Pass it on

Farmers Market in the train station parking lot, a beautiful Saturday morning, lots of people, single people, couples, groups, families, kids in strollers, on bikes, young and very old, locals and a surprising number of out-of-staters, many carrying bags to be filled with local produce, heading up the stairs or into the tunnel under the tracks.

I'm passing out leaflets for one of the candidates in the Democratic primary: 'Registered voter? Don't forget to vote in the primary on the ninth. It's coming right up. I'm supporting...'  The primary is news to many: 'Haven't we just voted?'

In fact, I was not really supporting either of the candidates for the AG job, or rather both of them, because each was impressive at the convention.'Why not? Either would be good, and a choice has to be made.' So when Krsa emailed an invitation to join her to work for one of them, I went.

One middle-aged man went by me saying, 'I don't need a leaflet. I know the person. We were at law school together.'

'Really? Do you know any stories?'

A moment's thought, 'Yes, I do. I graduated two classes ahead and...'  The story was short, clear, memorable. Clearly, he was impressed. That moment had made up his mind.

'Thanks so much,' I said. 'That's something I'm glad to know.'

Later on, in a busy moment of people arriving and leaving, a woman with her daughter said to me, 'I don't know either of them. What makes this one,' waving the leaflet, 'special?'

'Well,' I said, 'I met a guy this morning who told me a story about the candidate. Let me tell you...'

When she left, it was as if she had taken something substantial with her, not just campaign blah-de-blah but a story containing an insight. She was impressed.

What is it that makes stories so powerful, and such stories a currency for conviction? Why do we value so the unstudied and unpremeditated? Why do we privilege so the eyewitness report? From the one who actually saw and heard what happened (I trust) to me to the woman: a transmission of a kind of warrant, good enough at least for the kinds of decisions we're making in this case.

Much of our interaction is on this level. It has immediacy, it has authenticity, and it is a gift, not for everyone but for you, the one I'm addressing now. There are pernicious forms of this: cruel gossip and rumor-mongering, and maybe, in fact, this story is not to be believed. But some stories are, and the passing of them on is a thread that links us. When I sit at the table and tell my wife what I've seen and heard in the day, I feel few more stitches are pressed through and pulled tight, sewing us together.

Does this also pertain to the conversation of God-in-love and the Beloved, who includes us?