Do You Believe The Sky Is Blue?
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Do You Believe the Sky Is Blue?" by Keith Hewitt
"The Kingdom of God Is Like This..." by Peter Andrew Smith
"Genesis of a Parable" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Power of the Tiny" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Horse Race" by Larry Winebrenner
What's Up This Week
We all know the truth of what Paul tells us in this week's epistle reading -- that "in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away." But how literally are we to take that phrase? In the feature story of this edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt shares a memorable tale with a very striking answer to that question… one that will leave you thinking for a long time. Peter Andrew Smith tells of a church's after-school program -- and while the many in the church didn't see the program's value, one day the minister discovers that the way to reach young people with the gospel was right under their nose all along. And Larry Winebrenner concludes this week's material with a trio of engaging meditations, including accounts of a horse race and a wizard's duel.
* * * * * * * * *
Do You Believe the Sky Is Blue?
by Keith Hewitt
2 Corinthians 5:6-10 (11-13) 14-17
The world was a snow globe -- only the snow was dust and soot, and instead of someone's playful hands it was artillery shells landing nearby that made the world jump. There would be the whoosh of death in flight, then the unearthly noise of destruction being wrought on whatever or whoever happened to occupy the end of its trajectory. Somebody had once said it was like thunder, but it must have been someone who had never experienced it, or at least never been near it. Thunder? Back in Wisconsin he had never heard thunder so loud it made his ears ring, or felt the pressure of it squeeze the air out of his lungs while it plucked at his ribs.
"Jesus," he murmured as another 88 round landed one street over, shaking loose more dust from the ceiling beams. How can there be this much dust down here after two days of shelling? Debris -- rubble, metal, glass, whatever -- sleeted on the exposed floor above him, punctuating the silence that followed the explosion like a hole in the air. "Jesus," he repeated -- less than a prayer, more than a curse. Using the butt of his rifle to lever his butt off the floor, he pushed himself back against the cold stone of the cellar wall, dropped with a spine-jarring thud, and waited for the next one.
There was always a next one…
Across the room, three men in Wehrmacht gray sat against the opposite wall and stared back at him. Somewhere inside, he was glad that they looked as scared as he felt, even though it was their own artillery that was pounding them; artillery knew no friends. One of them -- he looked like he ought to be in high school -- was repeating the same thing over and over again, under his breath, too low to hear.
The cellar door opened -- well, fell off its hinges -- and he turned toward the noise, raised his rifle to cover the stairway. It was Lewis, tall and broad enough to fill the ancient doorway. "How you doing, Randall?" Lewis asked, almost shouting, though his voice was still tinny as it fought its way through the ringing in his ears.
"Good enough," Randall grunted.
"How's the ankle?"
"It's been better." His eyes flickered to his ankle, where a dirty, bloody bandage was wrapped tightly, trying to hold the lower leg together and shield the bone from the outside air. The compound fracture had happened in the jump, and he remembered just sitting there, staring stupidly at the bones jutting out above the top of his boot, not even aware of how much it hurt until a medic came along and touched it. After that, a steady stream of morphine syrettes had held the pain at bay until everything went in the crapper, and he found himself standing guard over the prisoners because everyone else was either too badly wounded or was needed on the line. He needed a clear head to watch them, so the morphine had stopped two days ago. So had sleep.
"Might be even better pretty soon, Lieutenant," Lewis answered. "We're pulling out -- pulling back. Just got the word from Battalion." He tapped his watch. "They've rustled up a few trucks. They'll be here in 15 minutes, in the courtyard just down the block. You're going to be riding with some of the other boys, you lucky SOB -- the rest of us are walking out. Can you make it to the trucks?"
"Watch me." With his good leg and the rifle, he pushed himself up and ended up standing hunched over in the gloom, teetering on one foot, the other hovering off the floor; the bandage got a little redder, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his ankle. Pain washed over him in waves and threatened to pull him under; his face was pale and his hand trembled as he leaned against a wooden bench that didn't look like it would hold him for long. "Good as gold," he answered, between clenched teeth.
Lewis frowned. "I've got to get runners out to the rest of the guys, Lieutenant, but I'll be back for you -- or I'll send someone."
"Don't wait too long or I'll beat you there," Randall said, and tried to smile. He gestured toward the prisoners. "Is someone coming for them now, or do I have to manage them, too?"
Lewis hesitated, his face expressionless beneath dirt and sweat, then shrugged and left without answering, to get word of the pullout to the rest of Easy Company.
The lieutenant looked after him, blinking, then looked back at his prisoners. How much of that did they understand? Lewis hadn't said what he was thinking, but it still lay there on the rubble-strewn floor as though he had left it behind when he went out the door. It was not Army policy, never had been or would be -- but everyone knew that there were moments in battle when prisoners just got in the way. Left behind, they might rejoin the fight or give valuable intelligence to the enemy; taken along, particularly when maneuvering under fire, they would be a burden, slowing everyone down. It wouldn't be smart to bring them; there were exigencies that occurred in war, and everyone knew that.
Yet, it wasn't smart to join the Army when he could have had a deferment, and it wasn't smart to jump out of a perfectly good airplane either. His mind raced, and he could almost feel the time slipping away. It was still racing when another shell -- a big one -- screamed overhead, close enough to suck the air out of the room as it passed. A hammer of sound and air pounded him back against the wall, and without thinking, his right foot slammed down to the floor to hold him upright --
The world went red, then black, then back to red, and the sound that tore out of his throat was less than human. The rain of dust took on a red tinge, and he fought to keep himself from falling. In that instant, when the world spun jerkily beneath him, one of the prisoners -- the kid -- jumped to his feet and stepped toward him… and the next thing he knew was the ping! of the empty clip being ejected from his rifle, bouncing on the floor, improbably loud and clear in the blanket of silence after the explosion. The kid was collapsed on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, pumping the years he would never see into a dark, spreading pool on the floor; the other two prisoners slumped against the wall, where they had died, still sitting...
* * *
He woke up shaking, with the taste of blood and gunpowder in his mouth, and found that he was sitting straight up in bed. Both hands clutched the down comforter, and a trickle of sweat ticked off seconds from the tip of his nose -- drip... drip... drip... -- as he waited for the room to flow back into his world, to take shape in the gloom around him, replacing the sights and sounds that had surrounded him a moment before.
There, just past the end of the bed, was the tall window that looked out on the cobbled streets of Schwalbestadt, lit by a single street light almost a block away; between streetlight and moonlight, the sheer white curtains seemed to glow softly in the gloom, waving slowly, almost ghostlike in the night air. In front of the window stood the small round table with its kerosene lamp, unlit; next to the lamp, a stack of mail and the dark shape of his belt, holster, and pistol, neatly wrapped and resting atop the envelopes. Next to the table was a single wooden chair with faded cushions and a high back; hanging from the back was a blouse that was an iridescent, pearly white in the gloom. A single stocking hung like a sash across it...
Oh yeah.
He blinked, automatically looked down to his left and released the comforter, reached out one hand tentatively, and touched the curved form beneath the comforter. "Ist etwas falsch?" a sleepy, strawberry blond voice asked.
He pulled his hand back, and reached out with the other for the half-empty pack of Camels on the nightstand. Still trembling, he teased a cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth, found the zippo, and lit it with one flick of the wheel. Flame flared, disappeared as the lid snapped down; darkness closed back in.
"Es gibt nichts falsch," he lied softly, staring into the darkness. "There's nothing wrong." And he sat, waiting for dawn to banish the shadows.
