The Darkness
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Darkness" by Keith Hewitt
"Does God Love Me?" by Larry Winebrenner
"Created in Christ" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Snake on the Cross" by Sandra Herrmann
"Sympathetic Magic" by Larry Winebrenner
"Maple Syrup" by Larry Winebrenner
What's Up This Week
It is part and parcel of the human condition for us to live in the darkness of sin -- a darkness that can only be illuminated by the one true Light. In this edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt paints a graphic picture of a man who finds himself stuck in utter darkness as he explores an underground cave. Just as he is beginning to despair, with the help of an unknown guide he discovers a beautiful chamber with bright colors -- a fitting analogy for the wonders that await us if we trust in God, follow him through the twists and turns of life, and let his Light shine. Larry Winebrenner shares several pieces as well, including the powerful account of a man who turned around his life of drugs and crime. The man was disappointed at first when he couldn't find God -- only to realize that God had found him. And Sandra Herrmann offers a thoughtful meditation on the snake, the cross, and the need to let go of our pride so that we can reach out to others.
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The Darkness
by Keith Hewitt
John 3:14-21
"Who's the new guy?" Randall asked, speaking softly and inclining his head toward the man that stood by his own car, a little apart from the rest of them as they pulled on gear for their day's journey.
"Name's Jerry. Or Jacob. Something like that," his companion answered, barely glancing at him, preoccupied with assembling his own kit. "He's a friend of Tom's." He held up his canteen, tried to see through the narrow plastic window that told him how full it was, and tapped it with his finger. "Got any water?" he asked, unsatisfied with the results.
Randall reached into the ice chest in his trunk and handed him a water bottle. Randall always ended up giving him a water bottle; it was part of the ritual now, as much as checking each other's helmets by rapping their knuckles on the top ridge and inquiring if anybody was home. "He know what he's doing?"
"He's here, isn't he?"
"Yeah, but Tom's not. What does that tell you?" He grinned and zipped his coveralls up to his neck, tugging to get the zipper past the spot where the cloth bunched together a little bit -- his amateur repair of the tear that he got squeezing through a tight spot in that cave in Missouri. Almost of their own volition, his hands picked through the gear on the floor of his trunk, following a checklist that had become ingrained in his subconscious over the years: three sources of light, water, energy bars, rope, chalk, string, first aid kit, map, clipboard, grease pencil, camera -- they were all there, all stowed to their appointed places on his person as he ticked off the items on his mental checklist. He nodded to himself and acknowledged that he was ready.
One of the women who had gotten there before the rest of the group was standing at the cave opening -- a narrow slot in the side of a hill under an overhang of protruding rock, a keyhole to another world. "Everybody ready?" she asked cheerfully. "This should be a fun one -- it's supposed to be almost two miles."
"OO-rah!" somebody exclaimed, and they all laughed. She turned back to the slot, stood sideways to it, and slipped into the keyhole. As he waited his turn, watching the others go in, Randall realized something was not quite right… something was off, something was missing. The feeling worried him for a moment or two, and even as he watched one of the men slip through, his fingers ran over his pockets and belt, checking his equipment. It was all there, and yet…
It was his turn; he paused uneasily at the threshold, unwilling to ignore his subconscious, yet not ready to give into it. And then it happened -- after what seemed like a long time, there were two sharp raps on the top of his helmet. "Knock, knock," a voice said cheerfully in his ear, "anybody home?"
The tension slipped away. He looked back at his friend, flashed a thumbs-up, then slipped through into the darkness, knowing everything was okay.
# # #
The chamber was big enough for everyone to fit into it and almost tall enough to stand in. Randall stood, hunched over, near the far end, looking over the shoulder of the woman who held a rough map in her hands. The map brightened and darkened constantly in shifting lamplight, as one or the other of the cavers looked up from the paper to study the rock around them.
She looked back the way they had come, eyes narrowed and focused as though she could see past the dogleg in the path they had followed, looking right through solid rock. "That's definitely this," she said, pointing to a spot on the map. She turned back toward the other end of the room, and the rock brightened as though lit by rays cast by her eyes. "But this should not be here. The map goes on for another quarter-mile or so."
"Maybe the map's wrong," one of the men offered.
She looked pained. "Please. It's gotten us this far. Something must have happened." Her light played over the rock. "This looks like a fall," she said uncertainly. "Maybe a recent one."
"Or not," the man countered. "Where did you get the map from?"
"She's right -- and the map is right." The voice was quiet but firm. Half a dozen lamps swung to the source, and the newcomer squinted a little, holding up one hand to shade his eyes from the sudden bath of light.
"How do you know?" one of the other women challenged.
"I've been this way before. It's changed, but I know where it goes." His light slid over the end wall. "There's a lot of cave beyond here, yet."
"Okay, say you're right," the first man said. "That doesn't do us a lot of good now." He slapped a hand against the wall; it made a dull sound that died quickly, absorbed by the bodies in the chamber. "There's a pretty solid wall between us and the next gallery -- if it's still there at all."
"It is." Jerry's -- or Jacob's -- voice was confident. "Just because we can't see it doesn't mean it's not there."
"That's all pretty academic, isn't it?"
"Maybe." The newcomer inched forward, past the woman with the map and slowly scanned the end of the passage. The space they were in was a mix of light and shadow, rock lit by lamps where people were facing, black where they were not. He leaned forward, inclining his head down and to the left. "What about this?"
All eyes -- and lights -- swung toward him, then to the place where he was looking. At the lower left, under a protruding lip of limestone that shaded it from casual view, there was a space: irregular, maybe three feet wide, and not as high. He lay down on the floor, pushed one hand into the darkness, and felt around, then unclipped the flashlight from his belt and shined it in.
"It goes," he said, voice hollowed out by the space it traveled into. "The floor drops a bit -- there's a down-angle to the right, but it goes." He pushed himself up to his knees and rocked back on his heels, turning so he could face the others. "Anybody wants to go, I'll lead the way. Who wants to push it?"
"Looks like a great place to get stuck. How much space is there?"
He held up his hands, one over the other, maybe a foot and a half apart.
The group stared at his hands, and the hole, eyes not quite focused on either as brains worked furiously, a handful of individual computers trying to solve the same problem. Randall's stomach churned in a familiar way as he contemplated inserting himself once more into the grip of millions of tons of rock. With the others, he judged the width and height, pondered how -- and if -- a body could back out of that crack in the earth if it turned out to be too small, or to go nowhere.
In a corner of his mind that he tried to ignore, he could already sense that sick, helpless feeling as the passage narrowed down to nothing. Where the earth bore down on him like the weight of everything he had ever done and pressed the life out of him with exquisite slowness, or just held him tight until the rock had sucked the warmth right out of him, to leave him there as an unexpected feast for the things that lived in the dark.
"I'm game," he said suddenly, speaking the words aloud before his mind could finish formulating a contrary opinion.
His friend stared at him, then at the newcomer, and shook his head slowly. "Sorry, dude. No offense, but we don't really know you. I'm not going to put my life on the line if I'm not sure you know what you're talking about."
"I am sure," the newcomer said quietly. "I've been this way before."
"Still, no." There were murmurs of agreement from the others. Randall's friend looked at him; the high intensity light on Randall's head lamp illuminated his face starkly. "What are you going to do?" he asked, ignoring what had already been said.
