Lectionary 11 (B) — Ezekiel 17:22-24, Mark 4:26-34
Today’s Old Testament reading helps us understand the purpose of prophecy. Many think the prophets are about foretelling the future. But today’s prophecy proves otherwise, because Ezekiel’s prophecy doesn’t come true.
Before 600 BC, the Israelites were mostly ignorant of the outside world. Sure, a few trade routes went through their land, and they knew other places existed. But those trade routes always went through the land, and never to the land.
The Israelites were subsistence farmers, usually having enough to eat, but never more. They had to rely on God, because there was nowhere else to turn. When things were too lean, they invented and borrowed other gods to rely on as well.
That got them into trouble. Eventually the threat that had hung over them for over a hundred years finally came to pass. A foreign nation destroyed Jerusalem, carrying off people to a foreign land, to Babylon. They were more poor than ever, and their culture and faith were in danger.
But for all that the Babylonians took away, they gave the Israelites a bigger worldview. Babylon was a cosmopolitan city, one of the wealthiest in the world. People from every culture lived there, and the Israelites were surrounded by new languages and ideas. They started to wonder if the God of Israel, who had chosen and loved a tiny, little, unimportant land in the middle of nowhere, was much of a God at all.
It’s then that Ezekiel spoke. He was wild, perhaps even schizophrenic, plagued by hallucinations that he—and we—saw as visions from God. He said that while God’s temple was destroyed, God hadn’t left; he would to rescue his people when it was time. He said the temple would be rebuilt, better than ever, and described its measurements in obsessive-compulsive detail.
And in today’s reading, he said a branch would be taken from a great cedar tree. The remains of the Israelites would leave that great city and go back to Mount Zion, to the city of Jerusalem, where they belonged. And then, birds of every kind would be drawn there. Israel would become like Babylon, full of wealth, and every nation would come there to worship God.
True, the Israelites did go home, within about seventy years. They rebuilt their city and temple, but it wasn’t as beautiful as the old one. And quickly, Israel became an unimportant, forgotten corner of the Roman Empire, the temple was destroyed again, and the people were evicted from their beloved home. Hardly the lofty cedar Ezekiel had promised.
Many of us love the parable of the mustard seed, the tiny little seed that grows into a great shrub, and all the birds come and nest in its shade. If it sounds familiar, it should. Jesus takes Ezekiel’s old prophecy and reshapes it, using it to teach about the Kingdom of God. I wonder what the crowd who heard him thought. Maybe they said that Ezekiel turned out to be wrong, and so will this Jesus.
But imagery is more sensible. Instead of one of the great cedar trees that grew only in rich Lebanon, he pictures a common mustard seed, something everyone would have seen and known. And he doesn’t promise a great and sturdy tree as it’s result. Just the greatest of all shrubs. Who wants to be a shrub? It’s like Jesus is making fun of Ezekiel.
I’m realizing that the older I get, the harder it is to carry around these extra pounds—and the harder to get rid of them. My doctors haven’t helped. One says “just lose weight” without suggesting how. If it were that easy, I’d have already done it. Another gives me a too-detailed eating plan that promises to make all my food taste bland. Which makes an early heart attack sound not-so-bad.
Part of the problem is that I eat out too much. Even in the pandemic, DoorDash and Delivery Dudes have been so kind in bringing the restaurants to me, for a nominal fee, of course. Eating out means portion sizes three times too big for one person. So, I always overeat this processed food, and spend too much money.
If only I cooked for myself. I can. I can handle the kitchen pretty well. I like my food. It’s just, it feels like a huge task. Planning meals, grocery shopping, prepping, cooking, cleaning up afterward. It’s overwhelming just to think about it. In fact, maybe I’ll just go online during the Hymn of the Day and order a pizza to arrive right around when I expect get home.
When I was on vacation in Indiana a few weeks ago, my friend Erica reminded me of something I know well. You can’t do everything at once. If I try to change my whole life, I’ll fail. Change doesn’t happen like a cedar tree; it happens like a mustard seed. One little thing at a time.
So the past few weeks, I’ve been cooking. But I’ve found ways to make it less overwhelming. I chose recipes I know well, instead of researching more exciting new ones. I make six meals at once, and then have leftovers for days. And even when just chopping vegetables feels like too big of a job, well, sure these pre-cut ones are more expensive, but not as expensive as eating out all the time. Little steps. One thing at a time. And eventually, real, lasting change.
The thing about mustard in the Middle East is that it grows everywhere, even in places where the land refuses to produce anything else. It’s not the biggest tree in the forest—it’s really pretty small, considering—but it spreads everywhere like an invasive weed, and can’t be stopped.
That’s what the Kingdom of God is like. It’s not the earth-changing events we sometimes hope for. It’s the little things that God plants in our lives, the little things the Holy Spirit urges us to plant.
In our personal lives; when miraculous healings or huge windfalls they happen, they’re great, but we can’t rely on them. The real Kingdom of God is the simple sentence spoken that transforms our day. It’s the people we love, and little glimpses of beauty that remind us we are loved.
In our faith communities, it’s the same. This isn’t the biggest, strongest church ever. But it is a church where God is present, and there are exciting things going on. It’s not a through-going strategic plan that will make a difference, or a perfectly executed administrative life.
It’s the little ideas, like reopening a senior center after the pandemic, or opening the building for life-giving events, or inviting the neighbors to a taco dinner. Like gathering food to feed the hungry again, or getting our choir up front, or planning a Rally-Day-Slash-God’s-Work-Our-Hands-Sunday celebration for September to rejoice in being a community again.
Ezekiel wasn’t wrong after all. The tiniest little planting results in the greatest possible growth. Sure, it does tend to look more like a shrub than a cedar. But the truth is still everywhere, spreading like wildfire. It is God himself who makes the planting. The Lord has spoken this Word of Christ, in whom there is new creation. He will accomplish it. Amen.