Listen, there was a woman who wore make-up everyday of her life. She would not entertain the idea of being outside without it. Even jogging, she wore make-up. One day as she ran her regular route an old man stood in her way, and, producing a digital camera, asked her to take his picture. With some impatience she took it and in bringing it to her eye she saw her image in the two-inch screen. Her face was blotchy and streaked black, ugly. Horrified, she ran home, washed all the cake off. Looking up from the sink she saw herself, as if for the first time, healthy and beautiful. She vowed never to wear make-up again, well, at least never while jogging. Then she sat down to her phone and reported the old man to Police.

Okay, my parable needs work. But I’m leading to a point about this sticky bit of scripture.

Then the disciples came and asked him, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” He answered, “To you it has been given to know the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to them it has not been given. For to those who have, more will be given, and they will have an abundance; but from those who have nothing, even what they have will be taken away. The reason I speak to them in parables is that ‘seeing they do not perceive, and hearing they do not listen, nor do they understand.

It sounds like Jesus plays the Gnostic here, revealing knowledge to a special few and hiding it within parabolic code from the vulgar. But here’s a gospel thought: What if Jesus has no interest in segregation, no desire for spiritual apartheid?

Why, years ago, did I think otherwise? Because I liked the idea of being on the inside? Liked the idea that Jesus spoke in parables to trip up, even take something away from those on the outside. After all, they were the pretentious blatherers and deserved being shut out.

But suppose Jesus spoke in parables to unstop all ears and brighten all our eyes.

Parables are not hard. They are truths told in storied ways so as to bring meaning to light and fullness to meaning. They are stories, curious enough for the ponderous, direct enough for the pragmatic and beautiful and open-ended enough for the artists.

And what of the perceived hardness of Jesus’ words? That’s only the hardness in me, and in every pastor’s sermon that alludes to Jesus as secret-keeper. And in that case, the even-what-they-have that is taken away from those of us with nothing, is really the offering of new lenses and new music. 

I’m wondering this evening about a scene in Adaptation. It’s near the end of the movie. Charlie and Donald are lying in a swamp, hiding from their would be killers.

Charlie: There was this time in high school. I was watching you out the library window. You were talking to Sarah Marsh.
Donald: Oh, God. I was so in love with her.
Charlie: I know. And you were flirting with her. And she was really sweet to you.
Donald: I remember that.
Charlie: Then, when you walked away, she started making fun of you with Kim Canetti. It was like they were making fun of “me”. You didn’t know at all. You seemed so happy.
Donald: I knew. I heard them.
Charlie: How come you looked so happy?
Donald: I loved Sarah, Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Even Sarah didn’t have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.
Charlie: She thought you were pathetic.
Donald: That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That’s what I decided a long time ago. 

While I agree we are what we love, I’m wondering if it’s possible to sustain love without a returned response. Perhaps it is, (I’m thinking of some long-suffering parents and sons and daughters here) but I’m not sure if I ever want to find out.

What I do know is that if we’ve never known being loved we are incapable of loving. We learn love only by being loved. And our love of someone increases that persons capacity to love. And to love Love itself, like Donald, is, well, divinely humanizing. Amazing when you think of it.

(Above: Yes…my daughter and granddaughter on a Saskatchewan round bale)

I’m reminding myself of the day I stood in line at the High Street Starbucks, and  thought, “I love this life, I love my life.” 

I recall that what set up the warmth were two lovers, on the patio, starring across the table at each other. The woman was plain but beautiful and her face shone as she talked to her beloved.

Just before, I had stopped at a Husky gas station. The East Indian lady behind the counter had handed back my credit card and glancing at its face said, “Thank you Stephen.” I replied, “Only my mother calls me Stephen.” She laughed and said, “Maybe it’s because I’m feeling like an old mother these days.” She went on in her lilting accent, “I have two older son’s, 21 and 22 and now out of nowhere I find myself with a year old baby. I told my husband that he still had it in him.” I said, “You obviously still had it in you as well.” She laughed again. When I went to leave a trucker who had just finished refueling held the door open for me. I thanked him as I stepped through the doorway and he said, “Age before beauty.” We both laughed.

Back at High Street I had found a table and sat down with my coffee. Just outside the large window beside the entrance I saw a man in a light coloured coat. His face was wrinkled by a long life. He had two deep creases that began under his cheek bones and formed parentheses around his mouth . He was wearing an old Tilly hat and while leaning on his cane he flirted with one of the Starbuck’s barista’s. She had gone out to fill the dog dish with water–a canine kindness at High Street–I couldn’t hear them but he had a bright little light in his eyes and the waitress was feigning annoyance.

And then Jane Sibery sang, “Bound by the Beauty” and I became emotional because of all these simple gifts. That afternoon the whole world was so amazingly inviting and life so livable. I forgot the stresses and the wars and the rumours of war, and the rumours of stresses. I felt in that short moment ready to erupt with thanksgiving.

I was being graced and embraced by moments of beauty, one after another, a Divine conspiracy.

That day I questioned, “Tomorrow, am I going to forget these moments like I’ve forgotten so many sunsets or am I going to remember and through the remembering make it part of who I am? Can I fall in love with loving? Can I be this strong? Will I make room for this experience? I decide to at least share it with you to reinforce whatever can be reinforced. I’m remembering to remember.