The Lamb
Stories
Passion/Palm Sunday
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Philippians 2:5-11
Luke 22:14--23:56
Psalm 31:9-16
Maundy Thursday
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19
Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13--53:12
Hebrews 10:16-25
John 18:1--19:42
Psalm 22
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Why?" by C. David McKirachan
"Betrayal in the Third Grade" by Rick McCracken-Bennett
"The Lamb" by John E. Sumwalt
"God Is Always Near" by Fanny Seville
"God's Plan" by Fanny Seville
"Acts of God" by Scott Dalgarno
"Cracked Pots" by C. David McKirachan
"Why Bother With Church?" by David E. Leininger
What's Up This Week
This special, extended edition of StoryShare provides a variety of fascinating material for Holy Week. The first four stories explore the theme of sacrifice from the week's readings, including our featured piece on David McKirachan's moving personal experience from the Holy Land. Then Fanny Seville offers an inspiring meditation on April Fool's Day, which falls on Palm Sunday this year. We also have an offbeat story about a very unusual wedding, plus some thoughts on why church ought to be an important part of our lives.
* * * * * * * * *
Why?
C. David McKirachan
Luke 22:14--23:56
My congregation is a gem. I hope I can still say that next year... but it's wonderful to be appreciated. This bunch threw me a surprise party for my 10th anniversary with them. At the end of it they gave me a poem that was phrased like The Cat in the Hat. By the end of it I was bawling because they told me I was flying away. They sent me to the Holy Land for a week. I never thought I'd get there. I put the money together to bring along my son Benjamin. He turned 21 in Jerusalem. Happy Birthday.
I found out many of the traditional places I thought were just tourist traps had a lot of credibility as actual sites of the events in Jesus' life. Our journey took us to the well of Nazareth and to the house of Peter in Capernaum and to the source of the Jordan up by Caesarea Philippi and out onto the lake of Galilee. By the time we made it to Jerusalem, the sense of immanence was so powerful that it rattled us down to our walking shoes. At least it rattled me.
The guide took us to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Old City. Constantine's mother had researched it pretty carefully, and the likelihood is strong that this is the place. The story of her quest and what makes her choice a real possibility are items for another discussion. Constantine didn't care. His mother told him, so that was the place. He leveled the hill around it and left the tomb, a small stone room. Then he built a cathedral right over the top of it. OK, weird... gaudy... not a garden.
But all of the improbables aside, as we stooped to get into the tiny space within the tomb, within the chapel, within the cathedral -- there within, there was a power that could not be denied. That in itself is another story.
My son followed me, a post-adolescent skeptic. He was raised in the Reformed tradition of reasonable faith, grounded in thought and dialogue, focused on the implications for each of us and the ethical ramifications for all of us. In other words, he had learned with his head but had experienced less with his heart. He's a good boy. He was worried about my back that was in spasms. He was concerned about all the machine guns and serious-eyed soldiers on the street corners. I wondered how much impact all of this Jesus pilgrimage stuff was having on him.
I came out of the tomb, bending with great difficulty. I'd lit a candle in there, as much a wish as a prayer that this whole thing could make a difference. To whom? To us all. Out in the cavernous space of the church with the whispers of devotion all around me, I looked for Ben. After minutes, the uncomfortable minutes of a parent wondering where his child was, he came out.
He came straight to me, without a glance anywhere else. He was crying. He stood there before me, this child-man whose hand I had held for 21 years. He looked at me and tried to speak, once, twice. Thank God I had the grace to wait, to give dignity to his struggle. Finally he pushed out the words. "Why? Why?" I waited. Finally, "Why would he do this for me?"
Prayers have strange ways of being answered. As I stood there in Jerusalem, surrounded by the devotion of centuries, perhaps near the place where resurrection broke through the dividing wall of death and changed all that is into all that could be, my only thought was the boy in my arms, weeping as Mary wept at the tomb.
There are no answers at the foot of the cross. There are only broken hearts amazed by love that knows no limit.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Betrayal in the Third Grade
So Judas brought a detachment of soldiers together with police from the chief priests and the Pharisees, and they came there with lanterns and torches and weapons. Then Jesus, knowing all that was to happen to him, came forward and asked them, "Whom are you looking for?" They answered, "Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus replied, "I am he." Judas, who betrayed him, was standing with them.
John 18:3-5
One of the slaves of the high priest, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked, "Did I not see you in the garden with him?" Again Peter denied it, and at that moment the cock crowed.
John 18:26-27
(Kids say the darnedest things... sometimes, like adults, they say the most awful things.)
You would be inclined to give them a break. After all, they were only third-grade boys.
You would say, "They were too young to have known what they were doing," or "Knowing right from wrong, especially in this case, would be too difficult for nine- and ten-year-old boys to comprehend." And you would be right, and... you would be wrong.
It was fall; a new school year had just barely gotten underway. Even for the Midwest, it was warm, too warm to sit in a stuffy, old classroom with freshly varnished floors that reflected the room in swirly, uneven patterns. Recess, as always, was a welcome relief. This particular day they were going to get a little extra time on the playground. There was to be a softball game, and everyone was invited to join in. All morning long the room was buzzing with third-grade wonderings about who among them co-captains Don and Randy, the best players in the whole elementary school, would pick for their team.
But recess didn't start when the first bell rang. The students stared at their teacher and then at each other, and she just sat sadly at her desk. Every minute or so she would pull open her middle desk drawer and rummage around a little before closing it and looking out at her class. Something was up, and none of the kids knew what it was. They just sat there casting sideways glances at each other.
Finally Mrs. Watkins stood up, slid her chair in, cleared her throat, looked the class over, and spoke slowly and carefully. "I'm not sure how to say this, boys and girls. Someone has been in my desk and has stolen the milk money for this afternoon's snack." She paused, quickly swiped an eye with her fingers, and went on. "This is serious, because it means that one of us cannot be trusted. Someone here is a thief. And I suspect that some of you know who did this. So... we will not go out to recess, we will not have our softball game; in fact, we will not have any recess until the person who took this money comes forward. I am so disappointed, boys and girls. I hope we can take care of this quickly."
The room went into shock. Not so much that the money had been stolen -- few of the kids hadn't made off with a little change from their mother's purse from time to time -- but rather because the softball game of the century and their chance to whip the fourth graders was being cancelled. Stunned, the children sat there, and when Mrs. Watkins wasn't looking, snuck a glance with raised eyebrows and got shrugs from each other which said, "I don't know what to do either."
The second bell for recess rang out in the hallway.
An eternity passed when a crumpled-up note landed on Steve Richards' desk. Slowly, with his eyes steadily on his teacher, he unfolded the note. His eyes grew wide as he read, "Let's tell her that Robbie did it." Robbie wasn't a friend. In fact, few kids in the class liked him at all. Steve shot a glance at Randy, who nodded almost imperceptibly back at him, and then at Don -- and there you had it, three third-grade co-conspirators. A couple more notes passed and they were ready with their plan.
As the third bell rang, telling the older kids to line up for recess, they stood, and with a nod to each other, Steve, Randy, and Don approached their teacher. Their guilty looks probably made Mrs. Watkins think that they were the guilty party. "Mrs. Watkins?" Randy took the lead. "Mrs. Watkins, we know who took the money."
"Yes?" she replied, looking dead into his eyes but with her face cocked to one side. "Who, then? Who did this?"
