One of the briefest parables of Jesus' is found at Matthew 13:33. It consists of but one sentence: "The kingdom of heaven is like yeast that a woman took and mixed into a large amount of flour until it worked all through the dough."
Yeast transforms flower into leavened bread. But if you've ever made bread from scratch, you know that yeast must be worked into the dough. There is something satisfying about the tactile process of kneading a loaf of bread. The process takes a little time. A well-worked loaf is almost a silent hymn.
But what can this parable mean? Looking to it to determine just what the kingdom of heaven is yields no easy meaning.
Certainly yeast lifts the dough, creating tiny air-pockets that render the baked loaf something of a miracle. Fresh from the oven, a loaf of bread floats. The crust is hardened by direct application of heat, but the heart of the loaf is soft, even moist. The yeast creates pockets of air amid the densest mass of dough.
Perhaps the parable means no more than that there are no self-actualizing miracles. To leaven the harsh realities of life with something sustaining, even buoyant, is a work of patience and diligence. The baker is no magician; his forearms are cords of taut muscle well-trained in the art of patient kneading.
Perhaps the parable means simply that whatever work there is to be done to transform the raw staff of life into an abundance of life requires something far more that awaiting a miracle. The kingdom of heaven requires work, steady application, and the Earth-bound commitment to reworking the daily grist of reality in the mill of diligence.
If the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand, we must apply our hands to bringing it about.
Showing posts with label The Parable Project. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Parable Project. Show all posts
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Sunday, September 6, 2009
The Parable Of The Great Supper
I've been distracted lately. The summer has come and gone, and I've done my share of playing. Now comes a hard fall of trials. And I'm brawling sensely with folks far and wide over things that hardly matter. Time to resume looking at Jesus' parables, I say. Mustn't there be a center that holds somewhere? Is all merely strife?
The parable of the Great Supper has appeal. It is my second favorite parable, ranking second only to the story of the prodigal son. The theme of the welcomed outcast resonates.
But I had never really noticed the king's vengeance before. Those invited scorn the king's messenger and are themselves killed. All this before word is sent to outcasts to join the feast.
As always, lines are blurred and expectations reversed. And a challenged posed: There is risk involved in scorning the messenger. But how to know when the invitation is summoned? The parable doesn't say.
As written in Matthew 22: 1-10:
"Jesus spoke to them again in parables, saying: "The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his servants to those who had been invited to the banquet to tell them to come, but they refused to come.
"Then he sent some more servants and said, 'Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.'
"But they paid no attention and went off—one to his field, another to his business. The rest seized his servants, mistreated them and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his army and destroyed those murderers and burned their city.
"Then he said to his servants, 'The wedding banquet is ready, but those I invited did not deserve to come. Go to the street corners and invite to the banquet anyone you find.' So the servants went out into the streets and gathered all the people they could find, both good and bad, and the wedding hall was filled with guests."
The parable of the Great Supper has appeal. It is my second favorite parable, ranking second only to the story of the prodigal son. The theme of the welcomed outcast resonates.
But I had never really noticed the king's vengeance before. Those invited scorn the king's messenger and are themselves killed. All this before word is sent to outcasts to join the feast.
As always, lines are blurred and expectations reversed. And a challenged posed: There is risk involved in scorning the messenger. But how to know when the invitation is summoned? The parable doesn't say.
As written in Matthew 22: 1-10:
"Jesus spoke to them again in parables, saying: "The kingdom of heaven is like a king who prepared a wedding banquet for his son. He sent his servants to those who had been invited to the banquet to tell them to come, but they refused to come.
"Then he sent some more servants and said, 'Tell those who have been invited that I have prepared my dinner: My oxen and fattened cattle have been butchered, and everything is ready. Come to the wedding banquet.'
"But they paid no attention and went off—one to his field, another to his business. The rest seized his servants, mistreated them and killed them. The king was enraged. He sent his army and destroyed those murderers and burned their city.
"Then he said to his servants, 'The wedding banquet is ready, but those I invited did not deserve to come. Go to the street corners and invite to the banquet anyone you find.' So the servants went out into the streets and gathered all the people they could find, both good and bad, and the wedding hall was filled with guests."
Saturday, April 11, 2009
The Great Fish
I confess that I am a lost soul. So lost, indeed, that I wonder whether it makes sense even to hope of being found, or finding anything really at all. So often when I hear those with faith discuss salvation I wonder, salvation from what? We take on faith our births and gradually come to a sense of self; we flicker, flame, dampen and die. I've no confidence in a life to come. I see no need to wager as did Pascal; there is nothing about human experience that leads me to consider that death is anything other than annihilation. "Come sweet death," Bach wrote.
