A Christmas Reminder
Stories
Object:
Contents
"A Christmas Reminder" by John Sumwalt
"Inditement" by C. David McKirachan
"Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town" by C. David McKirachan
* * * * * * *
A Christmas Reminder
John Sumwalt
Isaiah 35:1-10
He will come and save you. Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped... and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
-- Isaiah 35:4b-6a
Howard Thorsby had never felt more out of place in all of his 56 years than he did that Black Friday, standing in line at 4:00 a.m. outside of Mall Marty World. He had never done anything like this before. A shy, quiet man, except around his friends in the choir at church and some of his relatives, Howard avoided crowds whenever possible. To be bunched together with several hundred excited Christmas shoppers was almost more than he could endure.
The store wasn't scheduled to open until 7:00 a.m. Some people had been camped out there since noon the day before. There were heated tents, sleeping bags, lawn chairs covered with blankets, and assorted portable grills like those seen at tailgating parties at the ball park. The tantalizing aroma of simmering brats and hamburgers mingled with the acrid odor of burning charcoal and cigarette smoke.
Howard was somewhere in the middle of a line that extended around the periphery of the parking lot and halfway up the side of the building to the loading docks. His friends had warned him that he would need to arrive by midnight if he was to have any chance of getting one of the Princess Anastasia dolls that his little granddaughter had her heart set on. He knew that his son and daughter-in-law couldn't afford the doll, which retailed at $160. He could get it for $39 if he was among the first 400 people to get in the door. So there he was in the fifteen degree chill in double socks, insulated hiking boots, thermal underwear, ski pants that he had borrowed from his sister, his heavy wool overcoat that reached almost to his ankles, and a Green Bay Packer Stocking cap picked from the bargain bin at the church rummage sale.
At first Howard noticed that people were having friendly conversations with their neighbors up and down the line. Laughter could be heard above the buzz. There was an air of excitement and expectation like a crowd before a concert or a sporting event. It was about a half hour before the doors were to open that the atmosphere began to change. People edged closer against the people in front of them. There was some pushing and shoving and angry shouting when a few latecomers tried to sneak ahead in the line.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for. Mall Marty employees in security uniforms took their stations in front of the doors and about every forty yards along the line that now stretched back in a loop almost to the highway. When the doors opened the crowd surged forward like horses from the starting gate at Churchill Downs. It was all that the security people could do to slow them down enough so that people didn't get trampled.
Howard was carried toward the doors by this tsunami of obsessed humanity and then into the over-bright florescent lighting that highlighted the alluring displays of products. There were Blue Ray and DVD players, fifty-inch flat screen TVs at ridiculous prices, video games, Androids and iPhones, tablets and laptops, and a long row of Princess Anastasia dolls. Howard was making his way slowly toward the dolls when he heard a woman screaming. He could just barely see her in the towel section about twenty feet ahead. Again the crowd surged toward the screaming to see what was going on. Howard couldn't believe his eyes. A small, middle-aged woman in leopard spotted leotards was on one end of a towel in a tug of war with a large, balding, heavy set man. "I want these towels for my bathroom," she yelled. "They are a perfect match to the new curtains."
"I saw 'em first lady," the heavy set man growled. "They are just the color my mother wants for her new bathroom. There are plenty more cheap towels for you to choose from. This one's mine. Let go of it or I'll..." He didn't get the rest of the words out before three security people surrounded him, pushed him down, and clapped on a set of handcuffs. Two more security persons held the small woman back as she screamed obscenities at the heavy set man who was now rolling and groaning on the grungy Mall Marty floor. The crowd seemed to choose up sides with some yelling for the security people to get off the man and others trying to wrestle the red faced woman away from her Mall Marty captors.
Howard, the mild-mannered church person that he was, and who had never seen such a sight in his life, stood there in shock wondering what could be done to bring some peace to the situation. Suddenly a thought came into his head, perhaps a divine inspiration, to sing something. Maybe music would soothe the savage impulses of the agitated crowd. He remembered the solo he had been rehearsing for the Christmas Eve service and found himself singing it out with all of his might before there was any chance of second thoughts. Howard's clear as a bell, sweet tenor voice rose up over the noise of the crowd:
"Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn King, Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies, With angelic host proclaim, 'Christ is born in Bethlehem!"
