Man Of Discipline
Stories
Based on Revised Common Lectionary texts:
Passion/Palm Sunday
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Mark 14:1-15:47 or Mark 15:1-39 (40-47)
Maundy Thursday
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22
Hebrews 10:16-25
John 18:1-19:42
ContentsContents
What's Up This Week
A Meditation to Live By: "Why Me?" by C. David McKirachan
Shining Moments: "It's More Than a Hallmark Card" by Terry Cain
Palm Sunday: "Mea Culpa" by C. David McKirachan
Maundy Thursday: "Do This" by David O. Bales
"Don't Help Me!" by Terry Cain
Good Friday: "The Power of Push-Ups" by Chuck Cammarata
"Man of Discipline" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
This special, extended edition of StoryShare provides a variety of fascinating material for Holy Week. David McKirachan offers a pair of wry meditations -- one musing on his discomfort with the triumphalism of Palm Sunday, and the other detailing his own adolescent "psalm of lament." There are also several powerful stories for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, including pieces on the original Passover meal, the meaning of God's grace, and a moving monologue sharing the perspective of a hardened Roman soldier.
A Meditation to Live By
Why Me?
by C. David McKirachan
Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress... I am the scorn of all my adversaries, a horror to my neighbors, an object of dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me.... But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, "You are my God."
Psalm 31:9a, 11, 14
My family moved to a new town the night before I started high school. We had taken a trip out west that August. It was a great time, but on the way home I had a grand mal seizure. OK -- new town; I fall down and shake now; I take medicine that makes me feel like a water-logged post. Great way to begin the formative years of my adolescence. I could have written this psalm during the first few months of my sojourn there.
I look back on that time with some sympathy for the kid that struggled. Teenagers have enough to go through without extra troubles. I felt like a leper. I was convinced that everybody talked about me constantly. I was positive people changed their routines to make sure they didn't pass me on my way to school.
I don't think anybody's life is easy. Everybody's got idiosyncrasies that make us sure we are at least a geek and more likely a laughing stock. We feel alone in a world that hates us.
Just then, I happened to read Mary Stewart's novel The Crystal Cave about Merlin. It's a coming of age story. Stewart's Merlin is uncomfortable in his capability; it causes him all kinds of trouble. I grabbed that like a life preserver. I translated my sense of exclusion and discomfort into the divine fire that was forging my uniqueness. I was special. I needed to get used to it.
Our sense of self can't depend on the willingness of others to include us. If we are people of faith, we have to get used to standing alone. Surely our churches are valuable in giving us a place to stand other than alone, but faith often takes us out on edges that are more defined by God's call than what is fun or nice or popular or even approved of by those who surround us.
All of that said, faith or no faith, calling or no calling, magic or no magic, such edges aren't fun. It's cold and lonely out there. That's where these psalms of lament come in. We don't have to like it -- we just need to be faithful. And in the meantime we're allowed to share our pain.
It was then I began to listen to the whispering of the universe. It was then I began to write. And I began to sense the glory that flowed beneath all the nice, easy stuff on the surface. But I'll tell you, I would have given body parts for an invitation to a party.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University.
Shining Moments
It's More Than a Hallmark Card
by Terry Cain
What shall I return to the Lord for all his bounty to me? I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord...
Psalm 116:12-13
Rose and Liz had had a very good day, so Rose thought. Though it was Rose's birthday she had tried to make the day very special for her daughter, and Liz seemed to thoroughly enjoy the trip to the zoo and eating out at her favorite fast food place. Moreover, her eight-year-old daughter seemed to appreciate the simple fact that Rose had spent the entire day with her doing the things Liz liked. Rose might have chosen to spend her 29th birthday doing things other than what her daughter chose to do, but being with Liz and seeing her have a very special, fun day was priceless for Rose, no matter what they did. There were just the two of them, and with the move to a new community where Rose had landed a new teaching position, there wasn't any other family around and they hadn't much time to make new friends yet.
The strange part of it all was that something seemed to have changed for her daughter since that day. It wasn't that she was really sad or seemed depressed; however a change did seem to come over Liz. Her mother noticed that each morning for a few days Liz would come into her room with an expectant attitude and visit a little or just simply be quiet as her mother got dressed. Then Liz would leave the room, in what appeared to be a discouraged mood, and get herself dressed for school in her own room. Something seemed wrong with Liz, but her mother couldn't put her finger on it. Rose had asked casually once or twice if anything was bothering her daughter, but Liz always assured her things were fine. It didn't seem to be the move to a new place or the old friends she left behind and missed. Liz was happy with her new school and had quickly made three best friends. But this had been going on since her birthday three weeks ago.
