St. Thomas Evangelical Lutheran Church
3800 East Third Street
Bloomington, Indiana 47401
(812) 332-5252
Sermon for The Second Sunday After Pentecost (June 18, 2006)
Liturgical Color: Green
Reverend Dr. Lyle E. McKee
"The Seeds We Plant"
Grace to you and peace from our loving God, and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ, in the renewing power of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Today I'd like to use a parable to explain a parable. The story I am about to tell speaks eloquently about the way that we scatter and plant seeds every day of our lives, and there is never even a mention of seeds. The references in both this story and the parable of the mustard seeds are, of course, metaphorical. Listen.
Once upon a time, in the quiet village of Dingleberry on the eastern side of Yumplescism Valley, in the land of Umplescism, there lived a rather pleasant, ordinary little man called Mr. Bumble of Rossett Cottage. People spoke of Mr. Bumble with a smile of endearment, and they usually called him Mr. Bumble of Rossett Cottage because Mr. Bumble and his cottage appeared inseparable to them. Both were small in stature, both Mr. Bumble's hair and the cottage's thatch were untrimmed and graying, and both possessed a certain inviting ruddy appearance.
One fine May morning, Mr. Bumble set off to do some shopping at the village grocery store. The sun shone, the air was crisp and clear, and Mr. Bumble bumbled along in a pleasantly bumbling way, whistling to himself and to the sun and to the air.
Mr. Green the grocer, however, was not whistling. Mr. Green flustered around his shelves, grumbling to himself. Mr. Green was a little unsettled, for the deliveries he had been promised had not arrived on time. So Mr. Bumble's appearance on this clear, crisp, sunny morning did not bring about the usual smile of endearment on the face of grocer Green.
"Good morning, Mr. Green," said Mr. Bumble brightly. "Lovely day!"
Mr. Green replied with a snufflegurtling noise—a noise that is at once a little like a sniff and a little like a grunt. Mr. Green continued to fluster around on one side of the shelving, while Mr. Bumble carried on whistling and bumbling along the other, though a little uneasily now.
Mr. Green peered between a can of baked beans and a packet of Munchie Supermix blackberry-and-apple pie and gave Mr. Bumble a disgruntled stare. Mr. Bumble stopped whistling. He didn't say anything, though, for he thought he had better not upset Mr. Green any more. So as soon as he had collected and paid for his groceries and Mr. Green had packed them in a bag, he left the shop and hurried home, only occasionally whistling a broken tune.
When Mr. Bumble got back to Rosset Cottage and unpacked his shopping, he found, to his surprise and annoyance, that all his groceries and the inside of the bag were covered with sticky, mushy egg yolk. Mumbling in an irritated mumble, Mr. Bumble complained to himself that if Mr. Green hadn't been so disgruntled about God-knows-what and in such a fluster and had taken, therefore, a little more care when packing the eggs, there wouldn't be all this sticky, mushy mess.
Mr. Bumble, now somewhat more unsettled, began to clear up the mess. The more he cleared it up, the more he mumbled to himself; the more he mumbled, the more unsettled he became. Finally, when he had finished clearing up, he set about making his lunch. Yet so deeply was Mr. Bumble engrossed in his mumbling, while cutting the bread, that the knife suddenly slipped, making a nasty gash in his finger.
"Ouch!" cried Mr. Bumble as the knife dropped to the floor and stuck in his foot. He hobbled with an angry, frantic hobble, towards the medicine cupboard to get some plasters but opened the cupboard door with such force that all the medicines came tumbling to the floor with a splintering crash.
"Aaaaaaaaaaaaaagh!" said Mr. Bumble in a loud voice and rushed out of the house very unsettled indeed. Many were the ugly noises that Mr. Bumble made. He stomped and he chomped and he wurdled and gurgled and did everything indeed but bumble and whistle, and his ruddy appearance was no longer a signal of warm invitation.
Mr. Bumble, much concerned with the making of ugly noises and intent on doing something very drastic, unwittingly walked straight over Miss Petal's flower bed. Miss Petal, a grand old lady of some renown, whose house was her castle and whose flowers her sweet delight, cursed Mr. Bumble in no uncertain terms, consoled herself with the thought that it was good that she was nearing the end of her days if this was what the world was coming to, and hurried off to lodge a strong complaint with the local constable, P.C. Craddock.
Constable Craddock was not amused by Mr. Bumble's inconsiderate action but was even less amused by Miss Petal's incessant, rambling chatter. It had been a hard day for Constable Craddock, and he'd had nothing but trouble from the start. Constable Craddock's extraordinarily hard day is a story in itself, but for the moment we must concern ourselves with the situation at hand, which was one of extreme frustration, particularly for Constable Craddock. It wasn't as if it was his fault that Mr. Bumble ruined Miss Petal's blooming flower bed. He tried to do his best to keep everyone content and happy; God knows it wasn't easy, but he tried. And here he was now, being abused by a loittle old woman with a sharp, little old face and beady, little old eyes and being proded and jabbed intermittently by this sharp, bony, little finger, while all he wanted to do was go home and doze off in a comfortable armchair in front of a nice, warm fire.
