Stories - Part 1

Every preacher knows that for all the hours we spend in the study, poring over the Bible passages, reading the commentaries and wrestling with our thoughts (as well as the occasional angel), it’s the stories we bring on a Sunday that people tend to remember most.

I’ve long since reached the point where that doesn’t bother me any more. I’ve made my peace with it; largely because I know that on the rare occasions when I get to sit in the pews, it’s the stories I remember too.

And perhaps that’s why the Bible comes to us, first and foremost, as a succession of unfolding stories. And why Jesus’ main teaching method was the particular kind of story we call the parable. Facts, laws, rules and points are necessary in life, but they speak mostly to the mind. Stories, almost subversively, manage to get the attention of both mind and heart. And maybe that’s why they tend to stay with us.

Recently I’ve been reading a book called ‘Journeying Out’ by Ann Morisy, and she’s encouraging the church to leave the safety of our own little subculture and journey out into the communities in which we live in a real and meaningful way. If we in the church are the salt, she’s saying, we need to get out of the saltshaker.

And Ann Morisy’s got me thinking about stories this week. Part of her argument is that when we take our courage in our hands, and venture out in faith, two things happen. 

Firstly, we become story-rich. In other words we have experiences which stretch us and challenge our thinking because they’re outside what we’re used to. We learn, we grow, and we have new tales to tell. Think about Melissa going back to Los Angeles after a whole summer in Scotland – so many stories to unpack! The rain! The greenery! The hospitality! The crazy accents! The rain!

When we venture out into a different context we become story rich. But at the same time, we also become story makers. Through our actions we generate new stories which can have a positive effect on those who hear them. Stories that have something of the fragrance of the Kingdom of God about them.

Ann Morisy lives and works in a poor, multicultural borough of inner-city London.  And she writes, very honestly, about one missed opportunity which stayed with her for a long time.

She was going shopping on her day off and because the weather had been atrocious she wore her good gore-tex jacket but took a golf brolly with her as well.

“As I got off the bus” she writes “the heavens opened and I congratulated myself on being well prepared. I put up the large brolly and went on my way, well pleased. As I came to the pedestrian island in the middle of the high street, I was confronted by three Somali women. Each was dressed in a burka which covered them from head to toe. They didn’t have anything to protect them from the rain and they were getting drenched. As I came towards them I smiled and gestured with my ‘big enough for three’ umbrella, inviting them to take it from me. They smiled back and the encounter became one that spoke of envy of how well prepared I was. But in that split second I didn’t take things further and make them understand that I wanted not just to show them the umbrella, but to give it to them, and the moment was lost.”

“Later, I speculated on what might have happened if I’d acted more decisively. When the women arrived home their giant umbrella would have attracted attention. They would have given an account of their brief encounter. Each time the umbrella was taken out in the anticipation of rain, the story of its origin would have been recalled. As the Somali household had to cope with abuse and rejection and downright rudeness, they might just remember the moment on that rainy day that was different. There might even be an occasion, many years in the future, when the story of the umbrella given by a stranger would be told to youngsters in Somalia to help widen their perspective on the ways of the world”.

Because she didn’t carry things through, Morisy can only imagine what might have been; but it’s a good example of what she calls a ‘generative story’. Stories that don’t just entertain, but have the power to effect real change. If she’d followed through with her intention, the effects of that one act of grace would ripple out and who knows where they could end.

I wonder sometimes if we in the church have lost sight of the truth that we’re not just to be story keepers, or story tellers. We’re called to be story makers; living in such a way that the old old story of Jesus and his love becomes fresh and alive in the consciousness of every new generation.

We’re not called to stay safe at home and keep the outside world at bay. We’re called to journey out and risk the adventure of faith. Read the story of the emerging church in the New Testament and tell me that’s not true.

The story of Philip we heard earlier is just one of many I could have chosen, but in just a few verses it gives us a really good model for what it takes to journey out and make new stories.

Firstly, Philip has some fire in his belly that came from a real encounter with Christ. He’d left everything to follow him, spent three years as his disciple and then fled with the rest of them as they nailed him to the tree.

But then came Easter Sunday; Peace be with you in a locked room; ascension and Pentecost – the Spirit crashing over them and into them like a boundless wave. And everything changes. Philip still didn’t have all the answers, but he knew whom he’d come to believe in and that made all the difference.

Secondly, there was ongoing communication. Prayer. The Spirit spoke and Philip went. And although our experience might not be just as immediate as that, we know that prayerfulness encourages readiness. Ann Morisy’s honest enough to admit that if she’d been more prayerful and in tune with God the day of the umbrella story, she might have made more out of the opportunity when it came our way. And many of us, I think, know how that feels.

