Listening
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Listening" by Argile Smith
"Wreckage" by Keith Hewitt
"A Whirlwind Relationship" by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Listening to each other -- and to God -- is often extremely difficult for us. We have to let go of our pride and of our certainty that we know what's best. But as Argile Smith reminds us in this week's StoryShare, there's nothing more important in fostering good relationships, whether it's with friends, spouses, or (most importantly) God. This week's edition also includes a stunning piece from Keith Hewitt that takes us right into the depths of human sin. Even in the absolute worst that the human heart is capable of, and of ignoring, the Lord is there to bear our burdens and provide forgiveness. Finally, John Sumwalt puts the story of Elijah's ascension into a modern setting and provides some brief commentary on the miraculous aspects of it.
* * * * * * * * *
Listening
by Argile Smith
Mark 9:2-9; Psalm 50:1-6
Raymond and Sylvia's marriage seemed to be over, or at least that's the impression that both of them shared after their last argument. For almost 30 years, they had lived together as husband and wife, and at the beginning their relationship had been wonderful. They enjoyed each other's company, and they worked together to provide a loving home for their three children. But now they appeared to be arguing about everything.
In their fear that their marriage wouldn't survive another verbal outburst, they agreed that they needed to get some help, so they made an appointment to see their pastor. After one counseling session, their pastor referred them to Dr. Alexander, a well-qualified family counselor who had a long track record of success in helping couples get their marriage relationships back on track.
Sylvia made the appointment, and together she and Raymond made their way to the counselor's office with more anxiety than either of them wanted to admit to one another. Dr. Alexander greeted them at the door, and her warm smile and kindly ways calmed both of them. Almost immediately, their anxiety gave way to a sense of relief in the certainty that she would be able to help them get past their anger at one another. How they had prayed for someone to navigate them through the troubled waters of their marriage! They had no doubt that Dr. Alexander would serve as their compass and point them the way forward.
Not long into the session, Dr. Alexander asked Raymond some questions about Sylvia, and she found his replies rather curious. For instance, she asked him to describe Sylvia's personal longings. Raymond replied with a litany of ways in which he had tried to help her to feel more confident. He went on and on about her insecurities and his constant efforts to help her overcome them. Then he proceeded to provide in rather tedious detail how her insecurities had emerged from her dysfunctional family relationships.
After a few minutes, Dr. Alexander interrupted Raymond by asking, "Raymond, would you repeat the question I asked you about Sylvia?"
"Of course," he replied, "I'll be happy to do it. You asked me to talk about Sylvia's insecurities, and I thought that you might appreciate some background information that would help you to understand why she seems to be having so much trouble with me and our marriage."
"Sylvia," Dr. Alexander asked, "what are Raymond's longings?"
"To be honest," she said, "Raymond longs to tell me what's wrong with me and how I should fix myself."
Raymond chimed in at that point to defend himself. "That's not altogether true, Dr. Alexander. I've known this woman longer than anyone else, and I think that I have some insight into her mind and heart and some, well, advice that'll help her to be a better person, a better mother, and a better wife."
"Raymond!" Dr. Alexander snapped. "You've shown me one problem in your marriage already. You, sir, don't know how to listen to your wife. You hear her say things, but you don't listen to what she's saying. And I have a hunch that you don't listen to anybody else, either. I asked you to repeat the question I put to you about Sylvia's longings, but you didn't. Instead, you told me what you wanted me to know about her. You were not listening to me. You were only waiting for your turn to talk. When you got your turn, you didn't give anyone else a turn. I had to shout you down to get you to hush."
Although she may have hurt Raymond's feelings at first, in the long run she helped him. In a session a few weeks later, she explained to him that in snapping at him, she wanted to get his attention in a way that he would remember for a long time to come. For too long, she added, he had allowed himself to yammer on and on to Sylvia and to ignore what she was trying to say to him. Barking at him in the first session gave her the opportunity to teach him how much he needed to work on his listening skills.
Apparently, Dr. Alexander's message to Raymond was loud and clear. He had gotten her point, and he had already begun to listen to Sylvia in a way that helped her. In turn, it helped their relationship. Dr. Alexander taught him how to listen to his wife with his eyes, his mind, his body, and his heart, as well as his ears.
God had to shout Peter down with the words "Listen to Him!" Otherwise, Peter would have kept on talking and missing the point of Jesus' transfiguration (Mark 9:2-9). When "the Mighty One, God, the Lord has spoken," we do well to hush and listen (Psalm 50:1-6).
Argile Smith is the pastor of First Baptist Church in Biloxi, Mississippi. He previously served as the vice president for advancement at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and as a preaching professor, chairman of the division of pastoral ministries, and director of the communications center at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (NOBTS). While at NOTBS, Smith regularly hosted the Gateway to Truth program on the FamilyNet television network. Smith's articles have been widely published in church periodicals, and he is the author or editor of four books.
Wreckage
by Keith Hewitt
2 Corinthians 4:3-6
"You've probably noticed the smell already," the corporal said, setting the captain's duffle bag on the bed. Dust puffed into the air and the springs squeaked a quick, rhythmic protest at the sudden load, then fell silent. The corporal switched on the single lamp on the table next to the bed, while the captain surveyed the room.
