CAC teacher Barbara Holmes finds strength in collective storytelling:
We are revived by the stories that we tell about our reality, our bodies, our spirits, and our God. These stories challenge and unsettle us. They touch us in places that facts seldom reach and often move us to action. Most religions have more stories than anything else. Whenever Jesus is asked a question, he answers with a story, a parable. “He did not say anything to them without using a parable” (Matthew 13:34).
We tell our stories because all of us have survived something, because stories are signposts from the past that give us clues about the future. Finally, our stories are a witness to the next generation and an opportunity to understand the universal as well as the particular in tales of trauma, healing, and survival. [1]
Writing to his son, Ta-Nehisi Coates names the importance of each person’s story:
I have raised you to respect every human being as singular, and you must extend that same respect into the past. Slavery is not an indefinable mass of flesh. It is a particular, specific enslaved woman, whose mind is active as your own, whose range of feeling is as vast as your own; who prefers the way the light falls in one particular spot in the woods, who enjoys fishing where the water eddies in a nearby stream, who loves her mother in her own complicated way, thinks her sister talks too loud, has a favorite cousin, a favorite season, who excels at dressmaking and knows, inside herself, that she is as intelligent and capable as anyone. “Slavery” is this same woman born in a world that loudly proclaims its love of freedom and inscribes this love in its essential texts, a world in which these same professors hold this woman a slave, hold her mother a slave, her father a slave, her daughter a slave, and when this woman peers back into the generations all she sees is the enslaved. She can hope for more. She can imagine some future for her grandchildren. [2]
Holmes continues:
When I allow myself to succumb to storytelling, I sense connections to others that I seldom notice. I hear the black community’s story in the stories of Jewish persecution and the attempts to destroy the cultures of Native people in the Americas. My memories are specific to the sacred stories of my village, but these stories also resonate with others who have endured similar circumstances.…
There is a future because the stories are not locked up within our individual lives. Instead, they are held as precious elements of communal wisdom. Our stories do not need opportunities for neat resolution; they just need to be told over and over again … heard and pondered before the dancing begins—and the dancing will begin again because when we lose hope and joy as individuals, the community digs deep into its shared resources and starts the beat yet again. They tap their feet and drum the promises of God. [3]
References:
[1] Barbara A. Holmes, Crisis Contemplation: Healing the Wounded Village (Albuquerque, NM: CAC Publishing, 2021), 110–111.
[2] Ta-Nehisi Coates, Between the World and Me (New York: Spiegel and Grau, 2015), 69–70.
[3] Holmes, Crisis Contemplation, 111, 114.
Image credit and inspiration: Jenna Keiper, barbed (detail), 2021, photo, Albuquerque. Click here to enlarge image. Even in the midst of twisted barbs, green life survives and thrives.
Story from Our Community:
Nature gives us revelation of how much God loves creation. It’s an entry point to God’s presence. For a moment we can sense what God feels and see as God sees. When we grasp the beauty of God’s kingdom, we can understand the great compassion God has towards us that [God] would allow us to gaze upon that beauty.
—Bobbie M.
