Bedtime storytelling was a favorite activity in our house when our children were young. Teeth were brushed, toys were stowed, beds were turned down, prayers were said, and the stories began. The stories were often so engaging that when we paused in our recitation for dramatic effect, our children’s impatience was unendurable. They would ask with urgency, “What happens next?!” Their innate sense of justice and order demanded that every complication should be swiftly set right and no mystery remain unsolved. Children’s literature ably met their needs in this regard. In the books we read to our children good triumphed. Courage was effectively employed. Honesty was rewarded. Everything hidden came to light. And for all we knew, the characters lived happily ever after.
All too soon, of course, those stories became a thing of the past as our children went on to explore the world, its characters, and its plots in ways that acknowledged their far greater complexity. Slowly but surely a rather jaded adult world view seems to lure all children to adopt its perspectives. We know the parameters of that more grown-up storyline. Good doesn’t always triumph. Courage is costly. Honesty is naïve. Some things should remain hidden. And “happily ever after” is only for fairy tales. But is such a seemingly disillusioned worldview really reflective of our innermost beliefs and hopes and convictions? Is it sufficient as a framework within which to live?
Most people of faith would say, “no.” We who are People of the Book (possessors of holy texts) find we have stories as engaging as any we could imagine. Our stories explore the most challenging human temptations, the most discouraging human problems, and the most heartfelt human needs with forthrightness. Yet while our ancient sacred stories realistically acknowledge the world’s complexities and injustices, they do not condone bitterness, submission, or cynicism as a response. Instead, they call us to complete the plotline of our own lives with reference to a Master plot that lies behind all the apparent inconsistencies and inscrutable mysteries we observe. They propose that in God’s time and by God’s will, our innate sense of justice and order will be vindicated. They claim that such traits as mercy and grace are not empty childish ideals, but realities that actually triumph over lesser possibilities. They assure us that just as children asking, “what happens next?” will soon find their stories satisfactorily concluded, so shall we.
This is Holy Week for Christians and the plotline is extraordinary. It begins with Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, includes avowals of commitment and ultimate betrayals, shows us an unjust trial, scorching mockery, painful death, and then at last an empty tomb and a living reality of love that cannot be put to death – ever. Like any other story, we can read it, close the cover on it, and set it down without further reflection. Or then again, perhaps this is the story that never ends, because we are invited to live out its conclusion. What happens next? Well, that’s for you to decide.