It was small -- bigger than a sleeper compartment, smaller than his bedroom on Columbus Street -- and may have aspired to being quaint, but fell short of the mark and ended up just looking shabby and worn. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off the wall in spots, exposing older layers of faded flower prints in some places, and flaking, mustard-colored plaster in others. There was a chair and a small round table by the window, and a battered pine dresser backed up against the far wall, with a cracked oval mirror hanging between two curved arms coming up from either side of the chest. The narrow bed, with its dusty quilt, and the nightstand and lamp completed the furnishings.
And a door. God, how long had it been since he'd had a door?
He nodded slightly; it would do. "You said something about a smell?" he replied.
"Yes, sir," the corporal answered slowly. "You must have noticed it. There's a trick to it, though."
The captain shook his head. "Ever heard of Joliet, Wisconsin, Corporal?"
"Huh? No, sir. I'm from Brooklyn."
"I grew up about two blocks from one of the biggest paper mills in the state. Grow up in a place like that, and you don't notice odors very much." He gestured. "I think it does something to the nose."
"You may think so, sir, but pardon me for pointing out you haven't been here for long yet." He pointed out the window. "That's what's saving you so far, sir." Division HQ had been set up in what used to be the mayor's office, across the town square. An American flag twitched fitfully on the flagpole outside, occasionally blowing straight out toward the left. "Wind's coming from the south right now, Captain," the corporal explained after giving him a few moments to puzzle it out. "If you want to open your window and air out some of the dust, now's the time. Soon enough the wind'll come around from the east, and then there'll be the devil to pay."
"As bad as that?" the captain wondered.
"Worse." The corporal shook his head, as though not believing himself. "I'm not a religious man, Captain, but I figure if Hell has a smell, it's that."
"How far away is it?"
"Little less than a mile east of here, through the woods -- the locals call it the Wald der Schaten. Right after we got here, and that smell just wouldn't go away, some of the boys started calling it Wald der Scheissen." The corporal smiled crookedly. "Means..."
"I know what it means, Corporal," the captain said quietly. "You were saying?"
The corporal went on, somewhat deflated. "The camp's a little over a mile by what they call a road, less by train or if you can pick your way through the woods. Don't recommend that, sir. Some of the werewolves have planted mines here and there. They don't have enough to do a really good job, but they can still plant enough to make us cautious. Blew up a little kid last week, gathering flowers for her mom."
"Stay out of the woods. Check. Anything else I should know?"
"No, sir. The locals are friendly enough, considering. Just keep your sidearm on you -- to be on the safe side."
The captain nodded and flashed a half-hearted smile. "I never go anywhere without it."
"Then you're good to go, sir." He looked at his watch. "Evening mess starts at 1600, runs 'til 1800. If you miss it, you can take your chances with the cook -- or the hausfrau here will put together something for you, if you ask. I think the officers usually slip her a few bucks, if she does. Or barter some food."
"Thank you, Corporal." He saluted. "You've been very helpful."
"Yes, sir. You're welcome, sir."
He closed the door after his escort, stood once again with his hands on his hips, and considered what to do next. The duffle bag beckoned to him from the bed, but there would be time enough to unpack later. The bed itself beckoned -- it had been a long ride by jeep, and the pain burning through his left ankle reminded him that it had been a long time since he'd put his leg up the way he had promised the doctors he would.
But still...
He took a pack of Camel cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one a little ways out of the pack, then put the pack to his mouth and finished pulling the cigarette out with his lips. He put them away, fished a Zippo lighter from his other pocket, and lit up, breathing deeply and letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "Johnny," he said softly, "you did not come here to sleep."
He unzipped the duffle bag, dug out the spare magazine for his pistol and slipped it into his jacket pocket, pulled out the pistol from the holster on his hip to make sure it was cocked and the safety was up, locking the hammer in place until it was swept down, then slid it back into the holster, making sure it was snug -- but not too snug.
There was a key to the door -- his door! -- on the dresser; he made sure it locked the door, then slipped it into his pocket as he left.
The little town had escaped all of the bombings and most of the fighting, with only a few scars here and there. But if the buildings were not damaged, the people seemed to be a different story. They hurried through the streets on any number of unknown errands, usually in ones and twos, and always averting their eyes, lowering their heads as they drew near. He stopped trying to exchange greetings in German and walked in silence through the streets, boots loud against the cobblestones, then crunching in slow rhythm as the cobblestones gave way to gravel.
Without conscious thought, his steps took him toward the rail line he knew would be there, slicing more or less straight through the countryside, touching the village's web of streets tangentially somewhere on the outskirts. He found the rails and stood for a moment at the crossing, facing east, then west. To the east, he could see the guard towers and buildings that were his reason for being there edging up to the track. To the west... hmm, to the west there was a siding, perhaps a hundred yards away, and on it crouched a handful of dark objects. From this distance he could not tell what they were -- only that they did not belong.
He struck out for the siding, walking along the railbed. Unnoticed, the breeze around him began to shift.
As he neared, the objects began to resolve into something he could identify -- but they still seemed out of place. When he was almost upon the first of them, he was no longer unsure of what they were, but how they got there was still a mystery. They were parts of the undercarriage of several railroad cars: massive wheels and axles, bits of frame, sagging together on the undamaged tracks. The smell of gasoline still lingered with the wreckage, and as he touched first the wheels and then part of a frame, his fingers came away covered in soot.
