I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the value of story. Seeing our lives as stories, and gaining a narrative sense from the stories we read, particularly the Jesus story.
I found this quote from Elisa Fryling Stanford very interesting:
Why can the magic of fiction speak truth to us—even, or especially, in the midst of sorrow? Maybe because it comes not through the front door of the soul but through the side door, the roof, the cracks in the walls. It gets to us however it can. It connects with a deeper heart, a childlike heart that believes in friendships with fauns, early morning rides on a lion’s back, a boat tiny and sturdy enough to carry a mouse into the sweet waters at The Very End of the World. After all, God is a God of stories, a God who imagines. Why should He not use music, silence, or another world to remind us of His presence?
We need story to become humans living fully before God. What story are you telling? What story are you believing?
