A Tale of Somthing Small....Also From Peretti Blending House-Cuban Mixture

Scripture is Taken from Matthew 13:31,32; Luke 8:11

Music from this episode:

Intro:

"Hidden Past" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Outro:

"Galway" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good Friday morning, dear friends, and welcome once more to the Parson Piper Podcast. Here at Week's End we gather in the quiet, sometimes with pipe in hand, but always scripture before us. To walk the old paths again, we'll set our minds upon the stories of holy writ, trace the faithful footsteps of Christ's Church through the ages, and consider that call to return, simple, true, and steadfast. And as the ember glows, we'll speak a word or two of good leaf and honest blends, and at times the fine folk who keep the craft alive and shops near and far. So settle in now, take a breath, and let us begin. Again, good morning to you, kind traveler. Draw near a while and ease your burden, for the road is long, and the soul grows weary without a tail. This morning I bid you listen, not to a cream king's great conquest, nor a knight's shining valor, but to a thing so small, so easily overlooked, that many have passed it by without a second glance, and yet in that smallness it lies like a kingdom. Now it came to pass as in the days of when our Lord walked among men, that he spoke not always in thunder or decree, but in stories plain and humble, such as a farmer might tell or a mother might whisper. And among these was a tale most curious, a tale of seed. Hey, a mustard seed. Picture, if you will, a countryside much like the rolling hills beyond Canterbury, where the soil is turned by patient hands, and the air carries the scent of earth and toil. There lived in such a place a man, no lord, no noble, just a sower of seed. His cloth was worn, his hands were rough, and his back bore the memory of many seasons. Yet there was a quiet wisdom in him, as though the soil had spoken its secrets into his very bones. One spring morn, as the frost had loosened its grip, and the ground softened beneath the sun's gentle rise, the man went forth with a pouch at his side. Within it were seeds, many kinds to be sure, wheat for bread, barley for broth, but tucked in the corner nearly forgotten was the smallest of them all, a mustard seed. Excuse me while I light my pipe. Now if you have never seen such a thing, know this. It is scarcely worth the mention, no larger than a grain of dust upon your fingertip, so small that a careless breath might carry it away. And had you stood beside that man you might have laughed to see him pause, to take such a tiny thing so seriously. Why trouble yourself with that speck, a passerby might say. Spend your strength on what matters, on what yields a harvest worth the sweat. And truly such thinking is not uncommon even in our day. We favor the grand beginnings, we admire what starts strong and swift. We measure worth by size, speed, by spectacle, but this man he thought differently. He knelt low to the earth, not for the wheat, not for the barley, but for that smallest seed. With careful fingers he pressed it into the soil, he covered it gently and rose again without any fanfare at all. No trumpet sounded, no neighbor took note. The world carried on as it always does. Days passed, then weeks. The rains came and went, and the sun traced its faithful arc across the sky. And from that place where the man had knelt, something stirred. At first it was nothing to behold, a tender shoot, pale and fragile, hardly stronger than a thread. Had you walked by you might have crushed it underfoot, thinking it no more than a weed. But it endured, the winds came, and bent it low, the rains fell heavy and threatened to drown it. The heat bore down and sought to wither it, yet still my friend, still it grew. Mark this very well, dear listener, for here begins the mystery. That which is small is not thereby weak. The shoot became a stem. The stem grew stout. Leaves unfurled reaching wide toward the heavens, and in time, though nothing could say exactly when, that tiny seed gave rise to something remarkable. It gave mark to a great plant. No more than that, a towering presence in the garden, casting shade upon the ground below. Birds came, first one, then another. Drawn by the shelter it offered. They nestled in its branches, rested beneath its leaf, and found refuge from sun and storm alike, where once there had been nothing at all, now there was life, abundance, provision, and those who passed by began to wonder, From whence came this, they asked, for we saw no grand planting, no mighty labor, and the manned, if he heard them, would only smile and say little, for he knew he knew what had been sown. Now our Lord in telling this tale spoke thus that the kingdom of heaven is like that mustard seed. Consider it, not a kingdom of banners and armies, not one that arrives with the clash of steel or the shout of heralds, but one that begins small, smo small in fact that many fail to see it at all. A world, a word spoken in kindness, a prayer whispered in the quiet, a heart turned ever so slightly toward God. These are seeds. These are mustard seeds. And the world in its haste looks upon such things and says, What good can come of this? What difference does it make? It's too small to even matter. But the Lord would have would have us think otherwise. For within that seed lies life unseen, a power not measured by size, nor limited by humble beginnings. Given time, given faith, given the unseen working of God, it grows. It grows in the heart at first, quietly without spectacle. But then But then a conviction takes root, a longing awakens, a change begins, and then it spreads. It spreads into words, into actions, into the shaping of a life, and then beyond that life into others, a family touched, a friend encouraged, a stranger shown grace, until before long what began as a whisper becomes a refuge, like that tree