* * *
The garage was tidy and smelled of gasoline and grease, with just a hint of beer. One bay was empty; the other was occupied by a Volkswagen, bulbous and gray, with that weird back-end hood open to expose the engine within and a blanket draped over the right fender. At the back of the shop, a lone man in stained white coveralls sat at the bench, facing rows of neatly-racked tools. A newspaper was spread before him, and there was a rye and cheese sandwich on a napkin next to him. As Randall watched, the man set down a tall glass of dark beer, turned the page, and reached for his sandwich.
Randall quietly unsnapped the flap of his holster, tucked it back out of the way, and left his hand hanging near it. "Wilhelm Resch?" he asked loudly.
The man jumped at the sound of his voice, coughed, and spit out a bite of sandwich as he turned. "Begnadigen Sie mich?" the man stammered. "Pardon me?" He slipped off the stool and set the sandwich on the plate.
"You are Wilhelm Resch?" Randall asked, stepping toward the man. "Also known as Werner Reinhold?"
The man started to speak, then paused, picked up a napkin, and wiped his lips before answering. His blue eyes, set beneath thick, dark eyebrows, darted about the garage, as though the answer might be found there, then finally came back to Randall and rested on him. "I think that is not a question, Captain. Am I right?"
Randall nodded. "It took me some time to go through the personnel records from Todeswald, but I did -- and I found you. You were a private, a mechanic assigned to maintain the ventilation systems for the gas chambers." The corners of his mouth drew up briefly, in an expression that was cold and grim. "You people may find that you wish you were not so good at keeping records, Herr Reinhold."
"Please, Captain --" the eyes flitted around again and came back to Randall, "the name is Resch. I am not this Reinhold you speak of."
Randall shrugged. "Call yourself what you will -- we have already had one positive identification, and there is the picture in your file."
The mechanic shook his head emphatically. "Nein, nein!" he said. "You misunderstand me. May I tell you a story, Captain?"
Randall looked at his watch. "Make it fast, Herr Reinhold."
The man winced at the name "Reinhold," frowned, and pulled out a second stool. "Sit, sit, please," he said, gesturing toward the tall, wooden stool. Randall's eyes flicked to it, then back to the mechanic; he shook his head. The mechanic shrugged, sat down on his own stool, and began to speak. The words came out slowly, as though he was taking the same care with each word, every phrase, as he would when he was repairing a motor; his hands fidgeted in his lap, but his eyes stopped moving from place to place once he began to speak -- instead, they seemed fixed on some unseen object that rested between them in the garage.
"You tell me you know about Werner Reinhold's record, Captain -- so you know what he did. What you don't know about is what it did to him."
Randall frowned. "Are you familiar with the English phrase 'cry me a river'?" He said it in English. "It doesn't translate well, but it means -- well, spare me, I can't be sympathetic. I'm not interested in hearing about how awful it was to work in a death camp. I've been there. I've seen."
The mechanic's eyes found Randall's and stayed there for a time as he plowed on. "Reinhold was assigned to the Todeswald abschließende Verarbeitungsanlage, part of the Dachau complex, on December 17, 1943. He was glad to be there, because it meant he wasn't going to the Eastern Front. He was not a soldier in any meaningful sense of the word -- he was a mechanic, with nothing to prove. He certainly felt no need to end his life in some frozen Russian field, gutted like a fish or shot like a stray dog, for the glory of the Fatherland.
"Reinhold counted his blessings, and bent himself to doing the job he was assigned. He reported for work every day, and between his sense of duty and his desire for self-preservation, he quickly learned to shut out the noises that came from the chambers under his feet. Instead, he focused on his job. It was routine -- when the red light went on, it meant the Zyklon B was being poured into the chamber, so it was time to start the motor. The noise of the great diesel helped to drown out the pounding and the cries for mercy. Ten minutes or so later the green light would go on, indicating that it was time to ventilate the chamber, so he would release the clutch and engage the fans to evacuate the gas. Five to ten minutes after that the light would go out, signaling that the kommando had opened the doors to go in and begin cleaning out the chamber. It was safe then to shut down the ventilator.
"It was his habit, between the red light and the green, to step outside of the machine shed to smoke a cigarette. It helped with -- things. From that vantage point, he overlooked the siding. Usually it was empty; sometimes the empty boxcars were still being pulled out of the siding. Either way, there was nothing remarkable about it."
The mechanic paused, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly; his eyes blinked and Randall wondered what he was seeing. "And then one day -- summer of 1944, the weather was warm, the day was sunny… one day he stepped out for his cigarette, between the red and the green light, and there on the siding was this long column of people -- men, women, children, they stood there clutching bags and suitcases, with looks of such utter misery that it was like looking upon… the death of hope. He stood there transfixed for just a moment or two before he ran back into the shed. But as he stood there, one little boy -- he couldn't have been more than ten -- looked up at him... and waved."
The mechanic raised one hand and moved it slowly back and forth. "He just waved. And Reinhold ran -- ran back to the shed and the noise and the lights, and tried to forget what he had seen. When the next shipment went in -- they were early and everything was rushed -- when they went in he started the motor again and ran it at full throttle. The whole shed must have been vibrating, but all he could hear and all he could feel was that one little fist... pounding on the wall."
There was another pause, a longer one. Randall was about to speak -- but wasn't sure what he was going to say -- when the mechanic said softly, "After that, he could never again block out the sounds. He could never again pretend he didn't know. And it was all the more monstrous, because even knowing what he did, he could not stop. He could not -- would not -- stop being a part of it. He had no other option."
"There are always options," Randall countered quietly.
The mechanic smiled, but there was no joy in the expression. "You speak like a man who has never done anything he was ashamed of, Captain. You're a lucky man. As for Reinhold, it began to eat away at him. Day after day, week after week, month after month, it ground on and on, wearing down his soul with the persistence of a glacier. The evil that he did lived with him every waking moment, and haunted his dreams."
He paused and patted his coverall pockets until he found a package of cigarettes, then he pulled one out, put it in his mouth, and started to feel around for a match. After a moment, Randall pulled out his zippo, stepped toward him, and extended the lighter. The mechanic took it gratefully, lit his cigarette, and handed the lighter back. He drew in a deep breath of smoke, then let it out in a long stream. His eyes followed the smoke as it fled from him and began to lose its shape in the air.
"And then one day," he continued softly, "Reinhold had a conversation with another soldier -- a corporal. He was a guard, and he spoke about a most remarkable conversation that he had had one night with an inmate. This man -- a Jew -- spoke to him about how God was with him in the camp, with him every day. He said" -- the mechanic paused and formed the words carefully so he could recount the tale correctly -- "he said that God has promised to be with us in good times and bad, and that if his promises meant anything, they mean that there is deliverance from the worst hell, and the worst of times -- not necessarily in the way we expect it, but in the way he decides." He paused and shook his head slightly. "How that conversation could have happened, I do not know -- but it did.
"So Reinhold thought about this remarkable conversation. He thought that if a man like that could find God at the worst of times, if he could look up from the depths of hell and see hope, then maybe anybody could find God. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped. As he hoped, he began to pray. Stuck in hell, with nothing but suffering around him and despair inside him, he prayed -- for forgiveness, for the courage to stop what he was doing, for the sound of that small fist pounding on the wall of his soul to be stilled."
He dropped the cigarette butt to the floor, stepped on it, and looked directly at Randall once more. "Two days later, we got word that the Allies were only ten kilometers from Todeswald. The SS officers immediately assembled a company of inmates and began to march them toward Munich, 'escorting' them away from the Allied lines. There was chaos among those who were left behind -- some tried to destroy the camp, but most just fled. The sound of enemy tanks was already in the air when Reinhold slipped out of camp.
