The Fire
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Fire" by Keith Hewitt
"Hide and Seek" by Larry Winebrenner
"You Just Don't Understand!" by Larry Winebrenner
"Desperation's Opportunity" by C. David McKirachan
"Solitary Confinement" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
Sometimes life feels like a series of tests -- but the stories in this week's edition of StoryShare remind us that even in the most trying of circumstances, God is there with us, forging us in the refiner's fire and giving us the strength and wisdom to cope with whatever comes our way... whether that's losing everything we hold dear, trying to sort out a life relationship, or facing ministry in a forbidding setting.
* * * * * * * * *
The Fire
by Keith Hewitt
Job 23:1-9, 16-17
"He's down there," the deputy said, pointing vaguely toward a lighted room at the end of a hallway left half-shadowed by flickering lamps. The deputy hitched at his belt and looked down, then up to meet the visitor's eyes. "I've got to tell you I'm not sure why you're here, Rev'rend. No offense, but I don't see the point."
Jamison Lee nodded, not sure that he did either -- but he was here for an old friend. "None taken. But the sheriff asked me to stop by, so here I am. Can you give me some idea of what's going on?"
The deputy looked off into the distance for a moment or two, then shrugged. "I don't like to say, Reverend. I mean, the man's got problems, I know that. Kinda melancholy, and he's maybe a little fonder of the bottle than he should be, by my way of thinkin'." He looked at Jamison again. "And, of course, he's crazy."
Jamison smiled. "Why's that?"
"He came in here right after dinner, said he wanted to swear out a warrant against God." The deputy looked up furtively, as though afraid he might be struck down through the walls of the courthouse. "I mean, that's crazy, right?"
Ahh, so that's it, Jamison thought, absently rubbing the long, thin scar that ran from the bridge of his nose to the bottom of his right sideburn -- courtesy of a Confederate major's saber, inflicted in the last week of the war. "Well, it's certainly unusual," he temporized. "Most people probably wouldn't think about trying to do something like that. What are the charges?"
The deputy looked at him quizzically. "Charges?"
"Yes. For what charges does he want to swear out the warrant?"
The deputy hitched at his belt again and looked at Jamison curiously. "Assault, battery, arson, alienation of affection, a whole list. Does it really matter, Rev'rend? He wants us to arrest God. I'm not hankerin' to even lay hands on such a thing. I wouldn't even know where to serve the warrant -- unless I give it to you."
Jamison shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure that's not part of the job. Let me go talk to him -- and you get out whatever paperwork you need to start the warrant, okay?"
"Fine," the deputy agreed reluctantly. He sat down at one of the two desks in the office, turned up the lamp flame, and began rummaging noisily through drawers, looking up at the ceiling every few moments.
Jamison stood, looking down the hallway, piecing together what he knew about the man at the other end of the hall -- next to nothing. Husband, father, blacksmith -- and a former corporal in the 54th Wisconsin, a natural artilleryman with a gift for ballistics that was almost preternatural. He was one of many who left the War Between the States as a true master of a skill that -- like sniping or fighting with the bayonet -- could not be carried usefully into civilian life.
"Ah God," he sighed softly, "why do we do this to our young men?" Then, casting a look toward the ceiling, Jamison added, "And why do you let this happen to your people?" There was no answer from the ceiling, or beyond; after a few moments he walked down the hall, unsure what he would say at the end of it.
The man slumped in a chair in the room at the end of the hallway had sandy hair and a rounded, boyish face that did not go with the burly body to which it was attached. His shoulders were broad, atop a barrel chest, and his arms were thick, with large hands that could as easily lay in a cannon as they could wrestle a wheel off the back of a wagon. Attached to that torso, his head seemed almost disproportionately small; it raised slightly at the sound of Jamison's footsteps, and then the man shot to his feet as Jamison entered. "Colonel! I mean, Reverend! What are you doing here?" the man stammered. He didn't quite salute, though his right hand did start to climb on its own before he lowered it with a conscious effort.
Jamison smiled easily and made a gentle "down" motion with his hand. "Take it easy, Rudolf. I just stopped by for a visit, and the deputy mentioned that you were up to something a little... different. Got time to talk, son?" He tried to gauge the man's emotional state as he spoke -- did he look irrational? Did he look dangerous? His thoughts traveled back to other times he had seen the man... Rudolf had always seemed calm and collected, even when bullets were whizzing around him like bees and he was trying to finesse a half-ton of cannon into just the right position, just the right angle. Jamison saw the same look on his face now, and he understood at once that Rudolf was in the middle of a battle once more. That made the next question obvious: With whom was he at war? God?
"I guess," Rudolf answered uncertainly, and sat down slowly.
Jamison pulled another straight-backed wooden chair out of the corner, spun it around, and set it in front of Rudolf, then sat down facing the back of it and leaned forward, his arms resting on the back. It was an old trick: by putting himself in a casual position, forcing his body into a casual pose, it seemed to press his thoughts, even his voice, into the same mold. "So," he said quietly, "want to tell me about it?"
"About what, sir?"
Jamison raised one eyebrow, inclined his head, and tilted it slightly to the side. "Now, Rudolf."
The blacksmith looked down at the floor, then back up. "I guess you mean the whole warrant thing?"
Jamison nodded. "I guess so." He shifted, propped one elbow on the top of the chair back, and cradled his chin in his hand. "Tell me about it."
The blacksmith looked down again, wiping his forehead with one large hand -- and there was just the barest hint of a tremor as he wiped. "It's been a long time coming, Reverend. I just finally had enough. Somebody's got to answer for all this, and it's got to be the person responsible for it all. It ain't me, Reverend. The way you tell it, he put everything and everyone here, right? He's the one pulling all the strings, so it's God that's responsible."
"Interesting idea. Tell me more. What happened?"
Another wipe of his forehead, another tremor. He was frowning when he spoke again, and his eyes never set in one place for long -- they kept shifting around, as though he was looking for an answer somewhere. "Things ain't been right since we came home, Colonel... Reverend -- but it started during the war. Fifteen dollars a month doesn't go so far as you'd think -- not when you've got a wife and three kids at home."
Jamison nodded.
"Freida did what she could -- she hired a man to try to keep up the business, but by the time she was done paying him we always ended up behind. The shop was in debt when I got home, and we've been trying to dig our way out ever since. We were finally starting to get somewhere when it burned down a couple weeks ago."
Jamison nodded. "I remember -- that fire took burned out a whole row of buildings, didn't it?" It had been a fast-moving conflagration, burning a scar in the heart of Hafen-Stadt before the fire companies brought it under control.
Rudolf nodded quickly, "Sure, but that's not the point. My shop burned. My business is gone, and one of my horses with it, with the bank still holding a note for almost $200, debt from the war and after I got home."
"A lot of people were hurt by that fire, Rudolf. I remember talking to one of the shopkeepers, he lost everything too."
