This The Judgment Of God?
Stories
Object:
Contents
"This the Judgment of God?" by Sandra Herrmann
"This Side of Dog Heaven" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * *
This the Judgment of God?
by Sandra Herrmann
Amos 8:1-12
Tsunami. It means "harbor wave" in Japanese. The Japanese live on the "Ring of Fire," a ring that we can draw essentially around the entire Pacific rim. Anchorage, Alaska, is on that ring, as are San Francisco, Monterrey, and Los Angeles. The ring takes a swerve to the west as it dives down the edge of Asia, so that all of the islands of Indonesia are included. All of these places are subject to frequent earthquakes, from tremblers that are unfelt by humans (but which can chase earthworms up out of the ground) up to the 9.2 earthquake in the Indian Ocean on December 26, 2004.
The sun comes up at 6:00 AM in Sumatra. Every day, at the same time, the sun rises over the eastern horizon, because the equator bisects the island of Sumatra. Banda Aceh was a city of 219,070 on the northern tip of the island, right across the Malucca Strait from Phuket, Malaysia. Although there are mountains -- volcanoes, of course -- that run the length of Sumatra, Banda Aceh is just 35 feet above the Indian Ocean. When the sun comes up, the temperature is about 75 degrees. Later, it will go up to 85 or 90, even in the mountains, and the humidity will go up to 80% or higher. But no one cares, down by the ocean, because there is a constant breeze, which makes the heat and humidity bearable.
On December 26th, the sun rose over a calm sea. The resorts along the coast were full, because of the Christmas holiday. Whole families were sleeping under mosquito netting in cottages that were built in the traditional Sumatran design, with wave-like slopes to the roofs, while others were sleeping in VIP lodgings with tiled baths. The morning was no different from any other, until nearly 7:00 AM, when an earthquake hit under the Indian Ocean. It was one of the worst earthquakes in modern times. But that was the least of it.
About 8:45 that morning, the ocean suddenly withdrew from the beaches. It looked like a low tide, except that the water withdrew much more rapidly than an ebb tide, and it went out much further. There were many people on the beach, even at this early hour, and some of them saw an opportunity to feed their families without money, and started gathering up fish that were stranded on the shore. But a few others realized that something their grandmothers had told them was happening: the outgoing wave was a predecessor of a tidal wave. They shouted to the people on the beach and then started to run.
There are stories about a couple of elephants, used to give rides to tourists, breaking loose from their tethers and racing toward higher ground. There were other animals too that ran for the hills, some of them making every effort to get their owners to go with them. But 167,000 people died that day, swept up in the tsunami, battered by debris, lost in the sea, or washed up against the hills. Thousands of others were injured, and Banda Aceh was nearly destroyed.
Many of those thousands were workers in the resorts that catered to foreign tourists. Many of those thousands were the tourists who were catered to. Rich and poor, kindly and nasty, Islamic and Christian, atheist and Hindu, all faiths or faithless, were swept up in the waves and died. Houses, hotels, places of worship, jungle and plantation lands all were scrubbed down to a sea of mud. Bodies were everywhere, and the stench of mud and decaying flesh were overwhelming said the rescue workers when they arrived.
Banda Aceh was the hardest hit city on the Indian Ocean, but there were many others, even as far away as the eastern coast of Africa, that were likewise utterly destroyed. It took weeks to be certain of the total number of lives lost, because some people simply disappeared, and it was only when relief workers were fairly certain that they had found and identified all who had survived that the total loss could be assessed: 275,000 men, women, and children.
There was a widespread belief that the tsunami was divine in origin. Some people tried to say that a group of Christians, denied permission to worship on Christmas, had gone up to a high place to worship together and were thus spared the fate of those on lower ground, but Snopes.com has done the research, and there is no evidence any such event took place. A huge mosque, built by the Dutch for the Muslims who dominate the area, was spared, and this also has been held up as a sign of the favor of God. But neither of those stories can be proven, nor can the deaths or survival of any one person or group be taken as signs of the favor or anger of God toward those people.
