If you attend a church that follows the lectionary, the ordered cycle of weekly scripture readings, you’ve probably noticed that lately, much of the Sunday preaching has come from the Gospel of Luke. And Luke, like the other gospel writers, gives us plenty of parables of Jesus.
Parables are, as some have said, “earthly stories with heavenly meaning.” They are simple tales about farmers, seeds, sheep, bread, and coins, ordinary things from everyday life in first-century Galilee. Yet they carry within them deep truths about what Jesus called the Kingdom of God.
But here’s something curious: not everyone who heard these stories understood them the same way. In fact, according to the gospels, Jesus knew this. He told his disciples that parables could be revealing for some and puzzling for others. Those willing to listen deeply would find themselves invited into a vision of God’s kingdom. Those unwilling or uninterested might walk away scratching their heads.
That raises an important question for us today in Augusta, a city with rich layers of religious traditions and also many who claim no faith: Why did Jesus choose to teach in this way?
One answer is that stories stick. We may not remember a lecture or a complicated theological explanation, but we can recall the image of a seed falling on four different types of soil. We might recognize ourselves as the son who wanders home or the neighbor who refuses to give up knocking at midnight. Jesus’ parables offered windows into divine truth by using the language of daily life.
Another answer is that stories meet us where we are. To the curious, a parable opens up whole new ways of thinking. To the skeptical, it might simply remain a story. The parable leaves room for freedom, whether to lean in and wrestle with it or to set it aside. In that way, parables embody both judgment and mercy. They don’t force. They invite.
For preachers today, especially those working through the lectionary, there’s both a challenge and a gift in this. The challenge is that a parable doesn’t always yield its meaning on the first read. We have to sit with it, turn it over, and listen beyond the surface. But the gift is that the story still speaks, across the centuries, to people of every faith background, or none at all.
Maybe you don’t identify with the Christian faith. Still, the parables ask questions big enough for everyone:
- What kind of soil am I? Do I allow new ideas or new hope to take root?
- Who is my neighbor, and how far does that word stretch?
- What do I treasure, and what am I willing to give up protecting it?
Parables remind us that teaching about God’s kingdom is not about shutting people out but about inviting people in, if they have ears to hear. They resist easy answers and instead call us into wonder, reflection, and, for many, transformation.
So as Augusta’s preachers step into pulpits this fall and turn once more to Jesus’ stories, perhaps the challenge for all of us, no matter our background, is this: listen carefully. Not just with ears, but with hearts open to surprise. For in the ordinary, in the familiar, in stories we thought we already knew, there may be a message waiting, one that still has the power to change us.