Randall looked at the newcomer, who was calm and confident without being smug. He imagined he could already feel the weight of rock pressing down on him -- but if Jacob (or Jerry) was right, that space went… and he said he had been here before.
"I'm in," Randall said simply.
The woman with the map hesitated, then shrugged. "We'll go back and meet you upstairs." She dug in her pack, found a blank paper, and handed it to him. "Survey the route -- we're going to have to make some changes to the map."
"You got it," he said with forced cheer.
"You need a string?"
"Please… it's not my first time at the dance." He fished around in his bag and found a ball of yellow twine, marked at five-yard intervals. As the others left, some with doubtful backward glances, he pounded a small piton into the rock near the hole, and tied the string to it. As they went on he would pay the string out, so they could measure the distance they traveled -- and find their way back, if it came to that.
"Ready?" the newcomer asked. Randall nodded and flashed a thumbs-up; the newcomer crouched down at the gap, then leaned forward and pushed himself in. Randall stared after him, then swallowed hard and followed, keeping the soles of the man's boots in sight as he crawled after him.
There are probably slower ways to travel than crawling on your belly, but offhand Randall could not think of any as he first crawled, then literally inched his way forward through the cleft in the rock, carefully playing out the yellow string as he went. He kept to the left, as roof and floor seemed to come together on the right. After a while, it seemed as though the space was getting narrower, too.
He pushed forward and didn't allow himself to think about the constricting space, but after a bit he heard, "It's getting a little tight," from the man in front of him. "Watch yourself."
Watch myself what? he wondered and tried to will himself thinner.
He came to a constriction in the way, even narrower than the rest of the passage. As he worked his hips through, arms stretched straight in front of him, the lamp on his helmet went out, plunging him into total darkness.
His heart started to pound, and he stopped, closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly. "Now's not the time," he said softly. "Not the time." He took another deep breath and opened his eyes. Ahead, and at what looked to be a bit of an upward angle, he could see the soles of the newcomer's boots silhouetted against a very dim light -- whatever could find its way back in the space, reflected off the walls and not blocked by the man's body.
Muffled: "You all right? Did you say something?"
"I'm good," Randall lied. "Helmet light went out."
"Gotcha. listen, I think we're starting to angle up a bit." Pause. "But I think it's going to get a might trickier from here."
"Great." Trickier than what? He hoped his voice did not betray his tattered nerves. With his free hand he traced the cord to his helmet lamp down to the battery pack on his belt -- and found that the connector had been sheared off by that last squeeze he had forced himself through.
Wonderful.
His free hand crawled behind the battery pack, unhooked the flashlight from his belt, and pulled it up -- an awkward motion that made him move his arm in directions not intended by nature -- until he could slip his hand up past his shoulder and extend it forward. Trembling from exertion, he switched on the light, bathing the tiny space around him in the bluish glow of LED light.
It didn't help much.
He pushed his way forward, a movement that joined the locomotion of an inchworm with carefully coordinated pushes by his feet, assisted by pulling with his elbows. Eventually he was willing to believe that their path was angling up -- and hoped that it was a good sign, because he knew there was no way he could back his way out. He tried not to think about it and forced his thoughts to live in the here-and-now, as though this tube of rock lit by his flashlight was all the universe there was or ever would be.
They curved to the left, then up -- and it seemed to widen a bit. The pace picked up, and he pushed himself a little harder, always keeping the light out in front of him, trying to keep the other man's boots in sight. "Hey up there," he said finally, "Can you hold up a minute? I have to catch my breath!"
No response.
He stopped, so his voice would not be muffled by his own movements. "Hey," he repeated, "can we take a minute?"
No response.
The boots disappeared, past an upward bend in the cave. Randall shook his head in disgust -- well, he'd take his own break then. He set the flashlight down and started to contort his arm so he could reach down and pull up his canteen -- then yelled wordlessly as the flashlight rolled away from him, down to the left, the rock walls swirling psychedelically for a moment as the light of the rolling flashlight played on them, then going black as the flashlight found a crack in the floor and disappeared.
He was plunged into pitch blackness once more.
Over the pounding of his heart he still heard the flashlight hit bottom a couple of seconds after it disappeared from sight. The light sticks, his final backup, were tucked safely in his bag -- which trailed along behind him, attached to his leg with a velcro strap. He lay frozen, entombed in rock and darkness. "Hey!" he shouted, and his voice echoed. "Hey!" he shouted again when he heard no answer.
The echoes died in silence. He closed his eyes again, a trick to mask the fact that when they were open he could see nothing. He breathed deeply, counted to ten, then counted backward. Okay, he thought to himself. Okay. He's up there. He's got to be. All you have to do is start moving, and you'll get there.
Slowly, eyes squeezed shut, he started inching forward in the void. He forced himself forward, grimly not imagining the weight of the earth above him as it gnawed away at his insides.
Forward, forward. Feel your way, arch your back, push with your feet, pull with your elbows. The cold closed in around him, brother to the darkness, and sapped his strength. Forward… pebbles found their way beneath his pads, ground themselves into his skin as he crawled, seemed to rub against bone. Forward… inch by inch, in total blackness. The walls grabbed at him, tugged his sleeves; his breath came in gulps. He would open his eyes, then close them quickly -- still swallowed up in darkness.
His hands touched stone before him. He stopped, heart almost vibrating as he felt around, left to right, and found nothing but cold rock in front of him. Almost by accident, he raised one hand higher -- and found that there was space above and in front of him. He slowed down and carefully explored the space with his hands.
It was a chimney, he decided -- the passage he had crawled through ended in a chimney -- a tube that went up who knew how far, but big enough for him to fit into. Carefully, inching to one side, rolling up, then inching to the side again, rolling a little further each time, he rolled onto his back and pushed himself to the bottom of the chimney, sitting up as he forced himself in. Eventually he was sitting up, back pressed against the wall -- then he pushed hard, dragging himself up with his shoulders as he pushed with his hands, and finally was able to stand up straight-- blessed standing! His head rushed and whirled at the unusual position.
Relief faded as his hands told him there was no lip to this chimney, as far up as he could reach. He tried to climb, but it seemed there was nothing left for his legs to give. He slumped against the wall of the chimney, barely able to hold himself upright. "Jerry!" he said loudly. "Or Jacob! Are you up there?"
And a voice he almost didn't expect to hear said, "It's Joshua, man. What's wrong?"
"No light," he croaked. "And I'm beat, I can't climb anymore."
"No problem, man. Take my hand, I've got you."
He opened his eyes, then blinked at the light and had to close them again. Between half-shut lids, a hand reached down to hang in front of him. He reached toward it feebly, touched it, felt strong fingers travel past and close around his wrist. The hand lifted him out of the chimney, and he found himself sprawled on a hard rock floor. "Wow!" he gasped, "I sure am glad you were there."
"Where else would I be?" Joshua asked. "I said I would lead you."
"Yeah, but then the light went out, and I couldn't see you or hear you…"
"But I was still there, right?"
"Right." Randall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Man, I hate the darkness."
"I know what you mean," Joshua said, sitting down on the floor next to him. "But sometimes you have to go through the darkness to get where you want to go. Look." He tapped Randall on the shoulder and pointed.
Randall sat up and looked in the direction Joshua indicated. The chamber they were in was big -- and on the far side, beneath the light from Joshua's lamp, the wall was a patchwork of colors, all the more vibrant for being out of place here in this world of darkness. Crystals marched from floor to ceiling, changing color as they stretched, and the whole thing seemed to move. It went on past the range of the lantern in either direction. "Wow," he breathed reverently.
