Honestly facing the conflict of self with self—and choosing words that reveal its particular manifestations in one life—is hard, hard work.
Matt talks to Emily Scott, pastor of Saint Lydia's church in Brooklyn, about dinner table liturgy, the immediacy of homiletic dialogue, and writing sermons to elicit storytelling.
I just got back from Disney World with my kids. The trip set me thinking about how stories get told and passed on.
Like Sarah Koenig, I want to know if we can believe Adnan Syed. But I only know Syed through Koenig’s accounts of him in Serial.
My daughter Krista died when she was 25. She was doing volunteer service in Bolivia, and a bus she was traveling on plunged over a cliff. Moses Pulei, who is from Kenya, met Krista in college. He flew from southern California to Spokane, Washington, to attend her memorial service. At the reception, he approached my husband and me. “In the Masai tradition, when someone dies, our gift is to go to their home and share a story,” he said. “May I come over?”
David Wilcox has planted something complex and beautiful with Blaze. It displays his gifts as a first-rate storyteller who marries arresting narratives with alluring melodies.
The Hebrews’ stories brought their lives into balance. Moses believed that remembering where they’d been, how they’d come into the land God promised, and what God had done for them would keep them faithful. So he said that in offering the first fruits of harvest, “You shall make this response before the LORD your God: ‘A wandering Aramean was my ancestor; he went down into Egypt and lived there as an alien, few in number, and there he became a great nation, mighty and populous.’” Their story was a confession of faith, a community story that cast their thanksgiving into a framework that provided boundary and purpose to their lives together. It was a creed. Tell it again and again, Moses urged.