How and why do we tell stories? To get into that, I’ll tell a couple—one embedded in the other—from my past—and, then get to a third.
After I finished seminary, I spent some years as “a management accountant”. I took a number of courses in accounting. And one of my professors told the class that accountants aren’t “funny people”, but they do have two jokes. I won’t tell both (you’ll have to ask me about the second one).
A major corporation needed a Chief Financial Officer. The search committee settled on three finalists—all of whom had to have their conversation with the Chief Executive Officer. The first candidate walked into the CEO’s office, and wasn’t even asked to sit down. The CEO said, “You’re qualifications are impressive! I have only one question for you. What is 1+1?” The candidate said, “Two.” The CEO said, “Thank you! We’ll be in touch.” The second candidate came in, and the CEO repeated the same question. The second candidate hesitated, and said “Two.” “Thank you! We’ll be in touch.” The final candidate came in, and the CEO asked the same question. The candidate paused thoughtfully, and finally responded, “What do you want it to be?” The CEO answered, “When can you start?” Maybe not a Generally Accepted Accounting Principle that my accounting professor wanted to impart to us students, but . . . maybe so! Regardless, it illustrates that there is clearly a distinction to be made between “facts” and how they’re interpreted. And that is part of how and why we tell stories!
In its “stripped-down” form, we heard a fairly straightforward (if, to modern ears, a rather bizarre and ethically questionable) story from Genesis— the Book of Beginnings—this morning. Abraham’s wife, Sarah, was upset that her slave Hagar’s son (also Abraham’s first-born) was “laughing” with regard to Isaac (Sarah’s son). Upset by what she saw, Sarah had Hagar and Ishmael banished from the household (with Abraham’s reluctant permission). They went into the desert and, soon, ran out of water. Hagar despaired for Ishmael, but God heard, AND promised that Ishmael would be the father of a great nation.
It was actually several chapters earlier, in Genesis 16, that Hagar was first introduced. In a very similar story, we learn that she is Sarai’s Egyptian slave, and that, since Sarai couldn’t have children, she gave Hagar to Abram. Hagar became pregnant and no longer respected Sarai. So Sarai “treated her harshly” and Hagar ran away. God found her, sent her back with the promise that she would have “so many [children] they can’t be counted” (v 10), but that Ishmael would be a “wild mule of man”, fighting everyone, at odds with his relatives (v.12). Hagar returned to Abram and Sarai, and bore Ishmael.
Then, in Genesis 17, God establishes the covenant with Abram. His and Sarai’s names are changed to Abraham and Sarah respectively. The practice of circumcision is instituted. God promises Abraham and Sarah a son—Isaac—over some hesitancy on Abraham’s part. But God tells of the promise he made to Hagar: that Ishmael would be blessed with many descendants. The covenant, however, would be passed through Isaac. The chapter ends with all of the males in Abraham’s household, including Ishmael—at age 13—being circumcised.
In Genesis 21 we return to Abraham’s family problems—the story we just heard. Isaac is born and circumcised. Hagar and Ishmael are sent away. God rescues them. Ishmael grows up in the desert, becomes an expert archer, and marries an Egyptian woman. His descendants become the Ishmaelites, uneasy neighbors of Isaac’s descendants. So we end up with two similar stories about two wings of one family, eventually combined into one narrative, with basically one outcome. And so, as with relationships—perhaps as described by Facebook— it gets “complicated”.
This is one of those stories—the basic “facts” being assumed—that were subsequently interpreted differently by three religions. Our Jewish neighbors claim direct lineage from Isaac, as well as direct lineage from those who wrote Genesis. Christians, following the lead of the apostle Paul, interpret the characters metaphorically. On the one hand, Hagar is seen as “Mt. Sinai” and the earthly Jerusalem; Sarah corresponds to the heavenly Jerusalem and “is our mother” (Ga 4.26). Additionally, in Romans, Abraham, Sarah and Isaac are the forebears of those who respond in faith to God, not necessarily those who are blood relatives (Rm 4), which allows, of course, for the inclusion of the Gentiles! And our Muslim neighbors see the true line of God’s concern being passed through Hagar and Ishmael—ending up in Mecca with the charge to build the “house of God”. One set of “facts”, marking a common heritage, but the stories are told in vastly different ways . . . to vastly different ends!
We’re no different. We tell our stories to link us to some significant past event—an event about which most who claim it will agree. Setting aside, for the moment, our Jewish and Muslim cousins, Christians have continually looked “back” to formative times. The 16th century reformers—including those in the Church of England—appealed not only to the New Testament as “the authority”, but to the undivided church (that is the Church before the Eastern and Western churches split). Roman Catholics appealed to that same heritage, but with a different agenda, interpreting events differently. Different stories about who is the heir of Jesus and the Apostles.
In our more recent global Anglican history, there has been quite a significant debate about “WHAT is ‘Anglican heritage’”? All branches of the Anglican Church trace their “lineage” in one way or another to the Church of England and the Archbishop of Canterbury? But now, the Archbishop’s role is being questioned. Similarly the vaunted “three-legged” stool of “scripture, tradition, and reason”— that structure we use to make theological decisions—is up for debate: “Are the legs of equal importance?” for example. The argument is real: “Who is the true heir of the Anglican Reformation?
Or, thinking more secularly, or politically, Americans of all stripes appeal to the Revolutionary War, the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. In the telling of the stories, which interpretation is more “patriotic”? Who bears the correct lineage for the Constitution?
The stories we tell link our present with a significant—commonly-agreed-upon—past. But I have to wonder if we get so caught up in our individual retellings that we miss something more important.
As a partial answer, I want to return to Genesis, but even earlier: to chapter 12. It was there that “The LORD [first promised Abram]: I will make of you a great nation and will bless you (vv 1-2). And, in chapter 15, the promise is reiterated: “[God] brought Abram outside and said, “Look up at the sky and count the stars if you think you can count them. He continued, “This is how many children you will have” (v 5). But one can’t become a father without a mother. Abraham’s “fatherhood” was dependent upon two mothers—both of whom were told by God—Hagar first, remember, and then Sarah—that their sons would, likewise, be the fathers of many. God’s concern is shown for both women and their children. Likewise, Abraham’s concern was for both women and their children. The story we heard this morning, however, has Sarah “winning the day”. . . but not without Abraham’s disappointment. I would hope that God was disappointed as well.
In the challenging passage we heard from Matthew’s gospel, Jesus seems to suggest that conflict between those who would follow him and others—even within families—is inevitable. That’s probably true—some of us, I’m sure, experience that. Certainly there were many in the early Christian movement who, personally, experienced that. That is reflected in Matthew’s Gospel. I would like to think, however, that such conflict is an additional result of our fallen nature, but not the final answer. Jesus tells us that we will tell conflicting stories, but I doubt that his ultimate wish is that we stay in a state of conflict. I believe Jesus invites us to write a different ending.
“How and why do we tell stories?” One answer is that they link us to a significant, commonly held, starting point. So, some may say, in answer to the question, “What is 1+1?” “Two.”
But, what do we want it to be?
Amen.