Even so, this event can be laid against the words of Amos and some amazing parallels will be found there. If there is anything to be learned from those parallels, it is that whether we are rich or poor, privileged or underprivileged, powerful or powerless, none can stand against such disastrous events. And it is not the arrogant who last or succeed.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
This Side of Dog Heaven
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 52
The righteous will see and fear, and will laugh at the evildoer, saying, "See the one who would not take refuge in God, but trusted in abundant riches, and sought refuge in wealth!" But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God. I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever.
-- Psalm 52:6-8
It isn't quite dog heaven where we live, but it is as close to it as you are apt to get this side of Disney World. Our eight-year-old West Highland Terrier, a snow white Scottish breed, bred to sniff out and destroy varmints, is treated like a member of the family. I received a Father's Day card from our resident varmint hunter with the caption, "From the Dog," below a picture of a generic dog.
This was followed by the requisite clever line: "Who's a good Dad? You are! Yes, you are! Oh, look at him... He such a good Dad! Yes, he is."
Who knew a dog could do that? And, when does she have time? This is the dog, who, having taken early retirement (there being no varmints to search out and destroy in our pristine suburban house with granite counter tops) now sleeps nineteen hours a day on my spot on the couch. Our little Westie is one smart dog.
Although a laggard in almost every way, our varmint exterminator emeritus does serve one useful purpose. Dogs are social currency in our neighborhood. Almost everyone has a dog, so dog walking, and all that it entails is not only a health and hygienic necessity, it is the social hour for both dogs and their homo sapien over-seers.
Canine etiquette requires dogs to stop and sniff, and allow themselves to be sniffed, by every dog that comes up the well-traveled concrete poop trails that wind around our houses. While the dogs exchange pleasantries, the humans are forced to do likewise, even when attired in bathrobe and slippers and hair rollers.
The conversations usually go something like this: "What a pretty dog! What kind of dog is it? Oh, a South African Tiger Spaniel Hound. How interesting. You say they are bred for running down tigers and lions and bears. Oh My! And they catch sharks too? Of course, that would be the spaniel in them.
Our dog? She was bred to kill rats around barns and on merchant ships. If you ever see rats leaving a sinking ship you may be sure there is an intrepid terrier not far behind.
When the pedigree talk is exhausted the next question is always, "How old is your dog? Seventeen -- really? That's quite old for a dog. How much would that be in people years?"
It can go on like that forever, or until, "Oh, my gosh, gotta run. I'm going to be late for work again."
This was pretty much the routine until a new breed of dog walker moved into the neighborhood. Some said he was in witness protection, or that he had moved there to get away from an ex-wife who was after him for alimony. No one could ever say for sure.
What everyone did soon discover was that the new guy did, indeed, have a dog -- a very nice, fluffy cock-a-poo puppy -- as friendly a little dog as you would ever want to meet, unlike her master, who was as cross a man as you had ever met in your life.
This man, from no one knew where, eschewed all dog walking protocol. If he had ever known the proper way to walk a dog he had long since forgotten, or as the community consensus became, chose to be a contrarian. He would pass other dog walking duos with nary a nod of recognition, ignoring the crucial neighborhood diplomacy, upon which depends the otherwise fragile social fabric of all suburban creatures "... of our God and king."
This cool reserve, a serious threat to neighborhood harmony, the Bible and the constitution of these United States of America, was soon challenged by the fiercest protectors of civil unity in our arsenal, Mildred Rumsted, the pie lady, and her Russian Wolf Hounds.
She had two of these horse-sized dogs, and yes, she was the undisputed pie champion. She was the first person at the door of every new resident with a steaming hot apple pie in tow. No one could resist Mildred's homemade pies, made from a recipe handed down in the Rumsted family for generations. Besides, resistance was futile in the presence of two large drool-producing wolf hounds.
The pie delivery with the new neighbor apparently went well. Mildred told everyone that the new guy seemed nice, though kind of a quiet sort. But this positive first impression was not to last. During his first leash and collar social hour the new dog walker committed an egregious social faux "paw"... he refused to stop and dog chat.
Soon word about the flagrant flaunter of sacred social norms was all around the block and up the side streets. A cold front descended on dog heaven. Everyone feared that this impertinent coolness might somehow spread virally to other fronts. Imagine if no one stopped for neighborly visits in the grocery store or on city dump day.