The startled Christmas shoppers grew quiet and the anger and tension melted from their faces as they listened to the familiar words of this beloved carol. Then came the miracle. Almost everyone joined in as Howard launched into the chorus:
"Hark the herald angels sing, 'Glory to the newborn king!' "
The small woman put down the towel and the security team eased their grip. The heavy set man was released from the handcuffs and helped to his feet. He turned toward his tug-of-war opponent and said sheepishly, "Lady, I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I am really not like this. I am a respectable citizen and a churchgoer. Please forgive me."
The lady in the leotards reached down and picked up the towel. "I'm sorry too," she said. "I am ashamed of the way I acted over a silly towel. Here, you take it. I am sure your mother will enjoy it."
Howard wasn't there to hear it. He had slipped around the crowd, picked up one of the Princess Anastasia dolls, and was headed toward the cash register with a smile on his face. It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
"Hark the Herald Angels Sing," The United Methodist Hymnal, Charles Wesley, 1774 (Nashville: 1989: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1989), p. 240.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
Inditement
by C. David McKirachan
Matthew 11:2-11
I was new in the ministry, recently out of seminary, doing my best to act like I knew what I was doing. The parish was inner city, with all the grinding issues that come along with such demography. I hadn't started off to be teaching people how to survive on a welfare check or running rent strikes to bust a slum lord or administrating a federal program to serve hot meals to needy senior citizens or writing Sunday school curriculum because we couldn't afford to buy it and then conducting a class to teach people how to teach because they'd never had any experience as a student or a teacher. I'd expected to teach and preach and help make sure the institution was surviving. This place didn't seem like a real church.
It was Christmas, my second one in the city. A kid came off the street to worship. He came to me after I shook hands and schmoozed with the bunch. He asked me a simple question: "Do you do Christianity here?" It seemed kind of weird since he'd been in worship, he'd heard my sermon, and the prayers. The question startled me and to tell the truth challenged me. So, I stalled for time. "What do you mean by Christianity?" He put his head to one side, looking at me like I was dumb, "You know, like the feeding and the healing and the fighting with the monsters. That stuff."
I sat there, in my "pastor's study" feeling like a fake. I had degrees, I had academic hoods, and I even had a job. What did he mean? The question was simple enough. And its simplicity made all those credentials empty. He simply wanted to know whether we did the stuff we told stories about. In other words, were we doing things that Jesus did or behind these doors were we just full of hot air?
It made me inventory my sense of call, and its incarnation in ministry that would allow me to call this church he Body of Christ with any kind of integrity. Maybe we all need some kid asking us pushy questions during this season of Advent. It's supposed to be a time of self-examination, of looking into the shadows of who and what we are. Are we doing Christianity here or aren't we? What is our business?
All we have to do is pay attention to where he was born. That's enough. Here are political refugees, bearing their first child of doubtful parentage, in a barn because they had few or no resources. How does that compare with our celebration of Christmas? Are we doing Christianity here?
It's a good question.
Santa Claus is Comin' to Town
by C. David McKirachan
Psalm 146:5-10
There's a lot of Christmas music that makes me weep because of its beauty, its sentimental connections, or its profundity. It's a great season for music. There's one song that doesn't make me weep but is necessary for the season's advent. It's the Boss' (that Bruce Springsteen for those of you who aren't from Jersey) version of "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town." It rocks. But more than that, it is a clear and wonderfully loud proclamation that the season is upon us.
Now, don't get me wrong, the theology enshrined therein is antithetical to everything I believe. "You'd better watch out, You'd better not pout..." etc. It speaks of a monstrous list keeper who punishes and rewards. It strips grace from love. That denies the power of the cross and the manger. Works righteousness is one of the banes of our existence as Christians.
BUT
When that song comes on the radio, I crank it up, roll down the windows, and let the season wash over me. I think I'm able to enjoy this crazy projection of Santa and all the other music because I know who this God is we are celebrating. I know his willingness to empty himself, to give everything, to be faithful even when we aren't, to provide and love. I know he's a great storyteller. I know he's always been there for me, and he always will be. I know he "lifts up those who are bowed down." I know that my redeemer liveth.
SO
When the boss belts out the anthem of works righteousness, I know Christmas is coming. Dude!
