Hasty reflections

μικρὰ ζύμη ὅλον τὸ φύραμα ζυμοῖ.

I have been meditating recently on some of Jesus’ parables:

He put another parable before them, saying, “The kingdom of heaven is like a grain of mustard seed that a man took and sowed in his field. It is the smallest of all seeds, but when it has grown it is larger than all the garden plants and becomes a tree, so that the birds of the air come and make nests in its branches. . . . The kingdom of heaven is like leaven that a woman took and hid in three measures of flour, till it was all leavened. . . . The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which a man found and covered up. Then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field.”

Matthew 13.31-33, 33 ESV

I was struck at first by the hiddenness of the kingdom, how it starts out so small as to be overlooked or discounted, how it is secretively placed into the dough, how it is buried and reburied. From its humble beginning it grows, it transforms the surrounding substance, it not only has value but bestows value. To seek the kingdom in its beginning is a risk—of questions, obscurity, and meaninglessness—of derision, namelessness, and worthlessness. And for those bear the burden into the fullness of time, the kingdom brings them from derision to glory, from namelessness to being named, from no worth to all worth. . . .

I would venture a guess that I am not beloved of most of my students. Even some of my brightest students don’t approve of my lessons, mannerisms, or style. They may even hate the very core of me. And with good cause! But in my discouragement over innumerable failures and pains, I suddenly considered my purpose here. I am here for the kingdom of heaven. I am here because I believe that God has given me something, as if I were the fields or the dough. And I am here because I believe that a tree is meant to bear fruit, and a little leaven leavens the whole lump, and one small treasure is worth a world of what is common. If my students question and deride me, if my work remains obscure and gets me no love from them, and if the day’s long hours seem without purpose or good—if not for God I would despair. But I know that some time from now, what I have planted will bear fruit for my students, even if my name should remain a curse to their ears, and even if they never see value in what I have done. . . .

Those parables do not point us to the man who planted the seed, or to the woman who hid the leaven, or to the man who bought the field. They are not great enough to need a name; rather, they are defined by their relation to the kingdom. My students may some day be blessed and fully alive in the kingdom, never aware of my hopes for them.

I have to sow, knead, and bury. To just keep going.