Mark 4:26-29 · The Parable of the Growing Seed
Little Start, Big Finish
Mark 4:26-34
Sermon
by Dean Feldmeyer
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The kingdom of God is a pretty big deal in the Bible.

In the New Testament alone it is mentioned 72 times. In the gospels, it’s the subject Jesus talks about more than any other. (The second-place winner is money.)

And yet, despite the fact that Jesus talks about it a great deal, we Christians tend to be rather unclear about what exactly is meant by this four word phrase: The kingdom of God.

There are a number of reasons for our lack of clarity.

The most obvious is that we don’t understand the concept of “kingdom.” It’s not an idea that resides at the center of our mental map. In fact, to Americans, raised in a democratic republic, the idea of kings and kingdoms seems, at best archaic and, at worst, ludicrous to the point of being offensive. Being the subjects of another person doesn’t work for us.

We don’t do kings and we don’t do kingdoms.

Another reason we are unclear on the subject is because it has been muddied by the ongoing battle between Christian fundamentalism and the scientific community, especially those scientists who insist that fundamentalism is the only real expression of Christianity.

Fundamentalists insist that the kingdom of God is equal to heaven, that talk concerning the kingdom of God is talk about heaven and heaven is a physical, geographical place that your “soul” or “spirit” goes to after you die. Scientists who number themselves among what are called “the new atheists,” — notably, Sam Harris, Richard Dawkins, Daniel Dennett, and the late Christopher Hitchens — and who require tangible, testable proof of such things, reject, out of hand, the notion of a physical, geographical place called heaven.

While these two camps wage raucous war against each other, those of us who see no conflict between faith and science are as ones crying in the wilderness that there is another way, a viable and rational way of interpreting these texts from our scriptures, a way that does not defy reason or scientific observation.

When we take all 72 of the New Testament texts together, as a whole, we see that the kingdom of God is not necessarily a physical place, neither is it solely a reality that comes to us only after we die. The kingdom of God is, if we take scripture seriously, both a present reality as well as a future one. It is qualitative as well as quantitative. It is as much about the depth of our life as the length of it; it is as much a vertical measure as it is a horizontal one. It is more about how we live now than about where we will live in the future.

And nowhere is this more evident than in the two little seed parables that Mark provides for us today.

The Mysterious Seed

When we say the word “parables” we usually think of stories, right? The Good Samaritan, the Prodigal Son — stories with character, plots, and so forth. But there is another kind of parable that is really just a cross between a simile (a comparison using like or as) and an allegory wherein the major characters or objects in the simile have a contrasting parallel in life.

These two seed parables are of this second type. They are brief simile/allegories and the first compares the kingdom of God to a seed that is sown upon the ground.

Note that Jesus rarely ever defines the kingdom of God in the gospels. He usually simply describes it. In this case beginning his description with “The kingdom of God is as if…”

“The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground…” He goes on to describe the farmer going to his house after he has sown the seed then going to bed and getting up the next morning to find the seed has sprouted and grown.

Granted, he has used story teller’s license to collapse time, here. Seed doesn’t germinate and grow over night but that’s not the point. The point is that the farmer does not concern himself with how this germination and growth happens. He is content that it happens. There are mysterious forces at work in this process and the farmer is perfectly fine with that. He doesn’t need to know how everything works, only that it does work.

When the harvest time has come, the farmer doesn’t say, “Whoa! I can’t harvest these crops until I understand every aspect of how and why they grow the way they do.” If farmers did that, we’d all starve.

Likewise, I don’t have to know how my car runs to get from one place to another. All I have to know is that it runs and how to get it started.

I don’t have to know why the value of pi is 3.14 in order to find the area of a circle. I just need to know that it is and apply it to the other numbers I have according to the formula. As far as I am concerned, it works because it works.

Our lives are filled with beautiful and wonderful mysteries that we usually accept as a marvelous thing, a gift even. Why does a certain progression of musical notes or chords give us cold chills or bring a tear to our eye? Why does the sound of a child’s laughter automatically fill us with joy? Why do I breathe a little easier when I see my wife walk into the room and why do I breathe a little deeper when I first see my children from a distance?

