Why I Give To Parable Media

“Stories shape our understanding of the world and our place in it. They have the power to transform hearts and minds, to challenge assumptions, and to inspire action."

—Katherine Tanner

For most Christians, it’s difficult to pinpoint an exact moment when you first came to bear witness to the overwhelming, wonderful love of God.

In the Baptist tradition, the testimony of believers often involves “getting saved” or “coming to faith”. These are powerful moments where a commitment is made, like a turning around or epiphany occurs. The Wesleyan tradition has a diversity of views on this matter. When John Wesley was young, he described feeling a moment where his heart was strangely warmed and believed that Christians knew the moment they came to faith. As he grew older, Wesley grew less certain. Other iterations of the tradition maintain that this incredible moment occurs as part of a ritual or sacrament. The Disciples of Christ believe that you’re part of the body when you are baptized into the church, and many Catholics hold to the view that participation in holy communion is required to join the marching choir of saints.

While many have voiced their thoughts on the matter of salvation, the actual occurrence remains a bit of a holy, joyful mystery. Perhaps by design.

If I (Chris) am being honest, I have no earthly idea when I became a Christian. As long as I can remember, I knew that God loved me and wanted the best for my life, which came about through a friendship with Jesus. Growing up in a small baptist church, I inherited a story that was passed down from father to daughter in the cool evening sands of ancient Israel through history, and told to me by my parents. I received my first Bible before I could even read.

“In the Christian tradition, story is at the heart of our faith. The Bible itself is a collection of stories that reveal God's relationship with humanity and invite us to participate in that story."

—Rowan Williams

I don’t know if I can pinpoint an exact moment when I became a Christian. It could have been in Mrs Alice’s first grade Sunday school class when we glued down pictures of animals walking into the ark or during a family prayer before dinner. It could have been before AWANAS, when I asked my mom to pray with me because Mr. Billie told us about a God who wanted nothing more than a friend. We could all use a friend, right? It could have been when I first met God with fear and trembling through a tear-filled prayer in the solitude of my childhood bedroom after learning about this place called Hell. It may have been the first time I felt like the world was smiling at me in fall as free roaming Orange leaves kissed my cheeks and the smell of bonfire smoke engulfed me in a hug that let me know that our God made a world of enjoyable things. It could have been any of a thousand small moments I suppose.

I was blessed to grow up in a church whose faded pink carpets and oak hallways welcomed me as if I was in my own home. While they weren’t perfect, I was surrounded by people who did their best to care for me and impart the story of our faith. Even when their best wasn’t, well, all that great. My family ended up leaving the church when I was in my late teens after several years of conflict following changes in the congregation and a small exodus away. Still, the memory of that place- the faces, smell of the old hallways, laughter, tears- lives on as a memory, planted in the most resilient and rich soil. Sometimes it still bears fruit.

Growing up, I was inspired by the stories of faith from those around me. The testimonies on Sunday morning reminded me that I worship a God who could turn even the worst sinner into a saint, a fisher of men. Like all great fisher-men stories, these were often embellished a tad for dramatic flair but, whether exact or exaggerated, these stories shaped me into who I am today.

Some of my most cherished memories are sitting in the fellowship hall before church eating biscuits with cold coffee and hearing about Mr. AM Lee’s first choir practice or spending a summer afternoon helping Mr. Ed catalog the church library. If I were to live for a thousand years, I don’t think I could ever forget my DDaddy telling the story of a young man, a prodigal son, on a train who knew he was welcome back home by seeing a white sheet in an apple tree. When he told that story, we all felt like a prodigal son longing for a way back home.

As a child, I grew up inspired by stories of missionaries, both near and far, who made it their mission to invite others to this beautiful friendship with God. They told the most sacred stories, the God stories, to those who had never heard them. Human hands stacked the bricks that formed our small sanctuary and human hands made the fried chicken that gathered us together on a Sunday afternoon, but it was the stories shared around the table that welcomed me into the church.

That’s why I give to Parable Media.

I give because I know that stories matter. I give to honor the stories that shaped me so that I might help tell stories of faith that God will use to call us all home. I give because my heart has been broken a thousand times by stories of loss and put back together at least that often by tales of redemption.

While I cannot place a pin on the exact moment where my story with God began, I can name a hundred stories that formed, convicted, and changed me.

In giving to Parable, I have been blessed by the (trans)formational power of story. I invite you to give to this wonderful ministry and feel the blessing that it is to join others in telling the story of how God is at work in the world.

-Chris West