Permission to Narrate
Photo by Panos Sakalakis on Unsplash
Everyone has a story to tell, a tale of hurt and hope, an account of successes and disappointments. But not everyone has “permission to narrate” that story. The phrase comes from the formidable, erudite Palestinian academic, Edward Said; he noticed that contemporary Israel has permission to narrate its life, whereas Palestinians are denied that right to tell their life, experience, and version of historical reality. From that shrewd notice of Said, the phrase is a welcome one for many other social inequities as well wherein the powerful tell the story. What follows is a reflection on such permission (or not) in our story-telling that always awaits self-announcement. In our deepest wisdom, we know that there is a time to speak such a narrative, and a time to remain silent about our narrative (Ecclesiastes 5:2-7). But we are not always up to the chance to narrate ourselves. It turns out that most narratives are told “from above,” from a perspective of power and success, so that the winners make history.” (An important exception to this is the prevailing power of the “lost cause” of our old slave south, as historians of that persuasion long dominated that story and its telling). In every event, there is a counter-narrative to be told from below, even if it is not permitted. The Bible itself is something of an odd mix of a story told from above and a narrative from below. Thus the royal-priestly establishment told much of the story of the Bible. But the counter narrative is also told in scripture, from the perspective of the peasants and other outsiders who live outside the protection and approval of the establishment. We may wonder at this strange mix in the Bible, and we may take notice of the parts of that mixed narrative that we characteristically choose to retell, even if often unwittingly. Parts of the narrative concern power, governance, and triumph. But other parts reflect the demands, plight, and resistance of the outsiders. And wondrously the story of YHWH, the God of the Bible, is stitched together amid these narratives in dispute.
1. We may begin with a recognition that sometimes the powerful prevent and silence the story of the world that is to be told from below. Likely the most dramatic instance of this silencing in scripture is the case of Amaziah, the priest at Bethel, who silenced the prophet Amos (Amos 7:10-17). Amos had harsh words for the Northern dynasty that was under threat from YHWH because of its systemic injustice. The prophet declared that the king, Jeroboam, would die and Israel would be exiled (v. 11). Such a word was too much for the priest who served at the behest of the king. Thus the priest, on behalf of the king, banished the prophet from such unbearable utterance in the “royal chapel.” The priest understood that only good news could be uttered in the royal sanctuary. As the narrative unfolds, Amos may be banished, but not before he speaks a final word concerning deportation and exile of the northern establishment (vv. 16-17). The narrative is of interest because it demonstrates clearly how power from above can readily silence voices from below, even when such a voice from below claims to be “a word from the Lord.”
This same drama is reperformed in the life of Jeremiah. The prophet had dared to assert that the royal temple in Jerusalem was about to be desecrated because the royal house and the urban population had oppressed the non-ownership class of widows, orphans, and sojourners (Jeremiah 7:6, 14-15). Later on, Jeremiah is brought to trial because of his unwelcome, unacceptable words of threat. The case against him is brought by “the priests, the prophets, and all the people” who never permit the utterance of a word that threatened the royal-temple establishment (26:1-11). In the end, Jeremiah is saved by a whisker as the ancient precedent of the prophet Micah is cited (vv. 16-19; see Micah 3:12). It is suggested, beyond that, that Jeremiah was saved from execution by the protection of the politically powerful family of Shaphan that must have been supportive of his subversive utterance (26:24). Jeremiah’s case, nonetheless, is evidence of the way in which voices from below are readily silenced. And of course, the case is not different with Jesus of Nazareth. Jesus wept over the royal city, and anticipated the desecration of the city and its temple. It is not a surprise that Luke can report:
Every day he was teaching in the temple. The chief priests, the scribes, and the leaders of the people kept looking for a way to kill him (Luke 19:47).
The power structure will go to every imaginable extreme in order to silence voices of opposition that seek to negate its claim. Thus the public arena is easily occupied by voices that expose and contradict the claims of privilege and special legitimacy.
In not one of these three instances did silencing from above succeed. Thus Amos, after the banishing effort of Amaziah, continued to voice his searing words. And Jeremiah, after his trial and acquittal, continued his brave, uncompromising testimony in the presence of the establishment. And while Jesus eventually would be silenced by the empire in cahoots with local authorities, that silencing had to wait a long while. These failed attempts at silencing suggest that the word “from below,” i.e., “from outside,” is an indispensable element of social reality, even if it is unwelcomed by the powers.
2. There are occasions when power and utterance “from above” reach their limits of effectiveness. In such emergencies, the powers from above may sometimes appeal to voices from below in bewildered helplessness. For example, King Zedekiah, at his wits end, questioned Jeremiah “secretly,” even though he regarded the prophet as his enemy (Jeremiah 37:17-21). Perhaps the counterpoint to that secret encounter is the Gospel narrative is wherein Nicodemus, a Pharisee, “by night” met secretly with Jesus. The Jewish leader is presented as being at his wits end and seeking guidance from “elsewhere” (John 3:1-10). These consultations are “in secret” and “by night,” done without any public risk.
