The Telling of Stories
aka, Preaching to myself...
Someone, a stranger, told me a story of tragedy and triumph. Of a community banded together in an act of surprising compassion at a moment when events could have headed in a far more violent direction. This was a story of persistence, hope, and love. A story of flourishing. A witness to the effect of the Gospel.
Here is the first thing I notice about this story: It turns out I knew some of the players in the drama. Story is always good for preaching. It gets around the listeners' preconceptions and breaches their defenses. But story is also about being made an insider: by telling you my story I invite you into my world; I create community and solidarity. For those of us who preach, the person for whom the anecdote is most powerful, I think, is often ourselves! For we create an alliance for ourselves, as much as we may create a solidarity for our congregation. And, am I telling the story because of its power for my listeners, or am I telling it because of the power it has over me? By telling it, I make it my story, but is it really my story? Is my anecdote about you my story to tell? What would I feel if you told my story? Gossip, stories where I/we know the players, creates an alliance for me. It builds me up (in a bad way.) That's why gossip is so inviting; it pretends to build a community, albeit by cancelling someone else.
Never preach a negative anecdote. Someone, somewhere, will conclude they know the people concerned, even if you made the characters up. Never tell a story which is both negative and true. Not only because of the way that stories get around, but because stories also always have two sides: I remember a story of abuse, of tragedy, of communal destruction. Clergy, and any helping profession hear many of these, and visiting clergy get to hear lots of them because a) they won't be coming back and b) they won't blab… will they? Well, I heard this terrible story, mostly forgot it, and went on with life. Then, years later, hundreds of miles away, someone told me an appalling story of abuse, of tragedy, and of communal destruction; a terrible story, and the same story, told from the other side. Never tell a story which is not mine to tell. Don't tell negative stories.
And then there's the story with which we began. Again years later, I was talking with a colleague who mentioned events in a certain town somewhere far away. Well, says I, that is an interesting place, that town. And I outlined the story, just the bones of it. What do these events say about a place we wondered? Legitimate professional interest, with good intentions. And as we stood reflecting, up walked a person my colleague obviously knew. A family member, in fact. Introductions were made. I recognised a name: I realised I had been talking about the town and family of my colleague's in-laws.
Story teaches me and converts me. Sometimes I read James Alison, my favourite theologian, and am delighted by his elegance and insight. But I have always been prepared for his explication of the Gospel by my stories, by the things which have happened to me. Story also lets me have community. Deeply introverted, still not sure how to interact with other people, story lets me be a part of things. Well, let's be honest here: I'm one of those clergy who hide behind stories and Dad jokes.
It strikes me that if I can't take what I have learned from your story, and put it into other words; if I can't create a story that has learned from your wisdom and experience, but which even you wouldn't recognise, then I can not, and must not, tell that story. It is not mine to tell, and I have no idea what its effect may be upon you, or others.
Andrea Prior (June 2025)
