Gilly, A Diligent Leader
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Gilly, a Diligent Leader" by John Sumwalt
"A Conspiracy of Women" by Sandra Herrmann
"Showing Our Belief" by Peter Andrew Smith
* * * * * * * *
Gilly, a Diligent Leader
by John Sumwalt
Romans 12:1-8
We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.
-- Romans 12:6
I was called to give a eulogy at the funeral of our long-time neighbor, Gilman Moe, last week. It was a privilege to pay tribute to a man whose life has made a significant difference in the lives of so many of us in Richland County and the state of Wisconsin.
Our farm sits at the intersection of State Highway 58 and County Trunk D, a mile north of Loyd where Gilly and Darlene built a new house last year right next door to the house where my grandparents used to live. The farm where they started out in 1954 is a half mile north on 58. Going west on County D, up Happy Hollow, over the hill and around the corner across from Gary and Jean Frye's driveway, there used to be a great oak tree. It marked the spot where Gary and Jean brought their Holsteins across the road after milking.
That big old tree with thick branches that stretched upward nearly eighty feet and a trunk bigger around than my arms can reach, stood there for as long as I can remember. It has been part of the landscape forever, like the huge sandstone bluffs that line the creeks in our part of the county.
When the oak wilt took it last year, and Gary cut it down, it left a gaping hole. Now every time I come back from town over Pleasant Ridge and down that steep hill that runs past Fred and Hazel Paul's old farm and around the bend at the intersection of the three Happy Hollow roads, I see that hole where the tree used to be. It gives me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. How could it not be there after all of these years?
Gilman Moe was like a great oak among us: a towering, solid man whose quiet strength, humble heart, and common sense wisdom have been a part of our landscape in Richland County for almost eighty years. His passing will take some getting used to.
I will remember Gilly as a good neighbor. He has been the "go to" guy in Willow Township. If you wanted to know how to get something done you called Gilly. I don't know how many times I have said or heard someone say in response to some need, "Call Gilly." And for good reason; Gilly always seemed to know what to do and if Gilly didn't know, Darlene did. They have been an amazing team for sixty years.
As the years passed the "Call Gilly's" began to come from all over the county, around the state, and across the country. If Gilly wasn't farming one of the best farms around, he was presiding over the Willow Township Board, serving as the Township Fire Warden, the Cazenovia State Bank Board, the County Board, the TEC COM Board, acting as President of the Richland Electric Coop -- a position he held for 33 years -- or as President of the Wisconsin Electric Association Board of Directors. Gilly also took a turn as Chairman of the Board for the Federated Rural Electric Insurance Corporation, as President of Tech COM Inc., and of Skyview DBS of Wisconsin Inc. In the late 1990s he was the recipient of the Ally of Electric Cooperative Association award, something his family and friends didn't know till after he passed. I don't know when the man had time to farm, although I can't remember a day I didn't see him out on the tractor or hauling something up the road in the pick-up.
We all called Gilly because he knew how to get things done and because he cared deeply about the community. Whatever the need you knew Gilly was going to be there. I remember the wood cutting bees for our church in Loyd back in the day when it was heated with a wood furnace. My dad, Leonard, Gilly and a bunch of other men from the church, Glen Bangert, Elwyn Smyth, Bill Fuller, Lech Willis, Arnold Liska, Vic Powell, Ivan Cooper, Vivian Barnhart, Oscar Ironmonger, Fred Soul, Gaylord Carr, Eldon Moore, Howard and AlfieHanold, would grab their chain saws and block up enough wood to warm the church all winter.
When I was sixteen I needed a series of operations that could only be done in Madison. At that time we didn't have a car that could make the trip. Dad called Gilly and he drove us in the 1966 rose colored Buick, three times, three full work days.
Gilly has been there for a lot of us like that. He was a good neighbor who I expect to see on the other side one day. Gilly talked about that as we sat in the kitchen of the new house in Loyd a few weeks ago, what it might be like over there, and who might come to meet him. He said he knew about looking for the tunnel of light. I told him to call out for Jesus and he would be all right.
I know that when my time comes the first thing I am going to do is call out for Jesus. But if Jesus is busy, I'm going to "call Gilly."
