In The Arms Of Love
Stories
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Contents
"In the Arms of Love" by Judy Sepsey
"Mother of Judas" by David O. Bales
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Introducing Judy Sepsey
I heard Judy tell this powerful story of her brother's death in Vietnam at a recent Sunday school class in our church. It touched all of our hearts. Knowing that Judy is an award winning author, I asked her to write the story. She agreed to let me share it here. I know Judy's story will be an inspiration for those who are preaching on lectionary texts on Palm Sunday.
-- John Sumwalt
In the Arms of Love
by Judy Sepsey
Psalm 31:9-16
Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress; my eye wastes away from grief, my soul and body also. For my life is spent with sorrow, and my years with sighing...
-- Psalm 31:9-10a
My brother, Kris, was nineteen when we took him to the airport. It was just after Thanksgiving, 1968, and he was on his way to Vietnam. Most of our large family had said their good-byes earlier and now only a small group of us, numb, sick and scared, walked through O'Hare Airport toward his gate. The airport was packed with uniformed boys, and even to the most unobservant, it must have been obvious that this war was eating up the better part of our country's children.
We didn't speak much or show our emotions as we walked through the crowds. We are a family of stoics; it is our way of life, the way we get through things, so I hid my conviction that he wouldn't be coming home... ever. I held it so deep inside me that my soul started rotting as we walked away, leaving him there at his gate, leaving him there to face his fears alone.
The next six months were black and frightening, a time when we couldn't bear hearing the news on television each night, but couldn't bear to turn it off, either. We shared the letters we received from Kris. They contained light-hearted stories of his daily life with the other men/boys in the camp, and the not so light-hearted stories of his night patrols in the jungles. He called the enemy "gooks" in some letters, then, in others, would say how they were much like us, just trying to get through life. He told about the orphanage where he helped sometimes, sent us pictures of him holding the children of his enemies.
Then, in May 1969, came the first telegram. Night patrol, a mine exploding, ripping into his gut. Too ill to move to a hospital, he lay in a field hospital for six weeks, and we waited. In the end, the mine shrapnel rotted his life away, and he died June 24, 1969.
Shortly before he died, Kris went into a coma. I know this because I felt it happen to him, felt him calling me as it happened. It was midnight and I had been asleep. I woke suddenly and sat straight up in bed. The room, usually lit by a streetlight, was totally dark and though it was June, I was ice cold. Then I felt utter emptiness and fear so deep and dark and cold. I knew I was feeling his fear and that he was telling me he was leaving us. I knew it as surely as I had known six months earlier that he would never return.
I did not hear from Kris that way, didn't know about those messages to others. I just let anger fester in my body; anger at a God who had let this happen, anger at the world, anger at everything and everyone. I was so angry that attending church was almost an impossibility for me. If I could force myself to attend, I would sit through the service crying inside, never on the outside.
I don't even know how long my life went on this way. It might have been six months or six years. I just existed. Then one Sunday, as I resolutely stayed in my pew while everyone else received communion, I heard the message I had ignored for so long. God had given us His beloved Son and that he missed him, felt sorrow and anger, all the human emotions I had been feeling. And then I had a vision, something that I had never really believed existed. There was Mary, in the classic Pieta form, cradling not her son, but my brother, Kris. Kris, his skinny body clad in his army fatigues, his face forever boyish, held in the arms of love. (copyright Sepsey, 2011)
Mother of Judas
by David O. Bales
Matthew 26:14--27:66
Because the Christian message named Jesus' betrayer as "Iscariot" (meaning "man of Kirioth") and "Son of Simon" a Christian child growing up in Kirioth of Judea inevitably wondered about the person so named. Azubah was seven. One afternoon in the village of Kirioth she was helping her grandmother cut up dates. Azubah wasn't good at it, especially with the stick she used instead of a knife like her grandmother.
Her grandmother was telling stories about the Lord Jesus. Azubah cocked her head to the side, "Grandmother, did you know Judas? And why did Judas do it?" Her grandmother set aside the bowl of dates, sighed, and said. "Here, Azubah, sit down beside me." They sat together. "I wasn't there with Jesus and Judas"; she hugged Azubah to her side, "but, I'll tell you about it in a way I know and what I found out about how a Christian can respond to such evil. Think of it like this: Some people are so good that, even when they must mention something to you that is painful or embarrassing, you understand they have your best interests at heart. Can you grasp that?"
