Growing Beyond Success
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Growing Beyond Success" by C. David McKirachan
"The Fish" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
Growing Beyond Success
by C. David McKirachan
Jeremiah 23:1-6
When I started this ministry gig, I was ready and willing to alter the laws of gravity, to find a place to stand that I might use the leaver of the gospel to move the world. It took a few years of experiences and brick walls and prayer to realize that the ministry was more like farming than being a knight on a quest. That to everything there is a season. That being faithful was more important than winning when it came to this discipleship thing.
In my middle, productive years as the books label them, I read and worked on technique, how and where to throw the seed, what was the best use of my time, how to motivate the people to whom I had delegated, and how to effectively train them. It was then, in the dim places of my fatigue and frustration, when I'd trip over these warnings by prophets and evangelists to the teachers, guides, and shepherds, that I was convinced I was doomed. They leave little wiggle room, except for those who live on 'd-Nile (little joke there). Jeremiah is only one of these. The Lord's condemnation of teachers, tying mill stones and dropping them in the depths of the sea always got to me. My rush to accomplish through focus and effort and hard work did yield results, most of them having to do with sleepless nights and a deep sense of inadequacy.
The covenants, old and new have no patience for those who use God's name to invoke authority and are not faithful to God's compassion for the little ones. Our grand plans, our neat lessons, our lovely institutions, our inspiring movements, and our efficient administrations are trash when they do not feed the flock and keep it out of the teeth of those who eat the poor for dinner. We are worse than the predators. We are blind guides. Who shall judge? Only Christ... And he died for the least of these. Is there room for them in our schedules?
The good news here is that in my sense of defeat, I was saved by the same love that it is my business to share and proclaim. It spoke to me of the power of the apostles, failures one and all, of the prophets, of the evangelists, of my parents, and all the saints in my life. It reminded me that we do not contend with flesh and blood, but with powers and principalities, including the obsession of our species with control, another word for pride, and its child idolatry. The cloud of witnesses, the faithful in our tradition and in my life all laid down their control, took on humility and became sheep of his pasture. And so, answering the Lord's call to feed his sheep, they had a good idea about the flock's idiosyncrasies, including its idiocies. Thus, they became good shepherds. Evidentially it takes one to know one.
Don't get me wrong, some of this bunch are some of the toughest souls you want to meet. I wouldn't want to be a predator trying to pull a fast one on their watch. I know because I was one of the sheep they protected. And sometimes they had dark and dim times. It's human. But they were faithful to their good shepherd, good days and dark nights. They knew they belonged to him.
There are some good things about this maturity business.
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).
The Fish
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 23:33-43
Take a fish, scoop it out of water, and drop it on dry land, and watch -- it twitches aimlessly, its eyes bug out, and the gill flaps will practically vibrate, at first, as it struggles to strain oxygen from the air, all the while wondering what happened, how it got there...
D1113074 looked like that as he stood in line, clutching a gray, folded wool blanket to his chest as though it were a life preserver, and his ship was about to sink. At some point during the night, he would realize that it already had. That was when the future was decided for fish like him -- some spent the night screaming, others just retreated into their own worlds and never set foot in ours again; still others found a way to gather strength to make it through one night... and then the next day... and the next night... and so on, like putting one foot in front of the other on a million-mile journey.
Shortish, narrow chested, with sallow skin and a meek demeanor, I had him figured for a screamer. Of all the possibilities, this was probably the worst as it just egged on some of the prisoners in the unit and got on the nerves of the others. Sufficiently provoked, these were liable to silence the fish, themselves -- an educational process that usually involved wrapping a blanket around his head and beating him with socks that had been filled with dirt, and then urinated on to make them heavier.
At that, it was probably kinder than what the others did...
All that was ahead of him as he stood in line, clutching the blanket, waiting for roll call to start. I was standing to his right, idly wondering if the unit had organized a pool, yet, and what day I might be able to buy -- D prisoners are a rarity, and the lack of interest the guards show in their welfare figured heavily into their probable life span -- when he looks at me and whispers, "What is your name?"
