A word of personal testimony. Among the many
convictions that led me into pastoral ministry sixteen
years ago and continue to sustain me in this odd and
wonderous vocation, none is more important than
this one: stories are sacred. Stories possess power to
create connection and convey meaning. I believe that
our human stories can be channels for divine truth. I
believe that the message of God’s grace is written not
only in the pages of scripture but in the experiences
and encounters that shape our narratives as well.
People of Christian faith are story people. Afterall,
before there was orthodox theology, before there were
letters from Paul or arguments over policy, before
the Apostles’ Creed or Constantine’s conversion,
before soaring cathedrals or church hierarchy, there
was a story. Whenever we worship, we bring all our
individual stories into the same sacred space, and we
gather around a common story, the story of God’s love
for us and for the world. We are story people.
And to worship is to be reminded on a weekly basis
that we belong to this story at least as much as it
belongs to us. Imagine just before bedtime, the young
child turns to his father, “Dad, tell me a story.”
“What kind of story would you like to hear, son?”
“Tell one with me in it.” That’s what we do here.
One of my favorite authors, Frederick Buechner, wrote
these words, “My story is important not because it is
mine…but because if I tell it anything like right, you
will recognize that in many ways it is also yours…It
is precisely through these stories…that God makes
himself known to us…If this is true, it means that to lose
track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished.”
I worry that we are at risk of losing track of these
stories—the great Biblical narratives that inform and
animate our faith, but also our personal encounters
with God, our testimonies, our stories. In an era of
bite-sized brevity and matching attention spans, who
has time for these stories? Buechner believed such
a loss would impoverish us, and he was right about
that. Stories enrich our lives. Stories form our faith.
They are also the basic building blocks of community.
This is why I was only mildly surprised last week when
I read a piece in the Atlantic titled, “The True Cost of
the Churchgoing Bust.” The cost the author referenced
was not spiritual in nature. Or maybe it was.
After detailing the now-familiar statistics around
increased secularization and decreased church
attendance, and his prior support of it, the author
shares what shifted his perspective. It was this:
the loss of identity formed by a shared story. He
explains that organized religion provides “not only
a connection to the divine, but also a narrative of
identity, a set of rituals to organize the week and the
year, and a community…” In other words, what faith
offers, what we desperately need, and what far too
many among us have lost is time and space to share
stories, to tell stories, to talk about and listen for what
matters the most.
When was the last time you paused long enough
to hear someone else’s story or to tell your own?
Perhaps it happened during the holidays or a
vacation, over a cup of coffee or on a long car trip. I’ve
been interested this week by how many folks have
mentioned to me how Monday’s eclipse felt like a
glimpse of the divine, and how many folks specifically
referenced how the experience was deepened by
sharing it with others. How neighbors made their
way out into common spaces in neighborhoods,
church parking lots, business places. How stories
were shared as we witnessed this miraculous event
of beauty. Sacred moments that connect us to one
another and to God. But you have to slow down long
enough to listen, long enough to tell.
Since our older son Samuel was a baby, Sara and
I have read to the boys each night before they
fall asleep. That time is a gift, a gift we cherish, an
opportunity to slow down and just be together at the
end of the day. I believe this. And yet. I remember
one night, Sam was two, and I was reading to him.
And it hit me that he didn’t know the words. He
didn’t know the order of the story. Aha! I can begin to
skip words, and then whole pages. I could read the
first page and the last page of the book and save all
the time taken up in between. After all, the sooner I
finished this reading thing, the sooner he would fall
asleep, the sooner I could get the kitchen clean, the
sooner I could sweep the floors, the sooner I could
answer that pile of emails waiting for me. I was proud
of myself for this discovery as I speed read my way
through children’s books. And then it hit me. In my
attempt to trick my infant son and rush to the next
thing on the list, I was bypassing the most important
moment of the day. I hope I’m not alone here. How
often do we fail to cherish the holy moments while
we’re living them? How often do we rush right past
the presence of God?
A couple of weeks ago, I was offered a speaking
invitation that both delighted and terrified me. This
is not my typical reaction to speaking invitations.
My mother used to say that the most dangerous
place in the room was between Chris and the
microphone. I feel right at home up here in front of
you. But this invitation was different. I was asked to
come talk with our high school juniors and seniors
on a Sunday morning. I was scared. Now I love
talking about scripture or some interesting topic
about which I’ve read and researched. But this
was different. I was asked to share my own faith
journey with a group of teenagers. What a daunting
challenge. Tell a story with me in it. Remember
where you have been and how you came to be
here. The group of teens could not have been more
gracious or kind. I was reminded that it is a blessing
beyond measure simply to be heard.
In today’s scripture the prophet Isaiah speaks to
people held captive in the land of Babylon. His
imagery of God’s power and might, creator of the
ends of the earth, does not grow faint or weary—that
imagery does not align with the lived experience of
his listeners. They are exiled, deported, displaced,
forced to live as refugees in a foreign land. The
haunting words of the psalmist paint the picture well:
“By the rivers of Babylon—there we wept when we
remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up
our harps… how could we sing the Lord’s song in a
strange land?”
Nonetheless, into the silence of harps hung out of
hopelessness, Isaiah’s prophetic words ring out with
this call: Remember. Remember. Tell the old stories.
Exile is coming to an end, and you must begin to
imagine your life beyond captivity. It is an act of
courage that begins with story. Remember God’s
faithfulness in the past, step into future boldly. But
first you must remember.
Throughout this program year at Second Church,
we have been focused on the ministry of rebuilding.
This work is not about returning to an era of former
glory. But neither does it mean we start from scratch.
It is about imagining our lives beyond the present
moment, immersed in the stories of God’s past
faithfulness. This rebuilding theme has taken us
in many different directions. Several of you have
mentioned it was a little too literal to have to rebuild
the porte-cochere this year. We’ve witnessed some
extraordinary reimagining of our ministry to youth
and their families. You’ve heard testimony to that
this morning. Thanks to the dedicated leadership of
volunteers with both vision and passion, we have
reimagined a signature mission of this congregation
and created Second Treasures, a new thrift store
supporting outreach to our neighbors, rooted in the
wonderful tradition of sales each summer and fall
in our building. From the depths of the pandemic,
we have rebuilt a congregation of worshipers each
Sunday as we see exciting growth in our attendance.
Drawing on Second’s roots and history as a church for
the city of Indianapolis, we are building bridges in the
community and responding to the call of our moment
to convene conversations about a shared future of
hope and possibility.
Rebuilding the foundations begins the way all
movements start—with stories. I am convinced that
the way forward for our city and our nation has
everything to do with rebuilding communities capable
of telling and hearing stories.
But we have to take the time to listen. We must
develop the spiritual discipline of bearing witness
rather than aiming to win an argument or dunk on
an adversary. As Marilynne Robinson reminds us,
“nothing true can be said about God from a posture of
defense.” Think of that.
Have you not known? Have you not heard? If the
answer is yes, then you must tell your story. You must
remember these stories that form the foundation of
our faith. And here is what will happen: as you speak,
you will find your strength renewed as if you are being
carried on eagles’ wings. You will run without fatigue.
You will walk without exhaustion. You will remember,
and you will be remembered. You will be recreated by
the author of all life. Let the rebuilding begin. Amen.