I’m having a great week at the biblical storytelling workshop. The premise is that scripture emerged out of an oral culture, and as such, the stories should be told and not read. That means learning them by heart whenever possible. The workshop leader does not use the m-word, memorizing. It is not about rote memory, it is about living with the texts and letting them seep into your body, mind, and heart. It is also not about dazzling one’s listeners with your presentation skills—although people do respond positively most of the time to an enlivened telling of the text—rather, it is a spiritual discipline. Even the act of reading the text aloud to yourself is a rich experience—you miss a lot of details by reading silently (they were never meant to be read that way, and your eyes skip over stuff).

We actually did a lot of this in seminary, and when I preached at the youth conference this summer, I learned each of the texts. For me, telling the story (as opposed to reading the story, with nose down in the book, and in that preacher voice) conveys that ours is a living tradition. There is also a vaguely subversive, anti-literalist streak in the idea of our sacred text being comprised primarily of stories handed down over generations. In that sense, at the core of our faith is a living, breathing narrative, not a set of rules or doctrinal statements.

Last night the group watched the movie Big Fish. I had seen it before and didn’t want to be out late so I skipped it, but the film sort of fits with the crux of the workshop. Most people who watch it through a particular kind of literalist lens don’t like the movie. The dad is a blowhard. He recycles stories. His tall tales serve to keep everyone at arm’s length from the “real” Edward Bloom. Yes, in one sense. But I think a slavish attention to separating fact from fiction, while important and worthwhile in certain situations, misses the point here. Rather, the movie is meant to be seen as a parable. I think the movie illustrates the ways in which stories convey meaning and truth, in ways that can transcend what we would call “just the facts.”

Did Edward Bloom really work in a circus with a werewolf ringmaster? Um, no. And that’s the kind of question that his son keeps asking—just level with me, dad—but in the end he discovers, that’s not the right kind of question. The question is, what do the stories convey about my father that is true and right? They convey, among other things, that Edward Bloom is a man of passion, vitality, and magnetism. And that’s all true.

At the same time, stories are untamable; they reveal things we wish to hide. Edward tells his stories to appear impressive and charming, but they expose his shadow side in spite of himself. His tall tales of adventure convey his deep contempt for the idea of being “ordinary,” but they call further attention to the fact that, really, he was a man like every other man. Sure, you could glance at the man’s resume and get some sense of all this, but in a much more superficial way. I’ve said it before: “Myths are often truer than journalism.” –Beth Johnson

And I’ll close with a Homer:
“Facts, schmacts—you can use facts to prove anything that’s even remotely true.” –Homer Simpson