Randy looked at Steve and then at Don and then blurted out in a stage whisper, "Robbie... Robbie did it. Now, can we go to recess?"
"Go back to your seats," Mrs. Watkins said softly. "Everyone... may I have your attention?" Which wasn't necessary since everyone's eyes were fixed at first on the boys, and now on her. "I want you to line up for recess. Robbie... I would like you to remain here with me."
The class lined up and then made their way to the playground. But there was no softball that day. Randy and Don didn't pick teams. They and Steve Richards just stood together, unable to look each other in the eye. When the bell rang for them to return, they walked silently to the luke-warm drinking fountain and then to their classroom. Everyone sat down.
"Class? Robbie will not be with us for the next two days. He has been suspended for taking the milk money from my desk. When he returns I expect you to treat him in the same way that you would like to be treated if the shoe were on the other foot. Do you all understand?" The class nodded as one.
On the bus that afternoon, Randy and Steve and Don sat together in the back. "Now what are we going to do? What should we do? Should we tell Mrs. Watkins?" But the question that they couldn't quite come up with, because after all they were just third-grade boys, was why did he accept his punishment when he was innocent? Why didn't he speak up? Why didn't he tell on them, for it was obvious who lied about him? And even though they didn't understand the deeper questions at the time, they thought often as they grew up about the sacrifice Robbie made that hot fall day.
It may be just a coincidence -- yeah, that's probably it, just a coincidence -- that Robbie became a minister out of college and is to this day.
Rick McCracken-Bennett is an avid storyteller, an Episcopal priest and church planter, and the founding pastor of All Saints Episcopal Church in New Albany, Ohio. Rick began his ministry as a Roman Catholic priest, and he has also served as an alcohol and drug treatment counselor and as the director of an outpatient treatment center for adults and children.
The Lamb
John E. Sumwalt
Tell the whole congregation of Israel that on the tenth of this month they are to take a lamb for each family, a lamb for each household.... Your lamb shall be without blemish, a year-old male... the whole assembled congregation of Israel shall slaughter it at twilight.
Exodus 12:3, 5a, 6b
Mary grimaced as Joe squeezed her hand. The familiar words spoken by their pastor brought back a startling memory. Mary squeezed back; she remembered too that look on Josh's face the day the truck came for the lambs. He was six years old. Joe remembered because it was the day after Josh's first real birthday party at the pizza place in town. They had told him that he could keep his favorite lamb, but Josh hadn't wanted to let any of them go once he understood their fate. Joe's gentle explanation of their purpose as animals raised for food, and that being the natural order of things on the farm, what farmers did to feed hungry people in cooperation with the creator, was no comfort to a little boy who had fed every lamb with his own hand, and loved every one with his whole heart.
Josh had cried on his bed most of that night, and Joe and Mary had cried with him behind their bedroom door, just as they cried now sitting before his flag-draped coffin.
Joe realized that the look on his own face that day when Josh had told him about his plans to enter the service must have been every bit as painful as Josh's on that marketing day. Josh had been taken aback by the way Joe had clung to him, not wanting to let him go, not knowing if he was able to let him go, his first-born and only son.
Joe remembered waving to Josh as he got on the bus several months later, looking so proud in his uniform and so vulnerable with his hair cut close. Mary had not wanted to look, but had bravely waved as he gave them one of those "Josh grins" -- that "don't worry about me, I know what I'm doing" look they knew so well. Everybody had talked about Josh's smile the night before at the funeral home. "I'll never forget his smile," they heard neighbors and friends say over and over again as they filed by the coffin.
Joe grimaced as the pastor repeated the words from John's Gospel: Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! (John 1:29a). Mary leaned her head on Joe's shoulder and wondered how many more lambs must be led to the slaughter before the world would have enough of sin.
John E. Sumwalt is the lead pastor of Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in suburban Milwaukee, and the author of ten books, including How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It to be released by CSS Publishing in May 2007. John and his wife, Jo Perry-Sumwalt, were the editors of StoryShare from 2004-2006.
God Is Always Near
Fanny Seville
Isaiah 50:4-9a
In a warm, brightly lit classroom, a young teacher sat sobbing, head lowered into the palms of her tear-soaked hands. The principal had just left her classroom after sharing with her that the school's counselor had given him a complaint form indicating that the young teacher was in conflict with several of her colleagues.
The first question that raced through the young teacher's mind was "How could the counselor's complaint be true?" Students loved her kind, gentle spirit and her willingness to always keep their best interests in the forefront; parents respected her firm but loving teaching methods; the principal had just given her superior comments on a recent performance evaluation. How could the counselor be right?
The second question the young teacher asked herself was "Why?" Why would the school counselor write such untruths? Could it be that the young teacher threatened her? Could it be the time that the counselor tried to communicate with an autistic student and failed to get him to respond? When the young teacher spoke to the student in a soft but firm voice, giving him specific instructions what to do, he immediately responded. Or could it be because the young teacher was selected by the superintendent to represent their school at a national meeting in Chicago? Why the counselor submitted the complaint no one will ever know. Obviously, she wasn't expecting any response from the young teacher.
Disheartened and feeling rejected, the young teacher drove home sadly. That night, as she said her prayers, she asked God to give her a plan of action. The next morning when she awoke, she gave God thanks for the new day, for the good night's rest, and for giving her a plan. She would ask the principal to see the complaint form.
Upon reading the comments, she burst into tears again, looked straight into the principal's eyes, and told him that all the accusations were false. When she regained her composure, she asked permission to talk with her colleagues. Permission was granted.
She cautiously approached each person named in the complaint, and she rejoiced to learn that no one was in conflict with her. She then walked to the principal's office to share the good news and to request a meeting with all concerned persons.
At the meeting, the young teacher asked each of her colleagues if they were in conflict with her. Each teacher responded, "No." When asked why she wrote such disparaging remarks, the counselor responded that there must have been some miscommunication.
The young teacher left the meeting, thanking God for always being near and for helping to prove her innocence. She had been vindicated.
* * *
Last year my husband of 48 years and I visited Germany. In the city of Berlin a "Memorial to the Murdered Jews" reminds all people that more than "miscommunication" had taken place during World War II. As the German people continue to heal their nation, war's destruction is still very evident.
During our travels, we looked for the signs of God's grace, and we found them:
-- in the faces of the people, in the sights and sounds of the cities and towns, and in the beauty of the countryside;
-- in the gracious hospitality of our host and hostess August and Jutta as we listened to stories of their unfailing commitment to justice and peace;
-- in the stained-glass windows of the restored cathedrals;
-- in the compassionate response from a pharmacist who assisted my husband with his tick bite;
-- in our learning more about the Berlin Wall and the horrendous experiences that our guides Andreas and Christian, and hundreds of thousands of others, endured at the hands of the post-war Communist government;
-- in our listening to the trials and tribulations the Biskova family experienced as they remained faithful to Christ's teachings, fleeing to Scotland during the Soviet Union's takeover of Czechoslovakia and losing their Czech citizenship;
-- in our remembering the sacrifices and persecutions of the Reformers who down through history sought to bring meaning to the Gospel;
-- in our visit to the Dachau concentration camp, where shivers ran up and down our spines and caused us to pause and wonder, "Where is God's grace in the destruction of human lives?"
