Storytelling as Technology: Crafting Community in Times of Loss

Juana Jordan

"Storytelling has always been a technology."

~ Evan Sharp, co-founder of Pinterest, founder and CEO of West Co.

What made you want to be a journalist?

That was the question many used to ask me. (These days, it’s “What made you decide to become a pastor?” People ask me that, like it was solely my idea. I respond, “It was God’s, so direct the questions there! But I digress.)

My answer to becoming a journalist was simple: I wanted to tell positive, noteworthy stories about Black people. Stories that centered our perspective and our lives.

I grew up in the days of Connie Chung and Carole Simpson, then, two of the most recognizable female minorities in media. Connie Chung was the first Asian American to host a network nightly news broadcast and Carole Simpson was the first African American woman to anchor on a major network news channel. She was also the first Black woman to moderate a U.S. presidential debate.

I wanted to be like them.

They’re the reason I majored in broadcast journalism.

Back then, we did not know the phrase, “Representation matters,” but its spirit echoed throughout the rooms in my house where I watched television. And let me tell you, I watched TV a lot. Still do, although not as much news. Seeing these women report stories and bring a perspective we didn’t see often with white journalists, mattered. Seeing them assume positions and take up spaces that were, at the time, relegated to “white men only,” mattered.

I was tired of seeing stories about “black criminality” or images that presented them as the only witness to a scene they could find, who hadn’t shaved in months, had a few teeth in his/her mouth and hair that had not seen a comb or brush in days.

I was disappointed that any academic success of a young Black student – whether it be one winning a spelling bee or earning acceptance into an Ivy League institution -- was an anomaly.

I was frustrated by the absence of diverse stories, which I attributed to a lack of diversity among television producers.

Black people were invisible – our glories and triumphs, and most definitely our pain.

Our stories and our lives did not seem to matter.

Our Story Matters

The truth is that narratives shape the identity of communities. I mean this is what the late George Gerbner, a communications professor meant when he pioneered the “cultivation theory.” It’s the thought that media exposure “cultivates” or shapes our worldview. He was the guy who said, “You know, who tells the story of a culture really governs human behavior. It used to be the parent, the school, the church, the community. Now it's a handful of global conglomerates that have nothing to tell, but a great deal to sell.”

He puts in perspective what I heard Evan Sharp, the co-founder of Pinterest and now the founder and CEO of West Co., say, that “storytelling has always been a technology.”

The way we craft and tell stories can change and shape things. Storytelling has the power to preserve cultures, inspire movements, challenge perceptions, foster empathy, and ultimately, redefine our understanding of the world and our place within it.

On the bookcase in our campus ministry gathering house, is a decorative wall hanging that simply reads, “Your story Matters.” A former church member gave it to me at my first church appointment. When I got it, I kept repeating, “Yes! Yes! Our stories matter.”

It made me think of a dedication message to the Rev. Dr. Nancy Lane that I read in one of my novels. She said, “Telling our stories is a holy work.”

And for those of us whose voices have been historically silenced, dismissed, or disregarded, the telling becomes an act of courageous defiance and healing at the same time – not only for the teller, but those of us who bear witness.

The art piece on our bookshelf sits between N.T. Wright’s Simply Christian and our student bibles because we live and work at these intersections – of our own story and those of our belief systems and faith. Sacred texts and personal experience shape who we are. They ground us in a world that is beautifully complex, often chaotic, and constantly inviting us to discover meaning and connection.

Making Room for Grief

On July 25, 2024, chaos erupted in my world. My mother, who had never been seriously ill, (she had no hospitalization footprint), unexpectedly died, abruptly adding a profound and personal dimension to that chaos. I am an only child and in losing my mother, I lost my anchor. All that tethered me to this world. Let me just say none of my pastoral training kicked in. I had walked with so many others through their loss, but struggle – even now -- to walk through my own. I have had trouble “processing” her death.

One college homecoming weekend, several of my classmates and sorority sisters gathered me and told me their stories of losing their mothers. They offered wisdom about navigating grief: Own all your feelings. Cry when you want. And talk about your mother as much as you want. I did all those things. It was cathartic.

Shared experiences connect us.

As I left to return home, it hit me: I wouldn’t have that kind of support. I needed processing partners, a support group, and a space that welcomed my grief. Seldom do Black people, especially Black women, have the room or feel they possess the agency to grieve as they ought. This has fueled the creation of a podcast.

Grief, change and transition demand sacred space – a curated harbor for the ancient technology of storytelling, because in the face of such sudden loss, like the unexpected death of my mom, the intersections of story, faith and community become not just points of understanding, but vital anchors.

At my core, I am a storyteller. A story collector. A harbor. And I believe technology—whether in the form of podcasts, livestreams, or digital sanctuaries—can extend those harbors. These are places where people do not have to worry about somebody policing their thoughts, words, or language. Places where grief and pain can be named, and in the naming, we find each other.

Finding Our Way Home

There is a story the late theologian Howard Thurman tells. He is picking berries in Florida when lightning starts to flash. For a moment he loses his bearings and cannot figure out where he is. Then, he remembers the words of his grandmother: “Do not panic. Stand still.”

So, he does. The lightning flashes in front, behind, and on both sides of him. Each flash, he recalls, lit the way just enough to remind him where he was.

Sometimes the storm is what helps us find our way home.

That is my hope: that the stories about our storms—stories of grief, resilience, and community—will help us all find our way home. Maybe even a new way.