Mark 1:16-20
J. Thomas Kort
June 26, 2016

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Luke 7:36-50 (i)
Lauren J. McFeaters
June 12, 2016

In her book, An Altar in the World, Barbara Brown Taylor tells a story about visiting a beautiful old church in Alabama. Having arrived for the service too early, she stands in front of the chancel, taking in a mural of Jesus emerging from his tomb. Though the painting was impressive, Taylor felt that something was off; Jesus looked strange; too waif-like. So after gazing at the mural for several seconds, she realized what was missing: Jesus the man, had no body hair. He was portrayed with the head of a man, but with the body of a boy.

It was peculiar.

Without thinking, she turned and shared her realization with the nearest church member. “This is a young boy coming out of the Tomb. Look, he has the arms of a six-year-old,” Taylor says. “And his chest is as smooth as a peach.”

The church member’s smile froze, and stared at Taylor in abject repulsion. “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” they wailed. “Why would you say this to me? I just can’t believe you’re saying this to me.”

As Christians, Taylor says, we often find ourselves “in the peculiar position of being followers of the Word Made Flesh, but neglect our own flesh, or worse — who treat our bodies with shame and scorn.” Or “Here we sit, with our souls tucked away in this marvelous luggage, mostly insensible to the ways in which every spiritual practice begins with the body.” (ii)

Debie Thomas puts it this way: No matter how hard we try to theologize or intellectualize it away, this story from Luke is naked-making. It exposes. It confronts. It directs our gaze. It’s a story about the body. What the body is. What the body knows.

Feet. Tears. Salt. Perfume. Hair. Neck. Skin. Face. All four Gospels tell it, the scandalous story of a Woman who dared to love Jesus in the flesh — to love his spirit and his body with her own. Each writer frames the story differently, but each story at its core remains the most sensual, most shocking one in the New Testament.

If it doesn’t embarrass us, we’re not paying attention. (iii)

And it’s peculiar.

Here we find a renegade backwater prophet wandering around Judea.

He says he’s been sent to bring good news to the poor and proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.

He’s been casting out unclean spirits; curing people of diseases; healing on the Sabbath; walking beside a paralytic who he told to stand up and walk. He’s been forgiving and curing and restoring and perhaps most startling – he’s brought a man, a widow’s son, back from the dead.

And it’s really peculiar. He’s picked up some followers – some ragtag vagabonds, some smelly fisherman, and some hated guys from the IRS. Women too. And he drinks and he eats with offenders; roves around like an itinerant schoolmaster, and insists on people’s devotion to a Loving God.

And it’s truly peculiar: A Super Important Religious Leader, invites the dusty Jesus to dinner. What better way to scope out this nomadic Jew, the One setting people’s teeth on edge; the One undertaking new-fangled and treacherous things.
What better way to scope out the new guy in town than to watch him over the rim of your wine glass. What better way to pin him down than to surround him with dozens of eyes and ears as you dig into your Falafel. Such a nice, pleasant meal.

Except it isn’t. Simon the Pharisee makes it pretty clear that this is no polite parlay over a four-star leg of lamb. Simon has skipped some pretty basic social graces: no water for Jesus’ feet; no welcoming handshake or hospitable kiss; no oil to tidy up his head.

It’s as if Pharisee Simon is leaning against the doorway, his lip curling, and saying sarcastically “Jesus of Nazareth, it’s so nice to see you.” (iv) “Welcome!” It’s like a smirking Tony Soprano saying, “I’ve been waiting for you…Fuggeddaboutit Jesus…Come on in.”

And then the most peculiar of all: A Woman. A Woman with long hair. A Woman carrying a jar of ointment. A Woman weeping. How on earth did she manage to get into the house of a Pharisee? How exactly does she crash the party? Somehow she manages to get in the door, approach the table, kneel quietly behind Jesus, and let down her hair.

Can you imagine the reaction of the dinner guests as this Woman bends over Jesus and begins to sob, then soaks his feet with her tears, caresses them dry with her hair, repeatedly kisses his soles, his toes, and his ankles, and finally breaks open her alabaster jar to anoint his salty skin with perfume.

Jesus doesn’t say a word. Neither does the Woman. But they communicate volumes.

Please try to fully imagine this. Around the table, the conversation falters, then comes to an end. As the Woman cries the temperature inside that room rises. Every man simultaneously reaches for the wine.

