How Small Is Your Faith?

1 Samuel 15:34-16:13Mark 4:26-32

Are we created in the image of God? Or do we try to recreate God in our image?

For the next few months, our Sunday morning texts will be following two paths. The Old Testament stories will follow along with the evolution of David – the shepherd becomes warrior, the warrior becomes king, the king becomes celebrated. Meanwhile, the New Testament stories will be guided along by Jesus – his parables, his miracles, his teachings. There are weeks where the two stories seem to complement each other nicely. There are other weeks where the two seem to act as a counterpoint for one another. The question for us, though, is how do we read them? What do they tell us about the nature of faith? The character of God? The faithfulness of the Church? How do they shape us? Or do we, in fact, try to shape them?

In each age of history, Christians have seen the texts of the Old and New Testaments through the lens of their culture and assumption. There are many examples that come to mind. It could be as subtly arrogant as the missionary vision of the 19th century, influenced by our obsession with technology and progress, which predicted that the whole world would be evangelized by the 1970s. Each age has been subject to its own idolatries, attempting to mold the ancient Scriptures into modern documents, trying to create God in its own cultural identity. Our openness to the heart of Scripture lies in our willingness to ask the right questions of it in the first place.

Are we any different? What are the approaches we take to Scripture that are bound by our time and place? When we read the stories of David and Jesus, are we able to suspend that identity of having been born in the 20th century in North America? Can we acknowledge the prejudices and assumptions we bring to these texts? Or is there really a way for us to connect with a deeper meaning, God’s meaning, and therefore be shaped and challenged by God into the Church God would have us be?

It is here that I must offer you a little inside information on your preacher. The bulletin deadline is Wednesday morning. I always write my sermons after Wednesday, but I usually have a pretty good idea of the topic. I try to pick a title that is specific enough to the subject, yet flexible enough to leave room for the shifting sands of my preparation and study. About halfway through my preparation this week, I realized that I needed to take a different path. I came to see how bound I had been to my own assumptions as I picked that title. But I was stuck with it, and this morning it sits in your bulletin as testimony to your pastor’s cultural identity.

I had, without knowing it, fallen back on a comfort on which we all rely. We are tempted to read our texts in the mind of 21st century Americans, a people who are self-reliant and powerful, independent and strong. We are a people that, when adversity hits us, we are not swayed. We keep to the path. Though we may become scarred, we always grow smarter.

I can’t help but think of the radio show “The Rest of the Story,” hosted by Paul Harvey. Are any of you familiar with the program? For thirty years, Paul Harvey has brought these tales, which tell you the humble beginnings of someone who turns out to be famous. That kid who flunked his math class? Why, he turned out to be Albert Einstein. The struggling inventor who filed for bankruptcy? He was none other than Thomas Edison. That politician who lost one election after another early in his career? He was elected the sixteenth President of the United States: Abraham Lincoln. As Paul Harvey would say, “And now you know the rest of the story.”

Paul Harvey’s tributes are inspiring tales. They seem to share the message that failure is merely a set back that builds character and molds greatness. They are true stories that are, I believe, a part of our larger cultural identity of self-reliance and perseverance.

We, like so many centuries before us, take this cultural identity with us when we come to Scripture. There is the familiar parable of the mustard seed. It is a story of the power of faith, isn’t it? The small mustard seed has the possibility of growing into this large, proud shrub. The message seems clear: with even the smallest amount of faith, great things are possible. The humble can do powerful things. All that is needed to spice up the recipe is a little bit of faith.

And there’s the story of young David, the shepherd boy out in the fields. God’s favor has fallen away from the arrogant Saul, and Samuel has been dispatched to Bethlehem to pick an heir to the throne. He sees one impressive son of Jesse after another, but these are not the ones God chooses. No one, not Samuel, not Jesse, would have guessed that the youngest son, the small boy with the ruddy complexion, would be the one worthy of God’s anointing. Again, the message comes through with clarity: you can’t judge a book by its cover. It’s not the size of the boy in the fight; it’s the size of the fight in the boy.

You have now heard the Clif Notes version of my first draft.

Understood this way, each of these texts becomes a variation on Paul Harvey’s “Rest of the Story” tributes. Seen through this lens, Jesus’ parable becomes the story of “The Little Seed That Could.” The story of Samuel’s visit to Bethlehem becomes the heartwarming tale of the “Shepherd Boy Who Would Be King.” They are inspirational, even perhaps surprising, albeit in a predictable kind of way.

But could it just be that these are cultural shortcuts to help us get on with the rest of the story? Could it be that we have allowed ourselves to be derailed from seeing the surprising mystery of God’s disruptive power?

In our passage from 1 Samuel, the mighty Saul is king. But Saul’s arrogance and unfaithfulness have tested God, and Samuel sets out for Bethlehem. As he enters the town on the half-truth that he is there to sacrifice to the Lord, he comes to the house of Jesse. As God had instructed the prophet, he begins to look for Saul’s replacement. The eldest son, Eliab, cuts an impressive figure, much like king Saul. Even his name confers royalty: “God is my ancestor.” Samuel is convinced that this young man must be the one for whom he was sent down to Bethlehem. No: God tells Samuel that the ways of God are not the ways of humanity. God does not look to the person’s appearance, but rather to their heart.

All seven sons come before Samuel, each one impressive in stature with a powerful name to match. But none of these are the ones whom God wants to be king. It is only then that we come to the little boy, the eighth son of Jesse, the one named David, which means simply, “Beloved.”

There is something almost subversive in this story. God is at work, inspecting the sons of Jesse. But rather than follow the custom of the day and pick the oldest son, the one who would be expected to give honor to his father and go on to greatness, Samuel is instructed to anoint the little shepherd. The surprise doesn’t stop there: in the ways of monarchy, then as now, Saul would remain king until his death, at which point his offspring would take his crown. Samuel’s visit to Bethlehem is nothing short of treason for ancient Israel.

The work of God in this story is no less surprising than Paul Harvey’s radio musings. But here, as David supplants not only his older brothers but also the very king of Israel, God’s surprise is disruptive, almost chaotic. This is not the story of a small boy who rose up through the ranks to become king. Young David is not the central character of this story; God is. And where God is at work, the message comes through loud and clear, the powerful are humbled; the weak are lifted up. The kingdoms of the world give way to the kingdom of God.

And it is this reign of God that is the subject of Christ’s parables. And there are two, not just one, in our text this morning. The first parable is of the farmer who simply plants the seed and leaves it alone, unaware of how it comes to life, meeting it again at harvest time. The second parable is of that diminutive mustard seed that grows not into a beautiful flowering bush, for God is not concerned with appearances, but rather into a choking weed.

The kingdom of God begins as humbly as a seed. Between the instant that the seed hits the soil and the moment that the plant breaks through the earth, there is growth. How remains an unknown – not even the farmer knows for sure. But grow it does. Quietly, secretly, mysteriously, the kingdom of God thrives. And yet, its life cycle eventually comes to an end in the harvest. The kingdom doesn’t exist for its own sake.

And similarly, that mustard seed grows from something insignificant to something much larger; but if it is, indeed, a weed, then it is again invasive and disruptive. It breaks through our cultural identities and half-drafted sermons with the timeless, freeing, comforting, challenging truth of Christ. The kingdoms and gardens of our own design give way to the perfect landscaping of God’s kingdom.

Let us wander its pathways together. And as we do, we come upon a horribly disfigured tree. It began as a simple seed. It burst through the soil. And when it was time for the harvest, it served as a cross. It is only as we stand there, gazing on its disruptive wonder, that we can truly be open to the right questions.

And now we know the rest of the story.