He crouched next to one set of four wheels, studied them, then studied the tracks beneath them -- still straight and true, if somewhat darker than the main line. When the pain in his ankle got to be too much, he straightened up, frowning as he tried to rub the soot off his hands with a handkerchief. "What kind of bomb would do that?" he wondered aloud.
"Zis was no bomb," a voice behind him said softly, almost sadly.
The captain whipped around at the sound, forcing his ankle to turn in ways that it was not meant to -- not yet, anyway. It gave out, rolled under him, and he staggered against the undercarriage, catching himself by grabbing one of the wheels and holding himself up. His other hand started to reach for his sidearm -- then stopped as he realized that he would already be dead if the speaker was a threat.
That judgment was confirmed as his eyes took in the man who had spoken: he was a good head shorter and about 40 years older than the captain, and they had not been kind years judging by the creases in the man's face. His hair was gray and his eyes were blue, behind thick lenses; he was dressed in shirt and slacks, and a worn frock coat. "Ich bin traurig." the newcomer apologized. "I did not mean to startle you."
"Dennoch taten Sie," the captain admitted. "Nevertheless, you did. I didn't hear you coming."
"Ich bin traurig," the man repeated. "I am sorry."
"Don't worry about it." He gestured toward the wreckage. "You said this was no bomb?"
The man shook his head mournfully. "This was the day before you Americans arrived. A locomotive left these freight cars on the siding during the night. Morning came, and we could hear the big guns in the distance. We all knew it was a matter of time."
"Yes?"
The man moved closer, choosing his steps carefully, and approached the wreckage, laying one hand on a wheel. "The SS came in a truck, from over there." He gestured east with his other hand. "They got out of the truck and machine-gunned the freight cars, from one end to the other." He held up both hands, formed as a man might hold a sub-machinegun. "Bang-bang-bang, one end to the other. And when they were done, three of them came into the village and commandeered all of the petrol we had left. They poured it on the cars, and started them on fire. They left when the cars were all burning."
A tingle spread along the captain's spine, radiated out to his arms and legs, and made him shiver despite the spring warmth. He willed himself still, licked his lips, and asked, "What was in the freight cars?"
The villager shrugged. "You know."
"You tell me." There was a sharpness to his voice that he didn't put there.
"You know," the man repeated, as though to give voice to it would make it worse. He stood, stared stubbornly at the captain for a moment or two, then sat down suddenly on one of the axles. "The children were the worst," he said softly, not looking up but staring instead at some spot on his soul. "The bullets, they mostly went high, from here up," he gestured to his chest. "I think they wanted to be sure no adults went unwounded. They wanted no one trying to get out. Most of the children were not hurt by the bullets. I still..." He fell silent.
The wind was from the east now, and the captain began to understand what the corporal had meant. And as it slipped through the village, as it rustled the leaves and swept through the tall grass, did it carry something else, something besides the odor? Could he hear the sounds the old man had heard -- faint, but not faint enough?
"You Americans made us clean it up after you came. We cleaned it up and put the -- the bodies on trucks, to be hauled to that place." He gestured east again. "It was not fit work for civilians, but they made us do it anyway. They said they didn't want anyone to say they didn't know what had happened." He looked up then, and the lost, anguished look reminded the captain of an injured dog he had found once someplace in France. St. Lo? Wherever. It was badly hurt, and there had been nothing he could do for it, except the obvious.
"So now you know," the captain said simply.
"We always knew, Mein herr. Always, in here." The old man tapped his chest. "We did not talk about it, even in whispers. Even with our wives and children. If we talked about it, we would make it real. But we knew. You can't live this close -- you can't breathe in the stench of death, day after day, year after year -- and not know."
"I see."
"This..." he gestured at the siding, "just made us get our hands as dirty as our souls already were." He sat silently for a time, then finally stirred and said, "Are you a religious man, Mein Herr?"
"I went to church some," the captain admitted. "Not enough to satisfy my parents, but enough for me."
"Then maybe you will understand. Of all the sins that mankind has discovered over all the years, the worst is this: the ability to ignore evil." He leaned forward and held his head in his hands; his voice was muffled, and the captain had to struggle to hear and translate for himself. "If I could look upon everything that has happened and say that evil men did evil things, in the dark of night, away from our sight, I could be outraged. But I look upon everything that has happened and know that we lived for years with the smell and the boxcars that cried in the night. We huddled in our houses while children screamed out their last moments on earth here -- here on this very spot. And I wonder how, and why... and it makes me sick to my stomach."
The captain watched the old man, said nothing for a time -- what was there to say? At last, he said softly, "I remember my father said once that when the sins we carry are too much to bear, there's someone else who can do the lifting for us. I went to church enough to understand that."
"Maybe," the old man said quietly, "maybe. But they are so many, and they are so heavy."
"For us, maybe. But my father would say all you have to do is ask."
"Your father sounds like a good man, Mein Herr, but he would not know of this. This burden is heavy, so very heavy." He trailed off, tangled in the razor wire of memories. After a time, the old man raised his head and said plaintively, "I just ask you to believe this, Mein Herr: We were not monsters here. We were just cowards."
