Blessed be the Seeds

Proper 22C

I never imagined myself saying this in church—or anywhere else, for that matter—but this morning I feel a bit like a mulberry tree. Some very faithful people said “be uprooted from your 13 years of service on the staff of the Bishop of California and be planted at Trinity Cathedral,” and here I am. Feeling a bit out of my natural element—in that sense I also identify with the mulberry tree—but nothing in this parable suggests the drowning of the tree. Rather, like all of the teachings of Jesus, the Gospel we just heard points to abundant life. Growing even—or perhaps especially—in unexpected ways.

No one expects a tree to be planted in the sea. Matthew’s Gospel records Jesus talking about the power of mustard-seed-sized faith too, but in his case it moved a mountain. Which is no more likely, but perhaps a little less weird. In both cases, however, the point seems to be that a small thing can effect a hugely improbable outcome. An inspiring image, but a high bar for faith, because at any given time any one of us might not be feeling it. What if we’re not sure about our faith, or what if the troublesome trees and mountains of our lives seem immobile?

Those would be legitimate questions. But from this privileged position of looking out at all of you, I am reminded that Jesus was speaking to a community of disciples. So he wasn’t assuming that powerful small faith was the property of any one person, although he did assume his disciples would be teaching others. The faith that effects great change isn’t dependent on any one of us, but it does need all of us to pass it on.

A little context around today’s Gospel. Luke locates these teachings of Jesus between the parable of the rich man and Lazarus, and the story of the Samaritan leper who returns to give thanks. So the lesson we just heard does not stand alone, but rather is one of several of teachings related to discipleship. That is, related to practicing the way of Jesus. Which in this case might be summarized as forgive abundantly, trust the faith that is in you, and do what you are called to do.

Let those precepts sink in. Forgive abundantly, trust the faith that is in you, and do what you are called to do. Easy to say, but the challenge of a lifetime to live into. Ask anyone who has had to forgive an abuser, or anyone who has had to play a prophetic truth-telling role in their family, their workplace or their public life.

Here’s some preacherly truth telling: I confess that I chafe at Jesus’ apparently uncritical use of slave imagery in the parable we heard this morning. But because it does not stand alone, I am noticing how—in a rhetorical sense—it functions to amplify the mustard seed metaphor.

We are born into or find ourselves in roles that may not represent the fullness of kingdom justice, but that doesn’t have to prevent us from doing what we are called to do. A mustard seed may be so small as to be overlooked, but it’s the only one in the ecosystem capable of growing a mustard plant. That is its nature and its work. A Christian grows in forgiveness, trust, and faithful response to God’s call. That is our nature and our work. Believing that about ourselves—regardless of the circumstances in which we find ourselves—might just be all the faith that we need.

A young Francesco Bernardone believed that about himself when he risked his father’s wrath and indeed his business to follow his beloved “Lady Poverty” to serve the poor. That was in early 13^th century, and so powerful was his example that many of Assisi’s young people adopted his simple rule “to follow the teachings of our Lord Jesus Christ and to walk in his footsteps.” Thus was founded the Franciscan order, and we celebrate his example even now on the Feast of St. Francis.

It’s tempting to think of the witness of St. Francis as unique in history, but remember that Francesco himself was inspired by others—by Jesus above all—but also by the example of forebears like Paul and Timothy. Even from prison—a circumstance as unjust as slavery—the apostle was encouraging his protégé. Seeds may be small, but they propagate. Faithfulness begets faithful following.

What are the seeds in this community? In my personal experience, they are your prayers. I was really conscious of them amidst the many unknowns of accepting this call and moving here. This mulberry tree moved, so never think of prayer as a thing too small! Your seeds are acts of mercy and justice, which I see you manifesting—like St. Francis—in service to the poor in our neighborhood. The seeds are your generous pledges, which added together will make the visionary goals of this year’s stewardship campaign—to manifest welcome to all, to nourish the worshipping community, and to witness to God’s shalom in Portland—as real as a relocated tree or a mountain.

Just last week I completed my last service to the Episcopal Diocese of California, which was to produce our annual clergy conference. It was emotional for me to say goodbye to my former colleagues, just as it is emotional for me to say hello to you, my new partners in ministry. At the closing Eucharist for the clergy conference, there was a bowl of wheat seeds placed on the altar alongside the bread and wine. The seeds—and the bread made from it—had been locally harvested at the retreat center where we were meeting. I can’t tell you how happy that bowl of seeds made me, perhaps especially because of the seed planter’s singular passion.

Elizabeth’s ministry is environmental chaplaincy, and for the past five years she has preached and practiced the good news of sustainable wheat farming. She plants heirloom grains and promotes a “farm to altar table” continuum of healthy production and consumption. She has been incredibly persistent in her mission, and I can count on Elizabeth reaching out to me—even when I’m in the midst of a million conference planning details—to remind me to use communion bread made from Staff of Life flour. And in this case, to make sure the seeds are blessed as well. Elizabeth has been—to borrow from the language of the letter to Timothy—a model of love and self-discipline. That’s how sustainable bread gets made, and it’s also how trees and mountains get moved.

Jesus could have used any number of images to make the point that a small thing can effect a hugely improbable outcome. Birds, grains of sand; he had plenty of natural metaphors at his command. And all manner of small things put together can add up to something large; we know this from arithmetic and experience. But there is a holy particularity to a seed metaphor. Because mustard seeds are not just small, they are also full of potential to grow something that far exceeds their modest beginnings. So as I look out at you—my new community of ministry—this morning, what I see are seeds being blessed at God’s altar. Seeds that will propagate blessing for each other and for our city. The gift of God that our second lesson mentions is within all of us, just as the embryo is within the seed. This is the good treasure entrusted to all of us, by virtue of our baptism, and the Holy Spirit living in us will indeed make it possible.