Lost, a story about the redemptive power of community, forced the viewer to enter into the communal act of storytelling. Instead of consuming a product that told us what to think or enjoy, or even what questions we should be asking, Lost provided the space for the viewers to participate in the unfolding narrative. Our story intersected with the stories of the passengers of Oceanic flight 815; who we were, what we valued, what truths mattered to us simply became another thread in the developing story. The questions we had, the mysteries we debated were not thrust upon us by the writers of the show, but formed through the community brought together around the common center that was Lost. The finale gave us a glimpse of how important a community formed around a certain event can become, and invited us as viewers to continue to create meaning out of the never ending intersection of our own stories.

This isn’t what TV is supposed to be about; this isn’t what modern storytelling is even about. And it’s certainly not what the modern American individualist has been conditioned to be all about. But the way Lost captured our attention and the way it (especially the finale) connected us on a visceral level to the longing to be a part of something bigger than just ourselves demonstrated that perhaps “the way things are” is not how they are meant to be. “Live together or die alone” was a central theme to the series, utterly undercutting the messages most of us have been taught to believe our whole lives. Participating in community, understanding the world and even our whole lives as communal rather than individual acts, is unsettling and challenging to some, but spoke to the hearts of millions of viewers who were all wanting to be part of something more. Perhaps it is just that Lost was truly the first postmodern television series, but it took the pieces of what was expected of a TV drama, and handed them to the audience to hold in faith. That act of trust allowed us to then step outside the binds of convention and discover larger truths that held far more meaning than a momentary “a-ha” ever could have dreamt of.

In reflecting on these themes in the Lost finale, I was reminded of this paragraph from Colin Greene and Martin Robinson’s book Metavista: Bible, Church, and Mission in an Age of Imagination –

The world we inhabit is a labyrinth of unfinished narratives, stories and plots. As we intentionally or accidentally bump into them and enter these often strange, perplexing and disquieting worlds, so we become implicated in their intertwining, overlapping, sometimes imploding and at other times rapidly expanding plots and subplots. As George Steiner contends, we may have to make a wager on transcendence, that there is in fact a hidden code, teleology, or design to these narratives that it is our task to decipher. But to do so necessitates that we construe the text, the story or the plot in a particular fashion. To refuse to do so as individuals and communities is to refuse to indwell the text and to become hearers only of the word and not doers (Jas. 1:24-25). In other words, what has taken place is a failure of constructive imagination.

Lost has changed the way television works. Sure, the old patterns of merely entertaining an audience and feeding them the nightly moral of the story will continue. But with this one show, we were invited to not just reflect on the nature of community but to enter into the communal act of creating our own meaning out of our intersecting threads. Our entire life experience – the books we’ve read, the films we’ve viewed, the philosophies we’ve debated, the religious paths we’ve trod – contributed to the construction of this particular narrative. We had to take that wager on transcendence and were rewarded with a mirror into our own souls. Storytelling must change in the postmodern world as our apparent interconnectedness is unavoidable. Lost was the herald of that change.

But some of us were uncomfortable with the assertion that to apply one's intellect or to call others to use their intellect is arrogant. Perhaps, as an academic she intended to only refer to the extremes of art and literature, but in the church world where anti-intellectualism is the norm I find her position dangerous. The treasured mantra in churches these days is that the Bible is easy enough for a child to comprehend. While there may be a level in which that statement is true, the way it is used is generally to avoid or ridicule any learned approach to theology or biblical studies. Instead we get Bible translations written at 6th grade levels and "Bible studies" that are nothing more than copy a verse to fill-in-the-blank. People get to pretend they actually are "studying" something when all they are doing is regurgitating words without understanding their meanings in context. In fact this anti-intellectualism has become itself a source of pride, as anyone who tries to push deeper is mocked.

So I have an issue with saying that the need to be intellectually asute in order to understand something is arrogance. In my mind it is simply a means of getting at the complexities of the world. I don't believe, for example, that if a person enjoys the show Lost they do so because they enjoy being arrogant. Yes, to get the show one has to be well read (or at least really good at google searches), but that just makes the show more interesting. I've heard people make fun of it and those of us who watch it because it is so complex, and to be thoughtful is in their world something to mock. But I don't think the solution is so dumb everything down so that no one has to know much of anything as they engage the world around them. I want the news, or my TV shows, or my faith to make me think – to make me push beyond myself and go on that journey of discovery. I want the ah-ha moments when I see how elements of ancient Roman philosophy influence the writing of the epistles, or how ancient Egyptian culture helps Lost makes sense. Not so I can feel smug about my intellect, but because it shows me the beautiful interconnectedness of the world.  It is about acknowledging the bigger world we live in, and that all of our stories have roots in each other's stories. And it is about admitting that our response to the fact that God is big shouldn't be to mock those that want to explore that complexity. To me it is more humble to admit that there is always more to learn – more ways to deepen the intellect – than to settle believing that one has it figured out enough to stop bothering.

But maybe that's just arrogant of me…

Of course, most of these good stories fall into the SciFi/Fantasy realm. There is something about that genre that allows for the unknown to be explored and tested. And there is something about those of us who are drawn to those stories that allow for them to be lengthy tales. Part of the magic in something like Lost for example is the convoluted drawn-out path the story has taken. Having cut our teeth on epic tales like Lord of the Rings or three part stories like Star Wars, we want worlds we can enter and stay for awhile. That's why I think Deep Space Nine is my favorite Star Trek series – we got to see a continuing story of a community unfold. So it was sad to get caught up in the Firefly story and have it cut short before it even really began.

But it made me wonder why so many of us within the emerging church are caught-up in these sorts of stories. During the spring it seemed like every person on my twitter page was watching Lost as the mystery unfolded and deepened. I wonder if in part it is our affinity for these ever-developing stories that brought us to the emerging conversation in the first place. Too many faith communities act as if the story is over – as if the story of our faith was merely a static event of the past that holds no mystery or wonder for us now. That sort of story isn't engaging or alive and can only be entered into in the most perfunctory of ways. But those of us who had an inking that there is some sort of epic tale unfolding around us and who believe that God in all his mystery is still at work in the world wanted to join our friends at a campfire and tell better stories. And we find ourselves watching together the good stories like Lost, or Firefly, or Lord of the Rings, or The Matrix because in them we see glimmers of the stories we want to affirm we are a part of. Or as Sam says in Lord of the Rings, "Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why."

So what stories hold the mystery for you? What are the good stories you watch or read that go deeper than just entertainment?