Rose picked up her Bible for her habitual brief morning devotions and turned to Psalm 116, which her devotional guide had scheduled for that day. The Psalm was all about appreciating God's goodness and gifts to us. One of the verses she paused over was verse 12: "What can I offer the Lord for all his goodness to me?" How does one thank God besides saying thank you and really meaning it?
For some reason Rose's mind flashed back to her gift to one of her graduate professors she had felt very close to -- one who gave special attention to his students. Dr. London often had small groups of students -- four or five at a time -- into his home for coffee and informal visits. He had a way of showing he really cared about his students. When Rose graduated and was leaving college, she wanted to do something to show him how much she appreciated his classes and his kindness. Rose had just taken up oil painting as a hobby, and she saw an opportunity to thank Professor London by giving him one of her paintings. She gave him one of her first attempts, a pretty red autumn tree in a park. He thanked her, and during one last visit she and Liz paid Dr. London at his home she noticed that he had hung the painting in his dinning room.
She had thanked him with the painting, and he had thanked her by hanging it in a prominent place in his home. Later she began to think about it all. Dr. London was a lifelong bachelor in his late 60s. As she thought more about the situation, she began to realize that he was a very orderly man; perhaps he could even be described as persnickety. His home was manicured and always perfect. He took pride in his furnishings. The decor was impeccable. Everyone noticed and commented on his exceptional good taste. Soon it began to dawn on Rose that her painting was a very amateurish product and that perhaps it did not belong in the exquisitely decorated home Dr. London had created. The more she thought about it, the more uncomfortable she became. He had hung her picture to thank her. But was he comfortable with it? Probably not!
The same day as this epiphany, she returned home after her day of teaching to a second epiphany. She entered her apartment quietly enough that her daughter did not hear her come in. Liz was sitting on the couch with one of her new friends, Patty. Before Liz knew her mother had come into the apartment, Rose overheard her say to Patty, "It has been over three weeks, and she hasn't worn it yet."
It only took a moment for Rose to realize the problem: Liz had saved up her money for some time to buy her mother a beautiful sweater to give her on her 29th birthday. She had hung it in the closet and totally spaced it off. Only then did she remember the gift from her daughter. It all came to her now, and with tears in her eyes she realized that she should have thanked her daughter and shown her appreciation by wearing the new sweater. Feeling her own pain, she realized how her forgetfulness and neglect had hurt her daughter. The verse from her scripture reading that prompted her to remember her gift to Dr. London now came back to her with greater significance. How do we thank others and God? By lovingly using what they -- her daughter and God -- had given her!
Terry Cain is a retired United Methodist pastor, and the author of the CSS titles Shaking Wolves Out of Cherry Trees and Lions and Cows Dining Together.
Palm Sunday
Mea Culpa
by C. David McKirachan
Down through the years I noticed I was always grumpy and out of sorts on Palm Sunday. While the Sunday School was waving its palms and the congregation was getting all revved up for Easter, I would develop a galloping version of badly suppressed rage. Careful self-analysis led to a totally wrong conclusion. I patted myself on the head and told myself, "Self, you're tired. You've come through Lent and all the classes and preparation for Easter, the special worship services designed, set up, printed, etc., blah blah blah..."
Self was not convinced. There was something else going on under the old skin. One Palm Sunday a concerned parishioner took me aside after all the hoohah of the day and asked me, "Are you going to be able to get over your anger by next Sunday?"
It was one of those moments that leave even ministers speechless. It took me a while to process what they'd told me. But by Sunday evening I realized I was angry -- angry and hurt. But why should Palm Sunday make me angry and hurt? By Maundy Thursday I had moved away from unconscious to more focused.
There is something horrible about this day. It's the triumphalism of the idiots who surrounded Jesus. They all cheered and yelled and celebrated, and it had nothing to do with Him. They didn't care about Him. They didn't listen to Him, or know Him, or even see Him. They pushed ahead with their own agendas, without reference to truth or reality. They were not cheering for Him. They were cheering for the worst form of hypocrisy. They were cheering because they thought they had God on their side.
We don't like to face the truth that it was good people, nice people, church folks, who put the cross on Jesus' back and approved of the spikes in his hands and feet. On this day of palms and hosannas we celebrate while He cries. On this day our sin, our zeal for being right and good and winners, inspires us to march to the drum of militant Christianity. And He is silent riding on the foal of an ass.
Why do we refuse to pay attention to Him? Because nobody wants to accept a loser. How can we celebrate that? How can we make any sense of this guy who had it all and threw it away? That's not the Christ we want. That's not consistent with our self-image.
