This is a story about stories. Or maybe it is
stories about The Story…
I love stories. Ever since I learned to read, I
could not get enough stories. I remember getting my first library
card and the wonderful world of stories housed in the basement of the Carnegie
Library in Bluffton, Indiana. My mother, somewhat proudly,
complained that I would have all five books I was allowed to check out read
before she could get me home. Trips to the library became a weekly
event for me, my nose buried in a book as I walked the sixteen blocks
home. My mother would chide me for reading in low light, and send
me, book in hand, outdoors for some fresh air and sunshine.
A
good story grabs me. I empathize with the characters, usually the
heroine or hero. I have been known to argue with the authors: “Louisa,
what on earth are you doing? Don’t you know that Jo should marry
Laurie? (Little Women)” I live the story and at the end,
I emerge abruptly. The end of a story leaves me questioning, crying
for more. “What happens next?” Sometimes, if a story
particularly engages me, I dwell in it awhile, taking the story past the place
the author saw fit to end it. Often I dream it. My
daughter particularly loves to tease me about my high school immersion into The
Lord of the Rings trilogy. I read it so many times that I began
to dream about it. But after the unsettling dream of orcs
over-running my high school, I put it on the shelf for a time. Still,
I wish I had never told her the story. When I laugh at one of her
strange dreams, she likes to retort, “At least there weren’t orcs in my
school!”
That
is another thing about stories. We love to tell stories. Humans
are storied beings. No other creatures tell stories about their
pasts (at least, I do not think that is what whale song is, but you never
know!). My family shared stories all the time. My
paternal grandmother would talk about how her father immigrated to the United
States with his two sisters. At my great-grandmother’s viewing, I
heard the story again about how she, along with a handful of other faithful
believers, established their old-world faith in the New World, building a
congregation and eventually a church. Not all the stories were
inspirational. I was troubled by the story about my great-aunt, who
because of an illegitimate child, could only be a half member (whatever that
meant!) in the congregation. And some stories were downright
embarrassing. My aunt loves to tell me the story about how, when I
was three and the whole family was at the lakes, I waded in and put my face
underwater, and would not come back up. Everyone started shrieking
at me, and finally (I do not understand why this was not the first response) my
uncle waded in and grabbed me from the water. I squirm when she
tells the story, and marvel that she never connected that experience to the
difficulty she had in later trying to teach me to swim!
Yes,
I love stories. My early faith was built on stories. I
may not have understood worship at that German-Swiss Anabaptist congregation,
with its plain slow singing, lengthy prayers and sermons (which were
occasionally in German). But I thrived on the morning Sunday school
and the stories: Old Testament stories about creation, Abraham, Joseph, Ruth,
David, Elijah; New Testament stories about Jesus and the birth of the church
and the missionary journeys of Paul. I lived those stories as a maid
in Sarah’s tent, or a child at Jesus’ feet or one of Lydia’s many servants.
They became part of my story. Thus storied, I never remember a time
as a child where I questioned the existence of God. God was and is
and always will be, and I knew it from the testimony of those ancient people
and their experience with God in their lives.
JRR
Tolkien once said that all stories, real or imagined, were part of the Great
Story . I like that. As my faith has grown - even
during the times where I, as John Ylvisaker aptly puts it, “wandered off to
find where demons dwell” – I find stories mark pivotal moments in my
faith. Stories attest to the presence of God in my life. There
is the story of my mother’s death. That last night, I kept watch at
my mother’s bedside while she lay dying. So clearly I remember the
coolness of her fingers, the brightness of the town hall tower clock shining in
her window. Then there was the moment when her labored breathing
eased and an incredible look of peace came over her. Agnostic as I
was at that time, I could not deny that at that moment, even if I had not been
there, she was not alone. Jesus walked with her during that final
journey.
And
Jesus walked with me, even as I continued to run from him, in the months after
her death. The two Christian co-workers who took the time to
sit with me during lunch breaks as I remembered and grieved silently spoke of
Jesus’ abiding presence. Even the novels by Andrew Greely,
which I devoured, screamed “presence” and “grace.” I stumbled
back to the community of believers and finally found home where God was waiting
with open arms and Lenten soup suppers to nourish both my body and
soul.
