Mustard Seed Faith | Neil Weiner

Spying the attractive widow, several male parishioners had just divined that their wives required immediate coffee service.

“Uh, Pastor,” Brett said, blocking his path like a human speed bump. His tone was cautious, like a man preparing to negotiate an overdraft fee. “I’ve got a question about your sermon.”

The minister froze mid-step, forcing a smile as if his patience were stapled to his face. “Of course, Brett. Always happy to clarify.” His tone suggested he was anything but. “What’s on your mind?”

“Well,” Brett began, scratching his head like he was mapping out a physics equation. “You said if I have faith as small as a mustard seed, I could move mountains. Is that… literal? Like, could I move Mount Hood?”

The minister blinked. “Mount Hood?”

“Or a smaller one, like Mount Tabor,” Brett continued, warming to his subject. “I figure start small, work my way up. Baby steps.”

The minister chuckled nervously, tugging at his collar. “Brett, it’s, uh… a metaphor. A spiritual truth. Not a landscaping plan.”

“Oh, no, Jesus had a plan,” Brett said with conviction. “Which is great because I’ve got plans.”

“Plans?” the minister echoed weakly.

“Yeah. There’s this hill behind my house blocking my sunset view. Thought it’d look better in the Smiths’ yard. They’ve got the space.”

The minister pinched the bridge of his nose. “Brett, faith is about trusting God’s will, not... urban planning.”

“But God cares about landscaping,” Brett insisted. “Genesis starts in a garden, right? Priorities.”

The minister glanced at Mrs. Patterson, now accepting a donut from an overly attentive Mr. Jensen. With visible restraint, he turned back to Brett. “Just… pray about it, Brett. Jesus will oversee the rest.”

“Oh, good,” Brett said, pulling out his phone. “I’ll pencil in some prayer time tonight. Also, do I need zoning permits for this, or does God waive those?”

The minister opened his mouth but thought better of it, muttering under his breath, “Lord, move me to another congregation.”

Brett stopped by the local nursery on his way home, marching up to the counter. He was a man on a mission.

“I need one mustard seed,” he declared, his wallet in hand.

The sales associate, a grizzled veteran of the plant trade, stared at him like he’d asked for a single raindrop. “One… seed?”

“Exactly,” Brett confirmed. “Why sell packets when people only need one? Think of the inventory you’d save. Your profits would soar.”

She squinted. “In forty years of running this nursery, not one person has ever asked for one seed.”

“If it doesn’t sprout, can I return the packet for a refund?”

Brett’s legs began an anxious jig.

The sales associate folded her arms. “Sir, are you… hopping?”

Brett grimaced, now bouncing slightly. “I need to pee, ring this up. Planting the seed first is critical. Priorities.”

With a sigh, she slapped a packet into his hand. “Here. It’s on the house.”

Brett recoiled. “On the house? No, no, I need it for the ground! What kind of operation are you running here?”

As he darted out the door, she muttered, “I need to see my therapist.”

Brett parked in his driveway, spotting movement in the corner of his eye. Across the street, Ellie peered through a gap in her floral curtains, her glasses slightly askew.

“She’s spying on me?”

Before he could get inside, Ellie emerged from her house, a tangle of nervous energy wrapped in a cardigan.

“Brett! Hi!” she called, her voice hopeful.

He paused, keys in hand. “Ellie.”

She hesitated, then blurted, “How about dinner one of these nights?”

Brett frowned thoughtfully. “Dinner. Hmm. I’ve been busy trying to move mountains, but I could squeeze it in. What’s on the menu?”

Ellie blinked, unsure if he was joking. “Uh… steak and salad?”

“What else do I get?”

“What else?”

“Yeah, like dessert, live music, or foot massage.”

Ellie snorted despite herself. “Just food, Brett. Sunday at six o’clock.”

He nodded solemnly. “If I get my mustard seed planted in time, I’ll be there.”

Before she could decide whether to be flattered or offended, Brett waved over his shoulder and disappeared inside. Ellie stood on her porch, confused and exasperated.

Brett had spent the entire week researching every conceivable aspect of planting: soil temperature, soil amendments, pests, weeding, and watering. By Friday, his internet history looked like a farmer's almanac threw up. But by Sunday, he had more questions than answers. That morning’s sermon, The Parable of the Sower, only added fuel to the fire.

The minister’s voice rang out across the congregation: “Some seeds fall along the path, where the ground is hard. Birds quickly eat these seeds, and they never have a chance to grow…”

Brett’s ears perked up. That part, he thought, applied exactly to the bare dirt path in his backyard.

After the service, Brett intercepted the minister, cutting off the minister’s path to the widow. She was dutifully stacking chairs at the back of the room.

“Pastor, quick question!” Brett began, stepping directly into the minister’s path with the precision of a linebacker.

