ever come to hearing Jesus answer that question may be the parables.  The scholarly community regards the parables as the most authentic of authentic voices of Jesus.  They are small, oblique, odd and indirect.  They have no pre-existence in the Old Testament (rabbinic parables came 200 years after Jesus); they are not supernatural stories or fairy tales.  They were realistic stories with shocking endings.

Shocking endings?  There is nothing shocking about Jesus' parables, at least in our reading of them.  They are sweet and nice, about a father who welcomes home his son, a shepherd who goes after the lost sheep, and a woman who searches for lost coins. 

John Dominic Crossan spoke of parables and described the shocker as the parabolic twist.  It's the ending you weren't expecting.

I like this idea.  I like the idea that something could come out of Jesus' mouth that would shock me.  I like the idea that I don't know how the story ends.  And I like the idea that perhaps we have so sanitized the gospel that we have made it more a bedtime story than a whole-life challenge.

I like this idea up until the point when it makes me uncomfortable. 

George MacLeod, founder of the Iona community, offers this great image:  Christ was not crucified on an altar between two candlesticks.  He was crucified in the marketplace: 

"I simply argue that the cross be raised again
at the center of the market place
as well as on the steeple of the church,
I am recovering the claim that
Jesus was not crucified in a cathedral
between two candles:
But on a cross between two thieves;
on a town garbage heap;
At a crossroad of politics so cosmopolitan
that they had to write His title
in Hebrew and in Latin and in Greek...
At the kind of place where cynics talk smut,
and thieves curse and soldiers gamble.
Because that is where He died,
and that is what He died about.
And that is where Christ's men ought to be,
and what church people ought to shout."

So what about this morning's parables make us uncomfortable? 

o        There seems to be nothing shocking in the idea of planting seed and waiting for mother nature to do mother nature's thing and then comes the harvest.

o        And there seems to be nothing shocking in the idea of a mustard seed being planted and it grows up to be the greatest of all shrubs and allows the birds of the air to nest in it.

There is nothing shocking until we see that Jesus is comparing the kingdom of God to these two images.

The first parable assures us that even though we don't know how the kingdom of God will come about, it will happen.

The second parable assures us that when this kingdom of God comes about, it will grow as a wild weed. 

Are you shocked yet?   It gets better...

The kingdom of God is a place where love wins, non-violence rules, and compassion guides.  The kingdom of God is a place where the lion lays down with the lamb, where the meek inherit the earth, where the blind are made to see and the hungry are fed and the debtors have their debts forgiven. 

The kingdom of God is a place where resources are shared, imaginations are sparked, souls speak deeply and healing occurs.

The kingdom of God is where the chains of slavery are broken, the addiction is conquered, the fear is overcome, the loneliness is healed.

And this will happen just like mother nature takes its course.  And this will happen and it will look like weed-bushes growing all around. 

The kingdom of God won't look like the giant cedars of Lebanon.  In the old Testament, Ezekiel flattered pharaoh by comparing his greatness to the tall cedars of Lebanon with fair branches and forest shade.  You are so great that the birds of the air will come to you and want to nest in your branches.

Let's face it: we would tend to think that a tall cedar is better than a weed-bush, right?  In fact, if we were to choose one, we would probably choose the comfort of the forest shade and the fair branches rather than an overgrown bush. 

There it is again -- that comfort thing. 

If anything, the mustard seed that has taken on the mantle of "if you have the faith of a mustard seed, you can move mountains," becomes more like a "if you have the faith of a mustard seed, then you will be made uncomfortable."

The story of the Princess and the Pea jumped into my sermon-writing canoe this week.  When we think of this story, we think of a princess who must be a spoiled brat.  20 mattresses.  A pea?  Really. 

Yet, that's not the case at all.  ... Once upon a time, there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess, but she would have to be a real princess. 

Let's adapt the story to us, and our mustard seed:  Once upon a time, there was a person who wanted to be a part of a church, but this church would have to be a real church.

He travelled all over Vancouver to find a church where he could belong but nowhere could he get what he wanted.  There were churches enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones.  There was always something about the church that was not right.  So he came home again and was lonely, for he would very much like to have a real church. 

One evening a terrible storm came; thunder and lighting.  Suddenly a knock was heard at the man's door.  The parent opened the door.

It was a member of a church, but good gracious!  The church member didn't have ironed clothes, or neatly combed hair or bible in hand.  Yet this person said he was a church member. 

Well, the mom of the house said.  We will find out. 

Saying nothing, she put a mustard seed under the bedding and stacked 20 mattresses on top. 

On this, the church member layed on all night.  In the morning, she was asked how she slept.

O very badly.  I could scarcely close my eyes.  My heart broke for those who had no place to sleep last night.  I prayed that God would show me how to serve someone else in this world besides myself.  I ached over children without mums and dads.  I cried tears over the stories of children who were raised in residential schools. 

Now they knew that she was a real church member because she had felt the tiniest of mustard seeds right through her mattresses. 

Nobody but a real church member could be as compassionate as that to this world. 

So the person knew this would be his church, that he had found a real church.  And the mustard seed was not put in a museum, it stayed under the pillow of every church member to remind them to pray that God would make us uncomfortable so that we might be spurred into action. 

Last week, while we are singing the beautiful song, "I Have Called You By Your Name," my attention was drawn to the bottom of the next page.  There was a quote:

"That which is Christ-like within us shall be crucified.  It shall suffer and be broken.  And that which is Christ-like within us shall rise up.  It shall love and create."  -- Michael Leunig, A  Common Prayer.

I believe that we are called to be broken for this world, that our hearts so ache for this world that what rises up in us is love and the ability to create. 

The mustard seeds of the kingdom of God should dis-comfort us, so that we are kept up late at night, hardly getting any rest, and rising early to create for the kingdom. 

Being Christian means we generate ideas and we plant the seeds, and who knows, maybe they take off like a weed and maybe they don't.  Maybe it will plant something that will live for generations, and maybe it won't.  What matters is that while we have the gift of this time, we are so sensitive and compassionate to the needs of this world that those around us can see not the royal identity that is in each one of us -- that we are all children of God.