When the United States went to war against the Taliban in Afghanistan following the September 11 attacks, it did so with the aim of removing those from power who had aided and abetted the Al Qaeda terrorists.
The pastor of the church I attended at the time rightly decided that it was important to address these events from the pulpit. And like any good preacher, he told a story.
(It's likely that I'm messing up the specifics of his story, but, like any good story, the meaning of it stuck with me.)
As a child he was a part of a sports team. On the team was a bully that pushed around his teammates. Unfortunately, when it was brought to his attention, the Coach didn't really discipline the bully. Rather, he tried to reason with him. The bullying continued.
Pastor went on to share how when innocent people suffer at the hands of a bully, it takes disciplinary action to put a stop to it. Sometimes words ain't enough.
Pre-emptively, he also addressed the choices of those who embraced non-violent resistance. He shared the stories of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Ghandi, but qualified the success of their peaceful campaigns by showing that neither one would have had an effect against a thoroughly evil enemy. In other words, because the English in India or the white majority in the United States had the remains of a Christian heritage, they were able to recognize their wrong-doing. On the other hand, non-violent resistance against Al Qaeda was a losing strategy.
Like many others, I became a patriot after those attacks. Swept up in a wave of national pride, I found plenty of stories to underwrite a belief that the United States was the hero of civilized society...a city on a hill, so to speak.
Here's one such story. I live in a small town of mostly white conservatives. There was a liquor store that was owned by some Palestinians that before 9-11 never failed to show their support of Palestine with their hats, shirts and flags.
After 9-11, suddenly the U.S. flag was flying at the corner store (in less serious times, this could actually be pretty humorous). My brother was in law enforcement, so I was priviliged to learn that the police department was engaged in a unique form of racial profiling. They were patrolling the liquor store regularly to prevent violence against the owners and employees of the store.
Such stories built up my pride in America. After all, it doesn't take a lot of imagination to guess what would have happened in a lot of other nations. In other words, there were other stories in my mind that didn't really have any existence outside my own way of seeing things, but that nonetheless seemed to me to truly represent myself, my community and the world around me.
What had the power to transform me into a full-fledged hawk by the time of the war in Iraq was the power of narrative. Who we are might be best understood as the story we tell about ourselves.
When we meet a story that might challenge our current story, the easiest response in the world should be to see that story as a false one. It's a lot more common, however, for us to simply absorb it into our present controlling narrative.
For example, the stories of Ghandi and Martin Luther King, Jr, were given by my pastor a certain meaning now that it was necessary for us to go to war; namely the superior reasonable-ness of American society, and enduring right-ness of Western European values.
Smashing Pumpkins may have one of the greatest band names of all time, because in those two words exist an entire story. Similarly, the words "America" and "United States" are stories in themselves.
America represents the triumph of liberal democracy over petty tribalism. This is THE great story of modernism. This is "The End of History" say the Francis Fukuyamas. Thus you have people, like former President George W. Bush, that propose that America is really an idea rather than strictly a place; a universal ideal that transcends the particularity of its own nation-state. Or other nation-states, for that matter.
Can a nation really exists as a type of story in which all stories can find themselves? In other words, what story can bind us all together when we've decided that our particular stories are but parts of this universal story, the ever-advancing peace and freedom of liberal democracy?
How, in this multi-storied universe, when one particular story is true or not? Or does that even matter in today's post-modern world?
The United States has poured itself out in blood, bombs and money for nearly a decade on the premise that at least one story is not true: the stories of those that would harbor terrorists. On what grounds?
Ought we retreat from the multi-storied post-modern world into the security of modernism, with it's facts and figures? Or, as some propose, is the modern world of facts and figures cold comfort...themselves merely a type of story?
I am a Christian, which is to say that I'm a part of a particular-storied people. Telling and re-telling our particular story is embedded in our most sacred practices (baptism and Eucharist, for example). There is a terrible discipline embedded in that story called 'repentance'.
The parody of repentance is the person going forward at the tent revival, having once again given themselves over to smoking, cussing and whoring, to have a good cry and to be reassured that Jesus still loves them.
But a more accurate portrayal of repentance might be to re-situate yourself in a new story. In other words, Christianity makes the claim that its adherents must recognize the untruth of their own stories in the light of God's story.
In essence, that there exists an overarching story...a metanarrative...that exposes the untruth of all other stories.
In liberal democracy, particular stories like this are expected to dissappear into a universal story of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. These rights are not particular. They are common...inalienable. This is the melting pot. Your story isn't judged. That is, unless it refuses to melt into the pot.
In repentance, our particular stories don't melt. It would be easier if they did, given that God's story judges the untruth of all other stories. Instead, repentance forms these untruths into the scars that temper our triumphalism.
By finding ourselves in God's story, we are made into 'more than conquerors'. That sounds pretty triumphant. Until you look at Jesus to see that suffering servanthood is what 'more than conquering' looks like.
A tragedy in the life of the Christian church in America is that when the story of our potential victim-ness was told, we took refuge against our fears by allowing our particular story to be absorbed once again into a metanarrative of the triumph of liberal democracy. We storied ourselves not as aliens, but as citizens.
Who cares? Why does it matter if Christians stood united with their country rather than stubbornly insisting on their own particular story?
Because when we reach the end of history and history refuses to do anything but keep on going, the world just might need a people that are capable of rightly remembering a particular story about a God who, when faced with his own victim-ness, overcame the violence of this world with self-giving love.