"Worth the trip, eh?" He smiled when Randall didn't answer, too lost in the sight to respond. Finally he tapped him on the shoulder again and said quietly, "Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?" Randall asked.
"To go on," Joshua said, standing up and dusting off his coveralls. "We can't stay here forever, you know, it's time to move on -- but I've got to tell you, there's some dark spots along the way."
Randall nodded toward the crystal wall. "As long as there's places like this, too."
"Trust me," Joshua promised and reached down to help him on his journey.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four 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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Does God Love Me?
by Larry Winebrenner
John 3:14-21
Mary Ann shook her fist at the heavens. "You do not love me," she screamed. "You do not love me."
Jim tried to place his arm around his wife. She shook it off.
The pastor stood next to the little coffin, unsure what to do next.
Mary Ann turned and walked away. Jim nodded to the clergyman to continue the service, then raced to find Mary Ann.
She sat in the old 1983 Ford, dry-eyed, stiff. Jim drove back to the trailer. She got out and went into the dwelling. When Jim came in, she was washing the dishes. Jim picked up a dishtowel and started wiping. As he placed the third cup on a hook in the tiny cupboard over the sink, she spoke.
"Well, aren't you going to tell me what a fool I made of myself?"
"No," said Jim. "That son was my future -- my family's future. I have nothing left to live for."
He kissed her on the cheek. On the cheek! Jim was never satisfied with a peck. But that's what he gave her. He left. He didn't scratch gravel as he did when leaving in anger. The car just seemed to roll away.
Mary Ann sat. She dared not even turn on the TV, lest she miss Jim's returning step. But there was no step. Jim was gone.
Then she grew fearful. What was it Jim had said? "Nothing to live for." He also had lost a son, and she had no words of comfort for him -- no loving support.
But what could she do? She cried herself asleep. She had a dream. God was crying.
"Why are you crying?" she asked God.
"You know how you felt when your son died?"
"Yes," said Mary Ann.
"I too had a son."
"But… but you're God. Why did you let him die?"
God looked right into her eyes, right into her soul. "Because I loved you so much," said God.
"If you loved me so much, why did you make my son die?" asked Mary Ann bitterly.
"I didn't make your son die, Mary Ann," said God. "That fate was sealed thousands of generations ago when your first ancestor disobeyed me in the Garden. I've been trying to undo that ever since."
"But you're God."
"That's why I can't undo it with a wave of my hand. I created freedom in the universe. Now I have to leave it there or simply destroy everything and start over. I love my creation and want to give it a chance. If it will just give me a chance."
"Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" cried a voice. She felt herself being shaken awake by Jim. "Are you all right? I love you so much, I don't want anything ever to happen to you."
"I'm all right. And you'll be all right too, because there is someone that loves us both more than we love each other."
"Who?"
"God."
Created in Christ
by Larry Winebrenner
Ephesians 2:1-10
This is a true story about a good friend, who is now the grand, old man of the agency he heads. The program has the lowest recidivism rate of any similar program in the USA. The names have been changed to protect the confidences of characters.
They came to our young adult class at First United Methodist Church of Miami back in 1968. They were new in the city and were not yet settled. He was a black man; she was lily-white. They were married. I was unliberated enough back then to be mildly shocked -- though intellectually I had no problem. My acceptance must have been sufficient, for they became fast friends with my wife and me. And Lily told me about their meeting.
He was in jail for burglary he engaged in to feed his drug habit. She was a minister's daughter who accompanied her father to jail to lead singing in the religious services. Mac played the guitar and was recruited to provide music for his fellow inmates.
They developed a friendship that continued when he was released from jail. One night on a date he tried to get her to go to bed with him.
"Mac," she said. "You haven't changed a bit. Once you got me into bed, you'd mark me up as another conquest and move on. Your god is satisfying the desires of the flesh -- sex, drugs, alcohol, anything to satisfy your hunger."
He was quiet a long time. Finally he said, "I'll give it all up for you. Just for you, if you'll marry me."
Here he was, no job, a prison record, no high school diploma, proposing marriage to a woman of another race, another social class.
"I'll change. I'll become righteous," he said.
"I do love you, Mac," she told him. "But there's someone who loves you more."
"Who?" he asked.
"God," she answered.
He walked away slowly, saying nothing.
Lily didn't see Mac again after that for over two weeks. Then one Sunday he showed up at her father's church for the evening service. After the service, she found him waiting to see her.
"I wondered where you were," she told him. "I missed you."
"I was looking for God," he said.
"And did you find him?"
"No. I became discouraged. Then I ran into a buddy who offered me a fix on him."
Her breath caught. She looked carefully in his eyes. She could see nothing, but was afraid to hear the rest of what he had to say. Mac continued, " ‘Man,' he told me, ‘one shot of this will take you straight to heaven.' I looked at the needle. I told him, ‘If I'm going to heaven I'm not going to depend on a jolt to get me there. I'll work my way there on my own.' He gave me a piercing look. ‘Good luck,' he said. ‘You belong in our world. Ain't nobody I ever knowed worked hisself there yet.' He walked away -- with the needle. ‘He's right, you know,' said someone. I didn't look around. One argument was all I could handle at the moment."
"So you didn't find God, but you didn't go back on drugs either?" said Lily, partly disappointed, partly in joy.
"No," said Mac. "No, I didn't find God. But God found me. I turned around to grunt, to say thanks, to shrug my shoulders, I don't know what, to the man who had spoken to me. But no one was there. The same voice said, ‘It takes my grace, you know.' I freaked out. I thought I was having another one of those illusions that come after a bad fix. I ran away. But after careful consideration, I'm sure now it was the Lord speaking -- whether through illusion or supernaturally, it doesn't matter."
"I told Mac I'd marry him," Lily told me.
"No," he said, "I'm going to get a job and finish my education. I'm going to get a college education."
"I told him we'd do that together," said Lily. "He plays the guitar beautifully, I got a job doing office work. So here we are."
That was several weeks after their visit to First United Methodist Church of Miami. They were having dinner with my wife, our four children, and me. I was teaching at Miami-Dade College. Back then the college had a program that permitted any adult 18 or older to enroll for one term. As long as the student made C or better in their courses, he or she could continue. I walked Mac through the registration process. He never looked back. He got his bachelor's degree and eventually became the head of a social services organization that helps former inmates adjust back into society.
But if you ask Mac how he did it, he doesn't give me any credit. He doesn't even give his wife Lily any credit. He says, "For by grace I have been saved through faith, and this is not my own doing; it is the gift of God -- not the result of works, so that I may boast. For we are what God has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
The Snake on the Cross
by Sandra Herrmann
Numbers 21:5-7; Ephesians 2:1-10
The Old Testament reading about the bronze serpent on a pole that Moses erected in the wilderness is an odd one for Christians to be attached to. On the face of it, it would seem to be an idol, not unlike the golden calf that Aaron made at the foot of Mount Sinai: some commentators believe it is an old idol from the Northern Kingdom. Others say it is a holdover from the Hebrews' time in Egypt, where fiery snakes were common holy symbols. In 2 Kings 18, we read that King Hezekiah had these symbols destroyed as Judaism began to center on the temple in Jerusalem. Or, some say, it was a way of placating Assyria, showing Hezekiah's loyalty to the Assyrian king by destroying these Egyptian idols.
