The Decision
Stories
Object:
Contents
"The Decision" by Craig Kelly
"Growing Up" by C. David McKirachan
"Deontologize the principle of parsimony" by C. David McKirachan
* * * * * * * * *
The Decision
Craig Kelly
2 Timothy 3:14—4:5
He brushed his fingertips over the leather cover, letting them feel the imprint of the words, "HOLY BIBLE." The gold edges of the pages -- or rather, what bits of gold were still holding on after all these years and all those turns of the pages -- reflected the light beaming in from the nearby window.
That book had been a constant companion for years. It celebrated with him in times of joy... Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name... it comforted him in times of sorrow... Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in Me... and it provided direction in times of confusion... And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left. The leather had grown soft from being held; holding it felt like putting on your favorite ball glove, fitting perfectly.
Inside, the pages were filled with pencil lines under various passages, scribbled notes on the edges of the margins with arrows pointing to specific verses, scraps of paper with notes, old bookmarks indicating the location of powerful scriptures... virtually the man's entire spiritual journey, spanning decades, was contained between the covers of that leather book.
Slowly, however, he allowed his eyes to drift away from that book back to the piece of paper in front of him. Reading the words he had written just minutes earlier, he balled the piece of paper and dunked it into the waiting wastepaper basket beside his desk. It added to the other balled up papers in the bottom of the basket, all working together to form a small pile. The sad part was that the basket was empty when he sat down.
He let out a long breath as he looked at the next piece of paper in the stack, fresh and clean, waiting for his thoughts. He had so many of them, so many things he wanted to say. How could he put them all together, letting his heart flow through his pen?
Well, like any other letter, there was the usual way to start it: Dear Reverend ___________, He stopped and stared at the salutation, willing those words to multiply into a whole letter. After praying for what seemed to be the millionth time, the words slowly started to come together.
This is probably one of the hardest letters I've ever had to write, and I think this is my tenth or eleventh attempt at writing it. Even now, I find myself wanting to put the pen down and walk away, pretending that everything's all right. But the truth is, I can't. Not anymore.
I don't want to make it seem like the blame is all on your shoulders. It really isn't. And I do not for one instant believe that you are a bad person or even a bad minister. It's really just part of the natural progression this church has taken for a number of years. You can see it in a compromise here, a revision there, finally leading up to where we are today. And sadly, where we are today is far removed from the church I believe is prescribed by Christ and the apostles.
I think a great deal about Paul's words to Timothy: "For the time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander off into myths." I was hoping I would not have to witness such a close example of it. Slowly but surely, I have seen that wandering take place in our own pulpits, week after week, year after year. I hadn't really noticed it at first; the changes were so subtle. Someone would want to come up with some "new" interpretation of a scripture; someone would try to make a verse seem more "reasonable" or "tolerant" or whatever catch phrase they chose. And that teaching would work its way into our theology, being passed down in seminary, with another new teaching building on the previous one.
And what is the end result? We are now holding things as true which the Bible, the inspired Word of God itself, says is false! I'm not going to rehash the arguments again. I know we've discussed them enough already. All I can do is go by what this book says. Yes, it was written almost two thousand years ago, and of course, the argument could be made that we are somehow more "enlightened" or more "evolved" (don't get me started on that) than the biblical writers were, but I can't accept that. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever," and the Jesus Christ I know is described and revealed in the Bible. If I don't have that anchor for my faith and doctrine, who knows how far I could be carried off course? I have heard that Christianity must change or die, but why? Is the power of God so weak that it must alter itself to suit this present culture? Does God have to change to be accepted? I always thought it was us who were to be changed, to be conformed into the likeness of Christ. Instead, we have those "itching ears," trying to find a way we can have our cake and eat it, too. We are trying to fit our round theology into a square hole of culture, and because it doesn't fit, we try to mold it and reshape it in such a way that it can.
