The Bitter End
Stories
Contents
"The Bitter End" by Keith Hewitt
"Great and Fearsome Beasts" by Frank Ramirez
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The Bitter End
by Keith Hewitt
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
There’s a reason they call it dead weight.
The thought flitted through Crassus’ mind like a hummingbird searching for nectar, lit briefly, then flew away to be replaced by less charitable thoughts as he and his partner patiently rocked the patibulum -- the horizontal beam of the cross -- out of its mortised joint. It was hard going with the body still hanging there, but it seemed to be the only practical approach shy of climbing a ladder and prying out the nails.
There was no ladder; no one in the crucifixion detail had foreseen the need for one.
After what seemed like a long time, made longer by the fact that they worked in an unnatural gloom that had cast a pall over the landscape, the patibulum finally worked loose from the upright. With a grunt, they lifted it up over the top, took three steps back on the rocky soil, and dropped it unceremoniously. It landed with a muffled thud, raised a low cloud of dust that settled quickly; the air was still. Both men dragged the backs of their hands across their sweaty foreheads as they stared down at the body.
“Doesn’t look like much, does he?” the other soldier grunted, spitting near it.
Crassus considered the sight. The lower limbs had already started to swell and turn dark, as blood sought the lowest point in the body when the heart stopped; this was normal, and one of the ways to tell when someone had finally died. The corpse’s mouth hung open -- the tongue had lolled out to one side, but now that it was on its back, seemed to have fallen back into the mouth.
The eyes were fixed and lifeless, the face battered and bruised, swollen here and there -- nothing unusual, there, as condemned prisoners tended to attract the bitterness and discontent of those who had custody of them. What was unusual was the thorny headpiece that had been forced down over its head, the blood that had gushed from it, and the multiple swelling wounds caused by the thorns. Together with the gashes and gouges that covered the body, front and back, they pointed to an unusual amount of abuse, even for a barbarian convicted of sedition.
Crassus chuckled, glanced at his companion and said, “I saw him before all this -- he wasn’t that much to look at in the first place.” He nodded toward the body. “Let’s get the nails out and be done with it.”
The other soldier knelt on the right arm as Crassus leaned over it, began worrying loose the nail that had been driven through the wrist. As he worked at it with a pry bar, the kneeling soldier said, “Where did you see him? You’re not going native, are you, Crassus? You see him in some tavern, somewhere?”
Crassus snorted. “I saw him coming into town last week. No, last Sunday. I was on duty, and saw him riding into town like some bumpkin general, come to claim victory. The people around him were going crazy, waving palm fronds and shouting, like maybe welcoming him here.”
His companion’s eyebrow rose. “Really? What were they shouting?”
There was a brief silence as the nail came part-way out, and Crassus grabbed it with one calloused hand, worked it back and forth until he could pull it out by hand. With each movement, the wound was torn a little bit more; he didn’t notice. Once free, he slipped the nail into a pouch on his belt and nodded toward the other arm.
They switched sides, and he began working on the nail through the left wrist. “What were they shouting?” he asked, repeating the other’s question. He paused, looked down at him and raised his hand, made a yapping motion with thumb and fingers. “They talk, I hear dogs barking. Who knows what they were saying? But they seemed to like him.” He shrugged, went back to prying. “I reported it to the centurion. If he reported it up the chain of command, I don’t know. Don’t much care, either.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
Crassus shook his head. “The way the Legate explained it, it’s some kind of internal religious squabble. They suckered Pilate into the middle of it, gave him no choice but to have the barbarian executed. He didn’t want to appear weak, and at holiday time, he needed to keep the peace. This is no time for a riot.”
The nail was being stubborn. He stopped briefly, contemplated the efficacy of simply hacking the hand off the body, and worrying about retrieving the nail later; unconsciously, he looked over his shoulder at the clutch of women standing, sobbing silently, a little ways down the hill. There was an old lady there that could have been his mother, and who knows about the others? Could have been wives, or sisters -- or both; with barbarians it was so hard to tell.
With them looking on, he took another crack at pulling out the nail, was successful this time. He tucked that one away, into his pouch, and stood up, straightening and turning to face the two men he knew were standing a little ways away from the women. One of them held a bundle of white cloth -- a shroud, he guessed.