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord’s United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don’t Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
A Conspiracy of Women
by Sandra Herrmann
Exodus 1:8--2:10
My baby brother was born in the middle of the day. Good thing, because there was enough noise in the streets to cover the sounds of his crying. The midwife looked him over and washed him, wrapping him snugly in linen. She smiled at my mother.
"It's a boy. A good-looking little one too."
My Eema (mother) didn't smile. She looked afraid. Our Pharaoh had put out a decree. It hadn't been shouted in the Hebrew quarters. Maybe around the palace or in the main square, but we Hebrews weren’t to know the decree. We might rise up in a mob. Do damage to the pyramid our men were forced to build. Fight the soldiers, kill Egyptians when the opportunity arose. But the midwives knew. They had been told, "When the Hebrew women birth a boy, kill it. No more baby boys are to live amongst the Hebrews." The midwife had told Eema. Which is why she looked so unhappy at the birth of a boy.
Back when I was little, when boys were born there was dancing in the streets. The Abba (Papa) would dance with the little bundle in his hands, held up high for everyone to see. But no more. Now, baby boys were hidden, their hair went uncut so the soldiers would not suspect it was a boy. When the Eemas went to the well, the babies were all left at home so no one could notice that there was a new one in the village. I was surprised that the midwife had told Eema about this decree. Wouldn't she get in trouble with the authorities? But the midwife winked at me when I asked this. "Don't you worry, sweetie," she laughed. "Don't you know the Hebrew women are much more vigorous than the Egyptian women? Before we get here, the mothers have delivered." She shrugged a "so-what-can-we-do?" shrug. "We can't be held responsible for how strong our babies are, can we!" She threw back her head and laughed.
I looked over to Eema. She looked tired and still a little worried, but she smiled too. "Pharaoh is not God, though he may think he is, Miriam. Only God can give life. Only God can take it. We will trust our baby to God." She gave a coin to the midwife, who kissed it and tucked it into the little bag she wore on her belt. Then Eema went and laid down on a pillow and the midwife cleaned up. I went to work, too, adding flour and yeast to fine-milled grain for the evening bread.
Things went fine for the first six months, but then Aker (the name Abba gave our new baby, meaning "victorious") began to crawl. I was the one to watch him and entertain him but at the slightest sound from the street, he made a bee-line for the sunny doorway. It was becoming more and more difficult to hide the fact that a baby boy lived here. One morning, Eema sent me to pick papyrus and rushes from the mud along the Nile. She soaked the rushes and began to build a little ark. She used the papyrus to do the finishing work around the edges and then daubed the outside with pitch. It was a horrible, messy job. I was glad she was doing it and not I. But when it was finished, it was lovely and snug, and most important, it floated without leaks! I was very proud of the work my Eema could do and hoped that someday I might weave as well as she could.
It had never occurred to me, as I watched her, that this little ark had a sad purpose. But very early one morning, before the frogs had quit singing, she nursed Aker, and when he had fallen asleep, she bound him in cloth strips and put him in the ark. When she realized that I was awake, she put her finger to her lips and I followed her down to the river.
"What are you doing with Aker?" I asked her in a whisper.
"Saving him," she answered.
I watched as she placed the little ark on the water and gave it a push. The current caught it and it was swept away, slowly at first and then faster, away from the bank where we stood, moving with the tide. I nearly shouted out! But Eema again covered her lips with her finger, and I saw that tears were streaming down her face. I started to cry too. I couldn't just stand there. I ran along the bank watching the ark and listening for a cry from my baby brother. Silently, so silently, the ark moved on.
At last, there was a bend in the river, and I lost sight of Aker in his little boat beyond the bulrushes, which were nearly as tall as I was. I kept on, avoiding the squishy parts of the bank, and hiding myself behind the rushes whenever I heard fishermen on the water. The sun had turned the sky a brilliant pink when I heard feminine laughter ahead of us. There was much splashing and more laughter. Some rich woman was taking her morning bath with help from her maids.
Suddenly, I heard a cry! "Look, Amunet! Look at the sweet little boat!"
A softer, more genteel voice answered. "Can you swim over and get it from the reeds?"
