Hearing Things
Stories
Contents
What's Up This Week
A Story to Live By: "God Even Loves Brats" by C. David McKirachan
Good Stories: "Hearing Things" by Stan Purdum
"Love in Action" by Rolf Morck
"Death Row" by Henry Scholberg
Scrap Pile: "Looking into the Face of Eternity" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
When God speaks to us it can be a strange and powerful thing, just as it was for Isaiah in this week's Old Testament reading. Whether it's fleeting but unmistakable, as in Stan Purdum's "Hearing Things" in Good Stories, or an experience that shakes one to the depths of one's soul, as in David McKirachan's "Looking into the Face of Eternity" in the Scrap Pile, the Almighty definitely knows how to get our attention. Our other Good Stories illustrate in very different ways the "eternal life" the Lord offers to those who believe in him. And this week's Story to Live By provides a wry take on the theme of adoption -- since, after all, we've all been adopted by God.
A Story to Live By
God Even Loves Brats
by C. David McKirachan
For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, "Abba! Father!" it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God...
Romans 8:14-16
My sister told me I was adopted. I love her dearly, but that's only after years of psychoanalysis. To tell the truth, I was probably more of a pain to her than she ever was to me. But I remember the moment she told me that. We were having an argument over who got to control the boob tube. She wanted to watch Perry Como (showing my age here). I wanted to watch the development of the B-17 bomber, for the fourth time. I was 5, she was 16. I was the baby. She was the dutiful older sister whose only purpose in life was to please me, or so I thought. This sudden unwillingness to let me have what I wanted was totally unreasonable. My world was rocked.
So we went at it. Not fists, just words. As any good argument will, it escalated. I was precocious with my words, only descending to scatological comparisons after it became clear she wasn't about to buckle. I think she'd been through it with the brat one time too many. She very calmly ended debate with "Oh yeah, well, you're adopted." I remember standing there, fists at my sides, sucking air like a fish. I had a vague idea of what that meant. I wasn't one of the bunch. It startled me and pushed me out of the middle of the altercation. I suddenly had other concerns than B-17s.
At that moment my mother came into the room, took me by the ear, and we went into my father's study, where I knew I'd be spanked. My sister was now piteously objecting to my punishment, saying that the whole thing was her fault. I thought that was kind of weird considering I wasn't her brother.
After I'd been chastised, I said to my mother, "That didn't really matter since I'm adopted." She did a double-take, breathed deep, and said, "There's nothing wrong with being adopted. We've all been adopted by God. So even if you were adopted, which you aren't, you'd still get punished, because you're loved. Go to your room."
My sister got nailed but good for 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).
Good Stories
Hearing Things
by Stan Purdum
The voice of the Lord causes the oaks to whirl, and strips the forest bare; and in his temple all say, "Glory!"
Psalm 29:9
As near as I can remember, I was nine years old when I first heard it.
I was at summer camp, hiking with my cabin mates and our counselor in the woods on a beautiful day. The trail took us to a river, and we followed it downstream to a big waterfall.
Suddenly aware, I turned to Freddie, who was standing next to me staring at the tumbling water. I asked him, "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Freddie shouted over the thunder of the falls.
"Uh... I don't know... something."
"That's the sound of the water, silly."
"No, not that -- something else."
"You're imagining things," Freddie yelled. "How can anybody hear anything well over the racket of the water?" He pointed the index finger of his right hand at the side of his head and whirled it around, making the universal screwball sign.
Nonetheless, I was sure I had heard... whatever it was.
Later that summer I heard it again. I was with my family on vacation at a national park out west. The day was rainy and dreary, and I soon tired of huddling in the crowded camper with my family. My dad suggested that my little sister and I put on our rain gear and go for a walk with him. Mom stayed behind to fix lunch. So we set out. On a nearby path, we came to a great fall of trees, the debris of some earlier windstorm. We three stood looking at the jumble of trunks, branches, and roots when all at once, there it was again. The startled look on my face must have given me away, because my dad looked at me and smiled. "You heard it, didn't you," he said.
"Um, yes. What was it?"