"Did he put his life on hold for five years for the war? Did his wife take in other people's laundry, and clean, and worry for five years to keep his shop open while he was gone?" Rudolf shook his head. "I was going through the rubble last week, trying to figure out how I could rebuild, and the landlord came by. He was all polite and everything, but he looked around and said now that my shop was gone, I wouldn't have any money comin' in -- and if I didn't have any money comin' in, I wouldn't be able to pay rent. So he kicked us out of our home. Said he couldn't afford to have squatters in a flat when there were paying customers looking for a place to live."
Jamison sighed. Ah God, why do we do this to each other? "Would you like me to speak to this man, Rudolf? I can put in a word perhaps, explain the circumstances..."
The blacksmith grunted. "Do you still have that pair of ivory-handled Colt Navies?"
"That's not the kind of word I had in mind, Rudolf."
"It's the only kind that thief would understand." Rudolf fell silent then, and his eyes stopped flitting around. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, almost too low to hear. "It's gonna cost me my family, Reverend." He looked squarely at Jamison. "My wife can't take it anymore -- she wants to leave, take the kids back with her to her folks' farm, down toward Sheboygan. It's been one thing after another after another, and now it's just more than a man should have to bear, isn't it? So I figure it's time God answered for what he's done to me."
Jamison nodded. "Rudolf, I can surely understand what you mean. Doesn't seem right at all."
"Damn right! Uh... beggin' your pardon, Reverend."
Jamison waved it off. "Never mind, son. I'll go tell the deputy it makes sense to me. Between us, we can figure out where to go from there."
The blacksmith's head bobbed. "Much obliged, sir."
Jamison got up slowly, his mind racing along a half-dozen paths, each one a dead end, then he half-picked up the chair and started to slide it back to its corner -- and then he stopped, resting one hand on the back of it. "You know, Rudolf, I saw you working once -- your real job, not artillery, I mean. The smithy in that town we rolled through -- Port William, was it?"
The blacksmith nodded, almost smiling. "I remember. That was a sweet little forge, that was. Nice setup, for a crappy little Reb town like that."
"I just remember that it was like watching a musician -- like Michelangelo, with a hammer and tongs."
"Michael Angelo?"
"An old Italian painter -- an artist. That's what you were. I watched you take iron bars and make rims for the caisson wheels and all sorts of tools -- all without a wasted motion. It was amazing to see."
Rudolf shrugged. "Wasn't nothin' special."
"It was to me. You could take this bar of black iron and heat it 'til it was red hot, and pound it, quench it, heat it again in the forge, then draw it, pound it, and keep pounding until it took the exact shape you wanted. All that heat, all that pounding -- you really worked that metal hard."
The big man shrugged again. "It's what you have to do to get it into the shape you want it."
"And can you tell me if this is true? I remember my son..." He paused, closing his eyes for a moment at the thought of the boy, then plowed on. "My son told me once that the way they make steel is that they melt the iron and then add carbon to it. So you actually turn the iron into steel -- you make it stronger -- by adding impurities."
"Sure. You add carbon, you make harder steel -- it's stronger, and it'll take a sharper edge."
"Right, that's what I thought I remembered him saying. He was studying metallurgy before the war." Jamison stopped abruptly; now was not the time to wander down that path. He nodded and started to pick up the chair to slide it back to its place -- then stopped again and looked at the blacksmith curiously. "Interesting, isn't it?"
"What's that?"
"You talked about God putting everyone here and pulling the strings. Do you suppose it's possible that a man's life is like that piece of iron -- shapeless, not much good to anybody -- until it goes into the forge, and gets pounded on, and stretched and formed, and heated up again, over and over... until it's just the shape God needs it to be, until the man has been molded to prepare him for what God wants him to do?" Jamison paused, his finger once again tracing the long scar on his face. "I know I wouldn't be here, doing what I'm doing, if I hadn't gone through the fire myself."
The blacksmith started to snap back, then stopped and looked puzzled as he turned the idea over slowly in his mind, examining it the way he might look at a half-formed tool in his shop. "Do you really think that's true?" he asked after a long silence.
Jamison shrugged. "I'm just a simple man, Rudolf. I don't know if the purpose of life is to shape our soul from the outside, or if it's our soul's job to take life -- to take all the good plus all the sorrow and misfortune -- and make it work for us, to bring us closer to God. But either way, I do believe there's a purpose." He shrugged again. "I believe in a merciful God, Rudolf -- even if I don't always understand his ways. So I've got to believe he wouldn't let us suffer without at least the possibility of something positive coming out of it, any more than you would take a bar of iron and heat it and pound it with no shape in mind."
Rudolf covered his eyes with his hands, and his voice was muffled when he spoke through them. "Maybe. But it's just so hard."
Jamison moved the chair out of the way with his foot, stepped forward, and lay a hand on the big man's shoulder. "I know."
"I just don't know what to do now."
"We'll figure something out, son. Let's go talk some more -- maybe I can talk to Freida, too."
The big man lowered his hands, nodded slowly, and stood up. They started to walk out of the room together. Rudolf stopped on the threshold; Jamison realized it, then turned and looked at him. "There's one thing you should know, Reverend -- one thing your son probably didn't tell you. You can add carbon to iron to make steel -- to make it hard -- but if you add too much, the steel gets brittle. Beat on it then, and all that'll happen is it shatters into a million pieces."
Jamison nodded. "I remember him telling me that too. But I'll tell you this: if you pick up those pieces and put them back in the forge, they can still be melted back together, they can still be made whole. Your life, or that piece of steel -- nothing's ever so broken that it can't be mended, long as you have the right blacksmith working the forge."
Rudolf looked at him uncertainly. "You really believe that, Reverend?"
"I do." Jamison paused. "I've walked through the fire, son. And I learned that it's not so bad a walk, if you've got someone with you."
Rudolf considered this, then nodded and stepped across the threshold. "Then let's go, Reverend. I don't much like it where I am."
Jamison let him by, then walked with him down the shadowed hall.
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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Hide and Seek
by Larry Winebrenner
Job 23:1-9, 16-17
If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!
One does not play hide and seek with God. If God is hiding, no one can find God. If the Lord is seeking, no one can hide from God. Even Jeremiah proclaims: "Can any hide himself in secret places that I shall not see him? saith the Lord. Do not I fill heaven and earth? saith the Lord" (Jeremiah 23:24). Yet people try to hide from God.
*****
Andrew looked at the psychiatrist's worried frown.
"What is it, Doc?" he asked.
The doctor looked down at little seven-year-old Hannah. The child was curled into a fetal position, almost comatose. She responded neither to touch nor to sound.
"My guess is your daughter has suffered a severe traumatic shock. It will take long weeks, perhaps even months or years to bring her out of this condition."
"Doc," said Andrew apologetically, "I think she's hiding from God."
The psychiatrist looked at the poor man with pity. Before he could respond, Andrew rushed on. "She was playing with a friend in the yard back of the rooming house. Her friend was a boy about her age, and he had a lizard. Like most boys that age, he tried to scare her with the lizard. She slapped it out of his hand and stomped on it with her heel."
The psychiatrist looked thoughtful for a moment. He seemed to be wondering whether he had two patients to work with. "And you think she went into a coma for that?" he asked.