And then we remembered:
-- August and Jutta;
-- Andreas and Christian;
-- the Biskova family;
-- thousands of people who had an unshakable trust in God's redeeming love and thus found the courage to publicly join in praying for justice and peace.
And we also remembered those who courageously spoke out against the Nazis and later the Communists, helping others as best they could. Herein lies the grace of God.
Praise and thanksgiving for the One who always stands by us, who always defends us against our adversaries, and who always is near to us no matter where we go or what we do. Thanks be to God.
God's Plan
Fanny Seville
Philippians 2:5-11
One April 1st morning my husband came to the breakfast table dressed in his underwear with a handsome tie wrapped around his neck. The children wondered why their father, like the emperor, was not wearing clothes. All three sat startled when he informed them that this was his attire for the day. "You're going to work dressed like that?" our oldest asked. Giggles could be heard from the other children. And then even more exuberant laughter resounded when their father exclaimed, "April Fool's!"
Laughter is good for the soul. It stimulates the heart and makes us feel good. Probably all of us have played an April Fool's joke on a friend or family member or have had someone play a joke on us. Most of us find great enjoyment in catching others in an April Fool's joke.
"Oh look, Mom, your shoe is untied... April Fool's!"
"Hey Dad, did you look out the window this morning? You have a flat tire... April Fool's!"
"Oh no, it's snowing," says a grandfather to his grandchildren. "Looks like there won't be school today... April Fool's!"
"Did you use your tie for a napkin this morning?" a co-worker might ask. "You have something spilled on it... April Fool's!"
Before Pope Gregory adopted the Gregorian calendar, New Year's Day in France was celebrated on April 1st. After the adoption of the calendar, the holiday was moved to January 1st. As with any change, some insisted on continuing to celebrate the new year on April 1st. These resisters became known as April Fools. Over 400 years have passed since New Year's Day was changed from April 1st, but this fun-filled day known as April Fool's Day remains a happy occasion for many children and adults.
Nowhere in the Bible are people mentioned as April Fools. However, many actions of fools for God are recorded.
Consider Abraham's willingness to follow God's command to sacrifice Isaac, his only son born to Sarah when she was 90 years old! Abraham obeyed God, taking Isaac to a mountain and offering him as a burnt offering.
"Fool... Abraham, you are a fool," some would say. But God had a plan!
Sacrificing Isaac was only a test -- a test of Abraham's obedience to God. Seeing Abraham's willingness to submit, God told him not to harm Isaac. With these words God blessed Abraham: "I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore" (Genesis 22:17b). God had a plan!
Or consider the story of Ruth, the Moabite who left her family and homeland to travel with her mother-in-law to a foreign country.
"Fool... Ruth, you are a fool," some would say. But God had a plan!
Ruth would marry Boaz, and God would bless their marriage with a son who "became the father of Jesse, the father of David" (Ruth 4:17c). Often Jesus was referred to as the son of David. God had a plan!
Or consider the young virgin from Nazareth who one day found herself expecting a baby. An unwed mother in those days would not only bring disgrace upon her family but upon her fiancÈ as well. Townsfolk would mock her and shun her. She would become an outcast. Many such thoughts must have flashed through Mary's mind when she became pregnant. Instead of running away, Mary listened to the angel's message.
"Fool... Mary, you are a fool," some would say. But God had a plan!
God sent an angel to Joseph in a dream, saying: "Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:20b-21). God had a plan!
Or consider the motley group of men who left their homes, families, and friends to follow an itinerant preacher who had no resources to offer signing bonuses, benefits, or traveling expenses.
"Fools...You guys are really fools," some would say. But God had a plan!
From this diverse gang of followers, who disappointed Jesus, denied ever knowing him, and disbelieved that he had risen from the dead, came a faith so strong that an institution was established that has lasted over 2,000 years -- the Church of Jesus Christ. God had a plan!
Today, Christians around the world proclaim together with Paul: "Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father" (Philippians 2:9-11).
And that's no April Fool's... it's God's plan! Thanks be to God.
Fanny Lee Seville is a retired educator who devoted her entire career to teaching children with disabilities and "at risk" high school students. She is a lifelong member of the United Church of Christ, and has served in many capacities at the local, conference, and national levels. Fanny is married to Jack Seville, Conference Minister Emeritus of the UCC's Northern Plains Conference. She is the author of Sing Stories of Jesus, a children's music book of 25 biblical stories in song.
Acts of God
Scott Dalgarno
It was the first orange and white wedding Chase ever officiated. The bride was a knockout; a vision in reflector tape and hard-hat. Her dress was traditional enough, but the state highway department insisted it dictate her accessories. Haley didn't mind a bit. She was a flagger, and so was Skip. Thirty-five bucks an hour and triple-time if they worked Sundays. Great money. Chase thought it would bore him to tears.
They loved it -- wind, fog, cranky people in RVs... nothing fazed them. Said it was their life. Said they didn't want another thing more. Said they wanted to have the wedding right there, smack in the middle of 101, so everyone they knew and cared about could come.
It wasn't a ceremony Chase was exactly dying to do. It was one of those where the bride's mother called, out of the blue, saying that she had dropped her daughter off at the church once about 20 years ago for Vacation Bible School, and that had been the closest thing to a brush with God they had ever known, and wouldn't he be "a dear" and help her daughter "do the right thing"? Chase couldn't come up with a conflict, so reluctantly he agreed to see the couple.
Chase wasn't particularly high on marriage at the time. His own was okay. Not vital, maybe, but fine. He and Lorraine had settled into something so comfortable and predictable it couldn't be said to be passionate, but it wasn't liable to fall apart soon, either. It was Chase's daughter's impending marriage that had him stymied.
Carol had had a disaster of a marriage the first time out. She had been head over heels in love with the man. It was a hard one to understand. They seemed to have had so much in common. They came from similar backgrounds, his parents were supportive, but just months in, the wheels quickly came off. Now, after five years of being single Carol was about to try again, this time with a man who was 15 years older and whose background and lifestyle were so radically different from hers. It made her father crazy. Carol acknowledged all this, saying that she had thought compatibility and habits had mattered before she'd jumped into her first marriage. Then she just laughed. It was a knowing kind of laughter that disturbed Chase, and also filled him with a certain respect for this mature woman who he had raised but who had always dwelt in her own world.
Chase didn't think he understood Skip and Haley any better. The premarital session went pretty well. There were definitely moments of light and lots of laughter. He told them he'd feel better about their chances of making a go of it if they had more definite plans for the future. Neither seemed the least bit bothered by the issue.
Chase told them what crazy jobs they had, nature being what it is; moving from one washed-out section of coastal road to another, year after year, dependent on acts of God for their living. Skip said, "You should talk, pastor." The young man had a point.
The wedding day came -- soggy, foggy, and therefore perfect by coastal standards. Chase did it as ordered, right there on the highway over the broken yellow. Road work went right on from my "welcome" to the benediction, but there were enough walkie-talkies for everyone to hear. Then they partied, with Skip's mother ladling the punch and Haley herself cutting little squares of carrot cake for everyone -- I mean everyone, including motorists who hung on all through the "I do"s. Where could they go?
"Whatcha doin' for a honeymoon?" Chase asked.
"Just a couple days, here at the beach," Haley said. "Haven't made any plans. Never do. Too many friends right here."
