Since the beginning of the year, I have been regularly gathering with a small group of writers in Rossland. Each Thursday night we come together in a community space or someone’s home. We talk about stories—what makes a good story, what makes a good beginning, what helps move the story along. We talk about voice, and setting, and characters. We share our own stories too.
I have never been a writer of fiction, and yet this has been our focus in the last month. And so I have started, bit-by-bit to explore the world through the eyes of fictional characters. I shared the first draft of the first piece that came out of that process with the folks in Castlegar a few weeks ago on the feast of the Ascension. It’s a look at a fictional congregation somewhere in rural BC, and its ups and downs over the years. It was fun to write.
And while I haven’t yet completed a next chapter or segment, the writing continues. Bit by bit, line by line, paragraph by paragraph, the characters are surprising. As I put words on the page, the characters do things, say things I don’t expect. They reveal themselves to me in ways I did not expect. The characters are made of untold stories—the stories that shaped them, the stories that caused them to make one choice or another, the ones that haunt their dreams, those that give vision and direction, that halt them in their tracks, confuse them, cause grief, the stories that open new doors and possibilities.
What I’m realising as I record these stories with the clickety clack of my computer’s keys, keys that need a serious cleaning if only I could remember to do that sometime, is that writing is first an act of listening. Writing requires time and attention. I’ve often thought of myself as a writer. But until recently, until this group, I haven’t written solely for the pleasure of discovery.
Sometimes we write things, we create things, we do things, with a predetermined sense of the story’s arc. Perhaps we’re cooking from a recipe. Maybe we’re knitting from a pattern. We could be preaching from a familiar text. And yet sometimes, we’re surprised. Sometimes we take that recipe, pattern, text, and we improvise. We listen deeply to what we know, and then we take off in a new (and hopefully inspired!) direction.
What I’ve found, or what I’m finding in continuing to write this story of the fictional Church of the Ascension, located in a lakeside town somewhere in southern BC, is that I don’t know where this story is going. All I know is that as I listen, as I slow down my days and pay attention to the characters; as I listen for the lapping water on the shores of the town, as I hear the sounds of children playing in the streets, something beautiful, something true, is emerging. I don’t know where this story is going, and so I listen deeply to what the characters are able to reveal to me about their inner world, and their interaction with the world around them. Including the church.
My role, as they reveal these stories to me, is to listen. To honour these stories. To seek to understand the stories being revealed to me. And to seek to respond to their vulnerability with some of my own as I record the stories, as I learn from their stories, writing to better understand their world—and mine too.
All of this may seem abstract or fanciful. And yet, I believe that this experience is also teaching me so much about how to honour the stories of others who I meet in daily life. To listen deeply to the stories of those who I encounter on the street, or here, at church.
The Christian community is centered in the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus.
As Christians, we participate in Jesus’ living, dying, and rising, in many ways. In prayer and worship, in silence, and stillness, and song. We participate in this life through self-giving service. We participate in the Christ life through Eucharist, as we receive the eternal mystery of God in our very bodies. It’s a deeply intimate act. We wrap ourselves in the story of God and God’s love.
And we do this, also, through telling stories. Stories of God’s faithfulness. Stories of our struggle to understand the things of God. Stories of our struggle to discern where God is leading us next. Like Abram and Sarai who are called to leave the comfort of home for land unseen, land and descendents promised to them by a God previously unknown.
Like Matthew who in today’s gospel responds immediately when Jesus walks by, stops, looks him deeply in the eye, and says “come, follow me.”
In the next scene, we find that Matthew has invited Jesus to hang out with his friends, to listen deeply, and to hear their stories too. Jesus listens. He shows up. He responds to the needs around him. He takes the yearnings of his neighbours for wholeness, for renewal, for redemption, and leads the way towards the kingdom of God, a family, a body, of which we are all a part.
Our scriptures regularly show us that YHWH is the God of seemingly ridiculous invitations. Invitations into the unknown. Invitations into the adventure of life. Invitations to participate in the creation of a story with an as-yet undiscovered ending, grounded in the sure foundation of Christ.
I wonder what happened before God called Abram and Sarai. I wonder what happened before Jesus called Matthew. I wonder if you have experienced a nudge or a word from God, one that has set you on a new path.
And in this moment, I want to invite you to turn to a neighbour. If you need to get up and move to speak with someone you know a little less well, I’d invite you to do that too. We’re going to take 4-5 minutes and I want to invite each person to share a story of where you may have heard or experienced a nudge or word from God. What was that like? Where did it lead? What does it still mean to you?
When I think about Matthew, when I think about Abram and Sarai, I find myself wondering how long they had been waiting. What had they been listening for? What were they doing to attuned themselves to the voice when it spoke, and to respond to the call when they heard it?
It seems to me that in this moment, like any moment when we are uncertain about the future, we are called to deep, yearning prayer. It’s not just about shifting our programming or advertising, although that is, perhaps, part of it. At the core of who we are, and what we are being called to do, is to listen deeply, together. We are being called to wait receptively in expectation of the God who is ever creating, the God who makes all things new.
In the Cost of Discipleship, German theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer (who was killed by the Nazis) quotes Martin Luther, voicing God’s desire for those who follow in the way of Jesus.
“Discipleship is not limited to what you can comprehend—it must transcend all comprehension. Plunge into the deep waters beyond your own comprehension, and I will help you to comprehend even as I do.
Bewilderment is the true comprehension. Not to know where you are going is the true knowledge. My comprehension transcends yours. Thus Abraham went forth from his father and not knowing whither he went. He trusted himself to my knowledge, and cared not for his own, and thus he took the right road and came to his journey’s end. Behold, that is the way of the cross. You cannot find it yourself, so you must let me lead you as though you were [blind].
Wherefore it is not you, no [one], no living creature, but I myself, who instruct you by my word and Spirit in the way you should go. Not the work which you choose, not the suffering you devise, but the road which is clean contrary to all you choose or contrive or desire—that is the road you must take. To that I call you and in that you must be my disciple. If you do that, there is the acceptable time and there your master is come.” (93)
The good news today, my friends, is that God still speaks. God still calls. God still invites us to drink from the source, to be filled from the life giving stream.
To access this life, all we need to do is listen. Listen deeply for God’s whisper. For us and for our congregation. We cry out, “where are you taking us, O God?” and then we listen. Listen for words. Listen for themes. Listen for the cries of our neighbours, our world in pain.
The life Jesus invites us into, the life God prepares for us, the life Holy Spirit breathes into us, is life on the road. For indeed, life in Christ is a life that costs something. And yet, this life is rewarded through true communion with the God of seemingly ridiculous invitations.