"That night Reinhold found himself hiding in a barn. Sitting there in the dark, the realization of what had happened came over him -- he had been delivered. He also realized that Werner Reinhold -- the mechanic, the monster, the coward -- had died in that camp, along with so many others. Since God had seen fit to free him from that life and grant him a chance at a new one, then the old one must end. He buried his uniform and his identity disk in a horse stall, and a new man walked out of that barn the next morning, with nothing but twelve marks, his long underwear, and a belief that God was with him no matter what." The mechanic smiled -- a faint, actual smile. "The farmer was surprised but very, very understanding."
The captain stared at the mechanic for some time before he said quietly, "You actually believe all that -- all that stuff about God being there, that God is with you, no matter what you've done, or what you're going through?"
"Do you believe the sky is blue, Captain? Do you believe that gravity holds you to the earth? To me, the grace of God that I discovered is as much a fact as either of those things. It does not require belief -- just acceptance." He stood up again, reached into his coverall pocket, pulled out a pocket watch, and flipped open the cover; the letters "WR" curved across burnished brass. "My lunch hour is almost over, Captain, and the owner will be back shortly. Shall I tell him that I must accompany you? Or can this wait until later?"
The silence lay between them, and Randall heard the sound of his own heart beating, his blood rushing -- whoosh... whoosh... whoosh. Then he shook his head slightly and gestured with one hand as though to show it was empty. "Can what wait, Herr Resch? I came here to investigate a report that there was someone working here who had served at a death camp. Now you tell me the man is dead." He shrugged. "Without more evidence, I don't see any need to move forward on this."
Resch looked at him curiously. "I don't understand, Captain."
"I don't either," Randall said. "But one day I hope to."
Resch took a deep breath and nodded. "Gott segnen Sie," he said. "God bless you."
"We'll see," Randall said.
And he left.
* * *
The forest outside of Schwalbestadt was thick and dark, with mottles of sunlight spread randomly on the soft floor where leaves and needles, twigs and small animals waited for the years to perform their magic, transforming them into soil that would nurture the tress that shed them. There was a breeze, and it smelled of evergreens as it caressed his face... it reminded Randall of home. He sat with his back against a tree, closed his eyes, and hoped to see his mother, or the house on 14th Street.
Instead, there was the cellar. It elbowed aside the other memories, the thoughts of home, and crouched before him like some beast, licking its chops, waiting to swallow him whole. Eyes closed, he faced the beast -- since running didn't help.
What you did was evil.
Reinhold/Resch had found a way out -- why can't I?
What you did was unforgivable.
The mechanic ran a gas chamber, for God's sake. How much more unforgivable than that could a man be?
Reinhold is fooling himself. God isn't with him -- he doesn't love Reinhold any more than he loves you.
But he seems so sure…
Do you really think God cares? Would a caring God have let such things go on?
I can't explain it. But Resch said there is deliverance from the worst hell, and the worst of times -- not necessarily in the way we expect it, but in the way God decides.
Brave words from a coward, and a monster. You're a murderer, just like Reinhold. For the rest of your life, you'll be a murderer. God doesn't give a crap about you -- you're evil, that die was cast years ago. There's nothing you can do about it.
But --
There's nothing you can do. You're beyond salvation. You're evil.
Randall shivered, though he was not cold. "God, help me," he murmured, "I'm so tired."
The beast growled, low in its throat. There's nothing you can do.
Randall let his head fall back against the tree; tears welled in his eyes and started to roll down his cheeks. His face was suddenly warm, as sunlight picked its way through the canopy and found him, and the warmth spread through him. As the warmth settled over him like a blanket, he suddenly knew what he must do.
He stared back at the beast and nodded. "There are always options," he whispered, and reached for the Colt .45 on his hip. It felt exactly right as he slid it from its holster…
* * *
The forest outside of Schwalbestadt is thick and dark, with mottles of sunlight spread randomly on the soft floor where leaves and needles, twigs and small animals waited for the years to perform their magic. Beneath one particular tree there stands a cross made of branches tied together with a chain. Where upright and crosspiece meet, a pair of GI dog tags hang. Beneath the cross, buried as deep as hands can dig, a Colt .45 rusts in the dirt. In the barrel, rolled up, is a piece of paper.
It reads simply, "I know the sky is blue."
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
The Kingdom of God Is Like This...
by Peter Andrew Smith
Mark 4:26-34
"Is everything okay?" Tad asked from the hallway.
"What do you mean?" Reverend Latesha said as she looked up from proofreading the weekly church bulletin.
"I mean with our group being cancelled today."
"Oh," she replied, "Roger has the flu."
Latesha was not really surprised that one of the boys from the after-school program at the church was concerned that it was cancelled, but was quite surprised that it was Tad who showed up at her door. Tad had never spoken more than a "hello" to her before today, although he was always at the program. She knew he lived with his grandmother, but he never came to church with her except at Christmas and Easter and then, by the look on his face, under protest.
"Is Roger going to be okay?"
"Sure, he's just sick today," Latesha said. "Nothing to worry about. He hopes to be here tomorrow."
"Oh."
She went back to what she had been doing, but didn't get very far before she realized that Tad was still standing in the doorway.
"Was there anything else, Tad?" she asked.
"Um," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoy the after-school program."
"I'm glad. Roger always tells me that he looks forward to seeing all of you. And things are certainly active when you get busy in the gym."
"Yeah, sorry about the window. Gran said some people were upset about it."
She smiled. "The trustees were, but I think they also remembered how things are when an indoor soccer game gets going. The fact that you offered to pay for the window helped, too."
"Some of us are worried that the church will stop letting us come here after school."
Reverend Latesha closed her laptop and motioned Tad to have a seat in her office.
"The board hasn't made any decisions, but there is a review going on of everything happening at the church."
"So we might not be able to come here anymore?"
"Tad, I don't know what the board will decide. With Roger leaving at the end of December to go back to school it's hard to know what we'll do in January."
Tad pulled at his shirt nervously. "Will someone else make sure we get to come here after school?"
"I don't know."
"Because some of us don't have anywhere else to go but an empty house," Tad said. "Roger has made this place a home for us. And not just for the kids from this church."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when Singh's sister was hit by the car we all prayed for her, and we went to help out at the store so his mother could stay with her."
Reverend Latesha knew that the program was open to everyone in the neighborhood. She also knew about the prayers after the accident because Roger had asked her for an appropriate prayer to use with the teens since the Singhs were Moslem. But she didn't know about the teens helping out at the local corner store.
"And this is somewhere where we learn more about God together," Tad continued.
"That's what we do at church on Sunday," Reverend Latesha said.
"Yeah, but a lot of us have questions and when we get together we are able to talk and Roger sometimes tells us about the Bible, too."
She nodded. Roger had been in her office more than once about the difficulties he was having introducing a Bible study to the teens.
"Um," Tad said, "we didn't know Roger was sick, so most of us are here."
Reverend Latesha smiled. "I know. That's why I opened up the gym. I'm around this afternoon so you can shoot baskets and hang out if you want. You saw the sign didn't you?"
"Yeah. We were reading about King Saul yesterday and how he broke his word to God."
"That's an interesting story, and I bet there was a lot of discussion around it."
"Yeah." Tad got up but didn't go past the doorway.
"Was there something else, Tad?" Reverend Latesha asked before she opened her laptop again.
"Since you are here and you're the minister and all, some of us were wondering," Tad said, pulling at his shirt again, "could you lead the Bible study today?"
She looked at the paperwork sitting on her desk. "Give me ten minutes to finish up what I was doing and I'll meet you in the hall."
"Awesome!" Tad said as he raced off.
