A Good Man?
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"A Good Man?" by Keith Hewitt
"Facing Limitation" by C. David McKirachan
A Good Man?
by Keith Hewitt
2 Samuel 23:1-7
The line of “mourners”?David Bristol put quotes around the word in his head?stretched like a snake with neither head nor tail. At the one end, it disappeared into the Capitol building, and from where Bristol and his companion sat, the other end wound off into infinity. His notebook lay on the table in front of him, page half-filled with notes only partially legible in the tavern’s indifferent gaslight; more to the point, a glass and a pint bottle of whiskey sat next to them.
Whiskey was a marvelous thing?to a man in pain, it could be an anaesthetic; to a man who lacked courage, it could be a stimulant; and to a man whose relationship with the truth was, shall we say, troublesome, it could be a marvelous truth serum. Sitting there, on that April night, Bristol was not quite sure which property he sought, or if he only drank it for the tingle on the tongue and the burn in the throat that reminded him he was alive.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve been sitting here, oh?“ he hefted the pint bottle, glanced at its twin?“about a bottle and a half, and I’m still not sure why all these people are here. I mean, seriously, how many of them had ever even seen the President, let alone actually knew him?”
“What do you mean?” his companion asked, equally quietly. Both men had been sitting for some time, watching the slow, shuffling procession of men, women, even children make its way down Constitution Avenue. There had been more silence than conversation, which seemed to befit the moment; outside, on the other side of the window, there was precious little conversation, as well.
There was something unnatural about the quiet?to have this many people gathered together, in relative silence, was unnerving. It was at least part of the reason the two men talked: to fill the void. And the longer he sat, the more Bristol began to recognize that there was a void within, as well?an empty space that had formed in the last few days, like a cavity forming in a block of ice, deep inside and barely visible.
“I mean,” he said, “that when John Everyman dies, he has his family to mourn him, and maybe some friends and neighbors who knew him. Knew him. Here, we have the President of the United States dead, and it seems as though everyone in the District and for miles around is coming to mourn. They didn’t know him; he didn’t know them; why are they here?”
“Why are you here, David?” his companion challenged. “You didn’t know the man. To the best of my knowledge, you didn’t even like him.”
Instinctively, Bristol looked around the tavern, made sure there was no one close enough to hear?there had been incidents where fights had started, men were beaten, because their affinity for the fallen President was questioned. Here, now, they were the only ones in the tavern, other than the bartender who endlessly polished glasses, behind the bar. “I didn’t dislike him,” Bristol answered carefully, “it was only the general dislike I have for anyone in a position of power?generals, editors, wives?Presidents. As you point out, I did not know the man, so I could hardly dislike him personally.”
“Then why are you here, covering this carnival of mourning?”
“My editor sent me. Believe me, I would rather be writing about the hunt for Booth.”
“I see. So it was not through any personal feeling? Any sense of loss?”
Bristol shrugged. “How could it be? I didn’t know him.”
“No?but he still touched your life.”
“If you mean he led us into war, yes, he did that. A bloody, dreadful conflict that dragged on for too many years, widowed too many women, and orphaned too many children.”
“A war to keep our nation together.”
Bristol shrugged again. “A war to make some kind of political point?to enforce an ideal that I’m not sure was that important.”
“Then a war to end slavery. Surely you can’t be against that?”
“I never owned a slave, and never wanted to. I’ve never owned a horse, either, but I’m not sure it’s my place to tell my neighbor that he can’t. Certainly not at gunpoint.”
His companion nodded toward the window. “Look out there, David. Do you see what I see? White men and black men, standing in the same line. Feeling the same pain, seeking the same comfort, trying to make sense out of the same loss. You may not have known him?they may not have known him?but every man in this country should feel the loss. President Lincoln was a profoundly good man. Not a perfect man, but a good one, and he did the best he could to do what was right?not just by human standards, I think, but by God’s.”
Bristol looked sideways at him. “You think God told him to start a war that killed so many thousands of men?”
