The Cell
Stories
Object:
Contents
"The Cell" by Keith Hewitt
"Angels Among Us" by Constance Berg
"The Perfect Imperfect Pageant" by Gregory L. Tolle
* * * * * * * * *
Left to our own devices, we will live apart from God -- we will live in the darkness of our world, imprisoned by our own natures. Although Isaiah tells us that God promised a savior, and a sign, what guarantee do we have that we will recognize the sign? Is it possible that we might become so entombed in our own personal prison that the message of hope won't reach us? Keith Hewitt examines this question in his story, "The Cell."
The Cell
by Keith Hewitt
Isaiah 7:10-16
There was a rat in his cell.
It was a good day.
Mostly, they didn't come around anymore -- perhaps older, wiser rats told stories around little rat campfires, warning the younger ones to stay away; perhaps it was seasonal; or perhaps the population was just dwindling. The prisoner thought back as he went about his business, trying to remember when he had last seen one -- it was hard when there was no day or night, only the uncertain rhythm of sleep and wakefulness, and irregularly served meals. He guessed at a month, just to pin a time to it, but was pretty sure he was wrong.
A long time ago, he had started scratching hash marks on the wall, in the gloom, but abandoned it because it was just pointless. He'd found that keeping track when he didn't really know was just as depressing as not keeping track at all. So now he spent his time trying to pull his consciousness up out of the stream of time, and just live in the moment, experiencing each quantum of time as though it was the only one -- no past to look back on; no future to look forward to.
By a stroke of fortune almost too good to believe, his slop bucket had been emptied and not used again since his last sleep -- this was good. He used his blanket to block the hole he believed the rat had used to enter, then approached it, slowly, working it into a corner of the cell. Once it knew it was trapped -- the prisoner could tell when that moment came, from the look in its eyes -- he moved suddenly, leaping forward and slamming the upside down bucket over the intruder. A frantic squeal and the sound of claws scratching at the side of the bucket told him he'd been successful.
Excellent! He had learned, by unfortunate trial and error that this was the best way. Not knowing when he would be fed again -- if you could call it being fed, when someone shoved a cup of weak broth and a ball of mealy rice through the slot in the door -- it was important to keep the rat alive until it was needed. It did not pay to allow too much time to elapse between the dispatching of the rat and mealtime, else the meat would not be usable.
He sat on the stone shelf on the other side of the cell -- his bed, table, and seat -- and chuckled softly as he listened to the scratching, heard the pot move every once in awhile as the rat threw itself against the side. Involuntarily, he began to salivate, and he licked his lips in the darkness. Soon, he thought, it should come soon.
Some time later, another sound crept into his consciousness. He closed his eyes, tilted his head, and listened. Yes, there it was -- and he let out a breath. Not again, he thought, not again. He lowered his head, tried to ignore it -- even put his hands to his ears to block it out -- but the faint tap-tap-tapping cut through it all. Why can't I be left alone to be in this moment?
He slumped, then, rested his head against the wall behind him -- and the bone conduction made the sound clearer. The taps came singly, or in groups, some close together, some farther apart. Involuntarily, the groups of taps formed letters in his mind, strung themselves together so that on the inside of his eyelids he could see them, faintly, glowing in the darkness.
-u s-t-i-l-l t-h-e-r-e-?
He sat still, held his breath -- perhaps if he ignored them…
Then again: A-r-e y-o-u s-t-i-l-l t-h-e-r-e-?
Not this time. I can't stand it. He sat stone-still, not even breathing.
A-r-e y-o-u s-t-i-l-l t-h-e-r-e-?
He hung his head, felt around on his bed for the chunk of stone that he had lay there, and began to tap back. I a-m s-t-i-l-l h-e-r-e-.
The answer seemed stronger, a little faster, maybe. G-o-o-d-. H-a-n-g o-n b-u-d-d-y-, s-o-m-e-o-n-e-s c-o-m-i-n-g t-o g-e-t u-s o-u-t o-f h-e-r-e I p-r-o-m-i-s-e-.
