by: Martin Bell
There he is. In the temple again. Causing trouble. Speaking very differently from other preachers. Speaking with authority about sorrow, anxiety, sickness and death. Penetrating the darkest corners of human existence. Shattering illusion. Make no mistake about it; this is a dangerous man.
The Christ Event. Jesus of Nazareth. The man for others, whose words cut through our most stubborn defenses and expose the whole of humanity in its nakedness. The fugitive who confronts us with direct authority. The one in whose presence the lame rise up and walk. The poor are comforted. The eyes of the blind are opened. The diseased are healed. Who would dare even to speak his name for fear of consequences.
But now as he comes into the temple, the chief priests and the elders of the people approach him and say, “By what authority are you doing these things?” have they no fear at all? No sense of the mystery?
For a moment Jesus is silent. Only his eyes betray his impatience. Then suddenly a counter-question: “What do you think about John the Baptist? Was he the instrument of God in history or a charlatan?”
The question is disturbing and exceedingly difficult to answer. John the Baptist is considered by the general populace to have been a prophet. It would be easier to reply that John was the instrument of God in history – not a charlatan in any sense. The problem with this answer is that Jesus will immediately ask why they did not repent and believe what John has said. On the other hand, to say that John was a Charlatan would be to incur the wrath of the people.
The chief priests and the elders will not rick either answer. The compromise that they decide upon is to say, “Who knows? Who knows whether John was the instrument of God or a charlatan? We can’t say!”
Jesus doesn’t even look at them. Now he is ready to answer their question about authority. “Who knows?” he says. “Who knows by what authority I do these things? I can’t say!”
The chief priests deserve that. The elders should have known better than to ask the question in the first place. If they are not willing to risk themselves, what difference will it make what Jesus says?
Instead of answering the chief priests and the elders directly, Jesus asks a counter-question. If his assailants admit that John the Baptist acted and preached on divine authority, then they must be prepared to reorder their lives according to what John had called for. That is to say, they must commit themselves. If, on the other hand, they believe that John was a fanatic and a charlatan, they must be prepared to say so – no matter how unpopular such an opinion might be. Once again, to answer the question implies commitment.
For timid and cautious men who are unwilling to take the risk involved in either answer, the only possible response is, “Who knows?”
But then, what is there left for Jesus to say? We do not know the Christ and then commit ourselves to Him. Commitment is the one and only way by which we may know the Christ.
There he is. In the temple again. Causing trouble. Tearing away the shroud that surrounds careful and frightened men who have come to accept disillusionment as a way of life. Cutting to the heart of those who dare not trust anything or anyone until they are certain that this trust will not be violated. Holding up the absolute necessity of deciding before the lives of men who would prefer to remain on the sidelines as spectators and onlookers. Challenging the chief priests and the elders to adopt a responsible position, regardless of what it is! The Christ Event. Jesus of Nazareth. The man for others.
What do you think of John the Baptist? Was he God’s instrument in history, or a charlatan? They have just fifteen seconds to decide.
What the chief priests and the elders do not realize is that life itself in inextricably bound to decision making. To live is to decide, to risk being wring, to bet your life. Nothing could be more foreign to the ears of these analytical men who have come to observe the young man from Nazareth. Yet nothing could be more central to their understanding of what he is all about.
By what authority is he doing these things? That is the question. Good! But the deeper puzzle that must first be untangled is why they want to know anyway! What difference will it make? What risks are they prepared to take? Is this question really one of final seriousness for them? How ready are they to commit themselves before God?
And so, the counter-question. What about John the Baptist? Prophet or madman?
To live is to decide, to risk being wrong, to bet your life. Life itself is inextricable bound to decision making. Life itself is inextricably bound to decision making. It is not enough to be interested in this man, or fascinated by him or drawn to him. Either we stand ready to commit our deaths to him or we don’t. No one ever knows the Christ and then commits himself. Commitment is the one and only way by which we may know the Christ.
