Deliverance
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Deliverance" by Craig Kelly
"Spiritual Judo" by C. David McKirachan
"Ascension" by Keith Hewitt
"You Are Witnesses" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Praise Game" by Larry Winebrenner
"A Disciple Speaks" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * * *
Deliverance
Craig Kelly
Psalm 66:8-20
It had been over a month, and he could still feel the sting of the scars on his back with each rise and fall of their journey. The rough timber walls of the ship's small, cramped hold made each one of those scars burn as if freshly made. Still, to look at his face, one would never have known he was in pain. He had learned well how to mask his feelings.
He and ten others sat silently in the hold of the Lady of the Lakes, a Great Lakes scow winding its way up the Detroit River. They had already made it through the choppy waters of Lake Erie from Ohio, a fact to which the dried vomit on the hold floor could attest. There were many cold nights with only a few blankets to go around. The hold reeked of body odor, vomit, and feces, with the hot afternoon sun only making it worse.
Yet, if one were to go around and survey the room, not one of them would have rather been anywhere else. Anything was better than what they had left as far as they were concerned. Having once worked the cotton fields of Jackson, Tennessee, under a harsh slave master's whip, anything looked better, especially their "Promised Land" -- Upper Canada.
Sunlight poured into the hold as the door opened. Slowly, a man stepped down the creaky wooden steps into the room. He was a tall, black man wearing black trousers and a white, buttoned shirt. He filled his frame well, a testament to a decent diet and a strong work ethic. Of course, his years working in a Mississippi plantation would have forced this man to become strong. He was Jacob, the captain's mate, and a former runaway slave. Now, along with Captain Maxwell, he served as the conductor for this last leg of what would be known as the Underground Railroad. Having won his freedom, he was now using it to secure that freedom for other former slaves.
Without saying a word, he started passing out pieces of dried jerky and fruit. He knew as much as anyone how important it was to maintain one's strength during this kind of journey. As he came up to the shirtless, back-scarred man against the wall, he knelt down beside him.
"How you holdin' up, Isaiah?"
"All right, I s'pose," Isaiah shrugged. "Haven't felt my feet since yesterday. But that don't mean I won't walk off this ship on my own feet when the time comes. I won't be carried off like some cripple."
Jacob smiled. "It's just from sitting in the same spot for so long. Don't worry. You start taking a few steps and the feelin' will come back real quick."
Isaiah looked at Jacob as he took his jerky. "You been up there, right? Tell me this is all worth it."
"Well," Jacob said, taking a deep breath, "I can't tell you that everyone's gonna treat you well up there. There's probably just as many up there don't like our kind as down South. But I do know that there ain't no slave drivers up there. No one's gonna whip ya for fallin' down on the job. A man can still make his own life up there. And that's a far sight better than what we had. A far sight." Jacob patted Isaiah's shoulder as he rose up and made his way out of the hold.
As Jacob made his way up to the main deck, Captain Maxwell called him over. He was manning the wheel, calmly maneuvering the smooth waters of the Detroit. He was a short, portly man in his late forties. His bald head shone light a lighthouse, with the exception of a grey ring around the back. He made up for that with large, bushy mutton chops running down each side of his face, equally as grey. Born and raised in Windsor, he knew the Detroit like the back of his hand, along with Lake Erie, Lake Huron, and Lake Ontario. It was a simply life carrying freight around the Great Lakes, but it was fulfilling nevertheless, especially on trips like this one.
"How are they doing down there?" he asked, slowly turning the wheel to maintain his course.
"Better, now that we're on the river," Jacob replied. "That was a rough ride on the lake."
After talking about the weather, the boat, and everything else sailing, the old sailor turned to his young mate with a thoughtful look. "Jacob, I know we've been helping these poor souls get across the border for a few years now, and I know how difficult it can be even just on this leg of the trip. I've heard some stories from them and you about what they had to go through just getting here -- traveling in the dead of night, staying in old barns and shacks, wading through muddy creeks to lose the dogs...." His voice trailed off. "I... I just can't imagine what that all would have been like. And yet, even with all that, I know that everyone down there would say they're in a better place now than where they came from. I can't fathom what it must have been like."
Jacob smiled and patted the captain's shoulder. "Thank the Lord that you can't, Cap'n. Thank the Lord." Maxwell smiled, returned the shoulder pat, and let Jacob take the wheel.
* * *
Two days later, the Lady of the Lakes slowly docked at the harbor in Windsor, the passengers' long journey now ended. Their muscles and joints stiff from the cramped hold, the ex-slaves slowly shuffled off the ship, tears streaming down their faces. It was obvious they wanted to run, but they had to content themselves with moving slower. Conductors waited on the docks to welcome them to their new life.
Isaiah was the last passenger off the boat. Amidst the cries of jubilation, he stood silently at the edge of the plank, looking at this new land -- not heaven, to be sure, but a good land with new possibilities. Jacob came up behind him, holding his captain's Bible. Isaiah turned to him, both faces streaked with tears of joy. They shared a long, silent embrace. No words would have been sufficient to mark this event. Jacob's hands made Isaiah's whip marks sting again, but Isaiah didn't care. He was being embraced as a free man.
As Isaiah joined his fellow travelers, Jacob stood in front of them, opening the Bible that Captain Maxwell used to teach him to read. Solemnly, he read from the Psalms, the crowd hearing these words with a new understanding:
"Thou hast caused men to ride over our heads; we went through fire and through water: but thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place... Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will declare what he hath done for my soul...."
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
Spiritual Judo
by C. David McKirachan
1 Peter 3:13-22
I was green -- in my first church for a year or two. The local minister's bunch decided to have a joint event that included a movie put out by the Billy Graham organization. The movie was fine, I screened it. A little preachy, but we were working in a very hostile environment, right on the Newark border. These people needed clear messages. Our church had the biggest auditorium, so we were going to show it there. We scheduled a meeting to go over logistics.
I came out of my office to meet and greet and was met by a toothy dude who grabbed my hand, clamped it tight, stared into my eyes, and boomed at me, "Brother, are you born again?"
