Hey, welcome back here to the Semi -Seminary
and tonight we're going to do something a little
different. Now we've spent weeks and some of
you have been here for every mile of it, walking
the dusty roads of Jesus' parables. Seeds in
the wind, coins in the dark, fathers running,
shepherds counting to one. So before we move
on, for Advent begins its slow burn towards Bethlehem,
I wanted us to stop and look back, to name what
these stories have been doing to us while we
weren't paying attention. And because it's the
night before Thanksgiving, and because Jan and
Gigi deserve a holy Sabbath from the Wednesday
night kitchen, we're not in the fellowship hall
tonight. No clatter serving spoons, no smell
of garlic bread drifting from the hallway. We're
tucked away here in the vestry, lights low, scripture
open, letting the quiet do its own kind of teaching.
This isn't a new parable, it's just a summation.
The evening examine of the whole journey. If
you've got a plate warming back home or a pie
cooling on the counter, settle in anyway. Let
your heart catch its breath. Let the word rise
in you one more time like leavening dough. And
when we've walked this recap road together, I'll
see you on the other side. Picture this. You've
walked dusty roads with a sower who can't stop
scattering seed in the most ridiculous places.
You've stood in a vineyard at sunset watching
coins drop into undeserving hands. You've climbed
through brambles with a shepherd who just refuses
to come home until every last sheep is accounted
for. And you've watched tables flip and trees
wither. You've smelled bread rising and seen
mustard growing wild where it was never planted.
And somehow in all of that walking and in all
of that listening, something inside of you shifted.
Maybe you can't even name it yet. Maybe it's
just a loosening in your chest, a different kind
of breathing. Maybe it's the way you look at
the guy who cut you off in traffic or the version
of yourself you see in the mirror on bad mornings.
Jesus has been teaching you the way he always
teaches, not with PowerPoints and outlines, but
with farmers and bread makers. Desperate fathers
running down roads with their robes hiked up
to their knees. And if you've been listening,
I mean, if you've really been listening, these
stories have been doing something to you that
lectures never could. They've been rewiring how
you see the world. Tonight, we're not starting
a new parable. We're starting at the end of the
road looking back. To name what happened. Because
Jesus just doesn't tell you about the kingdom.
He hides it in stories until it rises in you
like leaven in dough. Until you realize the feast
you've been waiting for is already on the table.
And your name has been on the guest list the
whole time. Parables aren't riddles to be solved.
They're doors to be walked through. Jesus doesn't
hand you a map. He puts you on the path and says,
walk it with me. Feel what it's like when the
ground shifts. Taste what mercy does when it
doesn't ask permission first. A parable is a
type of theater of the mind for people who've
learned to not trust their eyes anymore. It's
truth wrapped in ordinary things, seeds and coins
and dinner parties. So that when it finally lands,
you can't claim you don't understand because
you were standing right there. You saw it yourself.
And here's the scandal. Jesus doesn't explain
them to everybody, just to the ones. who have
the ears that have learned how to hear past all
of the noise. And it's not cruelty, it's respect
for mystery. So he tells stories about things.
Farmers and shepherds and bakers, they all would
know in their bones. And while the religious
experts are busy analyzing the syntax, the broken
ones in the back are whispering, wait, that's
me. He's talking about me. And parables don't
give you answers. In fact, they really give you
something better. They give you a way to recognize
grace when it shows up wearing work clothes and
smelling like a dirt road. The disciples asked
him why he does this. Why parables? Why hide
the kingdom in the stories about dirt and dough
instead of just telling us straight? His answer
is strange and beautiful and a little unsettling.
My friend, the reading of the word, the gospel
according to Matthew chapter 13, beginning verse
10. Then the disciples came and said to him,
Why do you speak to them in parables? And he
answered them, To you it has been given to know
the secrets of the kingdom of heaven, but to
them it has not been given. For to the one who
has, more will be given, and he will be given
an abundance. But from the one who has not, even
what he has will be taken away. This is why I
speak to them in parables. Because seeing they
don't see, and hearing they do not hear, nor
do they understand. Indeed, in their case, the
prophecy of Isaiah is fulfilled that says, You
will indeed hear but not understand, and you
will indeed see but never perceive. For this
people's heart has grown dull. And with their
ears they can barely hear, and their eyes they
have closed, lest they should see with their
eyes and hear with their ears and understand
with their heart and turn, and I would heal them.