This all sounds so condemning, and that's not my intention. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I cannot remain in a church that has bought into a myth. I've tried to stay and make it work, staying with the church that raised me up from childhood to where I am today. But as much as I try to tell myself that these new teachings and doctrines are just for those off in some national church headquarters and not within the four walls of my local church, I know that isn't true. I see it in the publications we get from our national offices. I hear it in the liturgies and prayers we are asked to pray. And while I have no desire to cause offense, I am beginning to hear it preached from the local pulpit. And after many prayers and many tears, I just cannot stay here anymore. I have to be true to my faith as revealed in the scriptures. I have to leave.
I don't want to leave on harsh terms or with anger or malice between us, so I wish you well and pray that God would always watch over you. If I am wrong, if I am not seeing things as God would wish me to, I pray that he would reveal that to me and give me the grace to change. However, if I am truly seeing things the way they are, if what I am feeling is right, I pray (and will continue to pray) that God would send his truth back into this church and that there would be true repentance and a full return to the truth. I don't know if I will see that in my lifetime or not. But I know that God is faithful, and he will not let the truth of his Word diminish. "All scripture is breathed out by God," as Paul said, and it will remain to the end.
May God be with you, now and always.
Yours in Christ....
He signed the letter, folded it neatly, and slid it into the waiting envelope. He noticed, almost by accident, that two tears were working their way down his cheeks. He wanted to lick the envelope to seal it, but his mouth was so dry, he couldn't work up the spit to do it. Raising his hand to his face, he caught one of his tears on his fingertip. He then ran that tear across the envelope glue, moistening the glue enough to allow the envelope to seal.
How appropriate.
He slowly set the letter on his desk. Reaching for his Bible, he clutched it to his chest and allowed himself to mourn.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
Growing Up
C. David McKirachan
Luke 18:1-8
One of the first things I noticed about my children was that the Lord had designed them to survive in a hostile world. In spite of all the goo-ing and cute little outfits they were dressed in, in spite of all the things said about the innocence of children it was very evident that the only things they cared about was themselves and their own comforts. They were glad to see us because we dealt with their needs. And if we didn't we paid the price of being accosted by their wails. And let me tell you, they both inherited my pipes. Whew! If dinner was not on their schedule, the windows were in jeopardy. I realized that if they weren't built like this few of them would make it.
Their journey through childhood provided more proof of my discovery. "No" and "Mine" dominated my babies' lingual responses until they learned more specific ways to demonstrate their power. On a regular basis I was assured by veterans of the child wars that all of this was perfectly normal behavior with the codicil, "Just wait until..." and a vivid description of the next battle to expect, with a final groan indicating the coming nightmare of adolescence.
As I experienced this more and more clearly, I realized that my children's behavior reminded me of some of the more self-centered adults that I had wrestled with along the way. Two things came to mind. First, that we as parents and concerned adults were here to teach these largely unformed personalities put in our care to be civilized. That doesn't mean so much little things like not throwing food or poop or closing your mouth when eating soup. It means teaching them to be generous, forgiving, hopeful, compassionate, in other words, teaching the little pagan barbarians to be Christian. And second, that when we do manage to sand down some of the sharp edges, we also seem to shut down the passion that drove the "No's and Mine's." I remember the horror and the glory of my own teenaged moments. Now, I can better see that I didn't need to be nuts about the tiny issues that drove me to such heights and depths. Now that I have clearly identified larger issues, now that I know some of the driving forces that run our lives, where is the passion? And if I do manage to center in and bring my energy to bear on one tight focus, I am told, "Calm down, don't let it bother you," or best of all, "... mellow out."
Jesus had a hard time with lukewarm faith, probably as much as he objected to childish selfishness and lack of empathy, hard hearts. Perhaps part of faith is rediscovering the roots of our identities and the power there, power that is our heritage. It seems he saw clearly how self-centered, childish personalities knew very well how to get what they wanted. Our call is not to become abstract, detached, passionless people. Our call is to be children of God, knowing what God wants for us and for the world and putting all that we are into building the kingdom of God.
So, maybe it's not wrong to be a little nuts. Ask my friends and family. They'll all tell you, "He never grew up." At least I'm not throwing tantrums.