But still I am puzzled and drawn the accounts of the historical Jesus. The parables attributed to him resonate with me and fascinate me in a way that feels much like a beckoning. The kingdom of heaven is an image I grapple with almost daily. Is it at hand? What can that mean?
The parable of the Great Fish leaves me stone coldand sheds no light. It is reported in the Gospel of Matthew, 13: 47-50, and reads as follows:
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth."
Weeping and gnashing of teeth? We all know sorrow and grief. I know loss and the weight of what cannot be changed. But angels? Fire? I recall as a child worrying about the afterlife. Neither option appealed: Heaven and endless Hosannas struck terror. Imagine the boredom after several million years of the same old, same old. And Hell? Somehow that seemed less terrifying than heaven. Wouldn't pain eventually cauterize? Isn't the sense of eternity really just an illusion?
Time did not come to an end after the crucifixion of Jesus. The generation that saw his death has passed, and the generation after that, and after that ... on and on into two millenia of time's passing. There is no kingdom to come, and, if there is, worrying it seems pointless. I was unprepared for the life I lead when decades ago I tumbled from a womb.
This parable falls on deaf ears and eyes that cannot see.
But still I am puzzled and drawn the accounts of the historical Jesus. The parables attributed to him resonate with me and fascinate me in a way that feels much like a beckoning. The kingdom of heaven is an image I grapple with almost daily. Is it at hand? What can that mean?
The parable of the Great Fish leaves me stone coldand sheds no light. It is reported in the Gospel of Matthew, 13: 47-50, and reads as follows:
“Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a net that was thrown into the sea and caught fish of every kind; when it was full, they drew it ashore, sat down, and put the good into baskets but threw out the bad. So it will be at the end of the age. The angels will come out and separate the evil from the righteous and throw them into the furnace of fire, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth."
Weeping and gnashing of teeth? We all know sorrow and grief. I know loss and the weight of what cannot be changed. But angels? Fire? I recall as a child worrying about the afterlife. Neither option appealed: Heaven and endless Hosannas struck terror. Imagine the boredom after several million years of the same old, same old. And Hell? Somehow that seemed less terrifying than heaven. Wouldn't pain eventually cauterize? Isn't the sense of eternity really just an illusion?
Time did not come to an end after the crucifixion of Jesus. The generation that saw his death has passed, and the generation after that, and after that ... on and on into two millenia of time's passing. There is no kingdom to come, and, if there is, worrying it seems pointless. I was unprepared for the life I lead when decades ago I tumbled from a womb.
This parable falls on deaf ears and eyes that cannot see.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Mustard Seed
Spring flirted with New England yesterday, showing just enough sunshine and warmth to make me believe that winter may end. So, of course, my wife and I spent the afternoon in the garden. A week ago, we planted peas. Yesterday, we were preparing beds for other, less hardy plants. I was delighted that the fall's hard work yielded beds needing little work.
This morning, we sowed seeds for a variety of plants we start under lights in the house. We'll transplant those near Memorial Day, when the danger of all frost has passed. Beets, lettuce, squash in many forms, these and a variety of herbs have all been tucked into potting soil, several hundred plants in all. Tonight we will plant flowers. This summer we plan a new bed toward the front of the house.
Some of the herb seeds were so tiny I could scarely see them. "Just like a mustard seed," I thought. The reference is to the parable of the Mustard Seed. Here it is, as rendered in Mark's Gospel, chapter 4, verses 30-32.
"The kingdom of heaven is like unto a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field: which indeed is less than all seeds; but when it is grown, it is greater than the herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the heaven come and lodge in the branches thereof."
In point of fact, mustard is a bush, not a tree, but, like a fig, it can grown wild and harbor birds on intertwining branches. We have several figs which each winter fight off the deer. They stand like rooted tumble weed, defying wind, rain and snow.
This parable seems transparent to me, at least in part. When Mark wrote, in the generation following that which witnesses Jesus' brief career, the end of time was still expected, this all the more because the Romans had just destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem after a three year siege. But I don't expect the world to end any time soon. I am with Kant on the question of time: I am not at all sure whether we are in time or whether time is in us.
While the world may not end, speaking of the Kingdom of God may still make powerful metaphorical sense. Is there not present in the world something that draws us from ourselves? Call it living water, if you will. Whatever the metaphor, it seems obvious that freedom consists of more than the absense of restraint.
I struggle with the figure of the historical Jesus. For decades, I scorned the very topic, scoffing at the need for meaning, and, paradoxically, finding a sort of meaning in acts of mere defiance. But that mustard seed, so small, bordering on the unseen, it can yield powerful and sustaining growth. This parable reminds us that the world is indeed a place of magic. From such small, seemingly insignificant things as a mustard seed comes the power to transform the world. Perhaps it is enough merely to stand back and let blossom what will.
