Boast Of That!
Sermon
Sermons on the Second Readings
Series II, Cycle C
He had been looking forward to Sunday afternoon all week. As a pastor, Sunday afternoons were usually as busy as any time, with youth groups and then preparing for Sunday evening services. But this week, there was no youth group meeting. And this week, there were no Sunday evening services. He had been very careful to protect the calendar so that nothing got scheduled in place of these things, and he would have a full Sunday afternoon, and evening, all to himself -- or at least with the family. Who knows? Maybe he would read a book. Or maybe go for a walk. Or maybe he would just sit in front of the television for the entire time and do absolutely nothing. Whatever it would bring, he had been looking forward to it all week, and was going to enjoy it thoroughly.
Then the telephone rang.
The voice on the other end was one he recognized, but he could not exactly place the name and face. It was one of the nurses at the hospital, and her message was brief.
"Pastor, we need you at the hospital. Right away."
No book. No walk. No television. It is amazing how many thoughts can go through your head so quickly at a time like this. But, the thought that came to his tongue and he heard himself speak into the phone was, "Sure, but can you tell me what's going on?"
The voice answered, "Cindy Jones has had an accident. Her family, uh, we need you to come out here right away."
He had received these types of calls before, at all hours of the day and night. The ones he hated most were those that came about 2:30 in the morning. People rarely call you at 2:30 in the morning with good news. And he had become familiar with the tone of voice of the nurses who usually made the calls; the professionalism that came through when the pressure was on. But this time the voice sounded somehow different. It was still professional, but there was something else. What was it? He had never known nurses to panic, but if he had to name it, that was the sound that came over the phone louder than the words; panic.
He made the ten-minute drive to the hospital in six.
As he pulled into the parking area, he saw the nurse waiting at the emergency room door. Yep, he would swear that was panic in the eyes. Red, swollen eyes. This was strange. At the door, she grabbed him by the arm and began talking.
Cindy Jones was a cute, little six-year-old from the pastor's church. Just this morning she had come up for the children's sermon and played along with the story of Noah and the Ark. Cindy was from a very happy family of one three-year-old brother, along with their mother and father. The family was like those in the storybooks, only for real. Both mom and dad worked very hard, but nothing was more important to them than their family. They spent time together, lots of time. In fact, that's what the nurse was telling the pastor at the door.
Cindy's family had taken advantage of the quiet Sunday afternoon as well, driving out the country roads and walking around some of the old cemeteries. Although that may sound a bit strange, cemeteries can be magical places, filled with history and nature. Mom, Dad, Cindy, and little brother walked among the gravesites, rubbing pencils on paper to capture interesting stone images, and talking about the names and dates they saw, and sometimes recognized. They were walking around the third cemetery they visited, one of their family favorites. The sun was shining, and the breeze was blowing the autumn leaves around. It was good.
Someone said they were hungry, so they all joined hands and started walking back to the truck. The next stop would be the Dairy Queen. As they neared the truck, Cindy turned for one last look at the pretty stones as Dad reached for his keys. The next thing he heard was a "thump." He turned to call Cindy to the truck, but she was gone. While his brain attempted to make sense of her disappearance, his eyes landed on one of the large tombstones they had just passed. Only the stone was flat, and not standing up as before, and under the flattened stone he saw Cindy.
Had the autumn breeze been just enough to push the ancient marker over at just the wrong time, or had the six-year-old tried to get one more rubbing before leaving? There just wasn't time. She had just let go of his hand. Now he could only see her face and her feet, everything else covered by the massive slab. Later they would learn that the slab weighed some 300 pounds, but Dad tossed it aside with one hand as he ran to his daughter. There was no time. He scooped her up and yelled for Mom to start the truck, and they began the seven-mile journey to town, and to a hope of help.