As the Woman wrapped Jesus’s feet in her strands of hair, where did the men around the table look — or didn’t dare to look — And I wonder if Jesus — never one to make things easy — captures Simon’s gaze and holds it, extending the discomfort, forcing his host to imaginatively experience every searing kiss that grazed Jesus’ skin. (v)

When we study the Gospels, each one tells about a Woman who anoints Jesus while he is at table, and in each Gospel someone is there to reprimand her, to scold her.

You know historically, she’s known as a prostitute. Don’t get me started. Nowhere in scripture does it say she’s a prostitute. Nowhere. I’m embarrassed to tell you our own Presbyterian Worship Planner subtitles this section of Luke: Responses of a Pharisee and a Harlot. Ouch. Really? Truly? Is a Woman’s “sin” always sexual?

Here’s what we know:

And a Woman in the city, who was a sinner,
having learned that Jesus was eating in the Pharisee’s house,
brought an alabaster jar of ointment.

Well that must be it. She’s from the city. She’s an urban-dweller. Therefore she must stand on the corner, whistle for customers, manage a transaction, and get to business. Really? Truly?

What we DO know is she says nothing and she does plenty.

As Luke guides us to this story, we find that unlike the other Gospels, the act of anointing does not foreshadow Jesus’ death or point to his future. Instead, in Luke, anointing is seen as an act of sheer hospitality, utter generosity, and total praise.

In the context of sin and forgiveness, Jesus reveals, “Those who are forgiven little, love little, but those who are forgiven much, love lavishly.” Simon’s love is thin and brittle. He doesn’t recognize his need for mercy. The Woman, in contrast, knows full well the extent of her own sin and the wide embrace of Jesus’ forgiveness, so her love for him is boundless.

Oh to have boundless love for our Lord. Imagine. To reach out to him through sorrow, remorse, and yearning. To have Jesus receive us with gratitude and sensitivity and tenderness.

And that’s where our Lord gets us. He asks us:
“Do you see this Woman? Do you see her?
Are you looking at her?”

It’s a lacerating question.
Because No, we don’t see her. It’s too personal. Too sensual. We can’t imagine ourselves kneeling before our God in public; sobbing before him, bathing him with our tears, cleansing him, and offering him comfort.

She’s our Rabbi today. She sets herself as an offering before God. She lays before him her vulnerability and generosity; her capacity for love. She breaks into a dinner party and lays bare the truth of need:

• the dusty feet in need of cool water,
• the sunbaked skin in need of fragrant ointment,
• the ever-giving man in need of generosity
• the ever-sacrificing One in need affection,
• the ever-healing Lord in need of healing touch.
• It’s a Sacrament of sweat and salt; dust and tears;

A Sacrament signed and sealed,
through perfumed feet and ardent kisses.

And then a Benediction: “Go in Peace.”

“Do you see this Woman?” he asks.

“Yes Lord, we see.
And we give thanks.”

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.

 

ENDNOTES

[1] Luke 7: 36-50: One of the Pharisees asked Jesus to eat with him, and he went into the Pharisee’s house and took his place at the table. And a woman in the city, who was a sinner, having learned that he was eating in the Pharisee’s house, brought an alabaster jar of ointment. She stood behind him at his feet, weeping, and began to bathe his feet with her tears and to dry them with her hair. Then she continued kissing his feet and anointing them with the ointment. Now when the Pharisee who had invited him saw it, he said to himself, ‘If this man were a prophet, he would have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him—that she is a sinner.’ Jesus spoke up and said to him, ‘Simon, I have something to say to you.’ ‘Teacher,’ he replied, ‘speak.’ ‘A certain creditor had two debtors; one owed five hundred denarii, and the other fifty. When they could not pay, he cancelled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?’ Simon answered, ‘I suppose the one for whom he cancelled the greater debt.’ And Jesus said to him, ‘You have judged rightly.’ Then turning towards the woman, he said to Simon, ‘Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little.’ Then he said to her, ‘Your sins are forgiven.’ But those who were at the table with him began to say among themselves, ‘Who is this who even forgives sins?’ And he said to the woman, ‘Your faith has saved you; go in peace.’

[ii] Barbara Brown Taylor. An Altar in the World: A Geography of Faith. New York: HarperOne, 2010.

[iii] Debie Thomas. “What the Body Knows” June 5, 2016, www.journeywithjesus.net.