This morning, we sowed seeds for a variety of plants we start under lights in the house. We'll transplant those near Memorial Day, when the danger of all frost has passed. Beets, lettuce, squash in many forms, these and a variety of herbs have all been tucked into potting soil, several hundred plants in all. Tonight we will plant flowers. This summer we plan a new bed toward the front of the house.
Some of the herb seeds were so tiny I could scarely see them. "Just like a mustard seed," I thought. The reference is to the parable of the Mustard Seed. Here it is, as rendered in Mark's Gospel, chapter 4, verses 30-32.
"The kingdom of heaven is like unto a grain of mustard seed, which a man took, and sowed in his field: which indeed is less than all seeds; but when it is grown, it is greater than the herbs, and becometh a tree, so that the birds of the heaven come and lodge in the branches thereof."
In point of fact, mustard is a bush, not a tree, but, like a fig, it can grown wild and harbor birds on intertwining branches. We have several figs which each winter fight off the deer. They stand like rooted tumble weed, defying wind, rain and snow.
This parable seems transparent to me, at least in part. When Mark wrote, in the generation following that which witnesses Jesus' brief career, the end of time was still expected, this all the more because the Romans had just destroyed the Temple in Jerusalem after a three year siege. But I don't expect the world to end any time soon. I am with Kant on the question of time: I am not at all sure whether we are in time or whether time is in us.
While the world may not end, speaking of the Kingdom of God may still make powerful metaphorical sense. Is there not present in the world something that draws us from ourselves? Call it living water, if you will. Whatever the metaphor, it seems obvious that freedom consists of more than the absense of restraint.
I struggle with the figure of the historical Jesus. For decades, I scorned the very topic, scoffing at the need for meaning, and, paradoxically, finding a sort of meaning in acts of mere defiance. But that mustard seed, so small, bordering on the unseen, it can yield powerful and sustaining growth. This parable reminds us that the world is indeed a place of magic. From such small, seemingly insignificant things as a mustard seed comes the power to transform the world. Perhaps it is enough merely to stand back and let blossom what will.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
The Good Samaritan
The story of the Good Samaritan is perhaps the best know of all parables attributed to Jesus. It is found in Luke 10:30-37.
"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead.
"A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?" The expert in the law replied, "The one who had mercy on him." Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."
Where to begin?
Several historical notes. The road to Jericho was a lonely one. There was a great chance of robbery or worse for travelers on this road. Call Jericho the first literary mean street?
And what of the scribe and Pharisee? Scribes are we learned types, those, such as lawyers, who live by applying our wits to other people's problems, compassionate advocates for a fee. Pharisees were those who placed great stock in ritual purity, folks confusing looking good with being good.
And the Samaritan? He's from the wrong side of the track. But inspite of opportunites and appearances, the Samaritan is best able to respond to raw human need. He comes to the rescue of the victim, assures for his recovery and then pledges himself to meeting the basic needs of a stranger.
I love this parable, even though I heed its message all to infrequently. We're all outsides to others. Yet we have the ability to make the other one of us. The lines that divide are arbitrary. Compassion and courage can blur them.
"A man was going down from Jerusalem to Jericho, when he fell into the hands of robbers. They stripped him of his clothes, beat him and went away, leaving him half dead.
"A priest happened to be going down the same road, and when he saw the man, he passed by on the other side. So too, a Levite, when he came to the place and saw him, passed by on the other side. But a Samaritan, as he traveled, came where the man was; and when he saw him, he took pity on him. He went to him and bandaged his wounds, pouring on oil and wine. Then he put the man on his own donkey, took him to an inn and took care of him. The next day he took out two silver coins and gave them to the innkeeper. 'Look after him,' he said, 'and when I return, I will reimburse you for any extra expense you may have.'
"Which of these three do you think was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?" The expert in the law replied, "The one who had mercy on him." Jesus told him, "Go and do likewise."
Where to begin?
Several historical notes. The road to Jericho was a lonely one. There was a great chance of robbery or worse for travelers on this road. Call Jericho the first literary mean street?
And what of the scribe and Pharisee? Scribes are we learned types, those, such as lawyers, who live by applying our wits to other people's problems, compassionate advocates for a fee. Pharisees were those who placed great stock in ritual purity, folks confusing looking good with being good.
And the Samaritan? He's from the wrong side of the track. But inspite of opportunites and appearances, the Samaritan is best able to respond to raw human need. He comes to the rescue of the victim, assures for his recovery and then pledges himself to meeting the basic needs of a stranger.
