Are You Sure?
Stories
What's Up This Week
This week's reading from Acts tells the remarkable story of Paul and Silas' encounter with a fortune-telling slave girl. When they exorcise a demonic spirit from the girl, they are beaten and jailed for their trouble -- only to be freed following a frightening earthquake. In his wry commentary on this startling passage, David McKirachan suggests that despite the adage that "no good deed will go unpunished" our faith gives us the confidence to do what is right... and more often than not, in God's good time, we discover that there is karmic justice in the universe. McKirachan also muses on his upcoming marriage and shares some thoughts about what the marvelous hymn "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" tells us about the nature of God's glory. Stan Purdum describes a conversation between two mothers about their kids' clothes -- making the point that when we become too wrapped up in what one wears, we miss more important things. For those who are celebrating Ascension Sunday this week, this edition of StoryShare also includes a story from Constance Berg about a beloved pastor and a powerful shared good-bye with his flock. (For more material on Ascension pericopes, see the stories by David Bales and John Smylie in last week's Easter 6 installment of StoryShare.)
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Are You Sure?
C. David McKirachan
Acts 16:16-34
Have you ever heard the saying "no good deed will go unpunished"? We pastors, whose day job has to do with helping folks, know it's true. I would add a corollary: "the better the deed, the worse the punishment." I worked on this one for years, until this story from Acts about the liberation of the slave brought a chunk of truth into focus for me.
Normality is a tangled web of limitation, coping mechanisms, and mistakes. Our motivations and desires are mixed, our discipline and skills are questionable, and our stamina is sorely lacking. So we live dim lives, surviving in a twilight that makes it so hard to discern the difference between shades of gray that we rarely feel confident in our stands and choices. Doubt niggles like a case of athlete's foot. It's not enough to incapacitate us, but it intrudes with discomfort. If we transcend our neurotic internal argument and break through into some place of clarity and self-confidence, we are courting arrogance and begin to waltz with the master of lies.
The other day a woman of intensity and intellect, whose humility and honesty demands that she question as she quests, told me that she was afraid of me. When I asked her why, her response was simply: "You're confident of the truth." I was complimented and indicted by her observation. I began to inform her of my constant sense of doubt -- and I realized that in the midst of all of my questioning and picking at the scabs of easy answers, I was sure of one truth. And that foundation intimidated her. I realized that my sense of a ground of being was a territory that she envied and could not make sense of. I did not fit into the file of people she could dismiss as lightweights or fanatics. Neither did I seek to justify myself with intellectual proof-texting. So she was stuck in a tension that challenged the boundaries of her comfort zones.
But that whole dialogue rested on her willingness to stick to it and keep digging, which is rare. Most of the time when we claim territory for the kingdom, we don't quite believe it ourselves and we assume that the world can see through our struggle and doubt. It is so hard to know, to really know we are acting with integrity.
But once in a while there is something that is clearly good. We can't camp out there, it's just a step along the way -- but in that moment glory illumines the mundane and there is no question. It is in those moments that we are most likely to get punished.
Why? I have two theories. One is human nature. People are comfortable in their ruts -- and the authority of faith shines so brightly that it illumines the sad and sparse living conditions in most people's ruts. Good deeds demonstrate that none of us have to live in these muddy trenches. High ground is there for the choosing. We can have more. We can have abundance and glory and beauty. We can live as partners with the saints in the embrace of gratitude and hope. But convenient, easy, profitable, comfortable all whisper in our ears and invite us to judge the clarity as an anomaly, to stick to our ruts. Any evidence to the contrary is dangerous and must be dealt with as a threat.
My other theory is that big-E evil is alive and well out there. Don't ask me to build any cogent metaphysics around that one. It may be a limitation in my forebrain. It may be some undigested morsel of childhood terror over that which lives under the bed. I have nothing but my own gut feeling about this.