Yup. I'm angry. And it takes a week of fighting with Him tooth and nail about what He intends to do to get me to a place of acceptance where I can grieve. I don't think we're worth what He has done. I don't think I'm worth what He has done. I disagree with Him. So, I guess I'm guilty too. This acceptance stuff is painful. If I would preach the Good News, I better get used to the painful parts of it.
But every once in a while I still wish he would have fried a Pharisee or two. That's what I would have done. Ah, there's the rub.
Forgive me, Lord.
Maundy Thursday
Do This
by David O. Bales
Exodus 12:1-14
"I'm telling you what the Lord told Aaron and me," Moses said. "Now is the decisive moment. This time we'll gain our freedom; and we've been commanded to prepare for it by a meal. I've told you the particulars. It's not difficult." But as Moses repeated this, he felt the same resistance as when he'd said it the first time to these Hebrew field workers. He'd gathered them near their village at twilight as they returned home from tending Egypt's crops.
Men stood back a ways from the Lord's two leaders. They knew Moses and Aaron well, and listened respectfully. This pair of fellows had brought them a great deal of grief -- having to work harder, bricks without straw -- because these two had marched right in to Pharaoh's court and demanded he release the Hebrew workers.
Well, these Hebrews were exhausted. They'd toiled at Egypt's building projects and in Egypt's fields, and had been harassed, bullied, and maltreated until they felt only a breath away from dying. Their hopes climbed each time Pharaoh agreed to let them go; but then he didn't. They'd viewed Pharaoh's promises as if they were peering out their slavery's open prison door. But in the past, each time they'd gazed toward freedom the door slammed in their face.
When Moses had given the instructions the first time, no one spoke directly to him. It was late and no one could see well, everyone having worked until dusk. So a few of the men in the crowd just spoke to one another in response. "Not again." Or "We've followed them before and it hasn't worked." And "They've gotten us into more trouble...."
A man close to Aaron spoke. "I'm against it. We've been tossed around like rats in a dog's mouth. So far, nothing you've said worked to get us out of here. Why should we kill one of our best lambs, go through all the fuss with the blood and dinner, and trust that you know what you're talking about?"
Moses had realized the people's condition before he and Aaron came to deliver the Lord's message. But Moses continued, believing that in giving them something to do -- and not a terribly difficult thing -- that the Lord was providing them a physical means of bolstering their hope. Moses said, "Do this. It's not much, just a gathering of family and neighbors to eat a lamb whose blood is smeared on the doorposts and lintels of your house."
No one responded this time, just a hundred or so dusty men standing hopeless and hungry beyond the sun's last light.
"Just do this," Moses tried one more time. "Get the lamb on the 10th, keep it until the 14th, then slaughter it at twilight. Tie up your skirt around your waist, wear your sandals, even in the house, and have your walking staff at hand. This gets you ready to light out to freedom."
"It might get us ready for another beating," a man said. The crowd was growing around Moses and Aaron, as more work groups trudged in the darkness toward their evening meal. As each man arrived he heard the reason for the gathering from the man who arrived before him. The sweat of the day's work hung in the air like the smell of despair. Would these men go home and prepare their families as they were told? Would they carry out Moses' instructions, which sounded so bizarre? Would the Lord this time decisively smash Pharaoh's pride and Pharaoh's people?
Aaron stepped closer to Moses and spoke loudly, "Friends, you've been faithful. You've waited. You've hoped. You've been the ones who've suffered Pharaoh's wrath as he has fruitlessly struggled against the Lord."
"We sure have," came a voice from the men, and many grumbled their agreement.
"But this isn't much to do as you wait and hope one more time," Aaron said. "If you can't believe that the Lord will cast a final plague upon the Egyptians, at least take this one step for the rest of us. Don't destroy the faith and hope of the whole Hebrew people. You can do something that might help everyone. Moses and I ask you, for the sake of the faith of all the Hebrew people, to do this for them if not for the Lord."
Most of the men turned to leave. Even if they'd wanted to question or argue more, they didn't have the energy. A few stayed with Moses and Aaron a while longer. "You're just getting us into more trouble," a man said. "Sure are," another agreed.
"Let's give it a try," a third man said. He stood by Moses and spoke. "We've had our hopes crushed. We have less food now than before. We almost don't have anything left to lose. It's worth a try. If nothing happens, the Egyptians won't even know we've eaten a meal together. They seldom come around our huts. They won't see the blood on our lintels and doorposts. Let's do it and hope. Moses and Aaron have been pounding their foreheads against Pharaoh for months now. Let's do it for them."
"All right," said one man as he turned to leave. The Hebrew beside him joined him, but said, "I don't know." The others left, shuffling home to eat, to think, and to tell their wives and children about a special meal that seemed ridiculous but which Moses and Aaron had repeatedly begged them to do, even if they were out of faith or the hope that the Lord's miracles would free them.
