This I Believe--Assignment for Students
Our language is generously sprinkled with its formulas and sayings, “Once upon a time,” “and they all lived happily ever after,” and “it came to pass.” It’s why we pay $10.00 to see a good movie, $15 or more for a good novel. It’s what a child wants her daddy to tell her at bedtime; it’s what the ancients shared around a fire and what Homer offered in the halls of the archaic Greeks. It’s story; more than a sequence of events, but a beginning, middle, and end that brings characters and settings and thus our imaginations to life.
I believe in story because it is so basic to my—and all—religious faith, because it is the core of art, and because it gives us something to look forward to.
What do I mean by story? Does it need definition? Story is not a happens, b happens, then c happens. If so, our daily routine of rising and showering and eating breakfast and commuting and working ad infinitum would be a story, but we know it’s not. Story takes activities of life and rearranges them so that there is drama, an outcome, and a theme, even if we disagree on the theme. It has meaning beyond the sequence of events. Stories can be short—like some jokes—and long, like War and Peace, but most of us prefer something in the middle.
Story is basic to most religious faith, and even those who don’t share the faith know some of the basic stories. Few people in Western culture don’t know the story of the Prodigal Son, and it may be the first short story in history and also one of the best: three characters, three sections, and lots of debates over its meaning. Is it about the wasteful son, or the son who stayed at home, or about the father? Who do we know the best in the story? With whom do we identify? But no matter the theological interpretation, the story works its magic on us because we all need forgiveness, we all want a parent who loves unconditionally, we all encounter those who don’t understand grace, and we all feel at times that someone doesn’t deserve another chance.
Of course, Jesus told many other parables that turn the theology of his day on its head, like the one about the workers in the vineyard—why shouldn’t they complain about the pay inequity? Not a one of us wouldn’t whine about that, and by sparking that reaction from us, the parable takes us to new territory. That is what story does—takes us somewhere else, and that is what religion does, too. Religion without story is hard to fathom. For me the stories are more than historically true, they are truth. Many people—ironically, even religious ones—say they don’t like fiction because it’s not real, but they are missing the distinction. Good fiction-- good, well-told stories--may not be factual, but they are true because they show true humans in true human situations with true human outcomes.
Story is not only a power behind religion, but also an impulse behind art – behind a painting, behind a movie, behind why a poem is written, behind my own artistic impulses. Even when the painting doesn’t seem to embody a narrative, we look for the story behind it. How did Leonardo come to paint the Mona Lisa? What did they do while he was painting her portrait? What did they talk about? How did he get her to have that sly, or shy, or mysterious smile? If we ask these questions while we are viewing a painting, we are showing our dependence on story. The earliest forms of poetry were epics, not lyrics; those came along later. The cave paintings in Lascaux were telling the story of the hunt; Picasso’s Guernica tells a story.
Since story is the power behind our faith and art, it is more than entertainment. It is comfort; it is a refuge. It gives us something to look forward to. Sitting by a warm fire, reading a novel, is a treat after a long day. Sitting in an air-conditioned movie theatre in the dark, being pulled into that two-dimensional world, is a kind of reward. The story and the destination compel us. It’s a place to escape and lose ourselves, and yet it’s a place we find ourselves.
In the end, those who tell the stories have the most power over us. I hate to equate the power to tell good stories with a power over others, but I can come to no other conclusion. Fortunately, good storytellers usually understand that the power of story will be lost if used for political propaganda or self-seeking ends, and that a good story retains its greatest power when it is allowed to be just that, a good story, well told.
I believe in story because it is so basic to my—and all—religious faith, because it is the core of art, and because it gives us something to look forward to.
What do I mean by story? Does it need definition? Story is not a happens, b happens, then c happens. If so, our daily routine of rising and showering and eating breakfast and commuting and working ad infinitum would be a story, but we know it’s not. Story takes activities of life and rearranges them so that there is drama, an outcome, and a theme, even if we disagree on the theme. It has meaning beyond the sequence of events. Stories can be short—like some jokes—and long, like War and Peace, but most of us prefer something in the middle.
Story is basic to most religious faith, and even those who don’t share the faith know some of the basic stories. Few people in Western culture don’t know the story of the Prodigal Son, and it may be the first short story in history and also one of the best: three characters, three sections, and lots of debates over its meaning. Is it about the wasteful son, or the son who stayed at home, or about the father? Who do we know the best in the story? With whom do we identify? But no matter the theological interpretation, the story works its magic on us because we all need forgiveness, we all want a parent who loves unconditionally, we all encounter those who don’t understand grace, and we all feel at times that someone doesn’t deserve another chance.
Of course, Jesus told many other parables that turn the theology of his day on its head, like the one about the workers in the vineyard—why shouldn’t they complain about the pay inequity? Not a one of us wouldn’t whine about that, and by sparking that reaction from us, the parable takes us to new territory. That is what story does—takes us somewhere else, and that is what religion does, too. Religion without story is hard to fathom. For me the stories are more than historically true, they are truth. Many people—ironically, even religious ones—say they don’t like fiction because it’s not real, but they are missing the distinction. Good fiction-- good, well-told stories--may not be factual, but they are true because they show true humans in true human situations with true human outcomes.
Story is not only a power behind religion, but also an impulse behind art – behind a painting, behind a movie, behind why a poem is written, behind my own artistic impulses. Even when the painting doesn’t seem to embody a narrative, we look for the story behind it. How did Leonardo come to paint the Mona Lisa? What did they do while he was painting her portrait? What did they talk about? How did he get her to have that sly, or shy, or mysterious smile? If we ask these questions while we are viewing a painting, we are showing our dependence on story. The earliest forms of poetry were epics, not lyrics; those came along later. The cave paintings in Lascaux were telling the story of the hunt; Picasso’s Guernica tells a story.
Since story is the power behind our faith and art, it is more than entertainment. It is comfort; it is a refuge. It gives us something to look forward to. Sitting by a warm fire, reading a novel, is a treat after a long day. Sitting in an air-conditioned movie theatre in the dark, being pulled into that two-dimensional world, is a kind of reward. The story and the destination compel us. It’s a place to escape and lose ourselves, and yet it’s a place we find ourselves.
In the end, those who tell the stories have the most power over us. I hate to equate the power to tell good stories with a power over others, but I can come to no other conclusion. Fortunately, good storytellers usually understand that the power of story will be lost if used for political propaganda or self-seeking ends, and that a good story retains its greatest power when it is allowed to be just that, a good story, well told.
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