I
love stories. My favourite stories are detective fiction. And my favourite
detective fiction stories are Louise Penny’s series of Chief Inspector Gamache mysteries,
about the head of homicide in Quebec, his team, his family, and his friends.
And about me, the reader; my complex humanity, in all its frailty and strength,
its hopes and fears, its shabbiness and its glory.
We
navigate life by telling stories. This is universal, among humans; and, as far
as we can tell, it is not limited to humans but found more widely in the animal
kingdom. Even bees tell one another stories, through the medium of dance.
We
tell stories to reach out to one another. If you ask me where my accent comes
from, I can only answer with a story: My parents are both English; but I was
born and spent my early childhood in the Philippines. So, my formative years
were in an Americano-English context, not a British-English context. Then, I did
most of my schooling in Glasgow. The result is a mid-Atlantic accent that some
place as Canadian, and others as Irish; while others still detect a
Scandinavian lilt.
On
the other hand, if you make me wary, if I do not know if I trust you, my answer
will simply be, “It’s complicated”.
We
tell stories to reach out to one another, but also to conceal ourselves, to
hide. If you ask me a question, and I think that you will think less of me if I
reply truthfully, I will construct a web of lies; stir-up a smokescreen between
us, on the far side of which I am desperately seeking a doorway out of the
conversation. That confession, from a priest, might shock you. But I am human
through-and-through. I am written and re-written in complex stories, of which I
am a co-author.
The
Bible is a story of stories. Stories people co-authored with God in order to
navigate life. Stories written and re-written, in times of weeping and of
laughing, times of scattering and of gathering, times of keeping and of
discarding, in times of silence and times to give voice, in times of war and
time for peace. Words carefully chosen, skilfully woven. Stories to enter-into,
at times cautiously and at other times, jumping feet first. And this morning I
want to reflect on two particular and incredibly powerful genres of story that
we find in the Bible: myth, and parable.
In
the study of narrative, myth is a
technical term. It doesn’t refer to a story that is ‘made up’ (all stories are made up) or a story
about gods or heroes (though it might feature those) but to a story that is
concerned with reconciliation. With
opposites being united. Think of fairy-tales. Think Beauty & the Beast: wealth and poverty, innocence and
monstrosity, love and malice, all resolved into happily-ever-after. Myths paint
a picture in big, bold, recurring contrasts. Myths dare us to believe that the
seemingly entrenched divisions we experience—the gross injustices of life—will
be resolved, one day. Myths comfort us when the world is a frightening place.
A
parable, on the other hand, is a
story that disrupts us, that lures us
in with the familiar only to discomfort us. A parable presents us with a
tension that is unresolvable, and
asks us to simply live with it, because maintaining the polarity is important,
just as it is essential for the life of a battery to maintain the polarity
between anode and cathode. The Book of Jonah is a parable. It ends with Jonah
in an unresolved stand-off with both God and the people of Nineveh (Jonah 4:9-11). To this day, the tale
rudely reminds us of our own prejudices. Whereas myths settle us, parables
unsettle us, agitate us. Whereas myths empower us to rest in God, parables
empower us to repent where we have wandered far from home.
We
need both myth and parable—which is why the Bible gives us both. And in our
gospel passage on this first Sunday of Advent, Jesus tells us a myth (Luke 21:25-28 and 21:34-36), with a
parable inserted within it (Luke
21:29-33).
Speaking
to people living under the rule of an occupying superpower, Jesus retells an
earlier myth of God’s redemption—of God’s reclaiming what is his and restoring the
fortunes of his people. This is a vision of opposites being united, or
re-united: the bringing-together of the heavens and the earth, of God and
humanity, of Israel and Judah, of the Jews and the gentile nations and peoples.
Only myth can convey a vision expansive enough to keep hope alive in the
darkest hours, when all around are overwhelmed by dismay or lose their heads in
the chaos. And this is not a sop to placate those who hunger for justice, but a
subversive feast for the soul, to strengthen us on our journey, in our
struggle. Not wishful thinking, but hope-full thinking.
But
into this vision of redemption, Jesus adds an element of discomfort for us, the
parable of the fig tree coming into leaf. Why a fig tree? Well, you may
remember that when our first parents, having disobeyed the Lord God, realised
what they had done, ‘they sewed fig leaves together and made loincloths for
themselves’ (Genesis 3:7). When God
came looking for his own, they were afraid and hid. As the collection of
stories grew, the fig tree came to be a symbol of the Jewish people. And in a deeply
important touchstone we read that ‘During Solomon’s lifetime Judah and Israel
lived in safety, from Dan even to Beer-sheba, all of them under their vines and
fig trees’ (1 Kings 4:25). This is a
parable that speaks of God’s coming being something we want to hide from…but
also something we long for—an unresolvable tension we are asked to live with.
The
vision of redemption has, within it, an element of discomfort for us because at
the heart of the fulfilling of God’s promise is justice; and so, we need to name and confess and repent of the ways
in which we have chosen, or settled-for, injustice instead. We are not sole
authors of our stories (they simply wouldn’t be robust enough if we were), but
we are co-authors, not least in the plot-twists of the next chapter.
Today
is the start of Advent, the season of preparing our hearts for the coming of
the Lord. It is a season of myth and of parable: of rejoicing that light shines
in our darkness and of facing up to whatever that light might expose. It is a
season of paying close attention to
the tension between our being comforted where we long for God’s coming, where
we cry out for justice; and our being discomforted where we need to repent,
where we need to be shaken out of our unrighteous self-interest. Because that
place of tension is where God and our fellow human beings (neighbours and
strangers), as co-authors, are calling us to write what comes next.
This
Advent, may we step deeper than ever before into the fulfilment of the Lord’s
promise, given to us in Jesus. Amen.
Notes:
To
be clear, I believe that Christ ‘will come again to judge the living and the
dead’—I just believe that myth is the genre we need to speak of such a thing.
If
you want to read more about myth and parable, I recommend Mighty Stories, Dangerous Rituals: Weaving Together the Human and the
Divine, by Herbert Anderson and Edward Foley.
Louise
Penny’s novels are so tightly constructed in terms of unfolding character
development and narrative arc that, if you want to read them, it is absolutely
essential to read them in order. And stick with them.
I
think one of the reasons I so enjoy Louise Penny’s novels is because she brings
together myth and parable: the comforting, healing, hidden village of Three
Pines; and the hidden recesses of the human heart brought to light—unlocked by the
four key confessions Gamache lives by: “I’m sorry” “I don’t know” “I need help”
“I was wrong”.
In
his letter to the church in Thessalonica, Paul also draws on both myth and
parable. In our reading today, he weaves together night and day, being kept
apart and being face-to-face, lack and restoration. These verses sit within the
context of parable: these people are experiencing persecution that will not be
resolved—at least not in the foreseeable future—and, moreover, and most
disconcertingly, some of their number have died, and the Lord has not yet
returned.
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