Whoever heard of such a thing? This made no sense. Down gravel roads, through stop signs; there just was no time. Cindy was in and out of consciousness. Not a six-year-old! At one point she looked up to her dad and said, "Daddy, I'm dying." This was just too much. Whoever heard of such a thing?
Certainly, no one at the hospital. As Mom and Dad explained what had happened, the medical team sprang into action, doing everything they could to determine how seriously Cindy was injured. At the same time, their minds and hearts were saying, "Whoever heard of such a thing? This made no sense. Not a six-year-old." They were professionals, everyone of them, and darn good ones. But this is just too much. Whoever heard of such a thing?
In the confusion, someone had suggested calling the pastor, so now here he was, standing at the emergency room door. The nurse then said, "The family is in the waiting room. We're glad you're here."
Family members were crying. Nurses were crying. Doctors were crying. Everyone working very hard to make a miracle, but everyone was overwhelmed. The pastor picked up the telephone and called a lay pastor of the church saying, "I need your help at the hospital. Right away." Within twenty minutes, the church had responded with a pastor, three lay ministers, and three or four good souls. During the next four hours every one of them rode an emotional roller coaster as each symptom was identified and treated.
At 9:15 on Sunday evening, the doctor came into the waiting room to say that the vital signs looked good, and they had called the helicopter to transfer Cindy to the hospital in the city an hour away. At 9:30 on that Sunday evening, the doctor returned to the waiting room to say that the helicopter had been sent back, and that they had done all that they could.
Whoever heard of such a thing? This made no sense. Not a six-year-old. This was just too much. Whoever heard of such a thing?
I share the true story of Cindy with you for one reason. When you read those words of Paul that say we should boast of our suffering, don't let them confuse you. Cindy's family found little to boast about that long Sunday evening. And I don't want to hear about how lucky we are when we suffer, since it makes us so much stronger and all. That long Sunday evening makes that argument sound pretty lame.
What is the good news, even in the story of Cindy? I think it's the fact that in the midst of the unimaginable tragedy of a family, God still sent a pastor, three lay pastors, and three or four good souls to care. You are never out of God's reach.
But also be aware. Sometime, when life throws the unimaginable into someone's life, it may be you that God throws in to get them through. It was just a pastor, three lay ministers, and three or four good souls. If you must boast of something, boast of that.
____________
Note to the reader: The story of Cindy Jones is a true story. The names were changed, but the experiences described are just as they happened.
Then the telephone rang.
The voice on the other end was one he recognized, but he could not exactly place the name and face. It was one of the nurses at the hospital, and her message was brief.
"Pastor, we need you at the hospital. Right away."
No book. No walk. No television. It is amazing how many thoughts can go through your head so quickly at a time like this. But, the thought that came to his tongue and he heard himself speak into the phone was, "Sure, but can you tell me what's going on?"
The voice answered, "Cindy Jones has had an accident. Her family, uh, we need you to come out here right away."
He had received these types of calls before, at all hours of the day and night. The ones he hated most were those that came about 2:30 in the morning. People rarely call you at 2:30 in the morning with good news. And he had become familiar with the tone of voice of the nurses who usually made the calls; the professionalism that came through when the pressure was on. But this time the voice sounded somehow different. It was still professional, but there was something else. What was it? He had never known nurses to panic, but if he had to name it, that was the sound that came over the phone louder than the words; panic.
He made the ten-minute drive to the hospital in six.
As he pulled into the parking area, he saw the nurse waiting at the emergency room door. Yep, he would swear that was panic in the eyes. Red, swollen eyes. This was strange. At the door, she grabbed him by the arm and began talking.
Cindy Jones was a cute, little six-year-old from the pastor's church. Just this morning she had come up for the children's sermon and played along with the story of Noah and the Ark. Cindy was from a very happy family of one three-year-old brother, along with their mother and father. The family was like those in the storybooks, only for real. Both mom and dad worked very hard, but nothing was more important to them than their family. They spent time together, lots of time. In fact, that's what the nurse was telling the pastor at the door.
