I come to this conversation because of my faith—a faith that is about following the example of the great storyteller, Jesus. When I read the Gospels, I see Jesus engaging with the Empire itself, repeatedly asking questions and telling stories. These questions and stories disrupt notions of power, identity, and belonging.
In the life we read about, we find that stories matter. The stories we tell about the world, about ourselves, and about one another—all these stories matter. Emmanuel Katongole, in his book The Sacrifice of Africa, says that all politics are about stories and imagination. Stories not only shape how we view reality but also how we respond to life, and indeed the very sort of people we become. In other words, how we imagine ourselves creates not only the chaos we live in but also the potential for hope and transformation.
The idea that we can be anything we want to be, he says, is an insidious lie. We heard from Emmanuel about memory. The memories we can conceive of exist because of the stories we have been told and the stories we tell. Debbie Ford, in her book The Dark Side of the Light Chasers, asks this question: What is the story that you believe about yourself that has created the world in which you now live?
Stories create not only ecologies but also social constructs and even morality. Just a few examples. Hewlett-Packard—are you familiar with them? Their company slogan was, and I’m paraphrasing, so don’t hold me to this, ‘to be the best technological company in the world’. Then they changed one word to reframe their story: ‘to become the best technological company for the world’. Stories. For those of you who have enjoyed The Hunger Games, any fans here? Very few, I’m surprised. But I see some thumbs up. There’s a line in The Hunger Games that is repeated over and over again: “May the odds be ever in your favour.” For us to reshape ecosystems, there’s only one letter that can transform that entire narrative: “May the odds be ever in our favour.” Stories matter. Stories create notions, even like the one we hear of Africa—stories about people and continents, ideas, conquest, even empire.
In the same way, these stories hold true when we think about peace and healing. The stories we tell shape what we think peace must look like, what people must do when they live in peace, what work is required of those who do peacebuilding, what values they should hold, what aspirations and ideas they need to have.
Stories are very powerful. But how do we transform the stories that we live in? Archbishop Desmond Tutu, a mentor, once said to me, “Do you know what the problem is with the world?” Of course, I leaned in. “The problem is that we just don’t know that we belong to one another.” How about that for a story? We all belong. And so even this notion of belonging—and our belonging—is a story that needs our attention today. Because the story of belonging, for me, is a story that is the work of hospitality. Hospitality, this work of making room, of enlarging the story so that it can create the space for all to belong.
The stories of hospitality require our embodiment. And so, while I was sitting here, I was looking up at the stained glass window. Do you see the words right at the bottom? “Pray for the peace of Jerusalem.” Given our global context, the story we tell about ourselves and about the other will shape even the words of that prayer.
What might a story sound like that creates the space for all to belong in that city? This work of making room and enlarging our stories is work that was done in my own country, South Africa. And one of our prophets, Peter Storey, used this particular line to invite us into this story of belonging: “The pain of being together,” he said, “is better than the pain of being apart.” The pain of being together is better than the pain of being apart. What might that have done, as we listen to Clare, in the Good Friday Agreement, where sacrifices were made? The pain of being together is better than the pain of being apart, as we listen to the story of economies—from tequila, Kate Raworth.
For those of you who know her, an economist, she talks about economies in which all can thrive instead of an economy that requires growth. Do you see how that story transform the entire ecosystem? And so, these ecosystems, I want to suggest, are not only spiritual or material. These ecosystems are created because of where we put our bodies.
Where we put our bodies creates habitats for all of creation to be nourished. And so, what are the stories of hospitality that Earth invites us into? Earth as our primary host, and our bodies as our secondary hosts. Earth is able to absorb and hold and create space. Earth is able to provide habitat. Earth nurtures. Earth gives. Earth holds. And in all of these acts of hospitality, we are invited to embody those stories in the places where we live.
Seeking to find stories that disrupt the narratives of empire is part of our primary work. In an advocacy group in South Africa called Reclaim the City, they used a story to talk about property—with a simple line: “Property is for people, not for profits.”
Earth is for all, not for consumption. And as we tell these stories, they are not only stories that we tell so that we can believe them, but these stories invite us to give a GPS location for where we can read the telling of this story. And so, what I’d like to suggest is that in this work of peacebuilding, we are invited to practise this spiritual economy. We don’t yet know how to live in these stories, but our work with you is to learn how to practise.