But we may also cite two much more extended utterances from below that are sought out and welcomed by the desperate and frightened power arbiters. In both cases, a renegade is given freedom to narrate an alternative world to which the establishment figures have no ready access. In the case of Joseph, it is reported that the Pharaoh was “troubled” by his nightmare (Genesis 41:8). Even the mighty Pharaoh cannot fence out a world beyond his control when he sleeps! And of course, his intelligence apparatus could not read his dream, because it came from beyond their competence (v.8). Joseph, a prisoner of the empire, gains access to the crown because he has “prophetic gifts” that are beyond the ken of the empire. Joseph, readily and without hesitation, understands and interprets the dream of Pharaoh, and knows what is to be done by way of planning in response to the nightmare (41:26-36). Joseph himself is properly recognized as the one competent to address the coming crisis. Thus Pharaoh is reassured by Joseph's capacity to narrate a world which he and his intelligence community had no access to.
The case of Joseph is clearly paralleled by the narrative of Daniel in Daniel 2:1-45. Again the king (here Nebuchadnezzar) is troubled by his dream. Again his intelligence community is completely baffled by the nightmare. Again an outsider is sought and summoned into the interpretive effort. In this instance, he is summoned from “among the exiles from Judah” (2:25). With a long narrative run-up, Daniel executes his singular capacity not only to interpret the nightmare of the king, but to tell the king its substance. Daniel portrays the mighty statue of the ruler who, it turns out, has clay feet and so “will not hold together” (v. 43), but will finally be crushed (v. 44).
In the two cases, a prisoner of Pharaoh and an exile of the Babylonian king are permitted to narrate the world. They are permitted to narrate the world because, in both cases, the royal apparatus with its great learning has finally no access to ultimate realities. Thus their “intelligence” was contained in and limited to the ideological bubble of royal control, so that the king and his governance were subject to the rule of God that eluded them. The narratives attest to the way in which the community of the faithful provides a reliable narrative of lived reality to which illusionary power had no access. In both cases, the establishment figure is well served by unaccredited nobodies who knew the truth of the matter, a truth that remained inaccessible to power and wealth. What a way to think about prophetic and apostolic testimony, truth-telling beyond the discernment of controlling power. No wonder both Zedekiah and Nicodemus showed up at night when the inadequacy of their own truth would be least noticed. The royal company of Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar had to come to terms with a different kind of reality that they had not imagined for themselves and that could not be adjudicated on their royal terms.
3. Sometimes there is silencing of unwelcome voices. Sometimes there is a desperate, covert need to hear such voices. But sometimes these counter voices are compelling and must be sounded in a way that shatters all conventional social assumptions and settlements. The “must” of such a voice is intrinsic to the utterance itself. It must be sounded. It cannot be silenced. It must be uttered. It must be heard. And when it is uttered and heard, the world is transformed. Here is a triad of such utterances I could think of in which the “must” prevails:
a) There is the must of elation in which the speaker/singer is empowered and emboldened to shatter imposed silence with glad affirmation. A clear example of such elation is “the Song of Deborah” (Judges 5). The singing celebrates the astonishing victory of YHWH over the gods of Canaan and Edom, that is, the mighty victory of Deborah and Barak who led the Israelite forces against great odds. We are told that the Israelites sang and celebrated the inexplicable victory all the time…as they rode, as they sat, as they walked (v. 10). More specifically the women (who else?) gathered often at the village well to get water. When they gathered, they gossiped. The substance of their gossip was the mighty victory of YHWH that was beyond explanation. They were dazzled by the victory they shared over and over. The women knew, moreover, in perfect poetic parallelism, that the victory of YHWH was the victory of the brave peasants who with their poor equipment prevailed against their enemies. Every time they told each other this remarkable story, they were drawn to amazement, gratitude, and wonder. Their wonder included Kenite bravery (vv. 24-27). On the other hand, their wonder included the acknowledgement that “natural forces” were mobilized on behalf of Israel (vv. 19-21). The story required frequent retelling, every time a shared experience of awe and wonder. And from that common sharing at the village well came the long, generative trajectory of doxology in ancient Israel, an exercise of self-abandonment as Israel offers itself in dazzled praise and thanks to the God who made their life possible. Israel is required to sing and tell, and claims permission for doxology in the face of every silencing force.
b) Alongside the compulsion of elation Israel is also compelled by the must of obedience to the God who commands speech. Nowhere is this clearer than in the case of Jeremiah, the prophet. At the very outset, in his “call,” the prophet resisted the call from God. But God refused his resistance:
Do not say, ‘I am only a boy’;
for you shall go to whom I send you,
and you shall speak whatever I command you (Jeremiah 1:7).
