In this section of parable-telling by Jesus, a common practice of life is sketched out in a single sentence – a woman is preparing bread dough.  At the time this story was told and in the time in which it was written, bread was the basic necessity of life.  The Greek word translated as bread here could also represent all the food on the table or all the nourishment that people need to sustain life.  The sounds of kneading bread have deeper meaning, they assure those listening that life will go on – even and especially in situations where life is tenuous.  The people to whom Jesus is speaking here are impoverished – in fact, most of the illnesses spoken of in the Gospel of Matthew are connected to hunger.  And to these starving people, Jesus tells four parables about the fruits of the earth – two about grain and one about mustard (where we picked up today), and finally, the parable of the leaven.  In these two short parables I read today, Jesus reminds us of the mystery and miracle of creation.  A small seed that, when nurtured in the richness and the depth of the earth,  becomes a giant that shelters others in its care.  Followed by the woman baking bread.  In that one sentence story, much is known:  she takes the leaven and hides it in a large quantity of flour.  So, this bread is for many people.  This parable also draws our attention to a particular moment in the preparation of dough: the mixture of leaven, flour, and water must stand in a warm place, covered, while it rises. Then, it will be kneaded again and shaped into bread.  It is in the partnership between the faithful work of the woman and creative chemistry that the dough is leavened and it rises.  There is a point where the woman must rest her hands and wait.  In this parable, work and mystery are equal partners in creation, and women’s hands are important in shaping it. She is shaping a world where everyone is fed and has a place at the table. It is important to remember that when Jesus spoke of the Kingdom of heaven, it had nothing to do with the afterlife.  It was not “if you hunger now, it’s ok, because there is something wonderful waiting for you after death.” No, the Kingdom of heaven was instead, the time in which the earth was ordered by the rules of heaven and not by the rules of empire.  When the rules of abundance, compassion, generosity, and inclusive community overcame those of scarcity, fear, and oppression.  Jesus cared that people were safe and fed and spoke truth to systems that kept people in poverty.

There is no clear explanation of any of this in the text, of course.  Instead, it says: “Jesus told the crowds all these things in parables; without a parable, he told them nothing.”

It perhaps would be simpler if Jesus had just said “The kingdom of God happens when everyone has something to eat and a safe place to rest.” But, if he did, that would only be one half of the story.  It would state the work to be done, but it would not envoke the mystery in the creation of that world.  Words, just on their own accord, have depth of meaning, the layers that we immediately understand and connect to our life’s practices, like the task of baking bread was understood by the people to whom Jesus spoke… but then there’s the meaning beyond the words that can only be revealed when shared, when the bread is broken at the table and it’s very presence states that in that moment, scarcity and hierarchy have no power; equality and compassion are the language of plenty and that is what is served at the table of creation.  The mystery of abundance solved in creation – in mustard seeds and hidden leaven.  For us, we will reveal the meaning of this parable anew together in our living of it.

Every once and a while, someone will send me a poem or an article or a piece of music that they want to share with me.  I am always so moved by the sharing, and delighted to be thought of – it’s a beautiful gift to receive something that has brought meaning to another with the intention that it may stir something in me as well.

I received two poems this week from two different people, one that will certainly crop us in the Christmas season and another by Joy Harjo. This poem, Perhaps the World Ends Here, couldn’t have come at a more perfect moment.  As I read it, I heard the voice of the woman in the parable, hiding her leaven, waiting for the moment the bread will be ready and shared at the table of welcome and grace.  See if you hear her as well…

The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live.

The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on.

We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it.

It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women.

At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers.

Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table.

This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun.

Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory.

We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here.

At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks.

Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite.

Today, there comes the time when our busy hands must rest, as we gather around tables of abundance, of equality, of compassion, of generosity, and of inclusive community.  For us, the kin-dom of heaven awaits, as it was intended by Jesus, not in some life or after-life to come, but here and now, with the gathered community.  Today, in the breaking of bread under trees of shelter and care, the world can end, and we will taste heaven together.