Reverend Latesha sat at her desk for a few minutes thinking about the conversation that had just taken place. She was one of the people who had been skeptical when Roger asked permission to start the after-school program. She recognized after it got going that there was value to it but hadn't argued for it to continue at the last board meeting. Like the rest of the board, she felt the church's time and money should be spent on a more religious program for young people. She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Chair of the Church Board.
"Simon, can you drop by the church this afternoon? Good. I think that the answer as to how to reach the young people with the gospel has been happening right here without us realizing."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Genesis of a Parable
by Larry Winebrenner
Mark 4:26-34
In Mark 4 Jesus uses an image with which folks are familiar to make a point. He reminds them that although the gardener knows how to place a seed in the ground and water it, the gardener doesn't know what makes the plant grow.
Imagine how much more puzzling the process would be for those folk who have not yet developed agricultural practices. Some time in the Mesozoic era, the middle stone age, agriculture began.
In From the Valley of Darkness to the Valley of Light, a novel set in the Mesozoic period, Ila is the clan leader in gathering edible plants. As she gathers plants, she notices that the plants she harvests often have seeds clinging to their roots. In a leap of insight, she tries planting a few seeds in a protected location. Sure enough, the seeds sprout into plants. This is a great, valuable secret in a valley of diminishing resources. She shares it with the group she has been leading in food gathering. People set in their ways often aren't willing to accept new practices. She has trouble getting her sister gatherers to accept this great discovery.
Jesus often had the same problem getting his listeners to apply his parables to life. Even his own disciples often asked what the parable meant. Other times, they clearly did not understand the meaning Jesus intended. "Beware the leaven of the Pharisees." "Destroy this temple and I shall rebuild it in three days." We wonder at the density of the disciples' minds. Yet we fall into the same mode of thinking.
Two men walking along the sidewalk in a large city discussed religion. They stopped right in front of an elderly, shabbily dressed man at one point in their discussion.
"What did I ever do that required Jesus to suffer on the cross for me?" inquired one of the conversationalists.
"Maybe it's what you didn't do," suggested the elderly man as he overheard the question.
"Aha," said the other conversationalist, "you want a handout."
"No," commented the elderly man, "I get by just fine. But you didn't ask. And honestly, you don't care."
A car stopped at the curb. The elderly man got in, and the car drove away.
"Well, how do you answer that?" asked the one who wondered about why Jesus had to die for him.
"Maybe that was the answer to your question," said the other.
The Power of the Tiny
by Larry Winebrenner
Mark 4:26-34
In the Disney animated version of The Sword and the Stone, there is a great battle between a good wizard (Merlin) and a wicked witch (Madame Mim). Perhaps you have seen this "wizard's duel," in which the combatants tried to defeat each other by changing themselves into various animals that would destroy the other.
The sequence of the battle went something like this: Merlin changed himself into a mouse so he could escape through a small hole; the witch countered by becoming a vicious cat set to grab the mouse. The wizard then changed into a fierce dog that chased the cat, until the witch was able to change into a ferocious lion. The battle of changes continued until the wicked witch became a horrendous dragon that caught the wizard. That might have been the end of the battle, but Merlin changed himself into the tiniest of living things -- a germ. This germ infected the dragon with a disease that made it fiercely ill, and the witch was finally defeated.
There is great power... even in small, tiny things. Jesus said it this way: "If you had the faith even so little as a mustard seed, you could tell the mountain to go jump into the ocean, and it would." In a world that places such a high value on the biggest, the most expensive, the most powerful, it is well to remember the value of small things.
Who hasn't heard this tale of a family opening Christmas gifts? Everyone was enthralled by the large packages they received, but everyone was stunned when the smallest package was opened -- inside was a diamond ring.
Small things don't have to be expensive to be valuable. There's the fable of an ancient kingdom that illustrates this point.
The king announced a contest to determine the most valuable treasure in the kingdom. The navy sailed its largest sailing vessel into the harbor. "This ship sails to the four corners of the earth, bringing back treasures from around the world," said the admiral. "It undoubtedly is the most valuable treasure in the kingdom."
The people said, "Indeed it is valuable. Perhaps it is the treasure."
"Not so!" cried the factory owners. "A ship can only carry materials, and it is limited to how much it can carry. And it takes a long time to fetch its cargo and bring it home. Our factories create goods. All that is needed, for trade, for livelihood, for pleasure, we create… clothing and tools and games."
"Yes, yes," said the people, "indeed factories are valuable. Perhaps they are the treasure."
"Wait!" cried one wizened old man. "Yonder mountain is our treasure. Flocks and herds graze upon that mountain, providing wool and dairy products and meat. Farmers till the soil and grow foodstuffs for us to eat. Miners dig silver and gold, iron and coal from that mountain. Surely it is our most valuable treasure."
"Yes, yes, yes," said the people. "Indeed it is valuable. Perhaps the mountain is the treasure."
The queen said to her husband, "May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course, my dear," said the king, "you are the queen."
She went inside for a moment and returned with a small bundle.
"You are wise, my dear," said the king, observing her bundle. "The kingdom would sacrifice its all to defend this treasure." He held the bundle up for the people to see.
"Yes," cried the people, "the most valuable treasure is our prince."
The Horse Race
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 20
Jordan and Grandpa were doing one of her favorite things to do while visiting her grandparents -- they were walking along the beach.
"Grandpa," she said, "you used to have a racehorse when you lived on the farm, didn't you?"
Grandpa chuckled.
"I had a horse. But he was just a plowhorse, not a racehorse. He drew a plow and sometimes pulled a wagon."
"But you have a banner that says Champion Race Winner," insisted Jordan.
Grandpa found his favorite sitting rock. Jordan knelt in the sand beside him. They were going to talk.
"Edna sewed that banner after Robert ran a two-man race," began Grandpa. Jordan listened without interrupting -- Grandpa was about to tell a story.
"You see, we went to church every Sunday. The DuBois family on the next farm didn't go to church."
"Were they atheists?" asked Jordan, wanting to show off her knowledge of that word. Then she was sorry. She didn't mean to interrupt.
"No. They figured there was a God. It's hard to be a farmer and not believe in God. They just didn't go to church. One day Robert finished plowing a field on the other side of the woods. He was having pity on King, leading him, not riding."
"King's the racehorse, right?" spit out Jordan before she could stop her tongue.
"Plowhorse," insisted Grandpa as he tousled her hair. Jordan hated to have her hair tousled, but she figured she deserved it. She didn't say anything.
"Danne DuBois came riding by. 'Don't know how to ride, eh?' " he teased.
" 'I can ride 'im better'n you can ride your'n,' " he snapped back.
"The DuBoises were proud of their horse, almost as proud as they were of their big new Oldsmobile. Nobody else in town had an Oldsmobile. "
" 'If'n you can ride so good, run me a race,' " challenged Danne.
" 'I'll race you to the creek and back. If'n I win, you have to ride us to church Sunday in your car,' " said Robert.
" 'If'n I win, you have to skip church Sunday.' "
"Robert knew the creek was on the other side of the field he'd just plowed. He thought the soft earth would slow down the saddle horse Danne was riding. And he was right. In fact, the other horse stumbled in a furrow and threw Danne to the ground. Robert rode to the creek and stopped on the way back by. Only Danne's pride was hurt. He never finished the race. He had to walk home. His horse had gone home without him."
"Did he ride you to church in his big car?" asked Jordan.
"Nope. Claimed the race was cancelled due to a technicality."
"Aunt Edna didn't think so," said Jordan.
Grandpa laughed. "Well, she thought God caused Robert to win. Read the Psalm reference she sewed on the banner, and you'll see why."
"Psalm 20?"
"That's the one."
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.
