Gilead

One of my favourite novels is written by the American novelist and essayist, Marilynne Robinson. Gilead won the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction in 2005. The novel takes the form of a memoir or journal, written by an elderly Congregationalist pastor in the small town of Gilead in the State of Iowa, and addressed to his son. The pastor is called John Ames. He knows he is dying with a heart condition, and the book has a certain elegiac quality. It conveys a sense of calmness and serenity, in spite of the travails and sufferings that he has encountered over the years. And one of the things that he has learned over the years is to be suspicious of all attempts to coerce belief or impose religious dogma on those around him. His quiet, persistent and tender ministry contrasts with the razzmatazz of the megachurch pulpit or the Christian talk radio studio. He refuses to offer easy answers, the half-truths which only serve to accentuate the skepticism of others. Because, he says, ‘nothing true can be said about God from a posture of defense’.

It's a phrase that came instantly to mind when I read through the epistle and gospel reading for today. “Put on the whole armour of God, so that you may be able to stand against the wiles of the devil.” It is not certain that Ephesians was written by Paul the Apostle. The style differs dramatically, and the likelihood is that it was written by one of his disciples or admirers, and effectively adopts his persona.

But there is a great irony about this passage – because the writer speaks of putting on the whole armour of God, with the belt of truth and the breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit. And yet, at the same time, he languishes in prison. ‘I am an ambassador in chains’, he says. In spite of all the powerful martial imagery, the writer is subverting the rather aggressive language of the battlefield to talk about life in the spirit, about truth and righteousness. Whatever the article of clothing, ‘put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim the gospel of peace.’ It’s as if he is preparing for battle by donning a pair of flares and a 1970s psychedelic T-shirt with the words ‘Give peace a chance’. This is not quite the posture of defence that we associate with breastplates and helmets and swords.

But then we come to the really striking phrase at the heart of this passage: ‘Pray also for me, so that when I speak, a message may be given to me to make known with boldness the mystery of the gospel. Pray that I may declare it boldly, as I must speak.’

Now the Greek word parrhesia, which the writer uses here, is translated as ‘boldness’ or ‘boldly’. And yet I suspect that the translators of the New Revised Standard Version may have watched too many episodes of Star Trek: ‘to boldly go….’ And yet, I’m not sure that this really captures the semantic range of this word in Greek. 

One of the earliest references to the word ‘parrhesia’, from the fifth century BC, can be found in the writings of Euripides. In one of his plays, a character says, ‘I want my sons to go back to the city of cities, to Athens, and hold their heads high and speak like free men there.’ For Euripides, Athens was the home of free speech. Etymologically, the term parrhesia referred to ‘saying everything’, to speaking the whole truth. It combines the little Greek word pan which means ‘everything’ and rhema which is ‘the thing you say’. To speak with parrhesia was to possess the freedom to say everything that you may have on your mind. Of course, saying ‘everything’ did not necessarily mean saying ‘anything’. Parrhesia could sometimes be understood in a more negative sense of saying any old thing without a regard for the truth.

And yet, the right to speak freely was often strictly policed in the ancient world. As political power became more concentrated in the context of the Roman Empire, there was less emphasis on free speech. The word ‘parrhesia’ became associated with ‘frank speech’, even ‘provocative speech.’ It referred to the kind of licence which a subordinate might enjoy in offering wisdom or counsel to a superior, typically a king. ‘Frank speech’ was often contrasted in rhetorical handbooks with kolakeia or ‘flattery’. The ancients knew that flattery could be deployed to great effect to persuade or advise a ruler. But they also knew just how manipulative it could be. So parrhesia was about speaking with openness and refreshing honesty. 

This is how the word is often used in John’s gospel, where Jesus speaks openly to the crowds. Again and again Jesus speaks with parrhesia. And of course, while we might imagine that means being strident or bold or provocative (and what Jesus has to say about the Bread of Life is certainly provocative), his words are also characterized, not by defensiveness, but by openness and honesty, the kind of openness and honesty which generates trust.

Of course, we find this openness refreshing. It is not always evident in public discourse, among members of the political class or in church circles for that matter. This is partly because the public sphere is increasingly fragmented. The notion of parrhesia rests on the idea that there might be a genuine difference of opinion within a community. And yet most of the time on social media, people speak into their own echo chambers, where they hear only the views of the like-minded, the people who will agree and reinforce your prejudices, flattering your ego, without necessarily challenging you to reflect on what you have to say. And of course, people rarely have to face the consequences of what they have said, particularly if comments are anonymized or people assume a pseudonym. Openness and honesty demand a degree of accountability. That is one of the characteristics of parrhesia.

So the writer to the Ephesians, just like Jesus in our gospel reading, is saying that when we speak of ‘the mystery of the gospel’, we should do so not with a degree of defensiveness, but with a genuine openness to enter into a conversation with others, to listen to what they have to say, to speak with authenticity about our own experience, our own doubts, our own vulnerability, our own sense of sometimes being confounded by the mystery of it all, while at the same time speaking eloquently and frankly about our desire and longing for the truth, the truth about God, the truth about ourselves, the truth which we discover here in the gift of the Bread of Life. And the most wonderful thing about parrhesia? St John tells us in one of his epistles, that we should have parrhesia before God. He reminds us that when we pray, however tongue-tied or confused our longings and hopes may be, by simply being honest and truthful and authentic, we shall begin to find freedom of speech before God.