Deontologize the principle of parsimony
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 119:97-104
I had a hard time determining a major in college. I vacillated between History, Anthropology, English Lit., and Geology. I like field trips. There was one professor who fascinated me. He was older than the norm, played the cello, rode an ancient but shiny three speed bike around the campus, enjoyed good sherry, chuckled around his pipe, and faced the tirades of adolescent arrogance with the aplomb of calm courage. His questions bothered me like fleas. I itched at them long after class. Dr. Strodach was a Philosophy professor. I took any class that had his name on it. I learned. He's why I majored in Philosophy. My father's Ph.d. from Princeton in Metaphysical Philosophy had absolutely nothing to do with it. Congenital disorders often go unnoticed.
Dr. Strodach gently goaded us toward a consideration of our own place in the world by inviting us to consider the monsters of the contemplative discipline. He refused to accept rote repetition of Plato. He wanted us to wrestle with the shadows on the wall of our own lives. What were our ideals? He poked holes in each and every balloon I lofted. And in the grand deflation I discovered how the defense of my own foolishness limited my journey. He taught me not to tolerate fools. But he taught me how to have enough manners to not make myself one by considering myself far separated from their foolishness. This guy was the real deal. He reminded me of my father without all the Oedipal baggage.
In my senior year he got sick. Not the flu kind, the hospital surgery kind. We had just started a year-long trek through the metaphysicians. I was devastated. His replacement was a teacher who shall not be named here. The guy made me nuts. He loved to demonstrate his superior knowledge and use it like a lash to move us through the material. He was boring in lecture and did not deal well with questions no matter how insightful or desperate they were. The day we dealt with Occum's razor was the final straw. This philosophic principle came from a Scottish monk, naturally. He said the simplest construction is best the KISS principle comes from him. Keep it simple stupid. The not-so-esteemed professor held forth on the metaphysical chaos that swirls about our heads, calling forth Occum as the shining knight of logic to wield his razor in our defense. He then announced just what that razor was. "Deontologize the principle of parsimony." It was like getting a garbage compactor for a romantic gift (that's another story). It was like... This... boob (and that's generous) just cut himself with the razor he was showing us how to use. So much for keeping it simple.
In my stunned bewilderment, I suddenly heard Dr. Strodach chuckling. He never took his pipe out of his mouth. He just chuckled around it. I calmly held up my hand. Our ranting boob of a professor ground to a halt and glared at me. Raising his chin as to consider what kind of bug was presuming to disturb him, he pontificated, "Yes?" He made it a three syllable word.
The bug humbly asked, "Sir, what does 'deontologize' mean?"
The boob stared at me, considering exactly what would be the best way to squash me. But realizing this gave him another moment to demonstrate his mental superiority he launched into a tirade of multisylabic baulderdash. Finally considering me sufficiently squashed he checked his notes and rebooted his destruction of Occum. I raised my hand again. He shuddered to another halt. He again addressed me with all the scorn of a Ph.d. to a fool. "Yes?" This time it was a four syllable word.
The bug humbly begged, "Sir, what does 'parsimony' mean?"
Now to you this may not seem like a horribly offensive set of questions. You may have been wondering yourself. But to the class who had become numb under his lash it was clear there was a ray of Strodach sunshine beaming into our darkness. The boob stared at me for a good thirty seconds, looked at his notes, and dismissed the class.
Small victories mean a lot to slaves. We had to pass the class with a B if we were Philosophy majors. Small victory or not, we were still bugs in the amber of multisylabic baulderdash. I considered this as I plodded into the boob's room for the next class. I was waiting to pay for my small victory. I was late. The class was silent as I closed the door. I was afraid to turn around. As I came into the room I had seen Dr. Strodach sitting on the window sill smiling around his pipe. I was terrified that I would turn around and realize I was still in the boob's hell.
Dr. Strodach said to my back, "What's the matter Mr. McKirachan? I thought you believed in the resurrection of the body."
That good humored master teacher gave me a gift, "sweeter than honey." He taught me the validity of grace under fire and demonstrated the courage to claim it. He also taught me that the truth will make us free.
God bless you Dr. Strodach.