“I think he went to war to do the right thing. And he led us to do the right thing, as a nation. I firmly believe he would not have been able to do this for us, had God not been on his side. In some way, at some level, I think they realize that. But more than that, they just realize that a good man was taken from us, too soon, and that’s reason enough to mourn, don’t you think?”
“What I think, is that you missed your calling, my friend. You should have been a preacher. He was a man, like any other?a politician. He made his decisions, staked out his territory, and defended it as fiercely as any mother bear defends her cubs. Only he used other men, other lives, to defend it.”
“That just goes with the job, David. Some men are born warriors; others are born to lead?to know when?those warriors must fight, and for what.”
“Then I’m afraid we will have to agree to disagree, my friend,” Bristol said, and closed his notebook. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have a deadline to meet, and an editor who will cheerfully disembowel me if I don’t.”
As he left the tavern, he started to turn right, toward the newspaper office?then turned left, and started walking in the direction of the end of the line. He had gone a block or so when a familiar face in the crowd caught his eye. He stopped short, racked his brain for a name, then said, “Mrs. Wallace?”
A woman?plain, middle aged, dressed in gray and black?turned at the sound of her name, then nodded to acknowledge his presence. Her face was drawn, and pale, and thinner than he remembered?but it had been over a year, he thought with a shock. “I’m?well, I’m a little surprised to see you here. When we talked, you were, uh, not feeling very supportive of the President.”
“No, I don’t suppose I was, under the circumstances.” It was as direct a reference as she was liable to make, he thought, to the fact that he had interviewed her after she lost two sons in one battle. She had been stoic, but came across as more than a little bitter, as well, that she had paid such a high price?that the President had indirectly caused so many young men to die in the last few years.
“Then why are you here?”
She sighed, and shook her head. “I had to. After we talked, Mister Bristol, I was very angry. But then, about a week later, I got a letter?a letter from Darrell, my oldest. He wrote it before he?well, before the battle. He talked about how President Lincoln had visited their camp just the day before. And how he had spoken to all of them?and then spoke to as many of them as he could, individually. Darrell had voted for General McClellan, in the election, but after he met the President, he said there was something special about him?something unique?almost saintly.” She paused, her voice starting to crack, then she gathered herself and continued. “Darrell knew, then, that the President was doing what he knew was right?and that he was leading the rest of us in a good fight. And he ended by quoting some Scripture. Are you a man of God, Mister Bristol?”
Bristol just smiled, lying without words.
“Then you might recognize it, it’s from Samuel: “’He that ruleth men must be just, ruling in the fear of God.’ Darrell said that President Lincoln was like that?and that he knew we would win, no matter what happened to him, because the President was just.” She sighed again. “If he could inspire my boy that much?if he could comfort him with the knowledge that he was doing right, even in battle--then I owed him this much, at least, don’t you think?”
Bristol was silent for a moment or two, as he looked toward each end of the endless line of mourners. Then, in the gathering dark, he smiled, and tucked his notebook into his coat pocket. “I think you’re a wise woman, Mrs. Wallace.”
And, together, they waited in line to honor a good man.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
* * *
Facing Limitation
by C. David McKirachan
John 18:33-37
First of all, if you ask me, one of the most important lines in this scripture is verse 38, “Pilate asked him, “What is truth?” So being one who tends to color outside the lines, that’s where I’m going with this.
One of the hardest things for us to acknowledge is limitation. I don’t like to hear that something is beyond my capability or my resources or realize that it is beyond my understanding. And I know I’m not alone. We are taught that any problem has a solution, any issue can be effectively addressed. We grow up watching TV shows that bring mysteries to light, solve crimes, and reconcile relationships in half or hour long shows. We’re taught to address our lack of knowledge with Google, we’re given scientific solutions and explanations to every and all vagaries of life. We’re also taught that to lose is wrong. I think it was Russel Sanders, the legendary football coach said “Winning isn’t the only thing, it’s everything.” So admitting that we aren’t in the know, read that in control means we’ve lost. Hmmmm?.