What
other stories could I tell? How we moved to Lima, Ohio – aka Lost In Middle America
- ostensibly for my spouse to accept a promotion, only to discover that God,
who works in mysterious (and often secular) ways, had brought us to this
place! How I stumbled on my home congregation, Zion Lutheran,
through the Internet (yes, I “googled” Lutheran churches in Lima, and they were
the only one with a website), and discovered not only a community in which to
grow and thrive, but also a new calling. How God provided for us
through that summer that Tim lost his job and I became the sole bread-winner on
a part-time job. I could tell seminary stories: about the
last-minute CPE assignment; about the extremely last minute transfer Tim got
the day we, after picking up and leaving everything like Abraham, moved into
seminary housing; about the day I despaired of purchasing new jeans for my
daughter only to find a donation of several pairs in exactly her size on
the seminary free table.
I
could tell you the story of my journey with my daughter into the world of
mental illness. How even in the devastation of receiving her
diagnosis of bi-polar disorder, I realized that God was at work here. We
were blessed to have such an array of services for her – in Lima there are
virtually no children’s mental health professionals and absolutely no
hospitals. Then there was the day when I learned that to get her
into a needed residential program, we had to give custody to the state. Crying
and fighting with insurance and marshalling the efforts of NAMI and the
ombudsman, I was surprised by God’s presence again and again in the most
unexpected places. A pastor from Cincinnati, calling to arrange a
supply preacher, noted my distress and asked about it. She then
shared her own journey with her daughter through the difficult world of mental
illness and residential placement. During a phone call with my
insurance’s mental health specialist, I pleaded for a way out of the terrible
decision we had to make, only to have the insurance guy liken my decision to
the story of Solomon and the two women claiming the same infant (1Kings
3:16-27). Talk about being surprised by grace! There was
the professor who listened to me grieve as only someone who had faced the same
decision could. Or the terrible morning when I cried to God in agony
and anger, questioning where God was in the pain and heartache and mess, only
to be brought to my knees at the foot of the cross, recognizing that God knew –
God was there in the suffering and pain, carrying me. There was no
where I could go where God was not (Psalm 139).
My
stories outline my faith journey. I learned as a child that God
loves us. My rebellion against that love as a young adult later
showed me that God never leaves and there is nothing God will not do to find
that one lost sheep. I learned grace in the community of believers,
breathing relief in my soul in learning that, although some communities may
condemn members to “half salvation” because of certain sins, there is nothing I
could do to make God love me less, and – even better – there is nothing I can
do to make God love me more! My story is one of God’s love and
provision, presence and grace.
Telling
and listening to our stories are an integral part of faith. We
tell the Great Story and listen to each other’s stories. And in listening, we
discover the places where your story and my story met the Great Story - the
places where grace prevails, love abounds and God is present. God
listens to our dreams, hopes, desires and stories. The witness of
the scriptures is a dialog between God and the world. The Gospel we
share is a story of good news. We imitate God when we listen to each
other’s stories and our faith communities flourish when active listening and
storytelling is practiced.
The challenge is to discern the story being told in various
places in the congregation’s life. It is easy to discern the story
in worship, Bible studies, small group discussions, and pastoral counseling
situations. It can be harder to hear the stories told in the
mundane matters of congregational life – the council meetings, budget
discussions, annual congregational meetings, for example. Beneath the
surface in each of these, are stories of faith and life and God – we just need
careful listening ears to hear them.
So we’re going to spend some time telling and listening to
stories. Trying to see how our stories connect with God’s story.
This month, we’re going to talk about how our stories and the stories of the
world around us give voice to our prayers. During the Lent mid-week
worship, we will be studying Psalms of Lament, and Jesus’ lament in Matthew
26:36-46. Each one of these laments tells a story about faith in
times of sorrow and trouble.
How do the stories in these laments offer
prayers for ourselves, our community and the world?
What are your prayers for
the church, the world, and all in need?
What are your prayers for
yourself, family and friends?
These
aren’t rhetorical questions. I really want to know.
Let’s
talk…
