Still Sitting in the Marketplace
The subtle way we avoid what might actually change us
This is a reflection for paid subscribers of Sacred & Secular.
Each day, I write reflections like this, not just to explore ideas, but to notice the places where grace quietly meets our lives.
Thank you for being here.
A couple of years ago, when I first started writing seriously, I realised something uncomfortable about myself.
I was busy reading, thinking and reflecting on things that felt important, but very little was actually changing.
I could engage with an idea, even agree with it, and still carry on exactly as I had before. It felt like growth. It even looked like attentiveness. But if I was honest, it cost me nothing.
And that is a very easy place to be.
There is a short parable Jesus tells that I have not been able to shake since I first noticed it properly. It is so brief that it can slip past unnoticed. He describes people as children sitting in the marketplace, calling out:
“We played the pipe for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge, and you did not mourn.”
At first, it sounds like a comment about people being hard to please. But the longer you think about it, the more it becomes clear that something else is going on.
This is not about misunderstanding.
It is about refusal.
Jesus goes on to explain what he means. John the Baptist lived a stripped-back, austere life. He fasted, withdrew, and spoke relentlessly about repentance. People dismissed him as extreme.
Then Jesus came and did almost the opposite. He ate and drank. He spent time at tables and celebrations. He kept company with people others avoided, and he was dismissed as indulgent.
Different approaches. Same outcome. Rejection, dressed up as critique.
The problem was not the message. It was the listener’s posture. They had already decided not to be moved.
— • —
The safety of staying untouched
This is where the parable can begin to feel uncomfortably familiar.
We live in a culture that is very good at engagement without involvement. We listen, analyse, comment, and critique, often with real insight, but from a distance that protects us from being changed.
I recognise that instinct in myself more than I would like to admit.
Scrolling past something that should probably slow me down. Agreeing with a difficult truth without letting it alter anything. Sharing something meaningful, while quietly keeping it at arm’s length.
It is possible to care deeply in a way that never quite reaches our lives.
Everything is observed. Very little is inhabited.