I ignore him, eyes front, still calculating.
"What is your name?" he repeats.
With a little half-sigh, I glance at him, then point to my chest. "Right here. T03092461." I look at his own chest, then back at his face and say significantly, "Yours is D1113074. That's all you need to remember right now."
"Alex," he said simply, eyes turning to the front. "My name is Alex."
Definitely going to be a screamer, I thought -- too stubborn to let go of reality. "You lost your name when you were convicted of being a dissident," I said simply, trying to reason with him; I'm not sure why. He seemed different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And what I said about losing his name was true -- just as I had lost mine when I was convicted of theft and sent to the work camp.
"What did you do?" he asked quietly and I revised my estimate downward. He had no sense of when to stay quiet, what not to ask. "I was arrested for possessing an unregistered copier, and two Bibles," he added without being asked, as though I might be interested in his spontaneous confession.
I was not.
Over the years, both inside and before, I had found followers of The Way to be earnest, guileless, and utterly uninteresting. They spouted little snippets of writings as though they proved something and were always willing to share their belief with you, even if you didn't want to hear about it. Even before the camp, I had never understood how this savior they talk about could possibly redeem -- or even wish to redeem -- the kinds of people I saw around me... the kind of person I was. Four, almost five years in the camp had not mitigated those feelings.
Human beings are a dark and twisted breed, and no loving God in his right mind would want anything to do with them. It had to be fantasy. I had thought about it often, lately, flirted with the idea -- there had been half a dozen religious dissidents passing through camp in the last year -- but had always run aground on the reef of reason. No one would make that kind of sacrifice for creatures like us.
"Hey, your god is some kind of magician, right?" a voice hissed to my left -- the prisoner on the other side D1113074... M0211023. A miserable waste of skin who was said to have killed at least three people, one of them for breaking wind on the seat next to him on the bus. Or so the story went. "Isn't that right, fish? Some kind of miracle worker?"
The prisoner hesitated, then nodded slowly, eyes moving rapidly from side to side, as though he was trying to think quickly. "The Father is all-powerful," he agreed, finally. In the background, down at the other end of the yard, the guards were counting and recounting the ranked prisoners, slowly working their way toward us.
"Then why doesn't he pull us out of here, eh? Give us all wings or something. Or make all the guards disappear." He snickered, to show that it wasn't a serious question.
"God is not about performing miracles just because we need something," the fish answered. "God's miracles are given as blessings to us, to serve a higher purpose."
"What higher purpose could there be than getting us the hell out of here?" the other prisoner asked gruffly. "It's been two years -- I got a wife and a girlfriend that need to be --"
"God doesn't work that way," D1113074 interrupted, "What's important isn't for us to break out of here physically, but to break the chains of sin that bind us to our old lives. If we turn to the Son, ask to be saved and repent our sins --"
M0211203 snorted and waved a disgusted hand. "I got too many sins left in me to give 'em up now. You just tell your god to get me out of here, and I'll be glad to show you. Might learn a thing or two, fish."
"Leave the kid alone," I hissed, "he didn't do anything to you, 203. Just leave him be. You wouldn't want to bust everyone out of here -- can you imagine what that would be like, all of us running around out there? We're here for a reason." That didn't mean that I didn't dream of freedom, but my dreams didn't include having the likes of M0211203 around, as well.
Another snort. "Yeah, 'cause we got caught." He cast a sideways look at the fish, and added, "I think we've got some fun ahead of us. Hope you got some sleep on the bus, fish."
There was fear in the new prisoner's eyes, then, and after a moment or two I found enough pity inside me to speak. "Don't worry about him, 074. You just think about that god of yours -- I heard one of you say once that he can get you through anything."
The fish licked his lips, and nodded. "That's true."
"Then he can get you through this. You talk to him, right? What do you call it -- praying?"
Another nod.
"Then pray. And if you have a spare minute, pray for me too." That would give him something to occupy himself -- these followers of The Way seemed to love praying for other people. It was part of the whole self-sacrifice thing their Son had taught them... not that I believed any of it. Like I said, who would sacrifice himself for creatures like us?