Jeremiah is given no alternative. He is burdened with a vocation as a speaker for YHWH amid the royal city that is averse to such utterance; he must make his way. It is no wonder that his vocation evokes from him a series of complaints and laments that are both his personal recital of grievance but also a public articulation concerning the sorry future of the city. In his final “complaint and lament” of 20:7-13 the prophet describes the way in which YHWH has overpowered him and caused him to be accosted and humiliated by the word he must speak. He is, moreover, unable to be silent and “hold it in,” rather than to speak (vv. 9-10). His words evoke great risk and threat. In the end he finds YHWH to be a “dread warrior” on his behalf. Thus by verse 13, the prophet is able to move to doxology. Except! Except in verses 14-15—after his doxology—he has a death wish of self-loathing. It is likely, is it not, that the prophet is a stand-in for many “prophetic types” who run great risks and utter what they would rather not. Jeremiah’s story is one of sustained obedience that finishes without a good ending; see Jeremiah 43:1-7 wherein the prophet is taken away against his will. The prophet never receives “permission to narrate,” but he must do so in any case, so demanding is the God who dispatches him.
c) The third reason for utterance that breaks imposed silence is the must of need. A clear example of this is the case of Bartimaeus, the blind beggar (Mark 10:46-52). When he knows that Jesus is approaching, he shouts out, “Jesus, son of David, have mercy on me” (v. 47). He names Jesus; he assigns him a royal title; he urgently petitions him. He knows the right moves for asking. He is, moreover, an unwelcome disruption for those around Jesus. They try to silence him; they do not mind if the blind beggar suffers, as long as he does it quietly. He, however, is persistent in his loud need. He will not willingly acquiesce in his need and suffering:
He cried out even more loudly (v. 48).
His boisterous demand was effective. He had crowded his way into the presence of Jesus, and will not be put off by any of the “protectors” of Jesus. We are only left with wonderment as he “regained his sight” (v. 52). As usual Mark explains nothing. He only narrates the way in which the unpermitted narration of Bartimaeus changed his life decisively.
The Bible is such a dangerous, unrestrained, inconvenient array of voices. It is no wonder that the rulers of this age always seek to silence its subversive cadences. Thus the church long withheld the Bible from church members. We have “edited” versions of the Bible, the most famous of which is the work of Thomas Jefferson who edited out much of “the hard parts.” And now we have the common lectionary that screens out material regarded as inappropriate for the church in its worship. Those who do such editing of the text
-believe that elation should not be unfiltered, but must be disciplined and perhaps curbed.
-believe that obedience must have its limits in realism, and those who go too far must be restrained in their claim, as in the case of Joan of Arc.
-believe that that the church, even in its honest need, should observe the social niceties and so not give offense in its reading.
In its manipulation of scripture, the church has been a great silencer. Indeed we can readily recognize that “historical criticism” has functioned as an effective silencer of parts of the Bible. But of course governments, schools, and the media also function, as is needed, to keep the Bible free from too much offense and affront. In any case, however, wounds sounded from below will not be silenced. Such need must be sounded, reiterated, and shared. It is for that reason that the church comes to its elemental story of the self-giving love of God for the world. Yes, we do have a story to tell to the nations! We tell it and retell it on behalf of those among us who do not yet have voices. It is our intent that through our testimony they may, soon or late, receive permission to narrate their own story.
Before I finish, I must mention the most remarkable verse of “sage” advice in Amos 5:13:
Therefore the prudent will keep silent in such a time;
For it is an evil time (Amos 5:13).
This verse, a direct contradiction to the testimony of Amos the prophet, is likely the work of a teacher who comments for students on the prophetic word. This note acknowledges that an evil time is a dangerous time and one does well to keep mouth shut and head down. Thus we may suppose that the verse is a warning to the students that the words of Amos merit study, but they are too risky to be taken seriously or directly. This advice is, “Don’t act like Amos.” Such action is too risky. Such an interpretive comment seeks to tone down the claim of the prophetic text.
Taken together the prophetic words and the teacher’s advice constitute the tension and contradiction we face with reference to the claim of the text. Very often church leaders, teachers, and preachers have known that it is better to play it safe in an evil time, because no one wants to run the risk required in such utterance. But the permission to narrate our most elemental human truth about bodily suffering and communal salve requires that we use the permission given to us. The work is to narrate, and narrate again, the pain of the world, the injustice of society, and the prospect for relief and recovery. We, in the apostolic tradition, have such permission. The narrative awaits us.
