That Story

by Chris Maxwell

We love writing stories people remember. 

A scene of the ocean as waves rush ashore in rhythm. A view of winter with snow covering the streets and a fireplace warming a family. A glance at a grin from bride and groom while they declare vows. 

What an honor to write those stories, to take people places through paper and screens, to guide eyes and minds into an encounter. Information and statistics help prove our cases. Quotes from trusted sources justify our arguments. But stories stick. They illustrate application. They offer an experience, an invitation, an opportunity.

Stories can shock us as the sad stat sheet turns into an example of a family grieving at the funeral home. Stories can motivate us to pursue more information about ways to rescue people who can’t find a method to pay for medication. Stories can lure us toward laughter as the grandparents tell stories of pictures in a photo album to their grandchildren at Christmas. 

In our tribe of Christian writers, we often create stories which we hope will offer encouragement. Even as we honestly reveal the conflict of our narratives, our beliefs bring a breath of reassurance.

We must be cautious, however, not to rush too quickly to the redemptive conclusion. The pain along the way has value. The greatest story ever told isn’t just about a resurrection. Crucifixion comes first. Blood is shed. Breathing stops. A crying Savior mumbles His meditative prayer from what, for us, is Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Before Resurrection Sunday comes Good Friday. And Jesus wants us to remember that story. 

He had gathered with His followers the previous week. They, as they often did and as we often do, ate together. He served bread and wine, declaring to them a tradition to begin, a story to tell, an encounter to experience. “Do this,” He said, “and remember me.”

Before we hurry to another submission or another assignment, let us hear Him. Let us listen as He says, “This is My body.” Let us pay attention to the ancient dialogue as He says, “This is my blood.”

Imagine us in the story and at the table. Not given instructions from our Teacher about better writing or proper grammar or future goals. But given bread to taste and wine to drink. Given words to receive rather than submit. Given nourishment for ourselves before hurrying it to another editor on our list of potential clients. 

Today, choose to be the client. The one loved. The one in the story. Dwell on the week, on the Thursday dinner, on a Friday we call Good, on a Saturday so silent. Stay there a while in that story. Stay there a while and be in the story. 

Slowly, very slowly, work your way to the Resurrection. Remind yourself, “He is risen.” Repeat and you reflect on your own life as someone loved by Him not matter how must or how often or how well you write, “He is risen indeed.”

We will write more stories. We will see them in print and online. We will receive payments. We will smile.

We will also receive rejections. By editors on our articles. By people on ourselves.

But today, step aside from the lists and the goals and the dreams. On purpose, refuse to be so driven. Remember. Remember His death. Remember His death for you.

Stay in that story. The death of your Savior.

Stay in that story. The Resurrection of your Lord.

Stay, remaining away just a while from the demands and the ambitions. Stay, with the story we believe is great. Stay, with the meaning of the bread and wine, of the cross and blood, of the death and Resurrection, of the ancient story and how we are transformed today.

Before we hurry to another submission or another assignment, let us hear Him.

Chris Maxwell served 19 years as lead pastor in Orlando, Florida, after five years of youth ministry. He’s now in his 15th year as Campus Pastor and Director of Spiritual Life at Emmanuel College. He speaks in churches, conventions, and schools, and is the author of ten books, including Pause With Jesus, Underwater, and a slow and sudden God: 40 years of wonder. His latest book is his 2nd collection of poems—embracing now: pain, joy, healing, living.

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