on preaching stories … and not reducing them to a single point
In a published lecture on the nature and aim of fiction, one of my favorite short-story writers, Flannery O’Connor, exposed the tendency of readers to exchange a holistic (and appreciative) reading of a story for the identification of its key theme. In her typical, witty prose, she claimed,
People have a habit of saying, “What is the theme of your story?” and they expect you to give them a statement: “The theme of my story is the economic pressure of the machine on the middle class” – or some such absurdity. And when they’ve got a statement like that, they go off happy and feel it is no longer necessary to read the story.
O'Connor's words, while primarily targeted at literary critics in the mid-twentieth century, also adequately summarize many Bible readers today (and perhaps standing at the root of this tendency) many sermons as well. We don't read to celebrate the literary artistry of the stories. We don't allow ourselves to savor the plot-lines and character development, and even if we did, I'm not so sure we would know what to do with them. We want to know the point, the moral, the application, and as pastors, we feel that we need to expose these things if our sermons are going to be any good.
Our congregations, it seems, would prefer the Cliff's Notes, and not just of the Bible's stories, but more importantly, of "what we need to do in order for the divine judge not to be perpetually upset with us."
I have recently begun preaching a series on the Joseph story, and in my prep, I feel this tension to reduce the story to a point.
But the Joseph story? It's a master class in storytelling. It can’t be reduced, or at least, it shouldn’t be reduced.
It should be celebrated and savored.
Walter Brueggemann writes, "The Joseph narrative offers a kind of literature which is distinctive in Genesis. It is distinguished in every way from the narratives dealing with Abraham and Jacob."
Nahum Sarna reaches a similar conclusion, the story of Joseph is "by far the longest and most complete narrative in Genesis, it is set forth by a master storyteller who employs with consummate skill the novelistic techniques of character delineation, psychological manipulation, and dramatic suspense."
To break the story apart into sermon-sized chunks is difficult enough, to reduce any of it to a singular point is to misread the story as a whole.
Last week, for instance, I began the series with the introduction to the Joseph story (Gen 37:1–4). In these verses, we learned that Joseph's dad, Jacob, loves him more than his other brothers. We also saw Joseph depicted as an entitled little snitch, who capitalizes on his favored status by ratting on his brothers, while also parading around in his "ornamented coat." This attire, which is a bit ambiguous in its meaning, only serves to prove the disparity of fatherly affection between Joseph and his brothers.
So what's the point of these verses?
Don't be a snitch or you'll get stitched?
If you're a parent, don't love one of your kids more than your other kids?
If you're a sibling, don't hate your brother ... and looking ahead a little bit ... if you do, don't act on it — don't throw him in a cistern and then sell him into slavery and then lie to your dad about it. Is that the point?
I would say, no, no, and no.
But still, much like O'Connor's audience in the mid-twentieth century, many of us just want the theme. We just want to know the point of these dusty old stories.
In Joseph's case, that usually means we default to the story's overtly theological statements.
After all of the atrocities in Joseph's life (and after all of his successes too), the story's author concludes through the words of Joseph, “I am your brother, Joseph, whom you sold into Egypt. And now do not be distressed, or angry with yourselves, because you sold me here; for God sent me before you to preserve life. For the famine has been in the land these two years; and there are five more years in which there will be neither plowing nor harvest. God sent me before you to preserve for you a remnant on earth, and to keep alive for you many survivors. So it was not you who sent me here, but God; he has made me a father to Pharaoh, and lord of all his house and ruler over all the land of Egypt" (Gen 45:5–8).
And again in the last chapter of Genesis, Joseph forgives his brothers and reinforces the story's "point," "Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people, as he is doing today" (Gen 50:20).
So, when we return to the first four verses after reading these overarching, theological statements, we might be inclined to conclude, "This family is a mess, but God is in control. Joseph's brothers (rightfully) are a bit frustrated with him, but God is weaving this narrative together. It had to happen this way. Things will be pretty bleak for Joseph ... and for Jacob ... and, maybe, for the brothers for the next decade or so, but God is orchestrating these events for Israel's survival."
I don't want to minimize it ... but .. is that it? Is that right?
Is that really how we read and preach this story?
Are we to say, "Just like Joseph’s story … all the evil stuff in your life (?) … all the stuff that has wrecked you and perhaps your faith … God intended it for good."
I've seen the abuses of this. I've heard pastors say, "The miscarriages, the rape, the sexual or physical abuse, the cancer and other forms of sickness, the loss you have experienced or witnessed ... don't worry, because even if you don't see it now, God intends all of this for your good."
It’s hard to stomach, and I’m pretty sure (that’s underselling it, I’m sure) that's not what the story of Joseph is getting at. (Nor is it what Paul is getting at in Romans 8.)
These stories are not here to whitewash the personal atrocities we have faced in the name of God's larger (and better) plan.
Reducing the entire story to this single takeaway or application is not only problematic … it’s tragic.
So what do we do with the Joseph story?
I think it includes
celebrating it
treasuring it
considering it
pondering it
returning to it again and again
letting it sit with us and work on us
entering into it.
I do think these stories teach us something (or, better, some things) about God, and the humanity, and the world, but I'm less convinced that they are meant to function as a one-size-fits-all theological conclusion or application.
So how do we preach it?
I'm not entirely sure, but here's what I'm going to try: I’m going to trust that people don’t need me to supply “the point” for them.
