The Lamb
Stories
Object:
Contents
What’s Up This Week
"The Lamb" by Keith Hewitt
"One More Passover" by David O. Bales
"Christian Passover" by Larry Winebrenner
"Campfire Communion" by Larry Winebrenner
"Discipleship Tested" by Larry Winebrenner
"Foxhole Conversions" by Larry Winebrenner
"Healed By His Wounds" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Bearing the Sins of Many" by Larry Winebrenner
"Passion" by Sandra Herrmann
What's Up This Week
The Passover meal in the Upper Room was a somber affair, as Jesus startled his disciples with the revelation that one of them would soon betray him. But what can be more somber than to remember and celebrate Passover while imprisoned? A pair of stories in this special Holy Week edition of StoryShare tells of the remarkable power of the memory of God's deliverance of the Hebrews -- even in the most hopeless of settings. In "The Lamb," Keith Hewitt paints a stirring portrait of the extraordinary lengths some labor camp prisoners went to in order to keep the ancient ritual, while David Bales takes us inside the mind of Peter, imprisoned in Rome and awaiting execution, haunted by his memory of Jesus washing his feet in the Upper Room and hoping for one more Passover with his Lord. Larry Winebrenner also provides several pieces, including an account of the difficult chore a grandmother faces when trying to explain communion and Passover to her inquisitive grandson, and a portrayal of a most unusual communion celebration for a group of young teenage boys. He also shares the experience of a pair of not-exactly missionary couples who demonstrate God’s love in difficult circumstances, as well as the Christian witness of an infantryman at the warfront and the healing brought by a prisoner's ultimate sacrifice. Peter Andrew Smith shares the story of a man on his deathbed who finally grasps that because Jesus suffered on the cross, God truly understands our suffering, and that out of those wounds comes the promise of Easter. Finally, Sandra Herrmann provides a poem underlining that Easter is coming, even amidst the pain and despair of Good Friday.
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The Lamb
by Keith Hewitt
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
"Do you know what tomorrow is?"
August looked at the skeleton next to him and tried to understand the question. There were no calendars in their world, and only those newly arrived from one ghetto or another bothered to try to keep track, eventually surrendering to the grinding sameness of the days, one to another. The Opel truck jolted as it pounded through another rut in the road, rattling the boards on the side and sending a stab of pain up August's back -- enough to snap him back to the here and now.
"Don't you know what tomorrow is?"
Reformulating the question didn't help. He wiped his eyes and peered closely at the speaker -- Jakob somebody. Dutch, by his accent. He was short, with a badly shaved head covered by a ratty cloth cap; his eyes were large behind thick spectacles that gave him an owlish look -- a cadaverous, owlish look. He wore a threadbare woolen jacket over his pajama shirt -- a prized possession, allowed for those who worked on outdoor details in the winter, as coats marginally reduced the rate at which laborers died of exposure. This one hung on him like a coat on a hanger, almost hiding the body beneath.
His looks reminded August of someone else; unconsciously, his hand touched the bent eyeglass frames in his pocket, all that remained of the man, except for some memories etched too deep to be ground away by survival. He shook his head. "No," he said softly, "I do not know."
"Tomorrow is Passover."
August did not ask how the speaker might know this, because it was possible he was right -- it might be Passover. The time of year seemed right. "And what does this matter?" he asked, focusing instead on the important question.
"It matters because, as faithful men of God, we will celebrate the Pesach the way God intended."
August slumped back against the boards on the side of the truck, rolled his head back and forth -- a motion aided by the bouncing of the truck. The prisoner by his side was obviously insane -- it happened sooner rather than later for some. "Yes," he agreed patronizingly, "we will celebrate the Pesach with moldy bread, and broth made by pouring warm water over a cow. It will be a feast to tell our grandchildren about."
"You!" the speaker hissed. "You think I’m mad!"
August let his head roll to the left, held it there, and looked at the man dispassionately. "Who am I to say?" he asked.
"What do you say to this, then?" the voice demanded, and the skeleton opened one side of his coat -- enough to reveal a small, woolly white head with dark, wild eyes.
"WHAT?" He sat up straight and glanced to his right at the guard detail riding motorcycles behind them. The two in front seemed to be talking to one another, and one of them was laughing. They had not seen. "Put it away, put it away!" he whispered hastily. "Do you know what will happen to you if they catch you?" Meaning happen to me, he thought grimly. The guards were great believers in collective guilt. "My God, you really are insane!"
The coat closed and the lamb disappeared with a single plaintive bleat, muffled by the fabric. The skeleton smiled craftily. "Who are you to say? I say it was a gift -- it wandered up to me while I was cutting wood. I had been thinking about the Seder, and my family -- and then this baby lamb appeared. He just walked up to me. He was meant for me. He was meant for us."
August leaned close to him, eyes forward, and talked without looking at him, instead studying the faces of the prisoners sitting across from them. They sat limply, eyes fixed on events half-remembered, or perhaps atrocities yet to come; if they heard, they did not comprehend. They sat, docile bodies moving exaggeratedly with every bounce and rock of the truck. "So you mean to slaughter this lamb, roast it, and eat it -- all without arousing the suspicion of the kapos, let alone the guards?" The kapos roamed through the camp more than the guards -- prisoners given reprieves and rubber truncheons, charged with keeping order.
"Exactly," his companion agreed. "I have the means to slaughter it lawfully, back in the block. We will roast it near the latrines, after the first evening roll call. That is when the evening kommando starts the ovens -- they always do. And between the ovens and the latrines, the smell of roast lamb will be hidden. We will then eat the meal after the second roll call." He smiled -- an unearthly expression on the framework of skin stretched tightly over bone that made up his face. "You see," he said, tapping one fingertip against a parchment temple, "I have thought it all out."
"All except the part where you get kicked to death by the kapos, or the guards."
He looked disgusted and dismissed August with a wave of his bony hand. "You have no imagination -- no faith. God has provided us with this blessed meal -- who are we to turn it down?"
"Who, indeed?" August answered, and he leaned his head back once more, closing his eyes to cut off further conversation. He contemplated getting up and moving to the open spot in the far corner of the truck, but was kept in place by fatigue and the knowledge that to do so would be regarded as suspicious by the guards, with all the woes that that would bring on. For the next five or six kilometers, he visited a world he half-believed was fantasy -- Seders past flowed around him, surrounded him like a warm bath to ease the aches and pains that were a fixture of life. His mouth twitched, almost smiled at the sight of his mother, and his father… the first time his son had asked the four questions, feeling so grown up he almost burst out of his starched white shirt.
The truck downshifted and growled, the fantasy world drained away. The Opel stopped once, at the outer gate; again, at the inner gate; once more, in the yard in front of Block 11. The motorcycles went silent, and his eyes opened as one of the guards unfastened the gate and let it slam down against the body of the truck. "Heraus, heraus," the guard said disinterestedly as he backed away. August pushed himself to his feet and hopped off the truck bed, wincing as the ground jarred his back.
He turned around and saw the mad man step down gingerly, one arm tucked against his side, the other hand steadying himself as he jumped. Out of the corner of his eye, August saw the guard watching him -- whether because he thought he was injured and must be culled from the work group, or because something struck him as suspicious, it didn't matter. The muzzle of the guard's rifle inched up and he took a step forward.
"Obergefreites!" August called out suddenly, horrified at his own sudden impulse. "Corporal! This dog wishes to speak to you," he shouted, using the prescribed form of address.
The corporal hesitated, one eye on the mad man, one on August. "What is it?"
"Corporal, this dog wishes to know when the Fuhrer's birthday is."
The corporal turned to face him fully, his face a mix of shock and puzzlement; the muzzle swung toward August. "What are you talking about?"
"Mein Obergefreites, this dog would like to know the Fuhrer's birthday." The mad man hesitated for a moment, still clutching his side, then scurried toward the block. The coat squirmed fitfully beneath his grip, but all eyes were on the surreal conversation between August and the guard.
Frowning, the guard said gruffly, "The Fuhrer's birthday is in a couple of weeks, April 20. What concern is it of yours?"
August grabbed one of the other prisoners by the arm -- one of the vacantly staring ones that had just stumbled off the truck -- and said, "Corporal, we want to observe the date appropriately, but this dog said it was April 22, and I said it was April 20." The other prisoner just looked at him in silent wonder, looking down at the hand around his arm, then toward August, eyes slowly tracking back and forth.
The corporal studied both prisoners, spat on the ground in front of them, and waved his hand. "Go on, go on -- enough nonsense!"
August bowed his head and released the other prisoner. "Danke, mein Obergefreites." He bowed again and hurried toward Block 11, his shoulders tensed against the buttstroke or truncheon blow that never came. When he crossed the threshold and was out of sight of the guards, he staggered and slumped against a stack of the crude, wooden sleeping shelves. He stayed that way for some minutes, trembling, gulping to keep from throwing up the bile that was the only thing in his stomach, while the other inhabitants of the block came in and jostled past him, seeking a place to sit or lie down for a few minutes' rest before the first evening roll call.
At last, he pushed himself up and walked through the block, threading his way between prisoners, past the two wood stoves. His eyes swept the inmates, looking for the mad man, not finding him until he reached the far corner. There, a knot of prisoners had gathered, ghosts in faded pajamas, cordoning off the corner from casual view. As he neared, over the drone of weary voices, he could hear an occasional frightened bleat, followed by an anxious "Shh, shh -- there, there," or some similar soothing sound.
The knot parted as he approached, and he found the mad man sitting on the floor, cradling the young lamb in his lap, one hand absently stroking the fine wool, head to tail, over and over, the other pinning its legs. "You are surely mad," August said simply, staring down at him, "and it is catching. You have made me mad as well."