I saw him look at me, then, and I could see that something I said had taken his mind to a different place. Good, I thought -- and then suddenly a voice cut through my thoughts -- a crackle that sliced through the yard like lightning. "Who's talking in the ranks?" the voice demanded.
There was silence, now, as all eyes snapped forward.
The only sound was the wind, sighing softly as it swept through the streets that separated the units and crept into the yard; somewhere in the distance a bird chattered, and somewhere further still, a car door slammed and a voice shouted faintly, on the other side of the wire.
I waited, heart pounding, for what I knew would happen next. There would be more questions, and then the guards would start selecting prisoners at random to administer beatings until the Watch Officer was satisfied that we had learned our lesson. Sometimes prisoners died, sometimes not -- it was a matter of fate, as administered by the fists and boots of the guards.
I was pondering this when there was a stirring beside me, and the fish raised his hand. "It was me."
I tried not to look but had to turn my eyes, at least, and look at him in horror.
"It was me what?" the officer demanded.
"It was me, sir," the fish replied dutifully.
"Front and center," the officer growled, and the fish made his way forward until grabbed by two guards, one gripping each arm. They dragged him in front of the Watch Officer and stood, the fish sagging slightly. "And what were you talking about?" the Watch Officer demanded.
"Oh, just talking about God, sir. And his Son."
"I see," he said, and stared at the number on his chest, tapped it with a finger. "You're one of those are you? A religious fanatic. This god of yours died on a cross or something, didn't he?"
He licked his lips, nodded, trembling. "The Son of God did. Yes, sir."
"Seems a pity then. No cross for you, D1113074." He accentuated the D, and then each number, then nodded to the guards. Their work with fists and boots was joined, when they grew tired, by two trustees wielding shovels, fetched from the latrine; it did not end until what was left before the frozen ranks was scarcely recognizable as a human being, let alone a particular person.
But here's the odd thing... as I watched, I got the answer to my question: I now knew what kind of man would sacrifice himself for a creature like me.
And though it hurt... it gave me hope.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 24, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
"Growing Beyond Success" by C. David McKirachan
"The Fish" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
Growing Beyond Success
by C. David McKirachan
Jeremiah 23:1-6
When I started this ministry gig, I was ready and willing to alter the laws of gravity, to find a place to stand that I might use the leaver of the gospel to move the world. It took a few years of experiences and brick walls and prayer to realize that the ministry was more like farming than being a knight on a quest. That to everything there is a season. That being faithful was more important than winning when it came to this discipleship thing.
In my middle, productive years as the books label them, I read and worked on technique, how and where to throw the seed, what was the best use of my time, how to motivate the people to whom I had delegated, and how to effectively train them. It was then, in the dim places of my fatigue and frustration, when I'd trip over these warnings by prophets and evangelists to the teachers, guides, and shepherds, that I was convinced I was doomed. They leave little wiggle room, except for those who live on 'd-Nile (little joke there). Jeremiah is only one of these. The Lord's condemnation of teachers, tying mill stones and dropping them in the depths of the sea always got to me. My rush to accomplish through focus and effort and hard work did yield results, most of them having to do with sleepless nights and a deep sense of inadequacy.
The covenants, old and new have no patience for those who use God's name to invoke authority and are not faithful to God's compassion for the little ones. Our grand plans, our neat lessons, our lovely institutions, our inspiring movements, and our efficient administrations are trash when they do not feed the flock and keep it out of the teeth of those who eat the poor for dinner. We are worse than the predators. We are blind guides. Who shall judge? Only Christ... And he died for the least of these. Is there room for them in our schedules?
The good news here is that in my sense of defeat, I was saved by the same love that it is my business to share and proclaim. It spoke to me of the power of the apostles, failures one and all, of the prophets, of the evangelists, of my parents, and all the saints in my life. It reminded me that we do not contend with flesh and blood, but with powers and principalities, including the obsession of our species with control, another word for pride, and its child idolatry. The cloud of witnesses, the faithful in our tradition and in my life all laid down their control, took on humility and became sheep of his pasture. And so, answering the Lord's call to feed his sheep, they had a good idea about the flock's idiosyncrasies, including its idiocies. Thus, they became good shepherds. Evidentially it takes one to know one.
