With respect to the biblical ignorance of many who offer up their ill-considered opinions concerning matters of Christian theology, here is one of several pet peeves I have (out of a whole menagerie): even among the well-educated, including seminary-trained ministers, the terms “myth” and “parable” are frequently—I want to say almost universally—misused. This abuse of language, in the words of Peter Griffin, really grinds my gears.
Myth is popularly used as a synonym for falsehood. Here, falsehood is not used to mean an outright lie, necessarily, but, rather it refers to mistake of fact based on error in judgment. We are told, for example, that Jesus never existed—that he is a myth and that we have, therefore, based our entire worldview and system of morality on the shifting sand of misplaced faith rather that the solid rock of objective reason. Or, myth may be used as a substitute for legend: A person named Jesus may indeed have existed long ago, but his story is freighted with so many contradictions, plainly impossible events, and outright distortions that, as with King Arthur, we can know nothing of the real person; ergo, he is mythical.
Parable, on the other hand, is used interchangeably with fable. In this sense, a parable is nothing more than a little story—a pedagogical device—usually aimed at children or unsophisticated and credulous grownups, designed to offer us little life lessons from which we are expected to draw some “moral.” Or the moral might be stated plainly for us. The wise and faithful turtle beats the immature and impetuous rabbit to the finish line; from this we are to learn that plodding-but-steady hard work is better than brilliant bursts of energy (and insight), which might be fun but cannot be sustained.
Myth is not falsehood. Myth is not legend. Parable is not fable.
In his early book, The Dark Interval, from which many of the thoughts expressed herein spring, J.D. Crossan distinguishes explicitly between myth and parable—two sides of the same coin—and in so doing implicitly explores the relationships among all these terms: myth, parable, fable, and legend. They are related, certainly, and Jesus employed all four in his teaching ministry. But, Crossan argues, they are as distinct from one another as an archbishop is from a chorister and as a chorister is from a sexton.
Myth has a precise meaning, and it deals only very tangentially with truth or falsehood, historicity or non-historicity. Myth exists in the realm of fantasy, but in a particular kind of fantasy. According to Crossan, myth offers us a way to deal with reality by providing an explanation of why things are the way they are:
- Adam
and Eve were corrupted by Satan in the form of a serpent; this is
why men have to work hard, women agonize during childbirth, both
sexes loathe the satanic snakes, and, ultimately, why Christ had to
die on the cross.
- God
punished sinful man with a great deluge, thought better of it,
promised not to do it again, and sealed his promise with a sign;
this is why we have rainbows.
- God
joined one man and one woman in marriage; this is why divorce is a
sin and, incidentally, why gay marriage is an abomination.
- God
set up the USA as his New Jerusalem, his shining city on the hill;
this is why we have the right to impose our will—by force if
necessary—on the rest of the world.
Myth explains reality and tells us how things got to be the way they are, but parable is a horse of an entirely different color. Parable as Jesus employed it, argues Crossan, exists not to explain reality as it is and still less to offer pat homilies about how we should behave. Several of Jesus’ parables aren't even “stories” at all (and some of what we call parables are actually morality stories). Myth may exist to answer questions, but parable exists to raise them. Jesus used parable to force us to question reality: to not, in the immortal words of George Bernard Shaw, look at things as they are and ask “Why?” but, rather, to imagine things as they never were and ask, “Why not?” Parable exists not to reassure us by reinforcing deeply held beliefs, but to shake us out of our apathy by forcing us to confront reality it all its stark inequity and in that confrontation to dream and consider alternatives. Myth comforts us; parable challenges our comfort. Myth meets our expectations; parable takes our expectations and turns them upside down.
