How Stories Invent History
By Harry T. Cook
4/12/13
 | Harry T. Cook |
Long ago, in another life, I was a downhill skier, and not bad at it, either. One of my mentors in learning the sport had been in a younger day what skiers call a "hot-dogger." The term means, roughly, "one who takes chances with life and limb." By the time he was helping me not to break my neck, my friend was no longer hot-dogging it on the slopes. One day, in a pensive mood, he said to me, "Why did I enjoy so much doing the thing that threatened me so much?" Now, four years into retirement as a parish priest, I can ask that question of myself. I enjoyed nothing so much in parish ministry than teaching people how rationally to read and interpret the Bible. I may as well have skied straight down the Matterhorn with abandon. Like most working clergy, I served congregations some of whose members, for all their college degrees and professional excellence, were operating on elementary Sunday school knowledge, if that. Because for their whole lives they had seen the Bible almost as an amulet, as collection of hyper-sacred texts, they were unable, unequipped and not infrequently unwilling to consider that such texts are, all of them, of human provenance -- but no less important because they are. I spoke of "myth," a word directly imported from Greek into English meaning "story." To use the word "myth" in connection with any biblical passage or term of a creed can be tantamount to dropping a lighted match into a gasoline tank. One of the Episcopal Church's finest young priests, surely destined for greatness, was rejected for the pastorate of a significant parish because it was discovered that he had used the words "myth" and "resurrection" in the same sentence. I ran headlong into that same buzz saw in my educational efforts. I pointed out to my students the inconsistencies in the so-called resurrection narratives of the four New Testament gospels and that none of those narratives had taken shape earlier than the early- to mid-'70s of the first century CE -- easily 40 years after the times whatever real or imagined events would have occurred. Going further, with a careful reading of each gospel's version of the basic story, I demonstrated that each of them assumed a resurrection on hearsay rather than straightforward, first-person testimony. My students, already suspicious, had no background or facts of their own at hand to gainsay that truth. But a number of them insisted that, because the Bible was "the Word of God," my proffered data did not count. Year after year, with new groups, I used the myth of Icarus as an illustration of how stories are sometimes the vessels of truth, if not the truth itself. I asked if the myth (story) of Icarus was about the chemical makeup of waxen wings and the temperature of the sun. No one thought that. Then I asked what anyone thought the story was about. For those who knew it -- and almost always everyone did -- the common answer was human overreach prompted by hubris. I would turn then to one or another of the resurrection stories, and ask what anyone thought about them. The answer was invariably "about Jesus being raised from the dead." I would probe further by asking, "In what sense?" The answer, also invariable, was something like, "Well, he had died on Friday but was brought back to life on Sunday." Someone in the class who knew his Bible would attempt to checkmate my inquiry by quoting such texts as I Corinthians 15:17 to the effect that if Christ has not been raised, then we're as good as dead forever. One man insisted that the story had been repeated often enough and believed by so many people over the centuries that it must be true. I countered with yet another a story out of what was then my recent past. I spoke of having gone to Fredericksburg, Va., to assist at a wedding. Whilst there, I was taken on a tour of that historic city. I was shown a brass plaque in the sidewalk on the bank of the Rappahannock River. A proclamation in raised letters said something to the effect that a young George Washington had once thrown an English sovereign from that spot across the western branch of the river to the island in the middle of the stream. My guide saw me perplexed and guessed that I was thinking Washington had thrown a silver dollar across the Potomac -- a river many, many times wider than the Rappahannock at that point. He said the weight of an English sovereign was likewise many times heavier than a silver dollar, which, by the way, did not exist in Washington's youth. The guide gave my then-younger physique an appraising look and opined that even I might be able to throw a baseball -- about the weight of an 18th-century English sovereign -- most of the way across that span of water. Yeah, well ... I asked him how it was that the story got changed. His reply: "I'm not even sure the one the plaque recounts is all that true." That helped me appreciate how the stories of Washington's youthful heroics became necessary to the burnishing of his character as "the father of our country" just as young Abe Lincoln's legendary honesty was said to have been proven by his walking multiple miles to return a coin or two to a widow whom he had accidently shortchanged at a grocery store where he worked as a boy. Then there is the Washington story of the felled cherry tree and the inability to tell a lie. Narratives, when told and retold, when written and rewritten, have the effect of revising history or even inventing it. Andr� Aciman, who teaches comparative literature at the City University of New York, wrote recently: "There is no past; there are just versions of the past. Proving one version true settles absolutely nothing, because proving another is equally possible." Aciman was comparing accounts of a walk he had taken with his brother on a trip to Egypt almost a quarter of a century ago. "Four years later in a memoir," Aciman wrote, "I removed my brother from the scene, and, instead, described taking that same walk by myself. ... When I returned again to Egypt in 1995, I walked along that same stretch to test whether I remembered walking there alone or with my brother. And suddenly it occurred to me that I might have made the whole thing up." Now, as I compose this essay, I am feeling uneasy about my memory of the Fredericksburg incident. I was in that city, I did see the muddy run of the Rappahannock and there was discussion of the silver dollar business, but my story would be eviscerated on sharp cross-examination. I invite any reader to come as a silent witness to any holiday dinner I share with my siblings. I am the oldest among us; Jeri is youngest. The parents we have in common have been dead 35 and five years, respectively. We are none of us as yet subject to the undertow of dementia. Even so, we can hardly agree on how father made the German potato salad and with what condiments, or about whether maraschino cherries ever appeared atop a festive breakfast casserole known affectionately as "Christmas Crud." To students in my biblical studies classes, I would relate such stories as these to help them see what tricks memory can play and how stories can take the place of actual fact. Generally, I made little headway. So, what the hell: Long live the silver dollar, the Potomac, the cherry tree, the widow's pence and one sibling or another's version of the family potato salad recipe along with their adamant denials of the maraschino cherries. As for the resurrection of Jesus, you're on your own. Pick a story and stick to it. I will be no help as I have retired from hot-dogging. |