By what authority is he doing these things? What do you think? Is he the one to whom all power in heaven and on earth is given, or is he an invented dream of human longing?
Yes or no? To live is to decide, to risk being wrong. It is not enough to be interested in, or fascinated by Jesus of Nazareth. It is not enough to be frightened, cautious, and bewildered spectators. Curiosity about the Christ Event in history is not enough. Either we stand ready to commit our deaths or we don’t.
Actually, it shouldn’t be all that frightening. Everyone has to die anyway. It’s not as if there were some other option. Each of us must die. That’s a given. That’s just the way it is. What is not part of the given is the how, or the why, or the what for of your death. What you are going to die for is not a given. What your death is going to be about is up to you.
So what do you think? By what authority is he doing these things? The chief priests and the elders will not risk themselves. It is clear that they are not really serious about wanting to know. Although they are interested in Jesus, even fascinated by him, the ecclesiastical dignitaries are not ready to commit their deaths to anything or anyone.
But what about you? What is your answer? It’s all very well to say, “God knows!” But such an evasion cannot suffice. God never has to decide. Men do.
There he is, in the temple again. Causing trouble. The broken one who cuts through our most stubborn defenses and demands that we place our lives on the line. The fugitive who confronts us with direct authority. Make no mistake about it; this is a dangerous man.
Showing posts with label bell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bell. Show all posts
15 April 2009
10 March 2009
Hunger and Hurricanes
To be human is to be hungry. All children are hungry. They are born hungry. Most children are always hungry. Some children are starving. It is terrifying to see a starving child. It is more terrifying to be a starving child. Starvation is horrible. To be without food is hell.
To have experienced the Christ, to have encountered Jesus of Nazareth, to have run head-long into the person of God in the flesh must have been like stepping into the path of a hurricane. No one would do it intentionally. Human beings do not seek out hurricanes. Hurricanes happen. Suddenly. Often without much warning. If we can avoid "being there", we do. If we can't, we don't. Its really almost as simple as that. To experience the Christ is to run head-long into the path of a hurricane. Jesus said: Man cannot live by bread alone. He said that to hungry human beings. He said that to starving children. Yet, Jesus was criticized for eating with publicans and sinners, and going among the people eating and drinking, for being a winebibber, for eating grain on the Sabbath, for eating when he was hungry and sleeping when he was tired. He was criticized by hungry human beings. He was chastised by starving children.
On the other hand, for forty days and forty nights, Jesus was without food. He told Martha that she was too concerned with food. He said: when you are without food, wash your face. He said: you are too worried about what you shall eat and drink. He sent his disciples out without food and, on the cross, he refused a sponge filled with vinegar and hyssop.
Jesus ate and drank. And he didn't eat and drink. He was something of a paradox in regards to hunger and fulfillment. Curiously enough, what has been called the extension of the Body of Christ - the Church - eats and drinks and it doesn't eat and drink. The Church feasts and the Church fasts. The central act of the Church is a common meal. The ultimate mythical fulfillment of the Church is a heavenly banquet. The Church is something of a paradox when it comes to hunger and fulfillment.
To be human is to be hungry. Most children are always hungry. Some children are starving. Starvation is horrible. To be without food is hell.
To be the Christ, to be Jesus of Nazareth, to be the person of God incarnate must be like being the eye of a hurricane. The eye of a hurricane is its focus, its power, the apparently unmoving force that instigates the terrible headwind. The hurricane's eye is self-contained and calm. yet the experience of the hurricane itself is scattered, disassembling, chaotic, violent motion.
The action of God in history is something of a paradox. One of our hymns reflects this disturbing paradox when it says: The peace of God - it is no peace - but strife sown in the sod...
St. Peter appears to have found the peace of God in an upside-down cross. Human beings do not intentionally seek out upside-down crosses. Upside-down crosses happen. Suddenly. Often without warning. If we can avoid, "being there", we do. If we can't, we don't. It's really almost as simple as that.