Thirdly, there’s a willingness to ‘go’. You don’t change the world from your armchair. Or, dare I say it, your church pew. “Get ready and go south” the Spirit said to Philip. And he left – not knowing what was ahead of him, only that the Spirit had spoken and he needed to respond. That took courage – a willingness to take risks and accept discomfort. And it’s the same in every story worth telling. As the story unfolds, the protagonists have no idea how it’s going to pan out. Frodo and Sam have no idea if they’re going to get to Mordor and destroy the ring – they just know it’s what they’re called to do.

So Philip goes, and then, fourthly, he engages. For a while he runs alongside the carriage, puffing and panting. Sensibly he didn’t jump in the driver’s door and try to push the button to engage the handbrake!  That would be madness! He susses out what’s going on – the Ethiopian official’s puzzling over the book of Isaiah – and then, at just the right moment, Philip asks just the right question: “do you understand what you’re reading?”.

He offers just the kind of help the eunuch was needing; and in a very short space of time that conversation led to his conversion.

And there’s one last detail I like in this story. Once this encounter’s over, Philip disappears and the eunuch never sees him again. We never know how God can use these one-off encounters with people for his purposes – if we know whom we’ve believed in, and we’re prayerful, and we’re ready to take the risk of going out and engaging.

Now that’s the theory. What does it look like for you and me in practice? Well I want to speak more about that next week, but let me end with one story by way of illustration.

At the start of the summer, Melissa and I went down to Edinburgh for the Abbey Summer school and caught up with my friend Matt Canlis.  And back in the States, Matt’s doing his best to treat the area around his church in Wenatchee as parish – even though they don’t have that system over there.  He’s got some fire in his belly about that and he’s trying to get his people to understand the importance of having a geographical place to care for and minister to.

And as Matt got to know the area, he discovered that there’s a women’s refuge just down the street, housing about a dozen women who’ve suffered from domestic violence.

And over time, he’s earned trust of the staff there and he’s been allowed to start visiting – first just to talk and hear these women’s stories, and now he’s doing bible study with some them. And at the moment, Matt is the only man allowed to visit in that refuge.

When they meet they talk about life, family. And it’s two way traffic. He isn’t just there to preach or give advice. He shares some of his struggles with them and he listens to what they have to tell him from their own experience.

Technology’s a big issue in the Canlis family just now. They’re trying really hard to resist too much screen time, and these women have all spoken about the negative effects of TV on their marriages and their children. So much so that they’re encouraging Matt to get rid of his television! But he loves sports programmes! And his family all love movies! So they’ve come to a compromise!

Matt and Julie have this huge painting of St Andrews, which is where they first studied when they came to Scotland. It’s probably about 8 feet by 4. That painting, by choice, now lives directly in front of the TV. It was expensive, that painting. And it’s very heavy. It takes two people to move it. And that means that anyone who wants to watch TV, even the adults, has to get a buddy to help them move the picture. It’s the only telly in the house. Suddenly, everyone is accountable to someone else for the time they spend watching TV.

The women in the refuge have agreed that this is an acceptable compromise, and they are holding Matt accountable for it.

He is learning from them, and they – through him – are discovering that there are good men out there. Men who respect women and value their insights and can be trusted by them. And the next question, of course, is why is Matt like that? And if they ask him, I know he’ll be only too happy to tell them.

You know that old saying nothing ventured, nothing gained?

It’s 100% true you know.

The scriptures teach us time and time again that when we journey out towards the other, in faith, God can and does do remarkable things. Not only do we become story-rich, the things that we choose to do generate more stories,  that have the power to influence people for Christ. Philip explains Isaiah to an Ethiopian Eunuch. Matt Canlis visits a woman’s refuge in Wenatchee. And things change.

There’s so much in this I’m going to keep looking at this idea next week, and I’ll bring you some more stories that I hope will inspire you.

But the challenge for today is to realise that it’s not enough to applaud someone elses’ generative stories. We need to go in faith, just as we are, and begin making some of our own.

Let us pray

Prayer

Father,

help us find our faith,

help us find our courage.

You never ask more of us than we can manage in your strength.

Show us the next small step we need to take as individuals.

Where do you want us to journey out

so your message of grace comes home to people

in real and tangible ways?

Is it a conversation we need to begin?

something practical we need to do?

the setting aside of something old, so something new can take its place?

Lord, we bless you for these generative stories we’ve heard this morning;

may we never think that storymaking is someone else’s business,

or stand by and applaud the endeavour of others

thinking that our work is then done.

Take us as we are,

Summon out what we shall be

Set your seal upon our hearts

and use us, each one, in the furtherance of your kingdom

because we ask it all in Christ’s name.