[iv] Emmy Kegler. “Well, this is awkward: a sermon on the foot washing sinner at Simon the Pharisee’s house.” Sunday, July 28, 2013, Emmykegler.blogspot.com.

[v] Debie Thomas.

Luke 7:11-17
Lauren J. McFeaters
June 5, 2016

Have you been to New Orleans? There’s the French Quarter and the Garden District; Jackson Square and Preservation Hall. There’s City Park and the National WWII Museum. There’s Lake Pontchartrain and the Mahalia Jackson Theater. Then there’s the food – the Po-Boys and oysters and crazy cocktails and Café du Monde’s café au lait.

And then, then… there are the cemeteries. Lots of them. They’re named St. Louis and Cypress Grove, Gates of Prayer and Greenwood, Holt and Lafayette, and Lake Lawn. So many cemeteries in so little space. They look like museums chocked full of statuary and above-the-ground crypts.

In New Orleans, one of the most notable facets of culture is how you get to the cemetery. You get there with jazz.

The jazz funeral is unique to New Orleans. Its origins date back centuries to Nigeria and West Africa and the practice became firmly rooted during funeral processions of African Americans.

A traditional jazz funeral begins at church. A solemn brass band is followed by a glass-sided hearse, very likely pulled by a white mule. The flowers go on top, the coffin is inside, and the mourners walk behind. Slowly, very slowly, the procession shuffles forward to the cemetery. Dirges are played: “Nearer My God to Thee” and “A Closer Walk with God.”(1)

Arriving at the grave site, the words of committal are said. The pall bearers lift the coffin and slide it into the mausoleum.

And then this happens: Silence, silence, silence, and then KAPOW! Celebration jazz music fills the air. Shouts of joy are raised. Christ is risen! He is risen indeed! The sufferings of the deceased are over. And GLORY ALLELUIA! The brass lifts up “When the Saints Go Marching In” and the celebration begins.

It’s the defining moment, a holy moment, a jazz-filled moment, when…

• Misery moves to joy.
• Past moves to future.
• Shuffling becomes swing.
• Heads lift to sky.
• And a crowd struts forward, singing with ecstasy, waving umbrellas, and dancing back to life.(2)

There’s no disrespect. It’s all tribute. Tribute and care, honor and compassion.

As we travel with Jesus today we meet him at a defining moment of his ministry. He’s been baptized and tempted. He’s called his disciples. He’s been teaching and preaching and evangelizing. And now he begins a powerful chapter of healing and restoration and he is jazzed.

He meets a funeral procession headed for burial. A solemn, mourning people shuffling to the cemetery. Dirges are wailed and moaned.

Today’s funeral procession has a focus not on a dead young man, but on his devastated mother. This woman, known only as the Widow of Nain, is found in no other biblical account, and as Beverly Gaventa says, this is a story about the restoration of a vulnerable woman and Jesus’ compassion for her.

The sorrow of the scene is gripping because it’s about a widow left in a man’s world, without her only son, and it’s a vivid picture of destitution. Her future without the son’s support and security is grim; her circumstances dire. And her grief is compounded by the shadowy prospect of what lies ahead.(3)

And yet, Jesus sees this woman, really understands her; he recognizes and “gets” her. And in his empathy he offers a holy, jazz-filled miracle, when…

• Misery moves to joy.
• Past moves to future.
• Shuffling becomes swing.
• Heads lift to sky.
• A son rises and speaks.
• A crowd struts forward, glorifying God and shouting, “Glory! God loves and cares for us!”

When our daughter Josie was four years old, she and ten other four-year-olds took their first ballet class at the YWCA. You can picture it. Pink tights and tutus. Minuscule ballet shoes. Hair in an up-do, ballet bun.

Week by week it was so sweet to watch these little ones skip and prance and romp. They barely had control of arms and legs. It mattered not. No inhibition or reserve. Weekly classes were one big flounce and frolic.

Josie’s class learned the basics of ballet through storytelling, movement, and music. And even though at the final recital we were the proudest of parents watching these little ones interpret Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty, as only very little ones can do, it was another group of dance students, who came later in the program, who took our breath away.

These were older students, middle-school-aged girls, and they danced to the strains of Vivaldi’s Spring. The curtain opened and from stage left, a young dancer, very physically-challenged, quite possible with spina bifida, and certainly confined in a wheelchair, breezed across the floor. She literally took the heel of her hand to the electric wheelchair’s controls and swept across the stage.