Such indoctrination comes with a price. Being three dimensional beings, we have limits. And living in the fourth dimension, that is time, we all must face another limit. Yet we fear the fourth and deny the other three. Our bent for technology has put us up against these walls in other ways. We use our ‘devices’ to pack more in to the now, to reach beyond our mental limits, to communicate with millions, and yet we are growing less able to imagine and remember, to compute and keep track, to communicate and relate. And intimacy is buried by tweets.
The discovery of limitation leads us in different directions. Many blame others, some blame themselves, and some won’t play the game. It’s called cynicism. Jean Paul Sartre used as a foundation stone, “Ce n’est rien.” “It’s nothing” or “It means nothing.” Some foundation stone. But such a bleak view of the world and its gifts is not an uncommon reaction to realizing that all of our institutions and efforts are limited at best and corrupt and counterproductive at worst.
Pilate was a pragmatist. He wanted to be effective. This whole thing with Jesus was out of his wheel house. But for all his power and capability he faced in this situation a problem that couldn’t be worked through. The ugliness of fear and unwillingness to claim hope was in charge. He faced his own limitations. He was as tired of this as we get when we face entrenched attitudes, prejudices, and fears. And so he shook his head and mumbled rhetorically, “What is truth?” He might as well have said, “Ce n’est rien.”
Christ is our King not because he gives us solutions to our problems or endings that are comfortable. Christ is our King because he faced the limitations of this world squarely, telling the truth that no one likes to hear. He faced the eighteen wheeler of normality squarely, without fear, knowing the price that he would pay for it. And he relied not on fight, flight, or freeze, not on the automatic knee jerk reactions that are our normal operating procedure. He claimed his authority by never forgetting who he was, by never letting the limitations of what can be seen to deny the power of the spirit that reaches ‘?far beyond our poor power to add or detract.’ And instead of allowing that gulf to crush him, he claimed the spirit as his own.
Add one word to Sartre and you have a whole new universe, a whole new agenda. “Ce n’est pas rien.” “It does not mean nothing.” It means everything because it is in God’s hands. And that it includes us. Thanks be to God.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 22, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.
"A Good Man?" by Keith Hewitt
"Facing Limitation" by C. David McKirachan
A Good Man?
by Keith Hewitt
2 Samuel 23:1-7
The line of “mourners”?David Bristol put quotes around the word in his head?stretched like a snake with neither head nor tail. At the one end, it disappeared into the Capitol building, and from where Bristol and his companion sat, the other end wound off into infinity. His notebook lay on the table in front of him, page half-filled with notes only partially legible in the tavern’s indifferent gaslight; more to the point, a glass and a pint bottle of whiskey sat next to them.
Whiskey was a marvelous thing?to a man in pain, it could be an anaesthetic; to a man who lacked courage, it could be a stimulant; and to a man whose relationship with the truth was, shall we say, troublesome, it could be a marvelous truth serum. Sitting there, on that April night, Bristol was not quite sure which property he sought, or if he only drank it for the tingle on the tongue and the burn in the throat that reminded him he was alive.
“You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve been sitting here, oh?“ he hefted the pint bottle, glanced at its twin?“about a bottle and a half, and I’m still not sure why all these people are here. I mean, seriously, how many of them had ever even seen the President, let alone actually knew him?”
“What do you mean?” his companion asked, equally quietly. Both men had been sitting for some time, watching the slow, shuffling procession of men, women, even children make its way down Constitution Avenue. There had been more silence than conversation, which seemed to befit the moment; outside, on the other side of the window, there was precious little conversation, as well.
There was something unnatural about the quiet?to have this many people gathered together, in relative silence, was unnerving. It was at least part of the reason the two men talked: to fill the void. And the longer he sat, the more Bristol began to recognize that there was a void within, as well?an empty space that had formed in the last few days, like a cavity forming in a block of ice, deep inside and barely visible.
“I mean,” he said, “that when John Everyman dies, he has his family to mourn him, and maybe some friends and neighbors who knew him. Knew him. Here, we have the President of the United States dead, and it seems as though everyone in the District and for miles around is coming to mourn. They didn’t know him; he didn’t know them; why are they here?”