Cindy's family had taken advantage of the quiet Sunday afternoon as well, driving out the country roads and walking around some of the old cemeteries. Although that may sound a bit strange, cemeteries can be magical places, filled with history and nature. Mom, Dad, Cindy, and little brother walked among the gravesites, rubbing pencils on paper to capture interesting stone images, and talking about the names and dates they saw, and sometimes recognized. They were walking around the third cemetery they visited, one of their family favorites. The sun was shining, and the breeze was blowing the autumn leaves around. It was good.
Someone said they were hungry, so they all joined hands and started walking back to the truck. The next stop would be the Dairy Queen. As they neared the truck, Cindy turned for one last look at the pretty stones as Dad reached for his keys. The next thing he heard was a "thump." He turned to call Cindy to the truck, but she was gone. While his brain attempted to make sense of her disappearance, his eyes landed on one of the large tombstones they had just passed. Only the stone was flat, and not standing up as before, and under the flattened stone he saw Cindy.
Had the autumn breeze been just enough to push the ancient marker over at just the wrong time, or had the six-year-old tried to get one more rubbing before leaving? There just wasn't time. She had just let go of his hand. Now he could only see her face and her feet, everything else covered by the massive slab. Later they would learn that the slab weighed some 300 pounds, but Dad tossed it aside with one hand as he ran to his daughter. There was no time. He scooped her up and yelled for Mom to start the truck, and they began the seven-mile journey to town, and to a hope of help.
Whoever heard of such a thing? This made no sense. Down gravel roads, through stop signs; there just was no time. Cindy was in and out of consciousness. Not a six-year-old! At one point she looked up to her dad and said, "Daddy, I'm dying." This was just too much. Whoever heard of such a thing?
Certainly, no one at the hospital. As Mom and Dad explained what had happened, the medical team sprang into action, doing everything they could to determine how seriously Cindy was injured. At the same time, their minds and hearts were saying, "Whoever heard of such a thing? This made no sense. Not a six-year-old." They were professionals, everyone of them, and darn good ones. But this is just too much. Whoever heard of such a thing?
In the confusion, someone had suggested calling the pastor, so now here he was, standing at the emergency room door. The nurse then said, "The family is in the waiting room. We're glad you're here."
Family members were crying. Nurses were crying. Doctors were crying. Everyone working very hard to make a miracle, but everyone was overwhelmed. The pastor picked up the telephone and called a lay pastor of the church saying, "I need your help at the hospital. Right away." Within twenty minutes, the church had responded with a pastor, three lay ministers, and three or four good souls. During the next four hours every one of them rode an emotional roller coaster as each symptom was identified and treated.
At 9:15 on Sunday evening, the doctor came into the waiting room to say that the vital signs looked good, and they had called the helicopter to transfer Cindy to the hospital in the city an hour away. At 9:30 on that Sunday evening, the doctor returned to the waiting room to say that the helicopter had been sent back, and that they had done all that they could.
Whoever heard of such a thing? This made no sense. Not a six-year-old. This was just too much. Whoever heard of such a thing?
I share the true story of Cindy with you for one reason. When you read those words of Paul that say we should boast of our suffering, don't let them confuse you. Cindy's family found little to boast about that long Sunday evening. And I don't want to hear about how lucky we are when we suffer, since it makes us so much stronger and all. That long Sunday evening makes that argument sound pretty lame.
What is the good news, even in the story of Cindy? I think it's the fact that in the midst of the unimaginable tragedy of a family, God still sent a pastor, three lay pastors, and three or four good souls to care. You are never out of God's reach.
But also be aware. Sometime, when life throws the unimaginable into someone's life, it may be you that God throws in to get them through. It was just a pastor, three lay ministers, and three or four good souls. If you must boast of something, boast of that.
____________
Note to the reader: The story of Cindy Jones is a true story. The names were changed, but the experiences described are just as they happened.