"No, Doc. The boy yelled, 'Stop!' She decided to teach him a lesson. She jumped up and down on the dead creature. After a few futile cries, the boy called out, looking up with his arms raised. I was looking out the kitchen window to see what the ruckus was. 'Ohhhhh God!' he intoned like a witch doctor. 'Bring down the wrath of destruction on this evil woman. Burn her with brimstone and sulfur. Punish her for her wickedness.' I don't know where such a small boy got such a diabolical curse, but it worked. Hannah ran into the house and crawled under the bed. When I found her, she was like this," Andrew said, pointing at the child.
"Then maybe this will wear off in a few days, after she sleeps for a while. But she doesn't have to worry about God punishing her. There is no God."
Hannah's eyes popped open. She said, "There is too -- and God's gonna get you for saying that." She jumped up and ran from the hospital emergency room.
The psychiatrist sat in amazement and amusement. Then a keen insight penetrated his thinking. Maybe some of his other patients were unwittingly hiding from God. Persons addicted to drugs, including alcohol, obviously might fit into this category. But what about others, like folks who buried themselves in their work to the exclusion of family and friends? Maybe he'd startle them to their senses by suggesting that the first step toward their recovery would be to begin attending religious services. He laughed. Maybe they would think he had gone over the edge.
Then he stopped laughing. What about him? Why had he told that poor man there was no God? Maybe the psychiatrist himself was using his profession and scientific training to hide from God. He'd think on it.
You Just Don't Understand!
by Larry Winebrenner
Hebrews 4:12-16
We have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.
The Reverend Don Chester was about to go out of his mind. His 16-year-old daughter was insisting that she wanted to drop out of school and marry "Pumpkin George." Every fall George made a great profit selling pumpkins during the Halloween and Thanksgiving seasons.
Don wished his wife were still alive to help him with his headstrong daughter. It seemed Mindy always wanted to do the exactly diametrical opposite of what he suggested. When he accused her of that, she exploded. "Suggest? You never suggest. You order. And you order the exact opposite of what I want."
Most of their arguments, Don would give in, feeling a bit guilty about not understanding his daughter better. Her favorite phrase for getting her way was, "You just don't understand!"
He realized he really didn't understand. He didn't understand teenagers. He didn't understand girls. But quitting school? Getting married? What was there to understand?
One night after a screaming argument with his daughter, he knelt beside his bed for evening prayer. "Lord, I just don't know what to do," he said. He knelt quietly, not knowing what else to say.
Finally he was startled to hear, Why don't you just turn it over to me?
He looked carefully around to see who spoke. No one was there. Had he really heard a voice?
Yes.
Don realized he was hearing a voice, but not an audible voice. The Lord was talking -- talking to his heart... to his heavy, heavy heart.
"Okay, Lord," he said. He crawled into bed and had a peaceful night's sleep. He awoke to the smell of coffee. Mindy was preparing breakfast. She really was a good little housekeeper, and an excellent cook. One day she would make some lucky man a wonderful wife.
He almost choked on that thought. Some day! Not now.
When he sat for breakfast, he realized in how many ways he would miss her if she got married.
Tell her.
He strangled on a swallow of orange juice.
"Dad!" screamed Mindy. "Are you all right?"
He wiped the juice from his lips and nose. His nasal passages burned.
"I just had a startling thought," he said. "I thought of just how much I'd miss you and everything you do around the house if you married. That's not the reason I object, but I want you to know what a wonderful cook you are and how much I appreciate you." Mindy looked at her father with love for a long minute.
"You're not trying to start another argument are you? Because if you are I have the perfect solution. George and I will move in with you."
For some reason her comment didn't startle him. He just smiled and replied, "I'm not arguing. I've turned it over to Jesus."
"Jesus!" It might have been a swear word the way she said it. "Jesus? What's Jesus have to do with anything?"
"Why don't you ask him and find out?"
"I'm not going to ask some dead guy who hasn't kept up with the world for 2,000 years what to do about my life. I hear he died a virgin."
Don bit his tongue. "Mindy, I dare you."
She knew this was his last tactic. He knew she would never back down from a dare -- any dare. Hadn't she jumped off the cliff at the top of the waterfall? Even most of the guys were afraid to do that. And she had been afraid too... until Sarah had said, "I dare you." She jumped before the words were all out of Sarah's mouth.
Sarah had climbed down the path and ran to her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. When you jumped I was afraid you were going to die."
"So was I," Mindy had said breathlessly. "But I figured it was better to die than to not take a dare." She didn't really mean that. She'd never jump off a cliff into a pile of rocks, of course. But people were careful what they dared her to do.
And now Dad.
"If I do, will you leave it up to Jesus?" she asked. "If Jesus says go ahead, will you perform the wedding?"
She'd teach him to dare her.
"Yep."
Mindy looked at him, not believing him... or at least not believing her ears.
"How do I do this?" she murmured.
"Just ask Jesus what to do."
"What if he doesn't answer?"
"Oh, he'll answer," said Don, hoping in his heart he wasn't making a big mistake. "Just give him time to answer."
It's not a mistake. However much time she allows will be enough.
"How much time?" she asked suspiciously.
"Say, till graduation day your senior year," he said. When Don saw the look on her face he held up both hands to hold back an avalanche. "Just joking, just joking," he said. "You tell me how much time you want."
"You're serious about this," she said, as she gathered up her books and headed toward the door for school. "Do I have to stop seeing George while I do this?" She stood in the door, waiting for an answer.
"Ask Jesus," he said.
"A week," she said and slammed the door.
"A week," he repeated disconsolately. Time enough.
Don tried to keep his mind on church matters the next couple of days, but he neglected his prayers. He said the Lord's Prayer and table graces rather perfunctorily. Beyond that, he never even thought of the Lord.
Once the matter did cross his mind. He believed he was afraid he'd ask Jesus for a progress report. Was he afraid of what the report would be? Or was he afraid that would show a lack of faith? Whatever -- there was peace in the house... and he slept well at night.
On Saturday, after lunch at the kitchen table, Mindy said, "The week's almost up and Jesus hasn't said anything yet. Can we set the date?"
"You mean you asked Jesus what to do and Jesus hasn't answered you?" asked Don in genuine astonishment.
"Not exactly. I didn't ask. He hasn't contacted me."
Don went to Mindy, taking her shoulders in his hands and looking her straight in the eye.
"Mindy, you didn't take the dare," he said. "I trusted you to be fair in this matter. I didn't order you to do anything. I didn't set limits. I let you set everything up so you could even lie to me and get me to perform the ceremony. But I wasn't worried you would lie. I trusted you." He let go of her arms and turned away. "I wanted to trust you all the way," he continued. "I can't substitute my conscience for yours. I can't keep you from dropping out of school. I can't keep you from running away and getting married. And now, it seems I can't even trust you." He walked to the kitchen door.
"Dad..." she said plaintively in a little girl voice.
Don went through the door and quietly closed it.
Mindy went to her room and threw herself on the bed. She cried herself to sleep, muttering, "I love my daddy and I love George. Oh God, what am I going to do?"
Is that a prayer or a cry of dereliction?