He caught the eye of the one who had given him the note from his Legate at Fortress Antonia -- an older man, and rich if he was any judge of clothes. “Omnium vestrum est,” Crassus grunted, and waved a hand at the body. It’s all yours. When the old man didn’t move, Crassus rolled his eyes and repeated it in Greek.
Then the old man nodded, and muttered something to his companion with the shroud. Woof, Crassus thought, and smiled to himself, woof-woof-woof. With a nervous glance at the women, the man with the shroud rolled it out on the ground, and the two of them manhandled the body onto the bleached white cloth. It was an awkward thing, as the legs were bent and both arms splayed out. The death-stiffness had already begun to set in, and the legs could not be straightened, the arms could not be easily folded to his side.
The two soldiers watched for a few moments, exchanging amused glances but not laughing outright -- the women still bothered Crassus, even if they were barbarians. “They’ll never get it done that way,” his companion observed, drawing on his own knowledge.
“Of course not,” Crassus agreed. “But it’s not our problem. The note said to give them the body, we’ve given them the body.”
“What about the others?” he asked, nodding toward the other two crosses that were occupied at that moment.
Crassus shrugged. “The note said to deliver one dead Jewish false prophet; we’ve delivered it. There is no hurry for the others.” The other bodies would stay up until the crosses were needed, or they had been pulled apart by animals and time. Not only did it mean they wouldn’t have to deal with the bodies, but while they hung there they provided such good incentive not to go against the Roman Empire.
“So what do you suppose made this one so special?”
Crassus shrugged. “Like I said, it wasn’t his handsome face or his heroic figure. He was just another nothing, a cipher, a face you wouldn’t look at twice -- unless it happened to strike you as particularly unpleasant. Which it might, I suppose, if you were an aesthete. Me, I didn’t care.”
“They can’t kill you for being ugly, Crassus, or you would have been dead a long time ago.”
Crassus grinned, “But not before you. Seriously, I don’t know. He was some kind of false prophet, he made the Temple Priests angry -- and whatever he said or did must have convinced Pilate that he could be convicted for sedition. The sign said he was their king, but I know that wasn’t true.”
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through, just to get rid of someone who’s a little bit mad -- no matter what he said. He had no power, that I could see. We didn’t mount a guard, to make sure he wasn’t rescued. Hardly anybody came to be with him in his last hours. I wonder what made them so angry?”
Crassus shrugged again. “I do not know. What he did, what he said, why we bothered -- those are all good questions, and I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not an officer, thank the gods, nor am I a barbarian High Priest. I only know two things for sure.”
There was a long silence before his companion said impatiently, “Go on.”
“One -- they’re never going to finish with him before sundown, unless they force those arms and legs.” He paused, then, watching them.
“And what’s two?” the other soldier asked after a few moments.
“None of this matters one whit to me, because I know for certain this problem has been solved. What caused it, I don’t know -- but we solved it. He is dead and gone, and out of our hair. He will pose no problems to anyone once he’s in the tomb.”
Crassus paused, then, spit into the dust, and looked up at the gloomy sky. “I wish all our problems were this easy to solve.”
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
Great and Fearsome Beasts
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 22
Many bulls encircle me, strong bulls of Bashan surround me...(Psalm 22:12).
As the baseball season opens many folks will consult magazines, the Internet, and good old-fashioned baseball cards to get statistics on a ball player. Hits, runs, RBIs, Earned Run Average, On Base Percentage, and other numbers far more esoteric which are designed to freeze in amber the skills of a player.
Most people don't know that statistics are also available for the prize bulls that appear in rodeos around the country, but then, these bulls are every bit the celebrity as the adults and children who ride them. They have their own Facebook pages (though they probably don't write their own entries!). The toughest bulls make plenty of money from t-shirt sales and action figures.
And their owners probably need the cash. A prize-winning bull can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to breed. Fortunately, the real champions don't need much training. Bulls do not like someone riding them. It goes against every fiber of their being. That's why once the bull takes off with a cowpoke on board it will twist and buck and writhe and roll in every way possible to throw off the rider, and it usually succeeds.
That's why the goal for the rider is to last only eight seconds, but that can seem an eternity. Indeed, some competitions take place not for riders to earn points and prizes, but to grade the bulls in their ferocity, with the hope of increasing their fees, both for rodeos and stud services.