I could not breathe. It was so stunning. I was sucker punched.

This young girl, dressed in full ballet costume, flowing blue skirt, beaded bodice, hair in an up-do, flew across the stage on four wheels with grace and poise and dignity.

Standing up on the back bar of the wheelchair, another girl, her partner in the dance, hands placed on the handlebars and striking a pose, an arabesque, breezed along with her.

Then from stage right, another dancer in an electric wheelchair, this girl with an oxygen mask, took flight and wafted across the stage like a fairy, lifting her arms in an arc, tutu fluttering behind her.

More girls entered the stage, all with partners who could guide them and hold them up, and it was the most beautiful sight, so poignant and so moving.

• These were girls, some of whom could not walk but who could dance.
• These were girls, some of whom could not talk but who could communicate so brilliantly.
• These girls, all who needed physical support, ended up supporting the dance and each other artistically, creatively.

As we left the recital hall, one parent said to another, “Wasn’t it wonderful that these girls had such able-bodied partners who could lead them in the dance with so much compassion.”

But another parent stopped and said, “No. It was the girls in the wheelchairs who had the compassion, and it was pure joy, deep from the gut.” Joy, deep from the gut.

For Christians, we are called to a compassion that comes deep within our gut. The biblical word for compassion comes from the Greek word splagcna, literally meaning:

• to have tender mercy straight from the bowels;
• to have affection from the gut;
• to have heart from the innards.

The root of our compassion comes straight from our deepest nature, from the very pit of our being.

It’s that feeling in the pit of your stomach: being sucker punched; that plunging in your middle when something becomes utterly vital; that plummeting in your gut when you hear really shocking or dreadful news, about an accident, a tragedy, a death, something so terribly unexpected that your heart drops into your stomach.

We’ve all been together in this sanctuary when a death is announced and a collective gasp goes up. That’s the root of compassion’s action.

That’s the root of Jesus’ action with the Widow of Nain and his compassion is more than an understanding look and a sympathetic word,(4) more than complacent pity.

For Christians:

• Our acts of compassion should be jazzed.
• If we let it, our acts of compassion can completely undermine the world of antagonism and resentment;
• Acts of compassion can absolutely weaken hatred and cut through fear;
• They can become the indispensable way to rid the world of numbness and detachment.
• Compassion, through our Savior, is perhaps the only thing that can save us from ourselves.(5)

The Widow of Nain doesn’t ask Jesus to raise her son. She doesn’t fall on her knees and beg for her son’s life. All she does is weep. There’s no word about faith or gratitude or praise, just a mother’s tears.(6)

When our Lord restores to a widow her son,
he restores her world.

When our Lord guides a church and a seminary to welcome a refugee family,
he restores the world.

That’s what the kingdom of God does:
Restores us,
Raises us,
Resurrects us.
Jazzes us.

(1) “Multi-Cultural Traditions: The Jazz Funeral.” Originally printed in The Soul of New Orleans. www.neworleansonline.com.
(2) Mary LaCoste. “New Orleans jazz funerals — a joyous tradition.” The Louisiana Weekly, www.louisianaweekly.com, September 22, 2014.
(3) Beverly R. Gaventa Charles B. Cousar, J. Clinton McCann, Jr., James D. Newsome. Texts for Preaching: A Lectionary Commentary Based on the NRSV, Year C. Louisville: Westminster John Knox Press, 1994, 379-80.
(4) Ibid.
(5) Walter Brueggemann. The Prophetic Imagination. New York: Fortress Press, 1978, 91. As found in Debbie Blue’s commentary, Blogging toward Sunday. Luke 7:11-17. The Blog of the Christian Century, June 10, 2007.
(6) Kim Buchanan. Sermon. “From Procession to Party.” Luke 7:11-17. Day1: A Ministry for the Alliance of Christian Media, Atlanta, Georgia, June 10, 2007.

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
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Matthew 13:33
Joyce MacKichan Walker
May 29, 2016

“[Jesus] told them another parable: ‘The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.’”

First a disclaimer, or at least an explanation. Many of you know my husband Michael is also a Presbyterian minister – he long before me. Today is the first Sunday ever we found ourselves preaching at almost the same time; he is leading worship at the Slackwood Presbyterian Church, beginning at 10:30 this morning. As we talked about preaching texts, we thought it would fun, instructive, and yes, economical, to write one sermon together. Thus, we are preaching essentially the same sermon – only the pronouns have been changed.