Honestly, Chase felt sorry for them at first. Not even a weekend in Hawaii? But sizing things up, it occurred to him that this might just be all that a marriage was meant to be at the start. That a marriage may not be about two folks, goo-goo-eyed at first, dreaming big, then settling for bigger houses and bigger jobs in bigger cities, until they sicken of it all -- and one another.
No, maybe it might just be about building on what nature has a habit of washing out: hair, and teeth, and dreams you knew probably weren't going anywhere anyway. Maybe it's not about what you come up with sitting with Charles Schwab, talking about your life in 40 years, when neither you, nor your spouse, nor the world, will look anything like you could imagine anyway.
Maybe it's about what comes up when the storm arrives, as it always does, and the road goes out, and the surf pounds out the side of a hill, and you come to see what bedrock really looks like; all black and shining in the Pacific mist like flint. Maybe it's making your peace with the weather; all of it, fair and foul. Maybe it's staying close to the people who brought you together in the first place, and realizing that any marriage worth its saltwater is about way more than just two people who think love alone is all they'll ever need.
Chase was entering that part of life where everything was under re-examination. All that he had felt so sure about years before was shrouded now in fog. What surprised him was... he felt okay about it. Humility had never been his strong suit, and now it was what he ate for breakfast every morning.
Home from the wedding, he decided to call Carol. He was wondering what she and Harlan, her fiance, might think of a gift of a weekend at the beach.
Scott Dalgarno is pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Ashland, Oregon. He is also an adjunct professor at Southern Oregon University, where he teaches Film and Ethics. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Christian Century, America: The National Catholic Weekly, The Antioch Review, and Alive Now.
Cracked Pots
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 31:9-16
All my life I've felt sorry for broken things -- plates, cups, shoelaces, toys, tools, whatever comes to hand that has done a job or fulfilled some purpose in my reality and is now useless because of a chip or a crack or any of the other flaws that lead us to throw things away. We live in a disposal-oriented culture. If it doesn't work, dump it. That always bothered me, because I wondered, how does the cup feel? How does it feel to be something useful and appreciated, and suddenly, because of clumsiness or carelessness or age, now be worth little but a trip to the trash can?
I think we all feel that way too often. We fear being useless. We fear wearing out our welcome, our edge, our effectiveness. Sometimes we are ill-used. Sometimes we are neglected and unappreciated. Sometimes we are just worn out. But in the end we are less than central to the goings-on around us. We might get a nod and a smile if we're lucky, but folks have better things to do.
My father, who was a pastor, told me never to go back to one of my former parishes. He said you're not as important to them as you thought you were, and worse, you're not as important to them as they thought you were. Your presence only creates disappointment all around -- you're a worn-out cup.
This last year I got the news that I have a back resembling that of a retired football player. If I intend to keep mobile I need to be careful. Some things I just can't do anymore. I'm a cracked pot. In spite of the fact people have known that for years, I had a momentary flash of a sense of uselessness. I don't want to be less than vital and central and right there ready to go.
But "I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind: I am like a broken vessel."
Holding on to our sense of worth in the midst of loss has to be founded in something other than capability. I'm afraid we have to trust in something or someone who treasures us (even more than our fans). "Thou art my God. My times are in thy hand."
Gorilla glue helps, too.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Why Bother With Church?
David Leininger
...not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some...
Hebrews 10:25a
Two fellows were out fishing on a Sunday morning. As they sat quietly in their boat in the middle of the lake, the sound of church bells could be heard in the distance. One fellow said to the other, "I feel a little bit guilty about being out here instead of being in church. Don't you?"
His friend replied, "Naw, I don't feel guilty. My wife wasn't feeling well this morning, so I wouldn't have been able to go to church anyway."
Another story... A young lad was late getting to worship. After the service the pastor greeted him and inquired as to why he had been late. With little hesitation, the boy said that he was going to go fishing until his dad told him no. Although disappointed that the boy would even consider going fishing instead of coming to church, the minister affirmed the father's wise choice. Then he asked, "Where's your dad?"
The lad answered quickly, "He said there wasn't enough bait for both of us to go fishing, so he went alone."
Fishing on Sunday morning... or golf... or the beach or the mountains. Happens all the time. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, some people must dearly LOVE their church.
"And what denomination are you?"
"I'm a Seventh Day ABSENTIST!"
What is the big deal about coming from week to week anyway? A few years ago, no less a leading light than Minnesota's Governor Jesse Ventura declared in a Playboy interview that "organized religion is a sham and a crutch for weak-minded people who need strength in numbers." Hmmm.
Why bother with church? There are lots of reasons to stay away. Church is not very entertaining: preachers can be pretty boring; the music is not exactly the hit parade; it takes time out of one of the few chances during the week when folks can just sit back and relax; there is every likelihood that you will be asked to take on some chore if you show up; and worst of all, they figure you should actually pay money for the privilege. The nerve of an outfit like that!
A mother wrote in Readers' Digest that she once asked her young son what was the highest number he had ever counted to. He replied, "537."
She asked, "Why did you stop there?"
He replied, "Church was over." Hmmm.
Some people do not bother with church because they think they are too good for it. They look at the folks who do come from week to week and see petty, back-biting gossips; they see businesspeople who worship every Sunday but whose ethics on Monday are no different from those who never darken the door; they read and hear of the excesses of the televangelists. They put all this together and then claim that the church is just a bunch of hypocrites -- and they do not want to be accused of being the same thing by joining in with them. Thank you!
At the other end of the spectrum are those who think they are not good enough for the church. They have gotten the message that unless they meet a certain social standard, unless they wear certain kinds of clothes, unless they drive certain kinds of cars, unless they live in a certain kind of home, unless they make a certain amount of money, we do not want them. If they have ever had any kind of marital difficulties or problems with the law, we would prefer they stay away. And for that matter, if they are already members of the fellowship and some problem comes to light, we would just as soon throw them out. It has been said, "The church is the only organization in history that shoots its wounded." Churches sometimes can be exceedingly cold, and that is sad.
So why should someone bother with church? No question that the church is not all that it ought to be. Still, it is tremendously more than any other organization has ever been.
Millions of lives have been changed by the message preached and taught in the church through the years. People have been challenged to reach new heights in their relationships to both God and neighbor. Christian missionaries have gone to the far reaches of the globe sharing the gospel as they healed the sick, taught people how to read and write, brought new and better tools for the improvement of life.
How many great institutions of learning have been founded by the church? How many hospitals bear names like "Good Samaritan," "Baptist," "Methodist," "Presbyterian"? How many day care centers, soup kitchens, and retirement homes are operated by churches? How many millions have been raised for disaster relief? How many hours of private counseling have been sought? To whom do people finally come when they realize the bankruptcy of their lives before a holy and righteous God? There is no question that more could have been and can be done, that there have been occasional horrible aberrations, but no other organization anywhere at anytime has done nearly as much as the church!
David E. Leininger is the pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Warren, Pennsylvania. His most recent book is A Color-Blind Church (CSS), the account of an intriguing match of two congregations -- one black, one white -- in a small community following the reunion of the northern and southern streams of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in 1983.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and email the story to us.
**************
StoryShare, April 1, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 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.