**************
StoryShare, June 14, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Do You Believe the Sky Is Blue?" by Keith Hewitt
"The Kingdom of God Is Like This..." by Peter Andrew Smith
"Genesis of a Parable" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Power of the Tiny" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Horse Race" by Larry Winebrenner
What's Up This Week
We all know the truth of what Paul tells us in this week's epistle reading -- that "in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away." But how literally are we to take that phrase? In the feature story of this edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt shares a memorable tale with a very striking answer to that question… one that will leave you thinking for a long time. Peter Andrew Smith tells of a church's after-school program -- and while the many in the church didn't see the program's value, one day the minister discovers that the way to reach young people with the gospel was right under their nose all along. And Larry Winebrenner concludes this week's material with a trio of engaging meditations, including accounts of a horse race and a wizard's duel.
* * * * * * * * *
Do You Believe the Sky Is Blue?
by Keith Hewitt
2 Corinthians 5:6-10 (11-13) 14-17
The world was a snow globe -- only the snow was dust and soot, and instead of someone's playful hands it was artillery shells landing nearby that made the world jump. There would be the whoosh of death in flight, then the unearthly noise of destruction being wrought on whatever or whoever happened to occupy the end of its trajectory. Somebody had once said it was like thunder, but it must have been someone who had never experienced it, or at least never been near it. Thunder? Back in Wisconsin he had never heard thunder so loud it made his ears ring, or felt the pressure of it squeeze the air out of his lungs while it plucked at his ribs.
"Jesus," he murmured as another 88 round landed one street over, shaking loose more dust from the ceiling beams. How can there be this much dust down here after two days of shelling? Debris -- rubble, metal, glass, whatever -- sleeted on the exposed floor above him, punctuating the silence that followed the explosion like a hole in the air. "Jesus," he repeated -- less than a prayer, more than a curse. Using the butt of his rifle to lever his butt off the floor, he pushed himself back against the cold stone of the cellar wall, dropped with a spine-jarring thud, and waited for the next one.
There was always a next one…
Across the room, three men in Wehrmacht gray sat against the opposite wall and stared back at him. Somewhere inside, he was glad that they looked as scared as he felt, even though it was their own artillery that was pounding them; artillery knew no friends. One of them -- he looked like he ought to be in high school -- was repeating the same thing over and over again, under his breath, too low to hear.
The cellar door opened -- well, fell off its hinges -- and he turned toward the noise, raised his rifle to cover the stairway. It was Lewis, tall and broad enough to fill the ancient doorway. "How you doing, Randall?" Lewis asked, almost shouting, though his voice was still tinny as it fought its way through the ringing in his ears.
"Good enough," Randall grunted.
"How's the ankle?"
"It's been better." His eyes flickered to his ankle, where a dirty, bloody bandage was wrapped tightly, trying to hold the lower leg together and shield the bone from the outside air. The compound fracture had happened in the jump, and he remembered just sitting there, staring stupidly at the bones jutting out above the top of his boot, not even aware of how much it hurt until a medic came along and touched it. After that, a steady stream of morphine syrettes had held the pain at bay until everything went in the crapper, and he found himself standing guard over the prisoners because everyone else was either too badly wounded or was needed on the line. He needed a clear head to watch them, so the morphine had stopped two days ago. So had sleep.
"Might be even better pretty soon, Lieutenant," Lewis answered. "We're pulling out -- pulling back. Just got the word from Battalion." He tapped his watch. "They've rustled up a few trucks. They'll be here in 15 minutes, in the courtyard just down the block. You're going to be riding with some of the other boys, you lucky SOB -- the rest of us are walking out. Can you make it to the trucks?"
"Watch me." With his good leg and the rifle, he pushed himself up and ended up standing hunched over in the gloom, teetering on one foot, the other hovering off the floor; the bandage got a little redder, and he could feel the blood pulsing through his ankle. Pain washed over him in waves and threatened to pull him under; his face was pale and his hand trembled as he leaned against a wooden bench that didn't look like it would hold him for long. "Good as gold," he answered, between clenched teeth.
Lewis frowned. "I've got to get runners out to the rest of the guys, Lieutenant, but I'll be back for you -- or I'll send someone."
"Don't wait too long or I'll beat you there," Randall said, and tried to smile. He gestured toward the prisoners. "Is someone coming for them now, or do I have to manage them, too?"
Lewis hesitated, his face expressionless beneath dirt and sweat, then shrugged and left without answering, to get word of the pullout to the rest of Easy Company.
The lieutenant looked after him, blinking, then looked back at his prisoners. How much of that did they understand? Lewis hadn't said what he was thinking, but it still lay there on the rubble-strewn floor as though he had left it behind when he went out the door. It was not Army policy, never had been or would be -- but everyone knew that there were moments in battle when prisoners just got in the way. Left behind, they might rejoin the fight or give valuable intelligence to the enemy; taken along, particularly when maneuvering under fire, they would be a burden, slowing everyone down. It wouldn't be smart to bring them; there were exigencies that occurred in war, and everyone knew that.
Yet, it wasn't smart to join the Army when he could have had a deferment, and it wasn't smart to jump out of a perfectly good airplane either. His mind raced, and he could almost feel the time slipping away. It was still racing when another shell -- a big one -- screamed overhead, close enough to suck the air out of the room as it passed. A hammer of sound and air pounded him back against the wall, and without thinking, his right foot slammed down to the floor to hold him upright --
The world went red, then black, then back to red, and the sound that tore out of his throat was less than human. The rain of dust took on a red tinge, and he fought to keep himself from falling. In that instant, when the world spun jerkily beneath him, one of the prisoners -- the kid -- jumped to his feet and stepped toward him… and the next thing he knew was the ping! of the empty clip being ejected from his rifle, bouncing on the floor, improbably loud and clear in the blanket of silence after the explosion. The kid was collapsed on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut, pumping the years he would never see into a dark, spreading pool on the floor; the other two prisoners slumped against the wall, where they had died, still sitting...
* * *
He woke up shaking, with the taste of blood and gunpowder in his mouth, and found that he was sitting straight up in bed. Both hands clutched the down comforter, and a trickle of sweat ticked off seconds from the tip of his nose -- drip... drip... drip... -- as he waited for the room to flow back into his world, to take shape in the gloom around him, replacing the sights and sounds that had surrounded him a moment before.
There, just past the end of the bed, was the tall window that looked out on the cobbled streets of Schwalbestadt, lit by a single street light almost a block away; between streetlight and moonlight, the sheer white curtains seemed to glow softly in the gloom, waving slowly, almost ghostlike in the night air. In front of the window stood the small round table with its kerosene lamp, unlit; next to the lamp, a stack of mail and the dark shape of his belt, holster, and pistol, neatly wrapped and resting atop the envelopes. Next to the table was a single wooden chair with faded cushions and a high back; hanging from the back was a blouse that was an iridescent, pearly white in the gloom. A single stocking hung like a sash across it...
Oh yeah.
He blinked, automatically looked down to his left and released the comforter, reached out one hand tentatively, and touched the curved form beneath the comforter. "Ist etwas falsch?" a sleepy, strawberry blond voice asked.
He pulled his hand back, and reached out with the other for the half-empty pack of Camels on the nightstand. Still trembling, he teased a cigarette out of the pack and stuck it in his mouth, found the zippo, and lit it with one flick of the wheel. Flame flared, disappeared as the lid snapped down; darkness closed back in.
"Es gibt nichts falsch," he lied softly, staring into the darkness. "There's nothing wrong." And he sat, waiting for dawn to banish the shadows.
