Targeting the Imagination

The Fourth Sunday after Pentecost, 6/16/2024

Mark 4:26-34

1

If Jesus the man were with us today, I imagine he might tell us a parable that goes something like this:

The realm of God is like a butterfly, which flaps its gentle wings but once; and from this flutter, several months later, on the other side of the world, comes a hurricane. Anyone who is truly listening will understand.

And yet we, his disciples today, just like his disciples of old, would probably scratch our collective heads and say what?

So, this modern-day parable from the world of science is called “the butterfly effect,” a term coined by MIT meteorologist Edward Lorenz in the 1960s.

Predicting the weather today is tricky. It was even more so sixty years ago, when the accepted practice was to analyze historical records and base a prediction on those.

Dr. Lorenz didn’t buy into this practice. Instead, he ran weather simulations using a computer and discovered that rounding a variable from the ten-thousandth place to the thousandth would change two-month weather predictions dramatically.

In other words, even something as small as the fluttering of a butterfly’s wings can significantly alter the course of a large-scale weather pattern.

His point being, try as we might, we just can’t predict the weather because we can’t track the seemingly insignificant factors that each play their part.

Incidentally, Lorenz’s insight paved the way to a branch of mathematics that today we call chaos theory. Look him up if you’d like to learn more.

But with respect to today’s Gospel, isn’t this what Jesus is getting at?

Someone scatters seed and, over time, the ground is transformed.

And while this transformation is mostly predictable, anything can happen while we wait for the harvest: birds eat the seeds, the soil’s too rocky for growth, a flood comes, blight.

Or: the mustard seed is very small.

Yet from just one seed, the mustard plant grows, matures, and germinates very quickly until, without really knowing how it happened, we notice it has taken over an entire hillside.

The kingdom of God—or, if you prefer, the realm of God—is already among us, growing, but under our noses so that we hardly notice.

And then, all at once, there it is, we see it.

And curiously, when we do see it, it’s often around those times we call chaos.

An act of terrorism, another mass shooting, a natural disaster—and then all at once there they are, on the news: citizens of the kingdom of God coming together in a time of chaos and offering hope to those around them, to us who watch, and to the world at large—

Like what happens after a mustard seed is planted or a butterfly flaps its wings.

And after Jesus taught these two parables, Mark concludes, “With many such parables he spoke the word to them, as they were able to hear it; he did not speak to them except in parables.”

2

So now, parables.

I’d like to take a brief excursus and explore this genre together, to help us better understand Jesus and what he is calling us to do and be as a church.

And as a first observation: the genre itself may have originated with Jesus.

Prior to the publication of the Gospel of Mark, the earliest gospel in our Bible, there are no recorded parables—from anywhere.

Which should make us wonder: did Jesus come up with the genre himself?

Whether he did or not—perhaps he picked it up from a teacher during his formative years—either way, this makes him a master storyteller. Right? I mean, you can’t say this about very many people in the history of the world: that they invented an entire literary genre.

As a second observation: the word itself, parable, literally means “to throw alongside.”

This type of story is meant to accompany us as we live our lives of dual citizenship—in both kingdoms of heaven and earth at the same time.

Think about the parable of the sower and the seeds. If we disciples are called to identify with the sower, then it falls on us to fling seeds of good news all around us with reckless abandonment in our everyday lives, let the seeds fall where they will.

Or recall the parable of the prodigal son. If we identify with the father in that story, then we are called to give people who have turned their backs on us a second chance; and by extension we are called to a hospitality that welcomes and includes all. Everyday.

So, Jesus probably invented the genre; it’s a genre that challenges us to live our lives each day in accordance with Jesus’ message and mission of love;

And as a third observation: parables are not to be confused with fables.

Aesop comes to mind here. He preceded Jesus by six centuries. And he told lots of stories about common life experiences and how we as individuals should face them morally—which so far sounds like parables.

However, unlike parables, fables offer street-smarts: how to be shrewd and clever in our day-to-day interactions with others.

Think of the boy who cries wolf, or the fox who steals some cheese from a crow through flattery.