But blessed are your eyes, for they see, and
your ears because they hear. For truly I say
to you, many prophets and righteous people long
to see what you see. And did not see. And to
hear what you hear. And did not hear it. The
word has gone out like seed on the wind. Some
hearts are soft enough to catch it. Some ears
have learned to hear past the noise of religion
and empire and self -protection. But those who
have ears. Hear. Jesus. But the parables isn't
giving you a theology exam. He's giving you a
key. Because every parable unlocks a door, and
every door opens onto the same room, the kingdom
of God breaking into the world you thought you
knew. The keys only work if you turn them. If
you hold them up in the light and admire their
craftsmanship, you're still standing outside.
If you analyze the metal composition and debate
the design, you're still locked out. These stories
demand something from you, not performance, not
protection, just the willingness to step through
the door they opened and see. What's on the other
side? See if you can think back to the first
one that you heard. Maybe it was the sower flinging
seed on rocks and weeds and good soil without
discrimination. You listened and somehow you
recognized the voice. Not because you understood
every detail, but because somewhere deep past
the noise of your life, Past the religious scripts
you've memorized. Past the shame that told you
God only loves you when you're useful. Somewhere
you heard mercy calling your name. And then we
kept going, week after week. The vineyard workers
who got grace instead of fairness. The tenants
who refused to yield fruit. The leaven hidden
in flour until the whole batch was transformed.
Each story did its work, chipped away at that
calcified theology that said you had to earn
your seat at the table, loosening that grip of
the lie that said grace was scarce. You better
behave or you're going to lose your portion.
And if you followed along, you might have started
to see a pattern. Grace comes first. Transformation
follows. It's never the other way around. The
sower doesn't wait for worthy soil. The shepherd
doesn't wait for the shepherd to find its own
way home. Father runs before the son finishes
his whole rehearsed apology. Mustard gives shade
before it's pruned. Leaven joins the flour before
it lifts the dough. Welcome first. Change that
actually lasts? And somewhere in there, maybe
on your truck on the way home, maybe at 2 a .m.
when sleep won't come, you realize something.
I have been trying to earn what has already been
given to me. I have been climbing for a seat
that already has my name on it. That is what
parables do. They don't tell you that you're
wrong. They show you that you're free. Let's
name what some of these parables we have looked
at have been teaching us. Grace operates on abundance,
not scarcity. The sower doesn't ration seed.
The vineyard owner doesn't run out of coins.
The shepherd doesn't say, well, I've still got
99. That's a pretty good percentage. There's
always enough. 30, 60, 100 fold. Three measures
of flour way more than one family needs because
when grace works, neighbors eat. Grace exposes
empire's logic. as the opposite of kingdom math.
The master who reaps where he doesn't sow, that's
not God. That's exploitation dressed up as authority.
The tenants who think murder will get them the
inheritance, that's what happens when you mistake
violence for power. Jesus keeps pointing at empire,
saying, that is not how my father's house works.
Grace does not require consent to start working.
The 11th hour workers didn't negotiate their
wage. The lost sheep didn't agree to be found.
The prodigal son didn't finish his speech before
the father had already begun throwing a party.
Grace moves first, always. We respond. We don't
initiate. The kingdom is both small and pervasive.
Mustard seed and leaven. It starts so small you
can often miss it. But give it time and it takes
over everything. Grace refuses to be contained.
It gets into the cracks. It works its way through
the whole lump until every room in your house.
Every habit, every grudge, every name you call
yourself, all of it. Another thing that we have
discovered is that humility is the posture of
the kingdom. Pick the lowest seat and wait to
be invited higher. Stop climbing for honor and
start making space for the ones nobody invited.
The kingdom doesn't work like a ladder. It works
like a table. And there's always room for one
more. This is the through line. This is the one
gospel these parables have been preaching together.