One particularly famous bull, named Bodacious, was retired prematurely from competition during the nineties, because his owner believed the bull was getting closer and closer to killing someone. The deaths of riders may not be common, but they are certainly not unknown either. Injuries are, but that doesn't stop the competitors for whom the more dangerous the ride, the better, as this can lead to prize money.
Children begin by riding sheep and cows, and by their teen years have graduated to bulls. Soon they might find themselves earning substantial prize money, and sporting the same injuries as their elders. Even though children are required to wear protective clothing and helmets, injuries are frequent, and seem to do nothing to deter an aspiring bull rider from taking part in this most dangerous of sports.
Modern bulls are the descendants of the fearsome Aurochs hunted by our ancestors during the age of the giant mammals. Bulls can literally weigh a ton. Artwork from the ancient Minoan culture depicts the daredevil antics of acrobats who grasped the horns of a charging bull and threw themselves over the beasts. Bulls were venerated by the Minoans, and they are certainly respected, with their own store of lore, by modern bull riders today.
The Psalmist, in Psalm 22, figuratively uses the image of being surrounded by bulls as part of his anguish, referring to the "strong bulls of Bashan" as particularly fearsome. Bashan, east of the Jordan River, was a fertile area known for its cattle, and mentioned several times in scripture. The Psalmist's reaction to them ("I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast...." Psalm22:4) is certainly understandable to anyone who has ever stood face to face with one of these great and fearsome beasts.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and is the senior pastor of the Union Center Church of the Brethren near Nappanee, Indiana. Frank has served congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. He and his wife Jennie share three adult children, all married, and three grandchildren. He enjoys writing, reading, exercise, and theater.
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StoryShare, April 3, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.ted Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Back from the Dead
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the Lord.
-- Psalm 118:17
Maybe merely being restored to life after having been left for dead is not the same as rising from the grave, but the story of Penelope Stout certainly calls to mind the miracle of Easter. Penelope was not only granted more life -- she lived that life to the fullest.
Before we tell the story, let's introduce the storyteller. Abraham Harley Cassel (1820-1908) of Harleysville, Pennsylvania, was one of the old Dunkers, one of the Pennsylvania Dutch, such as you might see driving a buggy through rural Lancaster or York counties today. Raised to farming, he had a hunger for books that was nearly starved by his father, who believed that the only result that could come from education was learning how to sin.
As a result Cassel, whose first language was German, attended school a total of less than six weeks. His first language was German. An older sister taught him English as well as reading and writing. As an adult Abraham Harley Cassel, though of simple means, amassed a library of over 50,000 books, manuscripts, and pamphlets.
Though he became famous as a knowledgeable antiquarian who gladly shared his library with others, he was always embarrassed about his lack of education and was reluctant to write formal histories. Nevertheless, he occasionally sent letters to the editors of magazines with a story he thought others might find interesting.
In the archives of Juniata College, where much of Cassel's collection is now held, are three pages of foolscap with Cassel's regular, neat handwriting. Dated September 26, 1728, it is titled "Some Interesting Reminiscences of the old Hopewell Baptist Church," located in Hunterton County, New Jersey. The meetinghouse was built in 1747 by Jonathan Stout, who Cassel identifies as a "Primitive Baptist." But his account of the original families of the church, who organized in April 1715, pales to the story he tells of one ancestor of the Stout family:
"But the most remarkable part of its history, is that of the Stout's family, of which we will give a brief sketch. Romantic as it may appear, we believe it strictly true; and furnishes a remarkable instance of the watchful care and protection of an over-ruling Providence for a special purpose.
