students of jesus

When I was a young boy Josué De La Cruz saved my life. My third-floor apartment on the northwest side of Chicago was fully involved in flames. The Latino firefighter crawled up the steps beneath the smoke, through the fire, and carried me to safety. I wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for him.

He visited me in the hospital the next day. I thanked him for his courage and sacrifice. He told me he was happy to make a difference. We chatted for a while. His Spanish accent reminded me that he was from a completely different culture than mine. It was hard to understand him sometimes, but I was grateful. I fell asleep and he was gone.

My family found a new place to live but I included Josué in my prayers every night--for a couple of months at least. Eventually school took all my attention and life returned to normal. I was surprised five years later when Josué turned up at my college dorm one night. I was coming back to the dorm very late--trying not to attract the attention of the Resident Assistant.

“Man,” he said with that accent. “You know it’s really dangerous to drive home in your condition. You should be more careful.”

I was embarrassed. “Yeah, I guess so.” I shoved my hand forward to shake his. “Hey man, thanks for pulling me out of that fire back then.”

“No problem--that’s over. Listen, I brought you some money for textbooks. Take care for yourself.”

It was strange, him showing up that night. I really wasn’t thinking straight. When I woke up the next morning it was hard to tell where the night had ended and where my dreams began. But I did have $100 in the pocket of my jeans.

I was nearly thirty when he turned up again. I’d been married for seven years. My wife and I had one kid and another of the way. I had taken a job working for her father. It wasn’t the life I wanted but with another kid on the way paying the bills was a big deal. Still, the job sucked and I wasn’t happy.  I came home from work and there was Josué, the firefighter who had saved my life, sitting on my front step, petting the family dog.

“Dude, what are you doing here?”

“Amigo, it’s so good to see you again. I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you.”

That seemed really strange to hear. All I could manage was an awkward “Thanks.”

“You know,” he said, looking up  from the dog. “You ought to cut your wife a little slack. It isn’t easy raising one kid while she’s baking another.”

“Well my job ain’t so hot either. Did you want something?” I asked.

He ignored the question. “I could help you with that if you want.”

I laughed. “Thanks. I’m a little old for the Fire Academy, don’t you think?” I  stepped past him an went to the door. “Thanks for stopping by, though.” Later I found a gift card to Applebee’s right where he had been sitting. There was a post-it note where he had scribbled, Take your wife out to dinner tonight.

I don’t know: maybe Josué had moved into my neighborhood because he began to pop up at the most random times and places. It began to get a little creepy. One time he was in the booth behind me and my friend at the pancake house.

“Hey man,” he said with that accent. “Have you been putting on some weight?”

“Maybe. You still look pretty fit.” It was true, I had to admit it.

“I’m not trying to bust your hump,” he said. “I just want to see you stay healthy and live well.”

I didn’t feel scolded. Especially because he waited for my buddy to hit the restroom before he spoke to me. “Yeah. Thanks. I’ll work on that.” When my friend and I left we found that Josué had already paid the tab. It went on like this for the next few years. Josué would turn up, offer his opinion on something or other, and always do something nice for me.

Then one afternoon he was outside my workplace. I had bolted from working for my father-in-law, but three jobs later I was going nowhere fast. Life sucked. My wife and kids were strangers to me, and I was thinking of getting in the car and just driving.

“My friend,” Josué said gently. “Don’t do this thing.”

I was startled. Did he know my thoughts? “What thing?”

“Times are tough,” he said. “I get it. Let me help you learn how to live.”

Finally I’d had enough of these strange appearances. “Listen, Josué. It’s been twenty years since you saved me from the fire. What gives you the right to show up and tell me what to do?”

“What good was saving your life if you don’t know how to live it?” he answered. “I went into your apartment that day to change your life, not just save it.”

“Really?” I demanded. “Well, I needed someone to save me--not someone to run my life. What gives you the right?”

“I am Josué De La Cruz.” He stood tall and his voice swelled with strength. And as he said the words he began to change: his face and clothes became white--dazzling beyond any brightness on Earth.

I shielded my eyes and heard thunder from the cloudless sky. In the thunder I thought I heard a voice. “This is my son. Listen to him!”

