It takes a thousand voices to tell a single story. Nothing in human history has had the sheer energy and transformative reach of story. Since people could sit around a fire, the common will was found through epic song, narrative, myth. As we emerge from the limited power of reasoning, religious separatism, personal autonomy it would seem that we are rediscovering this: this impulse to find our meaning in Story.
I’m a wanna-be anthropologist and historian. Even my kids are nerding out on the History Channel and National Geographic these days. Maybe we should do a little less of it, but for now, it’s “family time.” There is some learning that takes place, and, if there’s any lesson to be found in the long history of humankind it’s our collective value around – even need for – Story. Each culture, each people, each era has used Story to preserve their identity, instill values, provoke the communal imagination, embrace the unseen they believed to exist around them.
Inside Christian history, the role of story can’t be under-estimated. The gospel is rooted in and spread by the Story of a GOD who is relentless and reckless in the loving pursuit of humankind. This shows up in our language, in our traditions, in our own practices of spiritual formation. The mass itself is a “little story,” the passion of Christ retold in symbol and ritual; a narrative you can touch, taste, and smell.
The nuclear power of story seems to be built into our own atomic essence. The American writer Muriel Rukeyser said that “the universe is made of stories, not of atoms.” No doubt the psalmists knew this as well. This narrative language comes pre-loaded in the human operating system that rises above culture, time, economic development. When the powers that be want more control, they bribe the narrators or squash them altogether. It’s always been this way; we just see it more candidly now. Why are the story-tellers so dangerous? Because they know how to take the content that matters, that speaks to the soul and contextualize it for their people to take in the experience.
When planning a worship gathering, the default procedure is to think about how it will work. I get this. I’m hardly pragmatic in most areas of my life, but I love a good sense of flow and transition; focusing on the how appeals to that part of me. In my best moments, I try to forget I’m a worship “leader” and remind myself that I am a story-teller. A narrator. And as such, I have the responsibility of beautifully and honestly shaping our collective narrative into something that invites participation in something bigger.
In order to do this, it’s imperative that we can articulate the difference between content and context.
Content is the stuff that shapes, convicts, disciples us. Context is the vehicle that gets it from our heads to our hearts, or very often in the case of some of contemporary Christian worship, the other way around. Or to put it another way, context is the means by which our souls are opened to the content.
When we think of the worship gathering as a narrative, it changes how we approach our content – giving more accountability – but frames how we interpret it for our context – giving us more freedom. As much as I believe that there isn’t one right way to worship, I do believe, fiercely, that there is a wrong way: any way that denies our shared human story with GOD. When I encounter churches who only consider singing about the Jesus sitting next to you a complete time of worship, or who think that being “creative” means re-inventing the wheel instead of re-contextualizing the traditions of our shared faith, or who opt out of a regular sharing of Eucharist, or who perpetuate individualistic or therapeutic experiences, I have to wonder: which story are they telling?
But when we take The Story – the mysterious narrative of GOD and humankind and creation – and put it into the dangerous hands of the artists, poets, mystics, it takes on an energy, even quite literally, and starts to hit at those uncomfortable, unnameable places. The places where Divine encounter leads us to spiritual formation.
What would you do differently if you perceived yourself as Story-teller instead of worship leader? How does this affect your content and your interpretation for your context? Which story are you willing to tell in your worship gathering?
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Anastasia McAteer is a full-time mom and freelance writer/liturgical consultant. She holds a Master of Divinity with a concentration in Worship, Theology and the Arts from 
