She sat on the back porch swing, arms folded tight as if holding her questions in, keeping them from spilling into the open. “Why doesn’t Jesus just say what He means?” Hannah had asked, her voice quiet, but sharp around the edges.
I remembered the question because I’ve whispered it too. When life grows cloudy and Jesus seems anything but clear, we want the answers spelled out, itemized and illuminated. We ache for clarity. And yet, Jesus often gave His teaching in parables—simple stories folded with hidden meaning, soft around the edges and deep in the middle.
The disciples wondered too.
“Why do you speak to them in parables?” they asked Him one day (Matthew 13:10).
And Jesus, patient as ever, answered, “Because the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of heaven has been given to you, but not to them… This is why I speak to them in parables: ‘Though seeing, they do not see; though hearing, they do not hear or understand’” (Matthew 13:11,13).
At first glance, that might sound like He didn’t want people to understand. But we know Jesus never taught to conceal, but to reveal. Not to push people away, but to draw them near—in a way that required something deeper than just hearing. It required hunger.
A parable is like a doorway. Standing closed, it invites the listener to knock. Jesus didn’t speak in riddles to confuse people. He spoke in stories so that His listeners—those who really wanted truth—would be compelled to lean in, to ask, to seek.
And when they did, He always explained.
Mark tells us, “With many similar parables Jesus spoke the word to them, as much as they could understand. He did not say anything to them without using a parable. But when he was alone with his own disciples, he explained everything” (Mark 4:33-34).
He hid truth in plain sight, in stories of seeds and soil, lamps and coins, sheep and shepherds—not to make it unattainable, but to invite the heart to search beyond the surface. He spoke to both the ears and the heart. And hearts that were soft, willing, and curious would hear something much greater than a tale—they’d hear the voice of God.
It’s kind of like the difference between hearing music on the radio and feeling it stir something in your chest. Same sound. Different ears.
In the culture Jesus lived in, storytelling was sacred. Rabbis often taught in parables, layering meaning within simple narratives. But Jesus did something more—He used each parable to draw a line between what people thought they knew and what heaven was actually like. He didn’t just tell stories. He translated the kingdom.
If we’re honest, we still prefer answers that are quick and tidy, don’t we? We want truth handed to us on a plate. But Jesus knew what our hearts really needed wasn't just information—it was transformation. And that doesn’t happen by memorizing rules. It happens when we wrestle with the story, when we step into it, when we wonder who we are in its pages.
Maybe that’s why you’ve read the parable of the prodigal son and felt like the younger brother one day, the bitter older brother the next. Maybe one moment, you see yourself in the good soil of the heart—and the next as the weeds that choke out the word. That’s the power of a parable. It meets us where we are, and then it moves us to where we need to go.
And somehow, in the mystery of it all, Jesus waits patiently in the story for us to find Him.
There’s this line I once scribbled in the margin of my Bible: “Jesus didn’t hide truth from the willing—He wrapped it where only love could unwrap it.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too: the ache of not understanding, the frustration of waiting for clarity. But maybe that’s the invitation. To pause a little longer. To lean a little closer. To ask the questions behind your questions.
Because just like the disciples, He’ll explain it to you too, when you come to Him. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not in the way you expected. But always with tenderness, always with truth.
And stories—oh, the stories. They’ll keep unfolding as you return to them, like letters written just for you, sealed in the language of love.
She sat on the back porch swing, arms folded tight as if holding her questions in, keeping them from spilling into the open. “Why doesn’t Jesus just say what He means?” Hannah had asked, her voice quiet, but sharp around the edges.
I remembered the question because I’ve whispered it too. When life grows cloudy and Jesus seems anything but clear, we want the answers spelled out, itemized and illuminated. We ache for clarity. And yet, Jesus often gave His teaching in parables—simple stories folded with hidden meaning, soft around the edges and deep in the middle.
The disciples wondered too.
“Why do you speak to them in parables?” they asked Him one day (Matthew 13:10).
And Jesus, patient as ever, answered, “Because the knowledge of the secrets of the kingdom of heaven has been given to you, but not to them… This is why I speak to them in parables: ‘Though seeing, they do not see; though hearing, they do not hear or understand’” (Matthew 13:11,13).
At first glance, that might sound like He didn’t want people to understand. But we know Jesus never taught to conceal, but to reveal. Not to push people away, but to draw them near—in a way that required something deeper than just hearing. It required hunger.
A parable is like a doorway. Standing closed, it invites the listener to knock. Jesus didn’t speak in riddles to confuse people. He spoke in stories so that His listeners—those who really wanted truth—would be compelled to lean in, to ask, to seek.
And when they did, He always explained.
Mark tells us, “With many similar parables Jesus spoke the word to them, as much as they could understand. He did not say anything to them without using a parable. But when he was alone with his own disciples, he explained everything” (Mark 4:33-34).
He hid truth in plain sight, in stories of seeds and soil, lamps and coins, sheep and shepherds—not to make it unattainable, but to invite the heart to search beyond the surface. He spoke to both the ears and the heart. And hearts that were soft, willing, and curious would hear something much greater than a tale—they’d hear the voice of God.
It’s kind of like the difference between hearing music on the radio and feeling it stir something in your chest. Same sound. Different ears.
In the culture Jesus lived in, storytelling was sacred. Rabbis often taught in parables, layering meaning within simple narratives. But Jesus did something more—He used each parable to draw a line between what people thought they knew and what heaven was actually like. He didn’t just tell stories. He translated the kingdom.
If we’re honest, we still prefer answers that are quick and tidy, don’t we? We want truth handed to us on a plate. But Jesus knew what our hearts really needed wasn't just information—it was transformation. And that doesn’t happen by memorizing rules. It happens when we wrestle with the story, when we step into it, when we wonder who we are in its pages.
Maybe that’s why you’ve read the parable of the prodigal son and felt like the younger brother one day, the bitter older brother the next. Maybe one moment, you see yourself in the good soil of the heart—and the next as the weeds that choke out the word. That’s the power of a parable. It meets us where we are, and then it moves us to where we need to go.
And somehow, in the mystery of it all, Jesus waits patiently in the story for us to find Him.
There’s this line I once scribbled in the margin of my Bible: “Jesus didn’t hide truth from the willing—He wrapped it where only love could unwrap it.”
Maybe you’ve felt that too: the ache of not understanding, the frustration of waiting for clarity. But maybe that’s the invitation. To pause a little longer. To lean a little closer. To ask the questions behind your questions.
Because just like the disciples, He’ll explain it to you too, when you come to Him. Maybe not all at once. Maybe not in the way you expected. But always with tenderness, always with truth.
And stories—oh, the stories. They’ll keep unfolding as you return to them, like letters written just for you, sealed in the language of love.