And then, in a moment the day returned, and the sunshine seemed less bright. Josué put his arm on my shoulder and said, “Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. That’s why I saved you that day.”

If Jesus simply wanted to send a message he would not have used parables. A few moralisms would have done: “Follow the rules; live up to the standards you have been given; don’t drink, smoke or chew--and definitely don’t go with girls who do.” But that would have been merely adding to the religious burdens that already weigh us down.

Instead, he told stories. Lots of them. Stories he rarely explained and we have rarely understood. The Lord was trying to describe a place: the Kingdom of Heaven. Not “Heaven,” but rather that place characterized by the rule of the King. The kind of place can exist anywhere and anytime. We miss the good news if we insist on pushing the Kingdom all the way back to Heaven.

North American Evangelicals have bottled up his rule and reign and sealed the champaign until the end of the age. We also have a powerful urge to “explain” his stories in simple terms that reinforce our ideas of Heaven.

Just below is a “Pint-Sized Parable” for pint sized theology, producing pint sized believers. I love South Park-style animation as much as the next guy, and I have no objection with modernizing the language. I do, however, resist the attempts we make to limit His message. See what you think.

Why not investigate Matthew 18: 21-35 on your own? Listen to Peter's question and consider the Lord's answer. Do you think they were discussing a day yet to come, or were they exploring the merciless heart in our very own day?

Ed Cyzewski offers today's guest post in our series on the parables of Jesus. He works as a freelance writer in Columbus, OH. He is the author of Coffeehouse Theology: Reflecting on God in Everyday Life, and posts at In a Mirror Dimly, a site I check daily. He's thoughtful and intentional about his commitment to follow Jesus; his devotion to the Lord is quietly on display for us to see and imitate. He and his wife live in Columbus, OH, along with their pet rabbits, but keep the rabbit thing on the down-low because I'm pretty sure the landlord doesn't know about the bunnies.

Sometimes Jesus calls today’s heroes fools. It’s true.

Americans such as myself love stories of people who take big risks, strike it rich, and then accumulate gobs and gobs of money in the bank. Such admiration is built into the American dream. Jesus calls such people fools.

That stings.

When a young man asked Jesus to order his brother to split their family’s inheritance with him, Jesus described a man who farmed his land and produced more than he ever could have imagined, a surplus that exceeded the capacity of his barns. This unexpected bounty became a turning point in the story. The man immediately turned his thinking to greater security and wealth, setting into motion a plan to build new barns for his wealth.

I’d like to step back for a moment to look at the choices facing this man. On one hand, I can imagine saying, “He worked hard and earned his surplus, why wouldn’t he keep it? Didn’t he take risks and even some losses in previous years?” This story hits me where it hurts, telling me that an unexpected financial windfall could be the worst thing for me.

While the man in this story may have taken risks before, Jesus pointed out that he had a problem with envy and his priorities. This farmer had barns where he could have stored plenty of crops.

Jesus wasn’t condemning a savings plan or storing up for the future. The key is that this landowner reaped a surplus and immediately became fixated on preserving it.

We could also look at this story and ask where this surplus came from, and then we’ll start to glimpse a bit more of the truth behind this story. God had provided him with that surplus, and the man’s actions betrayed a heart that had lost sight of God as provider.

As if it wasn’t bad enough to forget about God, building his new barns and storing away his crops meant that he wasn’t caring for the poor around who could  have used some extra food. Even as this man’s earthly treasure overflowed, his heavenly bank account had gone into the red. Financial security had become an idol that had replaced God—the root cause behind his poor spiritual investment strategy. The extra time spent with his barn building pulled him away from worship or service to others.

When Jesus declared that this foolish man would die the very night he set all of his plans into motion, he drove home the immediacy and importance of being rich in love for God and generosity to others. In an instant his plans had collapsed and his long-term investments in better grain storage fell to pieces.
He no longer had anywhere to hide; his idols had left him destitute and any arguments about his surplus being a “blessing” from God fell flat.

