This is It - Episode 9: Mysteries and Metaphors

Next day, Yeshua withdrew toward the lake. Followed by throngs as he was, he went out onto the water in a small boat, and from there answered questions and taught them in metaphors.

Once, a man went out to sow seed in his field. Some seed fell in the road, and the birds came and at it up. Some seed fell in a rocky ground, where there was little soil; the seeds germinated and the plants came up quickly, but had no roots, so they were scorched by the sun and withered away. Some seed fell into a patch of thorns, where the plants were choked off. Some fell in good soil, grew to maturity and yielded a good crop. Hear what I say!

A student asked, Why do you speak in metaphors?

Some people hear and understand; others do not. I want you to hear and understand.

Another student asked: So what does this metaphor mean?

And he said, The seed that fell in the road is the word about the realm the holy one that was heard but the person was robbed of the opportunity to understand. The seed that fell in the rocky ground, whose plants have no deep roots, that represents to person who hears and understands the word, but cannot stand up to the challenge of other people’s persuasion, and so they abandon their understanding. The seed that fell in the patch of thorns hears and understands the word, but then tries to scheme how to have one foot in the realm and the other in this world; the plants from that seed can never bear fruit. The seeds that fell in good soil represent the person who hears and understands the word; that person has deep roots and bears good fruit.

Before another question could be asked, he went on.

The realm of the holy one is like a man who sowed good seed in his field, but in the night, someone sowed weeds where the good seed was. The good and bad seeds sprouted and grew together. The man’s servants asked, ‘Do you want us to pull out the weeds?’ But he said, ‘No, because the good plants might also be uprooted. Let all grow together, then at harvest time, we’ll pull the weeds and bundle them into the fire, then collect the wheat into silo.’

He went on, so as not to be interrupted, The realm of the holy one is like the seed of the mustard plant. Though the smallest of all seeds, it grows into a bush large enough for birds to nest in.

And he said, further, The realm is like the yeast that a woman mixed in with three bags of flour, until it all doubled.

After that, he to dismissed them, returned to the shore, and headed back to his house. But they wanted to hear more.

Here are some short ones about the realm of the holy one. It is like a treasure hidden in a field, is found and by a person and reburied. That person then joyfully sells all he has to buy the field.

The realm is like the merchant in search of quality pearls. He finds the single most precious one, and sells all that he has in order to purchase it.

Or this one, the realm is like the fishermen who throw out their net and drag it in when it’s full. They sort the good fish into their creels, and the bad fish they throw back. This is how it will be at the end, the just will be culled and the unjust will be cast away. Do you understand?

They said, Yes.

© 2020 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen and songsofasouljourney.blogspot.com

A brief note about my literary exploration of the ministry of Jesus of Nazareth: I have undertaken this exercise having read, sung (in several languages), meditated and prayed on the contents of the Synoptic Gospels (as well as the Non-Synoptic Gospels) for at least 45 years. In that time, I’ve accumulated a bit of a library (which comes as no surprise to those who know me), and I try to follow modern scholarship. Here is a partial list of the authors and books that come to mind as I write these episodes:

Ballentine, Debra Scoggins, The Conflict Myth & the Biblical Tradition; Oxford University Press 2015

Erdman, Bart, various titles

Gaus, Andy, The Unvarnished New Testament; Phanes Press, 1991

Herzog, William R., Parables as Subversive Speech; Westminster John Knox Press, 1991

Louden, Bruce, Greek Myth and the Bible; Routledge, 2019

Tatian, Diatesseron; www.earlychristianwritings.com/diatessaron.html

Wajdenbaum, Philippe, Argonauts of the Desert, Routledge, 2011

Ward, Keith, The Philosopher and the Gospels, Lion Hudson, 2011

Yosef ben Maityahu (Titus Flavius Josephus), various writings

Influences

Wind, hot and dry,
filled the lanes with dust,
intruding through every crack,
invading every door and window.

Waves of flame,
reaching as from above,
came to stay and oppress every brow,
and we were filled with a divine madness,

Such that suddenly
all different voices were one voice,
all messages one message,
all humanity, each unique, yet one.

This is how all truly is,
verily, verily, unto ages of ages:

We are one family, sharing space and time;
we belong to one another.