God's action in history is something of a paradox as regards to hunger and fulfillment. Is is true that 5,000 people who have run headlong into the path of a hurricane and who are hungry for food and starving for peace can have their hunger sated, their very guts which have been torn apart healed? And, if it is conceivable, can it happen through the vehicles of a few fish, a little bread, and a Word? Frankly, I don't know. But I can't say that I don't care, because I do. I care terribly. After all, I'm very hungry. And I am caught in the headwind of a hurricane.
Christ have mercy upon me.
And Jesus had compassion upon the 5,000 for he saw that they had been with him the whole day and were very hungry.
Lord, have mercy upon me.
And so he asked a little boy (who else?) to share his food with them. And from the hands of a child they were fed. Children are nice. Jesus likes children.
Christ have mercy upon me.
Starvation is horrible. To be without food is hell.
Maranatha. Lord come.
Human beings do not seek out hurricanes. Hurricanes happen.
Lord now lettest thou they servent depart in peace.
And because Jesus had compassion upon them, and because the little boy had some fish, and because the eye of the hurricane enveloped them, they ate and were filled and went home. It was not very spectacular, but then, what is? It appears that Jesus simply left it at that. And then he took a deep breath of fresh air and went back to being a fugitive. Amen.
-Martin Bell
To have experienced the Christ, to have encountered Jesus of Nazareth, to have run head-long into the person of God in the flesh must have been like stepping into the path of a hurricane. No one would do it intentionally. Human beings do not seek out hurricanes. Hurricanes happen. Suddenly. Often without much warning. If we can avoid "being there", we do. If we can't, we don't. Its really almost as simple as that. To experience the Christ is to run head-long into the path of a hurricane. Jesus said: Man cannot live by bread alone. He said that to hungry human beings. He said that to starving children. Yet, Jesus was criticized for eating with publicans and sinners, and going among the people eating and drinking, for being a winebibber, for eating grain on the Sabbath, for eating when he was hungry and sleeping when he was tired. He was criticized by hungry human beings. He was chastised by starving children.
On the other hand, for forty days and forty nights, Jesus was without food. He told Martha that she was too concerned with food. He said: when you are without food, wash your face. He said: you are too worried about what you shall eat and drink. He sent his disciples out without food and, on the cross, he refused a sponge filled with vinegar and hyssop.
Jesus ate and drank. And he didn't eat and drink. He was something of a paradox in regards to hunger and fulfillment. Curiously enough, what has been called the extension of the Body of Christ - the Church - eats and drinks and it doesn't eat and drink. The Church feasts and the Church fasts. The central act of the Church is a common meal. The ultimate mythical fulfillment of the Church is a heavenly banquet. The Church is something of a paradox when it comes to hunger and fulfillment.
To be human is to be hungry. Most children are always hungry. Some children are starving. Starvation is horrible. To be without food is hell.
To be the Christ, to be Jesus of Nazareth, to be the person of God incarnate must be like being the eye of a hurricane. The eye of a hurricane is its focus, its power, the apparently unmoving force that instigates the terrible headwind. The hurricane's eye is self-contained and calm. yet the experience of the hurricane itself is scattered, disassembling, chaotic, violent motion.
The action of God in history is something of a paradox. One of our hymns reflects this disturbing paradox when it says: The peace of God - it is no peace - but strife sown in the sod...
St. Peter appears to have found the peace of God in an upside-down cross. Human beings do not intentionally seek out upside-down crosses. Upside-down crosses happen. Suddenly. Often without warning. If we can avoid, "being there", we do. If we can't, we don't. It's really almost as simple as that.
God's action in history is something of a paradox as regards to hunger and fulfillment. Is is true that 5,000 people who have run headlong into the path of a hurricane and who are hungry for food and starving for peace can have their hunger sated, their very guts which have been torn apart healed? And, if it is conceivable, can it happen through the vehicles of a few fish, a little bread, and a Word? Frankly, I don't know. But I can't say that I don't care, because I do. I care terribly. After all, I'm very hungry. And I am caught in the headwind of a hurricane.