He shook his head, tapped back slowly. I d-o-n-t t-h-i-n-k s-o-. N-o-o-n-e c-a-r-e-s.
The answer was immediate. D-o-n-t y-o-u b-e-l-I-e-v-e t-h-a-t-. S-o-m-e-o-n-e s-t-i-l-l c-a-r-e-s-.
H-o-w d-o y-o-u k-n-o-w-?
H-a-v-e a l-i-t-t-l-e f-a-i-t-h-. I k-n-o-w-.
His consciousness splashed back into the stream of time, now, floundered and cried for help as all the days past flooded over him, and the unknown days ahead loomed like a giant wave about to break and obliterate his soul. I c-a-n-t-.
I-t-s a p-r-o-m-i-s-e b-u-d-d-y-. J-u-s-t h-o-l-d i-t t-o-g-e-t-h-e-r a-n-d k-e-e-p t-h-e f-a-i-t-h.
A promise? How could he pin his hopes and future on a promise, dimly heard, from someone he had never seen? How could that ever make sense? He wanted so hard to believe it -- to believe that there was sunlight, somewhere, that one day he would see something beside this cell that had become his world -- he wanted so hard to believe it, that he refused to allow himself to.
W-a-t-c-h f-o-r a s-i-g-n. The tapping answered a question he hadn't asked. S-o-m-e-o-n-e c-a-r-e-s-.
A sign? In a world he could measure in paces, where sleep and food were the only ways to mark time, what could ever change? Someone cares? In a life of darkness, isolation -- apartness from all that he knew was good, even if it was such a faint memory that he could readily believe it was a dream, a misremembered age -- how could someone who cared allow him to exist this way?
He let the piece of stone slip from his fingers, too tired to argue, too tired to question. The noise of it hitting the floor startled the rat, and it began throwing itself against the side of the bucket again -- claws scratching on the floor mingled with the thud, thud, thud of the body against the bucket, punctuated now and then by the sound of the bucket scraping across the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to block out the world again, tried to make it go away, to let his being float above the river of time, out of touch with existence…
To not be, though he clearly was… to not feel, though he clearly did.
Why won't the darkness swallow me up and let it end?
B-e-c-a-u-s-e t-h-e s-p-a-r-k s-t-i-l-l b-u-r-n-s. The taps were loud, insistent.
He leaned forward, curled himself in a ball until he was not touching the wall -- put his fists to his ears to block out the sound. He was still sitting this way, some unknown time later, when sound invaded his world again. Footsteps, this time: slow, deliberate footsteps. Half a dozen steps, then pause; half a dozen steps, then pause. Finally, the steps were outside his cell, and in the pause, he heard the ancient creak of metal on metal as the slot at the bottom of his door opened -- scratching of metal on stone as the tray was slid through, then the creak of the pass-through closing.
But… something was different.
His nose twitched, the first to notice the difference. He opened his eyes in the gloom, and leaned forward, sliding to the edge of the shelf. There, on the tray -- yes, the cup of broth; the dirty bowl with the speckled ball of rice… and something else. Lying next to the bowl, a piece of meat. It was the size of three fingers, and it looked overcooked -- and it smelled like heaven.
In all of his life -- this life, anyway, the only one that was real -- this had never happened before. He was almost afraid to pick it up, lest it disappear like one of those dreams he used to have… but the smell was too good to resist; the sight was too tempting to ignore. He leaned forward, touched it -- actually touched it!
And the slop bucket inched noisily across the floor.
Startled, his mind swung to the meat waiting there -- here was a chance to feast! He set the tray on his shelf, and stepped over to the corner, squatted down in front of the overturned pot and touched it with one hand, meditating on the best way to do this thing. As he squatted there, it scratched -- he could feel it almost as much as hear it -- and suddenly the scratches seemed to sound like taps… he could imagine them as taps on the wall, and for a moment thought about what it must be like under the pot.
Not so very different than what it's like here. The thought formed slowly, and he hesitated, turned it over a couple of times and examined it. After awhile, he realized that the idea made him uneasy. What was the difference? Life in gloom, measured out behind inescapable walls, at the mercy of whoever put him there… what was the difference?