in the field providing shelter, rest and hope. Now hear me plain, dear listener, for this is no idle fancy. You may look upon your own life and see only smallness, a faith not yet strong, a voice not yet bold, an influence that seems slight. You may think I have little to offer, my efforts are too small, my beginnings are too humble, but take care you do not despise the mustard seed. For the kingdom of heaven has never depended on the mighty one alone. For the kingdom of heaven has never depended on the mighty alone. It advances in quiet ways through ordinary souls, by small acts done in faith. The smallest prayer is heard, the simplest kindness is seen. The faintest spark of faith is enough for God to work with, and what he begins he faithfully he is faithful to grow. So tend your seed, traveller, guard it, nurture it, do not abandon it for the lack of immediate greatness, for in due season it shall rise, and who can say what refuge it may become what lives it may touch, what glory it may bring to the one who planted it in you. This ends the tale of the smallest seed, a story not of beginnings alone, but of what God can bring forth from them. Stay awhile if you wish, or carry this with you on your road, that no work done in faith is ever wasted, and no seed planted in God's name remain small forever. Now then, dear traveller, before you rise too quickly from this tale, please sit a moment longer. For no good deed, for no good road is walked without pause, and no good thought settles deep without a bit of stillness. And as any old soul of the lane might tell you, there is a certain kind of reflection that pairs well with a well packed pipe. Picture, if you will, a quiet study, library or smoking parlor, or perhaps a well worn porch at the beginning of a day. The light has softened, the world has hushed before its noise arises, and in your hand not some gaudy thing nor a hurried indulgence, but a pipe of good make and honest craft, such as those fashioned by Ashton Pipes. There is in such pipe a quiet dignity, not loud, not boastful, but steady, like the farmer in our tale, carved from briar, shaped by patient hands, each one burying its own grain, its own character. As though the wood itself remembered the earth it came from, and when held, it feels less like an object and more like a companion. Now a fine pipe deserves a fitting leaf, not something harsh and hasty, but something layered, thoughtful, a blend that rewards the one who lingers. And for such a moment, friends and fellow pilgrims, on this narrow road attend a moment, if your hearts be still enough, for I would speak not of great sins, nor weighty law, but of a small thing, which rightly held may yet instruct the soul. There is among men a certain mixture of leaf, prepared with care by those of patient hand. If one looks upon the brick and mortar of L. J. Peretti Company, a place where craft endures beyond the haste of fashion. Its beginning started around the year eighteen and seventy. This blend is almost as old as the blending house itself. This blend is called LJ Paretti Cuban Mixture, though let no man be troubled by the name, for it is not of that island soil, but rather of honest burley, bright virginia, and shadowed leaf that lends a quiet smoke, a blend of seven different tobaccos. Now hear me well. I commend not excess, nor idle indulgence, for many a man has stumbled there, yet neither do I condemn a modest use of things that turn the mind toward stillness. Consider, my friend, how this small practice works. A pipe is filled not hurriedly, but with care. A flame is set, not fiercely, but with patience. And then the waiting Ah the waiting teaches more than the fire, for the ember will not be rushed. Draw too hard, and it grows bitter, neglect it, and it fades to ash. So too the soul, if pressed by haste or starved by neglect, loses its proper warmth, but tended rightly, with measured breath and quiet mind, it shall yield a gentle comfort, a steadiness, not easily shaken. First there comes an earthiness, firm and grounding is a man remembering that he is but dust. Then a sweetness follows, soft as morning hay, like grace unearthed yet freely given, and at last a wisp of smoke deep and lingering, not harsh, but solemn, as a memory of things eternal. And what, you ask, is he lessen than this? It is this that God has set within the world many small tutors of the heart, if we'll only heed them. The hurried man learns nothing, the restless man forgets himself, but the one who sits and breathes and considers and contemplates, he may yet find his thoughts ordered, and his spirit recalled to its proper place. Not in the leaf itself lies virtue, but in the posture it invites, patience, moderation, and reflection. So take heed, good travellers, not that you must take up pipe and ember, but that you should not despise the small disciplines that quiet the soul, for in such moments, whether by prayer, by scripture, or by stillness a man may draw nearer to wisdom than in all his striving. And with that the sun is breaking over the horizon, casting the dawn upon the road before us. So we leave you listeners with counsel, seek not only the great and mighty things, but also the quiet ones, where truth often waits unnoticed. Until next time, walk gently and listen well. So dear friend, our time draws gently to its close. The fire burns low, the pipe grows quiet, and the words we've shared linger just a while longer in the air. May the truths of Scripture walk beside thee in the days ahead, and may your heart be ever drawn back to the ancient path, simple, faithful, and sure. We meet together here each week on Friday mornings. So I bid you return again where story, church, and quiet reflection await you once more. Until then, if so inclined, keep your pipe well tended, but most importantly, keep your mind set upon good things, and your soul steadfast. This is the Parson Piper Podcast. Grace and peace be with you until we meet again.