Other than feeling attacked in my own house by a stranger who was doing his best to be confrontive, his question was fraught with all kinds of meanings that were not being expressed. I wanted to tell this guy to get a life. I wanted to tell him that he was looking for an excuse to tell me my faith was second class. I wanted to tell him that bullies were basically insecure, so he should work on his issues before he started using God as a weapon.
Ever felt like that?
I stared back at him and with the weight of my Masters' Degrees and my Ordination and my tradition of deep theological thought, I said, "Hi, my name's David. What's yours?" Hey, it was better than punching him.
Later I began working on my insecurities. This passage from 1 Peter came back to me. I realized defending my faith had a lot more to do with balance and paying attention to the presence of the Lord than it did with slam dunking some whakado however satisfying that might be. But as a follower, I had to be ready to witness, not something we talked a lot about in our discussions of form criticism.
So, I breathe, and stay polite, and ask questions, and have a few good lines that deflect people who like to pontificate. But I always remember who I am. I remember that I am born again. And I try to represent the franchise.
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).
Ascension
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 1:1-11
North of the Hippodrome is the Temple, a brilliant alabaster jewel -- look at it, but let your steps take you south, instead. Walk down a street or two, turn right and follow the twisting way 'til it crosses another, narrower street, then turn left and follow it further south until you come to a place where three alleys come together -- they're hardly streets, anymore, in this warren. Close your eyes, turn around once, then point to one of the alleys without looking, and follow your finger along the shadowed path; it's as good a way as any to find the hole in the wall, and the chances of you finding it twice are legendarily small.
The alley dead ends like a canyon with no exit, and the way the walls are angled it's almost impossible to see the doorway until you're abreast of it, but there it is: a low entryway with a downward-arched lintel, open to the darkness inside; the heavy wooden door is propped open by a rock. Next to it, on a plank whitened by lead, the word "Peace" is written in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, faded almost to invisibility. It takes a bit of imagination to see it... but then it takes a bit of imagination to find it in the first place...
Jeremiel paused in the doorway, scanned the gloomy interior, sorted through its contents with swift, measured eye movements. There, in the back corner -- his eyes rested on a lone figure sitting at the back of the booth, hunched over the table and nursing a tall, chipped cup, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. It's as I thought, he sighed, and began threading his way through the handful of tables.
"I imagine you're here to write me up," the figure said quietly, without looking at him, when he drew near. When he said nothing in response, the figure stirred, looked at him, and nodded. "I understand. I really do."
Jeremiel turned toward the counter at the back of the room, caught the servant's eye and held up two fingers, pointed to the booth, then turned back, hitched up his robe a bit and slid into the booth, across the table from the other. "So, don't think I don't appreciate your obedience to discipline, Afriel, but what makes you think I'm here to write you up?" he asked quietly, watching the other trace designs in wine spilled on the tabletop.
"I kind of blew it," Afriel answered, without looking up. There was a long silence, then, while she completed a particularly complex design, then wiped it away with a sweep of her sleeve as their drinks arrived.
Jeremiel thanked the servant silently, with a slight bow of his head, waited until he had left before speaking again. "Then tell me what you did."
Afriel took a long sip of wine, shrugged as she set the cup down. "You know my assignment."
"You're a Messenger. You were assigned to deliver a message after our Lord Jesus ascended from his disciples." It was hardly secret, Jeremiel had actually cut the orders himself. After thirty-odd years of experience in-country, she was a logical choice.
"Right. A message." She took another sip, eyes fixed on some middle space between them. "I was supposed to say something encouraging, something profound -- something to set the stage for the coming of the Comforter."
"That's right." No words had been pre-arranged -- Jeremiel believed in letting his staff choose their own, and that worked well. Usually.
"So this morning I stood there, in a little stand of trees, and watched while they spoke. I watched as our Lord Jesus spoke to them patiently, explaining what would be happening next, and then they just pestered him with questions about when he would come again, and what was going to happen when he returned. He was telling them about what was coming at them around the bend, and they kept trying to find out what was on the road a thousand miles away."
Jeremiel smiled wryly. "They can have an interesting lack of focus, sometimes."
She tilted her head to one side and shot him a look of exasperation. "Lack of focus? Come on -- they're like children. I watched as he tried to have this very adult conversation with them, and I'm not sure they got even half of it. And when the time came for him to rise -- to start his journey home -- they just stood there and watched him ascend, all slack-jawed even after he was gone from their sight."
"And that's where you came in -- to speak to them and bring them back to the moment, back to where they needed to be."
"Right. That was the job," she agreed bitterly, and took another swig of wine.
"And you said --?"
"I watched them stare as long as I could, and then I stepped out among them and said --" She trailed off, paused.
"You said --?" Jeremiel prodded gently after a moment.
The corners of her mouth twitched downward, and she murmured, "I told them to close their mouths before something flew in."
"Right," Jeremiel agreed, staring for a moment or two at the table between them while he worked to keep a straight face. When he did look up, his expression was fixed and solemn. "Probably not quite the words of inspiration and insight that we were hoping for," he said simply.
Afriel leaned back, sighed explosively. "Yeah, I figured that out. I'm sorry, Jeremiel, I am so sorry -- but I couldn't take it. I've watched these people fumble around for years. After the last couple of months, these disciples know the absolute truth -- they've seen our Lord Jesus let himself be turned over to his killers, they've watched him suffer and die, and then they've seen him risen and walking among them."
"It's been a very difficult time for them," Jeremiel offered. "A confusing one, as I'm sure you understand."
"Of course, and that's why we're here. We're here to make sure things go right --" She swept a hand around the bar, "We all know that. Thirty-odd years we've been here, and I'm okay with that. It is important work, and I get that. But here's the thing: these people have seen the most amazing miracle of all, already -- they've seen our Lord Jesus offer himself up as a sacrifice for them. They've seen our Lord God's plan for redemption of the human soul played out, just as it was planned. They've been given a glimpse into the workings of salvation and the healing of the rift between humanity and our Lord God. And what causes them to stand there, mouths gaping open? Not grace, not salvation -- levitation! A simple parlor trick."
Jeremiel took a small sip from his own cup and let the tang of the grape swish around in his mouth before he spoke. "I see," he said finally. "And that's why you said what you did?"
Afriel shrugged. "I'm not proud of it."
