Tell Me A Story: Easter Sunday & The Purpose Of Stories

The Appearance of Christ to Mary Magdalene (Alexander Andreyevich Ivanov)

From the time he was old enough to sit on our laps and turn the pages, my oldest son has loved books. He loves hearing us read to him and talk through the pictures, with funny character voices and exaggerated inflection.

About a year ago, he discovered the magic that happens when a story is told without a book; when it comes directly from the mind and imagination of the storyteller. He was hooked. His catchphrase became, “Tell me a story without reading any words.”

My husband and I heard that sentence over and over, and I found myself using the quiet seconds of my day trying to think of just one more plotline so that I’d be ready. It was quite an exercise in creativity!

There’s just something about a good story, isn’t there? They draw us in and force us out of our own little worlds; they make us sit up straighter and lean forward so we don’t miss a word. Stories connect us to one another, to the past, to places we’ve never been. And they help us make decisions about the future, imparting wisdom and guidance.

“Stories connect us to one another, to the past, to places we’ve never been.”

Stories shed new light on the world and our own lives. And, in his own three-year-old way, my son understood that. In that respect, he was a lot like Jesus.

When it comes to all-star storytellers, Jesus has to be at the top of the list. His ministry is often recognized for his healings and miracles. But before he made the blind see or the lame walk, he told stories. The gospels are full of the sermons and parables of Jesus, and as I read them, I picture those who were there to hear him speak them.

Did they raise their eyebrows as he revealed the characters in his story about the Good Samaritan? Did they ask him to repeat some parts in an attempt to grasp hidden meanings? And when they told those stories to their friends who missed the firsthand experience, were they careful to repeat the inflections and pauses and gestures that Jesus used to make the stories come alive?

“Before he made the blind see or the lame walk, he told stories.”

I think about those children who came to Jesus and were almost turned away by his disciples in an effort to maintain efficiency. When Jesus said, “Let the little children come to me,” did those little ones behave like mine would have, tripping over themselves for a spot on his lap and speaking over one another to ask him for a story?

And then I think about the moment that all those stories were leading up to. The one in which the biggest plot twist — one that could only be carried out by the King of heaven himself — was revealed. I think about when Jesus conquered death and how, during the early morning hours in a quiet garden, he revealed the most incredible next chapter in a story the world thought was over three days before.

I can only imagine how that surprising next chapter must have been shared that first day: in quiet, hurried whispers and with shocked stutters; with an air of excitement mixed with doubt, unspeakable joy mixed with disbelief. I imagine men and women bursting into the homes of their friends with the news, and others trying to make sense of it around dinner tables, serving food with shaky hands.

Suddenly, those who had spent so much time listening to Jesus’ words found themselves on the other side of the story. They’d grown so accustomed to using their ears and eyes; how disorienting it must have been to be launched into a position in which they were called to use their voices, to go from story-hearer to storyteller.

“They were called to use their voices, to go from story-hearer to storyteller.”

And then I think about the mothers. The ones who had heard the news that the man they saw murdered just a few days before was walking around; that his tomb was empty. I think about how, despite this incredible, earth-shaking news, those mothers still had to wipe noses and feed babies and bathe little bodies, even as their hearts pondered and processed what was happening.

As they wrapped up the day and performed tuck-in rituals and gave bedtime kisses, I have to think that some of those tiny voices said, “Mama, tell me a story”. And through tears and wonder, those mothers told about a man who somehow walked away from death and saved the world. — best bedtime story ever.

“Like those who went first in bearing witness, we too have a story to tell. And unlike other stories, this one doesn’t lose its luster.”

As we celebrate that story this Easter Sunday, it’s my prayer that we’ll come together with a similar sense of awe. We have the disadvantage of being thousands of years separated from those firsthand accounts, and of having heard the resurrection story countless times. But like those who went first in bearing witness, we too have a story to tell. And unlike other stories, this one doesn’t lose its luster.

It is, after all, the greatest story ever told. Not because it’s incredible and suspenseful and exciting (though it is all of those things). No, it is the greatest because it is true, and even today, has the power to change individual hearts and lives and, as a result, the entire world.

In short…

This Easter, may we be like those who heard it first, unable to keep from telling and retelling of the unmatchable, outlandish goodness of Christ. And in the coming days and months, may our lives be an overflow of that excitement, with words and actions that tell the story of all stories, about the King of all Kings.