Those familiar with Charlotte Mason, a 19th-20th century British educator, will likely be familiar with the term narration as it was an integral part of the way she viewed education. For those unfamiliar, narration is the process by which one tells back what they have read or heard, either orally or in writing. In opposition to the bare recitation of fact, narration involves what Mason called “the act of knowing,” as a child hears a story and must then rightly order the presented ideas and accurately convey them in a way appropriate to their age and understanding. In practice, this will look like my five-year-old giving me a simple paraphrase of the story we’ve just read. An older child may be required to write a longer narration in more complexity and detail. At every age, however, the goal in this process is not to parrot back every detail nor to give one’s opinion or analytical critique of the material presented, but to attend to what has been given and to, with clarity, display comprehension of said material.
By now, you may begin to understand why I made the somewhat lofty claim that this skill of narration could help save the church. One of the problems I see rampant in society at large, and the church in particular, is the inability to hear and re-present information accurately. How often have we seen debates, petty disputes, or outright arguments arise from fundamental miscommunications? Have you ever spoken to someone and felt the well of frustration when he or she seems to be intentionally trying to miss your point? As easy as it would be to attribute ill motivations in such cases, the culprit is more likely a fault in one’s ability to narrate. Take a sermon, for instance. Our immediate response upon leaving church is to ask, “what did you think about the teaching this morning?” As benign as this question may seem, I would argue that it jumps a crucial step in the process of understanding. Before we can begin to engage the ideas fully, we would first do well to make sure we’ve properly understood the ideas presented. A better response might be, “I was listening to the sermon today and the Pastor was saying…is that an accurate portrayal?” You might be surprised by how differently everyone heard and digested the information. Better still would be to clarify with the person presenting the information, “I heard you say…is that what you’re saying?”
Narration requires us to listen carefully and build a habit of attention. In forcing us to retell the story given, it requires us to rightly order ideas and express them in a way that we can understand while maintaining accuracy. This process, in comparison to the rote memorization of facts, preserves the knowledge in our minds and imaginations in a way that only narrative can. Think of how often you’ve reached the limits of your understanding when trying to distill a complex theological idea for a child. The process of narration can be tremendously humbling–and couldn’t we all benefit from a little more humility?
In my previous post, I urged homeschoolers to consider the underlying philosophy behind their children’s education. How much better would we fare in the church if we had learned from a young age this valuable skill? How much less potential for division? Instead of jumping first to analytical dissection of another’s ideas, we might spend more time trying to hear and understand the information being shared, spending time in thoughtful contemplation, and then considering the merits of what we’ve read/heard.
In the course of writing this blog, I have mostly been practicing the skill of narration, hearing closely the wisdom of my elders and attempting to transmit their teaching to our audience. This process has cemented these ideas in a way that no other method could. Through the course of this narration, I have made these ideas mine–not because I’ve memorized and regurgitated information but because I’ve had to understand well enough to tell them in my own words. Let me encourage you to utilize this skill the next time you hear a sermon, converse with a friend, or read a book. Temporarily shelve your desire to critique what is being presented and first practice the art of narration.
Bone of Bones 