Jared Witt l January 11, 2017
Four people are in a room. Three are good, upstanding family men—a pastor of a large, successful church, a politician, and a well-to-do business person—the fourth is a shoeshine who has spent a lifetime in and out of homelessness. The three have an argument about the nature of God, while the fourth shines their shoes.
Which is the Jesus figure in the story?
If you're smirking to yourself because you got it right, chill out. The question is remedial for a reason. I already know the answer. I made up the story. That's not why I ask. I ask because I'm interested in your process. How did you get to your answer? I suspect it depends on what kind of person you are. For simplicity's sake, let's say there are four types…
Parables like this one are frugal with their words for a reason. Jesus must have discovered this early on in his ministry, because he had mastered the art of saying a lot with very little. The less content the parables spoon feed to us the more we project our own content onto them. The more we project, the more the subject matter becomes our own stuff, as opposed to the parable itself. By the time we realize what’s going on, it’s too late. Our biases, insecurities, and irrational anxieties have all been exposed for what they are. We can’t pretend to be “in on it” because we already took the bait and identified with the wrong character, or anticipated a moral to the story that never came, or called a problem what Jesus calls a solution, or vice versa.
Jesus' parables catch us in a trap. They lure us into forcing assumptions from our world into his world, where they don’t belong, so we can see them anew from the outside. Perhaps, we’ll argue all day long with the parable above about the importance of self-sufficiency, hard work, and other qualities that we’re inclined to project onto the three rather than the one. But the parable isn’t interested in our opinion on such things. It has posited a world where a down and out, probably alcoholic shoeshine is more admirable than a well-to-do family man. We can object and say that things aren’t actually like that in our universe. But we can’t argue that things aren’t actually like that in the universe of the parable. They just are.
And here is where things get even more audacious in the way that Jesus uses parables. He makes an absurd claim—a world-stained tax collector is in better standing with God than a principled religious leader (Luke 18:9-14); a sleaze-ball business manager is commended by the owner for cutting an under-the-table deal with clients at the owner’s own expense (Luke 16:1-8); a poor widow wins her case with a corrupt judge because, if she lacks the funds for a respectable bribe, she at least knows how to be a pain in the ass (Luke 18:1-8)—but not so absurd that it has no place at all in our world. Like a demogorgon messing with Winona Ryder's lights, he leaves little wormholes or vortexes where the logic of the parable creeps into the real.
And he doesn’t just tell his disciples a parable once every Sunday, give or take. He calls us into the wilderness with him where we are bombarded with these little riddles constantly. Just when we think it’s time to put the cute little thought experiment aside and get back after it, he lays another one on us, and then another, and another, until we begin to question whether the parable world is actually more real than the “real” one.
If anyone ever tries to explain or make sense of a parable, you can bet they’re being reader number 2. That’s the whole thing about parables, they’re absurd. The absurdity of the life of discipleship is that Jesus calls us to step out of the real world, which makes sense to us, into one that doesn't. Only that way does the latter ever become the former.
Cheers and Peace,
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