It was then that Mildred and her trained canine corps went into action. It was early one morning, as the miscreant neighbor hit the pavement with his cock-a-poo and pooper scooper that the material for which the scooper was intended hit the fan.
The unsuspecting scoff laws were barely out of the driveway when they encountered Mildred and the wolf pack --- and attempted to pass them without pausing for even the barest minimum of social amenities.
Mildred's troop stepped directly in front of them and Mildred cried halt! Puppy and leash holder stopped abruptly as commanded. Mildred flashed her best women's club smile and proceeded to not too subtly instruct the newcomers in the niceties of dog chatting.
The hounds sat down, knowing from long experience that this was going to take a while. The inquisition began with queries about job and family history, basic dog knowledge, veterinary experiences, the best heart worm, flea and tick medicines, and marital status.
Mildred learned that the new neighbor was recently widowed, in fact, that his wife of forty years had been killed in an auto accident as they were moving cross country to their new home in our neighborhood. He said that he was lost without her, barely able to function, his one salvation being the cock-a-poo puppy that his late wife had given him for his birthday.
Grace poured into Mildred's heart. All dog walking sins were forgotten. Mildred yanked at the wolf hound leashes and taking the new widower by the arm, said, "Come with me." She led him to her back door and into the kitchen.
As soon as the coffee was perking and scones, fresh from the bakery that morning, were laid out on the table, Mildred picked up the phone and called the nearest neighbor. Without explanation she directed her to call as many dog-walking regulars as she could reach and to have them come over immediately.
Mildred's kitchen filled rapidly with the warm aroma of fresh coffee and a host of puzzled neighbors. She explained that their new friend had just lost his wife and was without the comfort of kin and community.
It goes without saying that the whole neighborhood threw their collective arms around the widower. There were invitations to dinner. Someone took him to church on Sunday and choir practice on Wednesday night. Within a few years he and Mildred were married and she him got him a Chihuahua puppy as a wedding present, but that's another story...
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
*****************************************
StoryShare, July 21, 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.
"This the Judgment of God?" by Sandra Herrmann
"This Side of Dog Heaven" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * *
This the Judgment of God?
by Sandra Herrmann
Amos 8:1-12
Tsunami. It means "harbor wave" in Japanese. The Japanese live on the "Ring of Fire," a ring that we can draw essentially around the entire Pacific rim. Anchorage, Alaska, is on that ring, as are San Francisco, Monterrey, and Los Angeles. The ring takes a swerve to the west as it dives down the edge of Asia, so that all of the islands of Indonesia are included. All of these places are subject to frequent earthquakes, from tremblers that are unfelt by humans (but which can chase earthworms up out of the ground) up to the 9.2 earthquake in the Indian Ocean on December 26, 2004.
The sun comes up at 6:00 AM in Sumatra. Every day, at the same time, the sun rises over the eastern horizon, because the equator bisects the island of Sumatra. Banda Aceh was a city of 219,070 on the northern tip of the island, right across the Malucca Strait from Phuket, Malaysia. Although there are mountains -- volcanoes, of course -- that run the length of Sumatra, Banda Aceh is just 35 feet above the Indian Ocean. When the sun comes up, the temperature is about 75 degrees. Later, it will go up to 85 or 90, even in the mountains, and the humidity will go up to 80% or higher. But no one cares, down by the ocean, because there is a constant breeze, which makes the heat and humidity bearable.
On December 26th, the sun rose over a calm sea. The resorts along the coast were full, because of the Christmas holiday. Whole families were sleeping under mosquito netting in cottages that were built in the traditional Sumatran design, with wave-like slopes to the roofs, while others were sleeping in VIP lodgings with tiled baths. The morning was no different from any other, until nearly 7:00 AM, when an earthquake hit under the Indian Ocean. It was one of the worst earthquakes in modern times. But that was the least of it.
About 8:45 that morning, the ocean suddenly withdrew from the beaches. It looked like a low tide, except that the water withdrew much more rapidly than an ebb tide, and it went out much further. There were many people on the beach, even at this early hour, and some of them saw an opportunity to feed their families without money, and started gathering up fish that were stranded on the shore. But a few others realized that something their grandmothers had told them was happening: the outgoing wave was a predecessor of a tidal wave. They shouted to the people on the beach and then started to run.
