Tell me a story

I love stories. Of all kinds. I love novels (with the exception of the gratuitously nihilistic and depressing kind – Camus’ L’Etranger left me cold, for example). As a child I devoured Greek, Roman and Norse mythology as well as Grimm’s fairy tales and I still do.

I love movies - which have become our culture’s most common way of storytelling. I even love movie trailers. And I love a well-told, preferably humorous and self-deprecating anecdote. I grew up in a family that specialized in the entertaining anecdote and learned the craft listening to my father at dinner parties or extended family get-togethers.

But I find a problem. There is a part of us that does not value stories because they are, well, just stories. Stories have the literary appellation “fiction” which means, in essence, not true or at the very least not factual. To say that someone is telling stories is to say they are lying.

But there is profound truth in stories. Stories just communicate truth in a different way than an encyclopedia entry or a spreadsheet. Jesus, who told us he IS the truth told stories. He called them parables. The kingdom of God is like a man sowing seed or a woman sweeping her house. There was one a man going from Jerusalem to Jericho.

And Jesus wasn’t the first biblically to tell stories. Nathan told David a story about a rich man who appropriated a poor man’s sheep. Factual? Technically, no. True. Absolutely. The truth is always powerful.

Now some stories are both factual and true. Included in this category are the Gospels and most of the content of my father’s well-crafted anecdotes (there was some hyperbole known to creep in). Another example is our own story. Which we are exhorted to tell. We call it our testimony in Christianese, but it is simply our story. There is power in our story. Spiritual power. St. John puts it this way in Revelation 12: “and they have conquered him (the accuser or Satan) by the blood of the Lamb and by the word of their testimony.” (v. 11, ESV)

It matters that the Gospels are factual stories, as our testimonies. In them we know him who is the Truth made fact in the Incarnation and in our lives through the Holy Spirit. Jesus becoming flesh initiates the story. Just try to tell someone about Jesus without story. It might be possible, but I cannot think of how to even begin. Either in my life or in the biblical narrative, the reality of God incarnate in Jesus Christ, comes in story.

Cultivating Thankfulness

As I was reading Luke 7 this morning, particularly the story of the woman who washed Jesus’ feet with her hair, I was inclined to do some comparisons. Of myself to the characters in the text. I know that they say you shouldn’t compare yourself to other people, but I am not sure that in all circumstances “they” are right.

There is the Pharisee. In Christianese “Pharisee” means bad, hard-hearted, self-righteous. All qualities one would like to avoid. Indeed this Pharisee, Simon by name, was rather judgmental both toward the sinful woman doing absolutely disgraceful things and toward Jesus for not understanding the kind of woman she was. Judging others is a well-known Pharisaical trait. He did have at least one redeeming quality – he was hospitable. Kind of. He didn’t wash his guests feet, didn’t greet Jesus with a kiss or anoint his head. But at least he had a dinner party and had Jesus over.

Then there is the woman. She wets Jesus feet with her tears and wipes them with her tears. She anoints his feet with costly oil. She shows some rather extravagant devotion to him which, to be fair, would certainly make me uncomfortable if it were to happen at my dinner table.

Jesus knows Simon is put out by all this and tells him he has something to say. This is one of the best things about Jesus here. His comment to Simon that he has something to tell him is really a gracious way of asking Simon, “Permission to speak frankly?” Simon gives the go-ahead. And what follows is a simple illustration. Those who have been forgiven much love much. Those who have been forgiven little…

So here is where the comparison starts. Am I more like Simon, respectable and hospitable to a point, or am I more like this woman who shows this extravagant devotion to Jesus? To be frank, I fall into the former category. I am a thrower of dinner parties, not a feet anointer. Which makes me then ask, do I think I have been forgiven little and therefore love so feebly?

Pray that the Holy Spirit would kindle thankfulness in our hearts. Not long after reading this text, I was praying the general thanksgiving from Morning Prayer in the Book of Common Prayer. This is the pertinent section that caught me:

And, we beseech thee, give us that due sense of all thy mercies that our hearts may be unfeignedly thankful; and that we show forth thy praise not only with our lips but in our lives,

Open our eyes to see the extent of your mercy in our lives, that we, who have been forgiven more than we think, might love more than we do.

Sabbath

One day on the way out of church a woman grasped my hand and said a few pleasantries before proceeding to make excuses for her grown son who, were it not for his busy and demanding job, would come to church. She continued to explain that he worked 15 hours a day, seven days a week. She was clearly proud of him and seemed to expect a similar appreciation on my part. I was non-committal.

What went through my mind was, “She’s expecting me to congratulate her on a son who is breaking the fourth commandment – remember the Sabbath day and keep it holy.” I wonder what she might have thought my reaction would be to these statements: “ My son just can’t make it to church, he is busy breaking into homes and stealing stuff,” or “Frank would be here but he’s always sleeping around with the women in his neighborhood. He’s just a going concern, that Frank!” Ma’am, you must be very proud.

Now in fairness, I need to confess that I am an inveterate Sabbath-breaker. I, like this woman’s son, am prone to that particular flavor of self-idolatry that we call workaholism. It is the faithless, self-reliant vanity that, if I don’t do it, it’s not getting done. It is driven by fear of failure or pursuit of success, however those are defined.

Jesus tells us that the Sabbath was made for man and not man for the Sabbath. That is to say, that Sabbath serves us, not the other way around. This keeps things in perspective. We are not to slavishly observe the Sabbath and congratulate ourselves on our holiness.