In the former case, the moral is to be honest; in the latter, to beware of ulterior motives in others.

And why?

For the benefit of me, the individual hearing the fable.

Fables teach lessons about this world: how we should live, what to watch out for, and so on.

But there’s nothing spiritual about them.

Whereas parables—they’re all about God: what the kingdom of God is like, what God’s nature is like, who we are called to be as citizens of God’s kingdom, and so on.

Jesus gives us a new genre, distinct from all that came before.

And through it, Jesus takes old truths and repackages them to stimulate his audience’s imagination, “so that [we] might perceive the power and presence of God in a new and immediate way” (Nibs Stroupe, 141)—and then carry this new image of God alongside us in our daily lives. (Pretty nifty, eh?)

3

Okay, so now, one more step back and one more observation before bringing it home—have you noticed this?

Jesus spends very little time on doctrine.

BTW, my evangelical friends have a hard time with this one.

But think about Jesus’ teachings.

In Matthew, Mark, and Luke, he often speaks to crowds in parables.

These engage the imagination. There’s always an element of surprise, usually about an old, established truth; and never just one way to interpret them.

On the continuum of open and closed, parables are much closer to the open end;

Whereas doctrine—an established set of beliefs—is near the closed end.

Parables are not doctrinal. In fact, Jesus’ parables often cut against the grain of the accepted doctrine of his day.

And when Jesus wasn’t teaching through parables—well, how else do we see him teaching?

He says, “No one puts new wine into old wineskins.”

He says, “No one can enter a strong man’s house and plunder his property without first tying up the strong man.”

He says, “Whoever does the will of God is my brother and sister and mother.”

So: Wine skins? A strong man? Family relationships?

Jesus is heavy on imagery.

And even over in the Gospel of John, where Jesus teaches no parables at all—

• He turns water into wine
• He meets with Nicodemus at night to discuss rebirth
• He encounters the woman at the well at high noon, the brightest time of the day, and converses with her about living water
• And after weeping, he raises Lazarus from the dead—from the darkness of a tomb into the full light of day

Everywhere we look, parables or not, Jesus is painting pictures for the mind.

Imagery is powerfully sticky, like an earworm—much more so than doctrine.

4

And, okay, now I think we’re ready to bring it back to us.

What do parables call us to do and be as a church today?

• We are a living parable, an image of the kingdom of God today, to the community around us
• Parables target the imagination
• And imagery has more staying power than doctrine
• Thus, it seems to me, our calling is to lean into our imagery

Everything about our liturgy—from lighting the candles, to the opening procession, to the music selected and offered, to the vestments worn by the altar party, the font, the altar, flowers, bread and wine, even the motions I make and words I say at the altar—everything about our liturgy targets the imagination.

On Sunday mornings we enter the very throne room of Christ as described in Revelation 22, and witness through imagery the wonders of heaven.

It’s the main parable we teach, Sunday after Sunday, an image of heaven and earth joined together in harmony.

But here’s the thing:

It’s okay if you or I don’t always see it, or if visitors have some difficulty following along, or if you and I see things differently—even very differently—or even if we disciples today scratch our collective heads and say what?

Because that’s how imagery works.

Words play their part; but imagery has more staying power.

And just like with Jesus, imagery communicated well requires no further explanation—

Through the parable of our liturgy, we speak the word to all who are able to hear it.

I’m sure you’ve noticed this about Jesus:

He teaches in parables; and often the crowd is left scratching their collective head;

But he just leaves it out there, for the crowd to do what they will with it.

Sometimes, Mark tells us, Jesus pulls his disciples aside and explains the meaning of the parable to them—

That’s their vestry meeting—

But he always leaves the rest of the crowd to ponder the imagery at their own free will.

Because he knows, anyone who is truly listening will be able to understand.

The kingdom of God is already among us. It’s called the church, the place where citizens of that kingdom gather in this world Sunday after Sunday, so commonly that the surrounding community hardly notices.

Until all at once, they do.

So, yeah. Let’s lean into this part of our identity: the parable we present through our liturgy Sunday after Sunday.

We don’t have to explain ourselves.

All we really need to do is target the imagination.