* * *
(The following paragraphs can be used as a transition from this story to a celebration of the Lord's Table.)
Later, the Passover meal that the Hebrews were asked to prepare would be remembered as a night different from all other nights. Later, the ritual feast they'd eat would be repeated and venerated; but on this evening, first hearing of what they were to do, the people were stunned.
At times, our faith is low and our hope hits the minus numbers -- like the faith of those Hebrews in the 13th century B.C. Jesus' students experienced such emotions when Jesus was arrested after the Passover meal. However, we, as they -- strong or weak in faith, buoyant or sinking in hope -- come to the Lord's Table as the people who try to obey Jesus when he says merely, "Do to this in remembrance of me." On this night, with our Hebrew ancestors and with Jesus' faltering disciples, no matter how crushing the circumstance, we wait for the miracles to begin.
David O. Bales is the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, and a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. He is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS).
Don't Help Me!
by Terry Cain
(John 13:1-20, the scripture concerning Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, is very powerful because it speaks to a variety of issues such as humility and serving. One take on the story that may not receive as much attention is our tendency to not want to be obligated to anyone, which is certainly connected to pride. The following story indicates how this can lead to events of possibly tragic proportions.)
Old man Steed, as he was called by the townspeople, lived on the edge of the village in a small house with his wife. Reference was always made to him and not usually to his wife because he was a blustery, proud, unfriendly, domineering sort of man, whereas his wife was very quiet to the point of withdrawal. With Mr. Steed working at odd jobs around town they were somehow able to eke out a living, supplemented by an extensive garden they grew every year which culminated in a good supply of canned fruits and vegetables for the winter.
Mr. Steed was a cold and unfriendly individual who would never accept any help or act of kindness from anyone. He said he did not want to be beholden to any person. One memorable incident perfectly illustrated his philosophy of isolation and independence. A well-to-do family in town, in a flurry of housecleaning, gathered clothes they no longer wore from their closets; because the clothes were almost like new, the family didn't want to throw them away and they thought it would be a nice gesture to give the clothing to the Steed couple. The gesture was received with an unpleasant coldness; as the family left the Steed cottage, before they got out of sight they saw Mr. Steed go out back, throw the boxes of clothes in a ditch, and burn them.
But one winter day a frightening episode took place. Mr. Steed had been hired to make a spice rack for the kitchen of a family that lived just over a mile out in the country. He gave the family a date when he would have the project finished, and despite their insistence that there was no hurry nor any need to have the spice rack done at any certain time, Steed set a date and, true to his nature, was determined to hold to his promise.
Unfortunately, the morning he finished the spice rack a blizzard came up. This could not have been foreseen when he made his deadline promise -- but Steed was beside himself as to how to get the rack to the family. The problem was that he had a very serious bout of the gout, and it would have been virtually impossible for him to make the mile-plus journey even had there been no blizzard. Mrs. Steed, knowing how upset her husband was not to keep his promise, volunteered to take the rack to the family on her bicycle, the only other form of transportation the Steeds had. Steed was upset over the idea of his wife going out in the storm, but despite his grave reluctance, he yielded to his better instincts. They tied the rack in the basket on the bike handlebars and she started out.
Luckily, at that moment a neighbor drove up in a car and saw Ms. Steed starting out. The neighbor insisted on taking her in the car, but old man Steed vehemently refused the offer. Off Mrs. Steed went, and she was soon out of sight.
Later that day Earl, a neighbor of the Steeds, drove up in his pickup with the bicycle that he had recognized as belonging to the Steeds in the back of the truck. He had found it alongside the road in the snow, and no one was around. When he was told about the journey Mrs. Steed had started out on, he said he saw no way she could have made it since the blizzard had gotten so much worse. Fearing the worst, Steed broke down and sobbed. Earl said he would get some help and search along the road on foot -- it was no longer possible for any vehicle to get through.
At that moment the phone rang. Steed was so broken up that Earl answered it. It seems that Ellen Green, the person who originally offered to give Mrs. Steed a ride in her car, had finally decided that she needed to double back and pick up Mrs. Steed because the weather was getting severe. When she found her, Mrs. Steed had already fallen from her bike and was struggling off the road. Ellen almost didn't see her in the whiteout. But they were now safe at the house where old man Steed's spice rack had been safely delivered.
Steed cried some more that night, but they were tears of joy over his wife's safety. After hearing the full story, Earl pondered whether he should mention to old man Steed the sermon he had heard in church the previous Sunday. The sermon was about Peter refusing to let Jesus wash his feet, and how, had the disciples clearly understood Jesus' imminent death on the cross for them, they would have said, "No! No! Please don't die for us!"
