My daughter tells me that there are only a handful of stories in literature, told with myriad variations: the quest, the love story, rags to riches. I notice we keep telling and listening to the details, as they can siphon in our attention with an almost irresistible force. Will Elizabeth Bennett really marry Mr. Darcy? Will Cinderella finally escape her step mother? The characters themselves follow a pattern: the antagonist, the hero.

 

I remember when my husband's boss flew down to rescue our congregation thirty five years ago. I recall what I was wearing, how desperate I felt. The crisis we were surrounded by seemed epic, like none the church had ever seen. People were near mutiny over... the carpet. It was true that I had never seen this problem before, but I had an unspoken feeling from the bishop that this was one of a handful of stories that he had faced repeatedly: conflict about the building, laity vs pastor, finances. I found it annoying that he could categorize our difficulties, as if they were merely a story being played out, and we were in predictable roles. But in my short years I too have seen those stories retold with creative caveats in other times and places. I have watched tempers flare over trees cut down, positions terminated, words misspoken, as if those circumstances would matter a whit in a hundred years or even three.

 

In the meantime, I want to be like Ebenezer. I hope I wake up in time to be generous.