"Who said that?" she asked. It was a voice she had never heard. It frightened her, it was so close.
It could be Jesus.
"Wait a minute. Dad!"
He's gone to the cemetery to complain to your mother about what a willful child you are.
"Wait a minute. How do you know that?"
That's two "wait a minute" phrases in a few seconds. Do you want me to wait one minute or two?
"That's crazy. If you want me to believe you're Jesus, you're going to have to be more serious."
Why? I like humor.
"Good. I'll tell you about two old maids who..."
Heard that one. Besides, I said I liked humor -- not smut... or discriminatory stories.
"Hey. You really are Jesus. Is this a dream?"
Does it matter so long as you get your answer?
Mindy tried standing up. She walked over to a mirror. Yep, she was standing on the floor -- and no one was there with her. She asked her question anyway. "All right! Should I get married?"
It's better to marry than to burn.
"Paul said that."
That saying was around while Saul was still a gleam in his father's eye.
"Then why didn't Paul get married?"
You figure it out. Besides, how do you know he didn't get married. Maybe that thorn in the flesh was a wife.
"Jesus! That's not funny. And he said himself that he wasn't married. If you're Jesus, you should know that."
I could say he said one thing one time and something else another. Actually, I was just having a little fun with you.
"Well, fun time's over. Thanks for the answer. Now, all I have to do is tell Dad."
And George.
Mindy looked down. She lowered her voice, almost to a whisper.
"George knows."
But George isn't ready yet. Unlike you, he wants to finish high school... even college.
"He'll change his mind once Dad says it's okay."
Are you sure? And are you being fair to him? If you thwart his ambition, what will that do to your relationship?
"Hey... whose side are you on? Has Dad been talking to you?"
I'm not taking sides. And no, Dan has not been talking to me. Maybe he's decided it does no good to talk to me.
"Because of me?"
Let's not talk about your father. Let's talk about you.
"Why? You told me what to do."
I can't tell you what to do. You have to decide that. I can only point the way. You must make the decision whether you're going to take it or not.
"You said it was better to marry than to burn."
Perhaps the best procedure is to do neither.
"I'm not Saint Paul!" screamed Mindy. "I'm not any kind of saint at all. And what do you know, Jesus? Were you ever in love? Have your hormones ever coursed through your veins, heating your vitals, driving you mad with passion?" Mindy fell back on her bed. She closed her eyes, waiting to be struck dead for her blasphemy. Maybe that would be best for all anyway.
She waited.
Finally, a gentle voice said, Yes.
She opened her eyes. Where was this Jesus? In her mind? "Yes?" Barely a whisper.
Yes. You have one who in every respect has been tested as you are, yet without sin.
"How, Jesus? How?"
It's not simple, Mindy. It's not easy. It takes commitment and obedience. And my help. And forgiveness.
"Will you help me, Jesus?"
I'll be with you always. George is a good man. You will help each other when the time comes.
"When will that be?"
Not now. I'll tell you when it happens. Now, your father is returning from the cemetery. Tell him I said yes -- at the right time.
Suddenly the bedroom door cracked open. "Mindy, honey," said Dan. "Wake up. I'm sorry I said what I did."
Mindy opened her eyes. She yawned and stretched. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and held out her arms for a fatherly hug.
"I talked to Jesus," she murmured in his ear. "He said yes." She was surprised there was no tensing of muscles. She continued, "At the right time."
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.
Desperation's Opportunity
by C. David McKirachan
Mark 10:17-31
Just before I started my last year of seminary, we had a sit-down with somebody from the Committee on Preparation for Ministry. They said, "Don't expect to get a job right out of seminary." It seemed there was a glut of pastors at the moment and we had to wait for a few of them to retire or surrender before we could get our feet in the door.
I wanted to preach, but green people (I don't mean tree-huggers) weren't high on the list of candidates for jobs. So a year later I was pumping gas and working in a leather factory and sending out resumes.
I finally got an interview. It was at a little church on the border of Newark. A few years previously there had been a machine-gun emplacement in the front yard during the riots. The neighborhood wasn't very scenic. The salary was infinitesimal. There were issues with just about every arena of church life. This was a battle zone of a parish. It was inner-city and becoming brutal. I never would have looked at it -- I knew what I wanted to do; I knew what my gifts were. This was not the dirt I wanted to be planted in.
But there's an old saying: "Any port in a storm." I was laboring with gale-force winds and swells that were coming over the rails. My parents were patient and kind, but I was getting desperate for a job. I wanted to be ordained -- after all, I'd been called. Why hadn't I been chosen?
Taking all of the above into account, I went for the job, got it, and began my ministry. A lot of things got done there in five years. And one of those things was that I found out it wasn't my ministry... it was the Lord's. All the strategies and goals I had locked in, all the skills and talents I was so sure of, all the agendas and accomplishments I had planned and focused on became yesterday's fantasies in the face of the city's onslaught. These people didn't need my plans, they needed God's presence. To get to that truth, I had to let go of a lot of stuff. It wasn't fun; it was scary as hell. But it was what I had to do to be a pastor, there or anywhere.
Desperation isn't very sexy. But it is very good at stripping away our illusions and our pride -- and we are more likely to humbly grasp the hand that is offered. The hand may be scarred and even bleeding... but it is a hand that offers the incredible gift of partnership in a ministry of compassion, of being a light in the darkness that too often we're busy avoiding.
I feel sorry for the rich, young guy -- I guess he just wasn't desperate enough.
Solitary Confinement
by C. David McKirachan
Psalm 22:1-15
There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.
I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the "normalities" of prison. Affectionately known as "the hole" or "the cooler," solitary confinement is now seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counterproductive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word "torture" comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity-bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But other wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective, say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. The wardens don't want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts... it is counterproductive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.
So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what's the problem? The answer is simple. Voters (and therefore politicians) want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn't seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.
The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants -- taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.
This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes downhill from there. With few glimmers during the freefall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.
There are few things I fear, truly fear. I'm not courageous. It's just that I've lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt -- but here I am, still cheering for the New York Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment ("Abby" for short) that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.
I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can't rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I'd like to hear Jesus' comment on that one.
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).
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StoryShare, October 11, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"The Fire" by Keith Hewitt
"Hide and Seek" by Larry Winebrenner
"You Just Don't Understand!" by Larry Winebrenner
"Desperation's Opportunity" by C. David McKirachan
"Solitary Confinement" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
Sometimes life feels like a series of tests -- but the stories in this week's edition of StoryShare remind us that even in the most trying of circumstances, God is there with us, forging us in the refiner's fire and giving us the strength and wisdom to cope with whatever comes our way... whether that's losing everything we hold dear, trying to sort out a life relationship, or facing ministry in a forbidding setting.
* * * * * * * * *
The Fire
by Keith Hewitt
Job 23:1-9, 16-17
"He's down there," the deputy said, pointing vaguely toward a lighted room at the end of a hallway left half-shadowed by flickering lamps. The deputy hitched at his belt and looked down, then up to meet the visitor's eyes. "I've got to tell you I'm not sure why you're here, Rev'rend. No offense, but I don't see the point."