Amen.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 15, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
"A Christmas Reminder" by John Sumwalt
"Inditement" by C. David McKirachan
"Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town" by C. David McKirachan
* * * * * * *
A Christmas Reminder
John Sumwalt
Isaiah 35:1-10
He will come and save you. Then the eyes of the blind shall be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped... and the tongue of the speechless sing for joy.
-- Isaiah 35:4b-6a
Howard Thorsby had never felt more out of place in all of his 56 years than he did that Black Friday, standing in line at 4:00 a.m. outside of Mall Marty World. He had never done anything like this before. A shy, quiet man, except around his friends in the choir at church and some of his relatives, Howard avoided crowds whenever possible. To be bunched together with several hundred excited Christmas shoppers was almost more than he could endure.
The store wasn't scheduled to open until 7:00 a.m. Some people had been camped out there since noon the day before. There were heated tents, sleeping bags, lawn chairs covered with blankets, and assorted portable grills like those seen at tailgating parties at the ball park. The tantalizing aroma of simmering brats and hamburgers mingled with the acrid odor of burning charcoal and cigarette smoke.
Howard was somewhere in the middle of a line that extended around the periphery of the parking lot and halfway up the side of the building to the loading docks. His friends had warned him that he would need to arrive by midnight if he was to have any chance of getting one of the Princess Anastasia dolls that his little granddaughter had her heart set on. He knew that his son and daughter-in-law couldn't afford the doll, which retailed at $160. He could get it for $39 if he was among the first 400 people to get in the door. So there he was in the fifteen degree chill in double socks, insulated hiking boots, thermal underwear, ski pants that he had borrowed from his sister, his heavy wool overcoat that reached almost to his ankles, and a Green Bay Packer Stocking cap picked from the bargain bin at the church rummage sale.
At first Howard noticed that people were having friendly conversations with their neighbors up and down the line. Laughter could be heard above the buzz. There was an air of excitement and expectation like a crowd before a concert or a sporting event. It was about a half hour before the doors were to open that the atmosphere began to change. People edged closer against the people in front of them. There was some pushing and shoving and angry shouting when a few latecomers tried to sneak ahead in the line.
Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for. Mall Marty employees in security uniforms took their stations in front of the doors and about every forty yards along the line that now stretched back in a loop almost to the highway. When the doors opened the crowd surged forward like horses from the starting gate at Churchill Downs. It was all that the security people could do to slow them down enough so that people didn't get trampled.
Howard was carried toward the doors by this tsunami of obsessed humanity and then into the over-bright florescent lighting that highlighted the alluring displays of products. There were Blue Ray and DVD players, fifty-inch flat screen TVs at ridiculous prices, video games, Androids and iPhones, tablets and laptops, and a long row of Princess Anastasia dolls. Howard was making his way slowly toward the dolls when he heard a woman screaming. He could just barely see her in the towel section about twenty feet ahead. Again the crowd surged toward the screaming to see what was going on. Howard couldn't believe his eyes. A small, middle-aged woman in leopard spotted leotards was on one end of a towel in a tug of war with a large, balding, heavy set man. "I want these towels for my bathroom," she yelled. "They are a perfect match to the new curtains."
"I saw 'em first lady," the heavy set man growled. "They are just the color my mother wants for her new bathroom. There are plenty more cheap towels for you to choose from. This one's mine. Let go of it or I'll..." He didn't get the rest of the words out before three security people surrounded him, pushed him down, and clapped on a set of handcuffs. Two more security persons held the small woman back as she screamed obscenities at the heavy set man who was now rolling and groaning on the grungy Mall Marty floor. The crowd seemed to choose up sides with some yelling for the security people to get off the man and others trying to wrestle the red faced woman away from her Mall Marty captors.
Howard, the mild-mannered church person that he was, and who had never seen such a sight in his life, stood there in shock wondering what could be done to bring some peace to the situation. Suddenly a thought came into his head, perhaps a divine inspiration, to sing something. Maybe music would soothe the savage impulses of the agitated crowd. He remembered the solo he had been rehearsing for the Christmas Eve service and found himself singing it out with all of his might before there was any chance of second thoughts. Howard's clear as a bell, sweet tenor voice rose up over the noise of the crowd:
"Hark the herald angels sing, Glory to the newborn King, Peace on earth and mercy mild, God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful all ye nations rise, join the triumph of the skies, With angelic host proclaim, 'Christ is born in Bethlehem!"