This homey picture was forming in his mind when, a moment after finally getting rid of Miss Petal and just as he was preparing himself for the journey home, Mr. Ngobo, a recent arrival in Yumplescism Valley, made a brisk entrance, uttering complaints with every rhythmical pulse of breath.
Now Constable Craddock was not a nasty sort of man. On the whole he took things how they came and was generally well liked by the people of Yumplescism for his patient manner and understanding ear. But Constable Craddock was tired. He wanted to go home, and he was feeling a little turglegimbled inside, as one does at certain times; so he took little notice of Mr. Ngobo, instead muttering certain things which shouldn't be muttered.
Mr. Ngobo became a little upset at this unmutterable mutterance, especially since his mother had just been mugged. Needless to say, he was feeling a little turglegimbled himself. He pushed Constable Craddock, and Constable Craddock fell, hit his head against the wall, and consequently died of a brain hemorrhage.
Mr. Bumble, Mr. Green, Miss Petal, and many other citizens of Yumplescism read of the atrocious killing in the Yumplescism Times, and there was much bubbub all over the valley. People chattered and nattered, and mumbled and grumbled whenever they had a moment to spare.
"Have you heard, Mrs. B?"
"About the murders, Mr. G?"
Yes, Mrs. B!"
"Oh, it's terrible, Mr. G!"
"Whatever next, Mrs. B? That's what I say!"
"And right on our doorstep, Mr. G!" Who'd have thought it?"
"Blood all over the place they say, Mrs. B."
"It's all a part of a plot, so I've heard, Mr. G."
"To be expected I've always said, Mrs. B."
"Expected, Mr. G?"
"Oh yes, Mrs. B, expected! Yumplescism is for us, and Zumplescism is for them. Everything has its place, Mrs. B, and when you start crossing your Yumples with your Zumples-well, it's trouble that you get, Mrs. B! Take my word for it!"
And so it went on.
So much did the people of Yumplescism enjoy their chattering and their nattering, their mumbling and their grumbling, that many of them got together in large groups and hired large halls so they could mumble and grumble in a large way long into the hours of the night. Some thought so and so, and some did not. Some thought this, and some thought that. And there were those who thought either the one or the other or neither nor anything else was the answer, though they all said something had to be done, and it had to be done now.
So they marched through their villages, doing those things that had to be done and a few other things as well. And they threw things at other things and now and again at people, and the hubbub became bigger and bigger and nastier and nastier until Yumplescism was fighting against Yumplescism and Zumplescism, and Zumplescism was fighting against Zumplescism and Bumplescism, and the whole of Umplescism, from east to west and north to south, joined in a wurlygurggled frenzy or turmoil and slaughter.
Far from the land of Umplescism, people talked of the turmoil. They wept and they grieved at the terrible strife, for they understood what was happening. Yet though they all understood, they could not agree to understand in the same way.
It was within this atmosphere of deep concern for Yumplescism and, indeed, for the whole of humankind, that the people from far and distant lands argued and fought and maimed and killed each other in a most passionate way. It was this very passion that brought the people of those various lands and the leaders of those peoples together in a strange harmony of understanding. These words echoed throughout the world, stirring the hearts of many:
"My friends, these are grave times; grave indeed. And yet we must not, we cannot, we shall not despair. My friends, there is hope. There is hope for a better future, a future of peace among all people, for a world of contentment, of happiness, of love. It is for this we are fighting. It is for this we are prepared to die.
"My friends, my dear friends, this shall be the war to end all wars, this shall be the war to end all wars. This shall be our inspiration, our guide and our comfort."
Comforting it was to know that leaders all over the world stood boldly, firmly, and bravely before their people and uttered these words with sincerest conviction, and that the people before whom they stood replied unanimously with heart-rending tears and cheers. Comforting it was to know that in these final moments, when the war to end all wars drew towards its end, a universal harmony of hope and understanding was consummated.
And as that little planet exploded into lots of tiny pieces of all shaped and sizes, of all colors and shades of colors, the tremor was felt throughout the universe, like a shiver when someone walks over a grave. And away in the far reaches of a distant galaxy, on a little planet called Daysharvoo, one tiny piece of debris—a nail in fact—landed on a little country road over which a delivery van was passing. Much to the surprise of the driver, the van swerved suddenly as the twisted piece of metal ripped into the tire. He stopped the van, opened the door and got out to see what damage had been done.
The sun shone. The air was crisp and clear, and the man paused, ran his fingers through his hair, and nibbling a little at his lip in a thoughtful kind of way, muttered to himself, "Deary me! I dare say it won't be pleased that he'll be that his groceries won't arrive on time." ("Trouble in Yumplescism Valley," Nicholas Barwick)
[Jesus] also said, "The kingdom of God is as if someone would scatter seed on the ground, and would sleep and rise night and day, and the seed would sprout and grow, he does not know how. (Mark 34: 26-27)
Jesus' call is also a caution. What kind of world will sprout from the seeds that we scatter and plant? Amen.
May the peace of God, which passes all understanding, keep our hearts
and minds through faith in Christ Jesus our Lord unto everlasting
life. Amen.