"The difference is, I still have hope," he said aloud, and the sound of his own voice, his own thought, startled him -- and he smiled in the gloom. "The spark still burns." He reached across the cell and moved his blanket and then stood up and lifted the bucket -- the rat sat stock still for a moment, staring at him, and then raced for its hole.
The prisoner was smiling as he sat down next to his meal and began to pick at it eagerly with dirty fingers.
It was a good day.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
Angels Among Us
by Constance Berg
Matthew 1:18-25
Books and magazines are filled with people's encounters with "angels": people who give selflessly, people who practice random acts of kindness, people who give without wanting or expecting anything in return. There is no doubt that there are angels among us. Almost everyone has a story about something a person has done for him or her without motive, through kindness and grace. But not many people can say they have been visited by an angelic being, as is the biblical account of Joseph's visit from the angel.
In ancient times, angels were considered to be supernatural, spiritual messengers or beings who did God's will on earth. Angels were a promised form of communication with God. Angels came to speak to people in the Bible; they had a specific message for the person. It could be counsel, clarification, or a divine warning. Joseph's angel came to give clarity to the situation of Mary's pregnancy. Sometimes an angel's message was one of pure joy, as when the shepherds saw a group of angels singing in jubilant chorus to announce the arrival of the baby Jesus (Luke 2:13-14). Sometimes the message was foreboding, and the angel would give a warning, as in the case of Joseph having to flee Egypt with Mary and the infant Jesus (Matthew 2:13). Sometimes they were helpful, as when an angel protected the fleeing Israelites by placing a pillar of clouds between them and the Egyptians (Exodus 14:19-20). One angel slaughtered 185,000 Assyrians for trying to attack Jerusalem (2 Kings 19:35).
The outward appearance of angels is hardly given notice. It was their function that was of importance in the scriptures. They were usually recognized immediately, either as being perceived as God or as being clothed in garments that made them seem heavenly, such as a white robe, or a being bathed in bright light.
In contrast, appearance is of major importance in the modern world. Today's versions of angels are little knickknacks that sit on a shelf, or little pins that sit on our shoulders, or even statues to whom people bring flowers. We tend to adore these little interpretations of angels. We have cute poems and easily call people -- family and friends alike -- "angels." Angelic beings come in every ethnic color, every pose conceivable, and every dress imaginable and are made of every material imaginable: plastic, ceramic, porcelain, and so on.
Angels are considered a reminder of things dear and sweet. My son has a little angel ornament dressed in a hockey uniform that we hang on our Christmas tree. There are even angels dressed in ballerina tutus and aprons and chef's hats. An angel adorns our wall, holding a watering can and spade, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She wears gardening gloves and wears a little sign that says "gardening angel." A little magnet on my refrigerator reads: "God in His love often sends His gift of angels -- we call them 'friends.' "
Angels are definitely among us. We know that when we use a much broader definition of "angel": a nurse who sits with us in the recovery room, making sure we are okay after major surgery; a feeling that overcomes us and causes us to stop on the side of the road that in turn saves our lives as we watch a tire blow out; a neighbor who will sit for hours making silk flower pieces for a wedding because the florist's order is mistakenly canceled; a sixth sense, if you will, not to trust something that turns out to be evil and sinister. Divine messages come in many forms.
Angels come in many forms. Have you ever been considered an angel?
(Constance Berg, Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series III, Cycle A [Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing, Co.], 2001)
The Perfect Imperfect Pageant
by Gregory L. Tolle
Matthew 1:18-25
When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
-- Matthew 1:24-25
In The Good News from North Haven, Michael Lindvall tells of how a Christmas pageant gone awry shows the great love and commitment that Joseph had for God and Mary. For 46 years Alvina Johnson had directed the pageant of her church, Second Presbyterian Church in North Haven, Minnesota. And for 46 years, the Christmas play remained unchanged. She strove for perfection, which meant she made simplicity a priority. As such, she only allowed nine parts, which excluded several children of the church. She also was a stickler for tradition, which meant the play was a recitation of the King James Version of the Christmas story from Luke chapter 2.