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Philippians 2:5-11
Luke 22:14--23:56
Psalm 31:9-16
Maundy Thursday
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19
Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13--53:12
Hebrews 10:16-25
John 18:1--19:42
Psalm 22
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Why?" by C. David McKirachan
"Betrayal in the Third Grade" by Rick McCracken-Bennett
"The Lamb" by John E. Sumwalt
"God Is Always Near" by Fanny Seville
"God's Plan" by Fanny Seville
"Acts of God" by Scott Dalgarno
"Cracked Pots" by C. David McKirachan
"Why Bother With Church?" by David E. Leininger
What's Up This Week
This special, extended edition of StoryShare provides a variety of fascinating material for Holy Week. The first four stories explore the theme of sacrifice from the week's readings, including our featured piece on David McKirachan's moving personal experience from the Holy Land. Then Fanny Seville offers an inspiring meditation on April Fool's Day, which falls on Palm Sunday this year. We also have an offbeat story about a very unusual wedding, plus some thoughts on why church ought to be an important part of our lives.
* * * * * * * * *
Why?
C. David McKirachan
Luke 22:14--23:56
My congregation is a gem. I hope I can still say that next year... but it's wonderful to be appreciated. This bunch threw me a surprise party for my 10th anniversary with them. At the end of it they gave me a poem that was phrased like The Cat in the Hat. By the end of it I was bawling because they told me I was flying away. They sent me to the Holy Land for a week. I never thought I'd get there. I put the money together to bring along my son Benjamin. He turned 21 in Jerusalem. Happy Birthday.
I found out many of the traditional places I thought were just tourist traps had a lot of credibility as actual sites of the events in Jesus' life. Our journey took us to the well of Nazareth and to the house of Peter in Capernaum and to the source of the Jordan up by Caesarea Philippi and out onto the lake of Galilee. By the time we made it to Jerusalem, the sense of immanence was so powerful that it rattled us down to our walking shoes. At least it rattled me.
The guide took us to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in the Old City. Constantine's mother had researched it pretty carefully, and the likelihood is strong that this is the place. The story of her quest and what makes her choice a real possibility are items for another discussion. Constantine didn't care. His mother told him, so that was the place. He leveled the hill around it and left the tomb, a small stone room. Then he built a cathedral right over the top of it. OK, weird... gaudy... not a garden.
But all of the improbables aside, as we stooped to get into the tiny space within the tomb, within the chapel, within the cathedral -- there within, there was a power that could not be denied. That in itself is another story.
My son followed me, a post-adolescent skeptic. He was raised in the Reformed tradition of reasonable faith, grounded in thought and dialogue, focused on the implications for each of us and the ethical ramifications for all of us. In other words, he had learned with his head but had experienced less with his heart. He's a good boy. He was worried about my back that was in spasms. He was concerned about all the machine guns and serious-eyed soldiers on the street corners. I wondered how much impact all of this Jesus pilgrimage stuff was having on him.
I came out of the tomb, bending with great difficulty. I'd lit a candle in there, as much a wish as a prayer that this whole thing could make a difference. To whom? To us all. Out in the cavernous space of the church with the whispers of devotion all around me, I looked for Ben. After minutes, the uncomfortable minutes of a parent wondering where his child was, he came out.
He came straight to me, without a glance anywhere else. He was crying. He stood there before me, this child-man whose hand I had held for 21 years. He looked at me and tried to speak, once, twice. Thank God I had the grace to wait, to give dignity to his struggle. Finally he pushed out the words. "Why? Why?" I waited. Finally, "Why would he do this for me?"
Prayers have strange ways of being answered. As I stood there in Jerusalem, surrounded by the devotion of centuries, perhaps near the place where resurrection broke through the dividing wall of death and changed all that is into all that could be, my only thought was the boy in my arms, weeping as Mary wept at the tomb.
There are no answers at the foot of the cross. There are only broken hearts amazed by love that knows no limit.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Betrayal in the Third Grade
So Judas brought a detachment of soldiers together with police from the chief priests and the Pharisees, and they came there with lanterns and torches and weapons. Then Jesus, knowing all that was to happen to him, came forward and asked them, "Whom are you looking for?" They answered, "Jesus of Nazareth." Jesus replied, "I am he." Judas, who betrayed him, was standing with them.
John 18:3-5
One of the slaves of the high priest, a relative of the man whose ear Peter had cut off, asked, "Did I not see you in the garden with him?" Again Peter denied it, and at that moment the cock crowed.
John 18:26-27
(Kids say the darnedest things... sometimes, like adults, they say the most awful things.)
You would be inclined to give them a break. After all, they were only third-grade boys.
You would say, "They were too young to have known what they were doing," or "Knowing right from wrong, especially in this case, would be too difficult for nine- and ten-year-old boys to comprehend." And you would be right, and... you would be wrong.
It was fall; a new school year had just barely gotten underway. Even for the Midwest, it was warm, too warm to sit in a stuffy, old classroom with freshly varnished floors that reflected the room in swirly, uneven patterns. Recess, as always, was a welcome relief. This particular day they were going to get a little extra time on the playground. There was to be a softball game, and everyone was invited to join in. All morning long the room was buzzing with third-grade wonderings about who among them co-captains Don and Randy, the best players in the whole elementary school, would pick for their team.
But recess didn't start when the first bell rang. The students stared at their teacher and then at each other, and she just sat sadly at her desk. Every minute or so she would pull open her middle desk drawer and rummage around a little before closing it and looking out at her class. Something was up, and none of the kids knew what it was. They just sat there casting sideways glances at each other.
Finally Mrs. Watkins stood up, slid her chair in, cleared her throat, looked the class over, and spoke slowly and carefully. "I'm not sure how to say this, boys and girls. Someone has been in my desk and has stolen the milk money for this afternoon's snack." She paused, quickly swiped an eye with her fingers, and went on. "This is serious, because it means that one of us cannot be trusted. Someone here is a thief. And I suspect that some of you know who did this. So... we will not go out to recess, we will not have our softball game; in fact, we will not have any recess until the person who took this money comes forward. I am so disappointed, boys and girls. I hope we can take care of this quickly."
The room went into shock. Not so much that the money had been stolen -- few of the kids hadn't made off with a little change from their mother's purse from time to time -- but rather because the softball game of the century and their chance to whip the fourth graders was being cancelled. Stunned, the children sat there, and when Mrs. Watkins wasn't looking, snuck a glance with raised eyebrows and got shrugs from each other which said, "I don't know what to do either."
The second bell for recess rang out in the hallway.
An eternity passed when a crumpled-up note landed on Steve Richards' desk. Slowly, with his eyes steadily on his teacher, he unfolded the note. His eyes grew wide as he read, "Let's tell her that Robbie did it." Robbie wasn't a friend. In fact, few kids in the class liked him at all. Steve shot a glance at Randy, who nodded almost imperceptibly back at him, and then at Don -- and there you had it, three third-grade co-conspirators. A couple more notes passed and they were ready with their plan.
As the third bell rang, telling the older kids to line up for recess, they stood, and with a nod to each other, Steve, Randy, and Don approached their teacher. Their guilty looks probably made Mrs. Watkins think that they were the guilty party. "Mrs. Watkins?" Randy took the lead. "Mrs. Watkins, we know who took the money."
"Yes?" she replied, looking dead into his eyes but with her face cocked to one side. "Who, then? Who did this?"
Randy looked at Steve and then at Don and then blurted out in a stage whisper, "Robbie... Robbie did it. Now, can we go to recess?"