I love this parable, even though I heed its message all to infrequently. We're all outsides to others. Yet we have the ability to make the other one of us. The lines that divide are arbitrary. Compassion and courage can blur them.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
The Parable Project: The Friend At Midnight
The parable of the friend at midnight is reported in the Gospel of Luke at 11:5-8. It reads as follows:
"Then he [Jesus] said to them, "Suppose one of you has a friend, and he goes to him at midnight and says, 'Friend, lend me three loaves of bread, because a friend of mine on a journey has come to me, and I have nothing to set before him.'
"Then the one inside answers, 'Don't bother me. The door is already locked, and my children are with me in bed. I can't get up and give you anything.' I tell you, though he will not get up and give him the bread because he is his friend, yet because of the man's boldness he will get up and give him as much as he needs."
This parable, too, seems steeped in a sense of immanence or urgency. Yet it is not wakefulness that is counseled here. There is no servant awaiting the master's return well past midnight. Instead, a man goes to sleep; his family is in bed. There is a knock at the door and a simple request. "Go away," the awoken man says. But his friend is persistent. The sleeper awakes and gives aid. The focus here is on those already awake. Persistence, boldness, is required to get folks to hear.
It makes sense, but, for the life of me , I am not persuaded there is anything really to hear.
Once again, a person in the dead of night needs must remain alert, attentive, wakeful. The good friend does not let him slumber. The polite response, the conventional response, would be to let the man sleep and not to disturb his children, snuggled abed with him. But convention is defied.
"Then he [Jesus] said to them, "Suppose one of you has a friend, and he goes to him at midnight and says, 'Friend, lend me three loaves of bread, because a friend of mine on a journey has come to me, and I have nothing to set before him.'
"Then the one inside answers, 'Don't bother me. The door is already locked, and my children are with me in bed. I can't get up and give you anything.' I tell you, though he will not get up and give him the bread because he is his friend, yet because of the man's boldness he will get up and give him as much as he needs."
This parable, too, seems steeped in a sense of immanence or urgency. Yet it is not wakefulness that is counseled here. There is no servant awaiting the master's return well past midnight. Instead, a man goes to sleep; his family is in bed. There is a knock at the door and a simple request. "Go away," the awoken man says. But his friend is persistent. The sleeper awakes and gives aid. The focus here is on those already awake. Persistence, boldness, is required to get folks to hear.
It makes sense, but, for the life of me , I am not persuaded there is anything really to hear.
Once again, a person in the dead of night needs must remain alert, attentive, wakeful. The good friend does not let him slumber. The polite response, the conventional response, would be to let the man sleep and not to disturb his children, snuggled abed with him. But convention is defied.
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Parable Project: The Doorkeeper
The parable of the doorkeeper is found in Mark's Gospel, chapter 13:34-36.
"[For the Son of man is] as a man taking a far journey, who left his house, and gave authority to his servants, and to every man his work, and commanded the porter to watch.
" Watch ye therefore: for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or in the morning:
" Lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping."
Scholars regard Mark's gospel as the earliest. This parable, which is reworked slightly in Luke's gospel in chapter 12:35-38, is easy to render in existential terms. Wakefulness, the need to ever present in every moment as a sign of something like authenticity is the rendering that springs most quickly to mind. But this reading almost seems trite.
Of course, early Christians expected Jesus to return. Recall Paul's hopes in his letters for an immediate return. Is this simply an exhortation to be remain alert lest one is caught unawares? This seems to literal to satisfy. The second coming has been an awfully long time in coming.
I prefer a reading that stresses wakefulness, and the rejection of complacency. A spirit alive senses change in every wind. Although I can say I have any comprehension of the divine, I am aware that at root we are such things as dreams are made of. We can render the world in safe terms, and live within the confines of concepts to which lend a false sense of reality. Or we can accept the fact that ever the readiest anchor is incapable of tethering us to a reality so stable as to eliminate the need for faith and hope in what is beyond our ken.
Is it possible that the Kingdom of God, immanent yet forever removed, is really nothing more than humility in the face of what cannot be known, a humility that requires not just faith and hope, but charity as well? Recall that the greatest gift is love; perhaps it is also the most necessary gift of all.
"[For the Son of man is] as a man taking a far journey, who left his house, and gave authority to his servants, and to every man his work, and commanded the porter to watch.
" Watch ye therefore: for ye know not when the master of the house cometh, at even, or at midnight, or at the cockcrowing, or in the morning:
" Lest coming suddenly he find you sleeping."