But after 46 years several of the young mothers sought a change. They felt more children should be allowed to participate. So some of the mothers held a coup d'etat and took over the pageant. However, with the change in leadership came less than perfect results. More sheep meant more problems -- especially when these rural children knew how unruly sheep behave.
The imperfection culminated at the pageant when Mary and Joseph entered. Now Mary was wonderful. She gently held a baby doll in a blue blanket. She peered into the face of the doll with eyes that appeared to really see the infant Christ. But Joseph was another story. He had largely gotten the part because Alvina Johnson had rejected him from the Christmas Pageant more times than any other kid in church.
The plan was for Mary and Joseph to walk in as the Narrator read from the traditional King James text, "And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child."
This was the plan. This is what the Narrator had practiced for months. But a few hours before the performance, one of the new young leaders had observed that the children struggled with the King James English. As the young mothers discussed the problem, they asked, "What kid knows what 'great with child' means?" In their revolutionary fervor, they decided to switch to the Good News translation of the Bible. After all, it would make the story more understandable for everyone.
So during the performance when Mary and Joseph entered, the Narrator read, "Joseph went to register with Mary who was promised in marriage to him. She was pregnant." The word pregnant seemed to echo through the PA system. Poor little Joseph stopped in his tracks. He gave Mary an astounded look, and then looked out at the congregation and said, "Pregnant? What do you mean, pregnant?"
The congregation burst out laughing. Lindvall's wife laughed so hard she cried. She wiped the tears from her eyes and leaned over to him and said, "You know, that may well be just what Joseph actually said." The pageant may not have been perfect, but the imperfection better displayed the character of Joseph as he followed God's command to stay with Mary and raise the Son of God.
(Gregory L. Tolle, Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series IV, Cycle A [Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing, Co.], 2004)
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 19, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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 Cell" by Keith Hewitt
"Angels Among Us" by Constance Berg
"The Perfect Imperfect Pageant" by Gregory L. Tolle
* * * * * * * * *
Left to our own devices, we will live apart from God -- we will live in the darkness of our world, imprisoned by our own natures. Although Isaiah tells us that God promised a savior, and a sign, what guarantee do we have that we will recognize the sign? Is it possible that we might become so entombed in our own personal prison that the message of hope won't reach us? Keith Hewitt examines this question in his story, "The Cell."
The Cell
by Keith Hewitt
Isaiah 7:10-16
There was a rat in his cell.
It was a good day.
Mostly, they didn't come around anymore -- perhaps older, wiser rats told stories around little rat campfires, warning the younger ones to stay away; perhaps it was seasonal; or perhaps the population was just dwindling. The prisoner thought back as he went about his business, trying to remember when he had last seen one -- it was hard when there was no day or night, only the uncertain rhythm of sleep and wakefulness, and irregularly served meals. He guessed at a month, just to pin a time to it, but was pretty sure he was wrong.
A long time ago, he had started scratching hash marks on the wall, in the gloom, but abandoned it because it was just pointless. He'd found that keeping track when he didn't really know was just as depressing as not keeping track at all. So now he spent his time trying to pull his consciousness up out of the stream of time, and just live in the moment, experiencing each quantum of time as though it was the only one -- no past to look back on; no future to look forward to.
By a stroke of fortune almost too good to believe, his slop bucket had been emptied and not used again since his last sleep -- this was good. He used his blanket to block the hole he believed the rat had used to enter, then approached it, slowly, working it into a corner of the cell. Once it knew it was trapped -- the prisoner could tell when that moment came, from the look in its eyes -- he moved suddenly, leaping forward and slamming the upside down bucket over the intruder. A frantic squeal and the sound of claws scratching at the side of the bucket told him he'd been successful.
Excellent! He had learned, by unfortunate trial and error that this was the best way. Not knowing when he would be fed again -- if you could call it being fed, when someone shoved a cup of weak broth and a ball of mealy rice through the slot in the door -- it was important to keep the rat alive until it was needed. It did not pay to allow too much time to elapse between the dispatching of the rat and mealtime, else the meat would not be usable.