We could look at this story as a lesson about finances, but it really applies to any kind of treasure. We can build social connections, public respect, and even get a stupid number on Klout that’s supposed to mean we’re hot stuff.

Whenever we rely on comfort and security rather than on God, we become spiritually bankrupt. We are pulled away from loving God and loving others. Like the man who spent his time fantasizing about future comfort and drawing up plans for larger barns, we can work long hours, fill up our days with self-indulgence, or immerse ourselves in social gatherings and entertainment. While none of these things by themselves are necessarily wrong, they can eat up our time to the point that we have nothing left for God or for those in need around us.

When we start serving our own comfort and security, we have lost sight of God and his plans for us. Investing in temporary wealth that we can’t take with us at the expense of God’s eternal investments makes someone a fool. That such a story strikes me as so radical and counter-cultural reminds me that I’m closer to that fool than I’d like.

What happens when the artists become the Bible expositors? Apparently some people are offended, some are challenged, still others yawn and go their solitary way. More and more I find myself with the artists, because they help me see with new eyes, hear with new ears, and taste the sweetness of God’s good heart.

For example, look what happens to the Parable of the Prodigal Son in the hands of Franco Zeffirelli, director of the still-fabulous Jesus of Nazareth. In this six-minute clip Jesus tells the familiar parable from Luke 15, but this film version helps us understand more than one meaning of the well-known story. Here’s all you need to know: (1) the guy in the black hair and beard is Peter, who is very upset that Jesus has selected Matthew as a disciple; (2) Matthew, the guy whose head is covered, has invited Jesus to a party filled with drunkards and unsavory types--they are Matthew’s friends; and (3) the guy dressed in white with the sparkling British accent? Well, that’s Jesus:

Now, here is the parable within the parable: Zeffirelli, who turns 89 next month, is a gay Roman Catholic. Just over three years ago he said, "I am a Christian down to the depths of my spirit." He has received criticism from both religious organizations and gay rights organizations for holding this seemingly impossible identity.

I am content to let him describe himself in any manner he wants, because I am profoundly grateful to him for filming this scene.

Andrew Perriman provides our guest post today. He and his wife, Belinda, and have lived in various parts of the world over the last 20 years: the Far East, Africa, Holland, the Middle East, the Nethelands, and London.They recently moved again to Dubai. His current theological interest is in how we retell the biblical story as we negotiate the difficult transition from the center to the margins of our culture following the collapse of Western Christendom.

There was a man who had two sons. The older son loved to tell stories and would keep the relatives and servants that made up his father’s household enthralled for hours with his repertoire of tales—not all of them believable—from the family’s eventful history. The younger son was of a much more rational frame of mind and couldn’t tell a joke to save his life.

One day the younger son came to the father and said, “Father, we don’t need all these stories. What we need is truth. Clear and simple, systematically arranged, with proofs and certain conclusions. I suggest that we organize classes for all the members of your household so that they can be taught the truth. I will devise a syllabus.”

Quite what the father thought of this proposal is unclear, but the younger son was insistent, and so it came about.

When the firstborn son realized what had happened, he became despondent and quickly concluded that he was no longer wanted at home. He thought of asking for his share of the inheritance but decided in the end not to announce his intentions. He left quietly and travelled to a distant country.

Sadly, perhaps because of his gloomy state of mind, he fell into bad company. He told his stories to his new friends, but they laughed at him. “You are a capable story-teller,” they said, “but your stories are so dreary. We are not interested in your unbelievable family sagas. We want to hear about war and women. Mainly women. Bawdy stories about women.”

He did his best to learn some new stories to entertain them with, but his heart was not in it, and when at last he came to himself, he said, “This is ridiculous! I don’t belong here. I will go home and if necessary learn to keep my mouth shut.”

While he was still some distance from the house, his father saw him and ran out to meet him. The son began to speak: “Father, I am sorry. I want to come home. I promise I will not tell….”

But his father interrupted him. “My son! You are back! I am so glad to see you. We are sick and tired of all the lessons with their proofs and dubious conclusions. We want to hear stories again. We want life and death and pain and laughter. We want memories and hope.”

When they arrived back at the house, the younger son was standing in the doorway scowling.