We must think carefully about how we communicate truth.
Emily Dickinson, “Tell all the Truth”
There is no doubt that Jesus exasperated many of those who heard Him. “What’s that?” “What’d He say?” “I can’t make any sense out of those little stories.”
The disciples may have noticed this among those who followed Jesus, for they asked Him at one point, “Why do you speak to them in parables?” Parables were not easy to understand. Couldn’t He just, you know, spell it out in plain words? Folks were getting confused. And maybe some were beginning to drift away.
The disciples seemed to think that Jesus should change His style. Be more straightforward. Speak the language of the people. Just tell it, you know, straight?
But Jesus’ purpose in communicating as He did—telling things slant, so to speak—was twofold. Those who were true seekers would ponder and meditate and keep following and so show that they were good soil where seeds of truth could take root and grow.
Meanwhile others, who had no time for such word games, would just dismiss Jesus’ teaching as, I don’t know, poetry? And who reads that, for cryin’ out loud?
Perhaps Emily Dickinson (1830-1886) was thinking about Jesus’ approach to teaching when she wrote the following poem:
Tell all the Truth but tell it slant—
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind—
We may be tempted, in our preaching or teaching, to avoid certain terms or concepts as “too bright” for sensitive souls. Saul of Tarsus, for example, might have preferred to have the light dimmed a bit, even as the Lord consoled, counseled, and instructed Him in humble words. We don’t want to blind people with the light of God’s truth by overwhelming them with more than their “infirm Delight” can bear. But since those words are true and necessary, we must find the way to tell them slant. (Hint: Poetry, art, and literature could help.)
And we should be patient with our learners, who may be bowled over by sudden flashes of insight and perhaps a little unnerved by what they’ve heard. An explanation—making a circuit around the matter, as it were—could allay their concerns.
Truth sparkles; it doesn’t blare. It warms rather than burns, and it improves our misguided delights gradually and often surprisingly.
Emily Dickinson was not teaching homiletics when she wrote this wise bit of whimsy. But like Jesus, she understood that truth is digested in small servings—here a little, there a little—and that stories, illustrations, and even conundrums and mysteries all help to keep us wanting more.