It's this. The kingdom of God is not a performance
you master. It's a feast you enter. And you don't
get in by being impressive. You get in because
the host won't stop inviting people who don't
deserve it. So here's where we are with this
church. We have spent weeks in these stories.
We've walked these roads. We've tasted the bread.
Now what? Well, stop trying to earn what's already
been given you. So are scattered seed on you
when you were rocky ground. The shepherd found
you and you were lost. You didn't even know you
were lost. It's done. Receive it. You'll also
start recognizing grace in very ordinary places.
Mustard seed in your backyard. A potluck where
nobody checks credentials at the door. A moment
when you choose to forgive that debt because
you just remembered the size of the one that
got canceled on your behalf. Hopefully you'll
quit hoarding and start scattering. When you've
been given more than you can count, you stop
counting. You start making shade for people who
won't thank you. You bake bread for neighbors
who didn't ask for it. You embrace the smallness.
God does his best work with specks of seed and
pinches of leaven and one guy picking the lowest
seat while everybody else fights for honor. Small,
fateful, ordinary acts of mercy. That is kingdom
work. The rest is just noise. And you learn to
wait. Seed takes time. Leaven needs hours. Transformation
does not happen on our schedule. You plant, you
need, you trust, and you don't pull up the seed
to check to see if it's growing. And you make
room at your table, in your church, in your heart
for the 11th hour workers, for the prodigal who
smells like pig slop, for the version of yourself
that keeps showing up with empty hands. This
is what it looks like when Wednesday night becomes
the kingdom. When potlucks aren't just covered
dishes. They're a rehearsal for eternity. You
don't have to be perfect. You just have to show
up. Eat the bread that's been set in front of
you and trust the same grace that got you in
the door is working its way through your whole
life until, like leaven and dough, it's all rising.
Friend, here's the last word. The kingdom is
not coming. It's here. It's been here. The whole
time. Hiding in stories about farmers and bakers
and fathers who won't stop running. So go scatter
mercy this week. Make space at a table where
someone thought they'd never be welcome. Forgive
the dead. Pick the lower seat. Plant something
small and trust God with the growing. And when
you forget. Because we all do. When you find
your hands around someone's throat demanding
payment for a debt, that's pocket change compared
to what you've been forgiven. Remember this.
Sower is still scattering. The shepherd is still
searching. The father is still running. The leaven,
man, that leaven is still working. The table
is still set. And your name is on the guest list.
Not because you've earned it, but because that's
how the kingdom works. Grace first. Transformation
follows. And the host won't rest until the house
is full and every last exile has found their
way home. Amen? Well, friends, we've walked back
through the whole trail tonight. Seed flung in
wild places. Workers paid grace instead of wages.
Mustard that grew where nobody planted it. Leaven
that worked while we weren't looking. Shepherds
counting all the way down to one. Fathers running
before apologies were ever finished. All of it
stitched together like one stubborn truth. Grace
comes first. transformation follows and the kingdom
is already breaking in all around us. If something
in this recap loosened your shoulders or quieted
a worry you've been carrying or maybe reminded
you that God isn't grading you, God's welcoming
you, then I hope you can take that with you into
tomorrow, into the Thanksgiving table, into the
places where gratitude comes easy and the places
where it doesn't. I'm grateful for you. Truly,
for every ear that leans in, for every soul that
shows up tired and still listens for Jesus anyway.
And if this episode blessed you, go on, throw
that like in the offering plate the way we used
to do when the ushers came down the aisle, slow
and reverent. And if you want to know when we
turn the lights on back here at church, when
the next sermon drops, when the next study begins,
tithe that subscribe button. He'll let you know
when the bells ring and the doors swing wide.
I hope your Thanksgiving is gentle, joyful, and
full of grace that you never saw coming. And
until next time, be blessed. It's late. The static's
humming. And if you ain't going to send your
money to me, then just whisper that like into
the plate. Every click's a candle in the dark
telling heaven we're still here, still listening.
So before you turn that dial, throw it in the
plate.