The minister froze mid-step, the chair-stack goal line just out of reach. He sighed and turned to Brett. “Yes, Brett. What is it now?”

“You said seeds on a path won’t grow because birds eat them. But if I have faith, then planting seeds in a path should still work, right?”

The minister’s shoulders slumped as he attempted to maneuver around Brett, but Brett sidestepped perfectly to block him. Their feet tangled, and the next thing anyone knew, they were sprawled on the floor, robes and khakis in a heap.

Flat on his back, the minister closed his eyes, took a slow breath, and prayed silently for patience, or better yet for lightning to strike him down on the spot.

“I need to know,” Brett said, now kneeling over the minister, “if my seed will sprout on the path in my backyard!”

The minister, eyes snapping open, hissed through gritted teeth, “Plant your damn seed there, Brett, and it’ll grow like Jack and the Beanstalk!”

Brett gasped, his face lighting up with awe. “I know you speak for God. Thank you! I’m ready to plant!”

The minister stared up at him, the resolve to get up completely gone. Somewhere in the background, Mrs. Patterson asked if anyone wanted tea, her voice a soothing hum over the chaos.

Brett stood, brushed off his pants, and gave the minister an encouraging pat on the shoulder. “You’re a good man, Pastor. Keep up the holy work.”

As Brett strode out the minister lay there, staring at the ceiling. “Lord,” he muttered, “next time have mercy and strike Brett dumber that he already is.”

…

At home, Brett planted his seed in the path. He watered it, fertilized it, and prayed over it. The seed did not grow, and the hill still blocked his view. On the verge of tears, one moonlit night, a man appeared in his backyard. The man had dirt under his nails and wore overalls, looking like he had just strolled out of a farm-to-table Pinterest board.

Brett approached cautiously. “Who are you, and why is there a raised garden bed in my yard? With a wooden frame, no less?”

The man straightened up, brushing his hands off on his overalls. “I planted that seed in this raised bed. It should grow now.”

Brett folded his arms. “Who gave you permission? And what are you, some kind of rogue carpenter?”

The man smiled serenely. “I am.”

“Oh, great,” Brett said, rolling his eyes. “And why are you wearing that Jewish star? Our minister says there’s a lot of antisemitism going around. It’s risky.”

The man tilted his head with a gentle expression. “I am Jesus, and this star means I am Jewish.”

Brett blinked at him. “Jesus, huh? I don’t care if you’re Buddha or Bigfoot if that seed grows. I need to move that hill!”

Jesus chuckled softly. “Do you know what a parable is?”

“Of course I do,” Brett said confidently. “I passed geometry in ninth grade. Barely! But you’re saying it wrong, it’s parabola. Maybe brush up on math before you start teaching miracles.”

With Jesus camping out in the backyard, the seed grew remarkably fast. Ellie peered from a crack in her curtain noticing the mysterious man coming and going from Brett's house. She decided this could mean only one thing: Brett must be gay. She texted him to cancel Sunday’s dinner after church, citing a vague family emergency.

Brett, however, still used an iPhone1, a relic of the past that functioned more as a digital paperweight than a communication device. The texts and emails went unnoticed. As far as Brett was concerned, dinner was still on.

“Can’t pass up a free steak dinner,” he mumbled to himself, the thought briefly soothing his eternal grudge against Ellie's complaining that she always overcooked meat.

Meanwhile, the mustard seed had sprouted at an alarming rate. Within days, it transformed into an exquisite bush adorned with golden-yellow, four-petaled flowers emitting a spicy, pungent aroma. The bush could clear sinuses and attract bees from a three-mile radius. Brett surveyed the plant with pride.

“It’s showtime,” he announced to the yard.

He found Jesus lounging in a lawn chair, munching on the last of Brett's Doritos. "Hey, Jesus, or whatever it is you like to call yourself. Check this out. My first baby step challenges moving things. I’m gonna move my keys off the kitchen table. Watch and be amazed.”

Jesus raised an eyebrow but said nothing, gesturing vaguely with a Dorito as if to say, Go on, impress me.

Brett closed his eyes, recited the Bible verse he vaguely remembered about mustard seeds, “Faith in the mustard plant. Faith in the mustard plant.”

He opened his eyes. The keys sat precisely where they were before, unmoved.

“Okay,” Brett said, regrouping. “Keys are too ambitious. Let’s start smaller. I’ll move the toothpick on the counter. Those are weightless, right?”

Jesus crunched loudly on a chip, offering zero encouragement.

This time, Brett closed his eyes and recited the only prayer he could recall from his childhood: “Thank you, Lord Jesus, for today. Amen.”

When he opened his eyes, the toothpick hadn’t moved far, but it had spun 90 degrees.

