Good ideas often are embedded in stories. This reminds me of a line in my new book which goes something like, “stories inspire, facts convince.” Of course, this is why people like to hear stories. And it is why so much family history is buried in stories. We go to family reunions to listen to and to tell stories. Stories give us a narration of our identity and the communities to which we belong. And sometimes it is from stories---from listening to others---that I get good ideas for this inspirational piece.
Sometimes we get to listen first-hand to someone telling the story. At other times the stories come to us in written form. This is one of the best arguments for history. History is the stories we tell ourselves from our past that continues to inform and define our present. Sometimes stories come from the present, but we simply were not there to hear them. We do this all the time, but we don’t think about it. One of the ways I get contemporary stories is simply reading the newspapers or going online.
A recent story I thoroughly enjoyed came as a letter to the editor in a popular periodical, Christian Century. I have been reading this for decades now and anticipate every issue for what it will bring me. Basically, I read it cover to cover, because I am not discerning enough to know what I would be interested in. If I simply read things I think would interest me, I would miss some very good stuff. Such an example would be this letter to the editor.
The offering came from the pen of William H. Griffith, who lives in Columbus, IN. I have been through Columbus many times, but I have never met Griffith. I would like to meet him because he tells a good story. The story began engagingly. Griffith says, “Visitors to people who are dying don’t usually ask them questions unless they already know the answers.” Then Griffith tips his hand. He notes, “In my work caring for the dying, I learned to do just the opposite---and to risk being surprised by the answers.” (23)
I like his approach. He confesses that his favorite question asks, “When you are here all by yourself, what do you think about?” Of course, that can be seen as a pushy question, but I join Griffith in seeing it as a question that offers permission---permission for the other person to say as much or as little as he or she wants. And then he tells a story about entering a patient’s room that illustrates his process.
I like his way of proceeding. “After several minutes I put my hand through the rails of the bed, placed it on top of his hand, and said, ‘When you are here all by yourself, what do you think about?’” Griffith says about the guy: “His lips began to quiver, and a tear formed at the corner of his eye.” “I killed three men…” Whoa!
Griffith’s response surely would have been mine. He observes, “I don’t think I was ever more surprised by a patient’s response.” But undaunted, he asked the guy: “Would you like to tell me about it?” A story tumbled out about an encounter with the Germans in WW II and the consequent killing of three German soldiers. The follows the guy’s poignant question: “Will God forgive me?” There are many ways to answer that question: yes, no and other answers in between.
Griffith suggests how he answers it. His last sentence is the punch line for me. “By risking surprise I was able to help this man discover the forgiveness he had been longing for.” While it is tempting to focus on the forgiveness aspect of the story, I was more taken with the role of questioning and the courage it often takes to ask the question. Ultimately, this is more important. Here Griffith is my teacher.
Let’s look at the last line again. Griffith begins that sentence with a prepositional phrase: “by risking surprise.” Perhaps this is the challenge of questions, as opposed to declarations. To ask the question risks surprise. If I put this in spiritual terms, to ask questions makes me vulnerable. To ask the question means I don’t know or, maybe, I want to know. At any rate, to ask the question is to be vulnerable to whatever answer comes. I might be “caught off guard.”
And to be caught off guard is a good way to articulate our vulnerability---our not being in control. To be on guard is to be vigilant---not to be surprised. For many of us being caught off guard is the last thing we want to happen. If we stay in control, nothing surprising is likely to happen. That probably includes any interaction with the Spirit or with God. Indeed, a willingness to deal with God---or at least be open to the Spirit---means in some sense risking surprise.
Who knows what God will say, ask for, want or hope I might become or do? If I risk surprise by becoming vulnerable to God, that probably means the illusion that I am somehow a little god will come to an end. Being in control is the illusion that I am a little god. I may suspect that is true, but I don’t want to risk the surprise of knowing it is not true.