Jamison Lee nodded, not sure that he did either -- but he was here for an old friend. "None taken. But the sheriff asked me to stop by, so here I am. Can you give me some idea of what's going on?"
The deputy looked off into the distance for a moment or two, then shrugged. "I don't like to say, Reverend. I mean, the man's got problems, I know that. Kinda melancholy, and he's maybe a little fonder of the bottle than he should be, by my way of thinkin'." He looked at Jamison again. "And, of course, he's crazy."
Jamison smiled. "Why's that?"
"He came in here right after dinner, said he wanted to swear out a warrant against God." The deputy looked up furtively, as though afraid he might be struck down through the walls of the courthouse. "I mean, that's crazy, right?"
Ahh, so that's it, Jamison thought, absently rubbing the long, thin scar that ran from the bridge of his nose to the bottom of his right sideburn -- courtesy of a Confederate major's saber, inflicted in the last week of the war. "Well, it's certainly unusual," he temporized. "Most people probably wouldn't think about trying to do something like that. What are the charges?"
The deputy looked at him quizzically. "Charges?"
"Yes. For what charges does he want to swear out the warrant?"
The deputy hitched at his belt again and looked at Jamison curiously. "Assault, battery, arson, alienation of affection, a whole list. Does it really matter, Rev'rend? He wants us to arrest God. I'm not hankerin' to even lay hands on such a thing. I wouldn't even know where to serve the warrant -- unless I give it to you."
Jamison shook his head. "Thanks, but I'm pretty sure that's not part of the job. Let me go talk to him -- and you get out whatever paperwork you need to start the warrant, okay?"
"Fine," the deputy agreed reluctantly. He sat down at one of the two desks in the office, turned up the lamp flame, and began rummaging noisily through drawers, looking up at the ceiling every few moments.
Jamison stood, looking down the hallway, piecing together what he knew about the man at the other end of the hall -- next to nothing. Husband, father, blacksmith -- and a former corporal in the 54th Wisconsin, a natural artilleryman with a gift for ballistics that was almost preternatural. He was one of many who left the War Between the States as a true master of a skill that -- like sniping or fighting with the bayonet -- could not be carried usefully into civilian life.
"Ah God," he sighed softly, "why do we do this to our young men?" Then, casting a look toward the ceiling, Jamison added, "And why do you let this happen to your people?" There was no answer from the ceiling, or beyond; after a few moments he walked down the hall, unsure what he would say at the end of it.
The man slumped in a chair in the room at the end of the hallway had sandy hair and a rounded, boyish face that did not go with the burly body to which it was attached. His shoulders were broad, atop a barrel chest, and his arms were thick, with large hands that could as easily lay in a cannon as they could wrestle a wheel off the back of a wagon. Attached to that torso, his head seemed almost disproportionately small; it raised slightly at the sound of Jamison's footsteps, and then the man shot to his feet as Jamison entered. "Colonel! I mean, Reverend! What are you doing here?" the man stammered. He didn't quite salute, though his right hand did start to climb on its own before he lowered it with a conscious effort.
Jamison smiled easily and made a gentle "down" motion with his hand. "Take it easy, Rudolf. I just stopped by for a visit, and the deputy mentioned that you were up to something a little... different. Got time to talk, son?" He tried to gauge the man's emotional state as he spoke -- did he look irrational? Did he look dangerous? His thoughts traveled back to other times he had seen the man... Rudolf had always seemed calm and collected, even when bullets were whizzing around him like bees and he was trying to finesse a half-ton of cannon into just the right position, just the right angle. Jamison saw the same look on his face now, and he understood at once that Rudolf was in the middle of a battle once more. That made the next question obvious: With whom was he at war? God?
"I guess," Rudolf answered uncertainly, and sat down slowly.
Jamison pulled another straight-backed wooden chair out of the corner, spun it around, and set it in front of Rudolf, then sat down facing the back of it and leaned forward, his arms resting on the back. It was an old trick: by putting himself in a casual position, forcing his body into a casual pose, it seemed to press his thoughts, even his voice, into the same mold. "So," he said quietly, "want to tell me about it?"
"About what, sir?"
Jamison raised one eyebrow, inclined his head, and tilted it slightly to the side. "Now, Rudolf."
The blacksmith looked down at the floor, then back up. "I guess you mean the whole warrant thing?"
Jamison nodded. "I guess so." He shifted, propped one elbow on the top of the chair back, and cradled his chin in his hand. "Tell me about it."
The blacksmith looked down again, wiping his forehead with one large hand -- and there was just the barest hint of a tremor as he wiped. "It's been a long time coming, Reverend. I just finally had enough. Somebody's got to answer for all this, and it's got to be the person responsible for it all. It ain't me, Reverend. The way you tell it, he put everything and everyone here, right? He's the one pulling all the strings, so it's God that's responsible."
"Interesting idea. Tell me more. What happened?"
Another wipe of his forehead, another tremor. He was frowning when he spoke again, and his eyes never set in one place for long -- they kept shifting around, as though he was looking for an answer somewhere. "Things ain't been right since we came home, Colonel... Reverend -- but it started during the war. Fifteen dollars a month doesn't go so far as you'd think -- not when you've got a wife and three kids at home."
Jamison nodded.
"Freida did what she could -- she hired a man to try to keep up the business, but by the time she was done paying him we always ended up behind. The shop was in debt when I got home, and we've been trying to dig our way out ever since. We were finally starting to get somewhere when it burned down a couple weeks ago."
Jamison nodded. "I remember -- that fire took burned out a whole row of buildings, didn't it?" It had been a fast-moving conflagration, burning a scar in the heart of Hafen-Stadt before the fire companies brought it under control.
Rudolf nodded quickly, "Sure, but that's not the point. My shop burned. My business is gone, and one of my horses with it, with the bank still holding a note for almost $200, debt from the war and after I got home."
"A lot of people were hurt by that fire, Rudolf. I remember talking to one of the shopkeepers, he lost everything too."
"Did he put his life on hold for five years for the war? Did his wife take in other people's laundry, and clean, and worry for five years to keep his shop open while he was gone?" Rudolf shook his head. "I was going through the rubble last week, trying to figure out how I could rebuild, and the landlord came by. He was all polite and everything, but he looked around and said now that my shop was gone, I wouldn't have any money comin' in -- and if I didn't have any money comin' in, I wouldn't be able to pay rent. So he kicked us out of our home. Said he couldn't afford to have squatters in a flat when there were paying customers looking for a place to live."
Jamison sighed. Ah God, why do we do this to each other? "Would you like me to speak to this man, Rudolf? I can put in a word perhaps, explain the circumstances..."
The blacksmith grunted. "Do you still have that pair of ivory-handled Colt Navies?"
"That's not the kind of word I had in mind, Rudolf."
"It's the only kind that thief would understand." Rudolf fell silent then, and his eyes stopped flitting around. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse, almost too low to hear. "It's gonna cost me my family, Reverend." He looked squarely at Jamison. "My wife can't take it anymore -- she wants to leave, take the kids back with her to her folks' farm, down toward Sheboygan. It's been one thing after another after another, and now it's just more than a man should have to bear, isn't it? So I figure it's time God answered for what he's done to me."