"Go back to your seats," Mrs. Watkins said softly. "Everyone... may I have your attention?" Which wasn't necessary since everyone's eyes were fixed at first on the boys, and now on her. "I want you to line up for recess. Robbie... I would like you to remain here with me."
The class lined up and then made their way to the playground. But there was no softball that day. Randy and Don didn't pick teams. They and Steve Richards just stood together, unable to look each other in the eye. When the bell rang for them to return, they walked silently to the luke-warm drinking fountain and then to their classroom. Everyone sat down.
"Class? Robbie will not be with us for the next two days. He has been suspended for taking the milk money from my desk. When he returns I expect you to treat him in the same way that you would like to be treated if the shoe were on the other foot. Do you all understand?" The class nodded as one.
On the bus that afternoon, Randy and Steve and Don sat together in the back. "Now what are we going to do? What should we do? Should we tell Mrs. Watkins?" But the question that they couldn't quite come up with, because after all they were just third-grade boys, was why did he accept his punishment when he was innocent? Why didn't he speak up? Why didn't he tell on them, for it was obvious who lied about him? And even though they didn't understand the deeper questions at the time, they thought often as they grew up about the sacrifice Robbie made that hot fall day.
It may be just a coincidence -- yeah, that's probably it, just a coincidence -- that Robbie became a minister out of college and is to this day.
Rick McCracken-Bennett is an avid storyteller, an Episcopal priest and church planter, and the founding pastor of All Saints Episcopal Church in New Albany, Ohio. Rick began his ministry as a Roman Catholic priest, and he has also served as an alcohol and drug treatment counselor and as the director of an outpatient treatment center for adults and children.
The Lamb
John E. Sumwalt
Tell the whole congregation of Israel that on the tenth of this month they are to take a lamb for each family, a lamb for each household.... Your lamb shall be without blemish, a year-old male... the whole assembled congregation of Israel shall slaughter it at twilight.
Exodus 12:3, 5a, 6b
Mary grimaced as Joe squeezed her hand. The familiar words spoken by their pastor brought back a startling memory. Mary squeezed back; she remembered too that look on Josh's face the day the truck came for the lambs. He was six years old. Joe remembered because it was the day after Josh's first real birthday party at the pizza place in town. They had told him that he could keep his favorite lamb, but Josh hadn't wanted to let any of them go once he understood their fate. Joe's gentle explanation of their purpose as animals raised for food, and that being the natural order of things on the farm, what farmers did to feed hungry people in cooperation with the creator, was no comfort to a little boy who had fed every lamb with his own hand, and loved every one with his whole heart.
Josh had cried on his bed most of that night, and Joe and Mary had cried with him behind their bedroom door, just as they cried now sitting before his flag-draped coffin.
Joe realized that the look on his own face that day when Josh had told him about his plans to enter the service must have been every bit as painful as Josh's on that marketing day. Josh had been taken aback by the way Joe had clung to him, not wanting to let him go, not knowing if he was able to let him go, his first-born and only son.
Joe remembered waving to Josh as he got on the bus several months later, looking so proud in his uniform and so vulnerable with his hair cut close. Mary had not wanted to look, but had bravely waved as he gave them one of those "Josh grins" -- that "don't worry about me, I know what I'm doing" look they knew so well. Everybody had talked about Josh's smile the night before at the funeral home. "I'll never forget his smile," they heard neighbors and friends say over and over again as they filed by the coffin.
Joe grimaced as the pastor repeated the words from John's Gospel: Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world! (John 1:29a). Mary leaned her head on Joe's shoulder and wondered how many more lambs must be led to the slaughter before the world would have enough of sin.
John E. Sumwalt is the lead pastor of Wauwatosa Avenue United Methodist Church in suburban Milwaukee, and the author of ten books, including How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It to be released by CSS Publishing in May 2007. John and his wife, Jo Perry-Sumwalt, were the editors of StoryShare from 2004-2006.
God Is Always Near
Fanny Seville
Isaiah 50:4-9a
In a warm, brightly lit classroom, a young teacher sat sobbing, head lowered into the palms of her tear-soaked hands. The principal had just left her classroom after sharing with her that the school's counselor had given him a complaint form indicating that the young teacher was in conflict with several of her colleagues.
The first question that raced through the young teacher's mind was "How could the counselor's complaint be true?" Students loved her kind, gentle spirit and her willingness to always keep their best interests in the forefront; parents respected her firm but loving teaching methods; the principal had just given her superior comments on a recent performance evaluation. How could the counselor be right?
The second question the young teacher asked herself was "Why?" Why would the school counselor write such untruths? Could it be that the young teacher threatened her? Could it be the time that the counselor tried to communicate with an autistic student and failed to get him to respond? When the young teacher spoke to the student in a soft but firm voice, giving him specific instructions what to do, he immediately responded. Or could it be because the young teacher was selected by the superintendent to represent their school at a national meeting in Chicago? Why the counselor submitted the complaint no one will ever know. Obviously, she wasn't expecting any response from the young teacher.
Disheartened and feeling rejected, the young teacher drove home sadly. That night, as she said her prayers, she asked God to give her a plan of action. The next morning when she awoke, she gave God thanks for the new day, for the good night's rest, and for giving her a plan. She would ask the principal to see the complaint form.
Upon reading the comments, she burst into tears again, looked straight into the principal's eyes, and told him that all the accusations were false. When she regained her composure, she asked permission to talk with her colleagues. Permission was granted.
She cautiously approached each person named in the complaint, and she rejoiced to learn that no one was in conflict with her. She then walked to the principal's office to share the good news and to request a meeting with all concerned persons.
At the meeting, the young teacher asked each of her colleagues if they were in conflict with her. Each teacher responded, "No." When asked why she wrote such disparaging remarks, the counselor responded that there must have been some miscommunication.
The young teacher left the meeting, thanking God for always being near and for helping to prove her innocence. She had been vindicated.
* * *
Last year my husband of 48 years and I visited Germany. In the city of Berlin a "Memorial to the Murdered Jews" reminds all people that more than "miscommunication" had taken place during World War II. As the German people continue to heal their nation, war's destruction is still very evident.
During our travels, we looked for the signs of God's grace, and we found them:
-- in the faces of the people, in the sights and sounds of the cities and towns, and in the beauty of the countryside;
-- in the gracious hospitality of our host and hostess August and Jutta as we listened to stories of their unfailing commitment to justice and peace;
-- in the stained-glass windows of the restored cathedrals;
-- in the compassionate response from a pharmacist who assisted my husband with his tick bite;
-- in our learning more about the Berlin Wall and the horrendous experiences that our guides Andreas and Christian, and hundreds of thousands of others, endured at the hands of the post-war Communist government;
-- in our listening to the trials and tribulations the Biskova family experienced as they remained faithful to Christ's teachings, fleeing to Scotland during the Soviet Union's takeover of Czechoslovakia and losing their Czech citizenship;
-- in our remembering the sacrifices and persecutions of the Reformers who down through history sought to bring meaning to the Gospel;
-- in our visit to the Dachau concentration camp, where shivers ran up and down our spines and caused us to pause and wonder, "Where is God's grace in the destruction of human lives?"
And then we remembered:
-- August and Jutta;
-- Andreas and Christian;
-- the Biskova family;
-- thousands of people who had an unshakable trust in God's redeeming love and thus found the courage to publicly join in praying for justice and peace.
