-Savio
Saldanha SJ
DOI - 10.5281/zenodo.18811840
28-02-2026
I have often been told that a good
life makes a good story. When we read biographies of saints, reformers, or
political leaders, their lives appear to unfold with coherence. The chapters
move forward. Turning points are clear. Decisions seem almost inevitable in
hindsight. As a Jesuit, I am frequently asked to “share my vocation story.”
When did I feel called? What were the decisive moments? How did everything lead
here? The questions are natural. We look for meaning. We gather events into
patterns. We want coherence.
Yet I have come to believe something
more precise: continuity in life is real and necessary but forcing our lives
into neat narrative form can distort what God is actually doing. The
Christian life unfolds in covenantal continuity, not in literary tidiness.
Ignatian spirituality teaches us to discern patiently rather than narrate
prematurely.
Philosophy has noticed this
instinct. Some thinkers argue that to be human is to be narrative. Others
disagree. I find myself living in the tension between these positions — not
only as a student of philosophy, but as a man formed by prayer, discernment,
and vows.
The Episodic
Challenge
In Against Narrativity, Galen
Strawson argues that not everyone experiences life as a continuous story. He
distinguishes between:
- Diachronic persons, who feel deeply
connected to their past and future selves (me!).
- Episodic persons, who live primarily
in the present and do not strongly identify with their distant past.
Strawson counts
himself among the episodic. He remembers his earlier life, but does not feel
that the child or young man he once was is meaningfully the same “I” who now
speaks. His warning is sharp and necessary: forcing life into a coherent
narrative can distort it. We edit memory, smooth over contradictions,
reinterpret motives. By doing so we become protagonists in a drama we have
partly edited.
Anyone who has retold a vocation
story knows this temptation. We clean it up. We make the call clearer than it
felt. We highlight the moments that fit the arc. Strawson is right about this
danger, life is not a novel. But here we must be careful. Strawson does not
deny memory, responsibility, or moral seriousness. He denies that narrative
form is necessary for personhood. He questions whether seeing oneself as a
story is essential to being a self. That distinction matters.
The Narrative
Defense
Other philosophers push back. Daniel
Dennett suggests that the self functions as a “center of narrative gravity.” We
are constantly interpreting ourselves. Without some narrative thread, personal
identity becomes unstable. Marya Schechtman argues that to be a person is to
understand oneself as the same subject across time — capable of owning past
actions and projecting commitments into the future.
Paul Ricoeur offers perhaps the most
balanced account. He distinguishes between simple sameness (traits that
persist) and selfhood — the capacity to remain faithful across change.
Narrative, for him, is not dramatic storytelling but the structure that allows
us to say: “I did this.” “I was wrong.” “I remain responsible.” “I will keep my
word.” Without continuity, responsibility thins out. Without memory, fidelity
weakens.
But here is the crucial distinction:
continuity is not identical with narrativity. One may experience deep
continuity without constantly crafting one’s life into a plot. Strawson is
right to resist literary self-construction. Ricoeur is right that fidelity
across time requires enduring selfhood. The question, then, is not whether life
must be a story. The question is whether we are genuinely the same moral
subject across time.
In my own life as a Jesuit, I
experience myself as deeply diachronic. When I reflect in prayer — especially
during the daily examen — I notice patterns. I see how certain weaknesses have
softened over time. I see how repeated failures have slowly shaped humility. I
notice how earlier anxieties no longer control me in the same way. When a
similar challenge returns, my response is often more calibrated. Reflection
bears fruit. Experience matters. The one who struggled years ago is not erased.
He has matured. My past is not someone else’s story. It is part of who I am.
Thus, I differ from Strawson. A
purely episodic understanding of self would make discernment fragile. Vows
would lose depth. Conversion would lack continuity. Covenant would become
symbolic rather than binding. Christian life assumes that the one who sinned is
the one who repents. The one who promises is the one who must remain faithful. Yet
this continuity does not require that I constantly narrate my life as a
polished drama.
Covenant and
Anamnesis: The Christian Shape of Time
The deeper theological ground lies
in covenant. Scripture is covenantal before it is autobiographical. God binds
Himself to a people across generations. Israel is commanded to remember — not
to produce literary coherence, but to remain faithful. In the Eucharist we
celebrate anamnesis: “Do this in memory of me.” This remembering is not
nostalgia or storytelling. It is living participation in a saving event that
continues to shape us.
Christian time is not
episodic. But neither is it self-authored narrative. Its continuity is secured
first by God’s fidelity. God remembers His covenant even when we forget.
Still, human continuity matters.
Covenant presupposes a subject capable of fidelity. Baptism marks a beginning
that stretches forward. Repentance connects past failure with present grace.
Promise and responsibility require that the “I” who spoke yesterday remains the
“I” who answers today. Continuity is not grounded in our psychological
storytelling. It is grounded in divine faithfulness — but it is lived through
human perseverance.
The Danger of
Rushing the Narrative
Still, there is another danger. If
Strawson is wrong to deny continuity, some Christians are wrong to rush coherence.
It is tempting to look back and impose a clear storyline: “God was leading me
all along.” Mostly this is true sometimes it can only be partly true. What
appears obvious now may not have been clear then. Some episodes remain
ambiguous. Some experiences resist interpretation for years. Some sufferings do
not reveal their fruit quickly.
Ignatian spirituality teaches
patience here. Discernment does not force a plot but pays attention, listens
and waits. It allows the Spirit to reveal patterns gradually. It does not
demand that every episode immediately fit into a grand design. Ignatius does
not ask us to narrate our lives impressively. He asks us to notice where and
how God is drawing us closer to himself. There is continuity — but it unfolds
slowly. In Ignatian discernment, we review our day not to craft a narrative,
but to notice movements of consolation and desolation. Over time, patterns
emerge. But they emerge organically. We do not arrange the episodes. We allow
them to arrange themselves in God’s time. Some experiences only make sense
years later. Some only reveal their meaning after we have matured enough to
receive it. Some remain mysterious. What matters is not narrative elegance.
What matters is fidelity.
The Spirit forms us across time.
Growth is real. Continuity is real. Responsibility is real. But coherence is
often retrospective—and sometimes partial. We must resist two extremes of, either
treating life as disconnected episodes with no enduring self or forcing life
into a polished spiritual autobiography.
Beyond Plot,
Within Covenant
I do believe continuity matters. My
experiences shape me. Reflection refines me. Memory deepens responsibility.
Vocation stretches forward. In this sense, I am diachronic. But I have also
learnt not to rush to interpret everything as a perfectly coherent story. What
seems evident today may later be corrected. What feels central now may fade.
What appears accidental may later prove formative. The Christian life is not a
screenplay but a covenant lived in time.
We live beyond the stories we tell
about ourselves. Yet we remain accountable for who we have been, who we are and
who we are becoming. The Spirit is patient. Growth is gradual. Episodes gather
meaning when we are ready for them. And perhaps that is the deepest lesson that
we do not need to force our lives into a narrative but rather we need to remain
faithful within them. The rest unfolds in God’s time.
References
- Galen Strawson, Against
Narrativity (2004).
- Daniel Dennett, “The Self as
a Center of Narrative Gravity” (1988).
- Marya Schechtman, The
Constitution of Selves (1996).
- Paul Ricoeur, Time and
Narrative (1983–85).
- Paul Ricoeur, Oneself as
Another (1990).
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