"I understand," he said simply, and Afriel looked at him quickly. He paused for a moment, cup in one hand, moving back and forth in slow rhythm. "I really do understand," he mused. "When our Lord God gave humans free will, he also gave them the ability to frustrate us deeply. Afriel, because we are created to obedience, we see things with great clarity -- humans are not so lucky."
"But does that give them an excuse --" Afriel began.
Jeremiel held up a finger, for quiet. "You hit on it yourself, Afriel. You said they're like children, and that's exactly what they are. You and I are created mature, with a complete understanding of our relationship with our Lord God. These people are created immature -- they must struggle for every bit of understanding they get, gleaning bits of knowledge from the stubble of human experience. What we have by nature, they must work for -- and in the working, there is growth."
"But it's so hard!"
"Yes, it is, because there is so much for them to learn, so much for them to understand. It takes time. And it takes help. That's where we come in -- we are here to make sure things go correctly, yes, but we are also here to help point them toward the next precious bit of knowledge, the next moment of understanding along their road to reconciliation."
Jeremiel took another sip, nodded to himself. "You want them to understand grace and salvation, but they're not quite ready, so they marvel at something lesser, but more obvious to them -- like our Lord Jesus levitating. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, I suppose so," Afriel agreed slowly. "And I'm sorry I said what I did. But will they ever be ready?"
"That day is coming," Jeremiel said with a smile. "That's the next thing we will be working on -- several of us, together, this time. There's going to be quite a crowd, I think, when the Holy Spirit comes to call on them -- and that is when you're going to see these people grow, Afriel. They are children now, but after the Holy Spirit visits -- well, I think we're going to see something very different."
"I hope so," Afriel said fervently.
"That's the plan, anyway. In the meantime, don't worry about this morning. I understand what happened."
"But I was supposed to say something profound. Something encouraging."
Jeremiel smiled. "I think we can save it in the edit. By the time this gets written down, memories will have changed -- for the better, I think."
Afriel frowned. "That happens?"
Jeremiel shrugged, lifted his cup. "There's a narrative to be told, Afriel -- that's what's important, and when you look at history, what people remember becomes truth. Details can be flexible." He took another sip, smiled as a memory came to him, fresh as the taste of grapes in his mouth. "For instance, do you know what Cain really said at first, to our Lord God, when he asked him where Abel was? It's an interesting story..."
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
You Are Witnesses
Larry Winebrenner
Luke 24:44-53
He told them, "This is what is written: The Christ will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance and forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things..."
-- Luke 24:46-47a
George was a 42-year-old homeless man. He had not always been homeless. He once had a wife, three children, a dog, and a house in the suburbs of Miami, Florida.
And he had a job. He worked for an airline based at MIA -- Miami International Airport. The airline closed down. George, and 400 other employees of the company, showed up at the gate.
The gate was locked.
Suddenly, George was jobless. He had no skills, so finding another job wasn't easy. He ended up flipping hamburgers in a fast food chain. But he didn't make enough in a month to pay the mortgage.
One thing led to another until the day he was three payments behind on the mortgage and his family was living on lentil soup once a day. His wife said, "You'll have to get rid of the dog. We can't afford a dog."
He stormed out of the house. When he returned, his wife had gone to live with her mother. She took the kids. And the dog. So he also left. To walk homeless on the streets of Miami.
He had taken the meal offered to him by the church on Biscayne Boulevard. And the Bible offered. And he had been trying to read it "cover to cover."
There was a lot he didn't understand in the Bible. Lots of words were strange. But there were some exciting, and gory, stories. After two years and some months -- he'd lost actual count -- he had finished the Old Testament and almost three books in the New.
He thought the Jesus story was really great -- especially the way his accusers thought they'd done him in only to have him pop up out of the tomb on the third day. That was really neat. Also, the way he sailed off into heaven. Kinda like Superman.
And now he was at the very end of that third book. Luke was its name, like his friend Luke Benson. Although he really didn't understand why there was the Jesus story by three different people, he noticed each of these men had their own special twist. And each put in stuff the others didn't.
He was almost finished with Luke's Jesus story when he ran across the words, "You are witnesses." He lowered the Bible and considered these words.
Witnesses.
Like that day in court. They had witnesses against him. He'd picked up a pocket knife without paying for it. Someone saw him. They called a policeman.
Since he had no address, they put him in jail a couple of days until the trial. Actually, he thought, it was better than sleeping on the streets.
When he was taken before the judge, there were three witnesses. One said he'd heard about the theft, but didn't actually see it. The judge dismissed that one. The other two couldn't agree on their testimony, so the judge dismissed the case.
But this wasn't a trial. This had to do with what people said about other people. About Jesus.
He'd read the whole Old Testament. That seemed to be what Jesus was talking about. He didn't remember reading about Jesus in the Old Testament. He'd have to go back and look.
On the other hand, he knew a lot about Jesus from the New Testament. At least what he read from that guy Matt. And the skinny book by Mark. Skinny like his cousin Mark Caspers. Was the Bible-writing Mark skinny like the book he wrote? And like his cousin? And Luke. He really liked the Luke version of the Jesus story best.
That, "You are witnesses," had to mean those guys that followed Jesus around. Maybe some babes, too. Luke said they followed him and helped support him.
And it was a girl that ran and told the others that Jesus was alive.
So did it mean Jesus was talking to guys and dolls? If he was, George couldn't see why he couldn't witness. If gals could, he could.
George quickly finished the story by Luke. He closed the book and stuffed it into his backpack. Then he turned to the first person he saw.
"Hey, lady," he said. "Let me tell you about Jesus. Did you know that women followed him, too?"
The Praise Game
Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 47
God has ascended amid shouts of joy, the Lord amid the sounding of trumpets. Sing praises to God, sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises.
-- Psalm 47:5-6
Richard sat at the kitchen table with a long face. His father's sister, Aunt Ruth, was just finishing the breakfast dishes. Mom was in the utility room washing clothes.
"What's wrong?" asked Aunt Ruth as she dried her hands on a paper towel.
"Nutt'n'."
"You sound like a cereal commercial," she joked.
"I didn't add 'honey'," he commented in a humorless voice with a dour look cemented in place on his face.
"Wow, your are in a foul mood," said Aunt Ruth sympathetically. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Your mom," she asked.