Good Friday
The Power of Push-Ups
by Chuck Cammarata
Mr. Simmons was a high school teacher. He taught English, and in his comparative religions class he had a young man named Hank who was as hard as nails. You know the type, full of bravado and macho; a great athlete. But Mr. Simmons has been teaching a long time and he knew that there was more to this young man than met the eye. He was looking for ways to get through to Hank.
One day after school Mr. Simmons was walking by the weight room and there was Hank pumping iron. Mr. Simmons wandered in, made some small talk with Hank, and then said, "You're a pretty strong guy, aren't you, Hank?"
"Well, yeah," Hank said, trying to be modest.
"How many push-ups do you think you can do?" queried Mr. Simmons.
"I don't know," Hank answered. "I've never tried to max out on push-ups."
"Well, do you think you could do fifty?"
"Oh yeah, easy."
"A hundred?"
"Absolutely!"
"How about 200?"
"Well, I don't know," Hank replied. "That's a lot of push-ups."
"Well. why don't we find out what you are made of?" said Mr. Simmons. "Next Monday in my class come prepared to do push-ups, and we'll see how many you can do."
Hank spent the week practicing and getting in the right frame of mind. Monday morning he showed up in Mr. Simmons' class with a muscle shirt and shorts, ready to show his stuff. Mr. Simmons called him to the front of the class and said, "This morning Hank is going to help me to illustrate for you the uniquely Christian concept of grace. But before we get started, I brought doughnuts today."
Mr. Simmons walked up to a student sitting in the first row of seats and said, "Jenny, would you like a doughnut?"
"Yes, I would," Jenny answered.
Mr. Simmons held out the box, but then he pulled it back. "I forgot to tell you that you can only have a doughnut if Hank here does ten push-ups for you. Do you still want one, Jenny?"
She looked at Hank and he smiled, dropped to the floor, and pumped out ten quick ones. Jenny took her doughnut and Mr. Simmons moved to the next person in the row. "How about you?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Simmons."
"Hank, ten more, please."
Again Hank willingly dropped and gave them ten. The first row of seven students was finished and Hank had done 70 push-ups without even really working hard. He got through another seven sets for the second row pretty easily, but he was having to work hard enough now that he was sweating. The third row came, and now Hank was really working hard. Mr. Simmons came to a young woman named Natalie. Before he could even ask her, she looked at poor Hank and said, "Mr. Simmons, I don't want a doughnut. Thank you anyway."
Hank breathed a little sigh of relief. But Mr. Simmons said, "Hank, give me ten. Natalie, there's a doughnut here for you, and even if you don't take it Hank has to do ten for it."
Hank had done over 200 push-ups now, and each one was a strain and a pain. The whole class was feeling for him. But there were still several students who hadn't received their doughnuts. Next was Jake. "Ah, Mr. Simmons," he said, "I'll take the donut but I'll do my own push-ups."
"Well," said the teacher, "that's a generous offer, but there is only one person who can do these push-ups today. Hank, give me ten."
Now the class was beginning to get angry at Mr. Simmons. By this time, when Hank finished each ten he wasn't even getting up. He was staying down on the floor breathing heavily and sweating profusely. But he was determined. There were only four more classmates to go; then only three more; then only two more. As Mr. Simmons approached the next-to-last student, there was a knock at the classroom door. In came two students who had arrived at school late that day. As they walked in the rest of the class sighed and there were cries of "No! Go back. Don't come in."
But Mr. Simmons was gracious. "No, no, don't listen to them. Come on in. Would you like a doughnut this morning?"
Hank did 300 push-ups that day. At the end he lay totally spent; he had nothing left to give. He could barely move. The class roared with applause, but he was so exhausted that he barely even heard it. Mr. Simmons sat down, leaving Hank on the floor beside him. The class got quiet. It was nearly time for the bell. They could still hear Hank gasping on the floor. All Mr. Simmons said was, "Grace."
As the bell rang, some students understood; most didn't.
That's the way it is -- even in the church. Some get grace, and others don't; some never do -- they never understand it, never really experience it.
The day after Hank did his push-ups, Mr. Simmons asked the class what they had done with their doughnuts. One girl said, "I couldn't eat it after all that Hank went through. I just felt so bad for him. I saved the doughnut in my refrigerator at home."
A boy in the class, a big, strong kid himself, said, "I'll do my own push-ups. I didn't eat my doughnut either. I didn't earn it."
