Taking it personally --thoughts on reading scripture through the lens of Luke 8:10

 “To you is granted to understand

the secrets of the Kingdom of God;

for the rest it remains in parables,

so that they may look but not perceive,

listen but not understand…” (Luke 8:10)

 

 

This verse has often troubled me, because of how exclusive it felt.  The idea that Jesus would intentionally make things obscure, so that some people would “look but not perceive,” felt kind of cruel.  But recently I read this passage and was struck by a new understanding.  Let me know if you think I am crazy (or just plain wrong).  I read this passage the other morning and was caught by the word “you.”  Yep… Sometimes that is all it takes.  Because, for the first time I had the sensation that the “you” Jesus was referring to was me.  Not just me, of course. But anyone reading those words.

 

A little context, first.  In chapter 8 of Luke, Jesus is going through the town and villages teaching in parables.  And it is His disciples who ask Him—why? Why are You teaching in parables?  His answer is the verse above, and it is made when Jesus is alone with them—in private, so to speak. He says it just before He begins to explain the meaning of the parable of the sower: the guy who sows seeds on the rocky, the thorny, and the good soil. 

 

Of course, taking his personally, may sound a little bit ridiculous.  I know these stories were written down almost 2000 years ago, and their authors were often recording events that probably happened 30 to 50+ years before pen was put to paper (or papyrus, or whatever they first used).  So, it is even possible that the persona writing it down only knew these stories, these events, because someone else told them about it.  About Jesus. 

 

What I am trying to say here, is that I understand there is historical context, and a narrative context involved.  And yet, as I read this passage, I realized that in the story Jesus was saying something to His disciples that in reality also applied to me. Off by themselves, the disciples asked Jesus to explain the parable, and He says: I’m going to explain my parable to you, so you can understand it better.  Not everybody will get this lesson, but YOU will.   

 

And suddenly I heard this message in a new way. I was sitting with my Bible, alone with the Lord. Listening to His words, spending time in His presence (like one of the disciples), and as I read, He began teaching in parable (in stories).  And as I continued reading—the story about Jesus-- He continued to teach, including a special lesson to those who withdraw alone with Him. And in that moment, as I sat there—alone with my Bible—alone with God’s word, I realized: who was He explaining it to?  Me.  He was speaking directly to me. Telling me, I think, that as we read and reread God’s word, more and more of it will become clear to us, the Holy Spirit will reveal more and more of the meaning to us.  As if the real meaning of this strange verse was:  To you who spend time listening to me, who make time to hear and read and contemplate My word, to You it will be given. The Holy Spirit will open your eyes that you can see, that you might perceive, and open your ears that YOU can more fully understand God’s meaning, God’s love. 

 

Does that make sense? 

And I think the real key is, we need to take it personally.  We need to make it personal.  Because, think about it, that’s exactly what Jesus did. 

 

Here it is, Good Friday, a day to remember the hour when Jesus made it all very personal.  When He took up the Cross and went to Calvary—not for some amorphous idea but for you. Personally. And for me, personally. He died to free me from my sins.  It is my belief that He died for all of us, but not as a group.  He died for each and every one of us, individually, and very personally. That doesn’t mean we don’t need church or prayer groups or community. I don’t mean “go it alone.” We need theologians and scholars and ministers and preachers and prayer buddies to help us and guide us and keep us on track. 

 

When Jesus gave His life for you, and for me, He made it very personal.  All I am saying is, this Easter Season when you take up your Bible, why not return the favor. 

 

Hidden in the storm--thoughts on the Gospel from the fifth Sunday of Lent

 “Hidden in the storm, I answered you.”

--Psalm 81:8

 

I’ve been thinking about the Gospel reading from John about the woman caught in adultery.  It was the gospel for last Sunday, and it has been haunting me ever since.  On the surface, it is a frightening story.  A woman is grabbed by a mob, dragged through the streets and thrown to the ground in front of some stranger; where she hears the mob prepare to kill her. But first they are going to ask this stranger what he thinks.  Take a moment and put yourself into the scene.  If you were this woman, what would you be thinking? What would you be doing? Caught up in this horrible storm of anger, rage, jealousy… brutality.  You are helpless and know that there is nothing for you but to scream and plead for mercy but clearly there is no mercy to be had. The mob seeks only your destruction. Or so it seems. Because, as the gospel tells us, they bring the woman to Jesus because they want to put Him to the test. I look at this scene and wonder—if Jesus had given them the “wrong” answer, would they have tried to stone Him as well. Would they have accused Him of a different kind of adultery? Adulterating their law, their faith, their God?

 

But, instead Jesus defuses the situation by refusing to engage in their anger, their wrath; by refusing to become fuel for their storm.  Instead, he grows quiet and kneels down and begins to write on the ground.  I love that we don’t know what He wrote.  I love that the author knew enough to leave that out.  To my eye, that seems a sign of divine literary inspiration.  Of course, over the years, many scholars and saints have considered and proposed possibilities.  I think it was Augustine who suggested that possibly Jesus was writing out the sins of the people standing before Him. That seems as good a guess as any; but I prefer the mystery.

 

For me, the most important element here is the example Jesus gives us of not entering into the argument, of refusing to add fuel to the fire.  He gathers the focus of the crowd away from the woman and onto Himself through His silence and his enigmatic action.  They are—in a way—stunned by the unexpected strangeness of what He does.  And then, instead of debating them, He concedes their point, recommending only a minor stipulation:  Let the one among you who is without sin cast the first stone.

 

Then He returns to His work--writing on the ground.

 

At this point the crowd disappears, dropping their stones and walking away. And Jesus is left alone with the woman, her heart still bursting with fear. And He asks her, Woman, where did everybody go? Is there no one to accuse you?

And she says, No one.

And Jesus replies, Neither do I.  Go and sin no more. 

I love that image of God’s mercy showing up so quietly and so tenderly and so beautifully unexpected.  It reminds me of a verse from Psalm 81:

“Hidden in the storm, I answered you…” (81:8)

In the book of Job the voice of God is literally hidden in the storm; it comes out of the tempest. And in this story from John's gospel we see the presence of God calmly waiting for us in the storm of suffering, the storm of rejection, the storm of confusion. 

Think about it.  We are about to observe Holy Week, Good Friday, the Passion of Jesus, when the whole world came crashing down upon Him. We see it all right there: the storm of the Cross becoming the silence of the tomb…  But, we are blessed to know how the story ends.  

This Easter morning, perhaps you could rise early and step outside into the early morning light; take a moment and just sand there. Listen to the quiet as the day begins, the first hesitant singing of the birds, the stirring of the leaves in the morning breeze; witness the awakening of the world to the Love that does not condemn, the Love that has the power to calm all storms, the Love that died for us that we might live.  As the old hymn says:

 

No storm can shake my inmost calm,

While to that rock I'm clinging.

Since love is lord of heaven and earth

How can I keep from singing?