Jamison nodded. "Rudolf, I can surely understand what you mean. Doesn't seem right at all."
"Damn right! Uh... beggin' your pardon, Reverend."
Jamison waved it off. "Never mind, son. I'll go tell the deputy it makes sense to me. Between us, we can figure out where to go from there."
The blacksmith's head bobbed. "Much obliged, sir."
Jamison got up slowly, his mind racing along a half-dozen paths, each one a dead end, then he half-picked up the chair and started to slide it back to its corner -- and then he stopped, resting one hand on the back of it. "You know, Rudolf, I saw you working once -- your real job, not artillery, I mean. The smithy in that town we rolled through -- Port William, was it?"
The blacksmith nodded, almost smiling. "I remember. That was a sweet little forge, that was. Nice setup, for a crappy little Reb town like that."
"I just remember that it was like watching a musician -- like Michelangelo, with a hammer and tongs."
"Michael Angelo?"
"An old Italian painter -- an artist. That's what you were. I watched you take iron bars and make rims for the caisson wheels and all sorts of tools -- all without a wasted motion. It was amazing to see."
Rudolf shrugged. "Wasn't nothin' special."
"It was to me. You could take this bar of black iron and heat it 'til it was red hot, and pound it, quench it, heat it again in the forge, then draw it, pound it, and keep pounding until it took the exact shape you wanted. All that heat, all that pounding -- you really worked that metal hard."
The big man shrugged again. "It's what you have to do to get it into the shape you want it."
"And can you tell me if this is true? I remember my son..." He paused, closing his eyes for a moment at the thought of the boy, then plowed on. "My son told me once that the way they make steel is that they melt the iron and then add carbon to it. So you actually turn the iron into steel -- you make it stronger -- by adding impurities."
"Sure. You add carbon, you make harder steel -- it's stronger, and it'll take a sharper edge."
"Right, that's what I thought I remembered him saying. He was studying metallurgy before the war." Jamison stopped abruptly; now was not the time to wander down that path. He nodded and started to pick up the chair to slide it back to its place -- then stopped again and looked at the blacksmith curiously. "Interesting, isn't it?"
"What's that?"
"You talked about God putting everyone here and pulling the strings. Do you suppose it's possible that a man's life is like that piece of iron -- shapeless, not much good to anybody -- until it goes into the forge, and gets pounded on, and stretched and formed, and heated up again, over and over... until it's just the shape God needs it to be, until the man has been molded to prepare him for what God wants him to do?" Jamison paused, his finger once again tracing the long scar on his face. "I know I wouldn't be here, doing what I'm doing, if I hadn't gone through the fire myself."
The blacksmith started to snap back, then stopped and looked puzzled as he turned the idea over slowly in his mind, examining it the way he might look at a half-formed tool in his shop. "Do you really think that's true?" he asked after a long silence.
Jamison shrugged. "I'm just a simple man, Rudolf. I don't know if the purpose of life is to shape our soul from the outside, or if it's our soul's job to take life -- to take all the good plus all the sorrow and misfortune -- and make it work for us, to bring us closer to God. But either way, I do believe there's a purpose." He shrugged again. "I believe in a merciful God, Rudolf -- even if I don't always understand his ways. So I've got to believe he wouldn't let us suffer without at least the possibility of something positive coming out of it, any more than you would take a bar of iron and heat it and pound it with no shape in mind."
Rudolf covered his eyes with his hands, and his voice was muffled when he spoke through them. "Maybe. But it's just so hard."
Jamison moved the chair out of the way with his foot, stepped forward, and lay a hand on the big man's shoulder. "I know."
"I just don't know what to do now."
"We'll figure something out, son. Let's go talk some more -- maybe I can talk to Freida, too."
The big man lowered his hands, nodded slowly, and stood up. They started to walk out of the room together. Rudolf stopped on the threshold; Jamison realized it, then turned and looked at him. "There's one thing you should know, Reverend -- one thing your son probably didn't tell you. You can add carbon to iron to make steel -- to make it hard -- but if you add too much, the steel gets brittle. Beat on it then, and all that'll happen is it shatters into a million pieces."
Jamison nodded. "I remember him telling me that too. But I'll tell you this: if you pick up those pieces and put them back in the forge, they can still be melted back together, they can still be made whole. Your life, or that piece of steel -- nothing's ever so broken that it can't be mended, long as you have the right blacksmith working the forge."
Rudolf looked at him uncertainly. "You really believe that, Reverend?"
"I do." Jamison paused. "I've walked through the fire, son. And I learned that it's not so bad a walk, if you've got someone with you."
Rudolf considered this, then nodded and stepped across the threshold. "Then let's go, Reverend. I don't much like it where I am."
Jamison let him by, then walked with him down the shadowed hall.
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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Hide and Seek
by Larry Winebrenner
Job 23:1-9, 16-17
If only I could vanish in darkness, and thick darkness would cover my face!
One does not play hide and seek with God. If God is hiding, no one can find God. If the Lord is seeking, no one can hide from God. Even Jeremiah proclaims: "Can any hide himself in secret places that I shall not see him? saith the Lord. Do not I fill heaven and earth? saith the Lord" (Jeremiah 23:24). Yet people try to hide from God.
*****
Andrew looked at the psychiatrist's worried frown.
"What is it, Doc?" he asked.
The doctor looked down at little seven-year-old Hannah. The child was curled into a fetal position, almost comatose. She responded neither to touch nor to sound.
"My guess is your daughter has suffered a severe traumatic shock. It will take long weeks, perhaps even months or years to bring her out of this condition."
"Doc," said Andrew apologetically, "I think she's hiding from God."
The psychiatrist looked at the poor man with pity. Before he could respond, Andrew rushed on. "She was playing with a friend in the yard back of the rooming house. Her friend was a boy about her age, and he had a lizard. Like most boys that age, he tried to scare her with the lizard. She slapped it out of his hand and stomped on it with her heel."
The psychiatrist looked thoughtful for a moment. He seemed to be wondering whether he had two patients to work with. "And you think she went into a coma for that?" he asked.
"No, Doc. The boy yelled, 'Stop!' She decided to teach him a lesson. She jumped up and down on the dead creature. After a few futile cries, the boy called out, looking up with his arms raised. I was looking out the kitchen window to see what the ruckus was. 'Ohhhhh God!' he intoned like a witch doctor. 'Bring down the wrath of destruction on this evil woman. Burn her with brimstone and sulfur. Punish her for her wickedness.' I don't know where such a small boy got such a diabolical curse, but it worked. Hannah ran into the house and crawled under the bed. When I found her, she was like this," Andrew said, pointing at the child.
"Then maybe this will wear off in a few days, after she sleeps for a while. But she doesn't have to worry about God punishing her. There is no God."
Hannah's eyes popped open. She said, "There is too -- and God's gonna get you for saying that." She jumped up and ran from the hospital emergency room.