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, October 17, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"The Decision" by Craig Kelly
"Growing Up" by C. David McKirachan
"Deontologize the principle of parsimony" by C. David McKirachan
* * * * * * * * *
The Decision
Craig Kelly
2 Timothy 3:14—4:5
He brushed his fingertips over the leather cover, letting them feel the imprint of the words, "HOLY BIBLE." The gold edges of the pages -- or rather, what bits of gold were still holding on after all these years and all those turns of the pages -- reflected the light beaming in from the nearby window.
That book had been a constant companion for years. It celebrated with him in times of joy... Praise the Lord, O my soul, and all that is within me, bless His holy name... it comforted him in times of sorrow... Do not let your hearts be troubled. Believe in God, believe also in Me... and it provided direction in times of confusion... And your ears shall hear a word behind you, saying, "This is the way, walk in it," when you turn to the right or when you turn to the left. The leather had grown soft from being held; holding it felt like putting on your favorite ball glove, fitting perfectly.
Inside, the pages were filled with pencil lines under various passages, scribbled notes on the edges of the margins with arrows pointing to specific verses, scraps of paper with notes, old bookmarks indicating the location of powerful scriptures... virtually the man's entire spiritual journey, spanning decades, was contained between the covers of that leather book.
Slowly, however, he allowed his eyes to drift away from that book back to the piece of paper in front of him. Reading the words he had written just minutes earlier, he balled the piece of paper and dunked it into the waiting wastepaper basket beside his desk. It added to the other balled up papers in the bottom of the basket, all working together to form a small pile. The sad part was that the basket was empty when he sat down.
He let out a long breath as he looked at the next piece of paper in the stack, fresh and clean, waiting for his thoughts. He had so many of them, so many things he wanted to say. How could he put them all together, letting his heart flow through his pen?
Well, like any other letter, there was the usual way to start it: Dear Reverend ___________, He stopped and stared at the salutation, willing those words to multiply into a whole letter. After praying for what seemed to be the millionth time, the words slowly started to come together.
This is probably one of the hardest letters I've ever had to write, and I think this is my tenth or eleventh attempt at writing it. Even now, I find myself wanting to put the pen down and walk away, pretending that everything's all right. But the truth is, I can't. Not anymore.
I don't want to make it seem like the blame is all on your shoulders. It really isn't. And I do not for one instant believe that you are a bad person or even a bad minister. It's really just part of the natural progression this church has taken for a number of years. You can see it in a compromise here, a revision there, finally leading up to where we are today. And sadly, where we are today is far removed from the church I believe is prescribed by Christ and the apostles.
I think a great deal about Paul's words to Timothy: "For the time is coming when people will not endure sound teaching, but having itching ears they will accumulate for themselves teachers to suit their own passions, and will turn away from listening to the truth and wander off into myths." I was hoping I would not have to witness such a close example of it. Slowly but surely, I have seen that wandering take place in our own pulpits, week after week, year after year. I hadn't really noticed it at first; the changes were so subtle. Someone would want to come up with some "new" interpretation of a scripture; someone would try to make a verse seem more "reasonable" or "tolerant" or whatever catch phrase they chose. And that teaching would work its way into our theology, being passed down in seminary, with another new teaching building on the previous one.
And what is the end result? We are now holding things as true which the Bible, the inspired Word of God itself, says is false! I'm not going to rehash the arguments again. I know we've discussed them enough already. All I can do is go by what this book says. Yes, it was written almost two thousand years ago, and of course, the argument could be made that we are somehow more "enlightened" or more "evolved" (don't get me started on that) than the biblical writers were, but I can't accept that. "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever," and the Jesus Christ I know is described and revealed in the Bible. If I don't have that anchor for my faith and doctrine, who knows how far I could be carried off course? I have heard that Christianity must change or die, but why? Is the power of God so weak that it must alter itself to suit this present culture? Does God have to change to be accepted? I always thought it was us who were to be changed, to be conformed into the likeness of Christ. Instead, we have those "itching ears," trying to find a way we can have our cake and eat it, too. We are trying to fit our round theology into a square hole of culture, and because it doesn't fit, we try to mold it and reshape it in such a way that it can.
