While reading books together one afternoon last week, Wade, who is four and a half, was asking me about heaven. What will it be like? Will I be a kid? Will other people be there?
I explained that the Bible does describe some things about heaven - it paints a picture of being together, of a fancy city, of celebration, and feasting. Ultimately, though, we just don’t know what heaven will be like - it’s a mystery. We know that we will be with God in some way, but beyond that? We don’t know, and we can’t know right now.
After thinking about my response for a few moments, Wade replied, “Well, maybe we should just ask Pastor Paul.”
Wade’s response when presented with the reality of mystery is not an uncommon one. It is difficult to sit with the unknown. It is difficult to hold space for that which is beyond our ability to know. We crave answers, and certainty, and often seem to flock to whoever promises us those things, regardless of their credentials or the truthfulness of their message.
Mystery, on the other hand, can leave us feeling anxious and dissatisfied. Mystery requires us to accept not knowing, and to be open to even unimagined possibilities. That is to say, mystery is challenging, and uncomfortable.
And yet, mystery seems to be a defining characteristic of the kingdom of God. Jesus announces its nearness from the beginning of his ministry - “The time is fulfilled,” he proclaims in the first chapter of Mark, “and the kingdom of God has come near! Repent and believe in the good news.” But even then, with that proclamation, it’s only through parables, and metaphors, and less-than-complete glimpses that we can start to paint a picture of what the kingdom of God is like.
In the parables we heard from Mark’s gospel today, the kingdom of God is compared first to someone scattering seed on the ground, and then to a mustard seed.
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| Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash |
Gardening is itself an exercise in mystery. As the first parable describes, the seeds that are planted take root and grow, little by little, all on their own. Something happens within the dark soil, unseen by us. Eventually, tender sprouts push through the ground, leaves opening to the sun. In spite of uncertainty about rain and sunshine and soil quality, somehow growth and flourishing come about, even without our effort. As the parable says, “The sower does not know how.” It is a mystery!
In the second parable, about the mustard seed, the biggest mystery might be why anyone would intentionally plant mustard. Jesus’s hearers would have been laughing at the ridiculousness of planting something so invasive. Can you imagine? It would be like walking through your yard spreading dandelion seeds with abandon. Similarly, the mustard shrub spreads quickly and without regard for any tidy boundaries. Those listening to Jesus would laugh even harder when Jesus got to the part about birds making nests in its branches - who on earth would be eager to welcome birds into a garden? Aren’t we more often interested in chasing them away?
This is the mystery and the paradox of the kingdom of God. It spreads even to the places we’d rather it didn’t, and it grows over our tidy plans and visions for how the world ought to work. The most unexpected people are included and welcomed, given rest and shelter, in God’s kingdom. It flourishes apart from our efforts to get rid of it, and changes the landscape into something utterly unexpected.
As Jesus taught and shared with the crowds using parables, we hear the interesting detail that he “explained everything in private to his disciples.” The crowds, however, were left scratching their heads. Or maybe, just maybe, they were able to open their minds and hearts to mystery. Perhaps they wondered what this could really be. Perhaps they dreamed, and listened, and imagined. Perhaps they trusted.
That’s the thing about mystery, isn’t it? At the end of the day, our ability to sit with mystery depends an awful lot on trust. Mystery can leave us feeling anxious and uncomfortable, or it can leave us feeling delighted, humming with anticipation, open to possibility.
The promise of these parables, shrouded as they are in mystery, seems to be that God’s kingdom comes about without our effort. It’s not the kind of mystery we must solve in order to find our place. But rather, it’s a mystery that God holds and creates and establishes. It’s a kingdom, a family, a reality that is altogether different, bigger, wilder than we can ever fully grasp. It is a mystery into which we are invited and welcomed.
So much of what we do as the Church falls into this realm of mystery. How does plain water do such wonderful things as forgiveness, and salvation, and new life? It is a mystery. How is Jesus really and truly present in a morsel of bread and the tiniest sip of wine? It is a mystery. How are we called God’s own, cherished and beloved? How is Jesus victorious over death and the grave? How does the Holy Spirit strengthen and empower us? How does the seed of faith grow? What comes next? Mystery, mystery, mystery.
In the midst of the mystery, we trust in God’s goodness and God’s promises. Even when we can’t understand, even when we are left with more questions than answers, even when we lean into discomfort more than wonder, we know that God is with us, and that God holds us - and all that is to come - in love.
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