I've been seeing some cool advertisements for the C. S. Lewis movie coming out soon. In preparation for it, I have been listening to the Chronicles of Narnia on CD. I just finished The Horse and His Boy, and there is an interesting interchange between Aslan and the boy Shasta in which the boy asks Aslan for information regarding his friend. Aslan responds by saying that he will not tell the boy anything about his friend. His reason is this--"I only tell each person their own story." Some of you are no doubt aware that I have an interest in the idea that God is telling our story. In one of my first posts to this blog, I mentioned the writings of John Eldredge (especially his book Epic) as influential on my thoughts regarding our lives as God's story (for more on the idea, see my post here Our Stories Matter). At any rate, the other day I was listening to some old T-Bone Burnett music. On his "Talking Animals" album, he has a song entitled "The Strange Case of Frank Cash and the Morning Paper." Here are the lyrics:
it was late september two years ago
frank cash was down on his luck
he'd made a killing at churchill downs
and that left him somewhat thunderstruck
so he rented a place down on lonely street
he was looking for somewhere to hide
the paper showed up at the door every day
and he'd go through the classifieds
then one morning he turned to the sports page
and he noticed that something was strange
the race results were from the day before
but the football scores were from next week's games
frank felt a scared and a little deranged
but a switch board lit up in his brain
that sunday he watched in amazement
as the scores flashed by on his tv set
monday morning he ran for the paper
and made it to the phone and began placing bets
he put ten thousand that night on the jets
ten grand he didn't have on the jets
it happened like that the whole season
he couldn't even count all the money he'd made
he started buying italian women and shoes
which he kept on a sprawling estate on the lake
and by that i don't mean by the lake
i mean ON the lake
he waited all summer for the football to start
the maiden brought him the paper every day
but all he could find was yesterday's scores
the damned paper had ceased to prognosticate
then a look of horror crossed his face
it finally dawned on him but too late
his rolls hit the pavement at a hundred and twenty
heading for lonely street
he rang the bell and a john walker answered
frank pressed his luck against the door screen
frank asked if he still got the paper
john walker said "what do you care?"
frank answered "i need to see the sports section
just for a minute" and john walker stared
frank tried to push through the doorway
john pulled a real forty-five
the dogs were all barking as the rolls pulled away
john walker was no longer alive
the judge looks down through his bifocals
the peers of the jury squirm in their seats
the courtroom is silent except for his footsteps
frank cash is about to speak
and frank says:
your honour and ladies and gentlemen of the jury
all this has been happening to me because of this guy
named t bone burnett. he's been making all this up
and i just want to say i don't believe in him
in fact i don't even think he exists and not only that
BUT THIS SONG IS OVER
frank got a suspended sentence
the jury ruled it was self defense
they ignored his statement
on the grounds it didn't make any sense
frank cash had a pretty good year
considering the dizzy chain of events
that paper was never delivered again
but i gave him back all the money he'd spent
and he married a woman with a lot of soul
and his first son will become president
if you see him tall him i said "hello"
and that i'm happy to be able to call him my friend
Burnett examines some interesting themes here, but the one that got my attention is the idea that God is telling our story (or writing our song), and not only can we be aware of it, but we can also ignore it or choose not to believe it.
Did you get that point?
We are aware that there are forces acting on our behalf (and sometimes against us), but we simply choose to ignore that fact. We simply do not believe it.
Is God busy writing our stories? If so, what does that tell us about our dreams, our desires, our choices?
Are we locked in a song like Frank Cash? Are we, like Shasta in The Horse and His Boy , merely driven by circumstances beyond our control?
If so, how is it that we can choose to deny those forces? How is it that we can choose not to beleive in them?
I will be dealing with some of these issues in my philosophy class soon. As I think about them, it is fascinating to think that God is writing a story about me, but that in some small ways I may also have the privilege of composing some part of that story with him. What an opportunity to be co-workers with God!
What kind of story am I writing?
What about you?
Thanks for reading!
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