The captain considered this, started to speak, hesitated, then shrugged and shook his head. "Monsters and cowards -- sometimes they're the same thing."
The man stared at him, and he looked back in silence; there did not seem to be anything else to say. He turned away, left him sitting on the charred axle, and walked back toward town. He was almost there when a single sharp, flat snap! echoed across the grass. The sound brought him up short, and he hesitated...
Then, without looking back at the siding and the wreckage that lay there, he resumed walking. The wind had a chill to it, and smelled of death as he carried his own burdens back to town.
They were not quite so heavy, yet, and who knew? Maybe time would lessen their weight.
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.
A Whirlwind Relationship
by John Sumwalt
2 Kings 2:1-18
As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind into heaven.
-- 2 Kings 2:11
The day came when Elijah was to be taken "up to heaven by a whirlwind." The great prophet tells his understudy, Elisha, to remain in Gilgal while he goes ahead to Bethel for the big send-off. But Elisha refuses, saying, "As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you."
When they arrive at Bethel they are greeted by a delegation from the local Junior Prophets Association (JPs), who ask Elisha if he is aware of what is about to happen. He says yes and bids them to "be silent." Again Elijah tells Elisha to stay put because God is now sending him to Jericho. And again Elisha talks back to his mentor: "Nothing doing. As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you."
So they went on to Jericho, and as at Bethel, the local JPs met them and asked Elisha the same question their Bethel brothers had asked. Did he know that this was the day God would take his master away from him? Elisha says, "I know, I know, keep quiet!" Once more Elijah announces another destination -- this time God is sending him to the Jordan -- and as before he wants Elisha to remain behind. Yet again his stubborn protégé says, "As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you."
So they went on together, and this time no less than 50 of the JPs tagged along. When they came to the Jordan, the parade came to a full and final stop. The JPs watched from a safe distance as Elijah "took his mantle, rolled it up, and struck the water; the water was parted to the one side and to the other, until the two of them crossed on dry ground." The Hebrew storyteller doesn't say, but we might assume that this little repeat of Exodus history was not lost on the boys in the JPs. Surely they knew they were about to witness something monumental. When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha: "Tell me what I may do for you, before I am taken from you."
Elisha said, "Please let me inherit a double portion of your spirit."
Elijah responded, "You have asked a hard thing; yet if you see me as I am being taken from you, it will be granted you; if not, it will not." As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind to heaven.
Elisha kept watching and crying out, "Father, father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!" But when he could no longer see him, he grasped his own clothes and tore them in two pieces (2 Kings 2:1-12).
Elisha did indeed inherit a double portion of Elijah's spirit. And his first Elijah-like act of power was another Exodus redux. He took the mantle of the great prophet, struck the waters of the Jordan, and walked across on dry ground. There can be no doubt that he is now in the big leagues, a sure pick to be nominated to the prophets hall of fame.
The 50 big-eyed JPs who had watched all of this were now humming "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." They could hum a little of the tune, but they still couldn't sing with the big boys. They wanted to send a search party out looking for Elijah, just in case he landed on some mountain or ended up in a ditch. Elisha was against it, but they pestered him and pestered him until he began to worry. What if they were right? He didn't want to be the one to leave poor old 'Lije hanging out there in a tree somewhere, so he said, "Okay already, go look if you have to!" All 50 of them looked high and low for three days and could find no sign of the great prophet anywhere. When they reported back, Elisha gave them that major-prophet look of exasperation and said, "Didn't I tell you?" (2 Kings 2:13-18).
* * *
Comments on the Transfiguration and the Ascension
The disciples were clearly in the "Elisha seat" at the ascension of Jesus, though they were about to receive the mantle without having to ask. Jesus tells them to stay put in Jerusalem, where in a few days they would be "baptized by the Holy Spirit," "clothed with power from on high," and become "witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth" (Luke 24:49b, Acts 1:4-8).
Then, like Elisha, the disciples gaze in wonder at a miraculous, metaphysical event involving the movement of a human being from one dimension to another, similar to what some of them had witnessed at the transfiguration. They are left standing, looking up with their mouths open, not quite comprehending what they have just seen. What do you do after you see something like that? What words do you employ to describe a phenomenon unlike anything you or anyone else on earth has ever seen, and who would they tell? Who would believe it? And, what do we do with this story in the 21st century?
Very likely we will do nothing with it until we come to believe something extraordinary really happened on that day: that ascensions, though exceedingly rare, are possible in the natural order of things, and that the ascension of Jesus, like all of his miracles and his resurrection, are not supernatural, but extraordinary natural events that open our eyes to a dimension of reality that we have heretofore been unable to see or participate in. This is not to say that Jesus has created a new reality, but rather that he has prompted us to wake up and see what has always been there.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. John is the author of nine books, including How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It (CSS, 2007), from which this story and accompanying comments are excerpted. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt are former co-editors of StoryShare.