How else could God make the case
but to strike us with understanding,
if only in a moment of brevity,
and then charge us with handling the rest?

Such is the mystery of Divine Influence.
Each of us is intended to intervene
to maintain the sanctity of all our lives;
everyone has a role in this heavenly task.

Be fired with your divine purpose!
Of all colors, shapes, the plethora of singsong tongues
proclaims the truth that divine fire exposes:
There is but one people, one life, one purpose.

Ye have been touched, all of ye!
Gather your whits about you,
for each day’s intent is this fire,
this purpose of divine life-giving influence.

Peace be to thee and your neighbors all!
Alleluia, Alleluia, and amen,
and blessings be to ye all
unto the ageless ages.

© 2019 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

When The Truth Is Not Enough

This is a story. It happens to be a true story. It could have happened in your community. I hope it did not. I heard this story fourth-hand, and do not know any of the people involved or even where it took place.

The family car was stolen off the street, near the home. The owners filed a police report, while joy riders drove the hotwired car down some byway until it ran out of gas. The place where the car was eventually abandoned was located in another county, whose police found it and traced it to the owners and the filed stolen vehicle report. The auto was duly inspected, towed to a tow yard in the county where it was found. The owners of the stolen vehicle, upon being informed that it had been recovered, dropped their child off with a friend, went to their local police station to handle release paperwork that would allow them to retrieve the car. Thus, the case was closed in the county of residence.

The couple took public transit and a cab to the tow yard in the other county, signed a release form and paid the towing fee. Thus, the case was closed in the county of recovery.

While they were driving back to pick up their child, the wife found solicitation letters (junk mail) wedged in the space between the passenger side seat and the door. The mail was of various shapes, sizes and colors, from various consumer outlets, and addressed to various other people than themselves.

The notion occurred: This must be evidence pointing to who stole the car!

Instead of picking up their child and returning home, the car owners took the mail to the police station and spoke with the ranking officer at the walk-up window. They told the officer their story and showed the officer the mail, saying they felt they were doing their civic duty by reporting this evidence.

The officer listened to the story, but did not touch the mail they were offering.

“Chain of evidence rules and procedures say that we cannot accept this mail; there is nothing that indicates the mail is evidence of any particular thing, per se. It would be best to take the mail to the Post Office.”

The couple was incredulous. They started telling their story again. Apparently, the officer hadn’t been listening closely, and did not understand the import of what they were trying to say.

The officer listened to the repeated story, letting consideration and a silent pause clear the air before replying.

“We have no way of knowing how this mail got into your car or if it was even placed there by the perpetrators of the auto theft. Was the mail put in the car in this jurisdiction, or in the jurisdiction where it was recovered? Was the mail picked up off the ground near the car in the tow yard and just placed inside it on an assumption? These questions do not offer clarity about the mail and do not indicate a link to the auto theft. As your stolen property has been returned to you, the case is now closed. Please take the mail to the Post Office, where they will know how to appropriately handle it.”

The couple looked at one another. Surely, this was wrong. The couple asked to speak with a supervisor. The officer went away, but came back very shortly.

“The sergeants and lieutenant are out on calls. I am the ranking supervisor, at this moment.”

The couple couldn’t believe it. They were obviously being stonewalled. They started again: This mail had to be evidence of whoever stole the car.

“Aren’t you going to do your job?” The couple said.

“I really cannot receive this mail; please take it to the Post Office.”

Back behind the window, co-workers could hear the entire exchange. They looked at one another, over their piles of files and reports. One sighed. Another decided to intervene, so they could all get back to work. That officer silently left the office, circling around to the public lobby, where the couple stood, waving the junk mail and elevating their insistent voices.

“I’ll take it. I’ll make sure it is handled appropriately.” The officer escorted the couple to the station door, waving at them as they left. When the couple was out of sight, this officer walked the mail down the street, and dropped into the mailbox on the corner. At least the addressees will receive their mail; sale ends next week. Upon that officer’s return, the entire office breathed a healing sigh, and resumed their very real and pressing work with relief.

The couple that had brought in the mail later filed a complaint against the officer who told them the mail could not be accepted as evidence. The complaint was followed by an internal procedural investigation.