"Oh, certainly," said the first voice. I listened but could hear only splashing. I stood on tip-toe so I might see what was happening. There was a young maid, naked to the waist, pushing my brother's boat toward the lovely Amunet. When she came close, the maid said, "There's something in it!"
Amunet leaned over the basket. "It's a baby!" All three of her maids gathered around and looked in. Oohs and ahhs followed, and many compliments on Aker's beauty were voiced. Then Amunet said, "It has to be some Hebrew's baby boy. Who else would set their child adrift like this?" And then she turned in my direction. I was too slow to duck out of sight and so I was seen. But rather than being angry, Amunet smiled and waved me to come closer.
I ducked my head. Amunet asked me, "Do you know whose baby this is?" I shook my head "no." "Do you know, by any chance, any woman who might be able to wet-nurse my baby boy?" she asked. My head snapped up. It took me a minute to understand what she was doing. Her baby! She was going to save my brother's life! I nodded so vigorously that one of my earrings hit me in the eye! Amunet's eyes twinkled.
"Go get my son's wet-nurse," she smiled.
That is how a midwife and a princess and a Hebrew slave conspired to assure that my brother, who was named Moses by his adoptive mother, was saved from the arrogant decree of Pharaoh.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Showing Our Belief
by Peter Andrew Smith
Matthew 16:13-20
In the downtown of a large city stood a church. Founded many years ago it had a proud heritage and a long history of both uplifting worship services and being active within the surrounding community. The church was built to hold the many people who lived within easy walking distance.
Over the years the city around the church changed. Where once there was nothing but houses, now there were mostly offices and stores. Where once everyone who lived nearby filled the pews, now the people around the church knew nothing about it. Where once there were families who attended as they had for generations, now there were few people in the pews on Sunday morning.
With the changes in the community there were changes in the church. With only a scattering of people, there were not enough leaders and workers to undertake the great projects and activities the church had done during its glory days. The only time the church was active was for an hour on Sunday morning.
Those who worshiped in the church were concerned that in a few years their proud historic witness to Christ would close its doors. They realized that even though there were no longer large numbers of people living near the church, there were many families in the community who could be part of their life and work. The question though was how to get them to come to church.
"The people who live nearby have never been to church so they must know nothing of God," they thought. "We'll tell them about God and then they will come and be part of the church."
So they went out into the community and told the people that there was a God who created the heavens and the earth and who cared about them and their lives. Some of the people the church talked to claimed that belief was outdated in this modern age. Most though said they didn't doubt there was a God. No new people came to church on Sunday. Those who worshiped in the church wondered if they had taken the wrong approach with the community around them.
"The people do know there is a God and were not impressed when we came bearing that news," they said. "Yet when we spoke with them they didn't know much about God. We need to tell what Jesus taught and did in his ministry. Then they will want to be part of the church."
So the church went back into the community and related the stories of Jesus and told of the miracles he performed. Some of the people shook their heads and said it wasn't believable. Many listened and agreed there were good lessons to be learned in the words of the gospel. Yet no new people came to church on Sunday.
The church wondered whether people simply didn't care about God. Yet that didn't seem to be true. The people in the community were interested when the church spoke to them yet the message they brought about God didn't seem to reach people. The church studied and considered and consulted but could come to no real answer as to how to get the community to join them in worship.
"What are we doing wrong?" they asked God. "Are we not faithful witnesses?"
As the church prayed, they began to look more closely at who they were and what they were doing. They realized that all they did was gather on Sunday and tell people about God and Jesus. They wondered if God wanted them to do more. They looked to their history, they studied the Bible, they continued to pray, and went to the community again.
They started a local food bank to help people make ends meet when money was tight. They opened their building so the teens of the area would have a safe place to go after school. They sponsored groups where people could come to support one another and talk about things that mattered to them.
"Why are you doing these things?" the people in the community asked.
The church responded by telling them what they believed about Jesus and God and what it meant for their lives. Some of the people in the community began coming to worship in the church on Sunday. Even those around the church who didn't attend understood better what the church believed because they did not simply hear the words they saw what those words meant through the church's actions.
