Stewart Weaver

The parabola is the path, neglecting air resistance and rotational effects, of a projectile thrown outward into the air.

Short, fictitious narrative by which moral or spiritual relations are set forth.

Thus the Encyclodedia Brittanica tells us about a parabola and a parable.

This week we begin a year-long focus on the parables of Jesus and we begin with the parable of the Sower as described in the Gospel of Mark (chapter 4).  Perhaps Mark knew something we don’t know: did he intentionally provide to us a story, a narrative, an illustration in which parable and parabola are so beautifully intertwined?

We see the woman or man out in the field with the collection of seed for sowing.  In gentle, rhythmic movements the seed is taken in a closed hand from a bag, the hand is removed, the arm swings and the seed flies, parabollically, onto the ground.  The ground may be hard, it may be well trod, it may be rich with potential weeds and thorns or it might be…just right.  The flight of the seed is parabolic.

And the flight of the words of Christ are also parabolic.  They begin with him and they fly generously and hopefully through the air to land, with purpose, on good soil.  And there some of them take root but many of them do not.  But it is no matter: his words, his grace, his teachings are unlimited.

As lovely as that picture is of the parable and the parabolic flight of seed, there is another that comes to mind.  In maths classes I remember the teacher’s emphasis that a straight line continues forever.  Two parallel straight lines will run forever alongside each other and never cross.  Could we draw an anology with a parabola?  If that’s the case, then the two ‘ends’ of the parabola continue forever, going further and further out into eternity, creating a wider and wider space within the boundaries.

If the lines of the parabola continue forever then there is an eternal openness, is there not?  Let’s carry this image a bit further and we might see some of the richness of parables and parabolas.

Let’s picture ourselves on a graph.  Let’s assume that we are located at the intersection of the x and y axes.   The spot marked ’0′.

One parabola might begin in the northwest quadrant, turns where we are standing, and then continues in the southwest quadrant forever.  Another parabola might start in the northwest quadrant, turn where we stand and then continue in the northeast quadrant forever.  Another parabola might begin in the northeast quadrant, turn where we are standing and then continue in the southeast quadrant forever.  Another might begin in the southwest quadrant, turn where we are standing and then continue in the southeast quadrant forever.

Let’s build on this image.  The parabola that is open to the west could be our past; the parabola that is open to the north could enclose and include heaven; the parabola that is open to the east could be our future; and the parabola that is open to the south is the depths of our souls. 

And each parabola is open ended forever.

Isn’t this the beauty of the parables?  They are open ended.  They illuminate our past, they point us to heaven, they enourage us to think about our future and they draw us into the depths of our souls.

And each parable is open ended forever.  There is no right answer; there is no wrong answer.

The parable of the sower is a perfect example.  Who is the sower?  God? Jesus? the Church? the minister? You?  Me?  What is the field?  What are the seeds?  Are they words, actions, prayers?  What is the well-trod path, what are the weeds, what is good soil? 

Though Mark may provide some answers for his dunder-headed disciples, many scholars argue that the pedestrian, heavy, clay-footed explanation is an addition to a beautifully evocative parable that cannot be nailed down quite so readily.

Our past.  Who was it that sowed the seeds of love, of hope, of wisdom, of trust, of knowledge?  Our future.  Where would we like to sow these selfsame seeds?  Heaven: in what ways did these seeds originate in heaven?  In what ways does this parable lift our eyes to heaven to appreciate that, without any contribution from us, these precious seeds were granted to us?  Our souls: in what sense are we the rocky ground, the weedy ground, the well-trod path?  What could we do to till our soils?

If it applies to us, it could apply to our churches too.  Which seeds are we sowing, if any? Are we using seeds provided from heaven?  Are we trying to till the ground or just accepting it as it stands?  Are we looking to ourselves as churches and the depths of our collective souls to see if we really are good soil in which the Garden of Eden may once again flourish?

God’s grace is abundant and everlasting.  Christ’s words are overflowing.  Thus the foolish, prodigal use of the seed.  Such qualities should apply to churches and to the followers of Christ. 

But, most importantly, the open-endedness of the parables, especially when we view our individual and collective lives through them, emphasise the mystery of God’s loving grace.  We will never totally, finally understand it.  We will never, totally, finally understand the mystery of Christ nor the workings of the Holy Spirit.  We will never, finally, totally understand all the nuances and applications and references of the parables.

But to read them, listen to them, wrestle with them, chew over them, ruminate on them, savour them and pray with them is to commit ourselves to God as revealed in Christ.  And in this endeavour we will find that that open-ended, eternal love is enmeshing itself in our own lives until that mustard seed begins to grow, and the kingdom appears.