A few years ago, the American pastor, teacher, and author Eugene Peterson
was the guest on Krista Tippett’s On Being on public radio.
In the course of the interview,
Eugene Peterson recounted that during his days as a parish pastor,
whenever somebody asked him how to go about finding a church,
he would almost always say:
go to the closest church where you live and the smallest.
And, if after six months it’s just not working,
go to the next smallest.
Go to the closest and the smallest.
And if that doesn’t work,
go to the next smallest.
Although our culture tells us that we need more and more and more
—more money, bigger house, fancier car, and so on—
Jesus tells us this morning that that is not the case in the Kingdom of God.
If the Gospels had been written by our contemporaries
—adherents of the American dream—
Jesus’s parable of the mustard seed this morning
might be recast as the parable of the coco de mer seed.
The seeds of coco de mer
—the largest member of the palm tree family
and sometimes called the sea coconut
can weigh up to forty pounds
and, when planted in good conditions,
grows up to 30 meters talls
and produces coconut-looking fruit weighing around 80 pounds each.
If the Gospels were being written today
and according to today’s wisdom (or lack thereof)
Mark might have Jesus saying that the Kingdom of God
is like this big ol’ coco de mer seed:
clearly better than all those other teeny tiny seeds
because it would grow up to be this gigantic and truly impressive tree.
But that’s not at all what the real gospel writer has Jesus saying.
Jesus compares the kingdom of God to a teeny tiny seed
which matures into a rather unimpressive shrub
that folk in Jesus’s day considered to be a weed because of how fast it spread.
The Kingdom of God is not some big and impressive thing
which grows up to be some even bigger and more impressive thing
The Kingdom of God is a teeny tiny seed
which grows up to be a bushy weed.
It’s easy for us to compare ourselves to others
because that’s baked into our whole economic landscape.
Wealth and greatness,
power and prestige
are seen as things which must be attained
and when the guy next to you has more wealth or greatness than you do,
the instinct is to get more
and do more
and be more.
And if you can’t get more and do more and be more,
then the natural instinct is to feel bad about yourself.
If we can’t out-perform our neighbor
—if our garage is smaller than theirs
or our influence more limited than theirs
or our Facebook friend list shorter than theirs—
then we must really be less than they are.
And those instinctive feelings are true of the spiritual life as well.
We see these absolutely wonderful and clearly holy greats
—Eugene Peterson, Richard Rohr, Cynthia Bourgault, our own Bishop Loya—
and we size ourselves up against them.
I can’t sit still and pray in silence like Bonnie or Larry can,
so I must be less holy and spiritual than they are.
I don’t read nearly as much as Chester or Bob Craig do,
so I must be less intelligent than they are (which, in my case, is just a fact.)
I can’t bake Communion bread that is as soft and moist as Fr. James or Deney or Val,
so I must be less committed than they are.
I can’t move tables and chairs as fast as Bob Rowe and Glenn can,
so that must mean I’m less motivated and helpful than they are.
And so on.
We have been taught to think that we need to do more and be more and have more.
We have been taught that our worth is somehow derived
from how much we have
or from how much we produce.
But Jesus counters that narrative.
Jesus does not say that the kingdom of God is this big and amazing thing.
He doesn’t say that the kingdom of God is like the coco de mer tree:
taller than tall,
huuuuuuge seed,
even bigger fruit,
clearly the best tree because of how straight and tall it stands.
No!
The counter intuitive wisdom here
is that the things which rely on the mustard tree
—the birds of the air which build their nests in the branches of the tree—
don’t care one bit that it began as a tiny little seed
and is now a fairly unimpressive shrub.
The birds don’t care that it’s a weed that farmers would uproot
if they saw it growing alongside their crops.
The birds don’t care about any of that
because the branches of the shrub provide them with what they need: shelter.
The branches of the mustard shrub provide these birds with a place to build their nest,
a place to nurture their young
and keep them away from predators.
That’s it.
Nothing fancy.
No care or concern for the kind of fruit produced
or the beauty of its buds
or the size of the seed planted.
They’re concerned about having enough.
Not more.
Not the most.
Just enough.
We are called, you and I, to be enough.
Not exceptional, though we might be that too.
But enough.
To be enough to give somebody else
—somebody in need,
somebody who is hurt,
somebody who is young,
somebody who is confused,
somebody who is lonely—
a place to take shelter.
And, my friends, we are that.
We are called to be enough.
And we are enough.
Time after time, I’ve seen this little church be enough.
While other churches around us have more staff
or bigger budgets
or more programs
or bigger sanctuaries
or more volunteers
while other churches around us may have more,
we are enough.
We are enough to provide a safe place for all to build their nests in peace.
We are enough to provide students a place to stretch and explore for four years
or for a lifetime.
We are enough to create a space
where folks to have meaningful and transformative experiences with God
and with those who are both very much like them and very much not like them.
We are enough to welcome babies and initiate them into the sacred mysteries
of Christ’s death and resurrection, of Christ’s Body and Blood.
We are enough to recognize the love of two people and to bless their union.
We are enough to help our children know that they are loved
both by this community and by the God who creates all life.
We are enough to gather around a family in grief
and shed a little light during their darkest days.
We might need to be reminded from time to time.
We might need to be encouraged from time to time.
But at all times, we are enough.
Not bigger or better.
Just enough.
By God’s own grace, may it always be so. Amen.
This sermon was preached by the Rev. Cody Maynus at All Saints Church in Northfield, MN where Fr. Maynus is the rector.