There are stories about a couple of elephants, used to give rides to tourists, breaking loose from their tethers and racing toward higher ground. There were other animals too that ran for the hills, some of them making every effort to get their owners to go with them. But 167,000 people died that day, swept up in the tsunami, battered by debris, lost in the sea, or washed up against the hills. Thousands of others were injured, and Banda Aceh was nearly destroyed.
Many of those thousands were workers in the resorts that catered to foreign tourists. Many of those thousands were the tourists who were catered to. Rich and poor, kindly and nasty, Islamic and Christian, atheist and Hindu, all faiths or faithless, were swept up in the waves and died. Houses, hotels, places of worship, jungle and plantation lands all were scrubbed down to a sea of mud. Bodies were everywhere, and the stench of mud and decaying flesh were overwhelming said the rescue workers when they arrived.
Banda Aceh was the hardest hit city on the Indian Ocean, but there were many others, even as far away as the eastern coast of Africa, that were likewise utterly destroyed. It took weeks to be certain of the total number of lives lost, because some people simply disappeared, and it was only when relief workers were fairly certain that they had found and identified all who had survived that the total loss could be assessed: 275,000 men, women, and children.
There was a widespread belief that the tsunami was divine in origin. Some people tried to say that a group of Christians, denied permission to worship on Christmas, had gone up to a high place to worship together and were thus spared the fate of those on lower ground, but Snopes.com has done the research, and there is no evidence any such event took place. A huge mosque, built by the Dutch for the Muslims who dominate the area, was spared, and this also has been held up as a sign of the favor of God. But neither of those stories can be proven, nor can the deaths or survival of any one person or group be taken as signs of the favor or anger of God toward those people.
Even so, this event can be laid against the words of Amos and some amazing parallels will be found there. If there is anything to be learned from those parallels, it is that whether we are rich or poor, privileged or underprivileged, powerful or powerless, none can stand against such disastrous events. And it is not the arrogant who last or succeed.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
This Side of Dog Heaven
by John Sumwalt
Psalm 52
The righteous will see and fear, and will laugh at the evildoer, saying, "See the one who would not take refuge in God, but trusted in abundant riches, and sought refuge in wealth!" But I am like a green olive tree in the house of God. I trust in the steadfast love of God forever and ever.
-- Psalm 52:6-8
It isn't quite dog heaven where we live, but it is as close to it as you are apt to get this side of Disney World. Our eight-year-old West Highland Terrier, a snow white Scottish breed, bred to sniff out and destroy varmints, is treated like a member of the family. I received a Father's Day card from our resident varmint hunter with the caption, "From the Dog," below a picture of a generic dog.
This was followed by the requisite clever line: "Who's a good Dad? You are! Yes, you are! Oh, look at him... He such a good Dad! Yes, he is."
Who knew a dog could do that? And, when does she have time? This is the dog, who, having taken early retirement (there being no varmints to search out and destroy in our pristine suburban house with granite counter tops) now sleeps nineteen hours a day on my spot on the couch. Our little Westie is one smart dog.
Although a laggard in almost every way, our varmint exterminator emeritus does serve one useful purpose. Dogs are social currency in our neighborhood. Almost everyone has a dog, so dog walking, and all that it entails is not only a health and hygienic necessity, it is the social hour for both dogs and their homo sapien over-seers.
Canine etiquette requires dogs to stop and sniff, and allow themselves to be sniffed, by every dog that comes up the well-traveled concrete poop trails that wind around our houses. While the dogs exchange pleasantries, the humans are forced to do likewise, even when attired in bathrobe and slippers and hair rollers.
The conversations usually go something like this: "What a pretty dog! What kind of dog is it? Oh, a South African Tiger Spaniel Hound. How interesting. You say they are bred for running down tigers and lions and bears. Oh My! And they catch sharks too? Of course, that would be the spaniel in them.
Our dog? She was bred to kill rats around barns and on merchant ships. If you ever see rats leaving a sinking ship you may be sure there is an intrepid terrier not far behind.