"Is it mad to accept the gift of God?" the mad man asked with the accentuated calm of someone who is forcing himself to sound reasonable. "He sent us this gift -- this sacrifice. Who are we to turn away from it?"
There was murmured assent -- more the product of hunger than theological clarity, August thought. "Roll call is coming up within a few minutes," he said, ignoring the question. "How are you going to keep it quiet while we are out there?"
The mad man leaned forward and used his fingers to pry up a loose board from the floor, near the head of one of the stacks of shelves. From the space beneath he withdrew a piece of wood that looked like part of a broom or shovel handle. One end had been notched, and in the shallow notch a shard of broken glass was nested, coming to an uneven point three or four inches past the end of the handle, held in place by strips of dirty cloth wrapped around and around the notch. The glass had been patiently rubbed against a stone or other hard surface -- maybe the stove -- to smooth and sharpen one edge.
"I made it for myself," the mad man answered, without the question being asked. "When the time was right, I planned to use it. It would be easier to walk into the dead zone, or attack a guard, but I didn’t want to give those bastards the satisfaction of taking my life. It was the only thing I had left, in this place."
"I understand," August said quietly, listening, but with ears cocked toward the outside, waiting to hear the whistles that would announce roll call.
"It kept me sane, working on this. It gave me a sense of purpose."
"I know," August answered, and thought of his own darkness, the places his own thoughts had driven him in the first weeks and months of this hell.
"So many times, since then, I almost used it. I was almost there. But I held off. Just one more day, I would tell myself. One more day…" He stared forward, one hand on the weapon, the other stroking the lamb. "And then the gift came to me. It was a sign, you see -- a miracle."
"So I see," August agreed quietly. "It must surely be a miracle. If you are going to do this, it would be best to do it quickly -- before the roll is called."
"Yes. Yes, it would," the mad man agreed. He stared for a bit more, then leaned forward once more and lightly kissed the lamb on the head. "You came to save us, when we needed you most. We count God's blessings this day, beginning with you." The lamb's trembling ceased, and gently the mad man lifted its head with one hand, and brought the weapon close with the other.
August turned away. In the distance, he could hear the shouted commands of the guards that told him roll call was coming.
# # #
Lamb roasted -- well, seared in haste -- over a fire between two communal latrines, unseasoned, was not a cordon bleu treat, but it rested in August's belly and warmed him more than it should have. It warmed them all, for everyone in Block 11 had shared in the feast after the second roll call.
It warmed him still as he stood just outside the block door, trying to stay in the shadow. The light from the poles in the yard was laughable, but the tower lights swept the yard at random intervals, in seemingly random patterns. He must work quickly after one swift-moving oval of light slid by, played for a moment on the rough wooden building, then moved on.
After the feast, he had borrowed the mad man's weapon, and wrapped a soiled rag around the other end. With that, and a cup that still steamed faintly in the moonlight, he was ready. With care, he dipped the rag end of the stick into the cup, swirled it around, then pulled it out and carefully dabbed a swatch of blood on the lintel of the door. Dip, swirl, and the right side of the frame had been marked. He dipped again -- and stopped with the improvised brush still in the cup; stopped because a voice asked quietly, "So, is this your preparation for the Fuhrer's birthday?" The question was punctuated by the unmistakable sound of a rifle bolt being opened, then shoved home.
He did not turn around, but his hands trembled so that the stick rattled against the rim of the cup: clack-clack-clack-clack. "No," he answered softly, almost whispering, "I am observing God's instructions."
Pause. Then, "I see. Your Passover."
"Jah," he answered. Yes. He dabbed the left side of the frame, put the stick back in the cup, and turned around; the cup still danced in his hand, he held the brush still with one finger. "I am marking a miracle, Obergefreites. The night when God reached out and delivered my people."
"I see." The muzzle of the corporal's rifle was held waist-high, and pointed directly at him. August knew that it took a long time to die from a belly wound, and he tried to force down the bile rising in his throat. They stood like this for a long time before the guard said, "The kapos have reported a man skulking around the yard. Have you seen anyone?" August swallowed acid, fought to keep his voice low and calm. "No, Mein Obergefreites, I have not."
"Then you had best get back inside, before some mad man happens upon you and does something foolish."
Almost afraid to move -- afraid to break the spell -- August turned back toward the block and reached for the door. As his hand touched the latch, the guard said, "You must know there is no deliverance for you. There are no miracles in this place."
August closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, and turned back to face the young man with the rifle pointed at his belly. "What I know is that we receive grace, we receive deliverance, one day at a time. If God’s promises mean anything, they mean that there is deliverance from the worst hell, and the worst of times -- not necessarily in the way we expect it, but in the way that God decrees. I have already been delivered, Corporal -- in here." He touched his chest softly. "A day like today reminds me that my God is here, with me always."
The corporal frowned, the muzzle of the rifle climbed, pausing as it pointed directly at August's head. Then the guard growled, "Go on with you," and raised it all the way, slinging it over his shoulder. August turned away, trying not to tremble, but the cup and stick betrayed him: clack-clack-clack-clack. As he pushed the door, the guard added softly, "But since you seem to know where God is these days, the next time you see him could you say a prayer for me, too?"
By the time August turned his head, the corporal was walking away. August stood in the shadow, watched him cross the yard, heard the voice again, could you say a prayer for me, too -- and wondered if he could. Then the light approached, and he let himself into the block, to safety…
Still wondering…
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
One More Passover
by David O. Bales
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Peter roused slowly from sleep and tried to roll from his side to his back, but the chains stopped him. The dampness of the rocks beneath him gave him a shiver that woke him more. He told himself to open his eyes, but even though the dark promised no extra pain for his eyes, he was so exhausted that after one glimpse of the dim gloom surrounding him and his fellow prisoners, he settled again onto his left side. He shifted, slid his hip slightly to try to move off a sharp stone, then gave up and stayed where he was.
Almost no energy left, he thought. He had the will. Peter always had the will, but now, nearly starved in Rome’s prison and surely awaiting execution, he no longer had the wherewithal. Not even a good place to lay his head, just as Jesus had said about himself. In these last few days, as he was beaten and interrogated, he more and more thought of Jesus -- what he’d done and said and what Peter now understood better about him.
Not much else to do here in the dark but think. A younger man near me whimpers a lot. An older man was brought in last night. I couldn't see him well, but he was limp and bleeding and I feel his sticky blood beside me and I no longer hear his breathing. All signs that he's dead, just as Jesus was dead on the cross. Romans killed him. Romans are good at death. When they drag this man from beside me, they'll guarantee his death by pushing a sword into his stomach, just as they thrust a javelin into Jesus' side.
Peter had known he couldn't continue in Rome much longer. He'd heard reports of the rumors going around about the strange Jews and their stranger cousins the Christians. People told him what was being said, repeated, exaggerated. Some told him as a warning, others enjoyed trying to frighten this odd, aged preacher. He and his students discussed leaving Rome, but Peter wanted to stay for Passover in order to share that special night with his students and Rome’s few but endangered believers.
He sighed, then realized he had awakened himself snoring. While slightly awake again his mind returned to his last thought before sleeping. He had wanted to share the Passover one more time. Every time he'd celebrated Passover in these last 30 years he felt not only that the risen Jesus was closer to him, Peter also came to understand more of what the earthly Jesus meant.
"Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" He'd been horrified: Israel's Messiah stooping down as the lowest slave washing his feet. Not that Peter minded Jesus doing things for him. Peter expected Jesus to do things for him but expected to receive them after Jesus sat on the throne of the free nation of Israel. Peter expected great favors. For instance, he’d been willing to accept all the royal plantations along the eastern shore of the great sea, or even to continue to serve in Jesus' administration, perhaps helping to maintain peace within the neighboring nations after Jesus' armies defeated them.
Peter wasn't any more dense than the rest of Jesus' students. Peter realized that and was now able, finally, to forgive himself, although Jesus had forgiven him decades before. However, Peter had needed time to thoroughly grasp what Jesus meant and that understanding continued to grow when the risen Jesus healed people through Peter's hands, and when Peter watched ordinary people come to faith and then live with extraordinary hope and love. Peter's understanding of Jesus grew with his own travels and troubles and with his own students' openness and obtuseness.
Jesus had told Peter that he'd understand later but even then Peter said, "You will never wash my feet." Again Peter's consciousness fluttered between sleep and waking. His understanding had expanded toward eternal dimensions at Jesus’ resurrection. What a flash from heaven to earth! What godly thunder rattling the brains of humanity! Jesus was alive again, eating with them, teaching them, granting them the forgiveness they were authorized joyfully to give to others. Such was Peter’s central message: Jesus' resurrection. He grew more and more to understand Jesus, even as the Jewish and Gentile Christians disagreed and people like Paul proclaimed Jesus from a different perspective. And… even when Peter's wife died.
The old man Peter, shackled in the wet, dark Roman detention had wanted once more to share Passover. Jesus, bowing at Peter's feet, had said, "Unless I wash you, you have no share in me."
If only one more time… the Passover, Lord.
He heard a low voice from outside. Now louder and feet echoing. Two soldiers, maybe three. Four soldiers. The death squad approached the door and the giant key turned in the lock. Door squeaked. More light. A prisoner across the room began to cry for his mother. They came only for Peter. They grabbed him roughly and began to unshackle him. Peter spoke the phrase he'd learned to repeat when he didn’t exactly understand Jesus or didn't know precisely what to do: "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and head."
David O. Bales was a Presbyterian minister for 33 years. Recently retired as the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of the CSS titles Scenes of Glory: Subplots of God's Long Story and Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace.