Scholars regard Mark's gospel as the earliest. This parable, which is reworked slightly in Luke's gospel in chapter 12:35-38, is easy to render in existential terms. Wakefulness, the need to ever present in every moment as a sign of something like authenticity is the rendering that springs most quickly to mind. But this reading almost seems trite.
Of course, early Christians expected Jesus to return. Recall Paul's hopes in his letters for an immediate return. Is this simply an exhortation to be remain alert lest one is caught unawares? This seems to literal to satisfy. The second coming has been an awfully long time in coming.
I prefer a reading that stresses wakefulness, and the rejection of complacency. A spirit alive senses change in every wind. Although I can say I have any comprehension of the divine, I am aware that at root we are such things as dreams are made of. We can render the world in safe terms, and live within the confines of concepts to which lend a false sense of reality. Or we can accept the fact that ever the readiest anchor is incapable of tethering us to a reality so stable as to eliminate the need for faith and hope in what is beyond our ken.
Is it possible that the Kingdom of God, immanent yet forever removed, is really nothing more than humility in the face of what cannot be known, a humility that requires not just faith and hope, but charity as well? Recall that the greatest gift is love; perhaps it is also the most necessary gift of all.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
The Parable Project: The Campaign Planner
John Dominic Crossan considers Luke 14:31-32 to be an independent parable. I am not so sure that I can fathom this. Consider:
"Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Will he not first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand? If he is not able, he will send a delegation while the other is still a long way off and will ask for terms of peace."
This simply seems to be a call for prudence and planning. Nothing remarkable there.
But when the next verse is read, a different meaning emerges: "So likewise, whoseover he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple."
So what is the message? Prudence or abandon. Or is abadonment the prudence recommended?
"Or suppose a king is about to go to war against another king. Will he not first sit down and consider whether he is able with ten thousand men to oppose the one coming against him with twenty thousand? If he is not able, he will send a delegation while the other is still a long way off and will ask for terms of peace."
This simply seems to be a call for prudence and planning. Nothing remarkable there.
But when the next verse is read, a different meaning emerges: "So likewise, whoseover he be of you that forsaketh not all that he hath, he cannot be my disciple."
So what is the message? Prudence or abandon. Or is abadonment the prudence recommended?
Sunday, February 1, 2009
The Parable Project: A Marginal Jew
I've been getting plenty of emails on a private account in response to a piece I wrote not long ago on my renewed interest in the historical Jesus. A few folks are hoping that I see a light of some sort. Several others have made recommendations for future reading. I am compiling a reading list and working my way through the material.
Perhaps the most impressive piece of scholarship I have thus far tackled is volume one of John P. Meier's A Marginal Jew: The Roots of the Problem and the Person (Doubleday, New York, 1991). This is the first of a four-volume study. Volume four is expected out sometime this spring, I am told.
Meier is a Catholic priest and professor of the New Testament at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana. His work, however, is not theological. His goal is to apply the best methods available to historians to discern what can be known about Jesus. While his faith unquestionably colors his commitment to the project, he is quick to note the influence of his beliefs; I recommend the footnotes as a means of tracking the author's engagement with his faith as he confronts the historical record.
Central to Meier's work is the paradoxical character of the research project. A conventional biography of Jesus is impossible, given the paucity of contemporary material. Even the Gospels were written decades after the crucifixion. From the standpoint of a trial lawyer, there is nothing but rank hearsay in the record; hence no admissible evidence about the real Jesus. (The fundamentalist staple of Biblical inerrancy is theology not history.)
Even with so little evidence, Jesus's influence is an historic fact, as is his contemporary relevance. We seem to live on uneasy terms with this man from Nazareth, or is it Bethlehem? I tour bookstores everywhere I go. The other day I was in the Elliot Bay bookstore in Seattle, a true gem of a shop with books on every conceivable topic. Odd, I noted, that the Bibles and books on the Bible where hidden in an obscure corner. That is by no means uncommon in other shops. Are we ashamed of our cultural heritage?
We can make judgments about what is reliably attributable to Jesus. The so-called historical Jesus is a construction of this reality. It is not the still small voice of those who claim to converse with the living God, and it may not be enough to satisfy the hunger for something real in a world of flux. But it is something, even if it falls far short of the theologian's portrayal of the man, or is it God, or is it God and man?
Meier devotes 200 pages of this work to basic problems of historiography. Indeed, nearly 500 pages of text serve mostly to introduce the actual study of Jesus which commences in volume two, a massive, door-stopping thousand plus pages of scholarship. The first volume was pure pleasure; I started the second yesterday and was much in the frame of mind of a marathon runner toeing up to the line on a hilly course. Will I be up to the challenge?
