A word of personal testimony. Among the many

convictions that led me into pastoral ministry sixteen

years ago and continue to sustain me in this odd and

wonderous vocation, none is more important than

this one: stories are sacred. Stories possess power to

create connection and convey meaning. I believe that

our human stories can be channels for divine truth. I

believe that the message of God’s grace is written not

only in the pages of scripture but in the experiences

and encounters that shape our narratives as well.

People of Christian faith are story people. Afterall,

before there was orthodox theology, before there were

letters from Paul or arguments over policy, before

the Apostles’ Creed or Constantine’s conversion,

before soaring cathedrals or church hierarchy, there

was a story. Whenever we worship, we bring all our

individual stories into the same sacred space, and we

gather around a common story, the story of God’s love

for us and for the world. We are story people.

And to worship is to be reminded on a weekly basis

that we belong to this story at least as much as it

belongs to us. Imagine just before bedtime, the young

child turns to his father, “Dad, tell me a story.”

“What kind of story would you like to hear, son?”

“Tell one with me in it.” That’s what we do here.

One of my favorite authors, Frederick Buechner, wrote

these words, “My story is important not because it is

mine…but because if I tell it anything like right, you

will recognize that in many ways it is also yours…It

is precisely through these stories…that God makes

himself known to us…If this is true, it means that to lose

track of our stories is to be profoundly impoverished.”

I worry that we are at risk of losing track of these

stories—the great Biblical narratives that inform and

animate our faith, but also our personal encounters

with God, our testimonies, our stories. In an era of

bite-sized brevity and matching attention spans, who

has time for these stories? Buechner believed such

a loss would impoverish us, and he was right about

that. Stories enrich our lives. Stories form our faith.

They are also the basic building blocks of community.

This is why I was only mildly surprised last week when

I read a piece in the Atlantic titled, “The True Cost of

the Churchgoing Bust.” The cost the author referenced

was not spiritual in nature. Or maybe it was.

After detailing the now-familiar statistics around

increased secularization and decreased church

attendance, and his prior support of it, the author

shares what shifted his perspective. It was this:

the loss of identity formed by a shared story. He

explains that organized religion provides “not only

a connection to the divine, but also a narrative of

identity, a set of rituals to organize the week and the

year, and a community…” In other words, what faith

offers, what we desperately need, and what far too

many among us have lost is time and space to share

stories, to tell stories, to talk about and listen for what

matters the most.

When was the last time you paused long enough

to hear someone else’s story or to tell your own?

Perhaps it happened during the holidays or a

vacation, over a cup of coffee or on a long car trip. I’ve

been interested this week by how many folks have

mentioned to me how Monday’s eclipse felt like a

glimpse of the divine, and how many folks specifically

referenced how the experience was deepened by

sharing it with others. How neighbors made their

way out into common spaces in neighborhoods,

church parking lots, business places. How stories

were shared as we witnessed this miraculous event

of beauty. Sacred moments that connect us to one

another and to God. But you have to slow down long

enough to listen, long enough to tell.

Since our older son Samuel was a baby, Sara and

I have read to the boys each night before they

fall asleep. That time is a gift, a gift we cherish, an

opportunity to slow down and just be together at the

end of the day. I believe this. And yet. I remember

one night, Sam was two, and I was reading to him.

And it hit me that he didn’t know the words. He

didn’t know the order of the story. Aha! I can begin to

skip words, and then whole pages. I could read the

first page and the last page of the book and save all

the time taken up in between. After all, the sooner I

finished this reading thing, the sooner he would fall

asleep, the sooner I could get the kitchen clean, the

sooner I could sweep the floors, the sooner I could

answer that pile of emails waiting for me. I was proud

of myself for this discovery as I speed read my way

through children’s books. And then it hit me. In my

attempt to trick my infant son and rush to the next

thing on the list, I was bypassing the most important

moment of the day. I hope I’m not alone here. How

often do we fail to cherish the holy moments while

we’re living them? How often do we rush right past

the presence of God?

A couple of weeks ago, I was offered a speaking

invitation that both delighted and terrified me. This

is not my typical reaction to speaking invitations.

My mother used to say that the most dangerous

place in the room was between Chris and the

microphone. I feel right at home up here in front of

you. But this invitation was different. I was asked to

come talk with our high school juniors and seniors

on a Sunday morning. I was scared. Now I love

talking about scripture or some interesting topic

about which I’ve read and researched. But this

was different. I was asked to share my own faith

journey with a group of teenagers. What a daunting

challenge. Tell a story with me in it. Remember

where you have been and how you came to be

here. The group of teens could not have been more

gracious or kind. I was reminded that it is a blessing

beyond measure simply to be heard.

In today’s scripture the prophet Isaiah speaks to

people held captive in the land of Babylon. His

imagery of God’s power and might, creator of the

ends of the earth, does not grow faint or weary—that

imagery does not align with the lived experience of

his listeners. They are exiled, deported, displaced,

forced to live as refugees in a foreign land. The

haunting words of the psalmist paint the picture well:

“By the rivers of Babylon—there we wept when we

remembered Zion. On the willows there we hung up

our harps… how could we sing the Lord’s song in a

strange land?”

Nonetheless, into the silence of harps hung out of

hopelessness, Isaiah’s prophetic words ring out with

this call: Remember. Remember. Tell the old stories.

Exile is coming to an end, and you must begin to

imagine your life beyond captivity. It is an act of

courage that begins with story. Remember God’s

faithfulness in the past, step into future boldly. But

first you must remember.

Throughout this program year at Second Church,

we have been focused on the ministry of rebuilding.

This work is not about returning to an era of former

glory. But neither does it mean we start from scratch.

It is about imagining our lives beyond the present

moment, immersed in the stories of God’s past

faithfulness. This rebuilding theme has taken us

in many different directions. Several of you have

mentioned it was a little too literal to have to rebuild

the porte-cochere this year. We’ve witnessed some

extraordinary reimagining of our ministry to youth

and their families. You’ve heard testimony to that

this morning. Thanks to the dedicated leadership of

volunteers with both vision and passion, we have

reimagined a signature mission of this congregation

and created Second Treasures, a new thrift store

supporting outreach to our neighbors, rooted in the

wonderful tradition of sales each summer and fall

in our building. From the depths of the pandemic,

we have rebuilt a congregation of worshipers each

Sunday as we see exciting growth in our attendance.

Drawing on Second’s roots and history as a church for

the city of Indianapolis, we are building bridges in the

community and responding to the call of our moment

to convene conversations about a shared future of

hope and possibility.

Rebuilding the foundations begins the way all

movements start—with stories. I am convinced that

the way forward for our city and our nation has

everything to do with rebuilding communities capable

of telling and hearing stories.

But we have to take the time to listen. We must

develop the spiritual discipline of bearing witness

rather than aiming to win an argument or dunk on

an adversary. As Marilynne Robinson reminds us,

“nothing true can be said about God from a posture of

defense.” Think of that.

Have you not known? Have you not heard? If the

answer is yes, then you must tell your story. You must

remember these stories that form the foundation of

our faith. And here is what will happen: as you speak,

you will find your strength renewed as if you are being

carried on eagles’ wings. You will run without fatigue.

You will walk without exhaustion. You will remember,

and you will be remembered. You will be recreated by

the author of all life. Let the rebuilding begin. Amen.