Christian Passover
by Larry Winebrenner
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
Annie Martin never expected to find herself defending the Jews. While she never thought of herself as particularly prejudiced toward that ethnic group, she did consider them "a bit different" -- and if you got right down to it, "lost." They weren't believers. "There were more than ten lost tribes of Israel," she was fond of saying.
Then one day her grandson Jack began his favorite pastime -- asking hard questions. When he started out, the questions didn’t seem all that hard. But from firsthand experience Annie knew he could keep chewing on the subject until you'd know how the doctors in the temple must have felt trying to answer the boy Jesus' questions.
"Grandma," he began, "why do we take communion?"
"It's a celebration Jesus began to help us remember him."
There. That was enough to give an 11-year-old boy. Don't snow him under with a lot of theological explanations.
"Uh, yeah, Grandma. I know about him celebrating the Passover. Jesus had to do that. He was a Jew and God told the Jews to celebrate Passover. Okay, I can buy that. Why do Christians have to copy the Jews? There wasn’t any angel of death in Jesus' time."
Oh dear. Here we go again, thought Annie.
"Okay," she said, "let's begin at the beginning. You know the Jews were slaves in Egypt."
"Right. They had been in slavery for 400 years," said Jack, "ever since a pharaoh rose up that didn't know Joseph."
Four hundred years? Was that right? She didn't remember.
"You're a smart boy, Jack. So you know that God sent Moses to tell Pharaoh to let the Jews go. Pharaoh wouldn't listen to God, so God sent the angel of death."
"Yeah, I know that, Grandma. But God let them work as slaves for 400 years. Why'd God wait so long? And why didn’t God just go whoosh and set them free? Why all the killing -- you know, firstborn cows and horses and sheep and people… and lambs? Grandma, there were a million families that Moses led out of Egypt. That means a million Passover lambs."
By now Annie's head was, like always, beginning to spin.
"Jack," she said, "remember what God said to Pharaoh? 'Let my people go.' They were God's people. The angel of death and the Passover meal were God's way of saving God's people. God's way. Maybe not the way we would do it, but God's way. And by God's way, God's people remembered God for hundreds and hundreds of years -- all the way down to the time of Jesus."
"That still doesn't tell me why we take communion," said Jack.
"Well, Jack," said Grandma, "Jesus must have figured that if one kind of holy meal would remind folks of God's grace for hundreds of years, another holy meal would remind folks of God's grace given in a different way, and they would remember that act of grace for hundreds and hundreds more years."
"Okay, Grandma," said Jack, "I think I got it. But can I ask you another question?"
Oh no, thought Grandma. Not another question.
"What are we having for supper?" Jack asked.
Now that question I can answer, she thought.
Campfire Communion
by Larry Winebrenner
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
They were five seventh-grade boys. Most folks might believe 13-year-old boys too young to go camping all by themselves -- especially when it meant crossing a tidal river and carrying everything they needed. But they piled everything they needed -- food, sleeping bags, ground cloth, mess kits, mosquito repellant (especially mosquito repellant!), flashlights, matches, and water -- into one Evinrude-driven rowboat. They also packed a Bible. The rest of the gang piled into another boat driven by an outboard motor.
It was not their first camping trip to Goat Island, right across the river from Pigeon Point. It was the first time they had such a long weekend, though. They got out of school early on Thursday and had Friday off. It was something called "Good Friday."
The Bible was taken because the mother of one of the boys said that if they were going to miss going to church on Easter Sunday, the least they could do was read about Easter while camping. The group thought this was a real hoot.
Unloading the boat and setting up camp blew all thoughts of Easter right out of their minds. They cleared a large area in the middle of their "spots" of pine needles and trash for a campfire. Each camper had a "spot" where they laid out a ground cloth, sleeping bag, and personal equipment. One even had a pup tent, which caused a lot of kidding by the others.
Once the camp was set up, plenty of firewood gathered, and a campfire built, everyone undressed to the bare skin and ran across the sandy beach to the marsh creek flowing past the island. The water was warm, but the air was cold. After half an hour or so everyone ran to the campfire and fed it wood so it blazed up to warm them. They also toweled off the salt water before it would dry on the skin and leave them sticky and itchy.
As they prepared supper (each camper responsible for his own food), someone noticed the Bible lying on a sleeping bag.
"I'm sure glad I didn't have to stay home," he declared. "Our church has a special boring service on the Thursday before Easter. They serve the Lord's Supper."
"What's that?" asked Jerry.
Four boys tried to answer the question at the same time. There was general disagreement and much argument.
Finally, Sonny, who had brought the Bible, said, "I know where it tells what it is in the Bible. I'll read it." He turned to 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, and read the verses there.
When he finished, there was general silence as the campers dug into half-cooked chicken, hot dogs, pork and beans, and other such delicacies. Then it was back down to the beach to scrub pots with sand, rinse them in the creek, and swat mosquitoes. No one was bold enough to swim in the dusk with swarms of mosquitoes hovering.
Spanish moss was added to the fire to smoke the insects away. The first night was always fun, talking about what the group was going to do. Skeeter suggested they catch fish and cook them over the coals. He was hooted down. One popular idea that always came up was to build a fort, just in case they were attacked by invaders.
"I hope the invaders are girls," said Carl. "We could teach them a thing or two."
There were hoots and hollers of agreement. The fort idea always fell apart due to a lack of tools. Someone always said, "We gotta remember to bring building supplies next time." There was always a chorus of "yeahs." But they never did.
Then Jerry, a bit timidly, said, "You know, after hearing about that Lord's Supper thing, we could do that. I’ve got some bread we can use. And we all got cups. Then Chris could tell his mother he had the Lord's Supper on Thursday night when everyone in his church was doing it."
"Wouldn't work," said Carl. "Ya hafta have a preacher do it."
"That's not what the Bible said," commented Skeeter.
"Well, we ain't got no wine," said Carl.
"Bible didn't say nothin' about wine either," replied Skeeter.
"It did in the other story," said Carl.
"What other story?" asked Jerry, joining Skeeter in convincing Carl.
"Aw, I don't know. I ain't no Bible freak, you know," grumbled Carl.
"I say let's take a vote," said Skeeter. "All in favor of eating the Lord's Supper, say aye."
A chorus of four "ayes" sounded. Everyone looked at Carl. "Aye," muttered Carl.
Jerry took a slice of bread from his knapsack. He placed it on a tin plate and took his knife in hand.
"Wait!" said Sonny. Everyone looked at him. Had he changed his mind? He continued, "The Bible says Jesus gave thanks and broke it. We have to do it right."
Jerry put the knife down. He held the bread up toward limbs of pine needles, toward the stars and the moon, toward heaven. "God," he said, "we thank you for this bread." He broke the bread into five pieces and passed it around.
Then everyone picked up his own cup, two with fruit juice, one with hot chocolate, one with coffee, and one with water.
"Jesus said this is the new covenant, whatever that is," said Jerry.
They sat in silence and sipped their drinks.
Twenty years later, Sonny told his seminary professor of this experience.
"It's kinda funny," he told her. "Here's this little kid that didn’t even know what communion was leading us through the ritual. It's a real example of 'a little child will lead them.' And the other funny thing is, that while that wasn't a legitimate communion service, it was the most meaningful I've ever experienced."
"Not legitimate?" she asked. "Jesus was there, wasn't he?"
Discipleship Tested
by Larry Winebrenner
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
They weren't exactly missionaries. They were two couples in search of a way to tell others the joy they experienced as Christians.
A friend in Colombia suggested they try his native land. They were fluent in Spanish. Even the indigenous natives back in the mountains had picked up enough Spanish to engage in trade. So there they were in a small rented aircraft looking for out of the way villages to share the gospel with.
Then the single engine sputtered. There was no landing field for miles in any direction. Suddenly Tom, who was at the controls, saw a clearing where he was sure he could land safely. He sent out a mayday message and headed for the field.
As they were rolling over a very smooth field, he remarked, "It's almost as if this were an actual landing strip."
When they stopped, they discovered why. It actually was a landing strip. A man walked out of the forest and greeted them in Spanish. "You are the pilot who sent out the mayday distress call?" he asked.
"That's right," said Tom. "My name is Tom Meyers, and this is my wife Bess. The other couple is the Murrays, Phyllis and Alston."
"My name is Jose Sanchez," said the man. "What happened?"
"I don't know," said Tom. "The engine began to sputter and I thought I'd better land and see if I could find out what is wrong."
"How did you know about this landing strip?"
All at once, Tom and his friends became nervous. They obviously had stumbled on to a location nobody was supposed to know about. Rebels? Drug dealers? Transporters of contraband?
"We didn't know it was a landing strip," said Tom. "It just looked like a possible safe place to land. We thought God had provided it in mercy."
"God? You are missionaries?"
Phyllis Murray stepped forward and spoke. "We are not sent out by any church. We are Christians who wanted to share the joy we feel as disciples of Christ."
"Who paid for the plane?" asked Jose.
"We did," said Alston.
"You are rich?" asked Jose.
"We are not wealthy," said Phyllis. "We are well off, but we had to save up for a year for this trip."
As they talked, several men walked out of the forest. Each carried a firearm of some sort. They circled the plane and the Americans.
"Why did you come here?" asked Jose.
"They are spies come to destroy us," spat out one young man. There were confirming nods and grunts.
"If that is true," said Bess, "then you must kill us." Her companions looked at her in surprise and alarm. She continued, "But first, let us tell you about our Lord Jesus."
"We know about your Jesus," said one of the men. He pointed, "That man standing there is named Jesus."
Bess walked up to the speaker, facing him eyeball to eyeball. "You don't know my Jesus," she said. "My Jesus hung out with a group like you, joking, laughing, slapping mosquitoes, hiding from authorities."
"Who said we were hiding from authorities?" asked Jose.