The startled Christmas shoppers grew quiet and the anger and tension melted from their faces as they listened to the familiar words of this beloved carol. Then came the miracle. Almost everyone joined in as Howard launched into the chorus:
"Hark the herald angels sing, 'Glory to the newborn king!' "
The small woman put down the towel and the security team eased their grip. The heavy set man was released from the handcuffs and helped to his feet. He turned toward his tug-of-war opponent and said sheepishly, "Lady, I am so sorry. I don't know what came over me. I am really not like this. I am a respectable citizen and a churchgoer. Please forgive me."
The lady in the leotards reached down and picked up the towel. "I'm sorry too," she said. "I am ashamed of the way I acted over a silly towel. Here, you take it. I am sure your mother will enjoy it."
Howard wasn't there to hear it. He had slipped around the crowd, picked up one of the Princess Anastasia dolls, and was headed toward the cash register with a smile on his face. It was going to be a wonderful Christmas.
"Hark the Herald Angels Sing," The United Methodist Hymnal, Charles Wesley, 1774 (Nashville: 1989: The United Methodist Publishing House, 1989), p. 240.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
Inditement
by C. David McKirachan
Matthew 11:2-11
I was new in the ministry, recently out of seminary, doing my best to act like I knew what I was doing. The parish was inner city, with all the grinding issues that come along with such demography. I hadn't started off to be teaching people how to survive on a welfare check or running rent strikes to bust a slum lord or administrating a federal program to serve hot meals to needy senior citizens or writing Sunday school curriculum because we couldn't afford to buy it and then conducting a class to teach people how to teach because they'd never had any experience as a student or a teacher. I'd expected to teach and preach and help make sure the institution was surviving. This place didn't seem like a real church.
It was Christmas, my second one in the city. A kid came off the street to worship. He came to me after I shook hands and schmoozed with the bunch. He asked me a simple question: "Do you do Christianity here?" It seemed kind of weird since he'd been in worship, he'd heard my sermon, and the prayers. The question startled me and to tell the truth challenged me. So, I stalled for time. "What do you mean by Christianity?" He put his head to one side, looking at me like I was dumb, "You know, like the feeding and the healing and the fighting with the monsters. That stuff."
I sat there, in my "pastor's study" feeling like a fake. I had degrees, I had academic hoods, and I even had a job. What did he mean? The question was simple enough. And its simplicity made all those credentials empty. He simply wanted to know whether we did the stuff we told stories about. In other words, were we doing things that Jesus did or behind these doors were we just full of hot air?
It made me inventory my sense of call, and its incarnation in ministry that would allow me to call this church he Body of Christ with any kind of integrity. Maybe we all need some kid asking us pushy questions during this season of Advent. It's supposed to be a time of self-examination, of looking into the shadows of who and what we are. Are we doing Christianity here or aren't we? What is our business?
All we have to do is pay attention to where he was born. That's enough. Here are political refugees, bearing their first child of doubtful parentage, in a barn because they had few or no resources. How does that compare with our celebration of Christmas? Are we doing Christianity here?
It's a good question.
Santa Claus is Comin' to Town
by C. David McKirachan
Psalm 146:5-10
There's a lot of Christmas music that makes me weep because of its beauty, its sentimental connections, or its profundity. It's a great season for music. There's one song that doesn't make me weep but is necessary for the season's advent. It's the Boss' (that Bruce Springsteen for those of you who aren't from Jersey) version of "Santa Claus is Comin' to Town." It rocks. But more than that, it is a clear and wonderfully loud proclamation that the season is upon us.
Now, don't get me wrong, the theology enshrined therein is antithetical to everything I believe. "You'd better watch out, You'd better not pout..." etc. It speaks of a monstrous list keeper who punishes and rewards. It strips grace from love. That denies the power of the cross and the manger. Works righteousness is one of the banes of our existence as Christians.
BUT
When that song comes on the radio, I crank it up, roll down the windows, and let the season wash over me. I think I'm able to enjoy this crazy projection of Santa and all the other music because I know who this God is we are celebrating. I know his willingness to empty himself, to give everything, to be faithful even when we aren't, to provide and love. I know he's a great storyteller. I know he's always been there for me, and he always will be. I know he "lifts up those who are bowed down." I know that my redeemer liveth.
SO
When the boss belts out the anthem of works righteousness, I know Christmas is coming. Dude!
Amen.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
*****************************************
StoryShare, December 15, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