Brett stared at it, scratching his head. “Well, that’s... something. Though I’m not sure what good a hill is if it just twirls in place.”

Jesus smirked and finally spoke. “Baby steps, Brett. Even miracles have a learning curve.

Jesus sighed and offered a silent plea to God. Why this assignment, Lord? Why this guy? Brett was innocent in a way—childlike, even—but wasn’t God pushing the envelope? How was this mustard-seed moment supposed to inspire faith when the closest Brett had come to spirituality was binge-watching ghost-hunting shows?

Jesus shook his head, deciding not to dwell on divine mysteries. He turned his attention back to Brett, who was now squinting suspiciously at the still-spinning toothpick.

“Now,” Jesus said, brushing Dorito dust off his hands, “about replacing these chips... We didn’t have anything like this in my time. Just healthy food to nosh on. Dates, figs, bread, a fish or two and some wine if I prayed.”

Brett shot him a skeptical glance. “No chips? No nacho cheese?”

Jesus shrugged. “Nope. The closest thing we had was, uh... unleavened bread dipped in olive oil. Not exactly a party snack.”

Brett grimaced. “That sounds depressing.”

“Tell me about it,” Jesus said, grabbing another Dorito. “The Last Supper was BYOB. Do you have any idea how hard it is to get twelve guys to share one loaf and a goblet of wine?”

Brett considered this, then nodded solemnly. “Guess that explains the ‘betrayal’ part. If you’d had steak and a bag of Cool Ranch, Judas would’ve stuck around.”

Jesus smirked. “You’re not wrong. Now, about those replacement chips...”

…

That Sunday, Brett took Jesus to church. Jesus wore his usual attire: a t-shirt and a pair of coveralls. It wasn’t a fashion statement. It was all he had in his wardrobe.

The sermon of the day featured a quote from Matthew: "But I say to you, everyone who looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed adultery with her in his heart."

After the service, the minister pulled Brett aside, eyeing Jesus disapprovingly.

“Couldn’t your friend have at least worn a sport coat to church?”

Brett grinned. “He’s not much of a sports guy. More of a hands-on type. You know, blue-collar.”

The minister blinked, not sure if he was being mocked. Deciding against confrontation, he excused himself, muttering something about a bathroom emergency.

Feeling victorious, he figured the restroom was a foolproof escape. But no sooner had he settled at the urinal than Jesus appeared beside him.

The minister tried to focus, adhering to the eyes-front rule of men’s restroom etiquette. But curiosity got the better of him. Against all judgment, he stole a glance.

That’s when he saw it.

Jesus’ member. Larger than life. Radiating a faint, holy glow.

The minister froze mid-stream, his bladder betraying him.

Breaking the second rule of bathroom decorum, he muttered under his breath, “Oh my God.”

Jesus calmly shook the last drops and turned to wash his hands. Without looking up, he remarked casually, “Using the Lord’s name at the urinal? That’s a bold move.”

The minister stared in wide-eyed disbelief, mouth agape, as Jesus dried his hands on a paper towel.

“And while we’re on the subject,” Jesus continued, “lusting after the widow in the front pew? Not your finest hour.”

The minister's jaw dropped, his earlier confidence evaporating. He tried to respond, but words wouldn’t come, much like his stalled stream.

Jesus patted the minister on the shoulder as he left, adding with a wink, “Blessed are the pure of heart, and those who remember to wash their hands.”

The minister remained rooted to the spot. He stared at the wall, unable to pee.

…

That night, Brett and his buddy, Jesus, showed up at Ellie’s door for the promised steak dinner. Ellie opened the door and froze. On her porch was Brett with his expected grin and the stranger beside him, dressed in well-worn coveralls.

Brett sniffed theatrically. “Don’t smell any steak barbecuing. No salad on the table. Where’s dinner? Oh, this is my friend, Jesus.”

Ellie blinked. “Didn’t you get my text? I canceled tonight.”

With his signature Brett logic, he shrugged. “The only texts I read are from the Bible and Field & Stream magazine. We’ll just wait in the living room while you rustle up that promised meal.”

Tempted to boot them out, Ellie sighed resignedly, “Give me a few minutes. I think I’ve got some steaks in the freezer and a salad kit in the fridge.”

As she turned to head toward the kitchen, she hesitated, glancing at the brown-skinned stranger. “Are you Mexican American? Is your name pronounced Hey-zuss?”

Jesus smiled serenely. “I go by many names to the faithful, so hey-zuss works. But about dinner. The only thing I’ve eaten in wo thousand years is Doritos at Brett’s house.”

Ellie squinted at him, concluding Brett’s quirky new partner had the same offbeat sense of humor as her neighbor. Without a word, she retreated to the kitchen to salvage the evening.

Brett and Jesus settled onto Ellie’s well-worn couch.