"As already seen Jonathan Stout and family were the seed of the church and the beginning of the settlement; and also that of the fifteen which constituted the church, nine were Stouts, that it was constituted at the house of a Stout, the meetings were held in the dwellings of the Stouts for forty-one years, or till the meeting-house was built -- from first to last about half the members were Stouts -- for in looking over the church books we find about two hundred of the name. Besides about as many were of the blood, who had lost the name by marriage. And what is wonderful -- all sprang from one woman, and she as good as dead. Her history is carefully preserved by her posterity and is told as following: she was born at Amsterdam, about the year 1602. Her father's name was Vanprincis. She and her first husband (whose name is lost) sailed for New York (then called New Amsterdam) about the year 1620. The vessel was stranded at Sandy Hook about eighteen miles South of the harbor, the crew got ashore and marched towards the said New York. But Penelope's (that was her name) husband being so badly hurt in the wreck could not march with them. Therefore he and the wife tarried in the woods: -- they had not been long in the place, before the Indians killed them both (as they thought) and stripped them both naked to the skin. However Penelope came to life again, though her skull was fractured and her left shoulder so hacked, that she could never use that arm like the other, she was also cut across the abdomen, so that her bowels appeared; these she kept in with her hand. She continued in this miserable situation for seven days, taking shelter in a hollow tree, and eating the excresence of it. The seventh day she saw a deer passing by with arrows sticking in it, and soon after two Indians appeared, whom she was glad to see, hoping they would put her out of her misery: accordingly one made towards her, to knock her on the head, but the other, who was an elderly man, prevented him, and throwing his match-coat about her to cover her nakedness, he carried her to his wigwam, and cured her of her wounds and bruises, after that, he took her to New York and made a present of her, to her country-men.... It was in New York not long after her arrival, that one Richard Stout married her. He was a native of England and of a good family. She was now in her 22nd year and he in his fortieth. She bore him seven sons and three daughters, viz. Jonathan, the founder of Hopewell, John, Richard, James, Peter, David, Benjamin, Mary, Sarah and Alice. The daughters married into the families of the Bounds', Pikes', and Skeltons'. The sons also married and had many children. The mother lived to the extraordinary age of one hundred and ten years and saw her offspring multiplied into five hundred and two, in about eighty-eight years."
Penelope Stout could have died, should have died, yet she persevered despite her horrific ordeal -- and certainly all her descendents -- which would eventually include the novelist Rex Stout, best known for the Nero Wolfe mystery novels -- were thankful that she endured beyond a living death into a full and productive life.
On this Easter Day we celebrate Jesus, who also persevered through a horrifying ordeal and through whom we all have life, rich life, abundant life, life eternal. We are all family and all descendants of another who suffered that we might be live.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
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StoryShare, April 5-6, 8, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
"The Bitter End" by Keith Hewitt
"Great and Fearsome Beasts" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * *
The Bitter End
by Keith Hewitt
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
There’s a reason they call it dead weight.
The thought flitted through Crassus’ mind like a hummingbird searching for nectar, lit briefly, then flew away to be replaced by less charitable thoughts as he and his partner patiently rocked the patibulum -- the horizontal beam of the cross -- out of its mortised joint. It was hard going with the body still hanging there, but it seemed to be the only practical approach shy of climbing a ladder and prying out the nails.
There was no ladder; no one in the crucifixion detail had foreseen the need for one.
After what seemed like a long time, made longer by the fact that they worked in an unnatural gloom that had cast a pall over the landscape, the patibulum finally worked loose from the upright. With a grunt, they lifted it up over the top, took three steps back on the rocky soil, and dropped it unceremoniously. It landed with a muffled thud, raised a low cloud of dust that settled quickly; the air was still. Both men dragged the backs of their hands across their sweaty foreheads as they stared down at the body.
“Doesn’t look like much, does he?” the other soldier grunted, spitting near it.
Crassus considered the sight. The lower limbs had already started to swell and turn dark, as blood sought the lowest point in the body when the heart stopped; this was normal, and one of the ways to tell when someone had finally died. The corpse’s mouth hung open -- the tongue had lolled out to one side, but now that it was on its back, seemed to have fallen back into the mouth.
The eyes were fixed and lifeless, the face battered and bruised, swollen here and there -- nothing unusual, there, as condemned prisoners tended to attract the bitterness and discontent of those who had custody of them. What was unusual was the thorny headpiece that had been forced down over its head, the blood that had gushed from it, and the multiple swelling wounds caused by the thorns. Together with the gashes and gouges that covered the body, front and back, they pointed to an unusual amount of abuse, even for a barbarian convicted of sedition.
Crassus chuckled, glanced at his companion and said, “I saw him before all this -- he wasn’t that much to look at in the first place.” He nodded toward the body. “Let’s get the nails out and be done with it.”
The other soldier knelt on the right arm as Crassus leaned over it, began worrying loose the nail that had been driven through the wrist. As he worked at it with a pry bar, the kneeling soldier said, “Where did you see him? You’re not going native, are you, Crassus? You see him in some tavern, somewhere?”
