Sermon 2.15.26 You Are a "Text" That You Get to Help Write

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WXokfaXAnNE

Sociologist Arlie Russel Hochschild coined the phrase “deep story,” to describe our embedded cultural narratives-often mythological in nature-that we tell ourselves about ourselves.

James Baldwin said that “history is not merely something to be read,” but that it shapes our identities and that it lives within us, so that we can learn how to understand our presence and grasp our future.

In this third Sunday of Black History and Black Future month, I’m moved to preach to you: You are a “text” that you get to help write.

“We did not follow cleverly devised myths when we made known to you the power and coming of our Lord Jesus Christ, but we had been eyewitnesses of his majesty.”

This is how St. Peter begins his testimony about Jesus.

“We did not follow cleverly devised myths…”

You may wonder what in the world he is talking about, if you haven’t studied ancient literature.

The Greeks were well known for theater, mythology, and history writing. The Romans followed on from these predecessors in their turn.

Often, the three art forms mixed with mythological plays, historical myths, and historical sketches of the lives of heroes that were more mythology than history.

A good example from Christian hagiography (writings about the saints) is the story of my own patron saint, St. Christopher.

His story of carrying Jesus across a river is so similar to the beginning of the Jason and the Argonauts story, that most scholars believe he wasn’t a real person.

What St. Peter is cluing us into is the fact that writers, even writers of history, shape their stories to achieve a particular aim.

So, writers may use a particular genre like Romance (everything was great the whole time and even the slight problems were resolved because of the moral fortitude of the main character, huzzah!),

they may use a particular “deep story” to frame their main character, re-using parts of a known hero story to make you see how the main character fits your expectations of a national hero:

“he sacrificed himself,” “he risked his life for his brothers,” “he triumphed over those who sought to keep him down,” et cetera…

What all of these things point to-the “deep story” of Hochschild, the embodied history of Baldwin, and the myths-is the phenomenon of intertextuality and the certain fact that you are a “text” that you get to help write.

Intertextuality, while it may sound like something salacious to say on the day after Valentine’s Day, is actually a way of reading the Bible.

For those who took my Biblical Interpretation class in 2024, we know that it is a method of seeing how different texts relate to one another.

Intertextuality is especially helpful on days like today, where the story of Jesus is being consciously compared to other biblical stories by the gospel writers.

It gives us a chance to see more nuances of what they thought was important about Jesus:

How he was fulfilling earlier Scripture,

Or being compared to previous biblical figures,

Or doing something novel.

We can see how Jesus is being compared to Moses by the early Christian community.

We see the mountain, and the cloud, the light that is like the fire of Sinai. The Glory of the Lord and the revelation of something new:

Prophet and lawgiver like Moses, who would spend 40 days in the wilderness,

Messiah, who would be revealed to the nations through what he suffered for our sins, and for the unconquerable flesh that allowed Him to rise from the grave.

Intertextuality allows us to explore those connections that are the foundation of Christianity’s claims about Jesus’ continuity with Hebrew Scripture.

On days like today, we also get an added feature of intertextuality, which is the eye-witness account.

St. Peter gives us a glimpse into his own attendance at the Transfiguration.

“We ourselves heard this voice come from heaven, while we were with him on the holy mountain.”

This too allows us some comparison.

For instance, we can find the irony in the fact that St. Peter tells us about how he heard the voice from heaven,

But then also notice, with some irony, that he only seems to have heard part of the message.

“This is my son, my beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”

So, we can ask St. Peter, what happened to the part where the voice said, “listen to him?”

Intertextuality allows us to ask the question, did Peter forget this part? Or did the gospel writer add it for a particular purpose? Does the difference maybe mean that the gospel’s version come from James’ or John’s account of the story?

Some of these questions we can speculate about.

We could come up with a reasonable explanation, an interesting digression, a sardonic twist.

It could become a starting point for a pious new Netflix series, or a History Channel documentary about the “real” Jesus, where people pretend they know more than they can prove,

Because modernist scientism tells us that if it’s logical, it must be true.