I have not killed three men. But I may well need the forgiveness of living too much of my own life in a kind of spiritual deadness in order not to risk surprise. To travel on a spiritual journey is to be willing to risk surprise. Ultimately, it is a journey to wholeness and aliveness. But it can never be done on our own terms. That’s the surprise!
Sometimes we get to listen first-hand to someone telling the story. At other times the stories come to us in written form. This is one of the best arguments for history. History is the stories we tell ourselves from our past that continues to inform and define our present. Sometimes stories come from the present, but we simply were not there to hear them. We do this all the time, but we don’t think about it. One of the ways I get contemporary stories is simply reading the newspapers or going online.
A recent story I thoroughly enjoyed came as a letter to the editor in a popular periodical, Christian Century. I have been reading this for decades now and anticipate every issue for what it will bring me. Basically, I read it cover to cover, because I am not discerning enough to know what I would be interested in. If I simply read things I think would interest me, I would miss some very good stuff. Such an example would be this letter to the editor.
The offering came from the pen of William H. Griffith, who lives in Columbus, IN. I have been through Columbus many times, but I have never met Griffith. I would like to meet him because he tells a good story. The story began engagingly. Griffith says, “Visitors to people who are dying don’t usually ask them questions unless they already know the answers.” Then Griffith tips his hand. He notes, “In my work caring for the dying, I learned to do just the opposite---and to risk being surprised by the answers.” (23)
I like his approach. He confesses that his favorite question asks, “When you are here all by yourself, what do you think about?” Of course, that can be seen as a pushy question, but I join Griffith in seeing it as a question that offers permission---permission for the other person to say as much or as little as he or she wants. And then he tells a story about entering a patient’s room that illustrates his process.
I like his way of proceeding. “After several minutes I put my hand through the rails of the bed, placed it on top of his hand, and said, ‘When you are here all by yourself, what do you think about?’” Griffith says about the guy: “His lips began to quiver, and a tear formed at the corner of his eye.” “I killed three men…” Whoa!
Griffith’s response surely would have been mine. He observes, “I don’t think I was ever more surprised by a patient’s response.” But undaunted, he asked the guy: “Would you like to tell me about it?” A story tumbled out about an encounter with the Germans in WW II and the consequent killing of three German soldiers. The follows the guy’s poignant question: “Will God forgive me?” There are many ways to answer that question: yes, no and other answers in between.
Griffith suggests how he answers it. His last sentence is the punch line for me. “By risking surprise I was able to help this man discover the forgiveness he had been longing for.” While it is tempting to focus on the forgiveness aspect of the story, I was more taken with the role of questioning and the courage it often takes to ask the question. Ultimately, this is more important. Here Griffith is my teacher.
Let’s look at the last line again. Griffith begins that sentence with a prepositional phrase: “by risking surprise.” Perhaps this is the challenge of questions, as opposed to declarations. To ask the question risks surprise. If I put this in spiritual terms, to ask questions makes me vulnerable. To ask the question means I don’t know or, maybe, I want to know. At any rate, to ask the question is to be vulnerable to whatever answer comes. I might be “caught off guard.”
And to be caught off guard is a good way to articulate our vulnerability---our not being in control. To be on guard is to be vigilant---not to be surprised. For many of us being caught off guard is the last thing we want to happen. If we stay in control, nothing surprising is likely to happen. That probably includes any interaction with the Spirit or with God. Indeed, a willingness to deal with God---or at least be open to the Spirit---means in some sense risking surprise.
Who knows what God will say, ask for, want or hope I might become or do? If I risk surprise by becoming vulnerable to God, that probably means the illusion that I am somehow a little god will come to an end. Being in control is the illusion that I am a little god. I may suspect that is true, but I don’t want to risk the surprise of knowing it is not true.
I have not killed three men. But I may well need the forgiveness of living too much of my own life in a kind of spiritual deadness in order not to risk surprise. To travel on a spiritual journey is to be willing to risk surprise. Ultimately, it is a journey to wholeness and aliveness. But it can never be done on our own terms. That’s the surprise!
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