"What was what?" my sister said. "I didn't hear anything."
"It's best if you two figure it out for yourself," Dad said to me.
Well, I didn't figure it out right away, but as it reoccurred from time to time over the next few years I found myself both pleased to have heard it and increasingly awestruck.
But then, as I got into my older teen years I kind of forgot about it, and it didn't seem to occur spontaneously anymore. The couple times I went listening for it, returning to deep forests and great cataracts where I'd heard it before, I had no luck summoning it. After that -- and as things are in a teenager's life -- my hearing became attuned to other things.
Nonetheless, my memory of the sound was awakened when I was in college and taking the required "Bible as Literature" class. Reading assigned scripture passages, I began to recognize several words as names for what I had heard years earlier -- words like Whisper, Shout, Majesty, Roar, Splendor, Law, Conscience, Word, Whirlwind, Thunder, Call, Stillness, and others. None of those words fully named it, but each approximated some part of it. I wasn't hearing it, mind you, but I was reading about it.
So I continued through school. I graduated at the top of my class with a degree that garnered several lucrative job offers for me. While considering them, I went for a week with a volunteer team from my school to an inner-city mission where we helped repair the housing of low-income families and served meals to homeless people.
By midweek, I'd heard it again. It took me by surprise not only because it had been silent so long, but also because the setting didn't seem right. Before, I'd always heard it in beautiful settings -- in wooded glades, beside glorious cascades, on high mountaintops, or while looking at stunning sunsets. But here, amid city noise, the shuffle of the out-of-work, the boisterousness of those who lived to drink, the moans of the sick, the smell of the unwashed -- well, let's just say that was the last place I expected to hear it again.
But there it was. And all I could think to stammer was "Thine is the glory." And then, finally, "Yes."
As a result, suffice it to say, what I then pursued was not one of the offered career opportunities, but a path I had never intended to follow.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
Love in Action
by Rolf Morck
"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life."
John 3:16
Long ago, in the time before time, God was alone. It was not the nature of God to be alone, so God began to think. And as God thought, his thoughts became love and began to race across the void. His thoughts exploded across the emptiness and began to take the form of stars, galaxies, planets, suns and moons, and solar systems. God thought even more, and his thoughts became deeper and closer to his heart, and there came the earth and living things. And God loved it.
But God still felt alone. Suddenly God had a brilliant thought greater than all his other thoughts. Thus, in a great burst of love, God created human beings, male and female. God created them so that they could love him. It seemed so simple, so perfect. When God saw what he had done, a tear of joy came to his eye. God was no longer alone.
So perfect was God's creation, it was a shade of himself. He created people to be like him, so that they would think and create acts of love and caring. And God let them do that, and he stood back to watch. God was proud of what he had thought.
But there was a cost to be paid if love was to be perfect. And one day it happened. Although they did not say it in so many words, the humans God created and loved made it clear that they didn't love and need God anymore. God was concerned, but not terribly alarmed. God watched as his people tried to be like him. They really thought that they could be god themselves. God was no longer happy, and began to feel alone.
God watched as the people thought and acted like him. Sometimes the thoughts would create love and caring, but more often than not, the thoughts would create the opposite -- greed, hatred, envy, jealousy, gluttony, and waste. God watched as humanity's thoughts created not love but war, pollution, injustice, and a lot of death.
As God watched, he felt pain and loneliness. At times, God would become very angry because his creation would not love him. God became frustrated that something so simple and perfect had become such a mess. God felt alone, but it was not the nature of God to be alone, so God began to think.
God thought, if only he were human, he could sit down and talk to his people. If only he could meet them face to face, they would understand and their thoughts would again create love, peace, and harmony, which were the very heart of God. But, God thought, I must go all the way. I must be one of them; be born, feel like they feel, join them in their pain, and show them a better way.