"He did," said Bess, pointing at the man who had called them spies. She continued, "Their goal was not to destroy life, but to save it. They healed the sick, fed the hungry, comforted those who mourned."
"Can you heal the sick?" asked a man in the group.
Bess walked over to the man. "Do you have a sick loved one? My husband is an accountant. Alston is a high school coach. Phyllis and I are housewives. None of us have any medical training. But we do know how to pray. We will pray for your loved one."
"Heal him and you can go in peace," said Jose.
"We don’t pray on that basis," spoke up Tom. "We make no bargains. We will pray for the sick. God decides who gets well and who doesn't."
"Doesn't your God love you enough to save you?" asked Jose.
"If God wants to save us, God doesn't have to do it through bargaining. We love God because God is God. Not for what we can get from God."
"Follow me," said Jose.
He took them to a hut. A man lying on filthy rags was burning up with fever. Phyllis opened her purse and took out a pillbox. She handed it to Jose. "This is acetaminophen," she said. "It will help reduce the fever."
The two couples knelt by the man and began to pray. They continued their prayers until late at night. They fell asleep in the hut next to the feverish man.
At sunup Jose came in to where they were. He woke them up.
"You said you wanted to share your message about Jesus," he said.
"Yes," said Tom as he yawned and stretched.
"How long?"
"We were going to work for two weeks. Then we have to get back to work."
"Then you will stay with us for two weeks. You will tell us about Jesus and his gang, how they hid from authorities and joked with each other and slapped mosquitoes. Then you can get into your plane and fly away. We have cleaned the filter on the carburetor."
"Because we prayed for the sick man? He still may die," announced Tom.
"Maybe that, but something more."
"Yes?"
"We could tell you were Christians by your love. We want to learn how to love."
Foxhole Conversions
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19
I've heard of a lot of foxhole conversions in my life, but only one story of a foxhole chapel.
Of course, the foxhole conversions don't have to take place in actual foxholes. That's just a term to describe the type of conversion in which the person says, in essence, if you get me out of this fix, I'll worship you for life.
The change of heart might take place in a submarine. Perhaps it will happen in an aircraft, like the apocryphal story of the tailgunner in a flying fortress. He boasted over the intercom that he didn't need God for protection. In fact, he didn't even believe in God.
Soon after an enemy fighter pilot shot holes into the turret in which he sat, all bullets whizzing by, just missing him. "Belay that last remark," he cried. "God just came in the back door."
What made David's foxhole chapel different was the approach he took.
He told of the time he lived in Southern California in a village of mud brick huts. His house was basically one room. The roof was held in place by four large logs.
One night an earthquake shook him out of bed before he realized it hit. One of the roof supports fell right on the bed where he had lain. Another dropped right next to him. The house collapsed on him, but the roof supports protected him from serious injury.
"God didn't have to show me that mercy," said David. "I didn't pray for God to protect me from earthquakes before going to bed, but God did so anyhow. My evening prayer always is, 'Keep my loved ones and me safe through the night.' "
You can understand why David's favorite Psalm is Psalm 116, which states: "I love the Lord, because he has heard my voice and my supplications. Because he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on him as long as I live" (vv. 1-2).
The psalm also says, "I will pay my vows to the Lord in the presence of all his people" (v. 14). As long as David lived at home, he led prayer services each week in the little church he attended. When he was drafted and sent to the European theater of war, he set up a daily prayer service wherever he was located. At times, it was literally in a foxhole.
David's only requirement for those who sought God's protection was not to say, "If you protect me, I will believe." Rather, they were to say, "I believe. I am asking for your protection, but if I am wounded, I know you will be there with me."
David was killed in action during the last week of World War II. His buddies continued the foxhole chapel until the war ended. Of David they said, "God told Dave his work was done, to come on home."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
Healed By His Wounds
by Peter Andrew Smith
Isaiah 52:13--53:12
"Quite honestly, Pastor, I'm not doing that well," John said as he let go of his pastor's hand and lay back in the bed. "It feels like the chemotherapy is still tearing out my insides."
"The last round was a few days ago, wasn't it?" Pastor Tim said, looking at the flow of medicine moving through the intravenous drip which ran into John's arm. "Is that for the pain?"
"Yeah. The doctor said it should pass and I'll feel better tomorrow or the next day."
A smile crossed Pastor Tim’s face. "Well then, maybe the weekend will look brighter."
"I don't think so,” John said. "It was all for nothing."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I got the test results back and the tumor has spread. The doctor said they could try another round of chemotherapy, but I said no. I don’t want to spend the days I have left feeling sick because of drugs."
"The cancer is that progressed?"
"It is. They all say there is really nothing they can do but keep me comfortable."
Pastor Tim's eyes watered up. "I'm so sorry, John. We all have been praying and hoping for a better result from the tests."
John took his pastor's hand again. "I know. You and all the church have been so good to me. Being so far away from the kids makes this so much harder."
"Are they coming?"
"They're flying in tomorrow. Julie is coming with the baby." John closed his eyes and grimaced.
"Do you want me to get the nurse?"
John shook his head. "What they are giving me is keeping the pain down."
"Is there anything I can do?"
John looked his pastor in the eyes. "Tell me why."
"Pardon?"
"Why is this happening to me? I've tried to live a good life and be a faithful Christian. I provided for my family and never cheated on Laura all the years we were married. I wasn't perfect but I was a good man. Why is my life going to end like this?"
"I honestly don't know why this is happening, John."
"I feel so torn apart inside, and I'm not talking about the side effects from the drugs. I'm so angry with God right now and..." John threw his hands up and slumped back in the bed. "How can he know what I'm going through? How can God possibly understand my pain sitting up in heaven?"
"Can I read you something?"
John shrugged and closed his eyes once more.
Pastor Tim began to read from Isaiah. "See, my servant shall prosper..."
John didn't move as the passage was read, but his eyes snapped open with the words "He was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity..."
Pastor Tim finished the passage and started to close the book.
"Let me see," John said, and he took the opened Bible and laid it on his lap. His fingers traced the words and his lips moved slightly as he read. When he reached the end of the passage tears were streaming down his face. "I never knew. I've heard those words before, but I never knew."
"Knew what, John?"
"That God really does understand. Jesus suffered. He really suffered, and through that suffering comes Easter," John replied. "I tried to be upbeat in my prayers, even when my life was falling apart. I was afraid to show God my weakness and confusion. I didn't think he could understand and thought somehow I wasn’t worthy of Jesus because I was suffering."
"God loves you no matter what is happening in your life," Pastor Tim said. "The promise of the resurrection is not for the healthy but for the sick."
"I knew that up here," John said, touching his forehead and then resting his hand on his chest. "But now I know it in here. Pastor, can we pray?"
"Of course, John." Pastor Tim bowed his head and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything John began to speak.
"Jesus, you understand my pain and my fear..."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Bearing the Sins of Many
by Larry Winebrenner
Isaiah 52:13--53:12
Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases; yet we accounted him stricken, struck down by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruises we are healed.
-- Isaiah 53:4-5
Many people went to see the 1957 movie Bridge over the River Kwai. Some folks even read the book. It was a story about English prisoners of war (POWs) in a Japanese concentration camp during World War II. They were forced by their captors to construct a railroad trestle across the River Kwai gorge.
One scene in the story shows the Japanese commanding officer questioning the men about a lost tool. For obvious reasons a careful account was kept of all tools used by the POWs. A shovel was missing. "If the missing shovel is not returned, everyone in the work party will be shot," warned the commander.
When no one stepped forward, the officer prepared to execute the whole group. One man stepped forward and said, "I threw the shovel into the river." He was executed immediately as a warning to others. Later, the tools were counted again and it was discovered that no shovel was missing after all.
This was a telling story of self-sacrificial love. Some years after the movie was made, I read a book about the true story of the River Kwai Prison Camp. It was written by a survivor from the camp. Here's how he told the story.
Food and other supplies were very meager. Some prisoners died of starvation. When someone died, there was a scramble to get the dead man's clothing and anything else he might possess. The dead were tossed on to a pile of other dead bodies, to be burned like a trash heap. It was a dog-eat-dog world.
Then the one POW made his self-sacrifice. That action transformed the camp. Instead of stealing food from the weak, food was shared in order to strengthen the weak.
The author had severe dysentery. His condition got so bad that the Japanese soldiers threw him on the dead pile. He was so weak he could not even climb off the pile of dead bodies, let alone fight off scavengers. But one man lifted him off the pile instead of robbing him. The man carried him to a tent and nursed him back to life.
The author said, "I truly understood the words by his bruises we are healed."
Larry Winebrenner is a retired pastor and college teacher who lives in Miami Gardens, Florida.
Passion
by Sandra Herrmann
John 18:1--19:42
Easter is coming --
After a night of darkness,
Of betrayal,
Of pain,
Of mockery,
And torture.
Easter is coming --
After a day of hopelessness,
Of being marched from pillar to post,
Wondering what happens next,
Besieged by the roar of the mob.
Easter is coming --
Right when we thought all was lost,
When despair was like a kick in the stomach
And loneliness like ashes in the mouth.
We find an emptiness compelling --
Enough to make us enter a tomb,
Enough to make us sit down and cry,
Enough to make us grab a gardener and demand an explanation:
What have you done?
Where is my hope?
Give him back to me --
NOW!
THIS MINUTE!
For I may not have much more time.
