In saying that the kingdom comes like a mustard seed, or like yeast, Jesus is gently and somewhat indirectly inviting us to rest in the act that God works even through death. Not in spite of death, but with and through death.

As Jesus himself points out elsewhere, the only way a seed can fulfill it’s purpose is by dying. By being literally buried underground, then breaking apart and decomposing into the earth. A seed’s full seed-ness is reached in it’s death.

In the same way, yeast completely disappears when it is mixed—or, perhaps better, “buried”—into the flour. Not only that, but it gives its life during the baking process. It suffers under a heat which it cannot survive, yet which also solidifies the tiny pockets of air it has created in the risen dough. Yeast’s full yeast-ness is reached in its death.

In the parables of the Mustard Seed and the Yeast, one not-named but ever-present element is an invisible one: Breath. That is—speaking literally in terms of the parables—carbon dioxide.

The air that we breathe out is the air that plants “breathe in.” Once the seed has begun to take root, and the first tiny little shot of green peeks through the soil, the plant begins to take in carbon dioxide. That—mixed, of course, with water, sunlight, and other nutrients from the soil—is what keeps the plant alive. Makes it grow. Enables it to eventually bear fruit.

In the baking process, the way that yeast causes the dough to rise is by producing carbon dioxide. That’s what the tiny bubbles are filled with in the early stages of activating the yeast. What the yeast “breathes out,” simply because it is alive and active, gets trapped in the gluten that was formed during the kneading. And thus the loaf lifts.

If you don’t know what the target is. 

In leadership, it’s easy to become disappointed in those lead for failing to perform well. But it’s quite possible that the leader has created the right conditions for disappointment.

Did we clearly express expectations up front? Did our people know the rubric they would be graded on? Did we involve our team in that process so that they had input and ownership and understanding? 

Is not in itself a clear indication of calling. To bake that cake you need a lot more ingredients than just heat.

Innate gifts and learned skills. Perseverance and grit. Passion and patience. Love and compassion for others. Love and compassion for yourself. Humility and experience. Trial and error. Risk and planning. People who will give you their thumbs up and lay their hands on you in blessing.

A burning heart may indicate something that excites your imagination, but that doesn’t automatically translate into reality.

Yet a burning heart is crucial, make no mistake. Without that flame, there will forever be just raw cake batter. Keep that fire burning as consistently as you can for the long haul while you stay busy with the hands-on, real-world business of turning your dreams into goals.

Is never really the end of the story.

In part because the story has not yet been fully told. Other scenes have been left out for sake of time and will be recounted. Deep memories will surface. Forgotten side-characters will be brought back into view. New connections will be made between old details. New meaning will be found in old tales.

Also because life goes on. Creation has a way of propelling itself forward. New things will happen. New characters will step onto the stage. New challenges will be faced. New adventures will be embarked upon. New laughter and joy will be heard. New tales will build on the foundation of old tales.

Keep listening. Keep sharing. Keep writing. Keep living

Are the final words of Jesus in John’s gospel. Consider them in reverse:

Me. Everything centers around Jesus. And anything that does not clearly center around Jesus, whether in our individual lives or in the world around us, is an opportunity for a little recalibration.

Follow. Not admire, not respect, not quote. Not even more religious sounding words like worship, or pray to, or obey. Not even other intimate options like trust, or accept, or love. No, the final invitation—perhaps the ultimate invitation—is to follow. Wherever he goes, by whatever means he travels, however long it takes to get there, and whatever he does once he arrives.

Is a thief. Yes, of joy, as the saying goes, but even more…

Comparison is a thief of presence. It requires time and energy that could be otherwise spent living. It lulls you into a day-dream-like state. It pulls you out of reality. It prevents you from living in the only time and place you have been given to live—here and now.

Comparison is a thief of identity. The more you gaze upon the beauty of another, the less you can appreciate your own beauty. The more you pine after the accomplishments of another, the less you can be proud of your own accomplishments. The more you wish you were someone else, the less yourself you become.

Comparison is a thief of calling. It tempts you to replace your gifts, passions, and strengths with those of someone else. It tempts you to rewrite your story in someone else’s handwriting. It tempts you to give your gift to the world wrapped in someone else’s skin.

All of which, I suppose, amounts to a lot of joyless living.

When you’re young, it’s quite easy to believe that life is in your hands. That you determine your destiny. That you choose your life’s path. After all, every day you get up, dress yourself, and head out into the world on your own two feet, with all your ambitions and passions and goals and dreams. You know where you’re headed, and you know how to get there.

Which is good. Part of being young is using that gift of enthusiastic energy to make yourself.

But then, as you get older, you begin to understand that life is also something that comes to you. Not something that you control. Life is what is handed to you, not what you chose from all of the myriad of options on the cosmic shopping store shelf. All of life is a gift, which requires humble and grateful acceptance rather than success-driven strong-arming.

If you love someone, and really want to show that love, then care for whatever matters most to them.

Check in on their sick spouse. Hold their baby while they eat dinner. Watch their kids when school is out for the day. Give their elderly mother a ride to the store. Play with their dog. Pet their cat. Feed their hamster. Wash their vehicle after a road trip. Help carry their plants in from the cold. Hand-wash their heirloom china after a holiday meal.

There are two fish meals in John’s gospel.

The first fish meal was a buffet with thousands of people. Five small barley loaves and two small fish miraculously multiplied, with twelve basketfuls of leftover bread at the end that Jesus had them gather up: “Let nothing be wasted.”

The second fish meal was an intimate fireside brunch with a few disciples. After a long night with not a single catch, they suddenly had more than they could hardly haul in. And when they arrived on the shore, there was Jesus by the fire, ready to clean some and cook them breakfast.