When I was 14, there was this kid who brought his lunch to school every day in a square cookie tin. I thought he was kind of cool because he knew that one of the stars in Orion's belt was a nebula. A bunch of "cool kids" had tormented him at lunch and crushed his cookie tin with great glee. I told them they were cripples. They tore up my notebook and told me to join the astronomy club. I told them proudly that I was the vice president. But when they left, I didn't feel proud -- I felt alone. I couldn't figure out these powerful and confident people who didn't seem to worry about hurting others and using their victims to prove their power.
I brought it all home and dumped it in front of my father. I had done the right and good thing -- hadn't I? I remember he seemed tired. He shook his head and told me simply, "David, when the demons are screaming, you must be doing something right. I'm sorry it hurts." He probably said more, but that stuck.
Two weeks later a rock crashed through our living room window at suppertime. There was a note rubber-banded to it accusing us of being "n____er lovers." The Buick's tires were slashed in the driveway. I then realized why he was tired. He realized that the evil he was confronting in our suburban New Jersey town and its church was hurting his family. I wish I could have said to him, "I'm sorry it hurts." He could have used it.
But I'll tell you this: he never wavered. It wasn't a happy time. It was hard on all of us. The 18-wheeler of normality had no patience for an idealist who preached love and justice. But he was faithful to his ground of being -- and he was punished for it. Go figure.
But with a fair amount of glee, I'll share with you a bit of irony that warms this story of heroism. I went to my 25th reunion. The guy with the cookie tin was there. He'd gone to MIT and was working on experiments to understand dark matter. His wife was gorgeous, and he had a full head of hair. The "cool kids" continued to be boring, and many had become bald. Maybe there is justice in the universe.
Waltzing
C. David McKirachan
Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21
I'm getting married in August. The woman I'm marrying is nuts -- so say all of my friends with a good amount of laughter. They toasted our engagement by saying they had no doubts about why I wanted to marry her. What they couldn't figure out was why she would want to marry me. I have really nice friends.
So, we are planning this wedding. We both want to have the hymn "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" to the tune of Hyfrodol in the service. It knocks us out. It is one of those modern psalms that lifts us to the very portals of glory and lets us see through to that which cannot fit into logic or time or the limitations of this dimension of living except through the joy of music and rhythm. When we sing it in worship I always end up putting down my hymnal and swaying to the music, caught up by the paean that thunders through the pipe organ and the nave and all the way to heaven.
It hit me just recently that it's a waltz. It twirls and glides and pulls us beyond ourselves into a dance of hope and glory. It also hit me that the last verse not only praises the glory of that which lives in the presence of the Lord of all creation, but it claims glory for that which sings in the here and now. The final part of the verse is: "Changed from glory into glory, till in heaven we take our place, till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise." I realized that we can live in glory now. The hope of the resurrection is not some future then, when it will all come right, but now, in the mess and trouble and contradictions of our present tense. We are part of the glory. We'll be changed, yes -- but it will be from glory into glory.
I think that the ones who inherit the kingdom are not miserable slaves who have sacrificed everything, who put it on the line so often it's worn out. I think the ones who are going there are so busy living in the glory of the now that the coming of the Christ will be one more of the glories of life. I think they're the ones who love life so much that they are unwilling to settle for anything less than life abundant, life full of the power of the Holy Spirit that fills their sails and takes them out beyond the safe harbors of easy and provable and comfortable, out to the deep waters of wind and wave and spirit.
I'd lay money I'm going to cry at my wedding. I'll get lost in wonder, love, and praise. And I will know again that the gift of life is too much to fit into simple words and theories, into the neat boxes of logic and punctual expectations. And you know what? She will too. We may even end up dancing. After all, that other David danced before the altar. Don't worry, I'll leave the tux on -- I can just hear the reviews now. Maybe we'll all dance.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
In All His Glory
Stan Purdum
"Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world."
John 17:24
When Brittany and her 7-year-old son Brandon arrived at the play area in the park on Thursday, Jenny was already there. Thursdays were her day to watch her grandchild Mark, who was also 7. As soon as the two boys were turned loose on the playground, they applied themselves vigorously to the monkey bars and swings. Jenny was already seated on a nearby park bench, and Brittany sank down wearily beside her. Despite their age difference, the two women had become friends since meeting in the park.
