I
know it is wrong to play favourites, but the other day while studying biblical
genres I realized that parables were my favourite genre. I think part of me
loves a puzzle, and parables give that to you. Like apocalyptic literature you
have to determine what parts of a parable are meant to be taken literally and
what is allegory. A further complication is screening out what they call ‘local
colour’. Local colour is the part of the parable that is not meant to be taken
as a lesson but simply makes the story flow along so we can get to the point. In
the parable of the ten virgins in Matthew 25, five of them remember to take
extra flasks of oil for their lamps and five do not. But the number ten and the
existence of oil are not filled with allegorical meaning since they are merely
examples of how people did weddings in the ancient world. The point of the
parable is that we are always to be ready for the coming of Christ.
Related
to the above, there has long been a debate about how much of a parable is local
colour and how much is meant to be taken as a lesson. In the 80’s and 90’s the
idea that each parable only had one point was popular among scholars. I think
this was appealing because sometimes people interpret every single element of a
parable as being fraught with meaning. Doing so makes interpretation completely
subjective as you could just make up a meaning for every element as it pleases
you. However, the idea that each parable only made one point seemed too
restrictive and soon faded in popularity.
More
recently, scholars have been leaning toward the idea that most story parables
are have a triad of characters who each make one point. Andreas Kostenberger writes, “That is, they
represent three main characters or groups of characters: a master figure (king,
master, father, shepherd) and two contrasting subordinates (servants, sons,
sheep). The implication of this is that the perspectives of the main characters
reflect different parts of the overall meaning of the parable.”[1] He goes
on to cite the parable of the Good Samaritan. Quoting Blomberg, “from the
example of the priest and the Levite comes the principle that religious status or
legalistic casuistry does not excuse lovelessness; from the Samaritan we learn
that we must show compassion to those in need; from the man in the ditch
emerges the lesson that even the enemy is a neighbour.”
Indeed,
that quote is good and bad. It is good inasmuch as it is correct as far as I
can tell in both its conclusions and (triadic) method of arriving at them – at
least until we discover a convincing fourth point! However, an interpreter
would hopefully see its fault in that it is a rather passionless summary of an
amazing and intense set of truths and statements that challenge our very human
condition. Who does not feel with the Levite the desire to retreat back into
one’s routine and shrink back from the fuss and bother of helping? Who does not
cheer the good deed of the Samaritan and feel emboldened to seek out another
wounded man to help? And who does not feel the regret of the man in the ditch
as he contemplates his view of community? Should we train interpreters who get
the lesson right but are not in turn deeply moved to action and repentance from
these things we have surely failed.
That, however, is not Kostenberger’s
prerogative and I do not fault him for that at all. Merely that we must once in
a while take off the scholar’s mask to see the true face of a passionate worshipper
of God if we are to properly interpret the text to our hearers. To not do so is
not ‘incorrect’, but it is much worse – it is failure.
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