Christ have mercy upon me.
And Jesus had compassion upon the 5,000 for he saw that they had been with him the whole day and were very hungry.
Lord, have mercy upon me.
And so he asked a little boy (who else?) to share his food with them. And from the hands of a child they were fed. Children are nice. Jesus likes children.
Christ have mercy upon me.
Starvation is horrible. To be without food is hell.
Maranatha. Lord come.
Human beings do not seek out hurricanes. Hurricanes happen.
Lord now lettest thou they servent depart in peace.
And because Jesus had compassion upon them, and because the little boy had some fish, and because the eye of the hurricane enveloped them, they ate and were filled and went home. It was not very spectacular, but then, what is? It appears that Jesus simply left it at that. And then he took a deep breath of fresh air and went back to being a fugitive. Amen.
-Martin Bell
22 August 2008
Is the real point that one returned or that ten were healed?
Where are the nine?
By: Martin Bell
How about a word or two on behalf of the nine lepers who did not return to give thanks? The Gospel reads something like this: there were ten lepers cleansed and one of them – just one of the – when he saw he was healed, turned back and in a loud voice glorified God and fell down on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks.
And Jesus answered saying, “Were there not ten cleansed? But where are the nine?”
Ten lepers were cleansed and one of them returned to give thanks. That must be a nice thing to be able to do.
What about the others? It’s simple, really. One of them was frightened – that’s all. He didn’t understand what had happened and it frightened him. So he looked for a place to hide. Jesus scared him.
A second was offended because he had not been required to do something difficult before he could be healed. It was all too easy. He had expected months, maybe years, of fasting and prayer and washing and righteous living to be the requirement. But he had done none of this. He had not earned his reward. His motto was, “you get what you pay for.” and so Jesus offended him.
The third realized too late that he had not really wanted to be cleansed. That he did not know what to do or how to live or even who he was without leprosy. Although it had been his fervent plea to be healed, he now began to see how much he needed his leprosy and consequently how necessary it had been in defining him as a person. Jesus had taken away his identity.
It is difficult to explain the reason why the fourth leper did not return to give thanks. Perhaps, it is because it is such a simple reason – and perhaps because we very nearly tread on holy ground even to talk about it. In a word, the fourth leper did not return because, in his delirium of joy, he forgot. He forgot. That’s all, he was so happy, he forgot.
The fifth leper was unable to say thank you anymore to anybody. There is something that happens to a man who must beg and who is shunned by his fellows, and who is grudgingly thrown a few coins and who is always – in the midst of such an existence and in the face of such treatment (perhaps even because of such treatment, for instance, the few coins) – expected to say thank you. He just doesn’t say thank you any more to anybody – not even Jesus.
The sixth leper was a woman – a mother who had been separated from her family for eleven years because of the leprosy. She was now free to rejoin her husband and her children. She did not return to give thanks because she was hurrying home. Like a wild animal released from captivity, she had been freed by Jesus. And like the animal, she simply went straight home.
The seventh didn’t believe that Jesus had anything to do with the cleaning. He knew that healing had taken place, but why and how were the questions. Certainly he did not believe in hocus pocus, magic, miracles – any of that. There was a perfectly intelligible explanation of what had happened, but it didn’t have anything to do with Jesus. He didn’t return to give thank because Jesus had nothing to do with the healing events.
The eighth leper did not return precisely because he did believe that Jesus had healed him – that the Kingdom of God was here and the Messiah had arrived. To return to give thanks when the Kingdom of God was so close at hand – unheard of! And so he ran to publish the news!
What shall I say about the ninth leper? What he was his experience? Why didn’t he return? I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. All I know is that he showed himself to the priest and immediately was cleansed. He then stood still for a moment and smiled. The priest reports that the ninth leper gave two utterances. First he said, “So!” And then, “Ah, yes!” Without another word he walked away. His eyes blazed fire but his shoulders sagged as if under a great burden. The air around him was silent…
Ten were cleansed and only one returned. It must be nice to be able to do that. What shall I say now – that the real point is not the one returned but that ten were cleansed? You already know that. That condemnation is easier than investigation – that if we take the time to investigate the reasons why people act as they do, we would find that they have to act the way that they do and that such action in light of the circumstances is quite understandable and totally forgivable and even completely reasonable and just as it should be? You already know that.
What then shall I say? That it is good to give thanks? Yes. That it is understandable not to give thanks? Yes. That God does not heal people and than stand around just waiting for us to say thank you and then get angry and have his feelings hurt if we don’t. Yes, that’s true. Which is the same thing as saying – no he certainly doesn’t.
But what of the nine? They are on the way home, hiding in fear, refusing to believe, offended at what they call cheep grace, so happy they forgot, lost without their leprosy, unable to say thank you ever again, publishing the news of the coming Kingdom – God, who knows where they are! The point is this: Jesus does. He knows where they are. First he says to the leper who did return, “Arise, go they way” and then he goes on his own way – with a strange smile on his lips.
But where are the nine? Don’t you see it in his eyes? He knows where they are. He knew all along. Without another word, Jesus walks away. His eyes blaze fire and his shoulders sag as if under a great burden. The air around him is silent…
By: Martin Bell
How about a word or two on behalf of the nine lepers who did not return to give thanks? The Gospel reads something like this: there were ten lepers cleansed and one of them – just one of the – when he saw he was healed, turned back and in a loud voice glorified God and fell down on his face at Jesus’ feet, giving him thanks.
And Jesus answered saying, “Were there not ten cleansed? But where are the nine?”
Ten lepers were cleansed and one of them returned to give thanks. That must be a nice thing to be able to do.
What about the others? It’s simple, really. One of them was frightened – that’s all. He didn’t understand what had happened and it frightened him. So he looked for a place to hide. Jesus scared him.
A second was offended because he had not been required to do something difficult before he could be healed. It was all too easy. He had expected months, maybe years, of fasting and prayer and washing and righteous living to be the requirement. But he had done none of this. He had not earned his reward. His motto was, “you get what you pay for.” and so Jesus offended him.
The third realized too late that he had not really wanted to be cleansed. That he did not know what to do or how to live or even who he was without leprosy. Although it had been his fervent plea to be healed, he now began to see how much he needed his leprosy and consequently how necessary it had been in defining him as a person. Jesus had taken away his identity.
It is difficult to explain the reason why the fourth leper did not return to give thanks. Perhaps, it is because it is such a simple reason – and perhaps because we very nearly tread on holy ground even to talk about it. In a word, the fourth leper did not return because, in his delirium of joy, he forgot. He forgot. That’s all, he was so happy, he forgot.
The fifth leper was unable to say thank you anymore to anybody. There is something that happens to a man who must beg and who is shunned by his fellows, and who is grudgingly thrown a few coins and who is always – in the midst of such an existence and in the face of such treatment (perhaps even because of such treatment, for instance, the few coins) – expected to say thank you. He just doesn’t say thank you any more to anybody – not even Jesus.
The sixth leper was a woman – a mother who had been separated from her family for eleven years because of the leprosy. She was now free to rejoin her husband and her children. She did not return to give thanks because she was hurrying home. Like a wild animal released from captivity, she had been freed by Jesus. And like the animal, she simply went straight home.
The seventh didn’t believe that Jesus had anything to do with the cleaning. He knew that healing had taken place, but why and how were the questions. Certainly he did not believe in hocus pocus, magic, miracles – any of that. There was a perfectly intelligible explanation of what had happened, but it didn’t have anything to do with Jesus. He didn’t return to give thank because Jesus had nothing to do with the healing events.
The eighth leper did not return precisely because he did believe that Jesus had healed him – that the Kingdom of God was here and the Messiah had arrived. To return to give thanks when the Kingdom of God was so close at hand – unheard of! And so he ran to publish the news!
What shall I say about the ninth leper? What he was his experience? Why didn’t he return? I don’t know the answer to either of those questions. All I know is that he showed himself to the priest and immediately was cleansed. He then stood still for a moment and smiled. The priest reports that the ninth leper gave two utterances. First he said, “So!” And then, “Ah, yes!” Without another word he walked away. His eyes blazed fire but his shoulders sagged as if under a great burden. The air around him was silent…
Ten were cleansed and only one returned. It must be nice to be able to do that. What shall I say now – that the real point is not the one returned but that ten were cleansed? You already know that. That condemnation is easier than investigation – that if we take the time to investigate the reasons why people act as they do, we would find that they have to act the way that they do and that such action in light of the circumstances is quite understandable and totally forgivable and even completely reasonable and just as it should be? You already know that.
What then shall I say? That it is good to give thanks? Yes. That it is understandable not to give thanks? Yes. That God does not heal people and than stand around just waiting for us to say thank you and then get angry and have his feelings hurt if we don’t. Yes, that’s true. Which is the same thing as saying – no he certainly doesn’t.
But what of the nine? They are on the way home, hiding in fear, refusing to believe, offended at what they call cheep grace, so happy they forgot, lost without their leprosy, unable to say thank you ever again, publishing the news of the coming Kingdom – God, who knows where they are! The point is this: Jesus does. He knows where they are. First he says to the leper who did return, “Arise, go they way” and then he goes on his own way – with a strange smile on his lips.
But where are the nine? Don’t you see it in his eyes? He knows where they are. He knew all along. Without another word, Jesus walks away. His eyes blaze fire and his shoulders sag as if under a great burden. The air around him is silent…
The Wheat and the Tares... and me
The Wheat and the Tares
By: Martin Bell
The Kingdom of God, Lord, is like so many things. Yet, like nothing at all I have ever known. Perhaps my poor head will never even grasp a single strand from your complex multiplicity of images. But the story of the wheat and tares will always be the hardest for me to understand. Because, at the end, the man burns the tares. And if the tares represent people, Lord, I’ll never understand that. Never.
The Kingdom of God is like so many things. Did you mean for the wheat to represent good people, Lord? And are the tares then desperate and evil men whose willful sins are so bound to them that there is no release – only the fire? And is it somehow a stranger who stands responsible, after all? (I mean ultimately responsible, since it is he who has sown the tares in the first place?) Is that what the story means, Lord? That God created good men? And somehow a stranger brought into being a number of bad men? And that the good men and the bad men must continue to live together side by side until the day of judgment when they will be either rewarded or punished? God, I hope that’s not what the story means. Partly because I am an evil and desperate man. More because I am willfully an evil and desperate man. Heard this way, the story promises me nothing but the fire. Lord, will there be nothing for me but the fire?
The Kingdom of God is like so many things. Yet, like nothing I have ever known. For there is no godliness in my daily walks amidst the meaningless drudgery of my life. There is only disappointment. And, at that, hardly any large-scale, dramatic, or bitter let-down. Only the simple, weary disappointment that is certainly the most disturbing by-product of any real insight. My world has disappointed me. I have disappointed myself. Lord, help me to understand. Could it be the very fabric of existence that itself is permeated by tares?
Dare I hope that all of mankind is represented by the wheat and that it is in explanation of the distortion of life itself that the parable is told? Is it impudent of me to wonder whether or not you are referring to the very stuff of existence as having been somehow corrupted; with the corresponding result that all men find themselves living in a matrix of sin and of desperation and of disappointment? Is it only I, Lord? Or do all men find themselves inextricably in the grasp of meaninglessness and sin? Dare I hope that the tares do not represent people, but rather alienation and despair, the universal condition of existing men? Or have I misunderstood the Kingdom of God?