"Hi Brittany," Jenny said. "You look worn out."
"Oh, I am. It's getting to be such a battle with Brandon every time we go anywhere to get him to dress properly for the weather. I mean, it can't be more than 55 degrees today, but he refuses to wear a hat. He says nobody wears them at school. So there he is, hatless. You must think I'm a bad mother."
Jenny chuckled. "Not at all. Haven't you heard that old saying that 'A sweater is an item a child has to put on when his mother feels cold'?"
"That's cute, but..."
"Listen, Brittany, there must be a difference in metabolism between children and their parents. I don't know if any scientific evidence exists to verify it, but kids seem run hotter than grownups. You should have seen me when Mark's father was born. He was our first child, and I was determined to be a good mother. The first time I took him outside, I dressed him in a sleeper, a sweater, a coat, and a hat with ear flaps, and then I wrapped him in a quilted blanket."
"What's wrong with that?" Brittany asked.
"It was July."
Both women laughed.
"I guess I do need to lighten up a bit," Brittany said.
"Oh, you'll learn soon enough. Kids have a way of teaching us. Brandon's resisting the hat now, but wait a bit. Pretty soon he won't want to wear any of the clothes you've so lovingly selected for him. At school, what the other kids are wearing has a huge influence."
"Actually, that's already started."
"Have you gotten to the 'at least' stage yet?" Jenny asked.
"What's that?"
"It's what parents say after they realize that the dressing-the-kid battle is lost. As in 'Well, if you don't want to wear your raincoat, at least take an umbrella,' or 'If you won't wear that warm hat I bought for you, at least put on a scarf.' And then there's 'All right, you don't have to wear your mittens, but at least take them with you in your book bag.' "
"That's what's ahead? Good grief."
"The people who live next door to me have a 12-year-old. He wears short pants every month of the year. I know his mother makes him 'at least' put on a warm jacket in cold months. I know this because he regularly leaves it behind at my house when he goes home without it after playing with Brian -- that's Mark's older brother. He often comes to our house after school."
Brittany laughed despite her frustration.
Jenny continued, "The other losing battle is getting kids to dress appropriately for whatever occasion is at hand -- such as going to church. Brian and Mark's mom told me about a dust-up they had last Sunday morning when they were getting ready to go to church. She had Mark attired in dress pants and a nice sweater. But then Brian came out of his room in jeans and a T-shirt. Naturally, she told him to change, and naturally he resisted. She stood her ground, but when Brian returned, he had put on clothes only marginally better. And by that time they were running late, so they went with that. But then Mark started in with, 'If Brian gets to wear jeans, why can't I?' And it went downhill from there."
"It sounds daunting," Brittany observed.
"Well, it is, I suppose. But after a while you learn to pick your battles. Sometimes the clothes thing just isn't that important. But you do have one line of defense, you know."
"I do? Tell me."
"Kids don't do their own laundry. You do. And when they get attached to certain garments you really don't like, you have the ability to make them 'magically' disappear in the wash."
"I'll remember that," Brittany said. "Now, if we could only figure a way to make hats and mittens 'magically' appear on their heads and hands."
***
In John 17:24, Jesus prays that his followers may see his glory. Sometimes we miss his glory because we try to dress him in garments of our choosing. We dress him as the sweet, permissive savior or the enlightened sage or the "man's man" or the gentle shepherd or the super social worker or as some other favorite image. But we need to stand back and view the full image of Jesus from the scriptures. When we do, his glory will be apparent.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
A Prayer and a Blessing
Constance Berg
I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers.
Ephesians 1:15-16
Pastor Wallace was loved by many, many people. He had come to a rural agricultural area and stayed for 41 years. He and his wife Bea had four children, three of whom would become pastors themselves. The fourth was a missionary teacher in Madagascar. Pastor Wallace's second and last call was to another rural church he started only 30 miles away. He stayed 15 years. His reputation was tough but fair; disciplined but compassionate; strong but just.