And we also remembered those who courageously spoke out against the Nazis and later the Communists, helping others as best they could. Herein lies the grace of God.
Praise and thanksgiving for the One who always stands by us, who always defends us against our adversaries, and who always is near to us no matter where we go or what we do. Thanks be to God.
God's Plan
Fanny Seville
Philippians 2:5-11
One April 1st morning my husband came to the breakfast table dressed in his underwear with a handsome tie wrapped around his neck. The children wondered why their father, like the emperor, was not wearing clothes. All three sat startled when he informed them that this was his attire for the day. "You're going to work dressed like that?" our oldest asked. Giggles could be heard from the other children. And then even more exuberant laughter resounded when their father exclaimed, "April Fool's!"
Laughter is good for the soul. It stimulates the heart and makes us feel good. Probably all of us have played an April Fool's joke on a friend or family member or have had someone play a joke on us. Most of us find great enjoyment in catching others in an April Fool's joke.
"Oh look, Mom, your shoe is untied... April Fool's!"
"Hey Dad, did you look out the window this morning? You have a flat tire... April Fool's!"
"Oh no, it's snowing," says a grandfather to his grandchildren. "Looks like there won't be school today... April Fool's!"
"Did you use your tie for a napkin this morning?" a co-worker might ask. "You have something spilled on it... April Fool's!"
Before Pope Gregory adopted the Gregorian calendar, New Year's Day in France was celebrated on April 1st. After the adoption of the calendar, the holiday was moved to January 1st. As with any change, some insisted on continuing to celebrate the new year on April 1st. These resisters became known as April Fools. Over 400 years have passed since New Year's Day was changed from April 1st, but this fun-filled day known as April Fool's Day remains a happy occasion for many children and adults.
Nowhere in the Bible are people mentioned as April Fools. However, many actions of fools for God are recorded.
Consider Abraham's willingness to follow God's command to sacrifice Isaac, his only son born to Sarah when she was 90 years old! Abraham obeyed God, taking Isaac to a mountain and offering him as a burnt offering.
"Fool... Abraham, you are a fool," some would say. But God had a plan!
Sacrificing Isaac was only a test -- a test of Abraham's obedience to God. Seeing Abraham's willingness to submit, God told him not to harm Isaac. With these words God blessed Abraham: "I will make your offspring as numerous as the stars of heaven and as the sand that is on the seashore" (Genesis 22:17b). God had a plan!
Or consider the story of Ruth, the Moabite who left her family and homeland to travel with her mother-in-law to a foreign country.
"Fool... Ruth, you are a fool," some would say. But God had a plan!
Ruth would marry Boaz, and God would bless their marriage with a son who "became the father of Jesse, the father of David" (Ruth 4:17c). Often Jesus was referred to as the son of David. God had a plan!
Or consider the young virgin from Nazareth who one day found herself expecting a baby. An unwed mother in those days would not only bring disgrace upon her family but upon her fiancÈ as well. Townsfolk would mock her and shun her. She would become an outcast. Many such thoughts must have flashed through Mary's mind when she became pregnant. Instead of running away, Mary listened to the angel's message.
"Fool... Mary, you are a fool," some would say. But God had a plan!
God sent an angel to Joseph in a dream, saying: "Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary as your wife, for the child conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will bear a son, and you are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins" (Matthew 1:20b-21). God had a plan!
Or consider the motley group of men who left their homes, families, and friends to follow an itinerant preacher who had no resources to offer signing bonuses, benefits, or traveling expenses.
"Fools...You guys are really fools," some would say. But God had a plan!
From this diverse gang of followers, who disappointed Jesus, denied ever knowing him, and disbelieved that he had risen from the dead, came a faith so strong that an institution was established that has lasted over 2,000 years -- the Church of Jesus Christ. God had a plan!
Today, Christians around the world proclaim together with Paul: "Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father" (Philippians 2:9-11).
And that's no April Fool's... it's God's plan! Thanks be to God.
Fanny Lee Seville is a retired educator who devoted her entire career to teaching children with disabilities and "at risk" high school students. She is a lifelong member of the United Church of Christ, and has served in many capacities at the local, conference, and national levels. Fanny is married to Jack Seville, Conference Minister Emeritus of the UCC's Northern Plains Conference. She is the author of Sing Stories of Jesus, a children's music book of 25 biblical stories in song.
Acts of God
Scott Dalgarno
It was the first orange and white wedding Chase ever officiated. The bride was a knockout; a vision in reflector tape and hard-hat. Her dress was traditional enough, but the state highway department insisted it dictate her accessories. Haley didn't mind a bit. She was a flagger, and so was Skip. Thirty-five bucks an hour and triple-time if they worked Sundays. Great money. Chase thought it would bore him to tears.
They loved it -- wind, fog, cranky people in RVs... nothing fazed them. Said it was their life. Said they didn't want another thing more. Said they wanted to have the wedding right there, smack in the middle of 101, so everyone they knew and cared about could come.
It wasn't a ceremony Chase was exactly dying to do. It was one of those where the bride's mother called, out of the blue, saying that she had dropped her daughter off at the church once about 20 years ago for Vacation Bible School, and that had been the closest thing to a brush with God they had ever known, and wouldn't he be "a dear" and help her daughter "do the right thing"? Chase couldn't come up with a conflict, so reluctantly he agreed to see the couple.
Chase wasn't particularly high on marriage at the time. His own was okay. Not vital, maybe, but fine. He and Lorraine had settled into something so comfortable and predictable it couldn't be said to be passionate, but it wasn't liable to fall apart soon, either. It was Chase's daughter's impending marriage that had him stymied.
Carol had had a disaster of a marriage the first time out. She had been head over heels in love with the man. It was a hard one to understand. They seemed to have had so much in common. They came from similar backgrounds, his parents were supportive, but just months in, the wheels quickly came off. Now, after five years of being single Carol was about to try again, this time with a man who was 15 years older and whose background and lifestyle were so radically different from hers. It made her father crazy. Carol acknowledged all this, saying that she had thought compatibility and habits had mattered before she'd jumped into her first marriage. Then she just laughed. It was a knowing kind of laughter that disturbed Chase, and also filled him with a certain respect for this mature woman who he had raised but who had always dwelt in her own world.
Chase didn't think he understood Skip and Haley any better. The premarital session went pretty well. There were definitely moments of light and lots of laughter. He told them he'd feel better about their chances of making a go of it if they had more definite plans for the future. Neither seemed the least bit bothered by the issue.
Chase told them what crazy jobs they had, nature being what it is; moving from one washed-out section of coastal road to another, year after year, dependent on acts of God for their living. Skip said, "You should talk, pastor." The young man had a point.
The wedding day came -- soggy, foggy, and therefore perfect by coastal standards. Chase did it as ordered, right there on the highway over the broken yellow. Road work went right on from my "welcome" to the benediction, but there were enough walkie-talkies for everyone to hear. Then they partied, with Skip's mother ladling the punch and Haley herself cutting little squares of carrot cake for everyone -- I mean everyone, including motorists who hung on all through the "I do"s. Where could they go?
"Whatcha doin' for a honeymoon?" Chase asked.
"Just a couple days, here at the beach," Haley said. "Haven't made any plans. Never do. Too many friends right here."