"Naw," he admitted.
"I know. My stupid brother is at fault!"
"You don't think he's stupid. But he is the problem."
Aunt Ruth sat across the table from him. She rested her jaws in her hands and frowned.
"What'd he do," she asked.
"Nutt'n'."
"We're back to the honeyless cereal again," she said with some exasperation. "Then tell me how it's his fault."
"Father's Day is coming."
"You're mad at him about Father's Day," she sputtered in surprise.
"Not him. Me."
"You? You don't like Father's Day?"
Richard looked at her intently. He licked his lips. He took a deep breath.
"What would he like that I could give him?" he asked. "Me. Not you. Not Mom. Me? If I gave him something big, he'd know it wasn't really from me."
Aunt Ruth opened her mouth to speak. She closed it, thought, and closed it again. Finally she asked a question.
"Do you think of God as Father?"
"Whoa!" he exclaimed. "I'm having enough trouble with Dad. Ain't no way I'm gonna be able to give God a Father's Day gift."
"It might be easier than you think," Aunt Ruth said. She grabbed the Bible they'd used for devotions at breakfast. She opened it to the very middle, flipped a few pages and said, "Here it is."
"Here what is?" asked Richard.
"A passage from Psalm 47. it says: God has ascended amid shouts of joy, the Lord amid the sounding of trumpets. Sing praises to God, sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises."
"Yeah," said Richard. "So?"
"Seems to me," Aunt Ruth said, "that what's good enough for God is good enough for your dad."
Richard stared at her.
"You think Dad wants praises?"
He couldn't believe he had even asked her that question.
"We used to play this game when we were children. We called it 'Praises' because we would see who could write the longest list of praises about the other."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
On Father's Day Richard gave his dad a pad and pencil.
"Uh, this is my Father's Day gift?" asked his dad, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
"No," said Richard. "You'll need that for a game we're going to play."
"I'll beat your socks off if it's Tic-Tac-Toe," said Dad, trying to put some energy in his voice.
"It's not Tic-Tac-Toe, Dad," Richard told him. "It's a game called 'Praises.' Five minutes starting now."
Dad copped a look at his sister. She gave a slight nod.
"All right!" said Dad.
But Richard already had ten items on his list. He'd thought all week about the things he would write down. This was a fun game. Even if Dad lost, he'd win.
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.
A Disciple Speaks
Sandra Herrmann
Luke 24:44-53
You know, people are always asking me about the end of Jesus' ministry, as though when he left this earth his ministry ended. But Jesus had never let us think that he would always be here with us, or that he would be the one who would do everything, and we would always be students. Not that Jesus was always easy to understand.
Well, I realize that I'm only a woman, but seriously, people none of the men were any smarter than I was. Even Peter contradicted Jesus when he told us that the message of the scriptures was that the authorities were going to kill him. Because, see, the authorities always kill those who try to warn them, to turn them back to God. And where did they all die? In Jerusalem.
Well, yes, the kings were in Jerusalem, and people with that kind of power don't ever want to hear the truth! Even the great King David didn't want to hear from Nathan that he was making mistakes, and he would pay for not listening to God. When he had gone and gathered up Uriah's wife and then had her husband killed in battle, David threw himself on the mercy of God. But when the prophet warned him that his son, Absalom, had turned against him and that David had to do something about it, he didn't listen, and was left to fight a civil war against his own flesh and blood.
So nobody was surprised that Jesus said the authorities would want him dead. But after all, he kept telling us that God was his Father (well, actually he said God was his Dad, which was even more surprising), so how could the authorities possibly kill him? Wouldn't God send him a legion of angels to prevent that very thing?
But no -- Jesus told us, that last night of his earthly life, that while he could call for those angels, he wasn't going to, because he and God had worked this all out. He was going to need to die, and even though he was going to do that, it wasn't that God told him he had to. He was quite willing to do this!
Well, this was one of those teachings that we all had a hard time with. It didn't make sense. God is eternal. How could He die?
And there was that business of Jesus saying that he was the same as God. I mean, he said that he and the Father were one, and that if we really were seeing Jesus, we would also have seen God. We were all having a hard time with that one, I can tell you. I mean, we had all seen Jesus tired, hungry, sad, and impatient. Who could see God being tired?
But one day, when the rabbi was reading Isaiah, I heard how sad God was that Israel had forgotten that He was their Father, that he had taught Israel how to walk, and yet Israel had no loyalty to God. It made me sad. I know how hard it is, as a mother, to watch my child do things that his father and I taught him not to do, and watch him get into trouble as a result. My son is grown, married, with children of his own, and even so he sometimes says and does things that make me wonder "What is he thinking!?" I want to sit him down and lecture him, but I know that will only make things worse between us, and probably won't change his behavior.
So I began to see that when Jesus was impatient with us, it was because he really needed for us to catch on before his time was up. Because, you see, he never intended that he would do all the work for us. He never intended that the healings and miracles he demonstrated to us would stop when his earthly life was over. He intended that we would carry on ministering just as he had ministered.
Well, we all had a huge surprise coming. Jesus was arrested, crucified, and buried in a borrowed tomb. But when the three of us women went to the tomb to apply the ointments and perfumes we hadn't had time to apply on the day he died, his body was gone. And even more, one disciple after another reported talking to him. Finally, we were all told to be at Lazarus' home in Bethany on a specific day. We were all curious, maybe even a little apprehensive, not being at all sure if this was really Jesus' summons, or a way for the authorities to get us all rounded up away from Jerusalem.
It turned out that this was the most amazing experience any of us could have imagined. We saw Jesus this one last time as he blessed us and comforted us. He told us to stay together, out of sight, in Jerusalem until the power of the Spirit of God descended on us and gave us the power to follow in his footsteps. And then, suddenly, he simply disappeared. We looked around, but couldn't find him. We looked at each other in wonder. And then we went, together, to the place he told us to go, and waited. It was then that we all realized that this ministry that Jesus had started was not over. It was, in fact, just started -- in us.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
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StoryShare, May 29 & June 2, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.
