What is a parable? Why does Jesus use parables when speaking to the people? Why are the disciples given knowledge of the mysteries of the Kingdom, with Jesus explaining the meaning of His parables to them, while He seemingly leaves the others in ignorance? To answer all these questions, it is important to understand what parables were used for in antiquity—and in the East during the Middle Ages and later, right up to the present day.

It might seem simplest to explain everything directly; then no one would have any misunderstandings. In fact, however, such a head-on approach is only partly useful, and not merely because it discourages people from thinking by offering them ready-made answers. Another problem is that with this kind of teaching the student often does not even develop any questions. He has no idea what to ask, because the teacher decides for him what he needs to know. A parable works differently.

Above all, it enables a person to see the unfamiliar in the familiar, the unexpected where everything has long seemed known and understood. It teaches a person to ask questions—and not idle ones. Some questions are asked for their own sake, simply to pass the time in a more or less learned and more or less friendly conversation. A parable teaches us to ask questions that have become urgent because what was familiar has, if not collapsed, at least begun to sway. Urgent questions are questions asked from within this kind of swaying reality.

A person is free, of course, and can brush the parable aside. His reality will then stand firm again—or at least so it will seem to him. In that case the parable will remain for him merely a tale, a fable, or an elegant paradox unrelated to his own life or to life in general. Jesus says of such people that seeing they do not see and hearing they do not hear.

Those inclined to listen must first become aware of the questions that arise from the parable and formulate them for themselves—to understand what they find unclear and unfamiliar within what is clear and familiar. A person can and must do this work himself; no hints are needed. Until he has done so, he remains among those whom the Savior calls “outsiders.” Once the questions have been formulated, they are asked—as Jesus' disciples ask them.

Only then is it possible to speak directly; then a person will hear and understand, each according to his measure. This is exactly how Jesus acts. He is no teacher in the worst sense of the word, one who forces his knowledge upon everyone who has not managed or been able to escape. He speaks only to those who are ready and want to hear, while leaving the door open for the others in case they too should want to enter.

Among the parables about the Kingdom, the parables of the sower occupy a special place. In today's Gospel reading Jesus speaks of what prevents a person from entering the Kingdom. And the first obstacle on this path is the "road," the lack of attention to the words of the One who bears witness to the Kingdom (vv. 4, 19). It would seem that distraction is not characteristic of everyone. But in this case the matter is evidently attention of a special kind, that inner sensitivity which makes a person listen and stop before what he usually passes by without thinking.

In the Gospel period, words about the Kingdom and about the Messiah sounded often, and for many people, especially those living an intense religious life, they had probably already become somewhat stale. Perhaps this is precisely what moved Jesus to address the people in parables: such language always attracts attention, often forcing people to look at well-known and familiar things from an unexpected side, allowing them to see what would otherwise have remained unnoticed. But it is not enough merely to notice and turn; one must also remain faithful even when the enthusiasm of the newly converted passes and the world demands its own, so that the matter may even come to persecution (vv. 5-6, 20-21). Here feelings alone will not suffice, nor reason alone; faith not rooted in the will will hardly withstand strong external pressure, for feelings pass away and reason is pliable.

Yet there is something in the world more dangerous for spiritual life than pressure and even persecution, although compared with them this danger appears unserious: worldly cares and everyday bustle (vv. 7, 22). Can cares and bustle break those whom persecutions did not break?

But during persecutions the situation usually looks completely clear, and the will gathers itself into one by itself. Times of peace and quiet are another matter, when there seems to be no danger and one can relax, drifting with a current that promises no rapids or whirlpools ahead. Meanwhile everyday bustle quietly shifts attention to itself and, if one does not catch oneself in time, easily swallows a person whole, gradually forcing him, if not entirely to forget God and spiritual life, then at least to push them into the background. Only the one who can withstand both persecutions and everyday bustle becomes good soil that bears abundant spiritual fruit (vv. 8, 23).

At a certain point the Lord, who had previously proclaimed clearly to the crowds, chooses the Twelve, sends them out to preach, and chooses to speak in parables. Even the disciples noticed this and asked Him directly: why do You speak to them in parables? Evidently, this was a rather sharp change in the Savior's way of acting. In answer Christ quotes Isaiah's bitter words that we see without seeing and hear without understanding. Then He lists the sad fates of the human heart, speaking of the word that Satan snatches away, that the cares of this age choke, or that our human immaturity ruins. Perhaps the Lord's parables also have a pedagogical purpose. They are indeed images impossible to forget. But why, then, is there such sorrow in His words?

Our faith is a very simple thing. It contains Mystery, but it contains no secret doctrine and no allegories hidden from the uninitiated. Yet the simple words "love your neighbor" or "seek the Kingdom of God and His righteousness" turn out to be insurmountably difficult for us. We want something special, with mysticism and obscurity, with difficult exercises and, without fail, profound thought; or else, on the contrary, give us something visible, like a theocratic state and unbroken "victories over the adversaries," since we have many adversaries and still more people who simply annoy us.

And therefore this image of the sower, who sows most of the seed without result, is inexpressibly sad. Our happiness consists in this: any one of us would long ago have stopped sowing in such hopeless conditions. Any one of us would first have found a better plot and would not have sown just anywhere. But He is God, not man. And He does not stop giving us His word. If we do not want to receive His word in simplicity, He sows in parables, so that, having received the testimony in His Blood on the Cross, we may at last open our eyes and, seeing, see, and hearing, hear and understand and turn back, so that He may heal us.