Pastor Wally, as he was known, knew his time on earth was short. He was suffering from lung cancer and he wanted to say good-bye. But how does one say good-bye to old friends? Pastor Wally asked that a worship service be held the coming fall to celebrate the harvest and his 80th birthday. Plans were being made; it was to be held at his first church.
Pastor Wally was excited. But he was also getting weaker and weaker. It was two months before the service, and he wanted it to be a success. He called his granddaughter, a pastor almost 200 miles away, to help him write the service. Could two of his sons also come and help him? The four collaborated about the litany, focusing on the harvest and the change of seasons from living, yielding crops to the earth becoming quiet, dormant, and restful. They wrote a poem about being 80 -- not so old, yet not so young either. They wrote the outline for the bulletin together.
Several church members helped get the church ready: the gutters needed to be straightened, the furnace cleaned and readied for the winter, and the front steps needed to be redone. The crack in the wall behind the altar could be fixed and the vestry needed to be cleaned out. There was great anticipation in the air. It was as if they were preparing for a festival.
Women got out scrapbooks and church records. They would make up a little play about notable events when Pastor Wally was their pastor, like the time he arrived at the church an hour late when he forgot to set his clock. The people had waited patiently, but the potluck dinner looked a little limp. They recalled the Sunday when his youngest son had let their new puppy into the church basement during an ice storm and afterward the frightened little dog wouldn't come out from under the basement steps.
There were many great memories. Pastor Wally had been with them through a flood, several tornadoes, deaths, births, baptisms, confirmations, and weddings. He had held their hands when people succumbed to illness, were torn with addictions, and made moves. He was their friend, their pastor, their confidant.
The time got closer and wheat bundles, corn stalks, pumpkins, squash, Indian corn, and other vegetables were arranged at the base of the altar. A banner was made, decorated with downward-falling leaves in red, yellow, gold, and orange. The pews were oiled and the rugs shampooed. They were ready.
It was a wonderful worship service. The organist was glowing as she played a special number. The litany went well, but his daughter had to lead it: Pastor Wally was just too weak. One grandson sang "How Great Thou Art," and a son read a poem about life as a "PK." It was hilarious. The synod bishop, who had been a seminary classmate of Pastor Wally, gave the sermon. Finally, it was time for Pastor Wally to give the prayers. He stood up slowly. With great difficulty, he walked to the lectern and said a prayer, giving thanks to God for good memories, good friends, and good times. He thanked God for the guidance he had received as a young pastor, the strong support from his loving wife, for the vision his mentor had when Wally first came to the prairie, and for the opportunity to stay so long among the people. He was truly grateful for the many blessings he had. He encouraged the people in his prayer to continue praying for one another and to pray for their church leaders. "Prayer," he said, "is the most effective part of being a Christian. You can pray for people you know or don't know. You can lift people up even when you can't do anything else for them. It is what has sustained me over all these years."
Pastor Wally asked the people to stand and he raised his hands. "And now may the Lord bless you and keep you, my good friends. May the Lord make his face shine radiantly upon you and be gracious to you as you have been gracious to me. The Lord look upon you with favor and give you a peace that passes all understanding deep within your hearts. Go in peace and serve the Lord!"
The closing hymn sounded a little quieter than usual as people sniffed quietly and choked back tears. They knew Pastor Wally was tired and very ill: he was going to be missed. It had taken a tremendous amount of energy, but Pastor Wally had given the church two very important gifts: a prayer and a blessing. And a chance to say good-bye.
Constance Berg is a former missionary to Chiapas, Mexico. She is currently based in Bakersfield, California, where she serves as the director of 18 nursing homes for handicapped individuals. Berg is the author of three volumes of the CSS series Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit.
