[1] Richard Lischer invites us into a compelling story told by a wonderfully diverse cast of storytellers. Readers of the JLE would likely have already met many of the folks here, but probably not in this way, with the types of questions Lischer poses for them (and us) to ponder. As we read their stories, we begin to understand our faith-stories as part of a larger and more important conversation than we might otherwise have noticed. There are some famous and not-so-famous people in this conversation. All of them beloved by God (whether they know it or not)–all of them with stories to ponder and appreciate deeply.<\/p>\n
[2] After a quick story about Dorothy Day, he writes,<\/p>\n
As a context for Our Hearts Are Restless<\/em>, the pandemic stokes the writer\u2019s imagination like no other. It allows you to be alone\u2014too alone\u2014with the misgivings and the uncertainties of your own life. The linearity of time and memory becomes circular; your Tuesdays and Wednesdays are easily mistaken for Thursdays and Fridays. Distinguishing between 2020 and 2021 takes some thought. As you explore the stories of others, you find yourself chasing your own tales.<\/p>\n When I read this, I wanted to say, \u201cI see what you did, there, Dr. Lischer.\u201d<\/p>\n [3] Note how Lischer locates his writing in space and time, while connecting the unfolding story with the pilgrimage of one of his major interlocutors. And how Lischer mixes the voices\u2014he moves from third person to second person. This reminds me of Jesus quizzing his disciples, \u201cWho do people say that I am?\u201d Then the Lord shifts the question away from an observation about what people in general say, to a personal query: \u201cWho do you<\/em> say that I am?\u201d Lischer likewise doesn\u2019t want us to remain mere observers. He invites us into the conversation. And he rounds off the paragraph with a pun. See? Get it?<\/p>\n [4] With that purpose in view, the storytelling continues. Conversations of profundity and breadth cross centuries, bridging continents, bending categories. Augustine of Hippo and Thomas Merton tell tales of \u201csearch and surrender.\u201d Julian of Norwich and Emily Dickinson share their \u201crevelations.\u201d The \u201cbattles\u201d of John Bunyan and Agnes Beaumont come next.<\/p>\n [5] Section Four, \u201cThe Stripping of the Altar,\u201d has the most voices. It relates stories of deep loss by Abelard, Heloise, Etty Hillesum, Bonhoeffer, C.S. Lewis, and Reynolds Price. Their struggles, so poignantly narrated, offer no simple answers to grief and sorrow. In their telling, though, one can find hope.<\/p>\n [6] Dorothy Day speaks about her \u201cPilgrimage\u201d in Section Five. Therese of Lisieux, Harriet Jacobs, and Kathleeen Norris join their pilgrim stories with Day\u2019s. Then comes the stories of \u201cnewness\u201d shared by Anne Lamott and Heidi Neumark. The last narrative section profiles the \u201cnomadic faith\u201d of James Baldwin, Dennis Covington (a snake handler!), and Richard Rodriguez.<\/p>\n [7] Writing about these stories, makes them seem, I\u2019m afraid, too linear\u2014as if so-and-so spoke, then someone else, followed by another. But that\u2019s not what happens here. This is a conversation, a give-and-take between storytellers across centuries and contexts. As they share their lives of faith, and as we enter the exchange, we find our voices, our stories, enriched. We find ourselves among fellow pilgrims\u2014struggling, searching, aching, wandering\u2014alongside them.<\/p>\n [8] The themes are familiar and significant to all who would reflect on their lives of faith and how their actions connect to such reflection. This book is not supposed to be about ethics, but its stories show how and why its protagonists acted the way they did. And as they share their motivations, they reveal their ethics.<\/p>\n [9] Tellingly, the book concludes with some final words of invitation:<\/p>\n \u2026We readers and writers cannot shirk the role of actors. Like the characters considered in this book, we are not yet finished, but we are being made whole. As Luther said, \u201cAll does not yet gleam in glory, but all is being purified.\u201d The process itself is immaculate. It is blessing enough to see it happening in our own lives, and to tell others about it. To paraphrase Saint Irenaeus of Lyon one last time, \u201cThe glory of God is a human being\u201d\u2014 and in some cases, a writer\u2014 \u201cfully alive.\u201d<\/p>\n [10] We see what you\u2019ve done here, Rick. You\u2019ve not only invited us into this story, but you\u2019ve also welcomed us. Made us part of the story. And by doing that, you\u2019ve made us storytellers.<\/p>\n [11] \u201cWe readers and writers cannot shirk the role of actors.\u201d We may not be famous or courageous or noble or strong, but we have stories about how we see or don\u2019t see God\u2019s presence in our lives. To notice that is a enough of a blessing. But it is only a part of it. The blessing continues when we begin to tell stories about that presence.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" [1] Richard Lischer invites us into a compelling story told by a wonderfully diverse cast of storytellers. Readers of the JLE would likely have already met many of the folks here, but probably not in this way, with the types of questions Lischer poses for them (and us) to ponder. As we read their stories, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[15],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-7013","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-book-review"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n