Hank listened as person after person shared this reason and that for not having eaten the doughnuts, until finally one shy little girl named Sally who always sat in the back of the class got to her feet and said, "I just want to say thanks to Hank. I could never have done those push-ups. So after all you did for me I savored every bite of my doughnut. It was delicious."
Mr. Simmons said with a huge smile on his face, "Yes, Sally! You got it! You understand grace."
Chuck Cammarata is the pastor of Fairview Presbyterian Church in Fairview, Pennsylvania. He is the author of the CSS titles Lighting the Flame and Lectionary Worship Workbook.
Man of Discipline
by C. David McKirachan
I am a Roman soldier. That tells almost everything about me. It has been my life since I was a boy with nothing but fuzz on my chin. The muscles and scars and reflexes that are hung on my bones have all been formed by the marching and drilling, the discipline and raw power of the army. I am a foot soldier, trained in the use of the javelin and shield and sword. They are the tools of my trade, as surely as a blacksmith uses a hammer and anvil and forge.
I was a farmer's son, born in the sunny country to the south of Mother Rome. My father assumed I would be what he was. I grew and learned and dreamed. I dreamed of more than the pig sty and the plowing. I dreamed of what was beyond. I dreamed of conquest. I remember yelling at him in the doorway of our home. I was an arrogant child. Finally I left, tired of the arguments. I went to the center of the world. I went looking for the army. I puffed myself up as large as I could and listened to them laugh.
They were hard men. I don't mean cruel. They were hard like some stone or metal. They were formed in some furnace that melted human flesh and forged Roman soldiers. They wore power like a skin. They were terrifying, and I wanted to be exactly like them. Sometimes I see a young boy look at me and I can tell what he is thinking. I have become like those hard men were. But now I realize they were human. We bleed.
Our discipline is our life. We follow our orders and bring the power of Rome wherever we march. Few are willing to even stand before us. They are fools if they try. Our legion's standard is hung with tokens of the best who did try. Except for one. It is his story I tell. Strange -- in all the battle and blood, I never faced anything with power like that. And he was one man. Perhaps you will see.
Judea is not a place of ease. The climate is one of extremes, blistering and bone-chilling. Armor is a torture device in Judea's sun, and after it sets the night steals all warmth. There is nothing in the air to hold the heat of the day. But it was the dust that bothered me the most. Any breeze at all raises clouds of the stuff. And to march in it is a nightmare.
The people are the same -- full of extremes. They do not take life lightly, but live with hard lines. They are willing to contest Rome's power. They will not accept any yoke, even that of Rome. In other words, they are fools. But I respect that kind of fierceness, even though I must meet it with the sword.
I was stationed in Jerusalem, their capital. But "capital" is not the right word for that city. They have this strange God who gave them that rock. For them it is holy ground. So it is not the seat of their king or center of their wealth that they care about. It is their temple, and the promise it remembers. I know little about gods. I join my comrades in the worship of Mithras, but that is part of my legion's code. Gods are less than important to me -- I trust my legion. These Hebrews seem to trust nothing except their God. Their homeland and Jerusalem are proofs to them of this God's choice of them as unique and special. I mean no sacrilege when I say that if I was a god and was blessing my people, I would find better proofs of my love. At least I would deal with the dust.
Their celebration of freedom is a time of unrest. They crowd into their city. They remember the defeat of Egypt by their God. Egypt is a good kingdom to defeat. Its riches are famous. But this was no breaking of walls or pillaging of wealth. They won freedom from slavery -- another gift from this strange giver. And so they celebrate and remember and become insulting to us, we who are their new masters. It is our duty to keep the peace for Rome. Passover is not a time of celebration for Roman governors or soldiers.
The news was sketchy, but we had heard that there was a new leader of these fanatics. He was a miracle worker and a speaker of the words of his God. They call such a man a prophet. Miracles and words are not sources of concern; but when people speak of him as an heir to the throne of their great king David, when they gather to celebrate their time of promise and freedom and his name is on all their lips, we must pay attention. Mobs are dangerous creatures. Mobs filled with religious zeal are doubly dangerous. We sharpened our swords and prepared.
The Jewish rulers of the city were no more pleased with this situation than we were. They were realists. They knew that revolution was madness. There would be no winning for them. They had much to lose. So their expectation was less happy than ours. They saw this man as a danger, a rabble-rouser. Such a prophet they did not need. I thought them disgusting. They were neither faithful to their heritage nor honest about their desires for comfort and power. Such folk are dangerous.
So we waited between the dangerous, zealous mob and the dangerous, hypocritical leaders. We depended on each other and our swords. If they revolted it would be messy, but it would be over quickly.
Our informants told us that the prophet was coming. He was healing the sick and there were rumors of raising the dead. We had a joke that we could provide him with more opportunities to exercise his power.