* * *
The garage was tidy and smelled of gasoline and grease, with just a hint of beer. One bay was empty; the other was occupied by a Volkswagen, bulbous and gray, with that weird back-end hood open to expose the engine within and a blanket draped over the right fender. At the back of the shop, a lone man in stained white coveralls sat at the bench, facing rows of neatly-racked tools. A newspaper was spread before him, and there was a rye and cheese sandwich on a napkin next to him. As Randall watched, the man set down a tall glass of dark beer, turned the page, and reached for his sandwich.
Randall quietly unsnapped the flap of his holster, tucked it back out of the way, and left his hand hanging near it. "Wilhelm Resch?" he asked loudly.
The man jumped at the sound of his voice, coughed, and spit out a bite of sandwich as he turned. "Begnadigen Sie mich?" the man stammered. "Pardon me?" He slipped off the stool and set the sandwich on the plate.
"You are Wilhelm Resch?" Randall asked, stepping toward the man. "Also known as Werner Reinhold?"
The man started to speak, then paused, picked up a napkin, and wiped his lips before answering. His blue eyes, set beneath thick, dark eyebrows, darted about the garage, as though the answer might be found there, then finally came back to Randall and rested on him. "I think that is not a question, Captain. Am I right?"
Randall nodded. "It took me some time to go through the personnel records from Todeswald, but I did -- and I found you. You were a private, a mechanic assigned to maintain the ventilation systems for the gas chambers." The corners of his mouth drew up briefly, in an expression that was cold and grim. "You people may find that you wish you were not so good at keeping records, Herr Reinhold."
"Please, Captain --" the eyes flitted around again and came back to Randall, "the name is Resch. I am not this Reinhold you speak of."
Randall shrugged. "Call yourself what you will -- we have already had one positive identification, and there is the picture in your file."
The mechanic shook his head emphatically. "Nein, nein!" he said. "You misunderstand me. May I tell you a story, Captain?"
Randall looked at his watch. "Make it fast, Herr Reinhold."
The man winced at the name "Reinhold," frowned, and pulled out a second stool. "Sit, sit, please," he said, gesturing toward the tall, wooden stool. Randall's eyes flicked to it, then back to the mechanic; he shook his head. The mechanic shrugged, sat down on his own stool, and began to speak. The words came out slowly, as though he was taking the same care with each word, every phrase, as he would when he was repairing a motor; his hands fidgeted in his lap, but his eyes stopped moving from place to place once he began to speak -- instead, they seemed fixed on some unseen object that rested between them in the garage.
"You tell me you know about Werner Reinhold's record, Captain -- so you know what he did. What you don't know about is what it did to him."
Randall frowned. "Are you familiar with the English phrase 'cry me a river'?" He said it in English. "It doesn't translate well, but it means -- well, spare me, I can't be sympathetic. I'm not interested in hearing about how awful it was to work in a death camp. I've been there. I've seen."
The mechanic's eyes found Randall's and stayed there for a time as he plowed on. "Reinhold was assigned to the Todeswald abschließende Verarbeitungsanlage, part of the Dachau complex, on December 17, 1943. He was glad to be there, because it meant he wasn't going to the Eastern Front. He was not a soldier in any meaningful sense of the word -- he was a mechanic, with nothing to prove. He certainly felt no need to end his life in some frozen Russian field, gutted like a fish or shot like a stray dog, for the glory of the Fatherland.
"Reinhold counted his blessings, and bent himself to doing the job he was assigned. He reported for work every day, and between his sense of duty and his desire for self-preservation, he quickly learned to shut out the noises that came from the chambers under his feet. Instead, he focused on his job. It was routine -- when the red light went on, it meant the Zyklon B was being poured into the chamber, so it was time to start the motor. The noise of the great diesel helped to drown out the pounding and the cries for mercy. Ten minutes or so later the green light would go on, indicating that it was time to ventilate the chamber, so he would release the clutch and engage the fans to evacuate the gas. Five to ten minutes after that the light would go out, signaling that the kommando had opened the doors to go in and begin cleaning out the chamber. It was safe then to shut down the ventilator.
"It was his habit, between the red light and the green, to step outside of the machine shed to smoke a cigarette. It helped with -- things. From that vantage point, he overlooked the siding. Usually it was empty; sometimes the empty boxcars were still being pulled out of the siding. Either way, there was nothing remarkable about it."
The mechanic paused, took a deep breath, and let it out slowly; his eyes blinked and Randall wondered what he was seeing. "And then one day -- summer of 1944, the weather was warm, the day was sunny… one day he stepped out for his cigarette, between the red and the green light, and there on the siding was this long column of people -- men, women, children, they stood there clutching bags and suitcases, with looks of such utter misery that it was like looking upon… the death of hope. He stood there transfixed for just a moment or two before he ran back into the shed. But as he stood there, one little boy -- he couldn't have been more than ten -- looked up at him... and waved."
The mechanic raised one hand and moved it slowly back and forth. "He just waved. And Reinhold ran -- ran back to the shed and the noise and the lights, and tried to forget what he had seen. When the next shipment went in -- they were early and everything was rushed -- when they went in he started the motor again and ran it at full throttle. The whole shed must have been vibrating, but all he could hear and all he could feel was that one little fist... pounding on the wall."
There was another pause, a longer one. Randall was about to speak -- but wasn't sure what he was going to say -- when the mechanic said softly, "After that, he could never again block out the sounds. He could never again pretend he didn't know. And it was all the more monstrous, because even knowing what he did, he could not stop. He could not -- would not -- stop being a part of it. He had no other option."
"There are always options," Randall countered quietly.
The mechanic smiled, but there was no joy in the expression. "You speak like a man who has never done anything he was ashamed of, Captain. You're a lucky man. As for Reinhold, it began to eat away at him. Day after day, week after week, month after month, it ground on and on, wearing down his soul with the persistence of a glacier. The evil that he did lived with him every waking moment, and haunted his dreams."
He paused and patted his coverall pockets until he found a package of cigarettes, then he pulled one out, put it in his mouth, and started to feel around for a match. After a moment, Randall pulled out his zippo, stepped toward him, and extended the lighter. The mechanic took it gratefully, lit his cigarette, and handed the lighter back. He drew in a deep breath of smoke, then let it out in a long stream. His eyes followed the smoke as it fled from him and began to lose its shape in the air.
"And then one day," he continued softly, "Reinhold had a conversation with another soldier -- a corporal. He was a guard, and he spoke about a most remarkable conversation that he had had one night with an inmate. This man -- a Jew -- spoke to him about how God was with him in the camp, with him every day. He said" -- the mechanic paused and formed the words carefully so he could recount the tale correctly -- "he said that God has promised to be with us in good times and bad, and that if his promises meant anything, they mean that there is deliverance from the worst hell, and the worst of times -- not necessarily in the way we expect it, but in the way he decides." He paused and shook his head slightly. "How that conversation could have happened, I do not know -- but it did.
"So Reinhold thought about this remarkable conversation. He thought that if a man like that could find God at the worst of times, if he could look up from the depths of hell and see hope, then maybe anybody could find God. The more he thought about it, the more he hoped. As he hoped, he began to pray. Stuck in hell, with nothing but suffering around him and despair inside him, he prayed -- for forgiveness, for the courage to stop what he was doing, for the sound of that small fist pounding on the wall of his soul to be stilled."
He dropped the cigarette butt to the floor, stepped on it, and looked directly at Randall once more. "Two days later, we got word that the Allies were only ten kilometers from Todeswald. The SS officers immediately assembled a company of inmates and began to march them toward Munich, 'escorting' them away from the Allied lines. There was chaos among those who were left behind -- some tried to destroy the camp, but most just fled. The sound of enemy tanks was already in the air when Reinhold slipped out of camp.