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StoryShare, May 20, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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This week's reading from Acts tells the remarkable story of Paul and Silas' encounter with a fortune-telling slave girl. When they exorcise a demonic spirit from the girl, they are beaten and jailed for their trouble -- only to be freed following a frightening earthquake. In his wry commentary on this startling passage, David McKirachan suggests that despite the adage that "no good deed will go unpunished" our faith gives us the confidence to do what is right... and more often than not, in God's good time, we discover that there is karmic justice in the universe. McKirachan also muses on his upcoming marriage and shares some thoughts about what the marvelous hymn "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" tells us about the nature of God's glory. Stan Purdum describes a conversation between two mothers about their kids' clothes -- making the point that when we become too wrapped up in what one wears, we miss more important things. For those who are celebrating Ascension Sunday this week, this edition of StoryShare also includes a story from Constance Berg about a beloved pastor and a powerful shared good-bye with his flock. (For more material on Ascension pericopes, see the stories by David Bales and John Smylie in last week's Easter 6 installment of StoryShare.)
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Are You Sure?
C. David McKirachan
Acts 16:16-34
Have you ever heard the saying "no good deed will go unpunished"? We pastors, whose day job has to do with helping folks, know it's true. I would add a corollary: "the better the deed, the worse the punishment." I worked on this one for years, until this story from Acts about the liberation of the slave brought a chunk of truth into focus for me.
Normality is a tangled web of limitation, coping mechanisms, and mistakes. Our motivations and desires are mixed, our discipline and skills are questionable, and our stamina is sorely lacking. So we live dim lives, surviving in a twilight that makes it so hard to discern the difference between shades of gray that we rarely feel confident in our stands and choices. Doubt niggles like a case of athlete's foot. It's not enough to incapacitate us, but it intrudes with discomfort. If we transcend our neurotic internal argument and break through into some place of clarity and self-confidence, we are courting arrogance and begin to waltz with the master of lies.
The other day a woman of intensity and intellect, whose humility and honesty demands that she question as she quests, told me that she was afraid of me. When I asked her why, her response was simply: "You're confident of the truth." I was complimented and indicted by her observation. I began to inform her of my constant sense of doubt -- and I realized that in the midst of all of my questioning and picking at the scabs of easy answers, I was sure of one truth. And that foundation intimidated her. I realized that my sense of a ground of being was a territory that she envied and could not make sense of. I did not fit into the file of people she could dismiss as lightweights or fanatics. Neither did I seek to justify myself with intellectual proof-texting. So she was stuck in a tension that challenged the boundaries of her comfort zones.
But that whole dialogue rested on her willingness to stick to it and keep digging, which is rare. Most of the time when we claim territory for the kingdom, we don't quite believe it ourselves and we assume that the world can see through our struggle and doubt. It is so hard to know, to really know we are acting with integrity.
But once in a while there is something that is clearly good. We can't camp out there, it's just a step along the way -- but in that moment glory illumines the mundane and there is no question. It is in those moments that we are most likely to get punished.
Why? I have two theories. One is human nature. People are comfortable in their ruts -- and the authority of faith shines so brightly that it illumines the sad and sparse living conditions in most people's ruts. Good deeds demonstrate that none of us have to live in these muddy trenches. High ground is there for the choosing. We can have more. We can have abundance and glory and beauty. We can live as partners with the saints in the embrace of gratitude and hope. But convenient, easy, profitable, comfortable all whisper in our ears and invite us to judge the clarity as an anomaly, to stick to our ruts. Any evidence to the contrary is dangerous and must be dealt with as a threat.
My other theory is that big-E evil is alive and well out there. Don't ask me to build any cogent metaphysics around that one. It may be a limitation in my forebrain. It may be some undigested morsel of childhood terror over that which lives under the bed. I have nothing but my own gut feeling about this.
When I was 14, there was this kid who brought his lunch to school every day in a square cookie tin. I thought he was kind of cool because he knew that one of the stars in Orion's belt was a nebula. A bunch of "cool kids" had tormented him at lunch and crushed his cookie tin with great glee. I told them they were cripples. They tore up my notebook and told me to join the astronomy club. I told them proudly that I was the vice president. But when they left, I didn't feel proud -- I felt alone. I couldn't figure out these powerful and confident people who didn't seem to worry about hurting others and using their victims to prove their power.