He arrived on the first day of the week. The mob loved him. The leaders feared and hated him. We watched. He came riding a young donkey, a beast of burden. He came down through the Kidron Valley and up the slopes toward the massive gates. The crowd grew with each step the donkey took, bobbing as it walked. He sat still. The crowd shouted phrases from their holy books and lay clothes on the road. They stripped branches from the trees and waved the palm fronds as they shouted. He sat on the bobbing donkey in the middle of all the noise and energy and watched the city as his mount climbed the hill.
I could see the man, the center of all the attention. I watched him in his stillness and I remembered my mother. I know that sounds strange. But his look reminded me of her as she watched me argue with my father. That same hope and sadness rested on him. He looked toward the city like a worried parent. It was almost painful to see him.
Before he started the final ascent, one of the rulers stepped forward, right out into the road. He shouted something I could not hear. He looked angry. It was clear he was uncomfortable with this whole demonstration. The prophet reined in the donkey and remained still, looking at this powerful man. The crowd tensed, wondering if their hero would back down. It became almost quiet. When he spoke we could all hear. There was control in his voice. It was as if he was telling a drunk that the tavern was closed before he threw him into the street. There was neither joy nor rage. He just looked straight at that ruler and told him that if the crowd didn't yell the very rocks would. He spoke in Hebrew, but people all around started translating for each other and yelling it in all their different languages. They laughed. The parade moved on, leaving the ruler standing in the road, an enemy. The preacher would need God on his side if he kept humiliating powerful people.
Our centurion turned toward us and told us to remain calm. We would draw our swords only if we had to. There was no need. A few idiots taunted us, but most were too busy following their leader of the moment. As they passed us and entered the town our officer ordered us to march in close formation and shadow the parade. If they were going to cause trouble, we would be there.
The prophet had a destination, the temple of Herod. Herod is no person to associate with gods. But perhaps he needed to build a temple to make up for a few of his greater sins. Whatever his motive, he built a glorious temple. It shines in the Palestinian light like a jewel. It has been a great source of trouble for us. These stiff-necked Hebrews seem to think their God would be insulted if we placed our eagles close to its walls. If their God is so powerful, why are we in charge? The government of Rome sometimes uses diplomacy. We do not seek to cause trouble if it can be avoided. So we have agreed to allow them their own control of the temple grounds. But we observe from the outer court.
As soon as the centurion was sure where the mob was going, he detached a messenger to our headquarters and put us at a run toward the temple. By a few turns we beat the crowd. We went to the gates, but not into the outer courtyard. He was a smart one, our officer. He knew our presence within the walls would incite the crowd to riot. But our presence outside would respect their God and remind them of the presence of Rome's strong arm. We lined the road with our javelins set at our feet and shields at ready. If there was trouble we could respond in a moment.
We could see through the massive gates. We could see the moneychangers' tables where the pilgrims bought holy money with their own, dirty from use in the world. We could see the animal dealers -- doves and sheep and goats all raised to be offered to their God and to be bought with the holy money. It was a holy marketplace and a great source of tax revenue for the empire.
A violent mob sounds like some great beast or a storm on the beach. It is bent on destroying whatever stands in its way. This bunch was different. They called and shouted and even chanted. There was no roar. Perhaps it was the prophet. He came to the temple gates and dismounted. They waited. We waited. He stood a moment, and then strode into the courtyard.
I could not see where he got the whip of cords that he swung, but suddenly he was rampaging through the marketplace like some madman. I saw him grip the edge of one of the massive tables where the coins were traded and heave until it tipped and fell, coins and scales scattering and rolling everywhere. Then he moved into the animal pens, twirling the whip as people and animals and cages and straw scattered before him like one of their desert winds. The sounds that rose from the temple, animal and human, were full of panic and fear. Then I heard him, loud and deep above the chaos. He spoke in Hebrew, but there was no mistaking his command. The moneychangers and animal sellers were routed before him as rebels are routed before the legion.
I heard it said he called them robbers. I heard it said he claimed the temple for his God.
On command we formed to answer a charge of the mob, but they stood gawking. His sudden change from calm to holy rage frightened and confused them. He made no effort to incite them. His actions were not for them. Finally he stood breathing, calm again. The whip dropped from his hand and he moved with slow steps back through the temple's high gate and past us. There was a moment when we tensed and gripped our shields, as if the power in him would hit us like the charge of an army. We all felt it. The hair on our necks stood up as it does before a lightning strike. But he didn't even glance our way. He walked through the crowd, followed by a few of his disciples. He kept going, right out of the city.
