Implication

Reflections on the Messianic Secret

“‘But what about you?’ Jesus asked. ‘Who do you say I am?’ Peter answered, ‘You are the Messiah.’ Jesus warned them not to tell anyone about him.”

~ Mark 8:29-30 ~

In the end, all is implication. Or is it. As a child I assumed so. As an adult I forgot what I assumed. And in between, well, I don’t know.

Something swirls in the in between. Like a vortex of pruning. Stripping away what I thought was unessential, that is until I needed it. Until I wanted it and forgot where I set it. Or even forgot I once held it at all.

A crisis arrives or a moment of muse where wisdom cascades like sheets of rain, and I rediscover the insight or the old adage, believing we are meeting for the first time and wondering how I made it this far without it. And then, like a child holding a treasure, I hold it up for everyone to see, surprised when they aren’t as enamored as I—frustrated when they don’t celebrate the gift or the gesture. So I withdraw the offer, conceal the gem, bury the treasure in the field until…

Well, I think the rest goes without saying.

When the scales fall from our eyes, it’s easy to see implication covers all.

Sitting on this bench in the middle of a busy park, the small birds cautiously hop toward me, communicating without speaking. Their beaks search each speck contrasting the color of the blacktop. They approach still closer. Almost with a shyness. Quizzically looking up to me with a hungering implication.

How have I forgotten the power of implication?

As a child, we’re forced to make friends with the implied. Most of the world rests just beyond our vocabulary and cognitive ability. We learn, early on, to peer deep into the cracks and crevices of each face, searching for approval or anger. Emotions every adult assumes is properly concealed behind their carefully curated masks. Secured. Without risk of implication.

But children are born with eyes of perception. Survival tends to do that—offer abilities for the moment or season essential to make it to the next.

“Are you mad?” my son asks.

“No, why?”

“Well,” furrowing his brow, “you breathed really loud like you were mad.”

“I’m not mad!” I snap.

And in that moment, I’m invited into implication. The mystery of what’s said that hasn’t been said.

Angered that my best efforts couldn’t conceal, I double down on my madness, pretending I’m, without question, not angry at all. Lunacy with arrogance in tow. A recipe quite familiar for the season of adult and adulting. We just find ways…

Well. I think that goes without saying.

Jesus taught a lot through implication. We’ve found ways to dissect and categorize this pedagogical style. Parables, we laud, are cryptic teachings with embedded truths that privilege the “insider.”

Ironically, though, the disciples were typically just as dumbstruck by these cipher stories as the “outsider.” Who’s in and who’s out, then, is a bit obscured. And yet we presume to know the meaning the disciples themselves couldn’t discern. In some, we find it quite obvious.

Like the parable of the lost sheep (Lk. 15:1-7).

“That’s easy!” we announce. “It’s about evangelism! Leave the ninety-nine to find the one! God did it, and so should we!”

Churches suffer from such a callous disposition toward the person in the pew in favor of those who are not. Shallowness swallows the sermons and the studies, all now oriented toward the one, exchanging deep questions with ones more sensitive to the seeker just outside the threshold of the sanctuary. All the while forgetting the final parable of the sequence, the prodigal son (Lk. 15:11-32), which shows the Father not leaving the homestead to chase the one at all. Content to sit, wait, and allow the implication of his love to woo the wayward child home.

Parables confound because we’ve lost the wonder of implication.

This is why sermons today, in contrast to Christ’s parables, include three points of application. We don’t believe implication will guide our congregants to the way, the truth, and everything needed to navigate a world swimming in the indirect. Jesus entrusted the mystery of application to the third person of the Trinity, but we’ve found a way, once again, to replace the Spirit with something more effective. Or so the story goes.

Yet implication contains a power often overlooked and underappreciated, communicating without so much as a word.

A couple sits close, her shoulder tucked behind his, a quick glance to his right to catch a glimpse of her face from the corner of his eye, only to return his gaze to passing cars, but with a subtle smile that communicates as much as hers now radiating, just before it disappears into his shoulder. Another person passes, accidently locking eyes and quickly darting to the safety of the ground. He glances again to see if I’m still looking only to reprimand the curiosity that convinced their eyes to venture a second time. His pace quickens, his torso twists, refusing to relax until his strides whisp him away from the encounter that threatened to unveil his implications. Nearby, a mother sits by a daughter affixed to her phone. She begins to speak. The other refuses to listen with her eyes. Silence ensues. After a beat or two, she stands up and walks away.

In the end, all is implication. Or at least most. Outdoors or indoors, implication carries us from one thought to the next, one conclusion to another, one encounter to many others. A door slams without an audible, “Sorry.” Shuffling ensues with other items scurried about recklessly. A loud sigh precedes inaudible muttering. “You okay?” your mother asks. “I’m fine,” your father retorts. Yet everyone understands what’s true is what’s implied.

I wonder how much of the Bible speaks in implication?

Such a question infuriates the fundamentalist; over-excites the theologian; and terrifies those beleaguered by bibliolatry. We assume all that was said is present in the printed words, even though such a ratio doesn’t match the life we navigate today. We assume all that God intended to say was said. Contained. Confined to sixty-six books, 31,102 verses, and emblazoned on scritta paper.

No wonder we feel so alone. For most of God’s Word is implied. Embedded in windy whispers of the Spirit and the echoes of Eden embedded in each molecule of creation. No wonder we struggle to hear God speak. Our ears are trained in an adult’s illusion of communication, no longer disciplined in the grammar of a child. In the communication of a kingdom of implication.

In the end, the death of implication coincides with the casualty of connection with God. The inability to engage the one who embeds his character in a name rife with implication: “I AM WHO I AM” (Ex. 3:14).

In the end, all is…

Well. You know.

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