Whatever Hezekiah had in mind, the symbol survives in the caduceus (two snakes coiled around a staff), which in Greek society was the sign of a healer. All one has to do is look at the letterhead or even the outdoor sign for many doctors and healthcare organizations to see that even today we look to this sign for healing.
According to John's gospel (3:13-15), Jesus compared himself to the bronze snake, and pointed out that as that snake had protected the Hebrews from death by a plague of poisonous snakes, so the Son of Man (Jesus) would be lifted up so that "whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life." Is it possible that Jesus would compare himself to an idol? Not that Jesus would be beyond such a thing. He had a way of using images no one else would use -- or would even reject outright! -- to talk about the kingdom of heaven, God, and the work of Messiah.
According to the Book of Mormon, many of the Hebrews died from the bites of the snakes that invaded the Hebrews' camp -- because simply looking at the snake was too easy a thing. Therefore, many of the people refused to believe that it would do any good and by refusing to simply look and live, they died. This is an interesting comment, because it so clearly understands our human condition. We will go to all kinds of lengths to accomplish our dreams. We understand the way of suffering, even if we choose not to go that way, because we believe that hard work and personal drive are what lead to success. "God helps those who help themselves," we say -- and some even believe that this proverb is in the Bible (it isn't).
However, the Bible has several stories pointing to this human failing. In 2 Kings 5, we read the story of Naaman, the head of the army for the king of Aram. Naaman caught leprosy, and when his wife's Jewish slave girl mentioned that there was a prophet in Samaria who could cure him, he asked for leave to go to Israel. His king granted leave, and Naaman set out with splendid gifts for the king of Israel and his prophet.
The king of Israel was terrified of this request, because he was certain that there was some political motive for this request -- perhaps the king of Aram intended to make war! So he sent Naaman to Samaria with grave fears for the outcome of the story.
When Naaman arrived at Elisha's door, Elisha sent his servant to the door rather than granting the general an audience. The prescription was that Naaman should dip himself in the Jordan seven times. Naaman threw a fit. He was insulted. A servant had delivered the message! The River Jordan was nothing compared to other bigger, deeper, longer, cleaner rivers that Naaman knew of. He refused to do it.
Happily, Naaman had an aide de camp who knew how to handle his superior. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but if the prophet had asked you to do a difficult thing, to suffer, even, wouldn't you have done it? So why not just do as he says?" In other words, "What do you have to lose? Except, of course, your leprosy." But the aide de camp was more diplomatic than that.
So down to the river Naaman went. He dipped in the water -- once, twice, five times, six -- and very nearly quit again. Not one inch of infected skin had changed. He still had white, crusty patches on his arms. Shaking off the water, roaring in frustration and embarrassment, he would have left the river and stormed away. But that aide de camp was at his side.
"Once more, master," said the younger man, "just once more," facing down the fury of his master, urging him to complete the course. As Naaman rose from the water the seventh time, his skin was clean, rosy as a young man's. He was cured.
So many of us say we would do anything, whatever it would take, to get well, to be at peace, to have some joy in our lives. Anything, that is, but simply look at the God/Human on the cross and be saved. Anything but turn our lives and will over to God. Anything other than giving up our self-sufficiency. Anything but simply looking and being healed. It's too easy. We all know that whatever is easy isn't worth much. We all need to reach for our bootstraps and pull ourselves up, no matter how impossible that move is.
Well, if you need salvation to be difficult, listen to the writer of Ephesians 2:1-10. S/he promises that we will be "raised up with Christ," and we generally interpret that to mean the author is speaking of the resurrection. But maybe not. Maybe we are called to do something difficult.
Maybe, once we are healed by looking to Christ, lifted up on the cross, we are called to reach out to others as Christ did. Maybe that's what Jesus meant when he said we need to take up our cross and follow him. Maybe we need to allow ourselves to be nailed to it, and thus give others a living example to look up to and be saved.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
Sympathetic Magic
by Larry Winebrenner
Numbers 21:4-9
Anthropologists who read Numbers 21:4-9 often refer to the passage as practicing sympathetic magic, which is causing an effect by using an item similar to the situation at hand. Thus, poisonous serpents cause a problem; bronze serpents cure the problem. The anthropologists who take this position believe Moses learned about sympathetic magic while growing up in Pharaoh's household.
Of course, there may have been reasons that sympathetic magic was intended here. If the community came out of a culture where sympathetic magic was the norm, it might be better understood than other approaches. Also, even if sympathetic magic was not the purpose of the bronze serpent, still, the physical figure of the snake kept before the people both that they had been rebellious and that the power of God was at work.
For those of us raised in the rational-scientific materialism worldview, there is another message. We can never second-guess what God will or will not do. Neither will we ever be able to dictate the ways in which God's wonders may be performed.
Sympathetic magic? Immediate miracle? Natural explanation? It matters not. God's wonders the Lord will perform.
Maple Syrup
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22
It was before the horses came, before their white eyes poured over the landscape like wildfire. Like wildfire, they swept away everything they passed over.
Before they came, life was not always health and sunlight. There are troubles on this earth that seem to have no human origin. So it seemed among the Algonquin that spring so very, very long ago.
Tribes had come from the east. Tribes had come from the west. Tribes had come from the south and the north. It was the great gathering. It was the time of trading. It was the time of making alliances -- tribal alliances and family alliances through marriage.
It was also the time of "the great sickness."
The man Morningstar's mother had chosen for her was among the many who suffered the sickness. Like the others, he could not eat. Anything eaten came back up. He was at the point where he would not take any kind of nourishment. Eventually he would die.
Now, Morningstar had played as a child with other children of the village. A very old woman had taught them a secret for enjoying a treat. "Scratch through the bark of the tree with five-pointed leaves. Lick the juice that oozes out," she had told them. "I used to do it as a young girl myself. If I were younger, I would still do it."
After many experiences, Morningstar found she could increase the flow of sap. One day she captured a bit of sap in a birchbark cup and took it to the old woman. The woman said, "Not only does this taste good, but it makes these old bones feel stronger." And her eyes were brighter.
Morningstar remembered this experience. She took a bit of sap to her warrior. After trying to reject it, he realized he was too weak to argue. He sipped some of the sweet fluid. Once more he would simply throw it up. But, behold -- he didn't. Not only did he keep it down, but he felt stronger. He asked for more.
Morningstar quickly spread the news. Men, women, children roamed the wooded area, scratching holes into the bark of the five-pointed leaf tree. Bit by bit the sick people grew stronger. They ate other foods.
One night Morningstar collected a clay bowl full of the sap to be used next morning. In the morning there was a skin of ice on the bowl. She removed the ice and tasted the fluid to see if it had spoiled. Not only had it not spoiled. It was sweeter.
If more of the water could be removed, she thought, it would be sweeter still. She placed the clay bowl carefully on some rocks around a small fire. The liquid began to boil. The more it boiled, the thicker it got. And the sweeter it tasted.
The tribes were saved. The elements of making of maple syrup had begun. At every gathering after that, a great celebration of thanksgiving was held. And the making of maple syrup was practiced.
Larry Winebrenner is a retired pastor and college teacher who lives in Miami Gardens, Florida.