Crassus snorted. “I saw him coming into town last week. No, last Sunday. I was on duty, and saw him riding into town like some bumpkin general, come to claim victory. The people around him were going crazy, waving palm fronds and shouting, like maybe welcoming him here.”
His companion’s eyebrow rose. “Really? What were they shouting?”
There was a brief silence as the nail came part-way out, and Crassus grabbed it with one calloused hand, worked it back and forth until he could pull it out by hand. With each movement, the wound was torn a little bit more; he didn’t notice. Once free, he slipped the nail into a pouch on his belt and nodded toward the other arm.
They switched sides, and he began working on the nail through the left wrist. “What were they shouting?” he asked, repeating the other’s question. He paused, looked down at him and raised his hand, made a yapping motion with thumb and fingers. “They talk, I hear dogs barking. Who knows what they were saying? But they seemed to like him.” He shrugged, went back to prying. “I reported it to the centurion. If he reported it up the chain of command, I don’t know. Don’t much care, either.”
“Is that why he’s here?”
Crassus shook his head. “The way the Legate explained it, it’s some kind of internal religious squabble. They suckered Pilate into the middle of it, gave him no choice but to have the barbarian executed. He didn’t want to appear weak, and at holiday time, he needed to keep the peace. This is no time for a riot.”
The nail was being stubborn. He stopped briefly, contemplated the efficacy of simply hacking the hand off the body, and worrying about retrieving the nail later; unconsciously, he looked over his shoulder at the clutch of women standing, sobbing silently, a little ways down the hill. There was an old lady there that could have been his mother, and who knows about the others? Could have been wives, or sisters -- or both; with barbarians it was so hard to tell.
With them looking on, he took another crack at pulling out the nail, was successful this time. He tucked that one away, into his pouch, and stood up, straightening and turning to face the two men he knew were standing a little ways away from the women. One of them held a bundle of white cloth -- a shroud, he guessed.
He caught the eye of the one who had given him the note from his Legate at Fortress Antonia -- an older man, and rich if he was any judge of clothes. “Omnium vestrum est,” Crassus grunted, and waved a hand at the body. It’s all yours. When the old man didn’t move, Crassus rolled his eyes and repeated it in Greek.
Then the old man nodded, and muttered something to his companion with the shroud. Woof, Crassus thought, and smiled to himself, woof-woof-woof. With a nervous glance at the women, the man with the shroud rolled it out on the ground, and the two of them manhandled the body onto the bleached white cloth. It was an awkward thing, as the legs were bent and both arms splayed out. The death-stiffness had already begun to set in, and the legs could not be straightened, the arms could not be easily folded to his side.
The two soldiers watched for a few moments, exchanging amused glances but not laughing outright -- the women still bothered Crassus, even if they were barbarians. “They’ll never get it done that way,” his companion observed, drawing on his own knowledge.
“Of course not,” Crassus agreed. “But it’s not our problem. The note said to give them the body, we’ve given them the body.”
“What about the others?” he asked, nodding toward the other two crosses that were occupied at that moment.
Crassus shrugged. “The note said to deliver one dead Jewish false prophet; we’ve delivered it. There is no hurry for the others.” The other bodies would stay up until the crosses were needed, or they had been pulled apart by animals and time. Not only did it mean they wouldn’t have to deal with the bodies, but while they hung there they provided such good incentive not to go against the Roman Empire.
“So what do you suppose made this one so special?”
Crassus shrugged. “Like I said, it wasn’t his handsome face or his heroic figure. He was just another nothing, a cipher, a face you wouldn’t look at twice -- unless it happened to strike you as particularly unpleasant. Which it might, I suppose, if you were an aesthete. Me, I didn’t care.”
“They can’t kill you for being ugly, Crassus, or you would have been dead a long time ago.”
Crassus grinned, “But not before you. Seriously, I don’t know. He was some kind of false prophet, he made the Temple Priests angry -- and whatever he said or did must have convinced Pilate that he could be convicted for sedition. The sign said he was their king, but I know that wasn’t true.”
“Seems like an awful lot of trouble to go through, just to get rid of someone who’s a little bit mad -- no matter what he said. He had no power, that I could see. We didn’t mount a guard, to make sure he wasn’t rescued. Hardly anybody came to be with him in his last hours. I wonder what made them so angry?”