"Deliverance" by Craig Kelly
"Spiritual Judo" by C. David McKirachan
"Ascension" by Keith Hewitt
"You Are Witnesses" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Praise Game" by Larry Winebrenner
"A Disciple Speaks" by Sandra Herrmann
* * * * * * * *
Deliverance
Craig Kelly
Psalm 66:8-20
It had been over a month, and he could still feel the sting of the scars on his back with each rise and fall of their journey. The rough timber walls of the ship's small, cramped hold made each one of those scars burn as if freshly made. Still, to look at his face, one would never have known he was in pain. He had learned well how to mask his feelings.
He and ten others sat silently in the hold of the Lady of the Lakes, a Great Lakes scow winding its way up the Detroit River. They had already made it through the choppy waters of Lake Erie from Ohio, a fact to which the dried vomit on the hold floor could attest. There were many cold nights with only a few blankets to go around. The hold reeked of body odor, vomit, and feces, with the hot afternoon sun only making it worse.
Yet, if one were to go around and survey the room, not one of them would have rather been anywhere else. Anything was better than what they had left as far as they were concerned. Having once worked the cotton fields of Jackson, Tennessee, under a harsh slave master's whip, anything looked better, especially their "Promised Land" -- Upper Canada.
Sunlight poured into the hold as the door opened. Slowly, a man stepped down the creaky wooden steps into the room. He was a tall, black man wearing black trousers and a white, buttoned shirt. He filled his frame well, a testament to a decent diet and a strong work ethic. Of course, his years working in a Mississippi plantation would have forced this man to become strong. He was Jacob, the captain's mate, and a former runaway slave. Now, along with Captain Maxwell, he served as the conductor for this last leg of what would be known as the Underground Railroad. Having won his freedom, he was now using it to secure that freedom for other former slaves.
Without saying a word, he started passing out pieces of dried jerky and fruit. He knew as much as anyone how important it was to maintain one's strength during this kind of journey. As he came up to the shirtless, back-scarred man against the wall, he knelt down beside him.
"How you holdin' up, Isaiah?"
"All right, I s'pose," Isaiah shrugged. "Haven't felt my feet since yesterday. But that don't mean I won't walk off this ship on my own feet when the time comes. I won't be carried off like some cripple."
Jacob smiled. "It's just from sitting in the same spot for so long. Don't worry. You start taking a few steps and the feelin' will come back real quick."
Isaiah looked at Jacob as he took his jerky. "You been up there, right? Tell me this is all worth it."
"Well," Jacob said, taking a deep breath, "I can't tell you that everyone's gonna treat you well up there. There's probably just as many up there don't like our kind as down South. But I do know that there ain't no slave drivers up there. No one's gonna whip ya for fallin' down on the job. A man can still make his own life up there. And that's a far sight better than what we had. A far sight." Jacob patted Isaiah's shoulder as he rose up and made his way out of the hold.
As Jacob made his way up to the main deck, Captain Maxwell called him over. He was manning the wheel, calmly maneuvering the smooth waters of the Detroit. He was a short, portly man in his late forties. His bald head shone light a lighthouse, with the exception of a grey ring around the back. He made up for that with large, bushy mutton chops running down each side of his face, equally as grey. Born and raised in Windsor, he knew the Detroit like the back of his hand, along with Lake Erie, Lake Huron, and Lake Ontario. It was a simply life carrying freight around the Great Lakes, but it was fulfilling nevertheless, especially on trips like this one.
"How are they doing down there?" he asked, slowly turning the wheel to maintain his course.
"Better, now that we're on the river," Jacob replied. "That was a rough ride on the lake."
After talking about the weather, the boat, and everything else sailing, the old sailor turned to his young mate with a thoughtful look. "Jacob, I know we've been helping these poor souls get across the border for a few years now, and I know how difficult it can be even just on this leg of the trip. I've heard some stories from them and you about what they had to go through just getting here -- traveling in the dead of night, staying in old barns and shacks, wading through muddy creeks to lose the dogs...." His voice trailed off. "I... I just can't imagine what that all would have been like. And yet, even with all that, I know that everyone down there would say they're in a better place now than where they came from. I can't fathom what it must have been like."
Jacob smiled and patted the captain's shoulder. "Thank the Lord that you can't, Cap'n. Thank the Lord." Maxwell smiled, returned the shoulder pat, and let Jacob take the wheel.
* * *
Two days later, the Lady of the Lakes slowly docked at the harbor in Windsor, the passengers' long journey now ended. Their muscles and joints stiff from the cramped hold, the ex-slaves slowly shuffled off the ship, tears streaming down their faces. It was obvious they wanted to run, but they had to content themselves with moving slower. Conductors waited on the docks to welcome them to their new life.
Isaiah was the last passenger off the boat. Amidst the cries of jubilation, he stood silently at the edge of the plank, looking at this new land -- not heaven, to be sure, but a good land with new possibilities. Jacob came up behind him, holding his captain's Bible. Isaiah turned to him, both faces streaked with tears of joy. They shared a long, silent embrace. No words would have been sufficient to mark this event. Jacob's hands made Isaiah's whip marks sting again, but Isaiah didn't care. He was being embraced as a free man.
As Isaiah joined his fellow travelers, Jacob stood in front of them, opening the Bible that Captain Maxwell used to teach him to read. Solemnly, he read from the Psalms, the crowd hearing these words with a new understanding:
"Thou hast caused men to ride over our heads; we went through fire and through water: but thou broughtest us out into a wealthy place... Come and hear, all ye that fear God, and I will declare what he hath done for my soul...."
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
Spiritual Judo
by C. David McKirachan
1 Peter 3:13-22
I was green -- in my first church for a year or two. The local minister's bunch decided to have a joint event that included a movie put out by the Billy Graham organization. The movie was fine, I screened it. A little preachy, but we were working in a very hostile environment, right on the Newark border. These people needed clear messages. Our church had the biggest auditorium, so we were going to show it there. We scheduled a meeting to go over logistics.
I came out of my office to meet and greet and was met by a toothy dude who grabbed my hand, clamped it tight, stared into my eyes, and boomed at me, "Brother, are you born again?"
Other than feeling attacked in my own house by a stranger who was doing his best to be confrontive, his question was fraught with all kinds of meanings that were not being expressed. I wanted to tell this guy to get a life. I wanted to tell him that he was looking for an excuse to tell me my faith was second class. I wanted to tell him that bullies were basically insecure, so he should work on his issues before he started using God as a weapon.