This all sounds so condemning, and that's not my intention. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I cannot remain in a church that has bought into a myth. I've tried to stay and make it work, staying with the church that raised me up from childhood to where I am today. But as much as I try to tell myself that these new teachings and doctrines are just for those off in some national church headquarters and not within the four walls of my local church, I know that isn't true. I see it in the publications we get from our national offices. I hear it in the liturgies and prayers we are asked to pray. And while I have no desire to cause offense, I am beginning to hear it preached from the local pulpit. And after many prayers and many tears, I just cannot stay here anymore. I have to be true to my faith as revealed in the scriptures. I have to leave.
I don't want to leave on harsh terms or with anger or malice between us, so I wish you well and pray that God would always watch over you. If I am wrong, if I am not seeing things as God would wish me to, I pray that he would reveal that to me and give me the grace to change. However, if I am truly seeing things the way they are, if what I am feeling is right, I pray (and will continue to pray) that God would send his truth back into this church and that there would be true repentance and a full return to the truth. I don't know if I will see that in my lifetime or not. But I know that God is faithful, and he will not let the truth of his Word diminish. "All scripture is breathed out by God," as Paul said, and it will remain to the end.
May God be with you, now and always.
Yours in Christ....
He signed the letter, folded it neatly, and slid it into the waiting envelope. He noticed, almost by accident, that two tears were working their way down his cheeks. He wanted to lick the envelope to seal it, but his mouth was so dry, he couldn't work up the spit to do it. Raising his hand to his face, he caught one of his tears on his fingertip. He then ran that tear across the envelope glue, moistening the glue enough to allow the envelope to seal.
How appropriate.
He slowly set the letter on his desk. Reaching for his Bible, he clutched it to his chest and allowed himself to mourn.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
Growing Up
C. David McKirachan
Luke 18:1-8
One of the first things I noticed about my children was that the Lord had designed them to survive in a hostile world. In spite of all the goo-ing and cute little outfits they were dressed in, in spite of all the things said about the innocence of children it was very evident that the only things they cared about was themselves and their own comforts. They were glad to see us because we dealt with their needs. And if we didn't we paid the price of being accosted by their wails. And let me tell you, they both inherited my pipes. Whew! If dinner was not on their schedule, the windows were in jeopardy. I realized that if they weren't built like this few of them would make it.
Their journey through childhood provided more proof of my discovery. "No" and "Mine" dominated my babies' lingual responses until they learned more specific ways to demonstrate their power. On a regular basis I was assured by veterans of the child wars that all of this was perfectly normal behavior with the codicil, "Just wait until..." and a vivid description of the next battle to expect, with a final groan indicating the coming nightmare of adolescence.
As I experienced this more and more clearly, I realized that my children's behavior reminded me of some of the more self-centered adults that I had wrestled with along the way. Two things came to mind. First, that we as parents and concerned adults were here to teach these largely unformed personalities put in our care to be civilized. That doesn't mean so much little things like not throwing food or poop or closing your mouth when eating soup. It means teaching them to be generous, forgiving, hopeful, compassionate, in other words, teaching the little pagan barbarians to be Christian. And second, that when we do manage to sand down some of the sharp edges, we also seem to shut down the passion that drove the "No's and Mine's." I remember the horror and the glory of my own teenaged moments. Now, I can better see that I didn't need to be nuts about the tiny issues that drove me to such heights and depths. Now that I have clearly identified larger issues, now that I know some of the driving forces that run our lives, where is the passion? And if I do manage to center in and bring my energy to bear on one tight focus, I am told, "Calm down, don't let it bother you," or best of all, "... mellow out."
Jesus had a hard time with lukewarm faith, probably as much as he objected to childish selfishness and lack of empathy, hard hearts. Perhaps part of faith is rediscovering the roots of our identities and the power there, power that is our heritage. It seems he saw clearly how self-centered, childish personalities knew very well how to get what they wanted. Our call is not to become abstract, detached, passionless people. Our call is to be children of God, knowing what God wants for us and for the world and putting all that we are into building the kingdom of God.
So, maybe it's not wrong to be a little nuts. Ask my friends and family. They'll all tell you, "He never grew up." At least I'm not throwing tantrums.