"That night Reinhold found himself hiding in a barn. Sitting there in the dark, the realization of what had happened came over him -- he had been delivered. He also realized that Werner Reinhold -- the mechanic, the monster, the coward -- had died in that camp, along with so many others. Since God had seen fit to free him from that life and grant him a chance at a new one, then the old one must end. He buried his uniform and his identity disk in a horse stall, and a new man walked out of that barn the next morning, with nothing but twelve marks, his long underwear, and a belief that God was with him no matter what." The mechanic smiled -- a faint, actual smile. "The farmer was surprised but very, very understanding."
The captain stared at the mechanic for some time before he said quietly, "You actually believe all that -- all that stuff about God being there, that God is with you, no matter what you've done, or what you're going through?"
"Do you believe the sky is blue, Captain? Do you believe that gravity holds you to the earth? To me, the grace of God that I discovered is as much a fact as either of those things. It does not require belief -- just acceptance." He stood up again, reached into his coverall pocket, pulled out a pocket watch, and flipped open the cover; the letters "WR" curved across burnished brass. "My lunch hour is almost over, Captain, and the owner will be back shortly. Shall I tell him that I must accompany you? Or can this wait until later?"
The silence lay between them, and Randall heard the sound of his own heart beating, his blood rushing -- whoosh... whoosh... whoosh. Then he shook his head slightly and gestured with one hand as though to show it was empty. "Can what wait, Herr Resch? I came here to investigate a report that there was someone working here who had served at a death camp. Now you tell me the man is dead." He shrugged. "Without more evidence, I don't see any need to move forward on this."
Resch looked at him curiously. "I don't understand, Captain."
"I don't either," Randall said. "But one day I hope to."
Resch took a deep breath and nodded. "Gott segnen Sie," he said. "God bless you."
"We'll see," Randall said.
And he left.
* * *
The forest outside of Schwalbestadt was thick and dark, with mottles of sunlight spread randomly on the soft floor where leaves and needles, twigs and small animals waited for the years to perform their magic, transforming them into soil that would nurture the tress that shed them. There was a breeze, and it smelled of evergreens as it caressed his face... it reminded Randall of home. He sat with his back against a tree, closed his eyes, and hoped to see his mother, or the house on 14th Street.
Instead, there was the cellar. It elbowed aside the other memories, the thoughts of home, and crouched before him like some beast, licking its chops, waiting to swallow him whole. Eyes closed, he faced the beast -- since running didn't help.
What you did was evil.
Reinhold/Resch had found a way out -- why can't I?
What you did was unforgivable.
The mechanic ran a gas chamber, for God's sake. How much more unforgivable than that could a man be?
Reinhold is fooling himself. God isn't with him -- he doesn't love Reinhold any more than he loves you.
But he seems so sure…
Do you really think God cares? Would a caring God have let such things go on?
I can't explain it. But Resch said there is deliverance from the worst hell, and the worst of times -- not necessarily in the way we expect it, but in the way God decides.
Brave words from a coward, and a monster. You're a murderer, just like Reinhold. For the rest of your life, you'll be a murderer. God doesn't give a crap about you -- you're evil, that die was cast years ago. There's nothing you can do about it.
But --
There's nothing you can do. You're beyond salvation. You're evil.
Randall shivered, though he was not cold. "God, help me," he murmured, "I'm so tired."
The beast growled, low in its throat. There's nothing you can do.
Randall let his head fall back against the tree; tears welled in his eyes and started to roll down his cheeks. His face was suddenly warm, as sunlight picked its way through the canopy and found him, and the warmth spread through him. As the warmth settled over him like a blanket, he suddenly knew what he must do.
He stared back at the beast and nodded. "There are always options," he whispered, and reached for the Colt .45 on his hip. It felt exactly right as he slid it from its holster…
* * *
The forest outside of Schwalbestadt is thick and dark, with mottles of sunlight spread randomly on the soft floor where leaves and needles, twigs and small animals waited for the years to perform their magic. Beneath one particular tree there stands a cross made of branches tied together with a chain. Where upright and crosspiece meet, a pair of GI dog tags hang. Beneath the cross, buried as deep as hands can dig, a Colt .45 rusts in the dirt. In the barrel, rolled up, is a piece of paper.
It reads simply, "I know the sky is blue."
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
The Kingdom of God Is Like This...
by Peter Andrew Smith
Mark 4:26-34
"Is everything okay?" Tad asked from the hallway.
"What do you mean?" Reverend Latesha said as she looked up from proofreading the weekly church bulletin.
"I mean with our group being cancelled today."
"Oh," she replied, "Roger has the flu."
Latesha was not really surprised that one of the boys from the after-school program at the church was concerned that it was cancelled, but was quite surprised that it was Tad who showed up at her door. Tad had never spoken more than a "hello" to her before today, although he was always at the program. She knew he lived with his grandmother, but he never came to church with her except at Christmas and Easter and then, by the look on his face, under protest.
"Is Roger going to be okay?"
"Sure, he's just sick today," Latesha said. "Nothing to worry about. He hopes to be here tomorrow."
"Oh."
She went back to what she had been doing, but didn't get very far before she realized that Tad was still standing in the doorway.
"Was there anything else, Tad?" she asked.
"Um," he said, "I just wanted to tell you that I really enjoy the after-school program."
"I'm glad. Roger always tells me that he looks forward to seeing all of you. And things are certainly active when you get busy in the gym."
"Yeah, sorry about the window. Gran said some people were upset about it."
She smiled. "The trustees were, but I think they also remembered how things are when an indoor soccer game gets going. The fact that you offered to pay for the window helped, too."
"Some of us are worried that the church will stop letting us come here after school."
Reverend Latesha closed her laptop and motioned Tad to have a seat in her office.
"The board hasn't made any decisions, but there is a review going on of everything happening at the church."
"So we might not be able to come here anymore?"
"Tad, I don't know what the board will decide. With Roger leaving at the end of December to go back to school it's hard to know what we'll do in January."
Tad pulled at his shirt nervously. "Will someone else make sure we get to come here after school?"
"I don't know."
"Because some of us don't have anywhere else to go but an empty house," Tad said. "Roger has made this place a home for us. And not just for the kids from this church."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, when Singh's sister was hit by the car we all prayed for her, and we went to help out at the store so his mother could stay with her."
Reverend Latesha knew that the program was open to everyone in the neighborhood. She also knew about the prayers after the accident because Roger had asked her for an appropriate prayer to use with the teens since the Singhs were Moslem. But she didn't know about the teens helping out at the local corner store.
"And this is somewhere where we learn more about God together," Tad continued.
"That's what we do at church on Sunday," Reverend Latesha said.
"Yeah, but a lot of us have questions and when we get together we are able to talk and Roger sometimes tells us about the Bible, too."
She nodded. Roger had been in her office more than once about the difficulties he was having introducing a Bible study to the teens.
"Um," Tad said, "we didn't know Roger was sick, so most of us are here."
Reverend Latesha smiled. "I know. That's why I opened up the gym. I'm around this afternoon so you can shoot baskets and hang out if you want. You saw the sign didn't you?"
"Yeah. We were reading about King Saul yesterday and how he broke his word to God."
"That's an interesting story, and I bet there was a lot of discussion around it."
"Yeah." Tad got up but didn't go past the doorway.
"Was there something else, Tad?" Reverend Latesha asked before she opened her laptop again.
"Since you are here and you're the minister and all, some of us were wondering," Tad said, pulling at his shirt again, "could you lead the Bible study today?"
She looked at the paperwork sitting on her desk. "Give me ten minutes to finish up what I was doing and I'll meet you in the hall."
"Awesome!" Tad said as he raced off.
