We
were in the final stages of a Saturday workshop with two congregations that
formed a pastoral charge. It had been a great day with people expressing their
enthusiasm for the tasks that were involved. When it came to the question of
how to share some of this with the whole congregation on Sunday, we asked "Why
don't some of you share why you are volunteering for the role you play?"
What happened that Sunday morning was a moment in time we will never forget. One after another, the treasurer, then the Board chair, then various committee people told the story - not just of their role, but of the deep Christian commitment that underlay their lives and turned their contribution into a deeply fulfilling ministry. You could tell by the hush in the congregation that something very significant was happening.
What happened for me was a reminder of the power of story.
Perhaps I should add a word - the power of personal story. There was an era 50 years ago when all us young clergy peppered our sermons with what were termed "sermon illustrations." I had a whole book of them to draw from. They were stories, but about someone else from another time and another place. They had one great gift - they were safe because we did not have to reveal anything about how we felt personally or what we believed. Most lessons in life are learned from our mistakes, and who wants to reveal those in public.
I now know that one personal experience honestly shared has more power than twenty canned illustrations. I have been reading Christina Baldwin's book Storycatcher. She tells a lot of stories in the book, but her personal accounts like the one of sharing honey with her grandfather are the ones that brought tears to my eyes. "Where he touched my hair I thought it smelled of honey. And where he touched my heart, there is honey still."
Small Groups
Small groups are a place for story telling.
I had just been turned loose on the world after a five year contract at St. Stephen's College. Five years from retirement is not the best time to go looking for a call or a congregation. A couple of possibilities had turned into blind alleys.
Then a small group, just four of us, gathered around a meal and a bottle of wine and a flip chart - and the Congregational Life Centre was born. I'm not sure who first came up with the idea. The sharing of where I was at and what the church needed led to the idea of becoming consultants who could help congregations meet that need.
That small gathering was a turning point for me personally. The fact that there was no money, no structure, and only four of us didn't matter. We told each other a story that night that sustained us through the early start-up years. We had just completed some very meaningful research investigating what it took to develop new congregations. We knew if we didn't do something, those research reports would be put in boxes and find themselves gathering dust on the shelves of the library. What inspired us was the thought of keeping those insights alive as we worked with congregations eager to become truly alive. That was over 13 years ago. I look back to that evening and that small group and the story we told each other as the key to what we have been able to accomplish.
Your Story - Past and Future
The story of a congregation's beginning can be very powerful. While doing a workshop in central Alberta, we heard a story that is still fresh in my mind. The early settlers, farmers all with a common faith background, came to the area from the United States seeking more land and a fresh start. Settled on their farms, the question arose where to build their church.
The solution was simple. One Sunday morning they all got in their wagons and drove toward each other. The current church is less than 100 meters from where they met. Within a week, the framework was up, and a congregation that has served the people of that area over the years was begun.
Equally powerful is the story of what you want to be in the future. It's 40 years ago now that I arrived with eleven colleagues in a small village of Termine di Cagnano - 200 people high in the mountains of central Italy. The Gran Sasso, the "big rock" where Mussolini was briefly imprisoned near the end of the Second World War, dominated the western horizon.
The
village was 25 km from a nearby city and hugged the hillside overlooking a rich
valley. The down side was that the school was due to close at the end of the
year. There were only two phones in the whole village. Walking paths on the
rough slope between houses were rock strewn trails. Two thirds of the homes
were deserted, and municipal services were obvious by their absence.
We called the people together and could feel the hope in the air. Sabatino, an elderly muratore (stone mason) with huge ham-like hands, sang a song of greeting and anticipation. Most of the people had only a grade three education, but they told us their dreams and we wrote them down. Two young twin girls in high school told of us their hopes, and we wrote those down, weaving it all into a story of what the village would be like in the future.
The hope that was generated saw us through many low points as we struggled to find the keys that would unlock that dream. We started a number of projects. None of them lasted once we left. What did last was the hope. A year into the project I encountered Francesco walking along the lower road. Bearded, his 75 years showing, he had been a friend since our arrival. We had heard the village story a hundred times, "L'aria é buono, ma paese é bruto." The air is beautiful, but the village is ugly. Francesco stopped me that warm afternoon amid the donkey droppings on the cobble stones. "You know," he said, "l'aria é buono, é anche il paese!" The air is beautiful, and so is this village. We stayed another year, but I knew in that moment our work was done.
The people themselves told their relatives who came back and refurbished most of the vacant homes as summer retreats from the heat of August in Rome. We caused enough embarrassment - that was our major contribution - that the township found the money to create stairways, pave the roads, and extend water and sewage to every home. When I came back for a visit three years later, a truck driver pulled up beside me and greeted me out the window. "I should buy you a beer. I've had work repairing roads and houses every since you people left."
The phone company had put in a 50 trunk line and the transportation company upped their service to four busses a day. The school remained open, which meant young families were able to stay. The final victory came as people found the money to repair the long silent clock in the church tower and completely refurbish the building.
We stragnari did very little. The people - and their story of hope - was what accomplished the miracle that made Termine de Cagnano the thriving village it is today.
I could share so many stories that we have heard, like the congregation who moved its Sunday School to Friday evening as an experiment. It didn't work but they were proud of being willing to risk trying something new. St. Paul's United Church in Edmonton told itself the story of an area of the city where there was no United Church presence - and the congregation that is now Riverbend was brought into being. Perhaps, however, it's time for me to stop and let you tell your story. Just watch out for the power!
Congregational News March 2008 Vol. 14 No. 4