He sat on the stone shelf on the other side of the cell -- his bed, table, and seat -- and chuckled softly as he listened to the scratching, heard the pot move every once in awhile as the rat threw itself against the side. Involuntarily, he began to salivate, and he licked his lips in the darkness. Soon, he thought, it should come soon.
Some time later, another sound crept into his consciousness. He closed his eyes, tilted his head, and listened. Yes, there it was -- and he let out a breath. Not again, he thought, not again. He lowered his head, tried to ignore it -- even put his hands to his ears to block it out -- but the faint tap-tap-tapping cut through it all. Why can't I be left alone to be in this moment?
He slumped, then, rested his head against the wall behind him -- and the bone conduction made the sound clearer. The taps came singly, or in groups, some close together, some farther apart. Involuntarily, the groups of taps formed letters in his mind, strung themselves together so that on the inside of his eyelids he could see them, faintly, glowing in the darkness.
-u s-t-i-l-l t-h-e-r-e-?
He sat still, held his breath -- perhaps if he ignored them…
Then again: A-r-e y-o-u s-t-i-l-l t-h-e-r-e-?
Not this time. I can't stand it. He sat stone-still, not even breathing.
A-r-e y-o-u s-t-i-l-l t-h-e-r-e-?
He hung his head, felt around on his bed for the chunk of stone that he had lay there, and began to tap back. I a-m s-t-i-l-l h-e-r-e-.
The answer seemed stronger, a little faster, maybe. G-o-o-d-. H-a-n-g o-n b-u-d-d-y-, s-o-m-e-o-n-e-s c-o-m-i-n-g t-o g-e-t u-s o-u-t o-f h-e-r-e I p-r-o-m-i-s-e-.
He shook his head, tapped back slowly. I d-o-n-t t-h-i-n-k s-o-. N-o-o-n-e c-a-r-e-s.
The answer was immediate. D-o-n-t y-o-u b-e-l-I-e-v-e t-h-a-t-. S-o-m-e-o-n-e s-t-i-l-l c-a-r-e-s-.
H-o-w d-o y-o-u k-n-o-w-?
H-a-v-e a l-i-t-t-l-e f-a-i-t-h-. I k-n-o-w-.
His consciousness splashed back into the stream of time, now, floundered and cried for help as all the days past flooded over him, and the unknown days ahead loomed like a giant wave about to break and obliterate his soul. I c-a-n-t-.
I-t-s a p-r-o-m-i-s-e b-u-d-d-y-. J-u-s-t h-o-l-d i-t t-o-g-e-t-h-e-r a-n-d k-e-e-p t-h-e f-a-i-t-h.
A promise? How could he pin his hopes and future on a promise, dimly heard, from someone he had never seen? How could that ever make sense? He wanted so hard to believe it -- to believe that there was sunlight, somewhere, that one day he would see something beside this cell that had become his world -- he wanted so hard to believe it, that he refused to allow himself to.
W-a-t-c-h f-o-r a s-i-g-n. The tapping answered a question he hadn't asked. S-o-m-e-o-n-e c-a-r-e-s-.
A sign? In a world he could measure in paces, where sleep and food were the only ways to mark time, what could ever change? Someone cares? In a life of darkness, isolation -- apartness from all that he knew was good, even if it was such a faint memory that he could readily believe it was a dream, a misremembered age -- how could someone who cared allow him to exist this way?
He let the piece of stone slip from his fingers, too tired to argue, too tired to question. The noise of it hitting the floor startled the rat, and it began throwing itself against the side of the bucket again -- claws scratching on the floor mingled with the thud, thud, thud of the body against the bucket, punctuated now and then by the sound of the bucket scraping across the floor. He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to block out the world again, tried to make it go away, to let his being float above the river of time, out of touch with existence…
To not be, though he clearly was… to not feel, though he clearly did.
Why won't the darkness swallow me up and let it end?