So God thought, and his thought became love, and he was born a human being. God was God, but also human. It was confusing, but if love was to be perfect, a price must be paid. There was much of his creation that was very good. Many times, God did not feel alone. He had friends who loved him, who traveled with him and listened to him. But some were offended by him. Some were shocked. Some were amazed, and some were angry. "You can't be God," they said. "Only God can do the things you do, like forgiving sins and freeing people to love and care." The idea was too dangerous, so they decided that it would be best if God died. God experienced pain and rejection and death. God was alone. But it was not God's nature to be alone, so God began to think, and his thoughts turned to love. His love swallowed up the death that surrounded him, and God, who was life itself, began to live.
There was no longer anything that could separate God from his people. A bridge of love now linked them. Those who saw God as a human being after he became alive loved him. God no longer felt alone. And to make sure no one would forget that God was God, he gave a bit of himself to each one who loved him. Every time the story of God and his love was shared among them, that piece of God would grow. As it grew, people began to think like God. As they thought, their thoughts turned to love and caring.
Therefore God looked down at his creation and rejoiced that many loved him. His thoughts turned to love, and that love, his Spirit, rested upon his people. Wherever his people went, with God's Spirit upon them, their thoughts would turn to love and caring.
So as people shared their love for God, the Spirit brought the very precious essence of God himself. The people began to call that essence faith. As faith grew, more people said, "I believe in God" and "I love God," and their thoughts became loving and caring. As these people told the story of God's love to others who didn't understand, the Spirit brought them faith, God's love in action. And God smiled and was happy, because God was not alone.
Rolf Morck is an ordained pastor serving Evangelical Lutheran Church in America congregations in Wisconsin.
Death Row
by Henry Scholberg
John 3:1-17
"I'm afraid to die," Tony said.
"Death is one of life's great mysteries." The chaplain was philosophical. "No one has come back from death to tell us what it's like."
"What about all those near-death stories? Every one of them tells about someone seeing a bright light and hearing beautiful music. What about those stories, Padre?"
Chaplain Burnes removed his rimless glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was tired and sleepy. It was early in the morning, and the execution was only minutes away. He had been summoned at around midnight and told that the prisoner was asking for him. When the cell door clanked open for him, he found Tony sitting dejectedly on his cot, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.
"What about those stories, Padre?" Tony was asking. "Don't they tell us what death is like?"
"Perhaps they do. They are consistent, aren't they? Always bright lights. Always beautiful music. But we should keep in mind that these are near-death stories, not death stories."
"Do you believe in hell, Padre?"
"Sometimes we create our own hell on earth."
"Answer the question. Don't give me a sermon. Do you believe in hell, the kind murderers like me go to when they die? Eternal fire and Satan stoking the coals and all that?"
"It is hard for me to believe that our God who is love would create such a punishment for his own creations -- whatever their crimes. But I have no trouble with heaven, where God has an eternal home for those who believe in his son."
"I guess that's not for me."
"Don't say that, Tony. You have only to believe."
"What are they saying outside the prison walls? I was told that every time one of us goes up that crowds gather outside the prison walls. They wave banners and signs, and when it's announced that it's over, they let out a big cheer. Is there a crowd like that out there for me?"
"I'd be lying if I said there wasn't. But there are a number of people out there praying for you. They are praying that the governor will grant a last-minute stay of execution."
"My execution has already been stayed four times. Is that cruel and unusual punishment, or what? I could say let's get it over with except for one thing. I'm afraid to die. I'm afraid that I'll act like a coward when I go those last few steps to the chamber."
"There is no need to walk in fear. I will walk with you, and if you'll believe in him, Jesus will walk with you."
The cell door clanged open. The guard said, "It's time."
Tony and Chaplain Burnes walked together down the corridor to his rendezvous. As he was about to enter the chamber, he turned and gave the padre a trace of a smile.
Henry Scholberg was born and spent most of his childhood in India, where his parents were Methodist missionaries for nearly four decades. He served as the director of the University of Minnesota's Ames Library of South Asia at for 25 years. Scholberg is the author of The Golden Bells and In the Time of Trial.
Scrap Pile
Looking into the Face of Eternity
by C. David McKirachan
Isaiah 6:1-8
"Did you ever have a vision?"