To bring further clarity to this story, you need to know that the couple whose car was stolen was white. The officer they encountered at the police station, when they took the mail there, was a non-Caucasian female, nearing retirement age; she had been training a female cadet at the time of this encounter. The officer who put the mail into the mailbox was a white male who had been a civilian office worker with the department for only a few years.

***

Appearances are sometimes deceiving, and usually never the end of any story.

When we presume we know better, we are apt to find ourselves in the position of the fool.

The ranking officer had explained the situation, but the couple, who had no law enforcement training, for some reason did not trust her to have appropriate knowledge, did not trust her explanations. What she told them did not conform, either to what they had seen on TV or their expectations of what should be done. They heard what she said, but they didn’t like it. The way they saw it, they had gone out of their way to provide important evidence that would lead to arrest and conviction of the perpetrator of the auto theft.

The well-meaning co-worker de-escalated the situation, but probably should not have; doing so undercut the authority and knowledge possessed by his supervisor in the eyes of the couple. Ultimately, this fueled the couple’s dissatisfaction to where they made the leap that this ranking officer had shirked her responsibility.

The car had been retrieved; the case was closed; the junk mail presumably was delivered to the homes of the addressees. That should have been enough of an outcome for anyone.

The rules are the rules; procedures are procedures. If we don’t follow the rules and procedures, then of what value are they? Can we assume procedures are illogical just because we don’t understand them? Yes, sometimes we do discover that rules need to be changed; by all means, we must review all rules that truly do not make sense, and either repeal them or refine them. Perhaps rules regarding the chain of evidence are not among those in dire need of revision.

That is one issue. More than this, and primarily, I wonder what irreversible damage is done when judgments are color- and gender-coded? Actually, I less wonder than know. The short answer is that citizenship is diminished for All, and this is problematical when All is We The People.

This story, Citizens, is but one example of the struggle we face in our local communities, our counties, our states, our regions, the nation – and the world.

I hope this story provides you food for thought.

(Chew your food well and completely before swallowing, or indigestion is apt to follow.)

© 2017 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

What I Wouldn't Give

Though we’ve never met,
we meet constantly

—In my dreams before waking,
in my waking thoughts,
in the sparkle on bay water
that blinds my senses

In the rare moment of quiet,
I apprehend the simplicity
of your great magnitude,
so near, we should be touching—

Yet, there is no need,
for we are, by near and far,
flexibly and inextricably
inlaid upon one another,
a complex, shared mosaic
of music and spirit,
tumbling into bits
and reforming
amid and among
the indelible, ineffable all.

What I wouldn’t give
to be face to face,
blinded by your beauty.

But I would not survive
the unraveling it would take
to get to where you are Now.

I am, you are,
and we together are us—

And, for the love of Now,
that will have to do.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Storm Eye Witness

From a troubled sea, I came;

From the tumult of my crashing waves,
longing for relief from my raging storm,
I came from a troubled sea.

Greeted by no berceuse
in this port from my storm,
instead by ringing and singing,
a laughing and crying and carrying on
about out and in relationships, on and off
emotions, pitching sonic waves and weavings,
an undulating web of rattling words in herds,
like the very waves I’d fled.

Troubled seeing, I became
witness to my world and wavering,
aware now that my dreams and waking
must be born of a troubled sea.

What started with prayerful hopes
ended with praying and awaking to active now;

I went up to thank them, to thank her and she,
but she conferred further blessing.

“You brought calm,” said she,
“having you here was calming,
like an anchor for our tossed ship,”
and from her I received kisses,
as though I had been the gift.

Thus anointed, I turned away,
thoughtfully moved to my return:
Eye of the Storm, I seem to be,
though storm-tossed I had felt;
calm came with me in my pocket,
along with my keys, my hanky and tears,
and fragments of hope and place
—and I never knew it was there.

I have had eyes, but did not see,
ears, but they did not hear—until now:
when you become the Eye of the Storm,
calm comes to be a friend and guest of your heart,
to share in the love, the pain and the laughter,
the onward, spiraling music of your being.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Updated 8/28/12:

Most of you don't know this, but my poetry is my diary. I sometimes write infrequently, but when I do write, it is to crystalize an experience that stands out and apart from the everyday. Music often inspires me. This particular poem was inspired by a performance of new chamber music in San Francisco by CMASH (an acronym for Chamber Music Art Song Hybrid). It was a wonderful performance! The lesson here: Art Inspires More Art!!! Find out about the wonderful people who make music happen at CMASH, and how you might even make a donation, by following the link. http://www.cmashmusic.org/

Gathering Whit

Waves froth and foam,

crashing against the beaches,
wordless cries from the silent depths:
listen! listen!
hear what cannot be voiced,
hear through the numb frustration
of all that must go unspoken.