The Kingdom of God is like so many things. I hope that the parable of the wheat and the tares is about man’s universal condition of sinfulness and alienation. I pray, Lord, that in the end it will be this alienation that is destroyed and the whole of mankind is gathered into the Kingdom. If so, then there is no longer any mystery as to the identity of the stranger who sowed the seeds. He is none other than I, myself. And there comes to my conscious awareness a new appreciation for the old saying that I am my own worst enemy.
We each have sown the tares, and we are all of us virtually strangled by them. If this is what you are telling us, Lord, burn the tares that we have sown in order that mankind may breathe. Burn the tares and gather your children into the Kingdom. I hope that’s what you meant by the parable of the wheat and the tares, Lord. I believe that’s why you meant. I’m betting my life that’s what you meant. But if there tares represent people, Lord, then you are the stranger. Because at the end the man burns the tares. And if the tares represent people, Lord, I’ll never understand that. Never.
By: Martin Bell
The Kingdom of God, Lord, is like so many things. Yet, like nothing at all I have ever known. Perhaps my poor head will never even grasp a single strand from your complex multiplicity of images. But the story of the wheat and tares will always be the hardest for me to understand. Because, at the end, the man burns the tares. And if the tares represent people, Lord, I’ll never understand that. Never.
The Kingdom of God is like so many things. Did you mean for the wheat to represent good people, Lord? And are the tares then desperate and evil men whose willful sins are so bound to them that there is no release – only the fire? And is it somehow a stranger who stands responsible, after all? (I mean ultimately responsible, since it is he who has sown the tares in the first place?) Is that what the story means, Lord? That God created good men? And somehow a stranger brought into being a number of bad men? And that the good men and the bad men must continue to live together side by side until the day of judgment when they will be either rewarded or punished? God, I hope that’s not what the story means. Partly because I am an evil and desperate man. More because I am willfully an evil and desperate man. Heard this way, the story promises me nothing but the fire. Lord, will there be nothing for me but the fire?
The Kingdom of God is like so many things. Yet, like nothing I have ever known. For there is no godliness in my daily walks amidst the meaningless drudgery of my life. There is only disappointment. And, at that, hardly any large-scale, dramatic, or bitter let-down. Only the simple, weary disappointment that is certainly the most disturbing by-product of any real insight. My world has disappointed me. I have disappointed myself. Lord, help me to understand. Could it be the very fabric of existence that itself is permeated by tares?
Dare I hope that all of mankind is represented by the wheat and that it is in explanation of the distortion of life itself that the parable is told? Is it impudent of me to wonder whether or not you are referring to the very stuff of existence as having been somehow corrupted; with the corresponding result that all men find themselves living in a matrix of sin and of desperation and of disappointment? Is it only I, Lord? Or do all men find themselves inextricably in the grasp of meaninglessness and sin? Dare I hope that the tares do not represent people, but rather alienation and despair, the universal condition of existing men? Or have I misunderstood the Kingdom of God?
The Kingdom of God is like so many things. I hope that the parable of the wheat and the tares is about man’s universal condition of sinfulness and alienation. I pray, Lord, that in the end it will be this alienation that is destroyed and the whole of mankind is gathered into the Kingdom. If so, then there is no longer any mystery as to the identity of the stranger who sowed the seeds. He is none other than I, myself. And there comes to my conscious awareness a new appreciation for the old saying that I am my own worst enemy.
We each have sown the tares, and we are all of us virtually strangled by them. If this is what you are telling us, Lord, burn the tares that we have sown in order that mankind may breathe. Burn the tares and gather your children into the Kingdom. I hope that’s what you meant by the parable of the wheat and the tares, Lord. I believe that’s why you meant. I’m betting my life that’s what you meant. But if there tares represent people, Lord, then you are the stranger. Because at the end the man burns the tares. And if the tares represent people, Lord, I’ll never understand that. Never.
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