I’ve been a priest for over ten years, and, believe it or not, occasionally I notice something. One of the things I’ve noticed that’s interesting, maybe a little alarming, is that many younger adults, say thirty-five and under, who no doubt identify themselves as "Christian," often don’t know the Lord’s Prayer. I notice that at funeral services. If there is no communion, or at the graveside, I introduce the Lord’s Prayer, but it’s not printed in the Prayer Book. The Prayer Book just assumes that everyone can recite it by rote. So we do — all of us who are over thirty five. Many of the younger adults are clearly faking it. It’s quite obvious. They fake it the way I fake singing a song when I don’t know the words. Heads down, mumbling, trying to pick up something familiar so they can get on board for at least a phrase or two.

Now, I’m somewhat alarmed by that, but I don’t blame them for that; they obviously weren’t raised in a church, at least not one where they said the Lord’s Prayer very often. But if you attend St. John’s regularly, you know the Lord’s Prayer. I’m sure you do because we say it at every worship service. You’re not the ones faking it. When I say, "And now, as our Savior Christ has taught us, we are bold to say," you go right into it: "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. . . ." We say it all the time. It’s easy for us; it’s like pushing a button and we play that tape. We know it; we do it by rote. "Our Father, . . . thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. . . ." We’ve got it all over those young adults nervously faking it. We do it automatically, by rote.

We do it automatically. By rote. Maybe that’s not so great. "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven." Automatically. By rote. "Thy kingdom come." By rote.

That doesn’t usually bother us; we don’t usually think about it. We just say those words, "Thy kingdom come," and move on with the worship service. By rote. After all, we don’t know much about kingdoms; we’re Americans. And we don’t see much evidence of the kingdom of heaven; it must be just a fairy tale "pie in the sky" that we are to hope for after we’re dead.

We Americans think of a "kingdom" as a place, a geographical area, like Britain or Monaco, or as something in a fairy tale. This is hard for lots of people, but listen: the kingdom of heaven is not a place or a fantasy.. Jesus thinks of the kingdom of heaven as the vision of what the world would be like if God’s will were done. For Jesus, the kingdom of heaven is not a noun; it’s a verb. It is God as a verb. For Jesus, this is the vision of what the world would be like if God’s will were to be done with respect to race, violence, humiliation, hunger, nationalism, homelessness, homophobia, idolatry, your heart, my heart — all the ways we keep God’s will from being done. The kingdom is Jesus’ vision of God’s will prevailing in the world.

And it is more powerful then we can imagine. Jesus knows very well, better than anyone before or since, that this vision, this kingdom of heaven, is mysterious, revolutionary, transforming, dangerous, challenging, consuming, explosive, demanding. He knows it can be hard for us to share the vision, but he also knows how very important it is for us to get glimpses, for us to imagine, to see. It is what we need to sustain us. It is our compass heading.

So to discuss the kingdom, he uses parables. They have the staying power for a lifetime of meaning. Parables are enigmatic stories, which use comparison (the Greek word means "to set side by side") to tease out meaning, to reveal a layer at a time to eyes that are ready to see, to offer many meanings simultaneously. Parables allow the hearer to enter the fog of mystery, of immensity, which keeps us from settling on a single meaning and instead refracts the light so that we are surrounded by a glow of meaning, meaning which can change color and shade as we are able to see it.

So I won’t give you "the" answer to Jesus’ parables of the kingdom; that would destroy them. I’ll give you a little background information and an observation or two, and let them work on you, reach you with the color and shade of meaning they have for your life at this time.

"The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed that someone planted in his field. The smallest of all seeds, it grows into a tree, so that they birds make nests in its branches."

In Jesus’ time, mustard seeds, which are tiny little things, were used as a metaphor for the smallest thing a person could see, maybe like we might use "the head of a pin." Here’s the obvious message: the kingdom of heaven can start with that tiniest of things and grow into a glorious tree that provides shelter and a home to the birds. The fact that that message is obvious doesn’t make it less significant. What tiny act might have been done in your life, or might you have done in someone else’s life (of which you might not even aware), that God has grown into the glorious tree of the kingdom?

But there are also less obvious currents of meaning here. Mustard plants aren’t trees. They are no more than eight feet tall, and birds don’t really nest in them. The metaphor, the comparison, could not hold the truth; it was too small, so Jesus exaggerates. The kingdom will not be contained.

And, less obvious still, these tiny mustard seeds are easily spread by the wind, and in Jesus’ time mustard plants were often considered weeds that would grow rapidly in a field and crowd out the crops. They had to be pulled up. But this farmer wants the "wrong" kind of plant, the weed.