I brought it all home and dumped it in front of my father. I had done the right and good thing -- hadn't I? I remember he seemed tired. He shook his head and told me simply, "David, when the demons are screaming, you must be doing something right. I'm sorry it hurts." He probably said more, but that stuck.
Two weeks later a rock crashed through our living room window at suppertime. There was a note rubber-banded to it accusing us of being "n____er lovers." The Buick's tires were slashed in the driveway. I then realized why he was tired. He realized that the evil he was confronting in our suburban New Jersey town and its church was hurting his family. I wish I could have said to him, "I'm sorry it hurts." He could have used it.
But I'll tell you this: he never wavered. It wasn't a happy time. It was hard on all of us. The 18-wheeler of normality had no patience for an idealist who preached love and justice. But he was faithful to his ground of being -- and he was punished for it. Go figure.
But with a fair amount of glee, I'll share with you a bit of irony that warms this story of heroism. I went to my 25th reunion. The guy with the cookie tin was there. He'd gone to MIT and was working on experiments to understand dark matter. His wife was gorgeous, and he had a full head of hair. The "cool kids" continued to be boring, and many had become bald. Maybe there is justice in the universe.
Waltzing
C. David McKirachan
Revelation 22:12-14, 16-17, 20-21
I'm getting married in August. The woman I'm marrying is nuts -- so say all of my friends with a good amount of laughter. They toasted our engagement by saying they had no doubts about why I wanted to marry her. What they couldn't figure out was why she would want to marry me. I have really nice friends.
So, we are planning this wedding. We both want to have the hymn "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" to the tune of Hyfrodol in the service. It knocks us out. It is one of those modern psalms that lifts us to the very portals of glory and lets us see through to that which cannot fit into logic or time or the limitations of this dimension of living except through the joy of music and rhythm. When we sing it in worship I always end up putting down my hymnal and swaying to the music, caught up by the paean that thunders through the pipe organ and the nave and all the way to heaven.
It hit me just recently that it's a waltz. It twirls and glides and pulls us beyond ourselves into a dance of hope and glory. It also hit me that the last verse not only praises the glory of that which lives in the presence of the Lord of all creation, but it claims glory for that which sings in the here and now. The final part of the verse is: "Changed from glory into glory, till in heaven we take our place, till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise." I realized that we can live in glory now. The hope of the resurrection is not some future then, when it will all come right, but now, in the mess and trouble and contradictions of our present tense. We are part of the glory. We'll be changed, yes -- but it will be from glory into glory.
I think that the ones who inherit the kingdom are not miserable slaves who have sacrificed everything, who put it on the line so often it's worn out. I think the ones who are going there are so busy living in the glory of the now that the coming of the Christ will be one more of the glories of life. I think they're the ones who love life so much that they are unwilling to settle for anything less than life abundant, life full of the power of the Holy Spirit that fills their sails and takes them out beyond the safe harbors of easy and provable and comfortable, out to the deep waters of wind and wave and spirit.
I'd lay money I'm going to cry at my wedding. I'll get lost in wonder, love, and praise. And I will know again that the gift of life is too much to fit into simple words and theories, into the neat boxes of logic and punctual expectations. And you know what? She will too. We may even end up dancing. After all, that other David danced before the altar. Don't worry, I'll leave the tux on -- I can just hear the reviews now. Maybe we'll all dance.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
In All His Glory
Stan Purdum
"Father, I desire that those also, whom you have given me, may be with me where I am, to see my glory, which you have given me because you loved me before the foundation of the world."
John 17:24
When Brittany and her 7-year-old son Brandon arrived at the play area in the park on Thursday, Jenny was already there. Thursdays were her day to watch her grandchild Mark, who was also 7. As soon as the two boys were turned loose on the playground, they applied themselves vigorously to the monkey bars and swings. Jenny was already seated on a nearby park bench, and Brittany sank down wearily beside her. Despite their age difference, the two women had become friends since meeting in the park.