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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 21, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Gilly, a Diligent Leader" by John Sumwalt
"A Conspiracy of Women" by Sandra Herrmann
"Showing Our Belief" by Peter Andrew Smith
* * * * * * * *
Gilly, a Diligent Leader
by John Sumwalt
Romans 12:1-8
We have gifts that differ according to the grace given to us: prophecy in proportion to faith; ministry, in ministering; the teacher, in teaching; the exhorter, in exhortation; the giver, in generosity; the leader, in diligence; the compassionate, in cheerfulness.
-- Romans 12:6
I was called to give a eulogy at the funeral of our long-time neighbor, Gilman Moe, last week. It was a privilege to pay tribute to a man whose life has made a significant difference in the lives of so many of us in Richland County and the state of Wisconsin.
Our farm sits at the intersection of State Highway 58 and County Trunk D, a mile north of Loyd where Gilly and Darlene built a new house last year right next door to the house where my grandparents used to live. The farm where they started out in 1954 is a half mile north on 58. Going west on County D, up Happy Hollow, over the hill and around the corner across from Gary and Jean Frye's driveway, there used to be a great oak tree. It marked the spot where Gary and Jean brought their Holsteins across the road after milking.
That big old tree with thick branches that stretched upward nearly eighty feet and a trunk bigger around than my arms can reach, stood there for as long as I can remember. It has been part of the landscape forever, like the huge sandstone bluffs that line the creeks in our part of the county.
When the oak wilt took it last year, and Gary cut it down, it left a gaping hole. Now every time I come back from town over Pleasant Ridge and down that steep hill that runs past Fred and Hazel Paul's old farm and around the bend at the intersection of the three Happy Hollow roads, I see that hole where the tree used to be. It gives me a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. How could it not be there after all of these years?
Gilman Moe was like a great oak among us: a towering, solid man whose quiet strength, humble heart, and common sense wisdom have been a part of our landscape in Richland County for almost eighty years. His passing will take some getting used to.
I will remember Gilly as a good neighbor. He has been the "go to" guy in Willow Township. If you wanted to know how to get something done you called Gilly. I don't know how many times I have said or heard someone say in response to some need, "Call Gilly." And for good reason; Gilly always seemed to know what to do and if Gilly didn't know, Darlene did. They have been an amazing team for sixty years.
As the years passed the "Call Gilly's" began to come from all over the county, around the state, and across the country. If Gilly wasn't farming one of the best farms around, he was presiding over the Willow Township Board, serving as the Township Fire Warden, the Cazenovia State Bank Board, the County Board, the TEC COM Board, acting as President of the Richland Electric Coop -- a position he held for 33 years -- or as President of the Wisconsin Electric Association Board of Directors. Gilly also took a turn as Chairman of the Board for the Federated Rural Electric Insurance Corporation, as President of Tech COM Inc., and of Skyview DBS of Wisconsin Inc. In the late 1990s he was the recipient of the Ally of Electric Cooperative Association award, something his family and friends didn't know till after he passed. I don't know when the man had time to farm, although I can't remember a day I didn't see him out on the tractor or hauling something up the road in the pick-up.
We all called Gilly because he knew how to get things done and because he cared deeply about the community. Whatever the need you knew Gilly was going to be there. I remember the wood cutting bees for our church in Loyd back in the day when it was heated with a wood furnace. My dad, Leonard, Gilly and a bunch of other men from the church, Glen Bangert, Elwyn Smyth, Bill Fuller, Lech Willis, Arnold Liska, Vic Powell, Ivan Cooper, Vivian Barnhart, Oscar Ironmonger, Fred Soul, Gaylord Carr, Eldon Moore, Howard and AlfieHanold, would grab their chain saws and block up enough wood to warm the church all winter.
When I was sixteen I needed a series of operations that could only be done in Madison. At that time we didn't have a car that could make the trip. Dad called Gilly and he drove us in the 1966 rose colored Buick, three times, three full work days.
Gilly has been there for a lot of us like that. He was a good neighbor who I expect to see on the other side one day. Gilly talked about that as we sat in the kitchen of the new house in Loyd a few weeks ago, what it might be like over there, and who might come to meet him. He said he knew about looking for the tunnel of light. I told him to call out for Jesus and he would be all right.
