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Hidden in His Own Story
Discovering Jesus in the Parables of the Gospels
Andrew Walton
Hidden In His Own Story
Discovering Jesus in the Parables of the Gospels
Copyright © 2016 Andrew Walton. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.
Resource Publications
An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers
199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3
Eugene, OR 97401
www.wipfandstock.com
paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-0758-5
hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-0760-8
ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-0759-2
Manufactured in the U.S.A. 12/06/16
The scripture quotations contained herein are from the New Revised Standard Version Bible, copyright © 1989 the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.
To the light and angels within my story,
my wife, Peg,
my daughters, Ali, Jayme, and Carina,
and my grandson, Oliver.
Jesus used this figure of speech with them,but they did not understand what he was saying to them.
—John 10:6
Acknowledgments
Writing seems like such a solitary effort until it is time to consider all of the people who in one way or another are involved in the process. It’s much like the two professions in which I’ve spent most of my life: the theater and the church. Both are collaborative ventures requiring the passion and talents of many imaginative and creative people seeking Truth. I owe much, perhaps even my life, to both institutions.
In over twenty-five years of pastoral ministry, three wonderful congregations in Georgia, Washington DC, and Florida have afforded me patience, freedom, and love as I tried out bits and pieces of this manuscript in sermons and classes. My most sincere thanks go to the good people of Forsyth Presbyterian Church, Capitol Hill Presbyterian Church, and Trinity Clearwater Presbyterian Church.
I would never have survived in ministry if not for the support and friendship of other pastors too numerous to mention individually. However several groups do need acknowledgment: the ecumenical coffee klatch in Forsyth, the Macon lectionary group, the Monday Macon group, the Capitol Hill lectionary support group, S-3 Cohorts at Columbia Seminary, and the Estes Park Pastors Retreat gang. Personal mention goes to my good friend and colleague Byron Buck, who is always there as a sounding board. I have unending gratitude for the friendship, support, and love of my colleagues, mentors, and brothers Philip “Skip” Dunford, Bill Owens, and Jeff Sockwell for over twenty-eight years.
There are several people who helped me with the manuscript by offering feedback and suggestions. Chief among them is my friend Sally Galbraith, who edited early drafts with keen eye and ear to help me find my writing voice, but more importantly the voice of Jesus in his stories. Also reading the manuscript and offering their encouragement were friends, colleagues, and mentors Walter Brueggemann and Joan Gray. Of course I must give thanks and gratitude for the fine people at Wipf and Stock Publishers for bringing the book to publication.
Mostly, I can’t even imagine this project coming to life without the loving support of my number one proofreader, editor, and soul monitor, my love, my compass, and life companion, Peg Walton.
Finally, I thank you the reader, for without you there is only one side to this conversation we call writing. I appreciate that you are already reading this, which tells me you are a fellow seeker and explorer of the mysteries and truths of faith. Thank you for coming along on this pilgrimage of discovering God’s Presence and Light in our lives.
Prelude
Dried blood encrusted my eyes. Each breath was more and more shallow. Every attempt to move my arms or legs produced pure anguish. How long had I been there? How long would it take for life to slowly drain from my body? Would I die beaten, bloodied, naked, and alone in the scorching sun?
I remembered walking along the path from Jerusalem to Jericho, the morning sun in my face as it rose over a distant hill, and the silhouetted faces of two approaching strangers. Then all went black.
Voices. Was I delirious? They grew louder and clearer. Thank God! I cried out, “Help!” Instead, an animal-like groan pierced the air as pain shot through my jaw. I tried again. The pain was white, the sound inhuman.
“Stay away,” one of the voices said.
“But he needs help, master,” responded another.
“Perhaps,” said the first, “but not from us. He is unclean. Do as I say. Stay clear of him and move along.”
“No!” I cried out, but only in my mind. As the two figures walked away, for a brief moment the sun caught the bottom of their robes. One was coarse and plain, that of a servant. The other was fine linen. Gold trim on the hem sparkled in the sunlight, the unmistakable garb of a temple priest.
“I am one of you,” my mind shouted. “I am a son of Abraham. Where is your mercy?” The two figures disappeared into the shadows. I was lost.
I lay there for what could have been minutes or hours before I heard other voices approaching. If only I could speak.
“Is he alive?” one asked.
“I think not,” came a reply. “The insects are already having their way. We best stay away.”
“I agree. As Levites we must maintain our purity.”
“Poor man.”
“Yes.”
They walked away and the sun returned. Their only mercy had been a brief moment of cool shade in their shadows.
My eyes closed for what I thought would be the last time. Ringing in my head subsided to the hum of insects crawling about my face, but I could do nothing. The sun beat down, yet I shivered as cold welled up within. Gasping for breath my body stilled, the pain gone. “So, this is death?” Darkness gently caressed me.
When the mind goes to sleep it is as the scriptures say, “A thousand years are like a watch in the night.” It could have been a few moments or eternity itself. I don’t really
