Mark 4:26-34

Eugene Peterson calls parables “narrative time bombs.” Parables are meant to undermine our assumptions, challenge cultural myths, and offer us a vision of something different. These two agricultural mini-parables in Mark’s Gospel offer an alternative vision for the Kingdom of God.

The Kingdom of God is a phrase that deserves explanation pretty much every time we use it. First of all, and let’s just get this out of the way, it isn’t about the afterlife. Second, many people prefer not to use the term “kingdom” because it’s patriarchal and monarchical. Both patriarchy and monarchy made sense to Jesus’ audience, but neither are necessary to understand that this phrase was Jesus’ primary metaphor for describing the world, this world, our world, as it would be if we made God the ruler of our hearts and minds. If you don’t like the word “ruler,” we could just say the phrase describes what this world would be if we made God’s priorities – love, justice, and compassion – our consistent priorities. I’m fine with the term “the Kingdom of God,” but I’m also fine with newer phrases that make it easier for people to digest the metaphor: the Reign of God, the Kin-dom of God, or creative alternatives such as these suggested by Brian D. McLaren: the dream of God, the revolution of God, the mission of God, the party of God, the network of God, and the dance of God. Whatever phrase you choose, the central point is that the Kingdom of God is both now and not yet. It is among us now, at hand, as Jesus put it, when we live as though God’s love and compassion are our priorities, but it is so very obviously not fully here, as we can see when we read the news or just look around us. It is both present choice and future goal.

The “narrative time bomb” in both these little parables emerges in the hiddenness, ordinariness, and inevitability of the beginnings of the Kingdom. The sower doesn’t make the seeds sprout and grow; the sower doesn’t even water or weed. Likewise, the tiny mustard seed is “sown,” but we aren’t told that it is sown by anyone in particular. It may just spring up organically the way it does in our Northern California fields and on our hillsides, where it’s a beautiful wildflower that spreads quickly and widely but, for the most part, is a weed.

That weediness is an interesting quality, as well. The cultural bias of first century Palestine identified order with holiness and disorder with uncleanness. There were strict rules about what you planted and where. The images in these little parables may point to something vaguely unclean and somewhat disorderly, perhaps not welcomed and perhaps not recognized as valuable by everyone. Nevertheless, the birds make their nests in the shade of the wild mustard, an image of welcome, safety, even gentleness and beauty.

Tiny, hidden, ordinary, weed-like, disorderly, uncontrollable, unrecognized, and perhaps even unwelcome, but spreading inevitably and a welcoming home to the vulnerable. These images are the starting point for the Kingdom of God.

What does this mean for us, for the present choice and future goal of the Kingdom of God? For one thing, achieving it isn’t up to us. It is God’s project. Certainly, we may participate by choosing to be aligned with God’s purposes. One of our own cultural myths is that big problems must be tackled in big ways. These Kingdom parables challenge that myth. Many people throughout the world have found not only that some of the best and bravest ideas come from people outside the traditional corridors of power, but often large problems are best tackled in small ways, at least in the beginning, at least until the mustard spreads, so to speak.

The parables further invite us to notice that God is already at work, in small, perhaps even hidden ways, in our lives, in our communities, and in the world. In time, God will complete the work God has started. It can be hard to trust this promise when we look at the world around us, but these parables give us hope in small, inevitable changes. Maybe even enough hope to inspire us to join in God’s project.

© Joanne Whitt 2024 all rights reserved.