Easter is coming --
When we shall hear our own name spoken,
When darkness shall die in light,
When more than we dared hoped for stands before us --
Easter shall have come.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
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StoryShare, April 9-10, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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
"The Lamb" by Keith Hewitt
"One More Passover" by David O. Bales
"Christian Passover" by Larry Winebrenner
"Campfire Communion" by Larry Winebrenner
"Discipleship Tested" by Larry Winebrenner
"Foxhole Conversions" by Larry Winebrenner
"Healed By His Wounds" by Peter Andrew Smith
"Bearing the Sins of Many" by Larry Winebrenner
"Passion" by Sandra Herrmann
What's Up This Week
The Passover meal in the Upper Room was a somber affair, as Jesus startled his disciples with the revelation that one of them would soon betray him. But what can be more somber than to remember and celebrate Passover while imprisoned? A pair of stories in this special Holy Week edition of StoryShare tells of the remarkable power of the memory of God's deliverance of the Hebrews -- even in the most hopeless of settings. In "The Lamb," Keith Hewitt paints a stirring portrait of the extraordinary lengths some labor camp prisoners went to in order to keep the ancient ritual, while David Bales takes us inside the mind of Peter, imprisoned in Rome and awaiting execution, haunted by his memory of Jesus washing his feet in the Upper Room and hoping for one more Passover with his Lord. Larry Winebrenner also provides several pieces, including an account of the difficult chore a grandmother faces when trying to explain communion and Passover to her inquisitive grandson, and a portrayal of a most unusual communion celebration for a group of young teenage boys. He also shares the experience of a pair of not-exactly missionary couples who demonstrate God’s love in difficult circumstances, as well as the Christian witness of an infantryman at the warfront and the healing brought by a prisoner's ultimate sacrifice. Peter Andrew Smith shares the story of a man on his deathbed who finally grasps that because Jesus suffered on the cross, God truly understands our suffering, and that out of those wounds comes the promise of Easter. Finally, Sandra Herrmann provides a poem underlining that Easter is coming, even amidst the pain and despair of Good Friday.
* * * * * * * * *
The Lamb
by Keith Hewitt
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
"Do you know what tomorrow is?"
August looked at the skeleton next to him and tried to understand the question. There were no calendars in their world, and only those newly arrived from one ghetto or another bothered to try to keep track, eventually surrendering to the grinding sameness of the days, one to another. The Opel truck jolted as it pounded through another rut in the road, rattling the boards on the side and sending a stab of pain up August's back -- enough to snap him back to the here and now.
"Don't you know what tomorrow is?"
Reformulating the question didn't help. He wiped his eyes and peered closely at the speaker -- Jakob somebody. Dutch, by his accent. He was short, with a badly shaved head covered by a ratty cloth cap; his eyes were large behind thick spectacles that gave him an owlish look -- a cadaverous, owlish look. He wore a threadbare woolen jacket over his pajama shirt -- a prized possession, allowed for those who worked on outdoor details in the winter, as coats marginally reduced the rate at which laborers died of exposure. This one hung on him like a coat on a hanger, almost hiding the body beneath.
His looks reminded August of someone else; unconsciously, his hand touched the bent eyeglass frames in his pocket, all that remained of the man, except for some memories etched too deep to be ground away by survival. He shook his head. "No," he said softly, "I do not know."
"Tomorrow is Passover."
August did not ask how the speaker might know this, because it was possible he was right -- it might be Passover. The time of year seemed right. "And what does this matter?" he asked, focusing instead on the important question.
"It matters because, as faithful men of God, we will celebrate the Pesach the way God intended."
August slumped back against the boards on the side of the truck, rolled his head back and forth -- a motion aided by the bouncing of the truck. The prisoner by his side was obviously insane -- it happened sooner rather than later for some. "Yes," he agreed patronizingly, "we will celebrate the Pesach with moldy bread, and broth made by pouring warm water over a cow. It will be a feast to tell our grandchildren about."
"You!" the speaker hissed. "You think I’m mad!"
August let his head roll to the left, held it there, and looked at the man dispassionately. "Who am I to say?" he asked.
"What do you say to this, then?" the voice demanded, and the skeleton opened one side of his coat -- enough to reveal a small, woolly white head with dark, wild eyes.
"WHAT?" He sat up straight and glanced to his right at the guard detail riding motorcycles behind them. The two in front seemed to be talking to one another, and one of them was laughing. They had not seen. "Put it away, put it away!" he whispered hastily. "Do you know what will happen to you if they catch you?" Meaning happen to me, he thought grimly. The guards were great believers in collective guilt. "My God, you really are insane!"
The coat closed and the lamb disappeared with a single plaintive bleat, muffled by the fabric. The skeleton smiled craftily. "Who are you to say? I say it was a gift -- it wandered up to me while I was cutting wood. I had been thinking about the Seder, and my family -- and then this baby lamb appeared. He just walked up to me. He was meant for me. He was meant for us."
August leaned close to him, eyes forward, and talked without looking at him, instead studying the faces of the prisoners sitting across from them. They sat limply, eyes fixed on events half-remembered, or perhaps atrocities yet to come; if they heard, they did not comprehend. They sat, docile bodies moving exaggeratedly with every bounce and rock of the truck. "So you mean to slaughter this lamb, roast it, and eat it -- all without arousing the suspicion of the kapos, let alone the guards?" The kapos roamed through the camp more than the guards -- prisoners given reprieves and rubber truncheons, charged with keeping order.
"Exactly," his companion agreed. "I have the means to slaughter it lawfully, back in the block. We will roast it near the latrines, after the first evening roll call. That is when the evening kommando starts the ovens -- they always do. And between the ovens and the latrines, the smell of roast lamb will be hidden. We will then eat the meal after the second roll call." He smiled -- an unearthly expression on the framework of skin stretched tightly over bone that made up his face. "You see," he said, tapping one fingertip against a parchment temple, "I have thought it all out."
"All except the part where you get kicked to death by the kapos, or the guards."
He looked disgusted and dismissed August with a wave of his bony hand. "You have no imagination -- no faith. God has provided us with this blessed meal -- who are we to turn it down?"
"Who, indeed?" August answered, and he leaned his head back once more, closing his eyes to cut off further conversation. He contemplated getting up and moving to the open spot in the far corner of the truck, but was kept in place by fatigue and the knowledge that to do so would be regarded as suspicious by the guards, with all the woes that that would bring on. For the next five or six kilometers, he visited a world he half-believed was fantasy -- Seders past flowed around him, surrounded him like a warm bath to ease the aches and pains that were a fixture of life. His mouth twitched, almost smiled at the sight of his mother, and his father… the first time his son had asked the four questions, feeling so grown up he almost burst out of his starched white shirt.
The truck downshifted and growled, the fantasy world drained away. The Opel stopped once, at the outer gate; again, at the inner gate; once more, in the yard in front of Block 11. The motorcycles went silent, and his eyes opened as one of the guards unfastened the gate and let it slam down against the body of the truck. "Heraus, heraus," the guard said disinterestedly as he backed away. August pushed himself to his feet and hopped off the truck bed, wincing as the ground jarred his back.
He turned around and saw the mad man step down gingerly, one arm tucked against his side, the other hand steadying himself as he jumped. Out of the corner of his eye, August saw the guard watching him -- whether because he thought he was injured and must be culled from the work group, or because something struck him as suspicious, it didn't matter. The muzzle of the guard's rifle inched up and he took a step forward.
"Obergefreites!" August called out suddenly, horrified at his own sudden impulse. "Corporal! This dog wishes to speak to you," he shouted, using the prescribed form of address.
The corporal hesitated, one eye on the mad man, one on August. "What is it?"
"Corporal, this dog wishes to know when the Fuhrer's birthday is."
The corporal turned to face him fully, his face a mix of shock and puzzlement; the muzzle swung toward August. "What are you talking about?"
"Mein Obergefreites, this dog would like to know the Fuhrer's birthday." The mad man hesitated for a moment, still clutching his side, then scurried toward the block. The coat squirmed fitfully beneath his grip, but all eyes were on the surreal conversation between August and the guard.
Frowning, the guard said gruffly, "The Fuhrer's birthday is in a couple of weeks, April 20. What concern is it of yours?"
August grabbed one of the other prisoners by the arm -- one of the vacantly staring ones that had just stumbled off the truck -- and said, "Corporal, we want to observe the date appropriately, but this dog said it was April 22, and I said it was April 20." The other prisoner just looked at him in silent wonder, looking down at the hand around his arm, then toward August, eyes slowly tracking back and forth.
The corporal studied both prisoners, spat on the ground in front of them, and waved his hand. "Go on, go on -- enough nonsense!"
August bowed his head and released the other prisoner. "Danke, mein Obergefreites." He bowed again and hurried toward Block 11, his shoulders tensed against the buttstroke or truncheon blow that never came. When he crossed the threshold and was out of sight of the guards, he staggered and slumped against a stack of the crude, wooden sleeping shelves. He stayed that way for some minutes, trembling, gulping to keep from throwing up the bile that was the only thing in his stomach, while the other inhabitants of the block came in and jostled past him, seeking a place to sit or lie down for a few minutes' rest before the first evening roll call.
At last, he pushed himself up and walked through the block, threading his way between prisoners, past the two wood stoves. His eyes swept the inmates, looking for the mad man, not finding him until he reached the far corner. There, a knot of prisoners had gathered, ghosts in faded pajamas, cordoning off the corner from casual view. As he neared, over the drone of weary voices, he could hear an occasional frightened bleat, followed by an anxious "Shh, shh -- there, there," or some similar soothing sound.
The knot parted as he approached, and he found the mad man sitting on the floor, cradling the young lamb in his lap, one hand absently stroking the fine wool, head to tail, over and over, the other pinning its legs. "You are surely mad," August said simply, staring down at him, "and it is catching. You have made me mad as well."
"Is it mad to accept the gift of God?" the mad man asked with the accentuated calm of someone who is forcing himself to sound reasonable. "He sent us this gift -- this sacrifice. Who are we to turn away from it?"