I know that when my time comes the first thing I am going to do is call out for Jesus. But if Jesus is busy, I'm going to "call Gilly."
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord’s United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don’t Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
A Conspiracy of Women
by Sandra Herrmann
Exodus 1:8--2:10
My baby brother was born in the middle of the day. Good thing, because there was enough noise in the streets to cover the sounds of his crying. The midwife looked him over and washed him, wrapping him snugly in linen. She smiled at my mother.
"It's a boy. A good-looking little one too."
My Eema (mother) didn't smile. She looked afraid. Our Pharaoh had put out a decree. It hadn't been shouted in the Hebrew quarters. Maybe around the palace or in the main square, but we Hebrews weren’t to know the decree. We might rise up in a mob. Do damage to the pyramid our men were forced to build. Fight the soldiers, kill Egyptians when the opportunity arose. But the midwives knew. They had been told, "When the Hebrew women birth a boy, kill it. No more baby boys are to live amongst the Hebrews." The midwife had told Eema. Which is why she looked so unhappy at the birth of a boy.
Back when I was little, when boys were born there was dancing in the streets. The Abba (Papa) would dance with the little bundle in his hands, held up high for everyone to see. But no more. Now, baby boys were hidden, their hair went uncut so the soldiers would not suspect it was a boy. When the Eemas went to the well, the babies were all left at home so no one could notice that there was a new one in the village. I was surprised that the midwife had told Eema about this decree. Wouldn't she get in trouble with the authorities? But the midwife winked at me when I asked this. "Don't you worry, sweetie," she laughed. "Don't you know the Hebrew women are much more vigorous than the Egyptian women? Before we get here, the mothers have delivered." She shrugged a "so-what-can-we-do?" shrug. "We can't be held responsible for how strong our babies are, can we!" She threw back her head and laughed.
I looked over to Eema. She looked tired and still a little worried, but she smiled too. "Pharaoh is not God, though he may think he is, Miriam. Only God can give life. Only God can take it. We will trust our baby to God." She gave a coin to the midwife, who kissed it and tucked it into the little bag she wore on her belt. Then Eema went and laid down on a pillow and the midwife cleaned up. I went to work, too, adding flour and yeast to fine-milled grain for the evening bread.
Things went fine for the first six months, but then Aker (the name Abba gave our new baby, meaning "victorious") began to crawl. I was the one to watch him and entertain him but at the slightest sound from the street, he made a bee-line for the sunny doorway. It was becoming more and more difficult to hide the fact that a baby boy lived here. One morning, Eema sent me to pick papyrus and rushes from the mud along the Nile. She soaked the rushes and began to build a little ark. She used the papyrus to do the finishing work around the edges and then daubed the outside with pitch. It was a horrible, messy job. I was glad she was doing it and not I. But when it was finished, it was lovely and snug, and most important, it floated without leaks! I was very proud of the work my Eema could do and hoped that someday I might weave as well as she could.
It had never occurred to me, as I watched her, that this little ark had a sad purpose. But very early one morning, before the frogs had quit singing, she nursed Aker, and when he had fallen asleep, she bound him in cloth strips and put him in the ark. When she realized that I was awake, she put her finger to her lips and I followed her down to the river.
"What are you doing with Aker?" I asked her in a whisper.
"Saving him," she answered.
I watched as she placed the little ark on the water and gave it a push. The current caught it and it was swept away, slowly at first and then faster, away from the bank where we stood, moving with the tide. I nearly shouted out! But Eema again covered her lips with her finger, and I saw that tears were streaming down her face. I started to cry too. I couldn't just stand there. I ran along the bank watching the ark and listening for a cry from my baby brother. Silently, so silently, the ark moved on.
At last, there was a bend in the river, and I lost sight of Aker in his little boat beyond the bulrushes, which were nearly as tall as I was. I kept on, avoiding the squishy parts of the bank, and hiding myself behind the rushes whenever I heard fishermen on the water. The sun had turned the sky a brilliant pink when I heard feminine laughter ahead of us. There was much splashing and more laughter. Some rich woman was taking her morning bath with help from her maids.
Suddenly, I heard a cry! "Look, Amunet! Look at the sweet little boat!"