I can see it as if it were yesterday! Every Friday. Without fail. All six of us running the last 100 yards of the lane, up the porch steps, in through the screen door, letting it slam shut behind us in time with the command, “Don’t let the door slam!” Scanning the kitchen counter. Without fail. Four matching double loaves of white bread, golden brown, smooth and rounded, lined up side-by-side like garden rows. To their right, three muffin pans, each filled with double or triple rolls – the ones you make by rolling up two or three little balls of dough and stuffing them into the greased bottom of each muffin tin. The ones you pull apart and slather all the surfaces with butter and homemade wild strawberry jam. About once a month, next in line were two loaves of brown bread. Not all that healthy whole wheat you get now – dense whole grains – but molasses darkened, squeezably soft, even fragile to the room temperature butter that skidded over the crumbly goodness.

Before we went to school we never saw the flour – my mother was way too busy with the lunch boxes and lost homework and collecting piles of washing and soaking the beans for Saturday night’s standard baked beans and Boston brown bread. We never saw the yeast, or the rising, or the baking. Just the bread. And as we let the door slam behind us, we knew at least one loaf would not survive to see the dinner table.

That’s not the way my husband bakes bread. Here’s the way Michael tells it.

I love homemade bread. There is nothing better than the smell, the texture, the taste. Nothing substitutes. I don’t like devoting my life to making it, but that’s what it seems like when you’re in the middle of the process. Homemade bread is labor intensive. So I have found some solutions, he says. And since many of you also know Michael is the cook in our family, you will know these are, indeed, his solutions!

The first one is my marvelous Kitchen Aid standing mixer with a dough hook. That takes the kneading pretty much out of the equation. Of course this solution has its own problems – getting that monster out to use is a real chore. It weighs a ton. And then it always seems that, at one point, the dough climbs up the hook. If you are not careful, you have a mess to peel off the workings of the machine. Still, it’s a definite improvement.

The next solution is the bread machine – automation at its best. I only have to dump the ingredients into the machine and turn it on, or better yet, set the timer to let it do its work. Smells great, tastes great, but it’s not perfect either. For one thing, it takes up a lot of counter space. And then you end up with a strangely shaped, almost cylindrical loaf that doesn’t cut into very usefully sized slices. You also have a metal paddle embedded in the bottom of the loaf. I have to carefully dig the paddle out of the bottom of the load with some sort of plastic or wooden tool, being careful not to scratch the non-stick coating on the paddle. Of course that means you have a big hole in the bottom of the loaf and the last slices are mangled beyond recognition. It’s not pretty. And everyone knows you didn’t do much to make these strange slices of bread. Still, it’s fairly convenient, all in all.

But then Michael found an incredible recipe in the New York Times. It’s said a 6 year-old can make better bread this way than most any bakery in the country. There is very little work to it at all; you simply mix together three cups of flour, a little salt, a fifth of the yeast you would normally use for making bread, and some water. Then you just leave it alone. The biggest ingredient in the recipe is patience. You have to walk away from it for 12 or more hours. You let nature take its course. Then you form it, dump it in a covered pan, and bake it. It comes out like this… The house smells great (I can vouch for that – yesterday morning!), the loaf has a wonderful crust, a delightful crumb and a great flavor. That’s it. All you have to do is let it do its thing all on its own.

We were reminded of that recipe by today’s parable because of the large amount of flour and the little bit of yeast, but most of all because what creates the bread is the little act of the woman at the beginning to set the whole natural process in motion. Bear with me as I read the whole parable to you again: “The Kingdom is Heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until all of it was leavened.” Thus ends the parable.

The first thing to understand about the parable is that this woman is not preparing a normal recipe. Far from it. Three measures of flour may not sound like much, but in reality, it’s somewhere between 40 and 60 pounds of flour, way more than any family could eat. She would have enough for a banquet! And it’s certainly more than a woman – than anyone – could manage without some heavy-duty equipment. But packed into this very compact parable is the fact that she’s not really baking the bread in a normal way at all.