Ever felt like that?
I stared back at him and with the weight of my Masters' Degrees and my Ordination and my tradition of deep theological thought, I said, "Hi, my name's David. What's yours?" Hey, it was better than punching him.
Later I began working on my insecurities. This passage from 1 Peter came back to me. I realized defending my faith had a lot more to do with balance and paying attention to the presence of the Lord than it did with slam dunking some whakado however satisfying that might be. But as a follower, I had to be ready to witness, not something we talked a lot about in our discussions of form criticism.
So, I breathe, and stay polite, and ask questions, and have a few good lines that deflect people who like to pontificate. But I always remember who I am. I remember that I am born again. And I try to represent the franchise.
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).
Ascension
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 1:1-11
North of the Hippodrome is the Temple, a brilliant alabaster jewel -- look at it, but let your steps take you south, instead. Walk down a street or two, turn right and follow the twisting way 'til it crosses another, narrower street, then turn left and follow it further south until you come to a place where three alleys come together -- they're hardly streets, anymore, in this warren. Close your eyes, turn around once, then point to one of the alleys without looking, and follow your finger along the shadowed path; it's as good a way as any to find the hole in the wall, and the chances of you finding it twice are legendarily small.
The alley dead ends like a canyon with no exit, and the way the walls are angled it's almost impossible to see the doorway until you're abreast of it, but there it is: a low entryway with a downward-arched lintel, open to the darkness inside; the heavy wooden door is propped open by a rock. Next to it, on a plank whitened by lead, the word "Peace" is written in Greek, Hebrew, and Latin, faded almost to invisibility. It takes a bit of imagination to see it... but then it takes a bit of imagination to find it in the first place...
Jeremiel paused in the doorway, scanned the gloomy interior, sorted through its contents with swift, measured eye movements. There, in the back corner -- his eyes rested on a lone figure sitting at the back of the booth, hunched over the table and nursing a tall, chipped cup, eyes fixed on nothing in particular. It's as I thought, he sighed, and began threading his way through the handful of tables.
"I imagine you're here to write me up," the figure said quietly, without looking at him, when he drew near. When he said nothing in response, the figure stirred, looked at him, and nodded. "I understand. I really do."
Jeremiel turned toward the counter at the back of the room, caught the servant's eye and held up two fingers, pointed to the booth, then turned back, hitched up his robe a bit and slid into the booth, across the table from the other. "So, don't think I don't appreciate your obedience to discipline, Afriel, but what makes you think I'm here to write you up?" he asked quietly, watching the other trace designs in wine spilled on the tabletop.
"I kind of blew it," Afriel answered, without looking up. There was a long silence, then, while she completed a particularly complex design, then wiped it away with a sweep of her sleeve as their drinks arrived.
Jeremiel thanked the servant silently, with a slight bow of his head, waited until he had left before speaking again. "Then tell me what you did."
Afriel took a long sip of wine, shrugged as she set the cup down. "You know my assignment."
"You're a Messenger. You were assigned to deliver a message after our Lord Jesus ascended from his disciples." It was hardly secret, Jeremiel had actually cut the orders himself. After thirty-odd years of experience in-country, she was a logical choice.
"Right. A message." She took another sip, eyes fixed on some middle space between them. "I was supposed to say something encouraging, something profound -- something to set the stage for the coming of the Comforter."
"That's right." No words had been pre-arranged -- Jeremiel believed in letting his staff choose their own, and that worked well. Usually.
"So this morning I stood there, in a little stand of trees, and watched while they spoke. I watched as our Lord Jesus spoke to them patiently, explaining what would be happening next, and then they just pestered him with questions about when he would come again, and what was going to happen when he returned. He was telling them about what was coming at them around the bend, and they kept trying to find out what was on the road a thousand miles away."
Jeremiel smiled wryly. "They can have an interesting lack of focus, sometimes."
She tilted her head to one side and shot him a look of exasperation. "Lack of focus? Come on -- they're like children. I watched as he tried to have this very adult conversation with them, and I'm not sure they got even half of it. And when the time came for him to rise -- to start his journey home -- they just stood there and watched him ascend, all slack-jawed even after he was gone from their sight."
"And that's where you came in -- to speak to them and bring them back to the moment, back to where they needed to be."
"Right. That was the job," she agreed bitterly, and took another swig of wine.
"And you said --?"
"I watched them stare as long as I could, and then I stepped out among them and said --" She trailed off, paused.
"You said --?" Jeremiel prodded gently after a moment.
The corners of her mouth twitched downward, and she murmured, "I told them to close their mouths before something flew in."
"Right," Jeremiel agreed, staring for a moment or two at the table between them while he worked to keep a straight face. When he did look up, his expression was fixed and solemn. "Probably not quite the words of inspiration and insight that we were hoping for," he said simply.
Afriel leaned back, sighed explosively. "Yeah, I figured that out. I'm sorry, Jeremiel, I am so sorry -- but I couldn't take it. I've watched these people fumble around for years. After the last couple of months, these disciples know the absolute truth -- they've seen our Lord Jesus let himself be turned over to his killers, they've watched him suffer and die, and then they've seen him risen and walking among them."
"It's been a very difficult time for them," Jeremiel offered. "A confusing one, as I'm sure you understand."
"Of course, and that's why we're here. We're here to make sure things go right --" She swept a hand around the bar, "We all know that. Thirty-odd years we've been here, and I'm okay with that. It is important work, and I get that. But here's the thing: these people have seen the most amazing miracle of all, already -- they've seen our Lord Jesus offer himself up as a sacrifice for them. They've seen our Lord God's plan for redemption of the human soul played out, just as it was planned. They've been given a glimpse into the workings of salvation and the healing of the rift between humanity and our Lord God. And what causes them to stand there, mouths gaping open? Not grace, not salvation -- levitation! A simple parlor trick."
Jeremiel took a small sip from his own cup and let the tang of the grape swish around in his mouth before he spoke. "I see," he said finally. "And that's why you said what you did?"
Afriel shrugged. "I'm not proud of it."