A softer, more genteel voice answered. "Can you swim over and get it from the reeds?"
"Oh, certainly," said the first voice. I listened but could hear only splashing. I stood on tip-toe so I might see what was happening. There was a young maid, naked to the waist, pushing my brother's boat toward the lovely Amunet. When she came close, the maid said, "There's something in it!"
Amunet leaned over the basket. "It's a baby!" All three of her maids gathered around and looked in. Oohs and ahhs followed, and many compliments on Aker's beauty were voiced. Then Amunet said, "It has to be some Hebrew's baby boy. Who else would set their child adrift like this?" And then she turned in my direction. I was too slow to duck out of sight and so I was seen. But rather than being angry, Amunet smiled and waved me to come closer.
I ducked my head. Amunet asked me, "Do you know whose baby this is?" I shook my head "no." "Do you know, by any chance, any woman who might be able to wet-nurse my baby boy?" she asked. My head snapped up. It took me a minute to understand what she was doing. Her baby! She was going to save my brother's life! I nodded so vigorously that one of my earrings hit me in the eye! Amunet's eyes twinkled.
"Go get my son's wet-nurse," she smiled.
That is how a midwife and a princess and a Hebrew slave conspired to assure that my brother, who was named Moses by his adoptive mother, was saved from the arrogant decree of Pharaoh.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Showing Our Belief
by Peter Andrew Smith
Matthew 16:13-20
In the downtown of a large city stood a church. Founded many years ago it had a proud heritage and a long history of both uplifting worship services and being active within the surrounding community. The church was built to hold the many people who lived within easy walking distance.
Over the years the city around the church changed. Where once there was nothing but houses, now there were mostly offices and stores. Where once everyone who lived nearby filled the pews, now the people around the church knew nothing about it. Where once there were families who attended as they had for generations, now there were few people in the pews on Sunday morning.
With the changes in the community there were changes in the church. With only a scattering of people, there were not enough leaders and workers to undertake the great projects and activities the church had done during its glory days. The only time the church was active was for an hour on Sunday morning.
Those who worshiped in the church were concerned that in a few years their proud historic witness to Christ would close its doors. They realized that even though there were no longer large numbers of people living near the church, there were many families in the community who could be part of their life and work. The question though was how to get them to come to church.
"The people who live nearby have never been to church so they must know nothing of God," they thought. "We'll tell them about God and then they will come and be part of the church."
So they went out into the community and told the people that there was a God who created the heavens and the earth and who cared about them and their lives. Some of the people the church talked to claimed that belief was outdated in this modern age. Most though said they didn't doubt there was a God. No new people came to church on Sunday. Those who worshiped in the church wondered if they had taken the wrong approach with the community around them.
"The people do know there is a God and were not impressed when we came bearing that news," they said. "Yet when we spoke with them they didn't know much about God. We need to tell what Jesus taught and did in his ministry. Then they will want to be part of the church."
So the church went back into the community and related the stories of Jesus and told of the miracles he performed. Some of the people shook their heads and said it wasn't believable. Many listened and agreed there were good lessons to be learned in the words of the gospel. Yet no new people came to church on Sunday.
The church wondered whether people simply didn't care about God. Yet that didn't seem to be true. The people in the community were interested when the church spoke to them yet the message they brought about God didn't seem to reach people. The church studied and considered and consulted but could come to no real answer as to how to get the community to join them in worship.
"What are we doing wrong?" they asked God. "Are we not faithful witnesses?"
As the church prayed, they began to look more closely at who they were and what they were doing. They realized that all they did was gather on Sunday and tell people about God and Jesus. They wondered if God wanted them to do more. They looked to their history, they studied the Bible, they continued to pray, and went to the community again.
They started a local food bank to help people make ends meet when money was tight. They opened their building so the teens of the area would have a safe place to go after school. They sponsored groups where people could come to support one another and talk about things that mattered to them.
"Why are you doing these things?" the people in the community asked.
The church responded by telling them what they believed about Jesus and God and what it meant for their lives. Some of the people in the community began coming to worship in the church on Sunday. Even those around the church who didn't attend understood better what the church believed because they did not simply hear the words they saw what those words meant through the church's actions.
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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 21, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