"Hi Brittany," Jenny said. "You look worn out."
"Oh, I am. It's getting to be such a battle with Brandon every time we go anywhere to get him to dress properly for the weather. I mean, it can't be more than 55 degrees today, but he refuses to wear a hat. He says nobody wears them at school. So there he is, hatless. You must think I'm a bad mother."
Jenny chuckled. "Not at all. Haven't you heard that old saying that 'A sweater is an item a child has to put on when his mother feels cold'?"
"That's cute, but..."
"Listen, Brittany, there must be a difference in metabolism between children and their parents. I don't know if any scientific evidence exists to verify it, but kids seem run hotter than grownups. You should have seen me when Mark's father was born. He was our first child, and I was determined to be a good mother. The first time I took him outside, I dressed him in a sleeper, a sweater, a coat, and a hat with ear flaps, and then I wrapped him in a quilted blanket."
"What's wrong with that?" Brittany asked.
"It was July."
Both women laughed.
"I guess I do need to lighten up a bit," Brittany said.
"Oh, you'll learn soon enough. Kids have a way of teaching us. Brandon's resisting the hat now, but wait a bit. Pretty soon he won't want to wear any of the clothes you've so lovingly selected for him. At school, what the other kids are wearing has a huge influence."
"Actually, that's already started."
"Have you gotten to the 'at least' stage yet?" Jenny asked.
"What's that?"
"It's what parents say after they realize that the dressing-the-kid battle is lost. As in 'Well, if you don't want to wear your raincoat, at least take an umbrella,' or 'If you won't wear that warm hat I bought for you, at least put on a scarf.' And then there's 'All right, you don't have to wear your mittens, but at least take them with you in your book bag.' "
"That's what's ahead? Good grief."
"The people who live next door to me have a 12-year-old. He wears short pants every month of the year. I know his mother makes him 'at least' put on a warm jacket in cold months. I know this because he regularly leaves it behind at my house when he goes home without it after playing with Brian -- that's Mark's older brother. He often comes to our house after school."
Brittany laughed despite her frustration.
Jenny continued, "The other losing battle is getting kids to dress appropriately for whatever occasion is at hand -- such as going to church. Brian and Mark's mom told me about a dust-up they had last Sunday morning when they were getting ready to go to church. She had Mark attired in dress pants and a nice sweater. But then Brian came out of his room in jeans and a T-shirt. Naturally, she told him to change, and naturally he resisted. She stood her ground, but when Brian returned, he had put on clothes only marginally better. And by that time they were running late, so they went with that. But then Mark started in with, 'If Brian gets to wear jeans, why can't I?' And it went downhill from there."
"It sounds daunting," Brittany observed.
"Well, it is, I suppose. But after a while you learn to pick your battles. Sometimes the clothes thing just isn't that important. But you do have one line of defense, you know."
"I do? Tell me."
"Kids don't do their own laundry. You do. And when they get attached to certain garments you really don't like, you have the ability to make them 'magically' disappear in the wash."
"I'll remember that," Brittany said. "Now, if we could only figure a way to make hats and mittens 'magically' appear on their heads and hands."
***
In John 17:24, Jesus prays that his followers may see his glory. Sometimes we miss his glory because we try to dress him in garments of our choosing. We dress him as the sweet, permissive savior or the enlightened sage or the "man's man" or the gentle shepherd or the super social worker or as some other favorite image. But we need to stand back and view the full image of Jesus from the scriptures. When we do, his glory will be apparent.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
A Prayer and a Blessing
Constance Berg
I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus and your love toward all the saints, and for this reason I do not cease to give thanks for you as I remember you in my prayers.
