Third Way: Two Stories
Another story from history. Another attempt at perspective. Another lesson in hope.
But this story from history is really about the idea of “story” itself.
How do we interpret history? Which is a fancy way of asking, “How do we understand and find meaning in stories, not fictional stories but real stories that actually happen in space and time?”
There are the big stories, of course. You know, the migrations of people, the rise and fall of empires, war and peace, prosperity and catastrophe, and so much more.
There are also the little stories of our own lives: neighborliness, friendship, family life, schooling, suffering and success, vocation, and more.
The juxtaposition of the two—big and small—can make us feel powerless, helpless, and insignificant.
Until we read the Bible.
Consider Naomi and Ruth, very small people indeed. Naomi and her family are forced to migrate from Bethehem, their home town, to a foreign country, Moab, to escape a famine. They settle down and build a life for themselves. Then tragedy strikes. Naomi’s husband dies; then her two sons. She is left with two daughters-in-law, feeling utterly forsaken. She begs them to stay in their own country where the prospect of survival is better. Orpah remains; Ruth refuses to. Naomi and Ruth return to Bethlehem. Ruth begins to glean grain in order to provide for them. Quite by accident, or so it appears, she meets Boaz, a wealthy landowner and a generation older. He turns out to be distant kin to Naomi. He eventually marries her, and the two have a child.
It is an insignificant story, hardly worth remembering.
Except for one thing. Their son, Obed grows up, marries, and has a son. His son, Jesse, also grows up, marries, and has eight sons, the youngest of whom becomes the great kingdom of Israel. Yes, king David.
But the story is not over yet. Many generations later that same lineage produces still another son. His parents name him Jesus, who just happens to be the savior of the world. Suddenly this small story about small people is not so small anymore, and Naomi, Ruth, and Boaz, such obscure characters, end up taking center stage. Why? Because they stepped out of one story and into another, the redemptive story.
Augustine understood this better than most.
In the year 410 a Germanic tribe, the Visigoths, attacked, sacked, and ravaged the city of Rome. It was a devastating event. Augustine wrote The City of God, a massive book of 750 pages, to make sense of it all.
In his view the triune God of Christianity rules over history, though it is often difficult, if not impossible, to see how. As it seemed in Augustine’s day, the traditional gods of Rome exercised more power than the Christian God, Greco-Roman religion more power than the Christian religion, ancient empires more power than the Christian church.
But there is more going on than meets the eye. Augustine wrote that there are really two stories—he called them “two cities”—unfolding at the same time. One is the story of fallen angels and proud humans in rebellion against God, the other the history of God’s people who are pilgrims on earth.
The former worships the self, the latter worships the only true God. The former treats this world alone as the end of life, which always leads to idolatry and perversion, the latter sees the kingdom as the end. The former tells the story of earthly empires, the latter tells the story of God’s people.
These two stories unfold on one stage, using the same set of props and involving the same actors. But there are two stories all the same. Thus Pontius Pilate and Jesus appear as characters on the same stage. Pilate clearly has the upper hand and sends Jesus to his death. At least that is how it appeared at the time.
But not anymore.
Citizens of the one story—the City of Man—seek earthly prosperity alone; to them this world is all there is. But citizens of the other story—the City of God—“look for those eternal blessings which are promised, and use as pilgrims such advantages of time and of earth as do not fascinate and divert them from God . . .” God is central and supreme in the City of God, for all good comes from God. His people thank him for his gifts, steward those gifts under his rightful rule, and always seek God as the ultimate good. “In God’s eternity is its life; in God’s truth its light; in God’s goodness its joy.”
One stage, one set of props, one cast of characters. But really two stories, all intermingled. Thus Pilate acted out of self-interest when he condemned Jesus to death. Little did he know that this decision set in motion events that accomplished the world’s salvation.
Augustine argued that the real and true story is not about powerful, popular people, not about wealth and status, not about empires. It is about the redemptive work of Jesus and the mission of the church. The setting was not a palace but a stable, not a glittering city but a hill of execution, not majestic temples but tiny house churches. The plot involved mostly unknown and unimportant people who trusted and honored God. They took courage and found comfort, believing that history will someday look very different.
Which forces us to ask a question: Which story matters more to us? If the story of the City of Man, we might achieve short-term success and prosperity and power, but in the end emptiness. If the story of the City of God, we will receive (NOT achieve, because it is a divine gift) the only success that truly matters. Which will it be for you and me?