Crassus shrugged again. “I do not know. What he did, what he said, why we bothered -- those are all good questions, and I don’t know and I don’t care. I’m not an officer, thank the gods, nor am I a barbarian High Priest. I only know two things for sure.”
There was a long silence before his companion said impatiently, “Go on.”
“One -- they’re never going to finish with him before sundown, unless they force those arms and legs.” He paused, then, watching them.
“And what’s two?” the other soldier asked after a few moments.
“None of this matters one whit to me, because I know for certain this problem has been solved. What caused it, I don’t know -- but we solved it. He is dead and gone, and out of our hair. He will pose no problems to anyone once he’s in the tomb.”
Crassus paused, then, spit into the dust, and looked up at the gloomy sky. “I wish all our problems were this easy to solve.”
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
Great and Fearsome Beasts
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 22
Many bulls encircle me, strong bulls of Bashan surround me...(Psalm 22:12).
As the baseball season opens many folks will consult magazines, the Internet, and good old-fashioned baseball cards to get statistics on a ball player. Hits, runs, RBIs, Earned Run Average, On Base Percentage, and other numbers far more esoteric which are designed to freeze in amber the skills of a player.
Most people don't know that statistics are also available for the prize bulls that appear in rodeos around the country, but then, these bulls are every bit the celebrity as the adults and children who ride them. They have their own Facebook pages (though they probably don't write their own entries!). The toughest bulls make plenty of money from t-shirt sales and action figures.
And their owners probably need the cash. A prize-winning bull can cost hundreds of thousands of dollars to breed. Fortunately, the real champions don't need much training. Bulls do not like someone riding them. It goes against every fiber of their being. That's why once the bull takes off with a cowpoke on board it will twist and buck and writhe and roll in every way possible to throw off the rider, and it usually succeeds.
That's why the goal for the rider is to last only eight seconds, but that can seem an eternity. Indeed, some competitions take place not for riders to earn points and prizes, but to grade the bulls in their ferocity, with the hope of increasing their fees, both for rodeos and stud services.
One particularly famous bull, named Bodacious, was retired prematurely from competition during the nineties, because his owner believed the bull was getting closer and closer to killing someone. The deaths of riders may not be common, but they are certainly not unknown either. Injuries are, but that doesn't stop the competitors for whom the more dangerous the ride, the better, as this can lead to prize money.
Children begin by riding sheep and cows, and by their teen years have graduated to bulls. Soon they might find themselves earning substantial prize money, and sporting the same injuries as their elders. Even though children are required to wear protective clothing and helmets, injuries are frequent, and seem to do nothing to deter an aspiring bull rider from taking part in this most dangerous of sports.
Modern bulls are the descendants of the fearsome Aurochs hunted by our ancestors during the age of the giant mammals. Bulls can literally weigh a ton. Artwork from the ancient Minoan culture depicts the daredevil antics of acrobats who grasped the horns of a charging bull and threw themselves over the beasts. Bulls were venerated by the Minoans, and they are certainly respected, with their own store of lore, by modern bull riders today.
The Psalmist, in Psalm 22, figuratively uses the image of being surrounded by bulls as part of his anguish, referring to the "strong bulls of Bashan" as particularly fearsome. Bashan, east of the Jordan River, was a fertile area known for its cattle, and mentioned several times in scripture. The Psalmist's reaction to them ("I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted within my breast...." Psalm22:4) is certainly understandable to anyone who has ever stood face to face with one of these great and fearsome beasts.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and is the senior pastor of the Union Center Church of the Brethren near Nappanee, Indiana. Frank has served congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. He and his wife Jennie share three adult children, all married, and three grandchildren. He enjoys writing, reading, exercise, and theater.
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StoryShare, April 3, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.ted Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Back from the Dead
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 118:1-2, 14-24
I shall not die, but I shall live, and recount the deeds of the Lord.
-- Psalm 118:17
Maybe merely being restored to life after having been left for dead is not the same as rising from the grave, but the story of Penelope Stout certainly calls to mind the miracle of Easter. Penelope was not only granted more life -- she lived that life to the fullest.
