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If Jesus is preaching the “good news,” why all the secrecy?

“The time is fulfilled, and the reign of God has come near; turn around, change your thinking—and believe in the good news.”

Those are the very first words Jesus says in the gospel of Mark.

God is doing something big, it is happening, Jesus says, and it is happening now. In order to be part of this amazing God-thing, you’re going to have to change how you think. But trust me. It is good. Beyond good.

And yet, in our passage this morning, Jesus specifically says that parables, the very tools he is using to teach, are meant to confound, confuse, and befuddle.

“… Everything comes in parables,” he says, “in order that

‘they may indeed look, but not perceive,

and may indeed listen, but not understand;

so that they may not turn again and be forgiven.’” ~ Mark 4:11b-12

Well, this is just weird. Why the secrecy? Why confusion? Why parables?

My experience with parables, these short word-pictures Jesus draws—sometimes really short, short as a single sentence—is that, the first time I hear them, I think, “Oh, I understand just what he’s saying!” And the next time, I think, “Now, I’m not so sure.” And the next, “Ah, now I get it!” And the next… “Wait, what?”

The thing about parables is this: despite the fact that at least one million preachers have gotten into one million pulpits in order to preach one million sermons on what parables mean, these little stories manage to defy our attempts to explain them once and for all. They do not work like dictionary definitions. In fact, they are almost the opposite.

The word “parable” in Greek comes from two roots: the word meaning “to throw or cast” and the word meaning “beside.” A parable is something you throw alongside something else—in Jesus’ case, the kingdom or reign or rule of God—in order to shed light on it. And that makes sense. How could we possibly know what the kingdom of God actually looks like on our own, without any guidance? The reign of the one who created the stars and also our DNA… how could human beings apprehend these things? Jesus seeks to help us to understand with parables.

And then, he tells us, parables are only going to confuse us more.

I love Jesus. But he doesn’t necessarily make things easy for us.

And yet he does, in a way. Does Jesus talk about stars and the theory of relativity and the numbers of angels that can dance on the head of a pin (or maybe, on a shepherd’s staff)? Does he overwhelm us with stuff that makes us feel the hopelessness of ever really understanding God, this side of eternity?

He does not. He talks about sowers. Sowers and seeds. Jesus talks about seeds and rocks, weeds and birds. He talks about the hot sun, and the light of a lamp, and the baskets we use to carry around produce. Jesus talks about the things we know and the things we don’t. He talks about the things we show and the things we hide. Jesus talks about life. Our life. The little and big things we see and do and experience every single day. Jesus talks to us in language we understand, the language of the familiar.

And then he says some surprising things about everything we think we know so well. This is where the parable-casting-alongside-activity happens. The rule of God is like a seed sown on rocky soil. The reign of God is like a lamp someone brought into their house. The kingdom of God is like another seed that is ridiculously small, and which, when it sprouts, actually produces a big shrub that is more like a tenacious, invasive weed than anything else.

The kingdom of God, clearly, is not what we thought it was.

“The time is fulfilled, and the reign of God has come near; turn around, change your thinking—and believe in the good news.”

Parables require us to think in fresh ways about things we thought we already knew thoroughly. The parables of Jesus require that same shift in how we think about the reign of God.

In just a few minutes we will be ordaining one, and installing many, deacons and ruling elders—members of our congregation who are stepping into leadership for the coming year. I know that for some these roles are familiar ones, and are embraced with joy, a homecoming of sorts. And for others, this type of church leadership will be an entirely new experience. I think the gospel encourages all of us—newbies and old hands alike—to enter into all our participation in God’s extraordinary reign with childlike openness and wonder.

Two Sundays ago I drew a Star-Word for myself, and that word was “childlike.” My first response to it was somewhat neutral—I didn’t have an “Oh boy!” of delight, nor did I groan. Just neutral. At 6:30 the next morning as I sat on the tarmac at Syracuse-Hancock International Airport while my plane was being de-iced, and a familiar wave of anxiety began to wash over me, it suddenly seemed like a good idea to think about my Star Word, and my Star Word—childlike—led me instantly to think about “beginners’ mind.” Beginners’ mind is a Buddhist concept, a way of thinking about things that is curious, open, and awake to possibilities. As I sat on the plane I remembered flying with my parents as a child, and how exciting I found it. I let myself be curious about why I have such anxiety about flying now. And then, my thoughts turned to my own, grown children, who were waiting for me in Florida. And soon the anxiety let go its grip on me, and a little voice inside said something like, Turn around, Patricia. Change your thinking. Trust and believe.

Jesus chooses to teach us in a way that leaves us with more questions than answers. It turns out, this isn’t about secrecy. It’s about apprenticeship. Jesus doesn’t tell us in every instance exactly what to do. Instead, he invites us into an exercise in awareness—he asks us to notice the little and big things we see and do and experience every single day, to notice the very ordinary stuff of our lives, and to wonder: how does this show me the reign of God?