B-e-c-a-u-s-e t-h-e s-p-a-r-k s-t-i-l-l b-u-r-n-s. The taps were loud, insistent.
He leaned forward, curled himself in a ball until he was not touching the wall -- put his fists to his ears to block out the sound. He was still sitting this way, some unknown time later, when sound invaded his world again. Footsteps, this time: slow, deliberate footsteps. Half a dozen steps, then pause; half a dozen steps, then pause. Finally, the steps were outside his cell, and in the pause, he heard the ancient creak of metal on metal as the slot at the bottom of his door opened -- scratching of metal on stone as the tray was slid through, then the creak of the pass-through closing.
But… something was different.
His nose twitched, the first to notice the difference. He opened his eyes in the gloom, and leaned forward, sliding to the edge of the shelf. There, on the tray -- yes, the cup of broth; the dirty bowl with the speckled ball of rice… and something else. Lying next to the bowl, a piece of meat. It was the size of three fingers, and it looked overcooked -- and it smelled like heaven.
In all of his life -- this life, anyway, the only one that was real -- this had never happened before. He was almost afraid to pick it up, lest it disappear like one of those dreams he used to have… but the smell was too good to resist; the sight was too tempting to ignore. He leaned forward, touched it -- actually touched it!
And the slop bucket inched noisily across the floor.
Startled, his mind swung to the meat waiting there -- here was a chance to feast! He set the tray on his shelf, and stepped over to the corner, squatted down in front of the overturned pot and touched it with one hand, meditating on the best way to do this thing. As he squatted there, it scratched -- he could feel it almost as much as hear it -- and suddenly the scratches seemed to sound like taps… he could imagine them as taps on the wall, and for a moment thought about what it must be like under the pot.
Not so very different than what it's like here. The thought formed slowly, and he hesitated, turned it over a couple of times and examined it. After awhile, he realized that the idea made him uneasy. What was the difference? Life in gloom, measured out behind inescapable walls, at the mercy of whoever put him there… what was the difference?
"The difference is, I still have hope," he said aloud, and the sound of his own voice, his own thought, startled him -- and he smiled in the gloom. "The spark still burns." He reached across the cell and moved his blanket and then stood up and lifted the bucket -- the rat sat stock still for a moment, staring at him, and then raced for its hole.
The prisoner was smiling as he sat down next to his meal and began to pick at it eagerly with dirty fingers.
It was a good day.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
Angels Among Us
by Constance Berg
Matthew 1:18-25
Books and magazines are filled with people's encounters with "angels": people who give selflessly, people who practice random acts of kindness, people who give without wanting or expecting anything in return. There is no doubt that there are angels among us. Almost everyone has a story about something a person has done for him or her without motive, through kindness and grace. But not many people can say they have been visited by an angelic being, as is the biblical account of Joseph's visit from the angel.
In ancient times, angels were considered to be supernatural, spiritual messengers or beings who did God's will on earth. Angels were a promised form of communication with God. Angels came to speak to people in the Bible; they had a specific message for the person. It could be counsel, clarification, or a divine warning. Joseph's angel came to give clarity to the situation of Mary's pregnancy. Sometimes an angel's message was one of pure joy, as when the shepherds saw a group of angels singing in jubilant chorus to announce the arrival of the baby Jesus (Luke 2:13-14). Sometimes the message was foreboding, and the angel would give a warning, as in the case of Joseph having to flee Egypt with Mary and the infant Jesus (Matthew 2:13). Sometimes they were helpful, as when an angel protected the fleeing Israelites by placing a pillar of clouds between them and the Egyptians (Exodus 14:19-20). One angel slaughtered 185,000 Assyrians for trying to attack Jerusalem (2 Kings 19:35).
The outward appearance of angels is hardly given notice. It was their function that was of importance in the scriptures. They were usually recognized immediately, either as being perceived as God or as being clothed in garments that made them seem heavenly, such as a white robe, or a being bathed in bright light.