The work is part of the The Anchor Bible Reference Library by Doubleday.
Perhaps the most impressive piece of scholarship I have thus far tackled is volume one of John P. Meier's A Marginal Jew: The Roots of the Problem and the Person (Doubleday, New York, 1991). This is the first of a four-volume study. Volume four is expected out sometime this spring, I am told.
Meier is a Catholic priest and professor of the New Testament at the University of Notre Dame in Indiana. His work, however, is not theological. His goal is to apply the best methods available to historians to discern what can be known about Jesus. While his faith unquestionably colors his commitment to the project, he is quick to note the influence of his beliefs; I recommend the footnotes as a means of tracking the author's engagement with his faith as he confronts the historical record.
Central to Meier's work is the paradoxical character of the research project. A conventional biography of Jesus is impossible, given the paucity of contemporary material. Even the Gospels were written decades after the crucifixion. From the standpoint of a trial lawyer, there is nothing but rank hearsay in the record; hence no admissible evidence about the real Jesus. (The fundamentalist staple of Biblical inerrancy is theology not history.)
Even with so little evidence, Jesus's influence is an historic fact, as is his contemporary relevance. We seem to live on uneasy terms with this man from Nazareth, or is it Bethlehem? I tour bookstores everywhere I go. The other day I was in the Elliot Bay bookstore in Seattle, a true gem of a shop with books on every conceivable topic. Odd, I noted, that the Bibles and books on the Bible where hidden in an obscure corner. That is by no means uncommon in other shops. Are we ashamed of our cultural heritage?
We can make judgments about what is reliably attributable to Jesus. The so-called historical Jesus is a construction of this reality. It is not the still small voice of those who claim to converse with the living God, and it may not be enough to satisfy the hunger for something real in a world of flux. But it is something, even if it falls far short of the theologian's portrayal of the man, or is it God, or is it God and man?
Meier devotes 200 pages of this work to basic problems of historiography. Indeed, nearly 500 pages of text serve mostly to introduce the actual study of Jesus which commences in volume two, a massive, door-stopping thousand plus pages of scholarship. The first volume was pure pleasure; I started the second yesterday and was much in the frame of mind of a marathon runner toeing up to the line on a hilly course. Will I be up to the challenge?
The work is part of the The Anchor Bible Reference Library by Doubleday.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Parable Project: The Budding Fig Tree
The following is a short parable reported in the Gospels of Mark, Matthew and Luke. I rely on Mark's Gospel, which is generally acknowledged as the earliest. It is reported at Mark 13:28.
"From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near."
It arises in the following context, also taken from Mark.
"So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. ‘But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.’"
This is the sort of verse that drove me from any sort of faith as a young man. Clearly, each and every member of the generation hearing these words has been dead and gone for nearly two millenia now. What is is that has taken place?
Those who stake all on a literal interpretation of the Bible stumble at words such as these. But parables are more than literal expressions of fact. They are intended to be more than fact, to reflect a truth larger than any conceivable correspondence theory of truth. And, to those of you who do not garden or know trees, I insist that a fig is a bush, and not a tree. We have two on our property, both gnawed low by deer, but neither resembling a tree. A small point.
I do not look to the heavens and expect to see the Son of Man returning in a cloud of glory, or otherwise. Yet the message of wakefulness resonates.
"From the fig tree learn its lesson: as soon as its branch becomes tender and puts forth its leaves, you know that summer is near."
It arises in the following context, also taken from Mark.
"So also, when you see these things taking place, you know that he is near, at the very gates. Truly I tell you, this generation will not pass away until all these things have taken place. Heaven and earth will pass away, but my words will not pass away. ‘But about that day or hour no one knows, neither the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father. Beware, keep alert; for you do not know when the time will come. It is like a man going on a journey, when he leaves home and puts his slaves in charge, each with his work, and commands the doorkeeper to be on the watch. Therefore, keep awake—for you do not know when the master of the house will come, in the evening, or at midnight, or at cockcrow, or at dawn, or else he may find you asleep when he comes suddenly. And what I say to you I say to all: Keep awake.’"
This is the sort of verse that drove me from any sort of faith as a young man. Clearly, each and every member of the generation hearing these words has been dead and gone for nearly two millenia now. What is is that has taken place?
Those who stake all on a literal interpretation of the Bible stumble at words such as these. But parables are more than literal expressions of fact. They are intended to be more than fact, to reflect a truth larger than any conceivable correspondence theory of truth. And, to those of you who do not garden or know trees, I insist that a fig is a bush, and not a tree. We have two on our property, both gnawed low by deer, but neither resembling a tree. A small point.