**************
StoryShare, February 22, 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
"Listening" by Argile Smith
"Wreckage" by Keith Hewitt
"A Whirlwind Relationship" by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Listening to each other -- and to God -- is often extremely difficult for us. We have to let go of our pride and of our certainty that we know what's best. But as Argile Smith reminds us in this week's StoryShare, there's nothing more important in fostering good relationships, whether it's with friends, spouses, or (most importantly) God. This week's edition also includes a stunning piece from Keith Hewitt that takes us right into the depths of human sin. Even in the absolute worst that the human heart is capable of, and of ignoring, the Lord is there to bear our burdens and provide forgiveness. Finally, John Sumwalt puts the story of Elijah's ascension into a modern setting and provides some brief commentary on the miraculous aspects of it.
* * * * * * * * *
Listening
by Argile Smith
Mark 9:2-9; Psalm 50:1-6
Raymond and Sylvia's marriage seemed to be over, or at least that's the impression that both of them shared after their last argument. For almost 30 years, they had lived together as husband and wife, and at the beginning their relationship had been wonderful. They enjoyed each other's company, and they worked together to provide a loving home for their three children. But now they appeared to be arguing about everything.
In their fear that their marriage wouldn't survive another verbal outburst, they agreed that they needed to get some help, so they made an appointment to see their pastor. After one counseling session, their pastor referred them to Dr. Alexander, a well-qualified family counselor who had a long track record of success in helping couples get their marriage relationships back on track.
Sylvia made the appointment, and together she and Raymond made their way to the counselor's office with more anxiety than either of them wanted to admit to one another. Dr. Alexander greeted them at the door, and her warm smile and kindly ways calmed both of them. Almost immediately, their anxiety gave way to a sense of relief in the certainty that she would be able to help them get past their anger at one another. How they had prayed for someone to navigate them through the troubled waters of their marriage! They had no doubt that Dr. Alexander would serve as their compass and point them the way forward.
Not long into the session, Dr. Alexander asked Raymond some questions about Sylvia, and she found his replies rather curious. For instance, she asked him to describe Sylvia's personal longings. Raymond replied with a litany of ways in which he had tried to help her to feel more confident. He went on and on about her insecurities and his constant efforts to help her overcome them. Then he proceeded to provide in rather tedious detail how her insecurities had emerged from her dysfunctional family relationships.
After a few minutes, Dr. Alexander interrupted Raymond by asking, "Raymond, would you repeat the question I asked you about Sylvia?"
"Of course," he replied, "I'll be happy to do it. You asked me to talk about Sylvia's insecurities, and I thought that you might appreciate some background information that would help you to understand why she seems to be having so much trouble with me and our marriage."
"Sylvia," Dr. Alexander asked, "what are Raymond's longings?"
"To be honest," she said, "Raymond longs to tell me what's wrong with me and how I should fix myself."
Raymond chimed in at that point to defend himself. "That's not altogether true, Dr. Alexander. I've known this woman longer than anyone else, and I think that I have some insight into her mind and heart and some, well, advice that'll help her to be a better person, a better mother, and a better wife."
"Raymond!" Dr. Alexander snapped. "You've shown me one problem in your marriage already. You, sir, don't know how to listen to your wife. You hear her say things, but you don't listen to what she's saying. And I have a hunch that you don't listen to anybody else, either. I asked you to repeat the question I put to you about Sylvia's longings, but you didn't. Instead, you told me what you wanted me to know about her. You were not listening to me. You were only waiting for your turn to talk. When you got your turn, you didn't give anyone else a turn. I had to shout you down to get you to hush."
Although she may have hurt Raymond's feelings at first, in the long run she helped him. In a session a few weeks later, she explained to him that in snapping at him, she wanted to get his attention in a way that he would remember for a long time to come. For too long, she added, he had allowed himself to yammer on and on to Sylvia and to ignore what she was trying to say to him. Barking at him in the first session gave her the opportunity to teach him how much he needed to work on his listening skills.
Apparently, Dr. Alexander's message to Raymond was loud and clear. He had gotten her point, and he had already begun to listen to Sylvia in a way that helped her. In turn, it helped their relationship. Dr. Alexander taught him how to listen to his wife with his eyes, his mind, his body, and his heart, as well as his ears.
God had to shout Peter down with the words "Listen to Him!" Otherwise, Peter would have kept on talking and missing the point of Jesus' transfiguration (Mark 9:2-9). When "the Mighty One, God, the Lord has spoken," we do well to hush and listen (Psalm 50:1-6).
Argile Smith is the pastor of First Baptist Church in Biloxi, Mississippi. He previously served as the vice president for advancement at William Carey University in Hattiesburg, Mississippi, and as a preaching professor, chairman of the division of pastoral ministries, and director of the communications center at New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary (NOBTS). While at NOTBS, Smith regularly hosted the Gateway to Truth program on the FamilyNet television network. Smith's articles have been widely published in church periodicals, and he is the author or editor of four books.
Wreckage
by Keith Hewitt
2 Corinthians 4:3-6
"You've probably noticed the smell already," the corporal said, setting the captain's duffle bag on the bed. Dust puffed into the air and the springs squeaked a quick, rhythmic protest at the sudden load, then fell silent. The corporal switched on the single lamp on the table next to the bed, while the captain surveyed the room.