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StoryShare, March 22, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"The Darkness" by Keith Hewitt
"Does God Love Me?" by Larry Winebrenner
"Created in Christ" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Snake on the Cross" by Sandra Herrmann
"Sympathetic Magic" by Larry Winebrenner
"Maple Syrup" by Larry Winebrenner
What's Up This Week
It is part and parcel of the human condition for us to live in the darkness of sin -- a darkness that can only be illuminated by the one true Light. In this edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt paints a graphic picture of a man who finds himself stuck in utter darkness as he explores an underground cave. Just as he is beginning to despair, with the help of an unknown guide he discovers a beautiful chamber with bright colors -- a fitting analogy for the wonders that await us if we trust in God, follow him through the twists and turns of life, and let his Light shine. Larry Winebrenner shares several pieces as well, including the powerful account of a man who turned around his life of drugs and crime. The man was disappointed at first when he couldn't find God -- only to realize that God had found him. And Sandra Herrmann offers a thoughtful meditation on the snake, the cross, and the need to let go of our pride so that we can reach out to others.
* * * * * * * * *
The Darkness
by Keith Hewitt
John 3:14-21
"Who's the new guy?" Randall asked, speaking softly and inclining his head toward the man that stood by his own car, a little apart from the rest of them as they pulled on gear for their day's journey.
"Name's Jerry. Or Jacob. Something like that," his companion answered, barely glancing at him, preoccupied with assembling his own kit. "He's a friend of Tom's." He held up his canteen, tried to see through the narrow plastic window that told him how full it was, and tapped it with his finger. "Got any water?" he asked, unsatisfied with the results.
Randall reached into the ice chest in his trunk and handed him a water bottle. Randall always ended up giving him a water bottle; it was part of the ritual now, as much as checking each other's helmets by rapping their knuckles on the top ridge and inquiring if anybody was home. "He know what he's doing?"
"He's here, isn't he?"
"Yeah, but Tom's not. What does that tell you?" He grinned and zipped his coveralls up to his neck, tugging to get the zipper past the spot where the cloth bunched together a little bit -- his amateur repair of the tear that he got squeezing through a tight spot in that cave in Missouri. Almost of their own volition, his hands picked through the gear on the floor of his trunk, following a checklist that had become ingrained in his subconscious over the years: three sources of light, water, energy bars, rope, chalk, string, first aid kit, map, clipboard, grease pencil, camera -- they were all there, all stowed to their appointed places on his person as he ticked off the items on his mental checklist. He nodded to himself and acknowledged that he was ready.
One of the women who had gotten there before the rest of the group was standing at the cave opening -- a narrow slot in the side of a hill under an overhang of protruding rock, a keyhole to another world. "Everybody ready?" she asked cheerfully. "This should be a fun one -- it's supposed to be almost two miles."
"OO-rah!" somebody exclaimed, and they all laughed. She turned back to the slot, stood sideways to it, and slipped into the keyhole. As he waited his turn, watching the others go in, Randall realized something was not quite right… something was off, something was missing. The feeling worried him for a moment or two, and even as he watched one of the men slip through, his fingers ran over his pockets and belt, checking his equipment. It was all there, and yet…
It was his turn; he paused uneasily at the threshold, unwilling to ignore his subconscious, yet not ready to give into it. And then it happened -- after what seemed like a long time, there were two sharp raps on the top of his helmet. "Knock, knock," a voice said cheerfully in his ear, "anybody home?"
The tension slipped away. He looked back at his friend, flashed a thumbs-up, then slipped through into the darkness, knowing everything was okay.
# # #
The chamber was big enough for everyone to fit into it and almost tall enough to stand in. Randall stood, hunched over, near the far end, looking over the shoulder of the woman who held a rough map in her hands. The map brightened and darkened constantly in shifting lamplight, as one or the other of the cavers looked up from the paper to study the rock around them.
She looked back the way they had come, eyes narrowed and focused as though she could see past the dogleg in the path they had followed, looking right through solid rock. "That's definitely this," she said, pointing to a spot on the map. She turned back toward the other end of the room, and the rock brightened as though lit by rays cast by her eyes. "But this should not be here. The map goes on for another quarter-mile or so."
"Maybe the map's wrong," one of the men offered.
She looked pained. "Please. It's gotten us this far. Something must have happened." Her light played over the rock. "This looks like a fall," she said uncertainly. "Maybe a recent one."
"Or not," the man countered. "Where did you get the map from?"
"She's right -- and the map is right." The voice was quiet but firm. Half a dozen lamps swung to the source, and the newcomer squinted a little, holding up one hand to shade his eyes from the sudden bath of light.
"How do you know?" one of the other women challenged.
"I've been this way before. It's changed, but I know where it goes." His light slid over the end wall. "There's a lot of cave beyond here, yet."
"Okay, say you're right," the first man said. "That doesn't do us a lot of good now." He slapped a hand against the wall; it made a dull sound that died quickly, absorbed by the bodies in the chamber. "There's a pretty solid wall between us and the next gallery -- if it's still there at all."
"It is." Jerry's -- or Jacob's -- voice was confident. "Just because we can't see it doesn't mean it's not there."
"That's all pretty academic, isn't it?"
"Maybe." The newcomer inched forward, past the woman with the map and slowly scanned the end of the passage. The space they were in was a mix of light and shadow, rock lit by lamps where people were facing, black where they were not. He leaned forward, inclining his head down and to the left. "What about this?"
All eyes -- and lights -- swung toward him, then to the place where he was looking. At the lower left, under a protruding lip of limestone that shaded it from casual view, there was a space: irregular, maybe three feet wide, and not as high. He lay down on the floor, pushed one hand into the darkness, and felt around, then unclipped the flashlight from his belt and shined it in.
"It goes," he said, voice hollowed out by the space it traveled into. "The floor drops a bit -- there's a down-angle to the right, but it goes." He pushed himself up to his knees and rocked back on his heels, turning so he could face the others. "Anybody wants to go, I'll lead the way. Who wants to push it?"
"Looks like a great place to get stuck. How much space is there?"
He held up his hands, one over the other, maybe a foot and a half apart.
The group stared at his hands, and the hole, eyes not quite focused on either as brains worked furiously, a handful of individual computers trying to solve the same problem. Randall's stomach churned in a familiar way as he contemplated inserting himself once more into the grip of millions of tons of rock. With the others, he judged the width and height, pondered how -- and if -- a body could back out of that crack in the earth if it turned out to be too small, or to go nowhere.
In a corner of his mind that he tried to ignore, he could already sense that sick, helpless feeling as the passage narrowed down to nothing. Where the earth bore down on him like the weight of everything he had ever done and pressed the life out of him with exquisite slowness, or just held him tight until the rock had sucked the warmth right out of him, to leave him there as an unexpected feast for the things that lived in the dark.
"I'm game," he said suddenly, speaking the words aloud before his mind could finish formulating a contrary opinion.
His friend stared at him, then at the newcomer, and shook his head slowly. "Sorry, dude. No offense, but we don't really know you. I'm not going to put my life on the line if I'm not sure you know what you're talking about."
"I am sure," the newcomer said quietly. "I've been this way before."
"Still, no." There were murmurs of agreement from the others. Randall's friend looked at him; the high intensity light on Randall's head lamp illuminated his face starkly. "What are you going to do?" he asked, ignoring what had already been said.
Randall looked at the newcomer, who was calm and confident without being smug. He imagined he could already feel the weight of rock pressing down on him -- but if Jacob (or Jerry) was right, that space went… and he said he had been here before.