Don't get me wrong, some of this bunch are some of the toughest souls you want to meet. I wouldn't want to be a predator trying to pull a fast one on their watch. I know because I was one of the sheep they protected. And sometimes they had dark and dim times. It's human. But they were faithful to their good shepherd, good days and dark nights. They knew they belonged to him.
There are some good things about this maturity business.
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).
The Fish
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 23:33-43
Take a fish, scoop it out of water, and drop it on dry land, and watch -- it twitches aimlessly, its eyes bug out, and the gill flaps will practically vibrate, at first, as it struggles to strain oxygen from the air, all the while wondering what happened, how it got there...
D1113074 looked like that as he stood in line, clutching a gray, folded wool blanket to his chest as though it were a life preserver, and his ship was about to sink. At some point during the night, he would realize that it already had. That was when the future was decided for fish like him -- some spent the night screaming, others just retreated into their own worlds and never set foot in ours again; still others found a way to gather strength to make it through one night... and then the next day... and the next night... and so on, like putting one foot in front of the other on a million-mile journey.
Shortish, narrow chested, with sallow skin and a meek demeanor, I had him figured for a screamer. Of all the possibilities, this was probably the worst as it just egged on some of the prisoners in the unit and got on the nerves of the others. Sufficiently provoked, these were liable to silence the fish, themselves -- an educational process that usually involved wrapping a blanket around his head and beating him with socks that had been filled with dirt, and then urinated on to make them heavier.
At that, it was probably kinder than what the others did...
All that was ahead of him as he stood in line, clutching the blanket, waiting for roll call to start. I was standing to his right, idly wondering if the unit had organized a pool, yet, and what day I might be able to buy -- D prisoners are a rarity, and the lack of interest the guards show in their welfare figured heavily into their probable life span -- when he looks at me and whispers, "What is your name?"
I ignore him, eyes front, still calculating.
"What is your name?" he repeats.
With a little half-sigh, I glance at him, then point to my chest. "Right here. T03092461." I look at his own chest, then back at his face and say significantly, "Yours is D1113074. That's all you need to remember right now."
"Alex," he said simply, eyes turning to the front. "My name is Alex."
Definitely going to be a screamer, I thought -- too stubborn to let go of reality. "You lost your name when you were convicted of being a dissident," I said simply, trying to reason with him; I'm not sure why. He seemed different and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. And what I said about losing his name was true -- just as I had lost mine when I was convicted of theft and sent to the work camp.
"What did you do?" he asked quietly and I revised my estimate downward. He had no sense of when to stay quiet, what not to ask. "I was arrested for possessing an unregistered copier, and two Bibles," he added without being asked, as though I might be interested in his spontaneous confession.
I was not.
Over the years, both inside and before, I had found followers of The Way to be earnest, guileless, and utterly uninteresting. They spouted little snippets of writings as though they proved something and were always willing to share their belief with you, even if you didn't want to hear about it. Even before the camp, I had never understood how this savior they talk about could possibly redeem -- or even wish to redeem -- the kinds of people I saw around me... the kind of person I was. Four, almost five years in the camp had not mitigated those feelings.
Human beings are a dark and twisted breed, and no loving God in his right mind would want anything to do with them. It had to be fantasy. I had thought about it often, lately, flirted with the idea -- there had been half a dozen religious dissidents passing through camp in the last year -- but had always run aground on the reef of reason. No one would make that kind of sacrifice for creatures like us.
"Hey, your god is some kind of magician, right?" a voice hissed to my left -- the prisoner on the other side D1113074... M0211023. A miserable waste of skin who was said to have killed at least three people, one of them for breaking wind on the seat next to him on the bus. Or so the story went. "Isn't that right, fish? Some kind of miracle worker?"
The prisoner hesitated, then nodded slowly, eyes moving rapidly from side to side, as though he was trying to think quickly. "The Father is all-powerful," he agreed, finally. In the background, down at the other end of the yard, the guards were counting and recounting the ranked prisoners, slowly working their way toward us.
