Rev. Hannah Lovaglio

The narratives we repeat quietly shape what we believe God can still do among us.

We live by stories.

The story we tell ourselves becomes our narrative identity, a lens through which we know ourselves, and in turn present ourselves to the world. It shapes how we understand our past, how we interpret the present, and what we believe is possible for the future. This is why those earliest messages of love, belonging, and care matter so much. Taken in over time, these internalized identities become the way we engage the world.

Simply said: people have plotlines. Throughlines they hold which, in time, hold the chapters together.

And so do churches. Churches have plotlines.

You often hear them in passing:

“We’ve always done it this way.”
“The room used to be full every Sunday.”
“We tried that once.”

Stories like these do more than preserve our past; they shape what we believe is possible in the present. They reflect our inner life, which inevitably becomes our outward expression.

Sometimes these stories become cautionary tales. We remember a difficult capital project, a painful conflict, or a ministry that failed to gain momentum. Before long, those stories become more than memories—they become assumptions. They quietly teach us that change is risky, that trying something new probably isn’t worth it, or that our best days are behind us.

Other stories can be just as limiting. We tell ourselves that we’re too small, too old, too busy, or too late.

The story becomes the future. 

Yet Scripture is remarkably full of people whose stories are interrupted by God.

Abram leaves home. Naomi returns home. Jonah is swallowed. Ezekiel dreams, Joseph dreams, John dreams. A new star appears in the night sky. Jesus weeps, and Lazarus lives again. The disciples leave a locked room.

The resurrection itself is a divine interruption to the same old story of death. God refusing to let Friday have the final word, pushing believers beyond their fear to see the truth of Sunday. My joy comes in the morning.

Again and again, God invites people to imagine a future they could not yet see.

That doesn’t mean forgetting the past. In fact, Scripture constantly calls us to remember. But remembering in the Bible is never nostalgia. It is remembering God’s faithfulness so that God’s people can move forward with courage.

Perhaps one of the quiet tasks of leadership is learning to listen for the stories our congregations tell—and then gently asking whether those stories are still telling the truth. Do they need some gentle reinterpretation?

Some stories deserve to be honored. Others deserve to be thanked. And a few deserve to be gently laid to rest.

Not every inherited narrative needs to be discarded. Many deserve to be treasured. Stories of extraordinary generosity, courageous leadership, faithful volunteers, and communities that weathered hardship become the pages from which new chapters turn.

But some stories have simply outlived their usefulness.

When a congregation begins to imagine a new chapter—whether that means a new ministry, a renewed sense of purpose, or even a capital project—the first obstacle is rarely money or logistics.

It is imagination.

Can we believe that God is not finished with us?
Can we tell stories that make room for hope?
Can we day dream with the Spirit a more excellent way?

The future of a congregation is shaped not only by the decisions it makes, but by the stories it chooses to believe. As stewards, leaders, and members of the body of Christ, we have the privilege of helping one another tell those stories well—not because change is easy, but because the God who has been faithful in every chapter is still writing the next one.

In Scripture, God rarely inserts an altogether new story. Rather, God reinterprets the story they thought they were living. Jacob’s exile becomes promise. Naomi’s bitterness becomes redemption. The cross becomes resurrection. The disciples’ failures become apostleship. It’s the same story, but told in light of God’s faithfulness.

Before anything changes on the outside, something changes within. We begin telling our story differently: rooted neither in fear nor scarcity, but in resurrection. A story where God’s faithfulness belongs not only to the past, but also to the future.

Perhaps faithful leadership is less about writing a new story than trusting that God is not finished writing this one.