Azubah said, "Yes."
"Other people seem always intending to hurt others. They've got a sharp edge on each word, like they're cutting and hacking. They do it slyly, so it's hard to be on guard against such a person. Can you imagine that?" Azubah shook her head, no.
"I'm glad you haven't met such a person. Maybe you'll understand if you think about someone who continually tells you bad things about others. Doesn't take long to figure out that someone who keeps complaining to you about others will do it about you also. Understand that?"
"I guess so," Azubah said. "Is that what Judas was like?"
"I'm not sure; but I'm only talking about Judas in a roundabout way. You'll need to concentrate on what I tell you. It's no use guessing why Judas did what he did if you don't at the same time learn how to deal with such things when they happen to you or your friends. Ready to concentrate hard?"
"Sure," she said.
Her grandmother pulled Azubah closer and looked above the neighboring houses as she began to speak, "Our village had two women. Both died long ago. Tamar was a wonderful individual, Simon's wife. She trusted Jesus' teaching when Jesus was alive and believed in our new life after his resurrection. Her son, however, was Judas, and his betraying Jesus broke her heart. No one needed to hear her say it, just to see her. At Jesus' last Passover she was laughing and helping others. By the next Passover she walked slowly, bent over as though she'd aged 20 years.
"None of her friends mentioned Judas except with concern for her and Simon. But not Jerusha. Tamar, like everyone else, knew that the best way to keep from getting verbally stabbed by Jerusha was to avoid her. In the whole village Jerusha was the one who referred to Tamar as 'Mother of Judas.' Others, out of respect, always called her 'Wife of Simon.'
"People like Jerusha seem to be hunting someone to hurt. Something gushes up inside them, then look out! They peer around for a victim. It was a day when Jerusha was out to gash someone with her words that she came upon Tamar leaving the village well.
"Jerusha circled around in front of Tamar, meeting her with a wide smile, 'Good day, Tamar. Lovely today, isn't it? I mean, even though we have this terrible famine. Almost as though our village is cursed.' Tamar silently hefted her water jug and turned to leave. Jerusha paused for a breath or two and then followed her, 'You know, thinking of curses, I've always wondered about your son. I didn't know him well, but he's certainly famous, in a way.'
"Tamar continued to walk under the burden of her water jug. Jerusha scooted in front of her. 'What do you suppose happened? Your son, I mean. The Galilean cast out demons, but your son seemed bound to the devil's cause. Do you suppose that's why our village is cursed with this drought?'
"Tamar stood still for a moment, breathing hard from carrying the water. Then, and I was there -- about your age -- and saw it and heard it. She looked Jerusha squarely in the eyes and said with the straightest of face and the saddest of voice, 'Yes, Jerusha, I see clearly right now that our village obviously is cursed.' Jerusha opened her mouth to speak, but stopped and looked confused as Tamar slowly walked away.
"Remember what I told you about Jesus' speaking with Pilate and Judas? Jesus didn't fight them, but faced them with the truth. Sometimes, to be true to our Lord Jesus, we need to use his methods to resist evil -- like Tamar did. It's not what you expect -- not blunt and bruising. It's like how Jesus saved us: Not by gathering an army and kicking out the Roman oppressors but by dying to forgive us. Do you understand?"
Azubah said, "Yes," but as her grandmother went back to work, Azubah looked down, furrowed her brow, and said quietly, "Not really."
David Bales was a Presbyterian pastor for 33 years, a graduate of San Francisco Theological Seminary. In addition to his ministry he also has taught college: World Religions, Ethics, Biblical Hebrew and Biblical Greek (lately at College of Idaho, Caldwell). He has been a freelance writer for Stephen Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Interpretation, Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching the Great Texts and other publications. For a year he wrote the online column "In The Original: Insights from Greek and Hebrew for the Lectionary Passages." His books include: Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace, Toward Easter and Beyond, Scenes of Glory: Subplots of God's Long Story, and To the Cross and Beyond: Cycle A Sermons for Lent and Easter. Dave has been a writer for StoryShare for five years. He can be reached at dobales.com.
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StoryShare, April 17, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