I do not look to the heavens and expect to see the Son of Man returning in a cloud of glory, or otherwise. Yet the message of wakefulness resonates.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Parable Project: The Bridesmaids
The bridesmaids' parable, also known as the ten virgins, is reported in Matthew's gospel.
I am simultaneously drawn and repelled. Simple virtue would suggest sharing. Who would expect such niggardly behavior by the groom. When is he to arrive? There is no telling. One needn't always be wakeful, need one?
And what of bringing oil? Simple prudence suggests that one would bring fuel to light a lamp. In our day this might be the equivalent of bringing a flashlight but no battery.
Even so, the bridegroom does not come off well here. "I do not know you" is a harsh response in the face of simple imprudence. If the parable warns against complacency in the face of experience, I can accept the warning without the heavy-handed reaction of the fickle bridegroom.
"At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish and five were wise. The foolish ones took their lamps but did not take any oil with them. The wise, however, took oil in jars along with their lamps. The bridegroom was a long time in coming, and they all became drowsy and fell asleep.
"At midnight the cry rang out: 'Here's the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!'
"Then all the virgins woke up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish ones said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil; our lamps are going out.'
" 'No,' they replied, 'there may not be enough for both us and you. Instead, go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.'
"But while they were on their way to buy the oil, the bridegroom arrived. The virgins who were ready went in with him to the wedding banquet. And the door was shut.
"Later the others also came. 'Sir! Sir!' they said. 'Open the door for us!'
"But he replied, 'I tell you the truth, I don't know you.'
"Therefore keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour."
I am simultaneously drawn and repelled. Simple virtue would suggest sharing. Who would expect such niggardly behavior by the groom. When is he to arrive? There is no telling. One needn't always be wakeful, need one?
And what of bringing oil? Simple prudence suggests that one would bring fuel to light a lamp. In our day this might be the equivalent of bringing a flashlight but no battery.
Even so, the bridegroom does not come off well here. "I do not know you" is a harsh response in the face of simple imprudence. If the parable warns against complacency in the face of experience, I can accept the warning without the heavy-handed reaction of the fickle bridegroom.
"At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like ten virgins who took their lamps and went out to meet the bridegroom. Five of them were foolish and five were wise. The foolish ones took their lamps but did not take any oil with them. The wise, however, took oil in jars along with their lamps. The bridegroom was a long time in coming, and they all became drowsy and fell asleep.
"At midnight the cry rang out: 'Here's the bridegroom! Come out to meet him!'
"Then all the virgins woke up and trimmed their lamps. The foolish ones said to the wise, 'Give us some of your oil; our lamps are going out.'
" 'No,' they replied, 'there may not be enough for both us and you. Instead, go to those who sell oil and buy some for yourselves.'
"But while they were on their way to buy the oil, the bridegroom arrived. The virgins who were ready went in with him to the wedding banquet. And the door was shut.
"Later the others also came. 'Sir! Sir!' they said. 'Open the door for us!'
"But he replied, 'I tell you the truth, I don't know you.'
"Therefore keep watch, because you do not know the day or the hour."
Friday, January 16, 2009
The Parable Project: The Barren Fig Tree
Trial lawyers are storytellers. But even more, the lives we live become stories. They become stories as we narrate their content. We seek meaning in these narratives, and philosophers, poets and theologians devise theories and means to sort experience into forms that make narrative sense. This much is obvious.
What is not so obvious is whether we have any real choice in the matter. None of us willed ourselves into being. We find ourselves present in the world. Something like an imperative bids us to make sense of things. Trial lawyers do so on behalf of clients who find themselves at turning points, or crises, in their lives. Yet the lawyer is no different than the client. We all live our turning points day to day.
I'm starting a new project on this web page. I will call it the Parable Project. It is a reflection of re-examination of parables attributed to Jesus.
I am aware of the controversial character of the claims about Jesus. For decades I have scorned the very name as a sign of tepid Sunday school ethics. As an adolescent, I was passionate for a time about the New Testament. The desire to know God was keen. But as a young adult, I turned a hard heart to such claims, and yielded in the end to what Kierkegaard referred to as the "sickness unto death," or despair.
But despair is too easy. Life evokes a response; if not my own life, than surely the life of the client whose life becomes my responsibility. There is no escaping what Yeats taught. "Man can embody truth but he cannot know it."
Well along life's way I am reassessing the historical Jesus with no real intent other than to discover what I can about an extraordinary life. Reliable information about him is hard to come by. But the question of his life's meaning seems everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Certainly the parables attributed to him are a good start. And they are fixed points in our literary heritage.