"I'm in," Randall said simply.
The woman with the map hesitated, then shrugged. "We'll go back and meet you upstairs." She dug in her pack, found a blank paper, and handed it to him. "Survey the route -- we're going to have to make some changes to the map."
"You got it," he said with forced cheer.
"You need a string?"
"Please… it's not my first time at the dance." He fished around in his bag and found a ball of yellow twine, marked at five-yard intervals. As the others left, some with doubtful backward glances, he pounded a small piton into the rock near the hole, and tied the string to it. As they went on he would pay the string out, so they could measure the distance they traveled -- and find their way back, if it came to that.
"Ready?" the newcomer asked. Randall nodded and flashed a thumbs-up; the newcomer crouched down at the gap, then leaned forward and pushed himself in. Randall stared after him, then swallowed hard and followed, keeping the soles of the man's boots in sight as he crawled after him.
There are probably slower ways to travel than crawling on your belly, but offhand Randall could not think of any as he first crawled, then literally inched his way forward through the cleft in the rock, carefully playing out the yellow string as he went. He kept to the left, as roof and floor seemed to come together on the right. After a while, it seemed as though the space was getting narrower, too.
He pushed forward and didn't allow himself to think about the constricting space, but after a bit he heard, "It's getting a little tight," from the man in front of him. "Watch yourself."
Watch myself what? he wondered and tried to will himself thinner.
He came to a constriction in the way, even narrower than the rest of the passage. As he worked his hips through, arms stretched straight in front of him, the lamp on his helmet went out, plunging him into total darkness.
His heart started to pound, and he stopped, closed his eyes, and forced himself to breathe deeply, slowly. "Now's not the time," he said softly. "Not the time." He took another deep breath and opened his eyes. Ahead, and at what looked to be a bit of an upward angle, he could see the soles of the newcomer's boots silhouetted against a very dim light -- whatever could find its way back in the space, reflected off the walls and not blocked by the man's body.
Muffled: "You all right? Did you say something?"
"I'm good," Randall lied. "Helmet light went out."
"Gotcha. listen, I think we're starting to angle up a bit." Pause. "But I think it's going to get a might trickier from here."
"Great." Trickier than what? He hoped his voice did not betray his tattered nerves. With his free hand he traced the cord to his helmet lamp down to the battery pack on his belt -- and found that the connector had been sheared off by that last squeeze he had forced himself through.
Wonderful.
His free hand crawled behind the battery pack, unhooked the flashlight from his belt, and pulled it up -- an awkward motion that made him move his arm in directions not intended by nature -- until he could slip his hand up past his shoulder and extend it forward. Trembling from exertion, he switched on the light, bathing the tiny space around him in the bluish glow of LED light.
It didn't help much.
He pushed his way forward, a movement that joined the locomotion of an inchworm with carefully coordinated pushes by his feet, assisted by pulling with his elbows. Eventually he was willing to believe that their path was angling up -- and hoped that it was a good sign, because he knew there was no way he could back his way out. He tried not to think about it and forced his thoughts to live in the here-and-now, as though this tube of rock lit by his flashlight was all the universe there was or ever would be.
They curved to the left, then up -- and it seemed to widen a bit. The pace picked up, and he pushed himself a little harder, always keeping the light out in front of him, trying to keep the other man's boots in sight. "Hey up there," he said finally, "Can you hold up a minute? I have to catch my breath!"
No response.
He stopped, so his voice would not be muffled by his own movements. "Hey," he repeated, "can we take a minute?"
No response.
The boots disappeared, past an upward bend in the cave. Randall shook his head in disgust -- well, he'd take his own break then. He set the flashlight down and started to contort his arm so he could reach down and pull up his canteen -- then yelled wordlessly as the flashlight rolled away from him, down to the left, the rock walls swirling psychedelically for a moment as the light of the rolling flashlight played on them, then going black as the flashlight found a crack in the floor and disappeared.
He was plunged into pitch blackness once more.
Over the pounding of his heart he still heard the flashlight hit bottom a couple of seconds after it disappeared from sight. The light sticks, his final backup, were tucked safely in his bag -- which trailed along behind him, attached to his leg with a velcro strap. He lay frozen, entombed in rock and darkness. "Hey!" he shouted, and his voice echoed. "Hey!" he shouted again when he heard no answer.
The echoes died in silence. He closed his eyes again, a trick to mask the fact that when they were open he could see nothing. He breathed deeply, counted to ten, then counted backward. Okay, he thought to himself. Okay. He's up there. He's got to be. All you have to do is start moving, and you'll get there.
Slowly, eyes squeezed shut, he started inching forward in the void. He forced himself forward, grimly not imagining the weight of the earth above him as it gnawed away at his insides.
Forward, forward. Feel your way, arch your back, push with your feet, pull with your elbows. The cold closed in around him, brother to the darkness, and sapped his strength. Forward… pebbles found their way beneath his pads, ground themselves into his skin as he crawled, seemed to rub against bone. Forward… inch by inch, in total blackness. The walls grabbed at him, tugged his sleeves; his breath came in gulps. He would open his eyes, then close them quickly -- still swallowed up in darkness.
His hands touched stone before him. He stopped, heart almost vibrating as he felt around, left to right, and found nothing but cold rock in front of him. Almost by accident, he raised one hand higher -- and found that there was space above and in front of him. He slowed down and carefully explored the space with his hands.
It was a chimney, he decided -- the passage he had crawled through ended in a chimney -- a tube that went up who knew how far, but big enough for him to fit into. Carefully, inching to one side, rolling up, then inching to the side again, rolling a little further each time, he rolled onto his back and pushed himself to the bottom of the chimney, sitting up as he forced himself in. Eventually he was sitting up, back pressed against the wall -- then he pushed hard, dragging himself up with his shoulders as he pushed with his hands, and finally was able to stand up straight-- blessed standing! His head rushed and whirled at the unusual position.
Relief faded as his hands told him there was no lip to this chimney, as far up as he could reach. He tried to climb, but it seemed there was nothing left for his legs to give. He slumped against the wall of the chimney, barely able to hold himself upright. "Jerry!" he said loudly. "Or Jacob! Are you up there?"
And a voice he almost didn't expect to hear said, "It's Joshua, man. What's wrong?"
"No light," he croaked. "And I'm beat, I can't climb anymore."
"No problem, man. Take my hand, I've got you."
He opened his eyes, then blinked at the light and had to close them again. Between half-shut lids, a hand reached down to hang in front of him. He reached toward it feebly, touched it, felt strong fingers travel past and close around his wrist. The hand lifted him out of the chimney, and he found himself sprawled on a hard rock floor. "Wow!" he gasped, "I sure am glad you were there."
"Where else would I be?" Joshua asked. "I said I would lead you."
"Yeah, but then the light went out, and I couldn't see you or hear you…"
"But I was still there, right?"
"Right." Randall took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Man, I hate the darkness."
"I know what you mean," Joshua said, sitting down on the floor next to him. "But sometimes you have to go through the darkness to get where you want to go. Look." He tapped Randall on the shoulder and pointed.
Randall sat up and looked in the direction Joshua indicated. The chamber they were in was big -- and on the far side, beneath the light from Joshua's lamp, the wall was a patchwork of colors, all the more vibrant for being out of place here in this world of darkness. Crystals marched from floor to ceiling, changing color as they stretched, and the whole thing seemed to move. It went on past the range of the lantern in either direction. "Wow," he breathed reverently.