Why am I drawn to that painting in the national gallery of art so that I can hardly walk away from it and my family has to come get me and physically pull me away? Why do I want to hear the same songs, see the same plays, hear the same stories and poems, and taste the same foods over and over again throughout my life? Why do they still give me the same measure of pleasure or joy or inspiration or unnamable whatever-it-is that they always have?

We live with mystery every day of our lives and have come to love it and accept it and even enjoy it.

Mark tells us, in this parable of Jesus, that the kingdom of God is like those other mysteries, a gift, offered to us by God, and we don’t need to know the whys and wherefores of it. All we have to do is accept it and apply it to our lives just the way we accept the value of pi and apply it to the geometrical formulas, just the way we accept this or that piece of music and place it in on the shelf with the rest of the music that makes our lives so rich and full. Life in the kingdom of God is comfortable with the presence of awe and mystery.

And this mysterious, wonderful kingdom of God is not just someplace we go at the end of our lives. It is available to us right now if we will accept it and apply it to our daily living.

The Mustard Seed

The second allegorical simile is a more familiar one to most of us because most of us have known a grandma, an aunt, or a wife in our lives who had a necklace or bracelet with a little glass bubble on it and inside that glass bubble was a mustard seed.

“With what can we compare the kingdom of God, or what parable will we use for it?” he begins. Then he answers his own rhetorical question: “It is like a mustard seed which, when sown upon the ground, is the smallest of all the seeds on earth; yet, when it is sown it grows up and becomes the greatest of all shrubs, and puts forth large branches, so that the birds of the air can make nests in its shade.”

The comparison, here, is one of size and potential.

What starts out very small can become very big, what starts out weak can become strong, what starts out insignificant can become hugely significant, what starts out unimportant can become very important indeed. And when you see this happening, Jesus says, watch out because you just may be already living in the kingdom of God.

Not every small thing becomes big but, in the kingdom of God, every small thing has the potential to become big. When you live in the kingdom, you don’t dare dismiss anything or anyone regardless of their size. No person is so weak that they cannot become strong. No act is so insignificant that it can’t become life-saving. No idea is so irrational that it can’t lead to a problem solved.

In the kingdom there are no throw-away moments, no inconsequential conversations, no unimportant people. Every person who walks through the door is important. Every word spoken is a witness. Every life touched is a gift of God.

It’s one of the many privileges and blessings of my chosen profession that I have gotten to meet and be invited into the lives of lots of people and I’ve been doing this profession for a lot of years, now. About the first third of those years I worked as a youth minister in the local church as well as at the district and conference levels.

Every once in a while, I’ll be at annual conference, school of missions, a meeting, or event of some kind, occasionally, even at a shopping mall or grocery store, when a person will come up to me and ask if I’m Dean Feldmeyer. I’m always a little hesitant at first — you never know, right? — but I usually, eventually, confess that I am.

And then the person tells me their name and relates to me how important I was to them in their teenage years, how much they received from me, how much they learned and sometimes they even quote back to me some of the things that I said to them that they still carry around with them. Occasionally there’s even a tear or two and a claim that “you changed my life,” followed by a hug or a vigorous handshake.

We’ll part and go our separate ways and my wife, Jean, will say, “Who was that?” And I’ll have to confess, “I have no idea.” And I don’t. I may have known them as a teenager in the midst of dozens or even hundreds of teenagers but I have no recognition of them as an adult.

But that doesn’t matter. The little seed I planted twenty or even thirty years ago, never knowing and maybe even wondering if it was doing any good at all, has grown, blossomed, and matured into something really grand and important. And here’s the thing — I had no control over its growth. I didn’t even know if it was growing or not. It was out of my hands. I was just sowing seeds.

This, my brothers and sisters, is life in the kingdom of God.

Little things are made big. Seemingly unimportant things are made important. The seeds which we plant sometimes grow into marvelous, active, Christian human beings.

I heard this story on National Public Radio while I was driving and I couldn’t write it down so I can’t vouch that every single detail is correct… but I can confidently vouch that this story, regardless of the details, is true.

Colin Atrophy Hagendorf (no, I don’t know if that’s his real name but I imagine it’s a nom de plume) is a writer who was going through a creative slump a couple of years ago. One night he and a couple of friends decided to go out for pizza and as they ate they began to talk about what was the best pizza they’d ever had and what they thought was the best pizza in New York City.