Honestly, Chase felt sorry for them at first. Not even a weekend in Hawaii? But sizing things up, it occurred to him that this might just be all that a marriage was meant to be at the start. That a marriage may not be about two folks, goo-goo-eyed at first, dreaming big, then settling for bigger houses and bigger jobs in bigger cities, until they sicken of it all -- and one another.
No, maybe it might just be about building on what nature has a habit of washing out: hair, and teeth, and dreams you knew probably weren't going anywhere anyway. Maybe it's not about what you come up with sitting with Charles Schwab, talking about your life in 40 years, when neither you, nor your spouse, nor the world, will look anything like you could imagine anyway.
Maybe it's about what comes up when the storm arrives, as it always does, and the road goes out, and the surf pounds out the side of a hill, and you come to see what bedrock really looks like; all black and shining in the Pacific mist like flint. Maybe it's making your peace with the weather; all of it, fair and foul. Maybe it's staying close to the people who brought you together in the first place, and realizing that any marriage worth its saltwater is about way more than just two people who think love alone is all they'll ever need.
Chase was entering that part of life where everything was under re-examination. All that he had felt so sure about years before was shrouded now in fog. What surprised him was... he felt okay about it. Humility had never been his strong suit, and now it was what he ate for breakfast every morning.
Home from the wedding, he decided to call Carol. He was wondering what she and Harlan, her fiance, might think of a gift of a weekend at the beach.
Scott Dalgarno is pastor of First Presbyterian Church of Ashland, Oregon. He is also an adjunct professor at Southern Oregon University, where he teaches Film and Ethics. His poetry, essays, and stories have appeared in numerous publications, including The Christian Century, America: The National Catholic Weekly, The Antioch Review, and Alive Now.
Cracked Pots
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 31:9-16
All my life I've felt sorry for broken things -- plates, cups, shoelaces, toys, tools, whatever comes to hand that has done a job or fulfilled some purpose in my reality and is now useless because of a chip or a crack or any of the other flaws that lead us to throw things away. We live in a disposal-oriented culture. If it doesn't work, dump it. That always bothered me, because I wondered, how does the cup feel? How does it feel to be something useful and appreciated, and suddenly, because of clumsiness or carelessness or age, now be worth little but a trip to the trash can?
I think we all feel that way too often. We fear being useless. We fear wearing out our welcome, our edge, our effectiveness. Sometimes we are ill-used. Sometimes we are neglected and unappreciated. Sometimes we are just worn out. But in the end we are less than central to the goings-on around us. We might get a nod and a smile if we're lucky, but folks have better things to do.
My father, who was a pastor, told me never to go back to one of my former parishes. He said you're not as important to them as you thought you were, and worse, you're not as important to them as they thought you were. Your presence only creates disappointment all around -- you're a worn-out cup.
This last year I got the news that I have a back resembling that of a retired football player. If I intend to keep mobile I need to be careful. Some things I just can't do anymore. I'm a cracked pot. In spite of the fact people have known that for years, I had a momentary flash of a sense of uselessness. I don't want to be less than vital and central and right there ready to go.
But "I am forgotten as a dead man out of mind: I am like a broken vessel."
Holding on to our sense of worth in the midst of loss has to be founded in something other than capability. I'm afraid we have to trust in something or someone who treasures us (even more than our fans). "Thou art my God. My times are in thy hand."
Gorilla glue helps, too.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Why Bother With Church?
David Leininger
...not neglecting to meet together, as is the habit of some...
Hebrews 10:25a
Two fellows were out fishing on a Sunday morning. As they sat quietly in their boat in the middle of the lake, the sound of church bells could be heard in the distance. One fellow said to the other, "I feel a little bit guilty about being out here instead of being in church. Don't you?"
His friend replied, "Naw, I don't feel guilty. My wife wasn't feeling well this morning, so I wouldn't have been able to go to church anyway."
Another story... A young lad was late getting to worship. After the service the pastor greeted him and inquired as to why he had been late. With little hesitation, the boy said that he was going to go fishing until his dad told him no. Although disappointed that the boy would even consider going fishing instead of coming to church, the minister affirmed the father's wise choice. Then he asked, "Where's your dad?"
The lad answered quickly, "He said there wasn't enough bait for both of us to go fishing, so he went alone."
Fishing on Sunday morning... or golf... or the beach or the mountains. Happens all the time. If absence makes the heart grow fonder, some people must dearly LOVE their church.
"And what denomination are you?"
"I'm a Seventh Day ABSENTIST!"
What is the big deal about coming from week to week anyway? A few years ago, no less a leading light than Minnesota's Governor Jesse Ventura declared in a Playboy interview that "organized religion is a sham and a crutch for weak-minded people who need strength in numbers." Hmmm.
Why bother with church? There are lots of reasons to stay away. Church is not very entertaining: preachers can be pretty boring; the music is not exactly the hit parade; it takes time out of one of the few chances during the week when folks can just sit back and relax; there is every likelihood that you will be asked to take on some chore if you show up; and worst of all, they figure you should actually pay money for the privilege. The nerve of an outfit like that!
A mother wrote in Readers' Digest that she once asked her young son what was the highest number he had ever counted to. He replied, "537."
She asked, "Why did you stop there?"
He replied, "Church was over." Hmmm.
Some people do not bother with church because they think they are too good for it. They look at the folks who do come from week to week and see petty, back-biting gossips; they see businesspeople who worship every Sunday but whose ethics on Monday are no different from those who never darken the door; they read and hear of the excesses of the televangelists. They put all this together and then claim that the church is just a bunch of hypocrites -- and they do not want to be accused of being the same thing by joining in with them. Thank you!
At the other end of the spectrum are those who think they are not good enough for the church. They have gotten the message that unless they meet a certain social standard, unless they wear certain kinds of clothes, unless they drive certain kinds of cars, unless they live in a certain kind of home, unless they make a certain amount of money, we do not want them. If they have ever had any kind of marital difficulties or problems with the law, we would prefer they stay away. And for that matter, if they are already members of the fellowship and some problem comes to light, we would just as soon throw them out. It has been said, "The church is the only organization in history that shoots its wounded." Churches sometimes can be exceedingly cold, and that is sad.
So why should someone bother with church? No question that the church is not all that it ought to be. Still, it is tremendously more than any other organization has ever been.
Millions of lives have been changed by the message preached and taught in the church through the years. People have been challenged to reach new heights in their relationships to both God and neighbor. Christian missionaries have gone to the far reaches of the globe sharing the gospel as they healed the sick, taught people how to read and write, brought new and better tools for the improvement of life.
How many great institutions of learning have been founded by the church? How many hospitals bear names like "Good Samaritan," "Baptist," "Methodist," "Presbyterian"? How many day care centers, soup kitchens, and retirement homes are operated by churches? How many millions have been raised for disaster relief? How many hours of private counseling have been sought? To whom do people finally come when they realize the bankruptcy of their lives before a holy and righteous God? There is no question that more could have been and can be done, that there have been occasional horrible aberrations, but no other organization anywhere at anytime has done nearly as much as the church!
David E. Leininger is the pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Warren, Pennsylvania. His most recent book is A Color-Blind Church (CSS), the account of an intriguing match of two congregations -- one black, one white -- in a small community following the reunion of the northern and southern streams of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in 1983.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply click here share-a-story@csspub.com and email the story to us.
**************
StoryShare, April 1, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 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.