This is a parenthetical aside, Melanie told me the other day that scientists had discovered why we twitch right before we fall asleep.

Do you do this?

You’re like, “I’m about to be asleep,” and then BAM! You shake yourself awake.

It was really embarrassing in high school for me, because we would get up early for cross-country practice and then by the time I would get to English class…

I’m listening to the teach, until all of a sudden I’m dreaming about kicking a soccer ball, and SLAM! I kicked the desk in front of me…

Anyway, Melanie tells me that they finally solved the mystery of bedtime twitching.

She said that it was an evolutionary response to sleeping in trees for safety.

You can’t get too deep into sleep, or else you might fall out of the tree.

And, if you fall out of the tree, you might get gobbled up by a predator.

After 10,000 years of sleeping in beds, humans still haven’t evolved past this primordial instinct.

Sounds logical, right?

It’s completely speculative. It’s equally plausible that our body just needs to get rid of excess energy, so that we can get to sleep.

The point is, we may not be able to answer completely some of the most interesting questions of intertextuality, but for me, that’s not the whole point anyway.

Every story, every text, is linked to what came before it, molded by the ways of thinking that led to it;

But ultimately, every author gets to make creative choices about how to use what came before to define what happens next.

If you are a “text,” then you also have this power in your own life.

You are the product of the “deep stories” of our culture, you and I are partially defined by Absalom Jones, whose historic ordination and priesthood we celebrate this weekend.

But we are also defined by Harriet Tubman, Martin Luther King Jr., George Washington, the industrial revolution, the rise of the internet, late-stage capitalism, the promotion we almost got at work, the relationships that taught us something about ourselves, the news we read this morning, the Gospel lesson, our daily, weekly, or monthly prayers, our relationship with Jesus.

All of these “texts” inform how we are each shaping our lives and our identities in our own intertextual story.

I think that our particular culture often overstates how much we are in charge of our own stories, how much of our history we can leave behind us and still find ourselves,

But, we do have some control.

We are not totally beholden to certain ways of thinking, certain ideologies, certain identity markers that aren’t serving us well.

I was reminded of this fact recently as I heard one of the new protest songs that people have been singing in Minneapolis.

Check this “text” out, “It’s okay to change your mind, show us your courage, leave this behind. It’s okay to change your mind, you can join us, join us here anytime.”

This is a true Lenten message if I’ve ever heard one.

What these protesters are saying is: your intertextual story has been taken over by the wrong stories, but you can always begin a new draft with better dialogue partners, better base texts, better interpretations.

Last week, I called us into a Lent that is focused on spiritual discernment.

Understanding how you are a “text” that you get to help write, is intimately tied into that work.

Otherwise, as the Buddhists remind us, your identity becomes a prison with walls that you built and a key that you threw away.

Jesus came to give you back the key and to set the prisoners free.

This Lent, you may not make it to a mountain top, you probably will be surrounded by clouds.

You may not see a dazzling light, or hear the voice of the Lord calling you beloved,

But know that you are beloved and that your God is about the business of transfiguration.

Find the “texts” in your life that are serving you well: a Bible verse, a way of thinking that has carried you through, a moment of resilience and grace that empowered your spirit to persevere through what others thought would be your downfall.

Put away the stories that aren’t serving you anymore: a suffering story that’s holding you back, an excuse for why you can’t change, an animosity toward someone that isn’t serving you, a fear that you aren’t enough.

In the end, as you think about yourself as a “text,” as a story that defines who you are,

You may not get to choose all of your intertexts,

But with creativity you get to decide how it is composed, what you will emphasize, and what the moral is.

You are American history, European society, and African folklore.

You are your lived experiences and your spiritual autobiography.

You are a cleverly devised myth and an eyewitness account.

You are black history and black future held in a body.

You are a “text” that you get to help write.

I pray that with Jesus’ help this Lent you will find the mountain top, you will be transfigured, and that you will find the key that sets you free.