Brian McLaren, who wrote a book called We Make the Way by Walking, talks about this idea of our spiritual journey. He says—and I’m going to have to demonstrate—he says that in our spiritual journey, we’re walking along this way in community with others. Sometimes we get to a place where there is no more road. No one has gone this way before, and we don’t know where to turn. The work of storytelling, in this moment, is to look back, to ask, “Where have we come from?” so that we can learn the trajectory of where we need to go, and maybe even where we should no longer go. N.T. Wright talks about this work as faithful improvisation. And so, what is the story that you now live in? What is the story that creates a large enough hospitality so that all can belong? I want you to think about that for a moment. What is the story that you want to tell of a world that is big enough, with enough room for all to belong? It might be in that story that no one has gone that way before. The invitation here is faithful improvisation. This is courageous work because to live in a story requires not only courage but also the conviction that the story can one day be true. And so, in the work that I do in peacebuilding, in being in conversations with people who are literally at war with one another, the invitation is always:
What is the story that can hold us together in this moment?
Some of you might know that there’s been a lot of conflict in Zimbabwe. And as an election was approaching, all the young activists were talking about what they were going to do to make sure that there was no more violence during elections. And their work was to construct a story of Zimbabwe that was big enough for all to feel like, “Yes, I can belong to that story.” What is the story of Jerusalem that we can tell that is big enough, hospitable enough to create room for all to belong? If we cannot imagine those stories, then that is where our work begins.
But whatever story we tell is a story that not only creates reality but also creates the limitations within which we are able to live. And so, Emmanuel spoke about seeds holding memory. I’m not wanting to mess with the mystics, but part of those memories are stories. What are the stories that you have been told? What are the stories that have shaped your family, your country, your politics? What are the stories that have shaped your relationships with money? You see, the work of empire is to ensure that certain stories remain true: “This is the way it is, and this is the way it’s going to stay.” And without the work of reimagining a hospitable story, the ecology required for all of us to thrive will be impossible. We tell children’s stories before they go to bed. What are the stories that we want to tell ourselves about our role, our place, who we are, and who they are?
What are the stories that need to be disrupted—those that have shaped our values? I told you earlier that my ancestors were enslaved in the month of August. You see, people who were enslaved had a particular measurement attached to their identity. That was back in the time of the British Empire in South Africa, but it remains true in the coffee plantations of Guatemala today: Your worth is dependent on how many coffee beans you can pick. For every basket you fill, you get two dollars. And so, when our value is determined by what we are able to produce, we too are enslaved. What is a story about human value that is not related to production, but to belonging? St Ethelburga’s have invited us into a work of storytelling. It’s listed in their values for dialogue: respecting one another’s views, even when you disagree. What is a story that belongs with that value?
We don’t live well, Eugene Peterson says, because we don’t tell stories well. I want to suggest that part of our work in peacebuilding involves creating new stories about one another and the world. These new stories will need to become true so that we can live within them. So, the invitation within this very grand topic—peacemaking to heal humans and landscapes scarred by conflict —is for us all.
We are all caught in conflicting stories about ourselves and each other. Today’s invitation is, first, to take those stories seriously, to recognize that they have created outcomes we no longer desire, but also to step into the new work of creating a much larger story—a story in which everyone can belong. Then, we must find the courage to live into that story.
Audience question: I was talking to my friend here from Georgia about stories, about which stories we tell. We were discussing awakening, awareness, and the challenging work of peacebuilding. I deeply appreciate what you’re doing. We’re very grateful to have people like you doing this work in South Africa, given our history of colonisation by the British and Dutch. When we bring up these things, we’re not trying to make people feel guilty. Georgia was asking me, “How can I connect with you without feeling guilty?” I told her that bringing guilt into the conversation would hinder our connection. It would shift the focus from genuine connection to managing guilt and defensiveness.