"I understand," he said simply, and Afriel looked at him quickly. He paused for a moment, cup in one hand, moving back and forth in slow rhythm. "I really do understand," he mused. "When our Lord God gave humans free will, he also gave them the ability to frustrate us deeply. Afriel, because we are created to obedience, we see things with great clarity -- humans are not so lucky."
"But does that give them an excuse --" Afriel began.
Jeremiel held up a finger, for quiet. "You hit on it yourself, Afriel. You said they're like children, and that's exactly what they are. You and I are created mature, with a complete understanding of our relationship with our Lord God. These people are created immature -- they must struggle for every bit of understanding they get, gleaning bits of knowledge from the stubble of human experience. What we have by nature, they must work for -- and in the working, there is growth."
"But it's so hard!"
"Yes, it is, because there is so much for them to learn, so much for them to understand. It takes time. And it takes help. That's where we come in -- we are here to make sure things go correctly, yes, but we are also here to help point them toward the next precious bit of knowledge, the next moment of understanding along their road to reconciliation."
Jeremiel took another sip, nodded to himself. "You want them to understand grace and salvation, but they're not quite ready, so they marvel at something lesser, but more obvious to them -- like our Lord Jesus levitating. Does that make sense?"
"Yes, I suppose so," Afriel agreed slowly. "And I'm sorry I said what I did. But will they ever be ready?"
"That day is coming," Jeremiel said with a smile. "That's the next thing we will be working on -- several of us, together, this time. There's going to be quite a crowd, I think, when the Holy Spirit comes to call on them -- and that is when you're going to see these people grow, Afriel. They are children now, but after the Holy Spirit visits -- well, I think we're going to see something very different."
"I hope so," Afriel said fervently.
"That's the plan, anyway. In the meantime, don't worry about this morning. I understand what happened."
"But I was supposed to say something profound. Something encouraging."
Jeremiel smiled. "I think we can save it in the edit. By the time this gets written down, memories will have changed -- for the better, I think."
Afriel frowned. "That happens?"
Jeremiel shrugged, lifted his cup. "There's a narrative to be told, Afriel -- that's what's important, and when you look at history, what people remember becomes truth. Details can be flexible." He took another sip, smiled as a memory came to him, fresh as the taste of grapes in his mouth. "For instance, do you know what Cain really said at first, to our Lord God, when he asked him where Abel was? It's an interesting story..."
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
You Are Witnesses
Larry Winebrenner
Luke 24:44-53
He told them, "This is what is written: The Christ will suffer and rise from the dead on the third day, and repentance and forgiveness of sins will be preached in his name to all nations, beginning at Jerusalem. You are witnesses of these things..."
-- Luke 24:46-47a
George was a 42-year-old homeless man. He had not always been homeless. He once had a wife, three children, a dog, and a house in the suburbs of Miami, Florida.
And he had a job. He worked for an airline based at MIA -- Miami International Airport. The airline closed down. George, and 400 other employees of the company, showed up at the gate.
The gate was locked.
Suddenly, George was jobless. He had no skills, so finding another job wasn't easy. He ended up flipping hamburgers in a fast food chain. But he didn't make enough in a month to pay the mortgage.
One thing led to another until the day he was three payments behind on the mortgage and his family was living on lentil soup once a day. His wife said, "You'll have to get rid of the dog. We can't afford a dog."
He stormed out of the house. When he returned, his wife had gone to live with her mother. She took the kids. And the dog. So he also left. To walk homeless on the streets of Miami.
He had taken the meal offered to him by the church on Biscayne Boulevard. And the Bible offered. And he had been trying to read it "cover to cover."
There was a lot he didn't understand in the Bible. Lots of words were strange. But there were some exciting, and gory, stories. After two years and some months -- he'd lost actual count -- he had finished the Old Testament and almost three books in the New.
He thought the Jesus story was really great -- especially the way his accusers thought they'd done him in only to have him pop up out of the tomb on the third day. That was really neat. Also, the way he sailed off into heaven. Kinda like Superman.
And now he was at the very end of that third book. Luke was its name, like his friend Luke Benson. Although he really didn't understand why there was the Jesus story by three different people, he noticed each of these men had their own special twist. And each put in stuff the others didn't.
He was almost finished with Luke's Jesus story when he ran across the words, "You are witnesses." He lowered the Bible and considered these words.
Witnesses.
Like that day in court. They had witnesses against him. He'd picked up a pocket knife without paying for it. Someone saw him. They called a policeman.
Since he had no address, they put him in jail a couple of days until the trial. Actually, he thought, it was better than sleeping on the streets.
When he was taken before the judge, there were three witnesses. One said he'd heard about the theft, but didn't actually see it. The judge dismissed that one. The other two couldn't agree on their testimony, so the judge dismissed the case.
But this wasn't a trial. This had to do with what people said about other people. About Jesus.
He'd read the whole Old Testament. That seemed to be what Jesus was talking about. He didn't remember reading about Jesus in the Old Testament. He'd have to go back and look.
On the other hand, he knew a lot about Jesus from the New Testament. At least what he read from that guy Matt. And the skinny book by Mark. Skinny like his cousin Mark Caspers. Was the Bible-writing Mark skinny like the book he wrote? And like his cousin? And Luke. He really liked the Luke version of the Jesus story best.
That, "You are witnesses," had to mean those guys that followed Jesus around. Maybe some babes, too. Luke said they followed him and helped support him.
And it was a girl that ran and told the others that Jesus was alive.
So did it mean Jesus was talking to guys and dolls? If he was, George couldn't see why he couldn't witness. If gals could, he could.
George quickly finished the story by Luke. He closed the book and stuffed it into his backpack. Then he turned to the first person he saw.
"Hey, lady," he said. "Let me tell you about Jesus. Did you know that women followed him, too?"
The Praise Game
Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 47
God has ascended amid shouts of joy, the Lord amid the sounding of trumpets. Sing praises to God, sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises.
-- Psalm 47:5-6
Richard sat at the kitchen table with a long face. His father's sister, Aunt Ruth, was just finishing the breakfast dishes. Mom was in the utility room washing clothes.
"What's wrong?" asked Aunt Ruth as she dried her hands on a paper towel.
"Nutt'n'."
"You sound like a cereal commercial," she joked.
"I didn't add 'honey'," he commented in a humorless voice with a dour look cemented in place on his face.