Reverend Latesha sat at her desk for a few minutes thinking about the conversation that had just taken place. She was one of the people who had been skeptical when Roger asked permission to start the after-school program. She recognized after it got going that there was value to it but hadn't argued for it to continue at the last board meeting. Like the rest of the board, she felt the church's time and money should be spent on a more religious program for young people. She picked up the phone and dialed the number of the Chair of the Church Board.
"Simon, can you drop by the church this afternoon? Good. I think that the answer as to how to reach the young people with the gospel has been happening right here without us realizing."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Genesis of a Parable
by Larry Winebrenner
Mark 4:26-34
In Mark 4 Jesus uses an image with which folks are familiar to make a point. He reminds them that although the gardener knows how to place a seed in the ground and water it, the gardener doesn't know what makes the plant grow.
Imagine how much more puzzling the process would be for those folk who have not yet developed agricultural practices. Some time in the Mesozoic era, the middle stone age, agriculture began.
In From the Valley of Darkness to the Valley of Light, a novel set in the Mesozoic period, Ila is the clan leader in gathering edible plants. As she gathers plants, she notices that the plants she harvests often have seeds clinging to their roots. In a leap of insight, she tries planting a few seeds in a protected location. Sure enough, the seeds sprout into plants. This is a great, valuable secret in a valley of diminishing resources. She shares it with the group she has been leading in food gathering. People set in their ways often aren't willing to accept new practices. She has trouble getting her sister gatherers to accept this great discovery.
Jesus often had the same problem getting his listeners to apply his parables to life. Even his own disciples often asked what the parable meant. Other times, they clearly did not understand the meaning Jesus intended. "Beware the leaven of the Pharisees." "Destroy this temple and I shall rebuild it in three days." We wonder at the density of the disciples' minds. Yet we fall into the same mode of thinking.
Two men walking along the sidewalk in a large city discussed religion. They stopped right in front of an elderly, shabbily dressed man at one point in their discussion.
"What did I ever do that required Jesus to suffer on the cross for me?" inquired one of the conversationalists.
"Maybe it's what you didn't do," suggested the elderly man as he overheard the question.
"Aha," said the other conversationalist, "you want a handout."
"No," commented the elderly man, "I get by just fine. But you didn't ask. And honestly, you don't care."
A car stopped at the curb. The elderly man got in, and the car drove away.
"Well, how do you answer that?" asked the one who wondered about why Jesus had to die for him.
"Maybe that was the answer to your question," said the other.
The Power of the Tiny
by Larry Winebrenner
Mark 4:26-34
In the Disney animated version of The Sword and the Stone, there is a great battle between a good wizard (Merlin) and a wicked witch (Madame Mim). Perhaps you have seen this "wizard's duel," in which the combatants tried to defeat each other by changing themselves into various animals that would destroy the other.
The sequence of the battle went something like this: Merlin changed himself into a mouse so he could escape through a small hole; the witch countered by becoming a vicious cat set to grab the mouse. The wizard then changed into a fierce dog that chased the cat, until the witch was able to change into a ferocious lion. The battle of changes continued until the wicked witch became a horrendous dragon that caught the wizard. That might have been the end of the battle, but Merlin changed himself into the tiniest of living things -- a germ. This germ infected the dragon with a disease that made it fiercely ill, and the witch was finally defeated.
There is great power... even in small, tiny things. Jesus said it this way: "If you had the faith even so little as a mustard seed, you could tell the mountain to go jump into the ocean, and it would." In a world that places such a high value on the biggest, the most expensive, the most powerful, it is well to remember the value of small things.
Who hasn't heard this tale of a family opening Christmas gifts? Everyone was enthralled by the large packages they received, but everyone was stunned when the smallest package was opened -- inside was a diamond ring.
Small things don't have to be expensive to be valuable. There's the fable of an ancient kingdom that illustrates this point.
The king announced a contest to determine the most valuable treasure in the kingdom. The navy sailed its largest sailing vessel into the harbor. "This ship sails to the four corners of the earth, bringing back treasures from around the world," said the admiral. "It undoubtedly is the most valuable treasure in the kingdom."
The people said, "Indeed it is valuable. Perhaps it is the treasure."
"Not so!" cried the factory owners. "A ship can only carry materials, and it is limited to how much it can carry. And it takes a long time to fetch its cargo and bring it home. Our factories create goods. All that is needed, for trade, for livelihood, for pleasure, we create… clothing and tools and games."
"Yes, yes," said the people, "indeed factories are valuable. Perhaps they are the treasure."
"Wait!" cried one wizened old man. "Yonder mountain is our treasure. Flocks and herds graze upon that mountain, providing wool and dairy products and meat. Farmers till the soil and grow foodstuffs for us to eat. Miners dig silver and gold, iron and coal from that mountain. Surely it is our most valuable treasure."
"Yes, yes, yes," said the people. "Indeed it is valuable. Perhaps the mountain is the treasure."
The queen said to her husband, "May I make a suggestion?"
"Of course, my dear," said the king, "you are the queen."
She went inside for a moment and returned with a small bundle.
"You are wise, my dear," said the king, observing her bundle. "The kingdom would sacrifice its all to defend this treasure." He held the bundle up for the people to see.
"Yes," cried the people, "the most valuable treasure is our prince."
The Horse Race
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 20
Jordan and Grandpa were doing one of her favorite things to do while visiting her grandparents -- they were walking along the beach.
"Grandpa," she said, "you used to have a racehorse when you lived on the farm, didn't you?"
Grandpa chuckled.
"I had a horse. But he was just a plowhorse, not a racehorse. He drew a plow and sometimes pulled a wagon."
"But you have a banner that says Champion Race Winner," insisted Jordan.
Grandpa found his favorite sitting rock. Jordan knelt in the sand beside him. They were going to talk.
"Edna sewed that banner after Robert ran a two-man race," began Grandpa. Jordan listened without interrupting -- Grandpa was about to tell a story.
"You see, we went to church every Sunday. The DuBois family on the next farm didn't go to church."
"Were they atheists?" asked Jordan, wanting to show off her knowledge of that word. Then she was sorry. She didn't mean to interrupt.
"No. They figured there was a God. It's hard to be a farmer and not believe in God. They just didn't go to church. One day Robert finished plowing a field on the other side of the woods. He was having pity on King, leading him, not riding."
"King's the racehorse, right?" spit out Jordan before she could stop her tongue.
"Plowhorse," insisted Grandpa as he tousled her hair. Jordan hated to have her hair tousled, but she figured she deserved it. She didn't say anything.
"Danne DuBois came riding by. 'Don't know how to ride, eh?' " he teased.
" 'I can ride 'im better'n you can ride your'n,' " he snapped back.
"The DuBoises were proud of their horse, almost as proud as they were of their big new Oldsmobile. Nobody else in town had an Oldsmobile. "
" 'If'n you can ride so good, run me a race,' " challenged Danne.
" 'I'll race you to the creek and back. If'n I win, you have to ride us to church Sunday in your car,' " said Robert.
" 'If'n I win, you have to skip church Sunday.' "
"Robert knew the creek was on the other side of the field he'd just plowed. He thought the soft earth would slow down the saddle horse Danne was riding. And he was right. In fact, the other horse stumbled in a furrow and threw Danne to the ground. Robert rode to the creek and stopped on the way back by. Only Danne's pride was hurt. He never finished the race. He had to walk home. His horse had gone home without him."
"Did he ride you to church in his big car?" asked Jordan.
"Nope. Claimed the race was cancelled due to a technicality."
"Aunt Edna didn't think so," said Jordan.
Grandpa laughed. "Well, she thought God caused Robert to win. Read the Psalm reference she sewed on the banner, and you'll see why."
"Psalm 20?"
"That's the one."
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.
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StoryShare, June 14, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