The New Revised Standard Version doesn’t translate this parable literally. According to the Greek text, the woman didn’t mix anything. Maybe a chef translated it that way because it would make more sense than what the woman actually did. The NRSV makes more sense than the Greek because there is one word in the Greek you don’t expect. I was taught if you find a word in the text that doesn’t make sense, pay attention to it. It’s likely there for a reason. The Greek word in question here is “enkrypto.” It’s the root of our English words like “cryptography” – the art of writing or solving secret codes — or “cryptogram” – a text written in code — or better yet, our word “encryption.” The point is she’s not mixing it. Good thing with all that flour. She’s much less active than that. She’s hiding the yeast in the flour. A little bit of yeast and 50 pounds of flour – no mixing or kneading involved. She simply let’s nature take its course.

Three measures of flour is not unique to this woman. There is another woman in the Bible who had three measures of flour to work with. It’s no accident. By telling this parable, Jesus reminds his listeners of another woman, Sarah, the wife of Abraham. That story offers a promise, and a sign of hope. Usually hope for a couple of their age comes in a good report on blood work or a satisfactory EKG, but for this couple the good news is that the old woman will be pregnant. They have waited all of their long lives for a son and heir and now God announces that it’s finally going to happen. Hope for a brighter future. A promise that their legacy will live on.

The situation is this: 90-plus year-old Abraham has three visitors. Abraham apparently recognizes who and what they are right off the bat. Abraham is in the midst of a divine visitation. Who are they? Well, later on in the story two of them are identified – they’re angels. But what about the third? In Jewish interpretation, the third one is the Lord, and there is actually some evidence for this in the text itself later on. The announcement, of course, is of the impending blessed event. Sarah is about to conceive and bear a son. Sarah, however, listening at the door (or the tent flap, as it were) doubles over in laughter. After all, this baby is more likely to be born in assisted living than in the maternity ward. But Abraham reacts by inviting the three to stay for “a little bread,” as he calls it. And so he directs Sarah to make “a little bread” from three measures of flour – 50 pounds of flour. “A little bread,” indeed! Amy-Jill Levine, professor of New Testament Studies at Vanderbilt, puts it this way, “Were my husband to run into the street, invite three strangers to lunch and tell me to make 60 dozen biscuits, at least one of us would need counseling.”(1)

But this wasn’t lunch – this was a celebratory meal with the Divine.

The woman in the parable has enough dough for a divine banquet, too, a heavenly one. Remember how Jesus introduces it – “The Kingdom of Heaven is like…”

The parable is tiny, at least in number of words, so we’re not likely to gain from it a complete blueprint for the Christian life of discipleship. You have to read on for that. And yet, despite its diminutive size, there is a lot here. It’s not so much about the woman. It is about what she does, which really isn’t much at all. She takes a small amount of leaven and simply sticks it in a gigantic amount of flour. That’s it. But she starts the process that creates a glorious result. That’s grace.

We fit in the parable. We belong in the middle part, the part after the leaven was hidden and before the miraculous result – between the initial acts for our salvation and that splendid reunion with the saints in glory. We’re caught in that middle where it appears that not much, if anything is happening. That middle part is where we live. It’s our common, everyday existence. New Testament scholar Dale Allison says, “Everyday life is ruled by custom, habit, and routine, and these can all-too-readily cultivate a God-obscuring stasis. Unless one realizes that things are not what they seem to be and they will not be as they are forever.”(2) We need patience. We mustn’t be caught in the temptation to think that the here and now is the limit of our reality. There is something more and it’s already been set in motion. The Kingdom of Heaven is like a woman who cryptically places the yeast in the flour and produces more than anyone can possibly need – that’s what happens in the end. That’s grace.

There’s more grace here, too. Yes, of course we have a lot to look forward to – that heavenly banquet where people will come from east and west and north and south to sit at table in the Kingdom of Heaven. But the parable proclaims the Kingdom is present even in a place as simple as that Galilean kitchen where the bread making began and where the purpose of God is working out. The parable declares the Kingdom is here now in the most ordinary and commonplace parts of our lives, the places where we don’t often see it, in little triumphs, and even despite our big disappointments. The Kingdom comes. The Kingdom comes. The Kingdom of Heaven comes.

1. Levine, Amy-Jill, Short Stories by Jesus: The Enigmatic Parables of a Controversial Rabbi, HarperCollins Publishers, 2014, page 122.
2. http://www.workingpreacher.org/preaching.aspx?commentary_id=107

Written with the Rev. J. Michael Walker

© 2016 Nassau Presbyterian Church
Contact the church to obtain reprint permission.