Winds wail and whip,
wreaking and wrecking all in their path:
hear them! hear them!
a series of moanings and mournings
for all that goes unheeded, unheard,
unsaid, uncontemplated, unwritten,
of what passes understanding in the undone.

Confusions and generation gaps
obscure the presence story of all that is—
that love is and life is and all I am!
feel it! feel it!
the winds and the waves weave,
braiding into fiery tongues,
so words need no voice to speak,

But words are, that breathe life,
while unfolding wholly and fully from within
the birth and culmination of the blossom
whose song the wind carries,
whose invisible body glows in the sun,
whose object embraces subject
in perfect and timeless unity.

© 2012 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

When I was coming to be

When I was coming to be,
I had no tongue and
I had no eyes—
there was no need
for these extras;
mindness saw,
mindness expressed:
this a more subtle tool.

After I was coming to be,
there were lips and tongue,
eyes and ears, even hands and feet—
now these clumsy aids
were needed
in order to be vertical,
so as not to be clumsy
when bumping into others.

For a long time after,
there was a parallel-motion
of this supple mind knowledge
and had-to-be-learned tongue—
different languages,
though one is not language;
I cannot translate this mindness
into thought or spoken word.

Now, little seems to remain of that mode,
of that knowing transmission of awareness,
of that, which was so easy and so pure;
usurped by thinking and speaking,
that subtle and more precise form
has retreated to corners of dreamtime,
where I await, to catch me off guard,
to remind me of the truths beyond now.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Forest or Trees

Deeper into the forest of books go I,
but less seem to learn of them;
the thickets of words, veritable mazes,
of which depth is oft proclaimed,
soon wear out their glib welcome
and inevitably thin to the same weedy patch,
wet and reedy, murky and muddled,
that I have explored before
--but I desire more.

The in-depth studies, the colorful analogs,
the structured cases resemble less
the actual beauty of the forest or the tree
--and I desire more.

The universe smiles wearily at my dilemma,
the untamed wilderness yawns lazily at my feet,
and the wild unknown beckons me toward its reality
--and I desire its shore.

Didn't she know? they sigh, sharing their inward smile,
experience trumps book-learning, every time;

Desire, bared upon the open shore,
shall most surely find more.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

Inside the Spiraling Moment

Floating from inside an interior web of warm vibrations,

Surrounded by blossoms within a glorious garden of sound forms,
I know my own voice rising, falling, and melding there, too,
Liquid, lucid, filling any welcoming space,
Longing to meet and melt into surfaces,
Hard ones, all the better to contact with gleeful bounces,
Soft ones, all the better to contact with joyous embraces,
There to be absorbed into a new life, a new being.

Inside such spiraling moments,
I know myself to be present, and
I know the presence of others,
I know we are conjoined not only in common outward purpose,
But also by a shared interiority that must be the home of Universal Heart,
That heavenly realm,
Which, while existing beyond past, present and future,
Lives within the sound of our voices,
For it is woven inextricably into our very flesh,
It is woven inextricably into all that is seen and unseen,
And, unfolding from the stillness of silence,
Is proclaimed in every unbidden gesture of beauty.

Music is indeed the most heavenly gift of all,
For even as we thoughtfully create and recreate moments in sound, in music,
We are the manifestation of the music of the spheres.

Music is at once the question and the answer to all our questions,
A map across the trackless desert to the Beloved,
A living and breathing Is-ness that renews Being
With the will to strive for an eternal More
In every Moment.

Music is analogous of the mystery of Life,
a meeting of spirit and witness
that flows continuously,
like radiant heat,
from the center of creative Being.

Inside the spiraling moment,
I drench myself,
I lose my self,
I find selves joined within selves, our very selves, ourselves;
I meld within the everlasting arms of Other,
And apprehend the infinite beauty of us All.

© 2011 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen