My kids, returning from one of many VBS experiences that my wife has lined up for the summer, gave me a simple definition of the word "parable" the other day: a parable is a story with a hidden meaning. (My kids also carried home words like "propitiation" and "expiation" with similar, straightforward definitions...but ones that caused me to do a little research so that I didn't fall too far behind their newfound and growing theological acumen. Seriously, do YOU know the definition of "expiation!?")
So my kids are talking about parables and I'm at breakfast the next day with my buddies and we're digging into each other's struggles and hopes, etc. And I have this rare moment where I inadverdantly find myself using a parable to make a point instead of making a direct observation. I don't mean, by the way, that I pulled open my Bible and referenced a parable told by Christ to His followers...I mean I had one of those opportunities to use a story about someone else to illuminate an issue faced by my friend.
This story that I told was only loosely on target (I won't retell it here; it's not important) and I actually questioned how much it mattered or resonated at the time. In fact, as sometimes happens when telling a story, it seemed to be less on target the further along I got in the telling. Regardless, I didn't give it much additional thought. I connected the dots as best I could and then moved on. Only later did I get some feedback from my friend, via email, that made me think that this story had mattered in the least (and I'm still not sure how much it mattered; again, not important).
Flash forward to last night. I'm watching Gran Torino on loaner from someone who recommended it as one of those movies I "had to see." It really was a must see, by the way - I highly suggest you rent or buy it. In the midst of this watching I found myself doing what I often do while viewing or reading something proffered to me by someone: I wondered "why is this important to them...what does it reveal about my friend." And, quite suddenly, I finally realized why parables are so important...why this method of telling stories "with a hidden meaning" mattered so much to Christ.
Parables require our active participation.
When someone asks for advice and I give it - when someone has a question and I answer it, they have my answer and they do with it what they will. When someone asks a question and I tell them a story by way of giving an answer, it forces that person to actively search within the story I'm telling in order to understand why I think it is relevant to them. They must participate and digest the story with an eye for "where is the answer to my question in this" that is deeper and truer than any answer I or anyone else could give. Because it is internal.
Of course Christ told parables - they aren't elusive, they are personal and revealing to each of us as we seek to find ourselves within them.
How is this important to my conversation and storytelling the other day...and to my viewing of Gran Torino!? Well, let me try to connect the dots...
1) I realized how vital it was to me (and to other followers of Christ) that He used parables to impact my life - because each is an invitation.
2) I realized the compelling impact it can have on others when I'm willing to risk sharing a story that casts light on their situation, without taking the entire burden of interpreting that story on their behalf.
3) I realized that sharing a story also reveals my heart better to someone than sharing an answer.
You see, just like I watch a movie that someone gives me wondering "why is this important to so-and-so," I believe that we search within the parables we're told seeking for their relevance to us as well as their revealing of the teller's hopes for us. When I watch Gran Torino in this context I am both asking "why does this matter to him" and "how am I revealed in this" AND "what does he hope I find in this - what does my friend hope to see revealed." All different aspects of similar questions. All requiring me to participate.
So while parables may have a "hidden meaning," by definition, the meaning and purpose of Christ using parables is in no way hidden. His parables are an invitation to join Him in the journey. They are snapshots of the things He loves and holds most dear - and He makes them available to us with expectant hope that we'll participate and discover His hopes for us within. His heart is good.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Battling Waves
Back and recovering from vacation at the beach. I suppose a more committed blogger may have spent some of that time posting new thoughts - I spent it avoiding anything technological (all the way from my laptop to my blackberry), and have no regrets!
Lots I might report from my time at the beach and subsequent visit with my father - perhaps this will be the first of a flurry of posts...but the focus of this post is an image that has stayed in my mind's eye since our return - with implications that still seem to be unfolding for me.
My oldest son, now 5 and looking forward to his first year at kindergarten this fall, discovered the fun of jumping waves this year. The beach we visit, Isle of Palms (just north of Charleston, SC), is fairly sedate in this regard - so while I often found myself joining him and his older sister to bounce over the small crests, there was little danger in letting them both explore the water on their own, as well.
Tate's romping in the waves really kept my attention (which is good, since I'm playing the role of lifeguard...not just observer). He doesn't just jump in the surf -- rising up and over the crashing waves, turning his head to avoid the spray of foam getting in his eyes and mouth -- he attacks them! I can remember my own exhilaration as a child, facing the onslaught of the water, struggling to gauge the magnitude, anticipating the jump...or, later - as I grew older, working to time my entry into the wave as it breaks with a boogie board beneath me. Catching that phenomenal ride.
Watching my son, my personal remembrance of childhood seemed palpable - including the rush and feeling of power...even the conversations that I remember having with the water. I don't know if anyone else has done this, but both Tate and I seem to have the imagination and the lack of self awareness that is required to facilitate such chatter with the ocean. Between waves I could see him stretching his hands out to take measure of the water with his palms as his mouth kept moving, too far away for me to hear his words, but clearly ranging from challenging the sea all the way to pleading - for the next wave to be bigger or for a reprieve, I don't know.
So as my own memories played out live in front of me, I began to connect some ideas...from my son to me to my Father (in heaven - don't really know if my Dad ever spoke to the ocean, to tell the truth). There is an immense feeling of personal power in the midst of nature's power when you are jumping waves, if that makes sense. This huge force is all around you, literally, but you have strength in its midst... to cooperate with it, even to apparently battle against it. A mock battle, of course, but a powerful one nonetheless. Jumping up and being carried along feels much like I would imagine walking on the moon - large sweeping moves are your reward for very little effort. And, in the time that you are caught up in the play of wave-jumping, it seems to be all there is in life...it seems whole and, well, perfect.