Usually this question is a prelude to someone telling me about their own interaction with something outside the realm of "reasonable," whatever that means. The sensible response to that question is "What am I, flypaper for freaks?" But in our business, visions are not to be disdained. Besides, I know how Isaiah felt. I don't like to admit it in public, but between me and thee, I've been there, done that. When the prophet talks about fire and fear and a terrible sense of call, I know of what he speaks.
The terrible thing is that so many people say they wish God would talk to them. They want clear messages so that they don't have doubts or wonders about the whole God thing. My reactions to such wishes are almost desperate. Why would anyone wish for such insanity? How could they desire the terrible experience of facing something that is "other," something that doesn't play by the rules of reason or logic or time or limitation? And worse, that something is focused on you, specifically, like a butterfly being appreciated by a collector. What are you, nuts?
Each time it's happened to me, it's left me shaken and emptied, like a dose of Mr. Plumber to the soul. All my rivets are loose, my seams sprung, my sails shredded. (Just the kind of thing you love to share with a Sunday school class.)
But there's something more weird than that. I treasure these experiences. In spite of the terror and overdose of weird, the focus and purpose of being that is there in the midst of it all confirms and founds my faith in a way that all the nice, reasonable worship and discussion can't. As the apostle said, "I am convinced." Isaiah was scarred and ready to volunteer. What else could he do?
Such experiences are not a necessity for anyone. They don't create a hierarchy of faith. They come to some, kind of like poison ivy. But to each they leave behind a sense of purpose. All of you who have not been gifted in this way, be kind to the fools who have been visited. Their memories are precious. But don't try to make sense of them. Just nod and remember they were once nice people -- now they're weirdos for God.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and e-mail the story to us.
**********************************************
StoryShare, June 11, 2006, issue.
Copyright 2006 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
A Story to Live By: "God Even Loves Brats" by C. David McKirachan
Good Stories: "Hearing Things" by Stan Purdum
"Love in Action" by Rolf Morck
"Death Row" by Henry Scholberg
Scrap Pile: "Looking into the Face of Eternity" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
When God speaks to us it can be a strange and powerful thing, just as it was for Isaiah in this week's Old Testament reading. Whether it's fleeting but unmistakable, as in Stan Purdum's "Hearing Things" in Good Stories, or an experience that shakes one to the depths of one's soul, as in David McKirachan's "Looking into the Face of Eternity" in the Scrap Pile, the Almighty definitely knows how to get our attention. Our other Good Stories illustrate in very different ways the "eternal life" the Lord offers to those who believe in him. And this week's Story to Live By provides a wry take on the theme of adoption -- since, after all, we've all been adopted by God.
A Story to Live By
God Even Loves Brats
by C. David McKirachan
For all who are led by the Spirit of God are children of God. For you did not receive a spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received a spirit of adoption. When we cry, "Abba! Father!" it is that very Spirit bearing witness with our spirit that we are children of God...
Romans 8:14-16
My sister told me I was adopted. I love her dearly, but that's only after years of psychoanalysis. To tell the truth, I was probably more of a pain to her than she ever was to me. But I remember the moment she told me that. We were having an argument over who got to control the boob tube. She wanted to watch Perry Como (showing my age here). I wanted to watch the development of the B-17 bomber, for the fourth time. I was 5, she was 16. I was the baby. She was the dutiful older sister whose only purpose in life was to please me, or so I thought. This sudden unwillingness to let me have what I wanted was totally unreasonable. My world was rocked.
So we went at it. Not fists, just words. As any good argument will, it escalated. I was precocious with my words, only descending to scatological comparisons after it became clear she wasn't about to buckle. I think she'd been through it with the brat one time too many. She very calmly ended debate with "Oh yeah, well, you're adopted." I remember standing there, fists at my sides, sucking air like a fish. I had a vague idea of what that meant. I wasn't one of the bunch. It startled me and pushed me out of the middle of the altercation. I suddenly had other concerns than B-17s.
At that moment my mother came into the room, took me by the ear, and we went into my father's study, where I knew I'd be spanked. My sister was now piteously objecting to my punishment, saying that the whole thing was her fault. I thought that was kind of weird considering I wasn't her brother.