“Why are you here, David?” his companion challenged. “You didn’t know the man. To the best of my knowledge, you didn’t even like him.”
Instinctively, Bristol looked around the tavern, made sure there was no one close enough to hear?there had been incidents where fights had started, men were beaten, because their affinity for the fallen President was questioned. Here, now, they were the only ones in the tavern, other than the bartender who endlessly polished glasses, behind the bar. “I didn’t dislike him,” Bristol answered carefully, “it was only the general dislike I have for anyone in a position of power?generals, editors, wives?Presidents. As you point out, I did not know the man, so I could hardly dislike him personally.”
“Then why are you here, covering this carnival of mourning?”
“My editor sent me. Believe me, I would rather be writing about the hunt for Booth.”
“I see. So it was not through any personal feeling? Any sense of loss?”
Bristol shrugged. “How could it be? I didn’t know him.”
“No?but he still touched your life.”
“If you mean he led us into war, yes, he did that. A bloody, dreadful conflict that dragged on for too many years, widowed too many women, and orphaned too many children.”
“A war to keep our nation together.”
Bristol shrugged again. “A war to make some kind of political point?to enforce an ideal that I’m not sure was that important.”
“Then a war to end slavery. Surely you can’t be against that?”
“I never owned a slave, and never wanted to. I’ve never owned a horse, either, but I’m not sure it’s my place to tell my neighbor that he can’t. Certainly not at gunpoint.”
His companion nodded toward the window. “Look out there, David. Do you see what I see? White men and black men, standing in the same line. Feeling the same pain, seeking the same comfort, trying to make sense out of the same loss. You may not have known him?they may not have known him?but every man in this country should feel the loss. President Lincoln was a profoundly good man. Not a perfect man, but a good one, and he did the best he could to do what was right?not just by human standards, I think, but by God’s.”
Bristol looked sideways at him. “You think God told him to start a war that killed so many thousands of men?”
“I think he went to war to do the right thing. And he led us to do the right thing, as a nation. I firmly believe he would not have been able to do this for us, had God not been on his side. In some way, at some level, I think they realize that. But more than that, they just realize that a good man was taken from us, too soon, and that’s reason enough to mourn, don’t you think?”
“What I think, is that you missed your calling, my friend. You should have been a preacher. He was a man, like any other?a politician. He made his decisions, staked out his territory, and defended it as fiercely as any mother bear defends her cubs. Only he used other men, other lives, to defend it.”
“That just goes with the job, David. Some men are born warriors; others are born to lead?to know when?those warriors must fight, and for what.”
“Then I’m afraid we will have to agree to disagree, my friend,” Bristol said, and closed his notebook. “And now, if you don’t mind, I have a deadline to meet, and an editor who will cheerfully disembowel me if I don’t.”
As he left the tavern, he started to turn right, toward the newspaper office?then turned left, and started walking in the direction of the end of the line. He had gone a block or so when a familiar face in the crowd caught his eye. He stopped short, racked his brain for a name, then said, “Mrs. Wallace?”
A woman?plain, middle aged, dressed in gray and black?turned at the sound of her name, then nodded to acknowledge his presence. Her face was drawn, and pale, and thinner than he remembered?but it had been over a year, he thought with a shock. “I’m?well, I’m a little surprised to see you here. When we talked, you were, uh, not feeling very supportive of the President.”
“No, I don’t suppose I was, under the circumstances.” It was as direct a reference as she was liable to make, he thought, to the fact that he had interviewed her after she lost two sons in one battle. She had been stoic, but came across as more than a little bitter, as well, that she had paid such a high price?that the President had indirectly caused so many young men to die in the last few years.
“Then why are you here?”
She sighed, and shook her head. “I had to. After we talked, Mister Bristol, I was very angry. But then, about a week later, I got a letter?a letter from Darrell, my oldest. He wrote it before he?well, before the battle. He talked about how President Lincoln had visited their camp just the day before. And how he had spoken to all of them?and then spoke to as many of them as he could, individually. Darrell had voted for General McClellan, in the election, but after he met the President, he said there was something special about him?something unique?almost saintly.” She paused, her voice starting to crack, then she gathered herself and continued. “Darrell knew, then, that the President was doing what he knew was right?and that he was leading the rest of us in a good fight. And he ended by quoting some Scripture. Are you a man of God, Mister Bristol?”