Later that night Colin decided to do some internet research and see if there was a “best pizza in New York” but since there are so many pizza joints in that great city and no one had tried them all, the judgment had not been made as to which one was the best.

Colin decided to take up the challenge. He couldn’t do all of New York City but he could do the island of Manhattan. He would eat a slice at every single pizza shop in Manhattan and he would write a blog about his experience. He would call the blog “Slice Harvester.”

His standard for judging the best would be a pizza that he had eaten with his father when he was thirteen years old, a pizza that had grown to mythic proportions in Colin’s memory to become what he had always considered the “best pizza in Manhattan.” It had been on a day when his father had taken him to Greenwich Village to buy a pair of combat boots. His dad took him on this quest, he said, “because he’s a mensch,” which is a Yiddish word that literally means, a human being, but colloquially means a good person or, more often, a person with a good soul.

They were walking down the street in Greenwich Village and they passed this place. The smell was so good that they both turned around simultaneously and went back. They went into the place and bought a slice of pizza and enjoyed what they both agreed may be the best pizza they’ve ever eaten. This was also the time when his father showed him how to eat pizza like a New Yorker — where you fold the pizza over and eat it with one hand. “Your hands are big enough to do it right, now. You don’t want people to think you’re a tourist,” his dad had said.

They got the combat boots, they had this really great dad and son day, years pass, Saint Mark’s Pizza where they bought the perfect slice went out of business, Colin grew up, moved away from home, became a writer and decided, when he was in his early thirties, to do his “Slice Harvester” blog which happened to become very popular in the city.

Two and a half years after beginning, Colin had eaten pizza at 362 places on the island of Manhattan, blogged about every single one of them and written a book about the experience (Slice Harvester: A Memoir in Pizza by Colin Atrophy Hagendorf, Simon and Schuster.)

As he was writing the book he realized that of all of those slices of pizza, 362 in all, there was only one place where he and his friends went back and had a second slice so he decided this must be the best pizza in Manhattan. They just didn’t want the experience to end yet, it was that good.

He called the pizza guy and told him about the book. He asked if he could come down to interview him and the guy agreed, so he went to the guy’s little pizza joint. In the course of the interview he asked the guy, where he learned to make pizza. “Well,” said the guy, “I actually learned from the man who lived across the street from us when I was growing up because he always made pizza for the neighborhood for important events and whatnot. I always loved that guy’s pizza so I asked him to teach me.”

“What was your neighbor’s name?” Colin asked.

“Well,” said the guy, “I don’t remember but I do remember that, for a while, he had a little pizzeria in the city.”

“Oh, yeah? Can you remember the name of the place?”

“Sure, it was in the East Village right next to a church — a little place called Saint Mark’s Pizza.”

A father, a mensch, took his son into the city to buy a pair of combat boots the kid didn’t really need but, what the heck, right? They stopped for pizza and had a moment together… and a seed was planted.

A fellow made pizza for his friends and neighbors. They talked him into opening his own place where he did okay. One day a father and son came in and ordered a slice… and a seed was planted.

Do you see how it works? Maybe the seed will grow. Maybe it won’t. But you plant it, either way because, hey, who knows, right? And besides, we’re like farmers. Planting seeds is what we do.

What the Farmer Does

Like the farmer, we sow seeds.

When the weather is good and looks promising, we sow seeds.

When the weather is bad and washes the seeds away, we sow more seeds.

The farmer’s seeds are soy beans, corn, wheat, and hay.

Ours are love, peace, kindness, joy, hope, and grace, and we sow them regardless of the weather. When the weather brings hate, we sow seeds. When the weather brings tragedy, we sow seeds. When the weather brings despair, we sow seeds. When the weather brings pain and misery, we sow seeds.

They may grow or they may not. How they grow is a mystery to us.

They may seem small and inconsequential, but that’s okay. They don’t have to be big, because, in God’s kingdom, they all have potential — the potential to sprout, to grow, to spread out and become huge trees of grace — huge, shade giving, life-saving trees of grace.

Amen.

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Like a Phoenix: Cycle B sermons for Pentecost through Proper 14, by Dean Feldmeyer