It was small -- bigger than a sleeper compartment, smaller than his bedroom on Columbus Street -- and may have aspired to being quaint, but fell short of the mark and ended up just looking shabby and worn. The flowered wallpaper was peeling off the wall in spots, exposing older layers of faded flower prints in some places, and flaking, mustard-colored plaster in others. There was a chair and a small round table by the window, and a battered pine dresser backed up against the far wall, with a cracked oval mirror hanging between two curved arms coming up from either side of the chest. The narrow bed, with its dusty quilt, and the nightstand and lamp completed the furnishings.
And a door. God, how long had it been since he'd had a door?
He nodded slightly; it would do. "You said something about a smell?" he replied.
"Yes, sir," the corporal answered slowly. "You must have noticed it. There's a trick to it, though."
The captain shook his head. "Ever heard of Joliet, Wisconsin, Corporal?"
"Huh? No, sir. I'm from Brooklyn."
"I grew up about two blocks from one of the biggest paper mills in the state. Grow up in a place like that, and you don't notice odors very much." He gestured. "I think it does something to the nose."
"You may think so, sir, but pardon me for pointing out you haven't been here for long yet." He pointed out the window. "That's what's saving you so far, sir." Division HQ had been set up in what used to be the mayor's office, across the town square. An American flag twitched fitfully on the flagpole outside, occasionally blowing straight out toward the left. "Wind's coming from the south right now, Captain," the corporal explained after giving him a few moments to puzzle it out. "If you want to open your window and air out some of the dust, now's the time. Soon enough the wind'll come around from the east, and then there'll be the devil to pay."
"As bad as that?" the captain wondered.
"Worse." The corporal shook his head, as though not believing himself. "I'm not a religious man, Captain, but I figure if Hell has a smell, it's that."
"How far away is it?"
"Little less than a mile east of here, through the woods -- the locals call it the Wald der Schaten. Right after we got here, and that smell just wouldn't go away, some of the boys started calling it Wald der Scheissen." The corporal smiled crookedly. "Means..."
"I know what it means, Corporal," the captain said quietly. "You were saying?"
The corporal went on, somewhat deflated. "The camp's a little over a mile by what they call a road, less by train or if you can pick your way through the woods. Don't recommend that, sir. Some of the werewolves have planted mines here and there. They don't have enough to do a really good job, but they can still plant enough to make us cautious. Blew up a little kid last week, gathering flowers for her mom."
"Stay out of the woods. Check. Anything else I should know?"
"No, sir. The locals are friendly enough, considering. Just keep your sidearm on you -- to be on the safe side."
The captain nodded and flashed a half-hearted smile. "I never go anywhere without it."
"Then you're good to go, sir." He looked at his watch. "Evening mess starts at 1600, runs 'til 1800. If you miss it, you can take your chances with the cook -- or the hausfrau here will put together something for you, if you ask. I think the officers usually slip her a few bucks, if she does. Or barter some food."
"Thank you, Corporal." He saluted. "You've been very helpful."
"Yes, sir. You're welcome, sir."
He closed the door after his escort, stood once again with his hands on his hips, and considered what to do next. The duffle bag beckoned to him from the bed, but there would be time enough to unpack later. The bed itself beckoned -- it had been a long ride by jeep, and the pain burning through his left ankle reminded him that it had been a long time since he'd put his leg up the way he had promised the doctors he would.
But still...
He took a pack of Camel cigarettes out of his pocket, tapped one a little ways out of the pack, then put the pack to his mouth and finished pulling the cigarette out with his lips. He put them away, fished a Zippo lighter from his other pocket, and lit up, breathing deeply and letting the smoke curl out of his nostrils. "Johnny," he said softly, "you did not come here to sleep."
He unzipped the duffle bag, dug out the spare magazine for his pistol and slipped it into his jacket pocket, pulled out the pistol from the holster on his hip to make sure it was cocked and the safety was up, locking the hammer in place until it was swept down, then slid it back into the holster, making sure it was snug -- but not too snug.
There was a key to the door -- his door! -- on the dresser; he made sure it locked the door, then slipped it into his pocket as he left.
The little town had escaped all of the bombings and most of the fighting, with only a few scars here and there. But if the buildings were not damaged, the people seemed to be a different story. They hurried through the streets on any number of unknown errands, usually in ones and twos, and always averting their eyes, lowering their heads as they drew near. He stopped trying to exchange greetings in German and walked in silence through the streets, boots loud against the cobblestones, then crunching in slow rhythm as the cobblestones gave way to gravel.
Without conscious thought, his steps took him toward the rail line he knew would be there, slicing more or less straight through the countryside, touching the village's web of streets tangentially somewhere on the outskirts. He found the rails and stood for a moment at the crossing, facing east, then west. To the east, he could see the guard towers and buildings that were his reason for being there edging up to the track. To the west... hmm, to the west there was a siding, perhaps a hundred yards away, and on it crouched a handful of dark objects. From this distance he could not tell what they were -- only that they did not belong.
He struck out for the siding, walking along the railbed. Unnoticed, the breeze around him began to shift.
As he neared, the objects began to resolve into something he could identify -- but they still seemed out of place. When he was almost upon the first of them, he was no longer unsure of what they were, but how they got there was still a mystery. They were parts of the undercarriage of several railroad cars: massive wheels and axles, bits of frame, sagging together on the undamaged tracks. The smell of gasoline still lingered with the wreckage, and as he touched first the wheels and then part of a frame, his fingers came away covered in soot.