Does God want the "wrong" kind of people for the kingdom? And what about the parts of yourself you consider "weeds," the parts you’re not proud of. Could it be that God could use your weeds. Could it be that what most often frustrates the kingdom is not the weeds, but our attempts to hide them?

And mustard plants aren’t in fairy tales. They aren’t about "pie in the sky." This one grows here, on earth, in our life, now. And it’s there because someone planted that tiny seed. What do you plant? Do you ever think the seed you have to offer is too small for God to grow?

He told them another parable: "The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour until it was leavened." Yeast is wild, frothy, bubbling, erratic stuff. Very unpredictable. I put exactly the same ingredients in my breadmaker every time, and I never know what’s going to happen. Yeast is full of surprise.

And yeast, or leaven, is used in the New Testament and the Hebrew Bible to signify ceremonial and moral impurity. Just too unpredictable. So in preparation for the Passover, Jews were instructed to get rid of every trace of leaven. Leavened bread was forbidden at the sacrifices. (Ex. 34:18). Jesus says to "beware the leaven of the Pharisees and the Sadducees." (Mt. 16:6). Paul contrasts "the leaven of malice and wickedness" with "the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth." (1 Cor. 5:8).

The kingdom of heaven is like leaven? Yeast? Could it be that our ceremonial purity, our moral purity, could be in for a surprise? Could it be that the kingdom might have a shape we can’t predict or control?

"The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed in with three measures of flour." The women listening to Jesus were certainly shocked to hear this. Each measure of flour is twelve quarts. Three measures, that’s thirty six quarts of high quality flour! That would make around a hundred loaves of leavened surprise. The kingdom of heaven is surprisingly abundant, and nourishing. And it is real. Bread is not for fairy tales or nourishment in the next life. Bread is for strength for today, this life. Our daily bread.

Those two parables are about the kingdom. The next two are about our response to the kingdom. "The kingdom of heaven is like treasure hidden in a field, which someone found and hid; then in his joy he goes and sells all that he has and buys that field." More surprise. Just plowing along, and, "Eureka!," the kingdom of heaven, buried there in the dirt. You might think God would want to keep the kingdom clean. But maybe God wants it to be found, instead. When we stumble upon the kingdom, how do we act? With joy, like this guy? Really? It changed his whole life. He sold everything to buy that field. Joy? Really? He sold everything. What are we unwilling to part with?

There’s another element to this parable that is something of a dark side. This guy didn’t own the field when he found the treasure. He re-buried the treasure and bought the field without telling the owner about it. There’s an element of sneakiness, of deception here. I wonder what we’re to do with that? I wonder how that might affect his ability to enjoy the treasure. You suppose he can spend that money in that little town without people figuring it out, or will the treasure be like marked bills from a bank robbery? Layer after layer of meaning, of questions.

"The kingdom is like a merchant of pearls who finds one pearl of great value, so he sells all he has and buys it." This one obviously asks us to reflect on what we value more than the kingdom. What will we not sell?

But it also raises an issue raised in the parable of the treasure in the field. In both of them, possession of the kingdom is problematic. Here, again the man sells everything to buy the pearl. Now think about that. His teenage son comes home from school. "Mom, what’s for dinner; I’m starving." "Nothing, honey." "Nothing? Why?" "Well, we have no money. Your father sold everything. So instead of eating tonight, or ever again, lets just go in the living room and look at that beautiful pearl."

In what ways do we try to possess this frothy, yeasty, unpredictable, beautiful, surprising kingdom? How do we try to shape it to our wills, make it in our image?

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as in heaven." By rote. Why? Many times, our imaginations just fail. We just can’t imagine the kingdom. Other times, we’re just afraid of the kingdom, afraid of what this mysterious, revolutionary, transforming, dangerous, challenging, consuming, explosive, demanding kingdom might do to our lives. Verna Dozier, a wonderful Episcopal lay woman (who was about four feet high and pitch black), said, "[D]espite the fact that we mouth almost daily, "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven," we have relegated the kingdom . . . . to some never, never land beyond the skies. We have mouthed the words. We have not prayed them. And we have reduced ministry to discreet acts that we perform in our spare time. . . ."

Let these parables work on you. Have the courage to allow them to challenge you, change you. They have been challenging and changing, and often convicting, me for years.

When I say, "And now, as our Savior Christ has taught us, we are bold to say," you’ll know how to respond: "Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." It is a mysterious, revolutionary, transforming, dangerous, challenging, consuming, explosive, demanding prayer. You can say it by rote. But don’t. Pray it in awe.