Before we tell the story, let's introduce the storyteller. Abraham Harley Cassel (1820-1908) of Harleysville, Pennsylvania, was one of the old Dunkers, one of the Pennsylvania Dutch, such as you might see driving a buggy through rural Lancaster or York counties today. Raised to farming, he had a hunger for books that was nearly starved by his father, who believed that the only result that could come from education was learning how to sin.
As a result Cassel, whose first language was German, attended school a total of less than six weeks. His first language was German. An older sister taught him English as well as reading and writing. As an adult Abraham Harley Cassel, though of simple means, amassed a library of over 50,000 books, manuscripts, and pamphlets.
Though he became famous as a knowledgeable antiquarian who gladly shared his library with others, he was always embarrassed about his lack of education and was reluctant to write formal histories. Nevertheless, he occasionally sent letters to the editors of magazines with a story he thought others might find interesting.
In the archives of Juniata College, where much of Cassel's collection is now held, are three pages of foolscap with Cassel's regular, neat handwriting. Dated September 26, 1728, it is titled "Some Interesting Reminiscences of the old Hopewell Baptist Church," located in Hunterton County, New Jersey. The meetinghouse was built in 1747 by Jonathan Stout, who Cassel identifies as a "Primitive Baptist." But his account of the original families of the church, who organized in April 1715, pales to the story he tells of one ancestor of the Stout family:
"But the most remarkable part of its history, is that of the Stout's family, of which we will give a brief sketch. Romantic as it may appear, we believe it strictly true; and furnishes a remarkable instance of the watchful care and protection of an over-ruling Providence for a special purpose.
"As already seen Jonathan Stout and family were the seed of the church and the beginning of the settlement; and also that of the fifteen which constituted the church, nine were Stouts, that it was constituted at the house of a Stout, the meetings were held in the dwellings of the Stouts for forty-one years, or till the meeting-house was built -- from first to last about half the members were Stouts -- for in looking over the church books we find about two hundred of the name. Besides about as many were of the blood, who had lost the name by marriage. And what is wonderful -- all sprang from one woman, and she as good as dead. Her history is carefully preserved by her posterity and is told as following: she was born at Amsterdam, about the year 1602. Her father's name was Vanprincis. She and her first husband (whose name is lost) sailed for New York (then called New Amsterdam) about the year 1620. The vessel was stranded at Sandy Hook about eighteen miles South of the harbor, the crew got ashore and marched towards the said New York. But Penelope's (that was her name) husband being so badly hurt in the wreck could not march with them. Therefore he and the wife tarried in the woods: -- they had not been long in the place, before the Indians killed them both (as they thought) and stripped them both naked to the skin. However Penelope came to life again, though her skull was fractured and her left shoulder so hacked, that she could never use that arm like the other, she was also cut across the abdomen, so that her bowels appeared; these she kept in with her hand. She continued in this miserable situation for seven days, taking shelter in a hollow tree, and eating the excresence of it. The seventh day she saw a deer passing by with arrows sticking in it, and soon after two Indians appeared, whom she was glad to see, hoping they would put her out of her misery: accordingly one made towards her, to knock her on the head, but the other, who was an elderly man, prevented him, and throwing his match-coat about her to cover her nakedness, he carried her to his wigwam, and cured her of her wounds and bruises, after that, he took her to New York and made a present of her, to her country-men.... It was in New York not long after her arrival, that one Richard Stout married her. He was a native of England and of a good family. She was now in her 22nd year and he in his fortieth. She bore him seven sons and three daughters, viz. Jonathan, the founder of Hopewell, John, Richard, James, Peter, David, Benjamin, Mary, Sarah and Alice. The daughters married into the families of the Bounds', Pikes', and Skeltons'. The sons also married and had many children. The mother lived to the extraordinary age of one hundred and ten years and saw her offspring multiplied into five hundred and two, in about eighty-eight years."
Penelope Stout could have died, should have died, yet she persevered despite her horrific ordeal -- and certainly all her descendents -- which would eventually include the novelist Rex Stout, best known for the Nero Wolfe mystery novels -- were thankful that she endured beyond a living death into a full and productive life.
On this Easter Day we celebrate Jesus, who also persevered through a horrifying ordeal and through whom we all have life, rich life, abundant life, life eternal. We are all family and all descendants of another who suffered that we might be live.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
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StoryShare, April 5-6, 8, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
