A number of years ago, the coincidence of taking classes in Family
Systems Theory and Old Testament Theology at the same time caused me to posit
that every family has an “Exodus story” as a part of its history and
self-understanding. Well, “history” almost certainly; how important it is to
forming a family’s (and individual’s) “self-understanding” is an idea that I
want to pursue with this essay.
Although I don’t claim to speak for my Jewish cousins, it is
accurate – even an understatement – to say that the biblical people of Israel, and the Jews of today, find
an important sense of who they are in the Old Testament account of the Exodus.
And, more than just a sentimental look-backward to days of old, this central
and centering story informs not only their identity but their behavior and
ethics as well. Beyond simply remembering the time of slavery in Egypt and
being grateful for liberation, the story reminds them, among other things, that
they “are not to wrong or oppress an alien, because you were aliens in the land of Egypt.” So essential
is the Exodus – and the ensuing epic of the formation of Jewish community – to
the life and memory of this people that they are charged, through Moses, to
celebrate and relive these events for “generations to come,” and to “talk about
this when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down
and when you get up,” and to “impress it upon your children.” Tell the story.
The Jews offer a renowned example, but every “people” has
some kind of formative story of sojourn, tumult, liberation, discovery,
renewal, or all of these. And so do all families. It is the proposal of this
theory that hearing these stories is a healthy, even vital, part of a child’s
development, and it is the sometimes enjoyable, sometimes painful
responsibility of parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, to tell them.
Although these ideas occurred to me as I was learning about
Family Systems and studying the Old Testament, the approach I am presenting
here is certainly not original with me. Bruce Feiler, in a recent New York
Times essay, “The
Stories That Bind Us” (adapted from his new book, “The Secrets of Happy
Families”), convincingly outlines the importance of having a “strong family
narrative.”
Feiler cites the clear research findings of Emory University
psychologists Marshall and Sarah Duke and others which demonstrate that
“children who know a lot about their families tend to do better when they face
challenges.” This isn’t a matter of knowing arcana like which county in Ireland
one’s great-great-grandmother came from (although that knowledge may have it’s
own interesting value, as I’ll discuss below), but the ability to answer such
questions as: Do you know where your grandparents grew up? Do you know where
your mom and dad went to high school? Do you know an illness or something
really terrible that happened in your family? Do you know the story of your
birth? The “Do You Know?” scale, reports Feiler, “turned out to be the best
single predictor of children’s emotional health and happiness,” whether the
trauma was as minor as a skinned knee or as major as reacting to the attacks of
9-11.
When asked why this might be, Dr. Duke asserted that, “The
answers have to do with a child’s sense of being part of a larger family.” They
know they belong to something bigger than themselves.
This sense of family does not mean that the “strong family
narrative” must be all good news. Among different kinds of possible accounts,
1) “We had nothing and now we’re on top of the world;” 2) “We had it all and we
lost everything…;” psychologists report that the “oscillating family narrative”
is the most healthful: 3) “Dear, let me tell you, we’ve had ups and downs in
this family, but no matter what, we stuck together….”
I was struck by this summary statement in Feiler’s article:
“When faced with a challenge, happy families, like happy people, just add a new
chapter to their life story that shows them overcoming the hardship. This skill
is particularly important for children, whose identity tends to get locked in
during adolescence.”
Telling the whole story – the ups and the downs – also helps
to counter one of the most potentially destructive elements in a child’s
development: the family secret. Although it may not be crystal clear at what
age a child ought to be told about mom’s earlier divorce or grandpa’s
alcoholism, child psychologists are pretty much united in the understanding
that children need to be informed, in an age-appropriate manner, of even these
difficult issues. (As a practical matter, the truth “will out” anyway.)
In addition to the more immediate family knowledge in Dr.
Duke’s “Do You Know?” scale, I believe a case can also be made for the value of
growing up with an understanding of the geographic or geo-political travels of
one’s earlier ancestors – one’s own “Exodus story.”
Of course an Exodus story may have to do with physical
travel from one place to another. It may also have to do with wandering in the
wilderness of an illness or an economic crisis or a family estrangement. The foundational
exodus/wandering in a family’s history may have happened two centuries ago or
ten years ago. Every family on earth (I am bold to say) has a geographical
exodus some time (even if a long time) in its past. Almost as many families
have the more figurative sort of wilderness wandering. It’s good to know – and
to tell – both kinds of stories. They are (at least as much as what we majored
in in college or what our occupation is) stories of who we are.
I grew up fascinated with my parents’ stories of “the olden
days.” But I find that as an adult the sojourns of my family and my extended
family continue to fascinate, enlighten, and form me. I will no doubt write of
some of these at another time. For now, I will simply name four stories in our
family journey that I am glad to know (and that still get to me), even though
they are not all borne out of glad tidings: 1) My father’s experience – as a
very young man – of a near-fatal burst brain aneurism and his subsequent slow
but grateful recovery. 2)The occasion of my Great-Uncle Gus Jorgensen, sheriff
of Martin County, Minnesota, being gunned down by a desperado in 1931 (that’s
how I liked to tell it as a kid), fifteen years before I was born. 3) My visit with
Caryl to her great-grandfather’s rocky farm in the mountains above Norway’s
Sognefjord – a sublimely beautiful locale that, in 1878, offered no choice but
exodus. 4) The death of Caryl’s Aunt Ellnora, who, in 1908, died at age
eighteen (a year before Caryl’s dad was born) while enrolled as a student at St.
Olaf College – and the horse-and-wagon journey her parents made to bring her
body home.
I will tell these and more stories to my grandkids. I will
be sure to embellish the story of Sheriff Gus and the Desperado.
What is your family’s Exodus story?
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All quotes, and some of the ideas in this essay, are from "The Stories That Bind Us," by Bruce Feiler, New York Times, March 15, 2013.
The Exodus account can be read in the book of Exodus, chapter 12.