He crouched next to one set of four wheels, studied them, then studied the tracks beneath them -- still straight and true, if somewhat darker than the main line. When the pain in his ankle got to be too much, he straightened up, frowning as he tried to rub the soot off his hands with a handkerchief. "What kind of bomb would do that?" he wondered aloud.
"Zis was no bomb," a voice behind him said softly, almost sadly.
The captain whipped around at the sound, forcing his ankle to turn in ways that it was not meant to -- not yet, anyway. It gave out, rolled under him, and he staggered against the undercarriage, catching himself by grabbing one of the wheels and holding himself up. His other hand started to reach for his sidearm -- then stopped as he realized that he would already be dead if the speaker was a threat.
That judgment was confirmed as his eyes took in the man who had spoken: he was a good head shorter and about 40 years older than the captain, and they had not been kind years judging by the creases in the man's face. His hair was gray and his eyes were blue, behind thick lenses; he was dressed in shirt and slacks, and a worn frock coat. "Ich bin traurig." the newcomer apologized. "I did not mean to startle you."
"Dennoch taten Sie," the captain admitted. "Nevertheless, you did. I didn't hear you coming."
"Ich bin traurig," the man repeated. "I am sorry."
"Don't worry about it." He gestured toward the wreckage. "You said this was no bomb?"
The man shook his head mournfully. "This was the day before you Americans arrived. A locomotive left these freight cars on the siding during the night. Morning came, and we could hear the big guns in the distance. We all knew it was a matter of time."
"Yes?"
The man moved closer, choosing his steps carefully, and approached the wreckage, laying one hand on a wheel. "The SS came in a truck, from over there." He gestured east with his other hand. "They got out of the truck and machine-gunned the freight cars, from one end to the other." He held up both hands, formed as a man might hold a sub-machinegun. "Bang-bang-bang, one end to the other. And when they were done, three of them came into the village and commandeered all of the petrol we had left. They poured it on the cars, and started them on fire. They left when the cars were all burning."
A tingle spread along the captain's spine, radiated out to his arms and legs, and made him shiver despite the spring warmth. He willed himself still, licked his lips, and asked, "What was in the freight cars?"
The villager shrugged. "You know."
"You tell me." There was a sharpness to his voice that he didn't put there.
"You know," the man repeated, as though to give voice to it would make it worse. He stood, stared stubbornly at the captain for a moment or two, then sat down suddenly on one of the axles. "The children were the worst," he said softly, not looking up but staring instead at some spot on his soul. "The bullets, they mostly went high, from here up," he gestured to his chest. "I think they wanted to be sure no adults went unwounded. They wanted no one trying to get out. Most of the children were not hurt by the bullets. I still..." He fell silent.
The wind was from the east now, and the captain began to understand what the corporal had meant. And as it slipped through the village, as it rustled the leaves and swept through the tall grass, did it carry something else, something besides the odor? Could he hear the sounds the old man had heard -- faint, but not faint enough?
"You Americans made us clean it up after you came. We cleaned it up and put the -- the bodies on trucks, to be hauled to that place." He gestured east again. "It was not fit work for civilians, but they made us do it anyway. They said they didn't want anyone to say they didn't know what had happened." He looked up then, and the lost, anguished look reminded the captain of an injured dog he had found once someplace in France. St. Lo? Wherever. It was badly hurt, and there had been nothing he could do for it, except the obvious.
"So now you know," the captain said simply.
"We always knew, Mein herr. Always, in here." The old man tapped his chest. "We did not talk about it, even in whispers. Even with our wives and children. If we talked about it, we would make it real. But we knew. You can't live this close -- you can't breathe in the stench of death, day after day, year after year -- and not know."
"I see."
"This..." he gestured at the siding, "just made us get our hands as dirty as our souls already were." He sat silently for a time, then finally stirred and said, "Are you a religious man, Mein Herr?"
"I went to church some," the captain admitted. "Not enough to satisfy my parents, but enough for me."
"Then maybe you will understand. Of all the sins that mankind has discovered over all the years, the worst is this: the ability to ignore evil." He leaned forward and held his head in his hands; his voice was muffled, and the captain had to struggle to hear and translate for himself. "If I could look upon everything that has happened and say that evil men did evil things, in the dark of night, away from our sight, I could be outraged. But I look upon everything that has happened and know that we lived for years with the smell and the boxcars that cried in the night. We huddled in our houses while children screamed out their last moments on earth here -- here on this very spot. And I wonder how, and why... and it makes me sick to my stomach."
The captain watched the old man, said nothing for a time -- what was there to say? At last, he said softly, "I remember my father said once that when the sins we carry are too much to bear, there's someone else who can do the lifting for us. I went to church enough to understand that."
"Maybe," the old man said quietly, "maybe. But they are so many, and they are so heavy."
"For us, maybe. But my father would say all you have to do is ask."
"Your father sounds like a good man, Mein Herr, but he would not know of this. This burden is heavy, so very heavy." He trailed off, tangled in the razor wire of memories. After a time, the old man raised his head and said plaintively, "I just ask you to believe this, Mein Herr: We were not monsters here. We were just cowards."
