Storytelling Could Breathe New Life Into Spiritual Traditions From Ashkenazi To ZenBy Will Hornyak
Portland, Oregon: Although religions disagree over just about everything, they do agree about one thing: the value of stories in communicating the essential aspects of their faith.
The greatest spiritual teachers were gifted storytellers and all spiritual traditions are a storehouse of parable and myth, history and legend.
But to actually hear someone embody those stories on any given Sunday
in a church, synagogue or mosque is an experience rarer than a Latin
Mass. It is one of the reasons that so many church services are dull as
dirt. "Thou Shalt Not Kill," says the fifth commandment. But priests
and ministers bore hundreds to death every Sunday and get away with it.
It is the real reason I stopped going to church. I couldn't believe God
would be that boring.
 John The Baptist The irony is that religions are awash in stories with outrageously interesting characters and situations. Here's John the Baptist eating honey and wild locusts, over there Elijah the prophet is disguising himself as a beggar. And here comes another crazy Zen monk with his hair on fire. Is anyone paying attention here? The human rootstocks of all these religions were as crazy as bed bugs. They were wild, passionate, freethinking, individualistic and often very funny people. Just spend an hour reading stories of the Mullah Nas Rudin, the holy fool of the Middle East, and you'll get the idea.
So, what's our excuse? Given a host of great storytelling traditions, why do priests and ministers drone on endlessly? Or why do we let cultural bobble-heads like Mel Gibson practice electric shock therapy on the collective spirit? When did we decide to hang our imaginations out to dry just because someone in a robe stepped behind a pulpit or recited an ancient text? Maybe stories were used by the great spiritual teachers because they were trying to tell us something about storytelling: "Go forth and use your imaginations. We did it. Now you try!"
My point is that if we paid as much attention to actually telling stories as we do to intellectually strip-mining them for meaning, we might enjoy ourselves a lot more. And our religious services might become more dynamic and less predictable. The Bal Shem Tov (Rabbi of the Good Name) from the Hassidic tradition used storytelling to break the stranglehold of intellectualism on Judaism. Jesus wrapped stories around the Pharisees until their critical minds were lost in the underbrush. Zen masters brought the minds of their students to rest with fabulous koans. I can't help but think these guys were really interesting to listen to and watch. Well, why not us?
I believe that storytelling could be just as worthy a spiritual practice as whatever else is out there these days. Here are three reasons why.
Goya's Aesop
First, there is a quaint conceit in the expression: "I learned to tell a story." A story learns us, not the other way around. Storytelling is a spiritual practice in part because you work with forces much greater than yourself. You bring your skill and diligence to a story the way that you bring a boat to the sea: you're not completely in charge, but you can participate in something immensely powerful and beautiful, dangerous and mysterious. Like all spiritual work, storytelling has elements of risk and stories leave their mark on the storyteller. Witness Goya's dark and grave painting of Aesop, the Greek fabulist. The deep-set eyes, the lined face and the hunched back tell us something about wrestling with great forces.
Secondly and especially in learning to tell traditional stories, a common rule of thumb among storytellers is: "strip the flesh and find the bones, the essential narrative, of the story." That's a good metaphor for spiritual work. In learning a story you have to fumble around alot. You try to tell the story in your own words, you grope back to the essential narrative, and you kick yourself because you're butchering a great story. And you do this embarrassing work in front of an audience because storytelling is essentially a conversation between teller and audience. In doing that you reveal your own soul in the process of mucking around—doing awful, wonderful, weird and inspired work. And you give voice to old ideas that seem to speak as if for the first time.
Lastly, storytelling is a community making experience. We bring our passion and enthusiasm to a story the way flame is brought to a lump of coal. After a while that cold, dark lump is alive with a fire of its own. Others gather around it to find warmth and light, to cook a meal or conjure meaning from the dancing flames. The stories we tell may spark an idea, warm a cold heart, remind somebody of something long forgotten.
As Barry Lopez said: "Sometimes someone needs a story more than food to stay alive."
Our stories may elicit other stories from other people and pretty soon a room of strangers can be filled with the stuff of insight and wisdom, humor and understanding. Like the loaves and fishes miracle, suddenly there is an abundance of nourishment for the spirit and the soul because somebody imagined a feast instead of a famine.
I think the Bal Shem Tov said it best: "Sometimes the bonds between heaven and earth are stretched to the point of breaking. Not even prayer can help. Only a story can mend it."
Biographical Info: Will Hornyak teaches storytelling at Marylhurst University and Portland State University and tells stories throughout the United States.
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