What would a sacred storytelling container look like?

On why we've lost respect for stories and what we could do to reimagine it

Storytelling is the most powerful way to put ideas into the world.
—Robert McKee

My favorite memories always involve a book. Sitting in an overstuffed chair, hiding from the winter storm outside, I read for hours, warmed as much by the story as by the fireplace flickering. Flying far above the earth, I get lost in a story, even when I’m supposed to be flying the airplane. Stories go with every season. They go with every phase of life. They go with me, and I never go without them.

But I sense there is more to these stories than I’m getting.

The real beauty of stories isn’t in the details of that character’s life. The real beauty is when we see ourselves in a character. When Luke Skywalker narrowly escapes Darth Vader’s grip, we believe that we can overcome our own monster. When Jane Eyre’s wedding is foiled because Rochester is married, we can remember some scumbag that let us down. We can also thank our lucky stars that our scumbag didn’t do anything that extreme while wanting to punch Rochester in the face.

These stories are the way we make sense of the world. They’re older than civilization. I imagine some caveman telling a tale of overcoming his own monster around a campfire, wowing the men and wooing the women. See, my fishing tales are in good lineage, even if my wife isn’t wooed.

But when I venture for my weekly coffee man date, notebook, novel, and nitro cold brew in hand, someone is always quick to give me a look. They furl their brow as they look at my book. Just as quickly, they try to hide it. But before long, they can’t hold it in anymore. They just have to tell me something. The person changes, but the narrative is always the same.
”I remember when I was a kid and used to read stories.”
“Truth is way more important than fiction.”
“Why waste your time?”
“It must be nice to escape from the real world.”
”Don’t you have anything better to do?”

If my friends are any indication, and I don’t think they’re that unique even if there are some characters out here, we’ve lost respect for stories. Sure, we’re happy to be entertained by Ted Lasso or Top Gun: Maverick, but we don’t really see how that relates to real life. We’re too busy, with too much to do, to indulge in fantasies. (As an aside, even writing that makes me sad. That’s neither here nor there.) We proclaim science over stories, all while we wonder why we feel so lost.

I wonder what it would be like if we respected stories again. I wonder what it would feel like to be part of a community that wants to experience stories again. To participate in them. To see ourselves in them. Even to create them for ourselves.

Sure, I could join an acting class. I could join my local writer’s group. But that’s not quite what I mean. This phase in my life has been wrestling with my own spirituality. Questing for Truth. What I’m getting at is a group, really a sacred container, that holds stories divine on that quest. A group that designs experiences of transcendence. A group that wants to create a tradition of being. I want to be a part of that group.

This idea is still in its very early stages. I don’t have a fleshed out plan, only an inkling that I’m seeking something powerful. I only know where I haven’t found it — in my local church, in professional groups, or in sessions with healers. I know what’s out there, but not what could be there.

I have some early ideas. These are by no means written on stone tablets, but more reeds floating on the river. But such a group could:

• Design chanting, music, and dance that help us embody a narrative.

• Use stories as part of the process of creating set and setting for altered states of consciousness.

• Create experiences that heighten the wonder of a spiritual quest. Use lights, sound, vibration, motion, smells, and other sensory experiences as part of these experiences.

Like I said, these are still early. Discovering what emerges is usually the end of the Quest. And I’m only on the first chapter.