Like being in the center of God's will.
But then the unexpected happens. A jump ill-timed. A too-soon wave appears. Distraction enters. Or we are simply wrong-footed. Regardless, the play-at-being-powerful is revealed for the game it truly is as the real power, unrelenting, unaware and uncaring of our fate, suddenly catches us, me, my son, and throws us into and under the water spinning and gasping and desperate for rescue.
Like being in the center of God's will?
You see, though I may not be doing it sufficient justice here, the reason that this scene - exhilarating and joyful both for its rekindling of my memory and for the pleasure I gain from watching my children come alive - has lingered and played out in my mind for more than a week since our return from the beach...the reason I can't seem to shake its implications is this: I live my life all too often believing that God's "universal love" is indifferent to me, personally. I don't "believe" this as something I would tell someone in Sunday school, like its a doctrine of some kind.
No, this belief is far worse, far deeper.
I believe that living in the center of God's will is powerful and empowering and rewarding and exciting...but in the back of my mind, or deep in my heart, I also believe that He is somewhat indifferent to me, individually, and just as likely to throw me gagging and coughing and gasping for breath when I least expect it, as He is to propel me upward into his embrace. I believe it in the way I plan for tomorrow, react to today, walk across the street. It is the deep lie about which the enemy persists - and I too readily conspire to maintain.
You see, now, why this lingers? I desire to swim in deep waters, to risk and be empowered, to catch a wave and turn to find the next one. When asked, I believe God's desire for me is the same - but my fear of His indifference sucks at my feet like a rip tide.
Lots I might report from my time at the beach and subsequent visit with my father - perhaps this will be the first of a flurry of posts...but the focus of this post is an image that has stayed in my mind's eye since our return - with implications that still seem to be unfolding for me.
My oldest son, now 5 and looking forward to his first year at kindergarten this fall, discovered the fun of jumping waves this year. The beach we visit, Isle of Palms (just north of Charleston, SC), is fairly sedate in this regard - so while I often found myself joining him and his older sister to bounce over the small crests, there was little danger in letting them both explore the water on their own, as well.
Tate's romping in the waves really kept my attention (which is good, since I'm playing the role of lifeguard...not just observer). He doesn't just jump in the surf -- rising up and over the crashing waves, turning his head to avoid the spray of foam getting in his eyes and mouth -- he attacks them! I can remember my own exhilaration as a child, facing the onslaught of the water, struggling to gauge the magnitude, anticipating the jump...or, later - as I grew older, working to time my entry into the wave as it breaks with a boogie board beneath me. Catching that phenomenal ride.
Watching my son, my personal remembrance of childhood seemed palpable - including the rush and feeling of power...even the conversations that I remember having with the water. I don't know if anyone else has done this, but both Tate and I seem to have the imagination and the lack of self awareness that is required to facilitate such chatter with the ocean. Between waves I could see him stretching his hands out to take measure of the water with his palms as his mouth kept moving, too far away for me to hear his words, but clearly ranging from challenging the sea all the way to pleading - for the next wave to be bigger or for a reprieve, I don't know.
So as my own memories played out live in front of me, I began to connect some ideas...from my son to me to my Father (in heaven - don't really know if my Dad ever spoke to the ocean, to tell the truth). There is an immense feeling of personal power in the midst of nature's power when you are jumping waves, if that makes sense. This huge force is all around you, literally, but you have strength in its midst... to cooperate with it, even to apparently battle against it. A mock battle, of course, but a powerful one nonetheless. Jumping up and being carried along feels much like I would imagine walking on the moon - large sweeping moves are your reward for very little effort. And, in the time that you are caught up in the play of wave-jumping, it seems to be all there is in life...it seems whole and, well, perfect.
Like being in the center of God's will.
But then the unexpected happens. A jump ill-timed. A too-soon wave appears. Distraction enters. Or we are simply wrong-footed. Regardless, the play-at-being-powerful is revealed for the game it truly is as the real power, unrelenting, unaware and uncaring of our fate, suddenly catches us, me, my son, and throws us into and under the water spinning and gasping and desperate for rescue.
Like being in the center of God's will?
You see, though I may not be doing it sufficient justice here, the reason that this scene - exhilarating and joyful both for its rekindling of my memory and for the pleasure I gain from watching my children come alive - has lingered and played out in my mind for more than a week since our return from the beach...the reason I can't seem to shake its implications is this: I live my life all too often believing that God's "universal love" is indifferent to me, personally. I don't "believe" this as something I would tell someone in Sunday school, like its a doctrine of some kind.
No, this belief is far worse, far deeper.
I believe that living in the center of God's will is powerful and empowering and rewarding and exciting...but in the back of my mind, or deep in my heart, I also believe that He is somewhat indifferent to me, individually, and just as likely to throw me gagging and coughing and gasping for breath when I least expect it, as He is to propel me upward into his embrace. I believe it in the way I plan for tomorrow, react to today, walk across the street. It is the deep lie about which the enemy persists - and I too readily conspire to maintain.
You see, now, why this lingers? I desire to swim in deep waters, to risk and be empowered, to catch a wave and turn to find the next one. When asked, I believe God's desire for me is the same - but my fear of His indifference sucks at my feet like a rip tide.
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