René: We talked about starting from a place of humanity. In South Africa, we call it Ubuntu. We have a lot of work to do, and we need allies who will move beyond guilt and defensiveness. It’s essential to begin from a place of truth. We had the Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) in South Africa, and we need to start from a place of honesty and transparency. We need to create a story that starts with truth, without guilt. Once guilt enters the conversation, it becomes about comforting the guilty person, rather than addressing the truth. Earlier, I was speaking with someone next to me about the importance of connecting from a place of humanity and moving forward from there.
Audience question: René, you talked about stories, and now I find myself deeply reflecting on that. Thank you for your story. I want to express my gratitude for sharing your story. There’s a lot to say about stories—they can be weaponized, and we need to be aware of that. As a South African, I’m mindful that I’m speaking in a different country. In South Africa, we have conversations where some people feel attacked and don’t want to be made to feel guilty. I remind them that their story isn’t solely one of being a benefactor of injustice. They have other stories about themselves. Can they tell those stories?
René: Are we not all more than just products of colonialism? Can we be products of goodness and generosity in the world? Can we live into that story? There’s an invitation here because it’s not fair for me, as a Black South African, to manage your emotions and avoid making you feel guilty—that’s your responsibility. Don’t give me double work by asking me to educate you for free. We’ve had enough of that. You need to create your own story. The thing about stories—so, I know we’re in an interfaith space—I come at this as a disciple of Jesus. Jesus requires a critical consciousness of the stories we believe. If we’re not willing to engage in critical consciousness, to examine these stories and ask what they’ve produced in the world, and then find a story more faithful to the trajectory we want, we’ll continue experiencing awkwardness. I’m tired of that. That’s my story. I’m tired of the awkwardness that comes from living in a story that isn’t big enough for us to be friends and love one another. So, we all have work to do, and stories can help us do that work.
Audience question: I loved your reference to the term and concept of Sankofa—the importance of looking back to guide our way forward. When it comes to the intersection of Sankofa and storytelling, I see this taking the form of myths—stories that have persevered through time and space, transcending those barriers and remaining relevant to us today. As Ursula K. Le Guin said, “The purpose of myth is to tell us who we are.” My question to you is: Is there a myth, story, or idea from the past that particularly informs and shapes your hopes and dreams for the future, in line with the concept of Sankofa?
René: Thank you, I love that question. I don’t know if it directly aligns with Sankofa, but a story that grounds me is simple: I have a choice. I always have a choice. One of those choices is that I don’t have to be here. The power of empire tries to steal that from us. So, for me, looking back means recognizing the people who transcended the story they were told by making a different choice. In the midst of conflict, when people are shouting at each other or at me, because I’m the only person they feel allowed to be angry with, I remind myself that I have a choice. I can tell them, “This is your story, and I’m leaving.” That helps.
Audience question: Thank you so much, René, for your powerful, unbowed spirit. I believe in the power of story. What story do you think we can tell to bring about the peace of Jerusalem?
René: That’s a profound question. I believe the stories of Jerusalem first belong to the people who live there. The stories they tell about themselves and that land will shape the future of the city. For the peace of Jerusalem, everyone who lives there needs to believe they are entitled to live in peace, regardless of who they are or what they believe. We need to create a story big enough to hold all those truths in that space.
I can’t predict what that story will look like, but if we come together, believing in peace—if we exist for the peace of Jerusalem, you and I, despite our different religious views—every time we get stuck, we can return to the story that brought us here. We are here because we believe in and want to promote the peace of Jerusalem. Each step toward that peace will uncover a new story. Chris Ting, a family therapist, talks about the work of becoming multiversed—compared to being a universe with a single story. We need to have more than one story to tell about ourselves at any given moment. Yes, I’m South African, but I’m also a peacebuilder who works worldwide. I’m also the youngest daughter of Mike and Jean, a friend of Becca, and so much more. I need to be able to say, “Becca, as your friend, I want to say this, but as a peacebuilder, I need to say that,” so that both stories can remain true and I can live in multiple stories.
Why faith and moral courage?
This content is a segment of an extensive event series exploring what faith and moral courage look like in an age of polycrisis. Where does extraordinary courage come from? What can we learn from people who’ve risked everything to live up to their values? What forms of courage are especially needed in our age of unravelling, uncertainty and risk? How can we inspire ourselves and each other to grow our capacity to brave our limits? Are there insights from the world’s spiritual and faith traditions that can help us grow our courage?