The psychiatrist sat in amazement and amusement. Then a keen insight penetrated his thinking. Maybe some of his other patients were unwittingly hiding from God. Persons addicted to drugs, including alcohol, obviously might fit into this category. But what about others, like folks who buried themselves in their work to the exclusion of family and friends? Maybe he'd startle them to their senses by suggesting that the first step toward their recovery would be to begin attending religious services. He laughed. Maybe they would think he had gone over the edge.
Then he stopped laughing. What about him? Why had he told that poor man there was no God? Maybe the psychiatrist himself was using his profession and scientific training to hide from God. He'd think on it.
You Just Don't Understand!
by Larry Winebrenner
Hebrews 4:12-16
We have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin.
The Reverend Don Chester was about to go out of his mind. His 16-year-old daughter was insisting that she wanted to drop out of school and marry "Pumpkin George." Every fall George made a great profit selling pumpkins during the Halloween and Thanksgiving seasons.
Don wished his wife were still alive to help him with his headstrong daughter. It seemed Mindy always wanted to do the exactly diametrical opposite of what he suggested. When he accused her of that, she exploded. "Suggest? You never suggest. You order. And you order the exact opposite of what I want."
Most of their arguments, Don would give in, feeling a bit guilty about not understanding his daughter better. Her favorite phrase for getting her way was, "You just don't understand!"
He realized he really didn't understand. He didn't understand teenagers. He didn't understand girls. But quitting school? Getting married? What was there to understand?
One night after a screaming argument with his daughter, he knelt beside his bed for evening prayer. "Lord, I just don't know what to do," he said. He knelt quietly, not knowing what else to say.
Finally he was startled to hear, Why don't you just turn it over to me?
He looked carefully around to see who spoke. No one was there. Had he really heard a voice?
Yes.
Don realized he was hearing a voice, but not an audible voice. The Lord was talking -- talking to his heart... to his heavy, heavy heart.
"Okay, Lord," he said. He crawled into bed and had a peaceful night's sleep. He awoke to the smell of coffee. Mindy was preparing breakfast. She really was a good little housekeeper, and an excellent cook. One day she would make some lucky man a wonderful wife.
He almost choked on that thought. Some day! Not now.
When he sat for breakfast, he realized in how many ways he would miss her if she got married.
Tell her.
He strangled on a swallow of orange juice.
"Dad!" screamed Mindy. "Are you all right?"
He wiped the juice from his lips and nose. His nasal passages burned.
"I just had a startling thought," he said. "I thought of just how much I'd miss you and everything you do around the house if you married. That's not the reason I object, but I want you to know what a wonderful cook you are and how much I appreciate you." Mindy looked at her father with love for a long minute.
"You're not trying to start another argument are you? Because if you are I have the perfect solution. George and I will move in with you."
For some reason her comment didn't startle him. He just smiled and replied, "I'm not arguing. I've turned it over to Jesus."
"Jesus!" It might have been a swear word the way she said it. "Jesus? What's Jesus have to do with anything?"
"Why don't you ask him and find out?"
"I'm not going to ask some dead guy who hasn't kept up with the world for 2,000 years what to do about my life. I hear he died a virgin."
Don bit his tongue. "Mindy, I dare you."
She knew this was his last tactic. He knew she would never back down from a dare -- any dare. Hadn't she jumped off the cliff at the top of the waterfall? Even most of the guys were afraid to do that. And she had been afraid too... until Sarah had said, "I dare you." She jumped before the words were all out of Sarah's mouth.
Sarah had climbed down the path and ran to her. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry. When you jumped I was afraid you were going to die."
"So was I," Mindy had said breathlessly. "But I figured it was better to die than to not take a dare." She didn't really mean that. She'd never jump off a cliff into a pile of rocks, of course. But people were careful what they dared her to do.
And now Dad.
"If I do, will you leave it up to Jesus?" she asked. "If Jesus says go ahead, will you perform the wedding?"
She'd teach him to dare her.
"Yep."
Mindy looked at him, not believing him... or at least not believing her ears.
"How do I do this?" she murmured.
"Just ask Jesus what to do."
"What if he doesn't answer?"
"Oh, he'll answer," said Don, hoping in his heart he wasn't making a big mistake. "Just give him time to answer."
It's not a mistake. However much time she allows will be enough.
"How much time?" she asked suspiciously.
"Say, till graduation day your senior year," he said. When Don saw the look on her face he held up both hands to hold back an avalanche. "Just joking, just joking," he said. "You tell me how much time you want."
"You're serious about this," she said, as she gathered up her books and headed toward the door for school. "Do I have to stop seeing George while I do this?" She stood in the door, waiting for an answer.
"Ask Jesus," he said.
"A week," she said and slammed the door.
"A week," he repeated disconsolately. Time enough.
Don tried to keep his mind on church matters the next couple of days, but he neglected his prayers. He said the Lord's Prayer and table graces rather perfunctorily. Beyond that, he never even thought of the Lord.
Once the matter did cross his mind. He believed he was afraid he'd ask Jesus for a progress report. Was he afraid of what the report would be? Or was he afraid that would show a lack of faith? Whatever -- there was peace in the house... and he slept well at night.
On Saturday, after lunch at the kitchen table, Mindy said, "The week's almost up and Jesus hasn't said anything yet. Can we set the date?"
"You mean you asked Jesus what to do and Jesus hasn't answered you?" asked Don in genuine astonishment.
"Not exactly. I didn't ask. He hasn't contacted me."
Don went to Mindy, taking her shoulders in his hands and looking her straight in the eye.
"Mindy, you didn't take the dare," he said. "I trusted you to be fair in this matter. I didn't order you to do anything. I didn't set limits. I let you set everything up so you could even lie to me and get me to perform the ceremony. But I wasn't worried you would lie. I trusted you." He let go of her arms and turned away. "I wanted to trust you all the way," he continued. "I can't substitute my conscience for yours. I can't keep you from dropping out of school. I can't keep you from running away and getting married. And now, it seems I can't even trust you." He walked to the kitchen door.
"Dad..." she said plaintively in a little girl voice.
Don went through the door and quietly closed it.
Mindy went to her room and threw herself on the bed. She cried herself to sleep, muttering, "I love my daddy and I love George. Oh God, what am I going to do?"
Is that a prayer or a cry of dereliction?
"Who said that?" she asked. It was a voice she had never heard. It frightened her, it was so close.
It could be Jesus.
"Wait a minute. Dad!"
He's gone to the cemetery to complain to your mother about what a willful child you are.
"Wait a minute. How do you know that?"
That's two "wait a minute" phrases in a few seconds. Do you want me to wait one minute or two?
"That's crazy. If you want me to believe you're Jesus, you're going to have to be more serious."
Why? I like humor.
"Good. I'll tell you about two old maids who..."
Heard that one. Besides, I said I liked humor -- not smut... or discriminatory stories.
"Hey. You really are Jesus. Is this a dream?"
Does it matter so long as you get your answer?
Mindy tried standing up. She walked over to a mirror. Yep, she was standing on the floor -- and no one was there with her. She asked her question anyway. "All right! Should I get married?"