"Wow, your are in a foul mood," said Aunt Ruth sympathetically. "Did I do something wrong?"
"No."
"Your mom," she asked.
"Naw," he admitted.
"I know. My stupid brother is at fault!"
"You don't think he's stupid. But he is the problem."
Aunt Ruth sat across the table from him. She rested her jaws in her hands and frowned.
"What'd he do," she asked.
"Nutt'n'."
"We're back to the honeyless cereal again," she said with some exasperation. "Then tell me how it's his fault."
"Father's Day is coming."
"You're mad at him about Father's Day," she sputtered in surprise.
"Not him. Me."
"You? You don't like Father's Day?"
Richard looked at her intently. He licked his lips. He took a deep breath.
"What would he like that I could give him?" he asked. "Me. Not you. Not Mom. Me? If I gave him something big, he'd know it wasn't really from me."
Aunt Ruth opened her mouth to speak. She closed it, thought, and closed it again. Finally she asked a question.
"Do you think of God as Father?"
"Whoa!" he exclaimed. "I'm having enough trouble with Dad. Ain't no way I'm gonna be able to give God a Father's Day gift."
"It might be easier than you think," Aunt Ruth said. She grabbed the Bible they'd used for devotions at breakfast. She opened it to the very middle, flipped a few pages and said, "Here it is."
"Here what is?" asked Richard.
"A passage from Psalm 47. it says: God has ascended amid shouts of joy, the Lord amid the sounding of trumpets. Sing praises to God, sing praises; sing praises to our King, sing praises."
"Yeah," said Richard. "So?"
"Seems to me," Aunt Ruth said, "that what's good enough for God is good enough for your dad."
Richard stared at her.
"You think Dad wants praises?"
He couldn't believe he had even asked her that question.
"We used to play this game when we were children. We called it 'Praises' because we would see who could write the longest list of praises about the other."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
On Father's Day Richard gave his dad a pad and pencil.
"Uh, this is my Father's Day gift?" asked his dad, trying to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
"No," said Richard. "You'll need that for a game we're going to play."
"I'll beat your socks off if it's Tic-Tac-Toe," said Dad, trying to put some energy in his voice.
"It's not Tic-Tac-Toe, Dad," Richard told him. "It's a game called 'Praises.' Five minutes starting now."
Dad copped a look at his sister. She gave a slight nod.
"All right!" said Dad.
But Richard already had ten items on his list. He'd thought all week about the things he would write down. This was a fun game. Even if Dad lost, he'd win.
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.
A Disciple Speaks
Sandra Herrmann
Luke 24:44-53
You know, people are always asking me about the end of Jesus' ministry, as though when he left this earth his ministry ended. But Jesus had never let us think that he would always be here with us, or that he would be the one who would do everything, and we would always be students. Not that Jesus was always easy to understand.
Well, I realize that I'm only a woman, but seriously, people none of the men were any smarter than I was. Even Peter contradicted Jesus when he told us that the message of the scriptures was that the authorities were going to kill him. Because, see, the authorities always kill those who try to warn them, to turn them back to God. And where did they all die? In Jerusalem.
Well, yes, the kings were in Jerusalem, and people with that kind of power don't ever want to hear the truth! Even the great King David didn't want to hear from Nathan that he was making mistakes, and he would pay for not listening to God. When he had gone and gathered up Uriah's wife and then had her husband killed in battle, David threw himself on the mercy of God. But when the prophet warned him that his son, Absalom, had turned against him and that David had to do something about it, he didn't listen, and was left to fight a civil war against his own flesh and blood.
So nobody was surprised that Jesus said the authorities would want him dead. But after all, he kept telling us that God was his Father (well, actually he said God was his Dad, which was even more surprising), so how could the authorities possibly kill him? Wouldn't God send him a legion of angels to prevent that very thing?
But no -- Jesus told us, that last night of his earthly life, that while he could call for those angels, he wasn't going to, because he and God had worked this all out. He was going to need to die, and even though he was going to do that, it wasn't that God told him he had to. He was quite willing to do this!
Well, this was one of those teachings that we all had a hard time with. It didn't make sense. God is eternal. How could He die?
And there was that business of Jesus saying that he was the same as God. I mean, he said that he and the Father were one, and that if we really were seeing Jesus, we would also have seen God. We were all having a hard time with that one, I can tell you. I mean, we had all seen Jesus tired, hungry, sad, and impatient. Who could see God being tired?
But one day, when the rabbi was reading Isaiah, I heard how sad God was that Israel had forgotten that He was their Father, that he had taught Israel how to walk, and yet Israel had no loyalty to God. It made me sad. I know how hard it is, as a mother, to watch my child do things that his father and I taught him not to do, and watch him get into trouble as a result. My son is grown, married, with children of his own, and even so he sometimes says and does things that make me wonder "What is he thinking!?" I want to sit him down and lecture him, but I know that will only make things worse between us, and probably won't change his behavior.
So I began to see that when Jesus was impatient with us, it was because he really needed for us to catch on before his time was up. Because, you see, he never intended that he would do all the work for us. He never intended that the healings and miracles he demonstrated to us would stop when his earthly life was over. He intended that we would carry on ministering just as he had ministered.
Well, we all had a huge surprise coming. Jesus was arrested, crucified, and buried in a borrowed tomb. But when the three of us women went to the tomb to apply the ointments and perfumes we hadn't had time to apply on the day he died, his body was gone. And even more, one disciple after another reported talking to him. Finally, we were all told to be at Lazarus' home in Bethany on a specific day. We were all curious, maybe even a little apprehensive, not being at all sure if this was really Jesus' summons, or a way for the authorities to get us all rounded up away from Jerusalem.
It turned out that this was the most amazing experience any of us could have imagined. We saw Jesus this one last time as he blessed us and comforted us. He told us to stay together, out of sight, in Jerusalem until the power of the Spirit of God descended on us and gave us the power to follow in his footsteps. And then, suddenly, he simply disappeared. We looked around, but couldn't find him. We looked at each other in wonder. And then we went, together, to the place he told us to go, and waited. It was then that we all realized that this ministry that Jesus had started was not over. It was, in fact, just started -- in us.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
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StoryShare, May 29 & June 2, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.