There was murmured assent -- more the product of hunger than theological clarity, August thought. "Roll call is coming up within a few minutes," he said, ignoring the question. "How are you going to keep it quiet while we are out there?"
The mad man leaned forward and used his fingers to pry up a loose board from the floor, near the head of one of the stacks of shelves. From the space beneath he withdrew a piece of wood that looked like part of a broom or shovel handle. One end had been notched, and in the shallow notch a shard of broken glass was nested, coming to an uneven point three or four inches past the end of the handle, held in place by strips of dirty cloth wrapped around and around the notch. The glass had been patiently rubbed against a stone or other hard surface -- maybe the stove -- to smooth and sharpen one edge.
"I made it for myself," the mad man answered, without the question being asked. "When the time was right, I planned to use it. It would be easier to walk into the dead zone, or attack a guard, but I didn’t want to give those bastards the satisfaction of taking my life. It was the only thing I had left, in this place."
"I understand," August said quietly, listening, but with ears cocked toward the outside, waiting to hear the whistles that would announce roll call.
"It kept me sane, working on this. It gave me a sense of purpose."
"I know," August answered, and thought of his own darkness, the places his own thoughts had driven him in the first weeks and months of this hell.
"So many times, since then, I almost used it. I was almost there. But I held off. Just one more day, I would tell myself. One more day…" He stared forward, one hand on the weapon, the other stroking the lamb. "And then the gift came to me. It was a sign, you see -- a miracle."
"So I see," August agreed quietly. "It must surely be a miracle. If you are going to do this, it would be best to do it quickly -- before the roll is called."
"Yes. Yes, it would," the mad man agreed. He stared for a bit more, then leaned forward once more and lightly kissed the lamb on the head. "You came to save us, when we needed you most. We count God's blessings this day, beginning with you." The lamb's trembling ceased, and gently the mad man lifted its head with one hand, and brought the weapon close with the other.
August turned away. In the distance, he could hear the shouted commands of the guards that told him roll call was coming.
# # #
Lamb roasted -- well, seared in haste -- over a fire between two communal latrines, unseasoned, was not a cordon bleu treat, but it rested in August's belly and warmed him more than it should have. It warmed them all, for everyone in Block 11 had shared in the feast after the second roll call.
It warmed him still as he stood just outside the block door, trying to stay in the shadow. The light from the poles in the yard was laughable, but the tower lights swept the yard at random intervals, in seemingly random patterns. He must work quickly after one swift-moving oval of light slid by, played for a moment on the rough wooden building, then moved on.
After the feast, he had borrowed the mad man's weapon, and wrapped a soiled rag around the other end. With that, and a cup that still steamed faintly in the moonlight, he was ready. With care, he dipped the rag end of the stick into the cup, swirled it around, then pulled it out and carefully dabbed a swatch of blood on the lintel of the door. Dip, swirl, and the right side of the frame had been marked. He dipped again -- and stopped with the improvised brush still in the cup; stopped because a voice asked quietly, "So, is this your preparation for the Fuhrer's birthday?" The question was punctuated by the unmistakable sound of a rifle bolt being opened, then shoved home.
He did not turn around, but his hands trembled so that the stick rattled against the rim of the cup: clack-clack-clack-clack. "No," he answered softly, almost whispering, "I am observing God's instructions."
Pause. Then, "I see. Your Passover."
"Jah," he answered. Yes. He dabbed the left side of the frame, put the stick back in the cup, and turned around; the cup still danced in his hand, he held the brush still with one finger. "I am marking a miracle, Obergefreites. The night when God reached out and delivered my people."
"I see." The muzzle of the corporal's rifle was held waist-high, and pointed directly at him. August knew that it took a long time to die from a belly wound, and he tried to force down the bile rising in his throat. They stood like this for a long time before the guard said, "The kapos have reported a man skulking around the yard. Have you seen anyone?" August swallowed acid, fought to keep his voice low and calm. "No, Mein Obergefreites, I have not."
"Then you had best get back inside, before some mad man happens upon you and does something foolish."
Almost afraid to move -- afraid to break the spell -- August turned back toward the block and reached for the door. As his hand touched the latch, the guard said, "You must know there is no deliverance for you. There are no miracles in this place."
August closed his eyes for a moment, took a breath, and turned back to face the young man with the rifle pointed at his belly. "What I know is that we receive grace, we receive deliverance, one day at a time. If God’s promises mean anything, they mean that there is deliverance from the worst hell, and the worst of times -- not necessarily in the way we expect it, but in the way that God decrees. I have already been delivered, Corporal -- in here." He touched his chest softly. "A day like today reminds me that my God is here, with me always."
The corporal frowned, the muzzle of the rifle climbed, pausing as it pointed directly at August's head. Then the guard growled, "Go on with you," and raised it all the way, slinging it over his shoulder. August turned away, trying not to tremble, but the cup and stick betrayed him: clack-clack-clack-clack. As he pushed the door, the guard added softly, "But since you seem to know where God is these days, the next time you see him could you say a prayer for me, too?"
By the time August turned his head, the corporal was walking away. August stood in the shadow, watched him cross the yard, heard the voice again, could you say a prayer for me, too -- and wondered if he could. Then the light approached, and he let himself into the block, to safety…
Still wondering…
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
One More Passover
by David O. Bales
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Peter roused slowly from sleep and tried to roll from his side to his back, but the chains stopped him. The dampness of the rocks beneath him gave him a shiver that woke him more. He told himself to open his eyes, but even though the dark promised no extra pain for his eyes, he was so exhausted that after one glimpse of the dim gloom surrounding him and his fellow prisoners, he settled again onto his left side. He shifted, slid his hip slightly to try to move off a sharp stone, then gave up and stayed where he was.
Almost no energy left, he thought. He had the will. Peter always had the will, but now, nearly starved in Rome’s prison and surely awaiting execution, he no longer had the wherewithal. Not even a good place to lay his head, just as Jesus had said about himself. In these last few days, as he was beaten and interrogated, he more and more thought of Jesus -- what he’d done and said and what Peter now understood better about him.
Not much else to do here in the dark but think. A younger man near me whimpers a lot. An older man was brought in last night. I couldn't see him well, but he was limp and bleeding and I feel his sticky blood beside me and I no longer hear his breathing. All signs that he's dead, just as Jesus was dead on the cross. Romans killed him. Romans are good at death. When they drag this man from beside me, they'll guarantee his death by pushing a sword into his stomach, just as they thrust a javelin into Jesus' side.
Peter had known he couldn't continue in Rome much longer. He'd heard reports of the rumors going around about the strange Jews and their stranger cousins the Christians. People told him what was being said, repeated, exaggerated. Some told him as a warning, others enjoyed trying to frighten this odd, aged preacher. He and his students discussed leaving Rome, but Peter wanted to stay for Passover in order to share that special night with his students and Rome’s few but endangered believers.
He sighed, then realized he had awakened himself snoring. While slightly awake again his mind returned to his last thought before sleeping. He had wanted to share the Passover one more time. Every time he'd celebrated Passover in these last 30 years he felt not only that the risen Jesus was closer to him, Peter also came to understand more of what the earthly Jesus meant.
"Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" He'd been horrified: Israel's Messiah stooping down as the lowest slave washing his feet. Not that Peter minded Jesus doing things for him. Peter expected Jesus to do things for him but expected to receive them after Jesus sat on the throne of the free nation of Israel. Peter expected great favors. For instance, he’d been willing to accept all the royal plantations along the eastern shore of the great sea, or even to continue to serve in Jesus' administration, perhaps helping to maintain peace within the neighboring nations after Jesus' armies defeated them.
Peter wasn't any more dense than the rest of Jesus' students. Peter realized that and was now able, finally, to forgive himself, although Jesus had forgiven him decades before. However, Peter had needed time to thoroughly grasp what Jesus meant and that understanding continued to grow when the risen Jesus healed people through Peter's hands, and when Peter watched ordinary people come to faith and then live with extraordinary hope and love. Peter's understanding of Jesus grew with his own travels and troubles and with his own students' openness and obtuseness.
Jesus had told Peter that he'd understand later but even then Peter said, "You will never wash my feet." Again Peter's consciousness fluttered between sleep and waking. His understanding had expanded toward eternal dimensions at Jesus’ resurrection. What a flash from heaven to earth! What godly thunder rattling the brains of humanity! Jesus was alive again, eating with them, teaching them, granting them the forgiveness they were authorized joyfully to give to others. Such was Peter’s central message: Jesus' resurrection. He grew more and more to understand Jesus, even as the Jewish and Gentile Christians disagreed and people like Paul proclaimed Jesus from a different perspective. And… even when Peter's wife died.
The old man Peter, shackled in the wet, dark Roman detention had wanted once more to share Passover. Jesus, bowing at Peter's feet, had said, "Unless I wash you, you have no share in me."
If only one more time… the Passover, Lord.
He heard a low voice from outside. Now louder and feet echoing. Two soldiers, maybe three. Four soldiers. The death squad approached the door and the giant key turned in the lock. Door squeaked. More light. A prisoner across the room began to cry for his mother. They came only for Peter. They grabbed him roughly and began to unshackle him. Peter spoke the phrase he'd learned to repeat when he didn’t exactly understand Jesus or didn't know precisely what to do: "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and head."
David O. Bales was a Presbyterian minister for 33 years. Recently retired as the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of the CSS titles Scenes of Glory: Subplots of God's Long Story and Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace.
Christian Passover
by Larry Winebrenner
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
Annie Martin never expected to find herself defending the Jews. While she never thought of herself as particularly prejudiced toward that ethnic group, she did consider them "a bit different" -- and if you got right down to it, "lost." They weren't believers. "There were more than ten lost tribes of Israel," she was fond of saying.
