December 12, 2020
As preached by Sister Rebecca
Holy Wisdom Church
This morning we read two parables from the Gospel: one about the
mustard seed, and the other about the yeast in the dough. Both are metaphors
for the Kingdom of God—the Divine presence here and now. The fact that the three evangelists (of the synoptic
Gospels) all included these parables indicates their importance to the
Christian communities. Through these parables, Jesus strives to awaken what is
potential and most often dormant in the hearts and minds of his listeners.
Very
frequently, Jesus uses familiar God-in-Nature metaphors—such as the mustard
seed and the yeast in the dough in today’s Gospel—to describe the Kingdom of
God: the Realm of God right in our midst.
The image of the mustard seed emphasizes the reality of the Presence of
God in our midst in Nature. The second image,
the yeast in the dough, points to the rising of our spiritual instinct into our
consciousness, which perceives the Kingdom of God right now.
Here is the
question I pose: How is it that Jesus uses the stories of a mustard seed and
yeast in the dough to describe both the kingdom of God and our nascent glimmers
of inner sight and faith? Where is the connection? What are these stories
trying to get through to us? The
following thoughts may shed some light. In the third century A.D., when St. Anthony the Great was
asked how in the desert he managed to be such a learned man without the aid of
books, he replied: “My book is the nature of created things, and as
often as I have mind to read the words of God, they are at my hand.” A
little over a century later, St. Augustine would echo this experience in one of
his sermons: “Some people, in order to discover God, read books. But
there is a great book: the very appearance of created things. Look above you!
Look below you! Note it. Read it. God, whom you want to discover, never wrote
that book with ink. Instead, He set before your eyes the things He had
made.
The Book of Nature speaks of the
realm of God here and now. The poet Saadi Shiraz also wrote about this
experience: “Every leaf of the trees becomes a page of sacred scripture;
that is, once the heart is opened and it has learned to read.”
Recently I stumbled on a story that
spoke to me. This is how I recall it: “A certain fellow, four or so months ago,
was planning to make a solitary retreat in Colorado. He expected to bring along some of his
favorite books that speak about God in Nature. That did not happen. The pandemic interrupted his travel plans,
and he was forced to spend the summer at home alone. He had been so looking forward to the dry, crisp
Colorado dawn at a retreat house surrounded by awesome beauty. The only thing ‘crisp’
facing him now was the drying brown grass in his backyard. Then he stepped back
and began to wonder. Maybe I can open the Book of Nature around me now,
starting with my own backyard? After
all, Augustine did not say, ‘Go to Colorado and look above you! Look below you!
Notice it. Read it.’ The Book of Nature was already open and before me, in my
own backyard, waiting to be read. Then I read the rising sun as the gift
of a new day and wondered what it might offer or ask of me. I read the stars as
light shining in the darkness of my night sky. I read the silence and stillness
of the grass as an invitation to learn to just be. I read the mystery of growth
and life in the seeds planted in my garden, and in the green peas, tomatoes,
and cucumbers that rose up from the depth of the earth. I read chattering
squirrels as a reminder to lighten up and not take myself too seriously. I read
the huge oak tree, as Rumi says: ‘returning me to the root of the root of my
soul.’ I read a hungry kitten as a foreigner waiting to be welcomed. I read the
birds splashing around in rain puddles and recalled Julian of Norwich’s ‘all
shall be well.’ I read the falling leaves and the first cool morning as a
reminder that there is a season for everything.
I read the wind as God breathing new life into this world and
encouraging me to trust when I cannot see. I read the colors of the setting sun
as a palette of awesome beauty lifting my soul. It was a good read. It was
a very good read.”
Another metaphor was included in
today’s Gospel: the narrow gate. What
does this mean in the context of understanding the metaphors of the seed and
the yeast? I believe it is a word of caution and warning: the passage to the
heart’s vision is very narrow. We need
to unload the stuff in our minds, such as troubling anxious thoughts and negative
musings; we need to pare down our fragmented ego tendency to try to figure
things out with our brains and, instead, surrender and move to naked trust in
God.
I would like to offer a reflection by
one of Rumi’s poems that may inspire you as they have me, especially in these
times of the overwhelming disheartening daily news of millions of people sick
and dying of the Covid-19 virus, not to mention millions who are suffering from
the consequences of the virus. The
parables are about life and growth. Can
I be open to Life as it is presented to me now? Can I rise up like the “yeast
in the dough,” to be God’s agent in bringing about love and life in the face of
so much fear, suffering, and hopelessness?
(To Rumi’s lines I have added a few thoughts for reflection):
Don’t go away, come near. (Let
us not bury our heads in the sand like the ostrich)
Don’t be faithless, be faithful.
Find the antidote in the venom. (Venom?
What is poisoning my mind now?)
Come to the root of the root of your soul.
Molded of clay, yet kneaded (Like
the woman who adds the yeast to the flour and kneads it)
from the substance of certainty,
a guard at the Treasury of Holy Light —
come, return to the root of the root of your Self.
Once you get hold of selflessness,
You’ll be dragged from your ego
and freed from many traps.
Come, return to the root of the root of your Soul.
You are born from the children of God’s creation,
but you have fixed your sight too low.
How can you be happy?
Come, return to the root of the root of your Self.
You were born from a ray of God’s majesty
and have the blessings of a good star.
Why suffer at the hands of things that don’t exist? (This too will pass!)
Come, return to the root of the root of your Soul.
You came here from the presence of that fine Friend,
a little drunk, but gentle, stealing our hearts
with that look so full of fire; so,
come, return to the root of the root of your Self.
(My gratitude to Rev.
Michael Marsh and unnamed others for offering access to Rumi’s poetry for
inspiration and providing me here with words to express the inexpressible.)