Jesus turned to Brett, his tone conversational but purposeful. “That woman’s had her eyes on you for a couple of years.”

“Tell me about it,” Brett replied, rolling his eyes. She spies on me constantly. She’s always peeking out the curtain when I come home.”

Jesus sighed. Getting through to Brett was proving harder than wrangling Pharisees. Inspired by an impulse, he summoned Cupid, who materialized in the corner with a tiny bow and arrows.

“Can you hit both of them this time?” Jesus asked under his breath.

Cupid scowled. “I’m not that bad. Watch this.”

A quick twang of the bow later, Ellie burst into the living room, her eyes glowing with newfound adoration.

“Brett,” she declared, her voice trembling with passion, “I could cook steak and potatoes for you unto eternity.”

Now it was Brett’s turn to blink. “Now you’re talking, Ellie. They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

Ellie stepped closer; her eyes fixed on him. “And after every meal, I’ll massage your stomach to help with digestion.”

Jesus chuckled, shaking his head. Cupid looked pleased with himself. But Jesus quickly realized no mere arrow could transform Brett into a romantic.

Sighing, he leaned over and whispered to Cupid, “Realign her before this gets weird.”

With another quick shot of Cupid’s arrow, Ellie’s expression softened to something more grounded.

“I better get those steaks started. I promised Brett.”

Brett grinned, leaning back on the couch. “Told you she’s got a thing for me.”

Jesus closed his eyes briefly. “Brett,” he muttered, “you’re lucky I’m long on patience.”

…

The next day, Brett was in his yard, waving his arms and grunting like a game show contestant, trying to move the hill to the Smiths’ yard. It wasn’t going well.

Nearby, Jesus swayed in a hammock under a tree, eyes closed. He was praying hard. Eventually, God relented and gave him an out.

Jesus sat up. “Brett, buddy, I gotta head back to heaven. But don’t worry, I’m sending my associate. He’s got plenty of experience dealing with stubborn, difficult people.”

Brett wiped sweat from his forehead. “You get frequent flier miles on that heaven route? Also, avoid those airplane bathrooms. TV said they’re crawling with germs.”

Jesus froze mid-sigh, then shook his head in disbelief. Before Brett could continue, Jesus vanished in a shimmering light, leaving Moses standing in his place.

Not missing a beat, Brett continued. “Hey, Jesus, did you take one of those reverse Einstein flights where you age, and we stay the same?”

Moses adjusted his robe, looking unimpressed. “I’m not Jesus. After years alone on Mount Sinai and herding a crowd of whining Israelites through the desert, God decided to really test my patience and sent me here.”

Brett grinned. “Man, you’ve been busy. Did you swing by Egypt to visit your old homies after heaven? You’re like the ultimate frequent traveler.”

Moses sighed, tilting his face toward the sky. “Jesus Christ, why have you forsaken me?”

Brett squinted. “After your little tantrum, think you could help me move that hill?”

Moses pointed his staff to the horizon. “Listen, moving mountains was Jesus’ thing. Mine is burning bushes.”

Brett considered this. “Well, if you set something on fire, I won’t have to worry about the view. Go for it.”

Moses raised his staff, and with a dramatic gesture, the mustard bush in the yard erupted into flames.

“Now, Brett,” Moses declared, adopting his most thunderous prophet voice, “this bush will blaze like Old Faithful, erupting every six hours. It’s a testament to God’s power. With the world in such peril—violence, greed, politicians—let this place become a haven for His flock.”

Brett nodded thoughtfully. “Gotcha, Moses. I’ll set up a bird sanctuary for the flock next to it so they can keep warm in the winter. Do you think I can charge admission? Maybe throw in some hot cider and make it a full experience.”

Moses started to argue about the meaning of flock as people but thought better of it. “I don’t have the patience of Jesus…” he began, then shrugged mid-sentence. “You know what? Do what you want. I’m just here for the burning bush gig.”

While Brett admired the perpetual blaze and muttered about marketing ideas, Moses glanced skyward and began ascending in a golden beam of light.

“Hey, Moses!” Brett called after him. “Tell God thanks for the shrub fireworks!”

Moses didn’t look back, muttering, “I led people out of Egypt for this?” as he disappeared into the clouds.

Brett intercepted the minister as he made a determined beeline toward the coffee and donuts. More accurately he was inching toward the newly widowed Mrs. Patterson. She was standing near the refreshment table, dabbing at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief.

Dr. Weiner has over 40 years’ experience as a professional psychologist who specializes in trauma recovery and anxiety disorders.
He enjoys using stories to help readers harness their resilience within to aid them on their healing journey.
He has published a variety of professional articles and fiction in magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and the CurioShop.
Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining. He has a monthly advice column in a Portland Newspaper, AskDr.Neil.