After I'd been chastised, I said to my mother, "That didn't really matter since I'm adopted." She did a double-take, breathed deep, and said, "There's nothing wrong with being adopted. We've all been adopted by God. So even if you were adopted, which you aren't, you'd still get punished, because you're loved. Go to your room."
My sister got nailed but good for 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).
Good Stories
Hearing Things
by Stan Purdum
The voice of the Lord causes the oaks to whirl, and strips the forest bare; and in his temple all say, "Glory!"
Psalm 29:9
As near as I can remember, I was nine years old when I first heard it.
I was at summer camp, hiking with my cabin mates and our counselor in the woods on a beautiful day. The trail took us to a river, and we followed it downstream to a big waterfall.
Suddenly aware, I turned to Freddie, who was standing next to me staring at the tumbling water. I asked him, "Did you hear that?"
"Hear what?" Freddie shouted over the thunder of the falls.
"Uh... I don't know... something."
"That's the sound of the water, silly."
"No, not that -- something else."
"You're imagining things," Freddie yelled. "How can anybody hear anything well over the racket of the water?" He pointed the index finger of his right hand at the side of his head and whirled it around, making the universal screwball sign.
Nonetheless, I was sure I had heard... whatever it was.
Later that summer I heard it again. I was with my family on vacation at a national park out west. The day was rainy and dreary, and I soon tired of huddling in the crowded camper with my family. My dad suggested that my little sister and I put on our rain gear and go for a walk with him. Mom stayed behind to fix lunch. So we set out. On a nearby path, we came to a great fall of trees, the debris of some earlier windstorm. We three stood looking at the jumble of trunks, branches, and roots when all at once, there it was again. The startled look on my face must have given me away, because my dad looked at me and smiled. "You heard it, didn't you," he said.
"Um, yes. What was it?"
"What was what?" my sister said. "I didn't hear anything."
"It's best if you two figure it out for yourself," Dad said to me.
Well, I didn't figure it out right away, but as it reoccurred from time to time over the next few years I found myself both pleased to have heard it and increasingly awestruck.
But then, as I got into my older teen years I kind of forgot about it, and it didn't seem to occur spontaneously anymore. The couple times I went listening for it, returning to deep forests and great cataracts where I'd heard it before, I had no luck summoning it. After that -- and as things are in a teenager's life -- my hearing became attuned to other things.
Nonetheless, my memory of the sound was awakened when I was in college and taking the required "Bible as Literature" class. Reading assigned scripture passages, I began to recognize several words as names for what I had heard years earlier -- words like Whisper, Shout, Majesty, Roar, Splendor, Law, Conscience, Word, Whirlwind, Thunder, Call, Stillness, and others. None of those words fully named it, but each approximated some part of it. I wasn't hearing it, mind you, but I was reading about it.
So I continued through school. I graduated at the top of my class with a degree that garnered several lucrative job offers for me. While considering them, I went for a week with a volunteer team from my school to an inner-city mission where we helped repair the housing of low-income families and served meals to homeless people.
By midweek, I'd heard it again. It took me by surprise not only because it had been silent so long, but also because the setting didn't seem right. Before, I'd always heard it in beautiful settings -- in wooded glades, beside glorious cascades, on high mountaintops, or while looking at stunning sunsets. But here, amid city noise, the shuffle of the out-of-work, the boisterousness of those who lived to drink, the moans of the sick, the smell of the unwashed -- well, let's just say that was the last place I expected to hear it again.
But there it was. And all I could think to stammer was "Thine is the glory." And then, finally, "Yes."
As a result, suffice it to say, what I then pursued was not one of the offered career opportunities, but a path I had never intended to follow.
Stan Purdum is the pastor of Centenary United Methodist Church in Waynesburg, Ohio. He has served as the editor for the preaching journals Emphasis and Homiletics, and he has written extensively for both the religious and secular press. Purdum is the author of New Mercies I See (CSS) and He Walked in Galilee (Abingdon Press), as well as two accounts of his long-distance bicycle journeys, Roll Around Heaven All Day and Playing in Traffic.
