On Stories

It seems that as you get older somehow stories become more important to you. Not only your personal stories–the stories that you tell so people can get a small glimpse of who you are–but also other people’s stories. As I was watching Cars with my daughter, it struck me that the story was more important then the movie with all its action; that is, when Lightning McQueen stops inches from the finish line when The King wrecks after Chick sideswipes him, the weight of that decision was visceral. In a way it is the same decision that haunts everyone; would I do the right thing? Beyond the hero mentality and the sentimental aspects that Pixar is obviously playing on in that scene, it does cut to the quick of humanity. Do we let evil prevail in our hearts or do we choose to do good. Don’t get me wrong, it weirds me out that I am parsing out the nature of humanity from a story about cars, but I guess thus begins my descent into the ramblings of an old man that not many understand.

What gives me hope for the future, at least for my children, is that people still tell stories that have meaning; wading through the dregs of the human condition through story should always remind us of our brokenness, our willingness to bend and contort our actions into rational choices, and our ability to rise above these temptations by making selfless decisions, at least as selfless as we can.

Today in church we looked at the end of Paul’s last known written work, II Timothy. He penned this letter from a prison cell and most likely with the knowledge that his time was short. What impresses me about Paul is his faith and his ability to communicate it in such a deep and precise way. For example, as he explains to Timothy how he is feeling sitting in his cell in II Timothy 4:6:

For I am already being poured out as a drink offering, and the time of my departure has come.

The Greek word he used for “my departure” is analusis. This term means to be unloosed or depart, but the metaphor is drawn from the loosing of a ship from its moorings. He is describing the ending of his life, he has been emptied and is spent–poured out as a drink offering–and is preparing to die–the time of my departure has come. There is hope in this description of death, this loosing from the mooring. What a cool word, analusis.

Stories, at least good stories, help us understand the reality of the human condition; whether it is Paul’s last recorded words of despair lined with hope or a children’s story about cars, a story should remind us of the conflict that is inside us all. Evil exists and we are all capable of perpetrating it no matter how strong we think we are. No matter our position, the halls of power will tempt the strong, the halls of the pub will tempt the ordinary to do unspeakable acts in the name of a little bit of good. This is why stories are important to me; they remind me of my own humanity and my own brokenness. Lest I think my decision-making will become better, more sound, with age; stories remind me that I too am human and fallible.