But frankly, this isn’t my problem personally, nor our problem culturally. When was the last time I found myself slavishly observing the Sabbath, forfeiting the work (career work, yard work, any work) just because it was Sunday? Think hard.

How does the Sabbath then serve us? I can think of two very important ways. First it provides rest. The Hebrew word means to stop, to rest. Our bodies and souls need rest. Without it we become worn, tired, brittle and grumpy. God made the command to observe the Sabbath for us for our needed rest.

The second was in which the Sabbath serves us is hinted in where it comes in the list of the 10 commandments. It is number four. The first four are commandments concerning God. The last six concern our neighbors. The Sabbath is about God. It can help keep us from our idolatry of self. To leave the work undone on the Sabbath is to cease to trust in ourselves, and instead to trust in God’s power and provision. He is the one in whom we live and move and have our being, to quote St. Paul. Leaving this task for the Sabbath is an act of trust in God.

Yesterday I came home from church and immediately thought of all the things that needed to get done. But whether it was the rainy day or the grace of God, I didn’t start on my to do list. I sat on the couch, listening to a book tape with my family and soon fell asleep. I made a career of napping yesterday afternoon. I stopped and found rest.

My to do list is still in front of me today and it needs my attention. But yesterday’s Sabbath reminded me that the world rests on shoulders other than mine.

The right kind of books

In C.S. Lewis’ book, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, it is suggested that Eustace is unable to grasp what is happening, in part because he has not read the right kind of books. This impairment is so bad that he initially does not even recognize a dragon when he sees one. Lewis describes Eustace’s taste in books thus:

He liked books if they were books of information and had pictures of grain elevators or of fat foreign children doing exercises in model schools.

One understands how unhelpful these books would be in identifying dragons.

The right kind of books are very helpful in understanding all manner of things. I was struck by this in reading from Isaiah 60:

Your gates shall be open continually;
day and night they shall not be shut,
that the people may bring to you the wealth of the nations,
with their kings led in procession.

This is a remarkable statement. But who would know without having read the right kind of books? We might have an inkling if we lived in Jerusalem or perhaps Quebec City, where there are walls and gates. But without that we have only stories of knights and kings, castles and dragons to instruct us. And these are good instruction. They help us understand that amid lives of various dangers and trials, there are places of refuge. And that the king and his knights create that refuge.

As we read Isaiah 60, we perhaps understand, at least intuitively, that gates exist to keep people out and are opened only at certain times. But here Isaiah is speaking about gates to a city, which are open only when there is no threat to the inhabitants of the city. That usually meant during the day and in times of peace. Again, how would one know?

But if one does know, the remarkable nature of the statement becomes clear. City gates just aren't left open all the time.

But Isaiah is talking about a time when God (the King) will visit his people. “Arise, shine for your light has come,” is how the chapter opens. The presence of God upon the people does two things. First it makes them immensely attractive to others.

For behold, darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples;
but the Lord will arise upon you,
and his glory will be seen upon you.
All nations will come to your light, And kings to the brightness of your dawning.

This city, with the presence of the king is a beacon. And it is attractive to all nations. Not just the people of Israel, but to the other nations - the outsiders, the Canaanite nations, the pagans, the secular humanists. The list goes on.

Second, His presence creates peace, security, safety. Your gates will be open continually. That means that the city will always be a place of refuge. There is no need to close the gates, the city is always open because in the presence of the King, there is safety.

The city is the Church. As God is present among us, we are attractive to others. We are a light in the darkness. And we become a place of refuge.

O God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit come among us. Let your light, your presence rest upon us that we may be to your glory, a light in the world and a place of refuge.

Shaping a soul

Now that Lent is over it seems odd to be thinking about confession, but I am. Using the Book of Common Prayer for Morning Prayer every morning (well almost every), I am confronted by this pesky practice daily. Now the popular opinion about using the same text over and over again, each day, is that all the words become rote and meaningless. I am suspicious that those who think this are those who have never tried the repetitive rote route. I reminds me of Chesterton's characteristically pithy quote: "The Christian ideal has not been tired and found wanting; it has been found difficult and left untried."

My experience of regular, familiar liturgical prayer the opposite of the "rote and meaningless" assumption. The words, on the contrary, sometimes jump off the page at me, screaming in their well-worn familiarity. Which brings me back to the thoughts about confession. The confession, which is at the outset of the Morning Prayer service, starts like this:

Almighty and most merciful Father, we have erred and strayed from thy ways like lost sheep, we have followed too much the devices and desires of our own hearts, we have offended against thy holy law, we have left undone those things which we ought to have done, and we have done those things which we ought not to have done.

Now this is a full and robust prayer of confession. It sensibly covers all the bases: our thoughtless, careless sins (erring like lost sheep) as well as our focused and calculated sins (following too much the devices and desires of our own hearts). It covers the stuff we've done, which is where we usually stop, and our apathy, sloth and cowardice in the things we have failed to do. I tend to think that this latter category is the more significant problem in most of our lives. The confession also underlines that it is God's law that we have broken by all of the above, lest we think our actions are infractions against lesser law givers, such as Emily Post.

I am struck also in this prayer today, that it is intended to be said each day. Under this is an assumption well worth understanding - that we offend his holy law every day, thoughtlessly and intentionally, by acting and failing to act. The daily remembrance of this might do us well.

And this comes to my last thought on this, which is not about confession, but about the Book of Common Prayer. Understood correctly, it is not a resource primarily for facilitating a church service, but rather for shaping a soul.