Love in Action
by Rolf Morck
"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not perish but may have eternal life."
John 3:16
Long ago, in the time before time, God was alone. It was not the nature of God to be alone, so God began to think. And as God thought, his thoughts became love and began to race across the void. His thoughts exploded across the emptiness and began to take the form of stars, galaxies, planets, suns and moons, and solar systems. God thought even more, and his thoughts became deeper and closer to his heart, and there came the earth and living things. And God loved it.
But God still felt alone. Suddenly God had a brilliant thought greater than all his other thoughts. Thus, in a great burst of love, God created human beings, male and female. God created them so that they could love him. It seemed so simple, so perfect. When God saw what he had done, a tear of joy came to his eye. God was no longer alone.
So perfect was God's creation, it was a shade of himself. He created people to be like him, so that they would think and create acts of love and caring. And God let them do that, and he stood back to watch. God was proud of what he had thought.
But there was a cost to be paid if love was to be perfect. And one day it happened. Although they did not say it in so many words, the humans God created and loved made it clear that they didn't love and need God anymore. God was concerned, but not terribly alarmed. God watched as his people tried to be like him. They really thought that they could be god themselves. God was no longer happy, and began to feel alone.
God watched as the people thought and acted like him. Sometimes the thoughts would create love and caring, but more often than not, the thoughts would create the opposite -- greed, hatred, envy, jealousy, gluttony, and waste. God watched as humanity's thoughts created not love but war, pollution, injustice, and a lot of death.
As God watched, he felt pain and loneliness. At times, God would become very angry because his creation would not love him. God became frustrated that something so simple and perfect had become such a mess. God felt alone, but it was not the nature of God to be alone, so God began to think.
God thought, if only he were human, he could sit down and talk to his people. If only he could meet them face to face, they would understand and their thoughts would again create love, peace, and harmony, which were the very heart of God. But, God thought, I must go all the way. I must be one of them; be born, feel like they feel, join them in their pain, and show them a better way.
So God thought, and his thought became love, and he was born a human being. God was God, but also human. It was confusing, but if love was to be perfect, a price must be paid. There was much of his creation that was very good. Many times, God did not feel alone. He had friends who loved him, who traveled with him and listened to him. But some were offended by him. Some were shocked. Some were amazed, and some were angry. "You can't be God," they said. "Only God can do the things you do, like forgiving sins and freeing people to love and care." The idea was too dangerous, so they decided that it would be best if God died. God experienced pain and rejection and death. God was alone. But it was not God's nature to be alone, so God began to think, and his thoughts turned to love. His love swallowed up the death that surrounded him, and God, who was life itself, began to live.
There was no longer anything that could separate God from his people. A bridge of love now linked them. Those who saw God as a human being after he became alive loved him. God no longer felt alone. And to make sure no one would forget that God was God, he gave a bit of himself to each one who loved him. Every time the story of God and his love was shared among them, that piece of God would grow. As it grew, people began to think like God. As they thought, their thoughts turned to love and caring.
Therefore God looked down at his creation and rejoiced that many loved him. His thoughts turned to love, and that love, his Spirit, rested upon his people. Wherever his people went, with God's Spirit upon them, their thoughts would turn to love and caring.
So as people shared their love for God, the Spirit brought the very precious essence of God himself. The people began to call that essence faith. As faith grew, more people said, "I believe in God" and "I love God," and their thoughts became loving and caring. As these people told the story of God's love to others who didn't understand, the Spirit brought them faith, God's love in action. And God smiled and was happy, because God was not alone.
Rolf Morck is an ordained pastor serving Evangelical Lutheran Church in America congregations in Wisconsin.
Death Row
by Henry Scholberg
John 3:1-17
"I'm afraid to die," Tony said.
"Death is one of life's great mysteries." The chaplain was philosophical. "No one has come back from death to tell us what it's like."
"What about all those near-death stories? Every one of them tells about someone seeing a bright light and hearing beautiful music. What about those stories, Padre?"
