If someone walks up to random people and says, “I have a theory of gravity,” almost nobody will listen. Unless they’ve got the right credentials — the right letters after their name — people tune out. But if someone says, “I have a story to tell,” suddenly ears perk up. People get curious.

When someone says, “I have a theory,” they’re challenging the existing order of knowledge. The listener’s first instinct is to defend: Who are you to make a claim about reality? Centuries of cranks and false prophets have trained us to be cautious. Science demands trust, and trust demands proof.

If there’s one thing good about academia in the sciences — despite its flaws — it’s the insistence on rigor. That’s why we trust the sounds coming from the hallways of science. There are some gates worth keeping.

But everyone, by virtue of being human, has the right to tell stories — and many will listen willingly. A story doesn’t demand anything. It gives freely, asking only for a little time. Most importantly, it doesn’t ask the listener to revise their beliefs.

Maybe that’s why Jesus taught in parables. He wasn’t handing down dry theories about the human condition — he was telling stories about lost sons, good Samaritans, and seeds in the soil. When his disciples asked why he spoke that way, he said, “Because seeing they do not see, and hearing they do not hear, nor do they understand.”