The captain considered this, started to speak, hesitated, then shrugged and shook his head. "Monsters and cowards -- sometimes they're the same thing."
The man stared at him, and he looked back in silence; there did not seem to be anything else to say. He turned away, left him sitting on the charred axle, and walked back toward town. He was almost there when a single sharp, flat snap! echoed across the grass. The sound brought him up short, and he hesitated...
Then, without looking back at the siding and the wreckage that lay there, he resumed walking. The wind had a chill to it, and smelled of death as he carried his own burdens back to town.
They were not quite so heavy, yet, and who knew? Maybe time would lessen their weight.
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.
A Whirlwind Relationship
by John Sumwalt
2 Kings 2:1-18
As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind into heaven.
-- 2 Kings 2:11
The day came when Elijah was to be taken "up to heaven by a whirlwind." The great prophet tells his understudy, Elisha, to remain in Gilgal while he goes ahead to Bethel for the big send-off. But Elisha refuses, saying, "As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you."
When they arrive at Bethel they are greeted by a delegation from the local Junior Prophets Association (JPs), who ask Elisha if he is aware of what is about to happen. He says yes and bids them to "be silent." Again Elijah tells Elisha to stay put because God is now sending him to Jericho. And again Elisha talks back to his mentor: "Nothing doing. As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you."
So they went on to Jericho, and as at Bethel, the local JPs met them and asked Elisha the same question their Bethel brothers had asked. Did he know that this was the day God would take his master away from him? Elisha says, "I know, I know, keep quiet!" Once more Elijah announces another destination -- this time God is sending him to the Jordan -- and as before he wants Elisha to remain behind. Yet again his stubborn protégé says, "As the Lord lives, and as you yourself live, I will not leave you."
So they went on together, and this time no less than 50 of the JPs tagged along. When they came to the Jordan, the parade came to a full and final stop. The JPs watched from a safe distance as Elijah "took his mantle, rolled it up, and struck the water; the water was parted to the one side and to the other, until the two of them crossed on dry ground." The Hebrew storyteller doesn't say, but we might assume that this little repeat of Exodus history was not lost on the boys in the JPs. Surely they knew they were about to witness something monumental. When they had crossed, Elijah said to Elisha: "Tell me what I may do for you, before I am taken from you."
Elisha said, "Please let me inherit a double portion of your spirit."
Elijah responded, "You have asked a hard thing; yet if you see me as I am being taken from you, it will be granted you; if not, it will not." As they continued walking and talking, a chariot of fire and horses of fire separated the two of them, and Elijah ascended in a whirlwind to heaven.
Elisha kept watching and crying out, "Father, father! The chariots of Israel and its horsemen!" But when he could no longer see him, he grasped his own clothes and tore them in two pieces (2 Kings 2:1-12).
Elisha did indeed inherit a double portion of Elijah's spirit. And his first Elijah-like act of power was another Exodus redux. He took the mantle of the great prophet, struck the waters of the Jordan, and walked across on dry ground. There can be no doubt that he is now in the big leagues, a sure pick to be nominated to the prophets hall of fame.
The 50 big-eyed JPs who had watched all of this were now humming "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot." They could hum a little of the tune, but they still couldn't sing with the big boys. They wanted to send a search party out looking for Elijah, just in case he landed on some mountain or ended up in a ditch. Elisha was against it, but they pestered him and pestered him until he began to worry. What if they were right? He didn't want to be the one to leave poor old 'Lije hanging out there in a tree somewhere, so he said, "Okay already, go look if you have to!" All 50 of them looked high and low for three days and could find no sign of the great prophet anywhere. When they reported back, Elisha gave them that major-prophet look of exasperation and said, "Didn't I tell you?" (2 Kings 2:13-18).
* * *
Comments on the Transfiguration and the Ascension
The disciples were clearly in the "Elisha seat" at the ascension of Jesus, though they were about to receive the mantle without having to ask. Jesus tells them to stay put in Jerusalem, where in a few days they would be "baptized by the Holy Spirit," "clothed with power from on high," and become "witnesses in Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to the ends of the earth" (Luke 24:49b, Acts 1:4-8).
Then, like Elisha, the disciples gaze in wonder at a miraculous, metaphysical event involving the movement of a human being from one dimension to another, similar to what some of them had witnessed at the transfiguration. They are left standing, looking up with their mouths open, not quite comprehending what they have just seen. What do you do after you see something like that? What words do you employ to describe a phenomenon unlike anything you or anyone else on earth has ever seen, and who would they tell? Who would believe it? And, what do we do with this story in the 21st century?
Very likely we will do nothing with it until we come to believe something extraordinary really happened on that day: that ascensions, though exceedingly rare, are possible in the natural order of things, and that the ascension of Jesus, like all of his miracles and his resurrection, are not supernatural, but extraordinary natural events that open our eyes to a dimension of reality that we have heretofore been unable to see or participate in. This is not to say that Jesus has created a new reality, but rather that he has prompted us to wake up and see what has always been there.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. John is the author of nine books, including How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It (CSS, 2007), from which this story and accompanying comments are excerpted. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt are former co-editors of StoryShare.
**************
StoryShare, February 22, 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.