Bristol just smiled, lying without words.
“Then you might recognize it, it’s from Samuel: “’He that ruleth men must be just, ruling in the fear of God.’ Darrell said that President Lincoln was like that?and that he knew we would win, no matter what happened to him, because the President was just.” She sighed again. “If he could inspire my boy that much?if he could comfort him with the knowledge that he was doing right, even in battle--then I owed him this much, at least, don’t you think?”
Bristol was silent for a moment or two, as he looked toward each end of the endless line of mourners. Then, in the gathering dark, he smiled, and tucked his notebook into his coat pocket. “I think you’re a wise woman, Mrs. Wallace.”
And, together, they waited in line to honor a good man.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
* * *
Facing Limitation
by C. David McKirachan
John 18:33-37
First of all, if you ask me, one of the most important lines in this scripture is verse 38, “Pilate asked him, “What is truth?” So being one who tends to color outside the lines, that’s where I’m going with this.
One of the hardest things for us to acknowledge is limitation. I don’t like to hear that something is beyond my capability or my resources or realize that it is beyond my understanding. And I know I’m not alone. We are taught that any problem has a solution, any issue can be effectively addressed. We grow up watching TV shows that bring mysteries to light, solve crimes, and reconcile relationships in half or hour long shows. We’re taught to address our lack of knowledge with Google, we’re given scientific solutions and explanations to every and all vagaries of life. We’re also taught that to lose is wrong. I think it was Russel Sanders, the legendary football coach said “Winning isn’t the only thing, it’s everything.” So admitting that we aren’t in the know, read that in control means we’ve lost. Hmmmm?.
Such indoctrination comes with a price. Being three dimensional beings, we have limits. And living in the fourth dimension, that is time, we all must face another limit. Yet we fear the fourth and deny the other three. Our bent for technology has put us up against these walls in other ways. We use our ‘devices’ to pack more in to the now, to reach beyond our mental limits, to communicate with millions, and yet we are growing less able to imagine and remember, to compute and keep track, to communicate and relate. And intimacy is buried by tweets.
The discovery of limitation leads us in different directions. Many blame others, some blame themselves, and some won’t play the game. It’s called cynicism. Jean Paul Sartre used as a foundation stone, “Ce n’est rien.” “It’s nothing” or “It means nothing.” Some foundation stone. But such a bleak view of the world and its gifts is not an uncommon reaction to realizing that all of our institutions and efforts are limited at best and corrupt and counterproductive at worst.
Pilate was a pragmatist. He wanted to be effective. This whole thing with Jesus was out of his wheel house. But for all his power and capability he faced in this situation a problem that couldn’t be worked through. The ugliness of fear and unwillingness to claim hope was in charge. He faced his own limitations. He was as tired of this as we get when we face entrenched attitudes, prejudices, and fears. And so he shook his head and mumbled rhetorically, “What is truth?” He might as well have said, “Ce n’est rien.”
Christ is our King not because he gives us solutions to our problems or endings that are comfortable. Christ is our King because he faced the limitations of this world squarely, telling the truth that no one likes to hear. He faced the eighteen wheeler of normality squarely, without fear, knowing the price that he would pay for it. And he relied not on fight, flight, or freeze, not on the automatic knee jerk reactions that are our normal operating procedure. He claimed his authority by never forgetting who he was, by never letting the limitations of what can be seen to deny the power of the spirit that reaches ‘?far beyond our poor power to add or detract.’ And instead of allowing that gulf to crush him, he claimed the spirit as his own.
Add one word to Sartre and you have a whole new universe, a whole new agenda. “Ce n’est pas rien.” “It does not mean nothing.” It means everything because it is in God’s hands. And that it includes us. Thanks be to God.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 22, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.