Chaplain Burnes removed his rimless glasses and rubbed his eyes. He was tired and sleepy. It was early in the morning, and the execution was only minutes away. He had been summoned at around midnight and told that the prisoner was asking for him. When the cell door clanked open for him, he found Tony sitting dejectedly on his cot, his fists clenched, his knuckles white.
"What about those stories, Padre?" Tony was asking. "Don't they tell us what death is like?"
"Perhaps they do. They are consistent, aren't they? Always bright lights. Always beautiful music. But we should keep in mind that these are near-death stories, not death stories."
"Do you believe in hell, Padre?"
"Sometimes we create our own hell on earth."
"Answer the question. Don't give me a sermon. Do you believe in hell, the kind murderers like me go to when they die? Eternal fire and Satan stoking the coals and all that?"
"It is hard for me to believe that our God who is love would create such a punishment for his own creations -- whatever their crimes. But I have no trouble with heaven, where God has an eternal home for those who believe in his son."
"I guess that's not for me."
"Don't say that, Tony. You have only to believe."
"What are they saying outside the prison walls? I was told that every time one of us goes up that crowds gather outside the prison walls. They wave banners and signs, and when it's announced that it's over, they let out a big cheer. Is there a crowd like that out there for me?"
"I'd be lying if I said there wasn't. But there are a number of people out there praying for you. They are praying that the governor will grant a last-minute stay of execution."
"My execution has already been stayed four times. Is that cruel and unusual punishment, or what? I could say let's get it over with except for one thing. I'm afraid to die. I'm afraid that I'll act like a coward when I go those last few steps to the chamber."
"There is no need to walk in fear. I will walk with you, and if you'll believe in him, Jesus will walk with you."
The cell door clanged open. The guard said, "It's time."
Tony and Chaplain Burnes walked together down the corridor to his rendezvous. As he was about to enter the chamber, he turned and gave the padre a trace of a smile.
Henry Scholberg was born and spent most of his childhood in India, where his parents were Methodist missionaries for nearly four decades. He served as the director of the University of Minnesota's Ames Library of South Asia at for 25 years. Scholberg is the author of The Golden Bells and In the Time of Trial.
Scrap Pile
Looking into the Face of Eternity
by C. David McKirachan
Isaiah 6:1-8
"Did you ever have a vision?"
Usually this question is a prelude to someone telling me about their own interaction with something outside the realm of "reasonable," whatever that means. The sensible response to that question is "What am I, flypaper for freaks?" But in our business, visions are not to be disdained. Besides, I know how Isaiah felt. I don't like to admit it in public, but between me and thee, I've been there, done that. When the prophet talks about fire and fear and a terrible sense of call, I know of what he speaks.
The terrible thing is that so many people say they wish God would talk to them. They want clear messages so that they don't have doubts or wonders about the whole God thing. My reactions to such wishes are almost desperate. Why would anyone wish for such insanity? How could they desire the terrible experience of facing something that is "other," something that doesn't play by the rules of reason or logic or time or limitation? And worse, that something is focused on you, specifically, like a butterfly being appreciated by a collector. What are you, nuts?
Each time it's happened to me, it's left me shaken and emptied, like a dose of Mr. Plumber to the soul. All my rivets are loose, my seams sprung, my sails shredded. (Just the kind of thing you love to share with a Sunday school class.)
But there's something more weird than that. I treasure these experiences. In spite of the terror and overdose of weird, the focus and purpose of being that is there in the midst of it all confirms and founds my faith in a way that all the nice, reasonable worship and discussion can't. As the apostle said, "I am convinced." Isaiah was scarred and ready to volunteer. What else could he do?
Such experiences are not a necessity for anyone. They don't create a hierarchy of faith. They come to some, kind of like poison ivy. But to each they leave behind a sense of purpose. All of you who have not been gifted in this way, be kind to the fools who have been visited. Their memories are precious. But don't try to make sense of them. Just nod and remember they were once nice people -- now they're weirdos for God.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and e-mail the story to us.
**********************************************
StoryShare, June 11, 2006, issue.
Copyright 2006 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.