Then one day her grandson Jack began his favorite pastime -- asking hard questions. When he started out, the questions didn’t seem all that hard. But from firsthand experience Annie knew he could keep chewing on the subject until you'd know how the doctors in the temple must have felt trying to answer the boy Jesus' questions.
"Grandma," he began, "why do we take communion?"
"It's a celebration Jesus began to help us remember him."
There. That was enough to give an 11-year-old boy. Don't snow him under with a lot of theological explanations.
"Uh, yeah, Grandma. I know about him celebrating the Passover. Jesus had to do that. He was a Jew and God told the Jews to celebrate Passover. Okay, I can buy that. Why do Christians have to copy the Jews? There wasn’t any angel of death in Jesus' time."
Oh dear. Here we go again, thought Annie.
"Okay," she said, "let's begin at the beginning. You know the Jews were slaves in Egypt."
"Right. They had been in slavery for 400 years," said Jack, "ever since a pharaoh rose up that didn't know Joseph."
Four hundred years? Was that right? She didn't remember.
"You're a smart boy, Jack. So you know that God sent Moses to tell Pharaoh to let the Jews go. Pharaoh wouldn't listen to God, so God sent the angel of death."
"Yeah, I know that, Grandma. But God let them work as slaves for 400 years. Why'd God wait so long? And why didn’t God just go whoosh and set them free? Why all the killing -- you know, firstborn cows and horses and sheep and people… and lambs? Grandma, there were a million families that Moses led out of Egypt. That means a million Passover lambs."
By now Annie's head was, like always, beginning to spin.
"Jack," she said, "remember what God said to Pharaoh? 'Let my people go.' They were God's people. The angel of death and the Passover meal were God's way of saving God's people. God's way. Maybe not the way we would do it, but God's way. And by God's way, God's people remembered God for hundreds and hundreds of years -- all the way down to the time of Jesus."
"That still doesn't tell me why we take communion," said Jack.
"Well, Jack," said Grandma, "Jesus must have figured that if one kind of holy meal would remind folks of God's grace for hundreds of years, another holy meal would remind folks of God's grace given in a different way, and they would remember that act of grace for hundreds and hundreds more years."
"Okay, Grandma," said Jack, "I think I got it. But can I ask you another question?"
Oh no, thought Grandma. Not another question.
"What are we having for supper?" Jack asked.
Now that question I can answer, she thought.
Campfire Communion
by Larry Winebrenner
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
They were five seventh-grade boys. Most folks might believe 13-year-old boys too young to go camping all by themselves -- especially when it meant crossing a tidal river and carrying everything they needed. But they piled everything they needed -- food, sleeping bags, ground cloth, mess kits, mosquito repellant (especially mosquito repellant!), flashlights, matches, and water -- into one Evinrude-driven rowboat. They also packed a Bible. The rest of the gang piled into another boat driven by an outboard motor.
It was not their first camping trip to Goat Island, right across the river from Pigeon Point. It was the first time they had such a long weekend, though. They got out of school early on Thursday and had Friday off. It was something called "Good Friday."
The Bible was taken because the mother of one of the boys said that if they were going to miss going to church on Easter Sunday, the least they could do was read about Easter while camping. The group thought this was a real hoot.
Unloading the boat and setting up camp blew all thoughts of Easter right out of their minds. They cleared a large area in the middle of their "spots" of pine needles and trash for a campfire. Each camper had a "spot" where they laid out a ground cloth, sleeping bag, and personal equipment. One even had a pup tent, which caused a lot of kidding by the others.
Once the camp was set up, plenty of firewood gathered, and a campfire built, everyone undressed to the bare skin and ran across the sandy beach to the marsh creek flowing past the island. The water was warm, but the air was cold. After half an hour or so everyone ran to the campfire and fed it wood so it blazed up to warm them. They also toweled off the salt water before it would dry on the skin and leave them sticky and itchy.
As they prepared supper (each camper responsible for his own food), someone noticed the Bible lying on a sleeping bag.
"I'm sure glad I didn't have to stay home," he declared. "Our church has a special boring service on the Thursday before Easter. They serve the Lord's Supper."
"What's that?" asked Jerry.
Four boys tried to answer the question at the same time. There was general disagreement and much argument.
Finally, Sonny, who had brought the Bible, said, "I know where it tells what it is in the Bible. I'll read it." He turned to 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, and read the verses there.
When he finished, there was general silence as the campers dug into half-cooked chicken, hot dogs, pork and beans, and other such delicacies. Then it was back down to the beach to scrub pots with sand, rinse them in the creek, and swat mosquitoes. No one was bold enough to swim in the dusk with swarms of mosquitoes hovering.
Spanish moss was added to the fire to smoke the insects away. The first night was always fun, talking about what the group was going to do. Skeeter suggested they catch fish and cook them over the coals. He was hooted down. One popular idea that always came up was to build a fort, just in case they were attacked by invaders.
"I hope the invaders are girls," said Carl. "We could teach them a thing or two."
There were hoots and hollers of agreement. The fort idea always fell apart due to a lack of tools. Someone always said, "We gotta remember to bring building supplies next time." There was always a chorus of "yeahs." But they never did.
Then Jerry, a bit timidly, said, "You know, after hearing about that Lord's Supper thing, we could do that. I’ve got some bread we can use. And we all got cups. Then Chris could tell his mother he had the Lord's Supper on Thursday night when everyone in his church was doing it."
"Wouldn't work," said Carl. "Ya hafta have a preacher do it."
"That's not what the Bible said," commented Skeeter.
"Well, we ain't got no wine," said Carl.
"Bible didn't say nothin' about wine either," replied Skeeter.
"It did in the other story," said Carl.
"What other story?" asked Jerry, joining Skeeter in convincing Carl.
"Aw, I don't know. I ain't no Bible freak, you know," grumbled Carl.
"I say let's take a vote," said Skeeter. "All in favor of eating the Lord's Supper, say aye."
A chorus of four "ayes" sounded. Everyone looked at Carl. "Aye," muttered Carl.
Jerry took a slice of bread from his knapsack. He placed it on a tin plate and took his knife in hand.
"Wait!" said Sonny. Everyone looked at him. Had he changed his mind? He continued, "The Bible says Jesus gave thanks and broke it. We have to do it right."
Jerry put the knife down. He held the bread up toward limbs of pine needles, toward the stars and the moon, toward heaven. "God," he said, "we thank you for this bread." He broke the bread into five pieces and passed it around.
Then everyone picked up his own cup, two with fruit juice, one with hot chocolate, one with coffee, and one with water.
"Jesus said this is the new covenant, whatever that is," said Jerry.
They sat in silence and sipped their drinks.
Twenty years later, Sonny told his seminary professor of this experience.
"It's kinda funny," he told her. "Here's this little kid that didn’t even know what communion was leading us through the ritual. It's a real example of 'a little child will lead them.' And the other funny thing is, that while that wasn't a legitimate communion service, it was the most meaningful I've ever experienced."
"Not legitimate?" she asked. "Jesus was there, wasn't he?"
Discipleship Tested
by Larry Winebrenner
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
They weren't exactly missionaries. They were two couples in search of a way to tell others the joy they experienced as Christians.
A friend in Colombia suggested they try his native land. They were fluent in Spanish. Even the indigenous natives back in the mountains had picked up enough Spanish to engage in trade. So there they were in a small rented aircraft looking for out of the way villages to share the gospel with.
Then the single engine sputtered. There was no landing field for miles in any direction. Suddenly Tom, who was at the controls, saw a clearing where he was sure he could land safely. He sent out a mayday message and headed for the field.
As they were rolling over a very smooth field, he remarked, "It's almost as if this were an actual landing strip."
When they stopped, they discovered why. It actually was a landing strip. A man walked out of the forest and greeted them in Spanish. "You are the pilot who sent out the mayday distress call?" he asked.
"That's right," said Tom. "My name is Tom Meyers, and this is my wife Bess. The other couple is the Murrays, Phyllis and Alston."
"My name is Jose Sanchez," said the man. "What happened?"
"I don't know," said Tom. "The engine began to sputter and I thought I'd better land and see if I could find out what is wrong."
"How did you know about this landing strip?"
All at once, Tom and his friends became nervous. They obviously had stumbled on to a location nobody was supposed to know about. Rebels? Drug dealers? Transporters of contraband?
"We didn't know it was a landing strip," said Tom. "It just looked like a possible safe place to land. We thought God had provided it in mercy."
"God? You are missionaries?"
Phyllis Murray stepped forward and spoke. "We are not sent out by any church. We are Christians who wanted to share the joy we feel as disciples of Christ."
"Who paid for the plane?" asked Jose.
"We did," said Alston.
"You are rich?" asked Jose.
"We are not wealthy," said Phyllis. "We are well off, but we had to save up for a year for this trip."
As they talked, several men walked out of the forest. Each carried a firearm of some sort. They circled the plane and the Americans.
"Why did you come here?" asked Jose.
"They are spies come to destroy us," spat out one young man. There were confirming nods and grunts.
"If that is true," said Bess, "then you must kill us." Her companions looked at her in surprise and alarm. She continued, "But first, let us tell you about our Lord Jesus."
"We know about your Jesus," said one of the men. He pointed, "That man standing there is named Jesus."
Bess walked up to the speaker, facing him eyeball to eyeball. "You don't know my Jesus," she said. "My Jesus hung out with a group like you, joking, laughing, slapping mosquitoes, hiding from authorities."
"Who said we were hiding from authorities?" asked Jose.
"He did," said Bess, pointing at the man who had called them spies. She continued, "Their goal was not to destroy life, but to save it. They healed the sick, fed the hungry, comforted those who mourned."