Jesus told us that the Kingdom of God is like a mustard seed. It starts small and grows into a bush—a large bush to be sure, but still a bush. The Bible itself tells us that the object God cited—more than once—as a symbol of imperial power and majesty was a mighty tree indeed: the towering cedar of Lebanon. The religious traditions of the day held the mighty tree with birds nesting in it to be a fitting symbol for the Messiah himself and for his kingdom. So, Jesus is telling us that the Kingdom of God is like a scraggly bush, an herb that we could easily get along without, and not worth a second look? Why is he upsetting our expectations? What is the Kingdom of God if it isn't earthly power and glory? How can we find God in something so small and insignificant? And how can we have a Messiah who is not a great king, worthy to be compared to the noblest of trees? We don't know, and Jesus doesn't tell us; but he's got us talking about it, hasn't he? Damned right!
Yeast was an undesirable thing back in Jesus' day. If you were a Jew in the Ancient Near East, you were brought up to believe that yeast represented pollution and corruption. Yet there goes Spaceship Jesus again, upsetting our apple carts, and this time he’s comparing the Kingdom of God to an infestation of yeast in good flour! What are we supposed to make of that? That the Kingdom of God is some sort of undesirable—no, noxious—element insinuating its way into and polluting an otherwise perfectly serviceable society? What is the Kingdom of God? How do we advance it, really? Do we need to act as a fifth column, or do we boldly proclaim it? Do we subvert the Empire from within, or do we challenge it from without? When Jesus says yeast is good does he mean that our religious observance (think: The Feast of Unleavened Bread) counts for nothing? Jesus answers none of these questions. He leaves his audience dangling. BUT—The questions have been raised. The idea that the Empire is both permanent and invulnerable has been challenged, and the Kingdom of God has been identified as a longing in our hearts. The age-old question, “How, then, shall we live?” has been raised in a new context. Jesus causes the questions; he trusts his audience to eventually find the answers.
Here’s a little story: Back in 1967, inspired by other workers in the civil rights movement, a young black man sets out from Selma, Alabama on foot. His destination is Montgomery. Along the way a gang of young rednecks sets upon him, robs him of his meager store of possessions, and leaves him to live or die—they don’t care which—by the side of the road. Dr. King passes by, sees him, and drives on to his next speaking engagement. Maybe he'll call somebody when he reaches his destination. A couple of NAACP lawyers, on their way to argue a desegregation case pass; they look at him, but, in the end, they pass by as well. They’re too busy rehearsing their arguments. It just so happens, however, that a Ku Klux Klansman tools by in his pickup truck. He sees the injured young man, immediately stops, and administers first aid. He takes the young man into Montgomery, where he pays for four nights' lodging, leaving his credit card in case the young man requires longer for his recuperation. He hires a private duty nurse to come look in on the patient, promising to pay any overtime.
You recognize the parable of the Good Samaritan, of course. I set it during the civil rights era, because I wanted you to be shocked by the behavior of Dr. King, the NAACP, and the Klansman just as Jesus’ audience was shocked by the behavior of the priest, the Levite, and the hated Samaritan. Jesus went and upset their expectations again! This time it was really outrageous. The priest and the Levite were good and holy men. It was their job to look after the injured, and it was unthinkable that they should behave as they did. What do you mean they passed the injured man by while this low life, scummy Klansman did the “Christian” thing? What does that say about our religious establishment? What does that say about common decency? Just how far do we have to go? Who gets included in this Kingdom of God—even our enemies? Even God’s enemies? Where do we draw the line? Is there a line to be drawn? Once again, Jesus leaves us asking for more. Once again, he provides no answers. But once again, too, he’s got us talking about the Kingdom of God and considering the possibilities.
Jesus really existed; his story is no myth; and Christianity is not based on a lie. His very life was a parable. He upended all our expectations about what a Messiah would do and what a Deliverer would look like. He defied all expectations back in the day, and he continues to defy our expectations today. Much about Jesus has dissolved into legend, true—the miracles, the virgin birth, the Resurrection are matters of faith, not fact—but Jesus is no Arthur on a doomed quest for that which was never there. He is no Don Quixote, in his delusion fighting battles that can never be won. He knows the truth; he knows how badly we need to know it, but he will not spoon feed it to us; he demands that we discover it for ourselves. He knows that we will not be led to the Kingdom of God; we must find it on our own.