In contrast, appearance is of major importance in the modern world. Today's versions of angels are little knickknacks that sit on a shelf, or little pins that sit on our shoulders, or even statues to whom people bring flowers. We tend to adore these little interpretations of angels. We have cute poems and easily call people -- family and friends alike -- "angels." Angelic beings come in every ethnic color, every pose conceivable, and every dress imaginable and are made of every material imaginable: plastic, ceramic, porcelain, and so on.
Angels are considered a reminder of things dear and sweet. My son has a little angel ornament dressed in a hockey uniform that we hang on our Christmas tree. There are even angels dressed in ballerina tutus and aprons and chef's hats. An angel adorns our wall, holding a watering can and spade, wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She wears gardening gloves and wears a little sign that says "gardening angel." A little magnet on my refrigerator reads: "God in His love often sends His gift of angels -- we call them 'friends.' "
Angels are definitely among us. We know that when we use a much broader definition of "angel": a nurse who sits with us in the recovery room, making sure we are okay after major surgery; a feeling that overcomes us and causes us to stop on the side of the road that in turn saves our lives as we watch a tire blow out; a neighbor who will sit for hours making silk flower pieces for a wedding because the florist's order is mistakenly canceled; a sixth sense, if you will, not to trust something that turns out to be evil and sinister. Divine messages come in many forms.
Angels come in many forms. Have you ever been considered an angel?
(Constance Berg, Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series III, Cycle A [Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing, Co.], 2001)
The Perfect Imperfect Pageant
by Gregory L. Tolle
Matthew 1:18-25
When Joseph awoke from sleep, he did as the angel of the Lord commanded him; he took her as his wife, but had no marital relations with her until she had borne a son; and he named him Jesus.
-- Matthew 1:24-25
In The Good News from North Haven, Michael Lindvall tells of how a Christmas pageant gone awry shows the great love and commitment that Joseph had for God and Mary. For 46 years Alvina Johnson had directed the pageant of her church, Second Presbyterian Church in North Haven, Minnesota. And for 46 years, the Christmas play remained unchanged. She strove for perfection, which meant she made simplicity a priority. As such, she only allowed nine parts, which excluded several children of the church. She also was a stickler for tradition, which meant the play was a recitation of the King James Version of the Christmas story from Luke chapter 2.
But after 46 years several of the young mothers sought a change. They felt more children should be allowed to participate. So some of the mothers held a coup d'etat and took over the pageant. However, with the change in leadership came less than perfect results. More sheep meant more problems -- especially when these rural children knew how unruly sheep behave.
The imperfection culminated at the pageant when Mary and Joseph entered. Now Mary was wonderful. She gently held a baby doll in a blue blanket. She peered into the face of the doll with eyes that appeared to really see the infant Christ. But Joseph was another story. He had largely gotten the part because Alvina Johnson had rejected him from the Christmas Pageant more times than any other kid in church.
The plan was for Mary and Joseph to walk in as the Narrator read from the traditional King James text, "And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child."
This was the plan. This is what the Narrator had practiced for months. But a few hours before the performance, one of the new young leaders had observed that the children struggled with the King James English. As the young mothers discussed the problem, they asked, "What kid knows what 'great with child' means?" In their revolutionary fervor, they decided to switch to the Good News translation of the Bible. After all, it would make the story more understandable for everyone.
So during the performance when Mary and Joseph entered, the Narrator read, "Joseph went to register with Mary who was promised in marriage to him. She was pregnant." The word pregnant seemed to echo through the PA system. Poor little Joseph stopped in his tracks. He gave Mary an astounded look, and then looked out at the congregation and said, "Pregnant? What do you mean, pregnant?"
The congregation burst out laughing. Lindvall's wife laughed so hard she cried. She wiped the tears from her eyes and leaned over to him and said, "You know, that may well be just what Joseph actually said." The pageant may not have been perfect, but the imperfection better displayed the character of Joseph as he followed God's command to stay with Mary and raise the Son of God.
(Gregory L. Tolle, Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit, Series IV, Cycle A [Lima, Ohio: CSS Publishing, Co.], 2004)
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StoryShare, December 19, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
