The Happy Tutor’s reframing of AKMA’s post on preaching has got me thinking more about the role of sacred stories. You’ll remember that I defined kerygma as the transformative relationship between a sacred story, a preacher preaching, and an assembly hearing. Earlier I argued that knowledge of god comes from four sources: experiences, traditions, reasons, and sacred texts. I then went on to outline the dialetic between sacred stories and sacred texts. But I haven’t said enough yet about the dialectic between experience, text and story.

Sacred stories initially arise from personal experiences of the sacred, of god-however-you-define it. Sacred experiences are usually experienced as moments of ecstatic awe, gratitude, love, and/or terror. And by “ecstatic” here I don’t mean a Hoopin’ Hollerin’ Holy Ghost Experience™ –although I’ve had some myself– but the older meaning which translates best as “being beside yourself.” The person or persons who shared that experience then go on to tell the story of their encounter, perhaps to each other, perhaps to others who didn’t share that experience.

Always, these initial narratives are not about the awe-thing they experienced (though they’ll probably try to describe it) but about how they experienced it. If they could accurately describe the awe-thing, it would not have evoked feelings of profound joy or dread. All descriptions of the awe-thing are inadequate even if some are less inadequate than others. To name your own description of the awe-thing as the actual awe-thing itself is what the early Hebrew prophets called idolatry.

Then, in a strange move, others –who were not there for the initial experience– begin themselves to experience the sacred through the telling of the story by a person who was there for the sacred event itself. Thus the awe-thing comes to the special invitation-only sneak preview. The sacred story now comes to us second hand, but it is probably better told for it.

From there the sacred story –now edited in response to audience reactions– goes to an initial run in art house cinemas, the Independent Film Channel, and perhaps Sundance. Few, very few, are picked up by a major studio and given the chance to become blockbusters, and some are lucky and good enough to develop a small but loyal cult following. The film rendition of the sacred story (the text) becomes the definitive version against which all others are measured. Fan geeks start going to conventions to the story, taking on the guise of their favorite characters and arguing about the meaning of the film’s/text’s minutia. Their arguments revolve around the film’s contents, the importance of one character or scene versus others, knowledge of the film’s creators as it effects the film’s meaning, the moral/lesson of the story, and the potential for a sequel.

In rare cases where more than one film version is available for a sacred story, fan geeks will either rally against one in favor of the other or try to harmonize and synthesize contradictions between the rival films. Yet all are convinced that their version of the sacred story is the best one. Occasionally the partisans will launch flame wars against each other. Occasionally they will band together to launch flame wars against the partisans of some other film.

And yet many manage to experience the awe-thing through the film, in spite of (or because of) the deafening din. They probably own the DVD, though most do not rate as the prize of their collection. They might stand in line to see the sequel, but not if the weather is bad or if they’re having a bad day. They certainly won’t camp out overnight. They might entertain the thought of going to a fan convention, but the fear of being mistaken for a fan geek. They definitely will not dress up. They are quiet fans.

In any case, the filmed version is now a (at least) second or third hand account of the story. Characters, plot, and settings may bear little or no resemblance to the first story told by those who experienced the awe-thing. In fact, they may find the filmed story unrecognizable. Their account of the awe-thing –if it figures at all– will usually bear the most distortion, becoming a mere plot device, a monster in the lagoon, a wizard’s magic, or a visitor from beyond.

The awe-thing is now named, fleshed out, and predictable. Its predictability especially creates the film’s detractors, who wonder how anyone could fall for such an obvious plot device, such poor acting, such overdone special effects. But mostly they watch the fan geeks and wonder, “What’s their problem? Don’t they have lives?” Then they go home and watch a crowd-pleasing blockbuster.