"Worth the trip, eh?" He smiled when Randall didn't answer, too lost in the sight to respond. Finally he tapped him on the shoulder again and said quietly, "Are you ready?"
"Ready for what?" Randall asked.
"To go on," Joshua said, standing up and dusting off his coveralls. "We can't stay here forever, you know, it's time to move on -- but I've got to tell you, there's some dark spots along the way."
Randall nodded toward the crystal wall. "As long as there's places like this, too."
"Trust me," Joshua promised and reached down to help him on his journey.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four 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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Does God Love Me?
by Larry Winebrenner
John 3:14-21
Mary Ann shook her fist at the heavens. "You do not love me," she screamed. "You do not love me."
Jim tried to place his arm around his wife. She shook it off.
The pastor stood next to the little coffin, unsure what to do next.
Mary Ann turned and walked away. Jim nodded to the clergyman to continue the service, then raced to find Mary Ann.
She sat in the old 1983 Ford, dry-eyed, stiff. Jim drove back to the trailer. She got out and went into the dwelling. When Jim came in, she was washing the dishes. Jim picked up a dishtowel and started wiping. As he placed the third cup on a hook in the tiny cupboard over the sink, she spoke.
"Well, aren't you going to tell me what a fool I made of myself?"
"No," said Jim. "That son was my future -- my family's future. I have nothing left to live for."
He kissed her on the cheek. On the cheek! Jim was never satisfied with a peck. But that's what he gave her. He left. He didn't scratch gravel as he did when leaving in anger. The car just seemed to roll away.
Mary Ann sat. She dared not even turn on the TV, lest she miss Jim's returning step. But there was no step. Jim was gone.
Then she grew fearful. What was it Jim had said? "Nothing to live for." He also had lost a son, and she had no words of comfort for him -- no loving support.
But what could she do? She cried herself asleep. She had a dream. God was crying.
"Why are you crying?" she asked God.
"You know how you felt when your son died?"
"Yes," said Mary Ann.
"I too had a son."
"But… but you're God. Why did you let him die?"
God looked right into her eyes, right into her soul. "Because I loved you so much," said God.
"If you loved me so much, why did you make my son die?" asked Mary Ann bitterly.
"I didn't make your son die, Mary Ann," said God. "That fate was sealed thousands of generations ago when your first ancestor disobeyed me in the Garden. I've been trying to undo that ever since."
"But you're God."
"That's why I can't undo it with a wave of my hand. I created freedom in the universe. Now I have to leave it there or simply destroy everything and start over. I love my creation and want to give it a chance. If it will just give me a chance."
"Mary Ann! Mary Ann!" cried a voice. She felt herself being shaken awake by Jim. "Are you all right? I love you so much, I don't want anything ever to happen to you."
"I'm all right. And you'll be all right too, because there is someone that loves us both more than we love each other."
"Who?"
"God."
Created in Christ
by Larry Winebrenner
Ephesians 2:1-10
This is a true story about a good friend, who is now the grand, old man of the agency he heads. The program has the lowest recidivism rate of any similar program in the USA. The names have been changed to protect the confidences of characters.
They came to our young adult class at First United Methodist Church of Miami back in 1968. They were new in the city and were not yet settled. He was a black man; she was lily-white. They were married. I was unliberated enough back then to be mildly shocked -- though intellectually I had no problem. My acceptance must have been sufficient, for they became fast friends with my wife and me. And Lily told me about their meeting.
He was in jail for burglary he engaged in to feed his drug habit. She was a minister's daughter who accompanied her father to jail to lead singing in the religious services. Mac played the guitar and was recruited to provide music for his fellow inmates.
They developed a friendship that continued when he was released from jail. One night on a date he tried to get her to go to bed with him.
"Mac," she said. "You haven't changed a bit. Once you got me into bed, you'd mark me up as another conquest and move on. Your god is satisfying the desires of the flesh -- sex, drugs, alcohol, anything to satisfy your hunger."
He was quiet a long time. Finally he said, "I'll give it all up for you. Just for you, if you'll marry me."
Here he was, no job, a prison record, no high school diploma, proposing marriage to a woman of another race, another social class.
"I'll change. I'll become righteous," he said.
"I do love you, Mac," she told him. "But there's someone who loves you more."
"Who?" he asked.
"God," she answered.
He walked away slowly, saying nothing.
Lily didn't see Mac again after that for over two weeks. Then one Sunday he showed up at her father's church for the evening service. After the service, she found him waiting to see her.
"I wondered where you were," she told him. "I missed you."
"I was looking for God," he said.
"And did you find him?"
"No. I became discouraged. Then I ran into a buddy who offered me a fix on him."
Her breath caught. She looked carefully in his eyes. She could see nothing, but was afraid to hear the rest of what he had to say. Mac continued, " ‘Man,' he told me, ‘one shot of this will take you straight to heaven.' I looked at the needle. I told him, ‘If I'm going to heaven I'm not going to depend on a jolt to get me there. I'll work my way there on my own.' He gave me a piercing look. ‘Good luck,' he said. ‘You belong in our world. Ain't nobody I ever knowed worked hisself there yet.' He walked away -- with the needle. ‘He's right, you know,' said someone. I didn't look around. One argument was all I could handle at the moment."
"So you didn't find God, but you didn't go back on drugs either?" said Lily, partly disappointed, partly in joy.
"No," said Mac. "No, I didn't find God. But God found me. I turned around to grunt, to say thanks, to shrug my shoulders, I don't know what, to the man who had spoken to me. But no one was there. The same voice said, ‘It takes my grace, you know.' I freaked out. I thought I was having another one of those illusions that come after a bad fix. I ran away. But after careful consideration, I'm sure now it was the Lord speaking -- whether through illusion or supernaturally, it doesn't matter."
"I told Mac I'd marry him," Lily told me.
"No," he said, "I'm going to get a job and finish my education. I'm going to get a college education."
"I told him we'd do that together," said Lily. "He plays the guitar beautifully, I got a job doing office work. So here we are."
That was several weeks after their visit to First United Methodist Church of Miami. They were having dinner with my wife, our four children, and me. I was teaching at Miami-Dade College. Back then the college had a program that permitted any adult 18 or older to enroll for one term. As long as the student made C or better in their courses, he or she could continue. I walked Mac through the registration process. He never looked back. He got his bachelor's degree and eventually became the head of a social services organization that helps former inmates adjust back into society.
But if you ask Mac how he did it, he doesn't give me any credit. He doesn't even give his wife Lily any credit. He says, "For by grace I have been saved through faith, and this is not my own doing; it is the gift of God -- not the result of works, so that I may boast. For we are what God has made us, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand to be our way of life."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
The Snake on the Cross
by Sandra Herrmann
Numbers 21:5-7; Ephesians 2:1-10
The Old Testament reading about the bronze serpent on a pole that Moses erected in the wilderness is an odd one for Christians to be attached to. On the face of it, it would seem to be an idol, not unlike the golden calf that Aaron made at the foot of Mount Sinai: some commentators believe it is an old idol from the Northern Kingdom. Others say it is a holdover from the Hebrews' time in Egypt, where fiery snakes were common holy symbols. In 2 Kings 18, we read that King Hezekiah had these symbols destroyed as Judaism began to center on the temple in Jerusalem. Or, some say, it was a way of placating Assyria, showing Hezekiah's loyalty to the Assyrian king by destroying these Egyptian idols.