"Then why doesn't he pull us out of here, eh? Give us all wings or something. Or make all the guards disappear." He snickered, to show that it wasn't a serious question.
"God is not about performing miracles just because we need something," the fish answered. "God's miracles are given as blessings to us, to serve a higher purpose."
"What higher purpose could there be than getting us the hell out of here?" the other prisoner asked gruffly. "It's been two years -- I got a wife and a girlfriend that need to be --"
"God doesn't work that way," D1113074 interrupted, "What's important isn't for us to break out of here physically, but to break the chains of sin that bind us to our old lives. If we turn to the Son, ask to be saved and repent our sins --"
M0211203 snorted and waved a disgusted hand. "I got too many sins left in me to give 'em up now. You just tell your god to get me out of here, and I'll be glad to show you. Might learn a thing or two, fish."
"Leave the kid alone," I hissed, "he didn't do anything to you, 203. Just leave him be. You wouldn't want to bust everyone out of here -- can you imagine what that would be like, all of us running around out there? We're here for a reason." That didn't mean that I didn't dream of freedom, but my dreams didn't include having the likes of M0211203 around, as well.
Another snort. "Yeah, 'cause we got caught." He cast a sideways look at the fish, and added, "I think we've got some fun ahead of us. Hope you got some sleep on the bus, fish."
There was fear in the new prisoner's eyes, then, and after a moment or two I found enough pity inside me to speak. "Don't worry about him, 074. You just think about that god of yours -- I heard one of you say once that he can get you through anything."
The fish licked his lips, and nodded. "That's true."
"Then he can get you through this. You talk to him, right? What do you call it -- praying?"
Another nod.
"Then pray. And if you have a spare minute, pray for me too." That would give him something to occupy himself -- these followers of The Way seemed to love praying for other people. It was part of the whole self-sacrifice thing their Son had taught them... not that I believed any of it. Like I said, who would sacrifice himself for creatures like us?
I saw him look at me, then, and I could see that something I said had taken his mind to a different place. Good, I thought -- and then suddenly a voice cut through my thoughts -- a crackle that sliced through the yard like lightning. "Who's talking in the ranks?" the voice demanded.
There was silence, now, as all eyes snapped forward.
The only sound was the wind, sighing softly as it swept through the streets that separated the units and crept into the yard; somewhere in the distance a bird chattered, and somewhere further still, a car door slammed and a voice shouted faintly, on the other side of the wire.
I waited, heart pounding, for what I knew would happen next. There would be more questions, and then the guards would start selecting prisoners at random to administer beatings until the Watch Officer was satisfied that we had learned our lesson. Sometimes prisoners died, sometimes not -- it was a matter of fate, as administered by the fists and boots of the guards.
I was pondering this when there was a stirring beside me, and the fish raised his hand. "It was me."
I tried not to look but had to turn my eyes, at least, and look at him in horror.
"It was me what?" the officer demanded.
"It was me, sir," the fish replied dutifully.
"Front and center," the officer growled, and the fish made his way forward until grabbed by two guards, one gripping each arm. They dragged him in front of the Watch Officer and stood, the fish sagging slightly. "And what were you talking about?" the Watch Officer demanded.
"Oh, just talking about God, sir. And his Son."
"I see," he said, and stared at the number on his chest, tapped it with a finger. "You're one of those are you? A religious fanatic. This god of yours died on a cross or something, didn't he?"
He licked his lips, nodded, trembling. "The Son of God did. Yes, sir."
"Seems a pity then. No cross for you, D1113074." He accentuated the D, and then each number, then nodded to the guards. Their work with fists and boots was joined, when they grew tired, by two trustees wielding shovels, fetched from the latrine; it did not end until what was left before the frozen ranks was scarcely recognizable as a human being, let alone a particular person.
But here's the odd thing... as I watched, I got the answer to my question: I now knew what kind of man would sacrifice himself for a creature like me.
And though it hurt... it gave me hope.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 24, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