John Dominic Crossan's, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus, is a difficult point of departure for students of parables. A theologian well versed in both modern philosopy and literary criticism, Crossan writes in sometimes dense and impenetrable prose. (Can it be otherwise for a man who admires Heidegger?) Yet from time to time, he reflects the bright light of genius.
He reminds us that not all parables carry morals examples. There is not, in other words, a moral point to every story, even if there is, so to speak, a moral. Pressing for such trivializes, and closes the interpretation of a narrative into tight wraps that keep light from entering. The parable of the barren fig tree as reported by the Gospel of Luke is perhaps such a parable.
Here it is, as reported by Luke's Gospel:
"‘A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig round it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.” ’
On its face, this story seems trite, too commonplace even to merit preservation. Yet here it is, passed along and regarded by many as holy scripture for centuries. I read the words of the parables and my understanding is cold. What truth does it embody?
What is not so obvious is whether we have any real choice in the matter. None of us willed ourselves into being. We find ourselves present in the world. Something like an imperative bids us to make sense of things. Trial lawyers do so on behalf of clients who find themselves at turning points, or crises, in their lives. Yet the lawyer is no different than the client. We all live our turning points day to day.
I'm starting a new project on this web page. I will call it the Parable Project. It is a reflection of re-examination of parables attributed to Jesus.
I am aware of the controversial character of the claims about Jesus. For decades I have scorned the very name as a sign of tepid Sunday school ethics. As an adolescent, I was passionate for a time about the New Testament. The desire to know God was keen. But as a young adult, I turned a hard heart to such claims, and yielded in the end to what Kierkegaard referred to as the "sickness unto death," or despair.
But despair is too easy. Life evokes a response; if not my own life, than surely the life of the client whose life becomes my responsibility. There is no escaping what Yeats taught. "Man can embody truth but he cannot know it."
Well along life's way I am reassessing the historical Jesus with no real intent other than to discover what I can about an extraordinary life. Reliable information about him is hard to come by. But the question of his life's meaning seems everywhere and nowhere, all at once. Certainly the parables attributed to him are a good start. And they are fixed points in our literary heritage.
John Dominic Crossan's, In Parables: The Challenge of the Historical Jesus, is a difficult point of departure for students of parables. A theologian well versed in both modern philosopy and literary criticism, Crossan writes in sometimes dense and impenetrable prose. (Can it be otherwise for a man who admires Heidegger?) Yet from time to time, he reflects the bright light of genius.
He reminds us that not all parables carry morals examples. There is not, in other words, a moral point to every story, even if there is, so to speak, a moral. Pressing for such trivializes, and closes the interpretation of a narrative into tight wraps that keep light from entering. The parable of the barren fig tree as reported by the Gospel of Luke is perhaps such a parable.
Here it is, as reported by Luke's Gospel:
"‘A man had a fig tree planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and found none. So he said to the gardener, “See here! For three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree, and still I find none. Cut it down! Why should it be wasting the soil?” He replied, “Sir, let it alone for one more year, until I dig round it and put manure on it. If it bears fruit next year, well and good; but if not, you can cut it down.” ’
On its face, this story seems trite, too commonplace even to merit preservation. Yet here it is, passed along and regarded by many as holy scripture for centuries. I read the words of the parables and my understanding is cold. What truth does it embody?
Thursday, January 15, 2009
A Word On Parables
A perhaps liberating take on Jesus's parables.
"A parabolic reading insists that the importance of these stories lies in their meanings. An empty tomb without meaning ascribed to it is simply an odd, even if exceptional, event. Only when the meaning is ascribed does it take on significance. This is the function of parable and parabolic language. Parable can be based on an actual event (there could have been a Samaritan who did what the character in Jesus's parable is reported to have done), but it need not be. Indeed, it may be that the most important truths can be expressed only in parable.
"In any case, asking about the parabolic meaning of biblical stories, including the Easter stories, is always the most important question. The alternative of fixating on whether they report literally factual happenings leads one astray."
Marcus Borg, Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary.
"A parabolic reading insists that the importance of these stories lies in their meanings. An empty tomb without meaning ascribed to it is simply an odd, even if exceptional, event. Only when the meaning is ascribed does it take on significance. This is the function of parable and parabolic language. Parable can be based on an actual event (there could have been a Samaritan who did what the character in Jesus's parable is reported to have done), but it need not be. Indeed, it may be that the most important truths can be expressed only in parable.
"In any case, asking about the parabolic meaning of biblical stories, including the Easter stories, is always the most important question. The alternative of fixating on whether they report literally factual happenings leads one astray."
Marcus Borg, Jesus: Uncovering the Life, Teachings, and Relevance of a Religious Revolutionary.
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