Whatever Hezekiah had in mind, the symbol survives in the caduceus (two snakes coiled around a staff), which in Greek society was the sign of a healer. All one has to do is look at the letterhead or even the outdoor sign for many doctors and healthcare organizations to see that even today we look to this sign for healing.
According to John's gospel (3:13-15), Jesus compared himself to the bronze snake, and pointed out that as that snake had protected the Hebrews from death by a plague of poisonous snakes, so the Son of Man (Jesus) would be lifted up so that "whoever believes in him should not perish, but have eternal life." Is it possible that Jesus would compare himself to an idol? Not that Jesus would be beyond such a thing. He had a way of using images no one else would use -- or would even reject outright! -- to talk about the kingdom of heaven, God, and the work of Messiah.
According to the Book of Mormon, many of the Hebrews died from the bites of the snakes that invaded the Hebrews' camp -- because simply looking at the snake was too easy a thing. Therefore, many of the people refused to believe that it would do any good and by refusing to simply look and live, they died. This is an interesting comment, because it so clearly understands our human condition. We will go to all kinds of lengths to accomplish our dreams. We understand the way of suffering, even if we choose not to go that way, because we believe that hard work and personal drive are what lead to success. "God helps those who help themselves," we say -- and some even believe that this proverb is in the Bible (it isn't).
However, the Bible has several stories pointing to this human failing. In 2 Kings 5, we read the story of Naaman, the head of the army for the king of Aram. Naaman caught leprosy, and when his wife's Jewish slave girl mentioned that there was a prophet in Samaria who could cure him, he asked for leave to go to Israel. His king granted leave, and Naaman set out with splendid gifts for the king of Israel and his prophet.
The king of Israel was terrified of this request, because he was certain that there was some political motive for this request -- perhaps the king of Aram intended to make war! So he sent Naaman to Samaria with grave fears for the outcome of the story.
When Naaman arrived at Elisha's door, Elisha sent his servant to the door rather than granting the general an audience. The prescription was that Naaman should dip himself in the Jordan seven times. Naaman threw a fit. He was insulted. A servant had delivered the message! The River Jordan was nothing compared to other bigger, deeper, longer, cleaner rivers that Naaman knew of. He refused to do it.
Happily, Naaman had an aide de camp who knew how to handle his superior. "Excuse me, sir," he said, "but if the prophet had asked you to do a difficult thing, to suffer, even, wouldn't you have done it? So why not just do as he says?" In other words, "What do you have to lose? Except, of course, your leprosy." But the aide de camp was more diplomatic than that.
So down to the river Naaman went. He dipped in the water -- once, twice, five times, six -- and very nearly quit again. Not one inch of infected skin had changed. He still had white, crusty patches on his arms. Shaking off the water, roaring in frustration and embarrassment, he would have left the river and stormed away. But that aide de camp was at his side.
"Once more, master," said the younger man, "just once more," facing down the fury of his master, urging him to complete the course. As Naaman rose from the water the seventh time, his skin was clean, rosy as a young man's. He was cured.
So many of us say we would do anything, whatever it would take, to get well, to be at peace, to have some joy in our lives. Anything, that is, but simply look at the God/Human on the cross and be saved. Anything but turn our lives and will over to God. Anything other than giving up our self-sufficiency. Anything but simply looking and being healed. It's too easy. We all know that whatever is easy isn't worth much. We all need to reach for our bootstraps and pull ourselves up, no matter how impossible that move is.
Well, if you need salvation to be difficult, listen to the writer of Ephesians 2:1-10. S/he promises that we will be "raised up with Christ," and we generally interpret that to mean the author is speaking of the resurrection. But maybe not. Maybe we are called to do something difficult.
Maybe, once we are healed by looking to Christ, lifted up on the cross, we are called to reach out to others as Christ did. Maybe that's what Jesus meant when he said we need to take up our cross and follow him. Maybe we need to allow ourselves to be nailed to it, and thus give others a living example to look up to and be saved.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
Sympathetic Magic
by Larry Winebrenner
Numbers 21:4-9
Anthropologists who read Numbers 21:4-9 often refer to the passage as practicing sympathetic magic, which is causing an effect by using an item similar to the situation at hand. Thus, poisonous serpents cause a problem; bronze serpents cure the problem. The anthropologists who take this position believe Moses learned about sympathetic magic while growing up in Pharaoh's household.
Of course, there may have been reasons that sympathetic magic was intended here. If the community came out of a culture where sympathetic magic was the norm, it might be better understood than other approaches. Also, even if sympathetic magic was not the purpose of the bronze serpent, still, the physical figure of the snake kept before the people both that they had been rebellious and that the power of God was at work.
For those of us raised in the rational-scientific materialism worldview, there is another message. We can never second-guess what God will or will not do. Neither will we ever be able to dictate the ways in which God's wonders may be performed.
Sympathetic magic? Immediate miracle? Natural explanation? It matters not. God's wonders the Lord will perform.
Maple Syrup
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 107:1-3, 17-22
It was before the horses came, before their white eyes poured over the landscape like wildfire. Like wildfire, they swept away everything they passed over.
Before they came, life was not always health and sunlight. There are troubles on this earth that seem to have no human origin. So it seemed among the Algonquin that spring so very, very long ago.
Tribes had come from the east. Tribes had come from the west. Tribes had come from the south and the north. It was the great gathering. It was the time of trading. It was the time of making alliances -- tribal alliances and family alliances through marriage.
It was also the time of "the great sickness."
The man Morningstar's mother had chosen for her was among the many who suffered the sickness. Like the others, he could not eat. Anything eaten came back up. He was at the point where he would not take any kind of nourishment. Eventually he would die.
Now, Morningstar had played as a child with other children of the village. A very old woman had taught them a secret for enjoying a treat. "Scratch through the bark of the tree with five-pointed leaves. Lick the juice that oozes out," she had told them. "I used to do it as a young girl myself. If I were younger, I would still do it."
After many experiences, Morningstar found she could increase the flow of sap. One day she captured a bit of sap in a birchbark cup and took it to the old woman. The woman said, "Not only does this taste good, but it makes these old bones feel stronger." And her eyes were brighter.
Morningstar remembered this experience. She took a bit of sap to her warrior. After trying to reject it, he realized he was too weak to argue. He sipped some of the sweet fluid. Once more he would simply throw it up. But, behold -- he didn't. Not only did he keep it down, but he felt stronger. He asked for more.
Morningstar quickly spread the news. Men, women, children roamed the wooded area, scratching holes into the bark of the five-pointed leaf tree. Bit by bit the sick people grew stronger. They ate other foods.
One night Morningstar collected a clay bowl full of the sap to be used next morning. In the morning there was a skin of ice on the bowl. She removed the ice and tasted the fluid to see if it had spoiled. Not only had it not spoiled. It was sweeter.
If more of the water could be removed, she thought, it would be sweeter still. She placed the clay bowl carefully on some rocks around a small fire. The liquid began to boil. The more it boiled, the thicker it got. And the sweeter it tasted.
The tribes were saved. The elements of making of maple syrup had begun. At every gathering after that, a great celebration of thanksgiving was held. And the making of maple syrup was practiced.
Larry Winebrenner is a retired pastor and college teacher who lives in Miami Gardens, Florida.
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StoryShare, March 22, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