Ephesians 1:15-16
Pastor Wallace was loved by many, many people. He had come to a rural agricultural area and stayed for 41 years. He and his wife Bea had four children, three of whom would become pastors themselves. The fourth was a missionary teacher in Madagascar. Pastor Wallace's second and last call was to another rural church he started only 30 miles away. He stayed 15 years. His reputation was tough but fair; disciplined but compassionate; strong but just.
Pastor Wally, as he was known, knew his time on earth was short. He was suffering from lung cancer and he wanted to say good-bye. But how does one say good-bye to old friends? Pastor Wally asked that a worship service be held the coming fall to celebrate the harvest and his 80th birthday. Plans were being made; it was to be held at his first church.
Pastor Wally was excited. But he was also getting weaker and weaker. It was two months before the service, and he wanted it to be a success. He called his granddaughter, a pastor almost 200 miles away, to help him write the service. Could two of his sons also come and help him? The four collaborated about the litany, focusing on the harvest and the change of seasons from living, yielding crops to the earth becoming quiet, dormant, and restful. They wrote a poem about being 80 -- not so old, yet not so young either. They wrote the outline for the bulletin together.
Several church members helped get the church ready: the gutters needed to be straightened, the furnace cleaned and readied for the winter, and the front steps needed to be redone. The crack in the wall behind the altar could be fixed and the vestry needed to be cleaned out. There was great anticipation in the air. It was as if they were preparing for a festival.
Women got out scrapbooks and church records. They would make up a little play about notable events when Pastor Wally was their pastor, like the time he arrived at the church an hour late when he forgot to set his clock. The people had waited patiently, but the potluck dinner looked a little limp. They recalled the Sunday when his youngest son had let their new puppy into the church basement during an ice storm and afterward the frightened little dog wouldn't come out from under the basement steps.
There were many great memories. Pastor Wally had been with them through a flood, several tornadoes, deaths, births, baptisms, confirmations, and weddings. He had held their hands when people succumbed to illness, were torn with addictions, and made moves. He was their friend, their pastor, their confidant.
The time got closer and wheat bundles, corn stalks, pumpkins, squash, Indian corn, and other vegetables were arranged at the base of the altar. A banner was made, decorated with downward-falling leaves in red, yellow, gold, and orange. The pews were oiled and the rugs shampooed. They were ready.
It was a wonderful worship service. The organist was glowing as she played a special number. The litany went well, but his daughter had to lead it: Pastor Wally was just too weak. One grandson sang "How Great Thou Art," and a son read a poem about life as a "PK." It was hilarious. The synod bishop, who had been a seminary classmate of Pastor Wally, gave the sermon. Finally, it was time for Pastor Wally to give the prayers. He stood up slowly. With great difficulty, he walked to the lectern and said a prayer, giving thanks to God for good memories, good friends, and good times. He thanked God for the guidance he had received as a young pastor, the strong support from his loving wife, for the vision his mentor had when Wally first came to the prairie, and for the opportunity to stay so long among the people. He was truly grateful for the many blessings he had. He encouraged the people in his prayer to continue praying for one another and to pray for their church leaders. "Prayer," he said, "is the most effective part of being a Christian. You can pray for people you know or don't know. You can lift people up even when you can't do anything else for them. It is what has sustained me over all these years."
Pastor Wally asked the people to stand and he raised his hands. "And now may the Lord bless you and keep you, my good friends. May the Lord make his face shine radiantly upon you and be gracious to you as you have been gracious to me. The Lord look upon you with favor and give you a peace that passes all understanding deep within your hearts. Go in peace and serve the Lord!"
The closing hymn sounded a little quieter than usual as people sniffed quietly and choked back tears. They knew Pastor Wally was tired and very ill: he was going to be missed. It had taken a tremendous amount of energy, but Pastor Wally had given the church two very important gifts: a prayer and a blessing. And a chance to say good-bye.
Constance Berg is a former missionary to Chiapas, Mexico. She is currently based in Bakersfield, California, where she serves as the director of 18 nursing homes for handicapped individuals. Berg is the author of three volumes of the CSS series Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit.
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StoryShare, May 20, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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