"Can you heal the sick?" asked a man in the group.
Bess walked over to the man. "Do you have a sick loved one? My husband is an accountant. Alston is a high school coach. Phyllis and I are housewives. None of us have any medical training. But we do know how to pray. We will pray for your loved one."
"Heal him and you can go in peace," said Jose.
"We don’t pray on that basis," spoke up Tom. "We make no bargains. We will pray for the sick. God decides who gets well and who doesn't."
"Doesn't your God love you enough to save you?" asked Jose.
"If God wants to save us, God doesn't have to do it through bargaining. We love God because God is God. Not for what we can get from God."
"Follow me," said Jose.
He took them to a hut. A man lying on filthy rags was burning up with fever. Phyllis opened her purse and took out a pillbox. She handed it to Jose. "This is acetaminophen," she said. "It will help reduce the fever."
The two couples knelt by the man and began to pray. They continued their prayers until late at night. They fell asleep in the hut next to the feverish man.
At sunup Jose came in to where they were. He woke them up.
"You said you wanted to share your message about Jesus," he said.
"Yes," said Tom as he yawned and stretched.
"How long?"
"We were going to work for two weeks. Then we have to get back to work."
"Then you will stay with us for two weeks. You will tell us about Jesus and his gang, how they hid from authorities and joked with each other and slapped mosquitoes. Then you can get into your plane and fly away. We have cleaned the filter on the carburetor."
"Because we prayed for the sick man? He still may die," announced Tom.
"Maybe that, but something more."
"Yes?"
"We could tell you were Christians by your love. We want to learn how to love."
Foxhole Conversions
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19
I've heard of a lot of foxhole conversions in my life, but only one story of a foxhole chapel.
Of course, the foxhole conversions don't have to take place in actual foxholes. That's just a term to describe the type of conversion in which the person says, in essence, if you get me out of this fix, I'll worship you for life.
The change of heart might take place in a submarine. Perhaps it will happen in an aircraft, like the apocryphal story of the tailgunner in a flying fortress. He boasted over the intercom that he didn't need God for protection. In fact, he didn't even believe in God.
Soon after an enemy fighter pilot shot holes into the turret in which he sat, all bullets whizzing by, just missing him. "Belay that last remark," he cried. "God just came in the back door."
What made David's foxhole chapel different was the approach he took.
He told of the time he lived in Southern California in a village of mud brick huts. His house was basically one room. The roof was held in place by four large logs.
One night an earthquake shook him out of bed before he realized it hit. One of the roof supports fell right on the bed where he had lain. Another dropped right next to him. The house collapsed on him, but the roof supports protected him from serious injury.
"God didn't have to show me that mercy," said David. "I didn't pray for God to protect me from earthquakes before going to bed, but God did so anyhow. My evening prayer always is, 'Keep my loved ones and me safe through the night.' "
You can understand why David's favorite Psalm is Psalm 116, which states: "I love the Lord, because he has heard my voice and my supplications. Because he inclined his ear to me, therefore I will call on him as long as I live" (vv. 1-2).
The psalm also says, "I will pay my vows to the Lord in the presence of all his people" (v. 14). As long as David lived at home, he led prayer services each week in the little church he attended. When he was drafted and sent to the European theater of war, he set up a daily prayer service wherever he was located. At times, it was literally in a foxhole.
David's only requirement for those who sought God's protection was not to say, "If you protect me, I will believe." Rather, they were to say, "I believe. I am asking for your protection, but if I am wounded, I know you will be there with me."
David was killed in action during the last week of World War II. His buddies continued the foxhole chapel until the war ended. Of David they said, "God told Dave his work was done, to come on home."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
Healed By His Wounds
by Peter Andrew Smith
Isaiah 52:13--53:12
"Quite honestly, Pastor, I'm not doing that well," John said as he let go of his pastor's hand and lay back in the bed. "It feels like the chemotherapy is still tearing out my insides."
"The last round was a few days ago, wasn't it?" Pastor Tim said, looking at the flow of medicine moving through the intravenous drip which ran into John's arm. "Is that for the pain?"
"Yeah. The doctor said it should pass and I'll feel better tomorrow or the next day."
A smile crossed Pastor Tim’s face. "Well then, maybe the weekend will look brighter."
"I don't think so,” John said. "It was all for nothing."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, I got the test results back and the tumor has spread. The doctor said they could try another round of chemotherapy, but I said no. I don’t want to spend the days I have left feeling sick because of drugs."
"The cancer is that progressed?"
"It is. They all say there is really nothing they can do but keep me comfortable."
Pastor Tim's eyes watered up. "I'm so sorry, John. We all have been praying and hoping for a better result from the tests."
John took his pastor's hand again. "I know. You and all the church have been so good to me. Being so far away from the kids makes this so much harder."
"Are they coming?"
"They're flying in tomorrow. Julie is coming with the baby." John closed his eyes and grimaced.
"Do you want me to get the nurse?"
John shook his head. "What they are giving me is keeping the pain down."
"Is there anything I can do?"
John looked his pastor in the eyes. "Tell me why."
"Pardon?"
"Why is this happening to me? I've tried to live a good life and be a faithful Christian. I provided for my family and never cheated on Laura all the years we were married. I wasn't perfect but I was a good man. Why is my life going to end like this?"
"I honestly don't know why this is happening, John."
"I feel so torn apart inside, and I'm not talking about the side effects from the drugs. I'm so angry with God right now and..." John threw his hands up and slumped back in the bed. "How can he know what I'm going through? How can God possibly understand my pain sitting up in heaven?"
"Can I read you something?"
John shrugged and closed his eyes once more.
Pastor Tim began to read from Isaiah. "See, my servant shall prosper..."
John didn't move as the passage was read, but his eyes snapped open with the words "He was despised and rejected by others; a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity..."
Pastor Tim finished the passage and started to close the book.
"Let me see," John said, and he took the opened Bible and laid it on his lap. His fingers traced the words and his lips moved slightly as he read. When he reached the end of the passage tears were streaming down his face. "I never knew. I've heard those words before, but I never knew."
"Knew what, John?"
"That God really does understand. Jesus suffered. He really suffered, and through that suffering comes Easter," John replied. "I tried to be upbeat in my prayers, even when my life was falling apart. I was afraid to show God my weakness and confusion. I didn't think he could understand and thought somehow I wasn’t worthy of Jesus because I was suffering."
"God loves you no matter what is happening in your life," Pastor Tim said. "The promise of the resurrection is not for the healthy but for the sick."
"I knew that up here," John said, touching his forehead and then resting his hand on his chest. "But now I know it in here. Pastor, can we pray?"
"Of course, John." Pastor Tim bowed his head and opened his mouth, but before he could say anything John began to speak.
"Jesus, you understand my pain and my fear..."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
Bearing the Sins of Many
by Larry Winebrenner
Isaiah 52:13--53:12
Surely he has borne our infirmities and carried our diseases; yet we accounted him stricken, struck down by God, and afflicted. But he was wounded for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities; upon him was the punishment that made us whole, and by his bruises we are healed.
-- Isaiah 53:4-5
Many people went to see the 1957 movie Bridge over the River Kwai. Some folks even read the book. It was a story about English prisoners of war (POWs) in a Japanese concentration camp during World War II. They were forced by their captors to construct a railroad trestle across the River Kwai gorge.
One scene in the story shows the Japanese commanding officer questioning the men about a lost tool. For obvious reasons a careful account was kept of all tools used by the POWs. A shovel was missing. "If the missing shovel is not returned, everyone in the work party will be shot," warned the commander.
When no one stepped forward, the officer prepared to execute the whole group. One man stepped forward and said, "I threw the shovel into the river." He was executed immediately as a warning to others. Later, the tools were counted again and it was discovered that no shovel was missing after all.
This was a telling story of self-sacrificial love. Some years after the movie was made, I read a book about the true story of the River Kwai Prison Camp. It was written by a survivor from the camp. Here's how he told the story.
Food and other supplies were very meager. Some prisoners died of starvation. When someone died, there was a scramble to get the dead man's clothing and anything else he might possess. The dead were tossed on to a pile of other dead bodies, to be burned like a trash heap. It was a dog-eat-dog world.
Then the one POW made his self-sacrifice. That action transformed the camp. Instead of stealing food from the weak, food was shared in order to strengthen the weak.
The author had severe dysentery. His condition got so bad that the Japanese soldiers threw him on the dead pile. He was so weak he could not even climb off the pile of dead bodies, let alone fight off scavengers. But one man lifted him off the pile instead of robbing him. The man carried him to a tent and nursed him back to life.
The author said, "I truly understood the words by his bruises we are healed."
Larry Winebrenner is a retired pastor and college teacher who lives in Miami Gardens, Florida.
Passion
by Sandra Herrmann
John 18:1--19:42
Easter is coming --
After a night of darkness,
Of betrayal,
Of pain,
Of mockery,
And torture.
Easter is coming --
After a day of hopelessness,
Of being marched from pillar to post,
Wondering what happens next,
Besieged by the roar of the mob.
Easter is coming --
Right when we thought all was lost,
When despair was like a kick in the stomach
And loneliness like ashes in the mouth.
We find an emptiness compelling --
Enough to make us enter a tomb,
Enough to make us sit down and cry,
Enough to make us grab a gardener and demand an explanation:
What have you done?
Where is my hope?
Give him back to me --
NOW!
THIS MINUTE!
For I may not have much more time.
Easter is coming --
When we shall hear our own name spoken,
When darkness shall die in light,
When more than we dared hoped for stands before us --
Easter shall have come.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. She is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana.
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StoryShare, April 9-10, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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.