It's better to marry than to burn.
"Paul said that."
That saying was around while Saul was still a gleam in his father's eye.
"Then why didn't Paul get married?"
You figure it out. Besides, how do you know he didn't get married. Maybe that thorn in the flesh was a wife.
"Jesus! That's not funny. And he said himself that he wasn't married. If you're Jesus, you should know that."
I could say he said one thing one time and something else another. Actually, I was just having a little fun with you.
"Well, fun time's over. Thanks for the answer. Now, all I have to do is tell Dad."
And George.
Mindy looked down. She lowered her voice, almost to a whisper.
"George knows."
But George isn't ready yet. Unlike you, he wants to finish high school... even college.
"He'll change his mind once Dad says it's okay."
Are you sure? And are you being fair to him? If you thwart his ambition, what will that do to your relationship?
"Hey... whose side are you on? Has Dad been talking to you?"
I'm not taking sides. And no, Dan has not been talking to me. Maybe he's decided it does no good to talk to me.
"Because of me?"
Let's not talk about your father. Let's talk about you.
"Why? You told me what to do."
I can't tell you what to do. You have to decide that. I can only point the way. You must make the decision whether you're going to take it or not.
"You said it was better to marry than to burn."
Perhaps the best procedure is to do neither.
"I'm not Saint Paul!" screamed Mindy. "I'm not any kind of saint at all. And what do you know, Jesus? Were you ever in love? Have your hormones ever coursed through your veins, heating your vitals, driving you mad with passion?" Mindy fell back on her bed. She closed her eyes, waiting to be struck dead for her blasphemy. Maybe that would be best for all anyway.
She waited.
Finally, a gentle voice said, Yes.
She opened her eyes. Where was this Jesus? In her mind? "Yes?" Barely a whisper.
Yes. You have one who in every respect has been tested as you are, yet without sin.
"How, Jesus? How?"
It's not simple, Mindy. It's not easy. It takes commitment and obedience. And my help. And forgiveness.
"Will you help me, Jesus?"
I'll be with you always. George is a good man. You will help each other when the time comes.
"When will that be?"
Not now. I'll tell you when it happens. Now, your father is returning from the cemetery. Tell him I said yes -- at the right time.
Suddenly the bedroom door cracked open. "Mindy, honey," said Dan. "Wake up. I'm sorry I said what I did."
Mindy opened her eyes. She yawned and stretched. She rubbed sleep from her eyes and held out her arms for a fatherly hug.
"I talked to Jesus," she murmured in his ear. "He said yes." She was surprised there was no tensing of muscles. She continued, "At the right time."
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.
Desperation's Opportunity
by C. David McKirachan
Mark 10:17-31
Just before I started my last year of seminary, we had a sit-down with somebody from the Committee on Preparation for Ministry. They said, "Don't expect to get a job right out of seminary." It seemed there was a glut of pastors at the moment and we had to wait for a few of them to retire or surrender before we could get our feet in the door.
I wanted to preach, but green people (I don't mean tree-huggers) weren't high on the list of candidates for jobs. So a year later I was pumping gas and working in a leather factory and sending out resumes.
I finally got an interview. It was at a little church on the border of Newark. A few years previously there had been a machine-gun emplacement in the front yard during the riots. The neighborhood wasn't very scenic. The salary was infinitesimal. There were issues with just about every arena of church life. This was a battle zone of a parish. It was inner-city and becoming brutal. I never would have looked at it -- I knew what I wanted to do; I knew what my gifts were. This was not the dirt I wanted to be planted in.
But there's an old saying: "Any port in a storm." I was laboring with gale-force winds and swells that were coming over the rails. My parents were patient and kind, but I was getting desperate for a job. I wanted to be ordained -- after all, I'd been called. Why hadn't I been chosen?
Taking all of the above into account, I went for the job, got it, and began my ministry. A lot of things got done there in five years. And one of those things was that I found out it wasn't my ministry... it was the Lord's. All the strategies and goals I had locked in, all the skills and talents I was so sure of, all the agendas and accomplishments I had planned and focused on became yesterday's fantasies in the face of the city's onslaught. These people didn't need my plans, they needed God's presence. To get to that truth, I had to let go of a lot of stuff. It wasn't fun; it was scary as hell. But it was what I had to do to be a pastor, there or anywhere.
Desperation isn't very sexy. But it is very good at stripping away our illusions and our pride -- and we are more likely to humbly grasp the hand that is offered. The hand may be scarred and even bleeding... but it is a hand that offers the incredible gift of partnership in a ministry of compassion, of being a light in the darkness that too often we're busy avoiding.
I feel sorry for the rich, young guy -- I guess he just wasn't desperate enough.
Solitary Confinement
by C. David McKirachan
Psalm 22:1-15
There are many hackles that rise when the subject of our penal system comes up. The issue of keeping our population safe from the criminal element gives rise to enough polemic to destroy any good time. But there is one strange statistic I recently ran into that made me even more disappointed with the way we approach people who have committed crimes than I had been previously.
I found out that wardens are united in their desire to abolish one of the "normalities" of prison. Affectionately known as "the hole" or "the cooler," solitary confinement is now seen by these very pragmatic and experiential experts in the discipline of keeping some sort of order within a pressure cooker as counterproductive. Some of them put forward more idealistic bases for their desire to dump this punitive institution. The word "torture" comes up regularly, supported by studies of psychologists that demonstrate the sanity-bending cost of isolating individuals for prolonged periods of time. But other wardens, arguing more from a practical perspective, say that it does nothing except make the inmates more nuts than they were when they were first dumped into the hole. The wardens don't want to be doing anything to make inmates more nuts... it is counterproductive. It is directly opposed to their mission of keeping order in the prison.
So why not abolish it? If these experts are unanimous, what's the problem? The answer is simple. Voters (and therefore politicians) want to make sure these criminals suffer. Getting rid of the hole would be a sign of going light on crime. Reality doesn't seem to matter. Expert opinion is irrelevant.
The worst torture a human being can suffer is a sense of isolation. It has been shown to kill infants -- taken care of in every other way, without the intimacy of touch they die. We adults may be better at functioning alone, but flourishing is another story.
This psalm starts with the wail of an abandoned child and goes downhill from there. With few glimmers during the freefall of despair, we are confronted with a hopeless human being. But it starts with isolation.
There are few things I fear, truly fear. I'm not courageous. It's just that I've lived through fire and blood and humiliation and failure and pain and my own stupidity enough times to realize that they hurt -- but here I am, still cheering for the New York Giants and agog about butterflies. Life goes on. I guess you call that perspective. But down deep inside there is this demon named abandonment ("Abby" for short) that can yank my chain even on a good day. Without love, without community, without the sense that even in darkness that still small voice will whisper to me, I am lost.
I am grateful for this psalm. I am more grateful that Jesus was willing to use it to express his loneliness on the cross. It reminds me that the Lord has been here before me, even in the darkness of my own isolation. But I can't rest thinking that we deliberately do that to people. I'd like to hear Jesus' comment on that one.
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).
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StoryShare, October 11, 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.