Deontologize the principle of parsimony
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 119:97-104
I had a hard time determining a major in college. I vacillated between History, Anthropology, English Lit., and Geology. I like field trips. There was one professor who fascinated me. He was older than the norm, played the cello, rode an ancient but shiny three speed bike around the campus, enjoyed good sherry, chuckled around his pipe, and faced the tirades of adolescent arrogance with the aplomb of calm courage. His questions bothered me like fleas. I itched at them long after class. Dr. Strodach was a Philosophy professor. I took any class that had his name on it. I learned. He's why I majored in Philosophy. My father's Ph.d. from Princeton in Metaphysical Philosophy had absolutely nothing to do with it. Congenital disorders often go unnoticed.
Dr. Strodach gently goaded us toward a consideration of our own place in the world by inviting us to consider the monsters of the contemplative discipline. He refused to accept rote repetition of Plato. He wanted us to wrestle with the shadows on the wall of our own lives. What were our ideals? He poked holes in each and every balloon I lofted. And in the grand deflation I discovered how the defense of my own foolishness limited my journey. He taught me not to tolerate fools. But he taught me how to have enough manners to not make myself one by considering myself far separated from their foolishness. This guy was the real deal. He reminded me of my father without all the Oedipal baggage.
In my senior year he got sick. Not the flu kind, the hospital surgery kind. We had just started a year-long trek through the metaphysicians. I was devastated. His replacement was a teacher who shall not be named here. The guy made me nuts. He loved to demonstrate his superior knowledge and use it like a lash to move us through the material. He was boring in lecture and did not deal well with questions no matter how insightful or desperate they were. The day we dealt with Occum's razor was the final straw. This philosophic principle came from a Scottish monk, naturally. He said the simplest construction is best the KISS principle comes from him. Keep it simple stupid. The not-so-esteemed professor held forth on the metaphysical chaos that swirls about our heads, calling forth Occum as the shining knight of logic to wield his razor in our defense. He then announced just what that razor was. "Deontologize the principle of parsimony." It was like getting a garbage compactor for a romantic gift (that's another story). It was like... This... boob (and that's generous) just cut himself with the razor he was showing us how to use. So much for keeping it simple.
In my stunned bewilderment, I suddenly heard Dr. Strodach chuckling. He never took his pipe out of his mouth. He just chuckled around it. I calmly held up my hand. Our ranting boob of a professor ground to a halt and glared at me. Raising his chin as to consider what kind of bug was presuming to disturb him, he pontificated, "Yes?" He made it a three syllable word.
The bug humbly asked, "Sir, what does 'deontologize' mean?"
The boob stared at me, considering exactly what would be the best way to squash me. But realizing this gave him another moment to demonstrate his mental superiority he launched into a tirade of multisylabic baulderdash. Finally considering me sufficiently squashed he checked his notes and rebooted his destruction of Occum. I raised my hand again. He shuddered to another halt. He again addressed me with all the scorn of a Ph.d. to a fool. "Yes?" This time it was a four syllable word.
The bug humbly begged, "Sir, what does 'parsimony' mean?"
Now to you this may not seem like a horribly offensive set of questions. You may have been wondering yourself. But to the class who had become numb under his lash it was clear there was a ray of Strodach sunshine beaming into our darkness. The boob stared at me for a good thirty seconds, looked at his notes, and dismissed the class.
Small victories mean a lot to slaves. We had to pass the class with a B if we were Philosophy majors. Small victory or not, we were still bugs in the amber of multisylabic baulderdash. I considered this as I plodded into the boob's room for the next class. I was waiting to pay for my small victory. I was late. The class was silent as I closed the door. I was afraid to turn around. As I came into the room I had seen Dr. Strodach sitting on the window sill smiling around his pipe. I was terrified that I would turn around and realize I was still in the boob's hell.
Dr. Strodach said to my back, "What's the matter Mr. McKirachan? I thought you believed in the resurrection of the body."
That good humored master teacher gave me a gift, "sweeter than honey." He taught me the validity of grace under fire and demonstrated the courage to claim it. He also taught me that the truth will make us free.
God bless you Dr. Strodach.
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, October 17, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