When the pedigree talk is exhausted the next question is always, "How old is your dog? Seventeen -- really? That's quite old for a dog. How much would that be in people years?"
It can go on like that forever, or until, "Oh, my gosh, gotta run. I'm going to be late for work again."
This was pretty much the routine until a new breed of dog walker moved into the neighborhood. Some said he was in witness protection, or that he had moved there to get away from an ex-wife who was after him for alimony. No one could ever say for sure.
What everyone did soon discover was that the new guy did, indeed, have a dog -- a very nice, fluffy cock-a-poo puppy -- as friendly a little dog as you would ever want to meet, unlike her master, who was as cross a man as you had ever met in your life.
This man, from no one knew where, eschewed all dog walking protocol. If he had ever known the proper way to walk a dog he had long since forgotten, or as the community consensus became, chose to be a contrarian. He would pass other dog walking duos with nary a nod of recognition, ignoring the crucial neighborhood diplomacy, upon which depends the otherwise fragile social fabric of all suburban creatures "... of our God and king."
This cool reserve, a serious threat to neighborhood harmony, the Bible and the constitution of these United States of America, was soon challenged by the fiercest protectors of civil unity in our arsenal, Mildred Rumsted, the pie lady, and her Russian Wolf Hounds.
She had two of these horse-sized dogs, and yes, she was the undisputed pie champion. She was the first person at the door of every new resident with a steaming hot apple pie in tow. No one could resist Mildred's homemade pies, made from a recipe handed down in the Rumsted family for generations. Besides, resistance was futile in the presence of two large drool-producing wolf hounds.
The pie delivery with the new neighbor apparently went well. Mildred told everyone that the new guy seemed nice, though kind of a quiet sort. But this positive first impression was not to last. During his first leash and collar social hour the new dog walker committed an egregious social faux "paw"... he refused to stop and dog chat.
Soon word about the flagrant flaunter of sacred social norms was all around the block and up the side streets. A cold front descended on dog heaven. Everyone feared that this impertinent coolness might somehow spread virally to other fronts. Imagine if no one stopped for neighborly visits in the grocery store or on city dump day.
It was then that Mildred and her trained canine corps went into action. It was early one morning, as the miscreant neighbor hit the pavement with his cock-a-poo and pooper scooper that the material for which the scooper was intended hit the fan.
The unsuspecting scoff laws were barely out of the driveway when they encountered Mildred and the wolf pack --- and attempted to pass them without pausing for even the barest minimum of social amenities.
Mildred's troop stepped directly in front of them and Mildred cried halt! Puppy and leash holder stopped abruptly as commanded. Mildred flashed her best women's club smile and proceeded to not too subtly instruct the newcomers in the niceties of dog chatting.
The hounds sat down, knowing from long experience that this was going to take a while. The inquisition began with queries about job and family history, basic dog knowledge, veterinary experiences, the best heart worm, flea and tick medicines, and marital status.
Mildred learned that the new neighbor was recently widowed, in fact, that his wife of forty years had been killed in an auto accident as they were moving cross country to their new home in our neighborhood. He said that he was lost without her, barely able to function, his one salvation being the cock-a-poo puppy that his late wife had given him for his birthday.
Grace poured into Mildred's heart. All dog walking sins were forgotten. Mildred yanked at the wolf hound leashes and taking the new widower by the arm, said, "Come with me." She led him to her back door and into the kitchen.
As soon as the coffee was perking and scones, fresh from the bakery that morning, were laid out on the table, Mildred picked up the phone and called the nearest neighbor. Without explanation she directed her to call as many dog-walking regulars as she could reach and to have them come over immediately.
Mildred's kitchen filled rapidly with the warm aroma of fresh coffee and a host of puzzled neighbors. She explained that their new friend had just lost his wife and was without the comfort of kin and community.
It goes without saying that the whole neighborhood threw their collective arms around the widower. There were invitations to dinner. Someone took him to church on Sunday and choir practice on Wednesday night. Within a few years he and Mildred were married and she him got him a Chihuahua puppy as a wedding present, but that's another story...
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
*****************************************
StoryShare, July 21, 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.