There was in that man a power I have never seen or felt, even from the great leaders who order us into battle. Fear does not hurt me anymore. It is like the rain or Judea's dust. It is uncomfortable, but I suffer through it. But in those moments I knew another fear, a different fear. Here was something greater than any force I knew, clear and powerful and ready to act in the moment no matter the cost. And strangely, I felt there was no limit to what this man could do. Somehow his power was not limited by his reach or his muscles. I felt as a child before him. I think we all did. We stood with our puny armor and weapons and watched him walk away. And we felt, I felt, as if greatness had passed me by.
I remembered my boyhood dreams of conquest. I remembered how it felt to want the world and seriously think I could have it. I had learned different. But there, behind my shield, outside that temple gate, I felt it again. I felt the glory of greatness. And I watched it go with a great sadness. My discipline held me in place, but barely. In that moment I knew I saw something larger than even Mother Rome walking there before me. This was something... different. I will never forget it.
We were moved to the hills beyond the city that night. I heard later of the arrest and the crucifixion. So pass the enemies of Rome. Time has gone by, but he haunts me still: his voice, his calm, his power... and one thing more.
As he passed us, I could see his tears.
(From I Happened Upon a Miracle by C. David McKirachan [Westminster John Knox, 2001]. Used by permission of Westminster John Knox Press.)
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StoryShare, April 9, 2006, issue.
Copyright 2006 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
Passion/Palm Sunday
Isaiah 50:4-9a
Psalm 31:9-16
Philippians 2:5-11
Mark 14:1-15:47 or Mark 15:1-39 (40-47)
Maundy Thursday
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
Psalm 116:1-2, 12-19
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
Good Friday
Isaiah 52:13-53:12
Psalm 22
Hebrews 10:16-25
John 18:1-19:42
ContentsContents
What's Up This Week
A Meditation to Live By: "Why Me?" by C. David McKirachan
Shining Moments: "It's More Than a Hallmark Card" by Terry Cain
Palm Sunday: "Mea Culpa" by C. David McKirachan
Maundy Thursday: "Do This" by David O. Bales
"Don't Help Me!" by Terry Cain
Good Friday: "The Power of Push-Ups" by Chuck Cammarata
"Man of Discipline" by C. David McKirachan
What's Up This Week
This special, extended edition of StoryShare provides a variety of fascinating material for Holy Week. David McKirachan offers a pair of wry meditations -- one musing on his discomfort with the triumphalism of Palm Sunday, and the other detailing his own adolescent "psalm of lament." There are also several powerful stories for Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, including pieces on the original Passover meal, the meaning of God's grace, and a moving monologue sharing the perspective of a hardened Roman soldier.
A Meditation to Live By
Why Me?
by C. David McKirachan
Be gracious to me, O Lord, for I am in distress... I am the scorn of all my adversaries, a horror to my neighbors, an object of dread to my acquaintances; those who see me in the street flee from me.... But I trust in you, O Lord; I say, "You are my God."
Psalm 31:9a, 11, 14
My family moved to a new town the night before I started high school. We had taken a trip out west that August. It was a great time, but on the way home I had a grand mal seizure. OK -- new town; I fall down and shake now; I take medicine that makes me feel like a water-logged post. Great way to begin the formative years of my adolescence. I could have written this psalm during the first few months of my sojourn there.
I look back on that time with some sympathy for the kid that struggled. Teenagers have enough to go through without extra troubles. I felt like a leper. I was convinced that everybody talked about me constantly. I was positive people changed their routines to make sure they didn't pass me on my way to school.
I don't think anybody's life is easy. Everybody's got idiosyncrasies that make us sure we are at least a geek and more likely a laughing stock. We feel alone in a world that hates us.
Just then, I happened to read Mary Stewart's novel The Crystal Cave about Merlin. It's a coming of age story. Stewart's Merlin is uncomfortable in his capability; it causes him all kinds of trouble. I grabbed that like a life preserver. I translated my sense of exclusion and discomfort into the divine fire that was forging my uniqueness. I was special. I needed to get used to it.
Our sense of self can't depend on the willingness of others to include us. If we are people of faith, we have to get used to standing alone. Surely our churches are valuable in giving us a place to stand other than alone, but faith often takes us out on edges that are more defined by God's call than what is fun or nice or popular or even approved of by those who surround us.
All of that said, faith or no faith, calling or no calling, magic or no magic, such edges aren't fun. It's cold and lonely out there. That's where these psalms of lament come in. We don't have to like it -- we just need to be faithful. And in the meantime we're allowed to share our pain.
It was then I began to listen to the whispering of the universe. It was then I began to write. And I began to sense the glory that flowed beneath all the nice, easy stuff on the surface. But I'll tell you, I would have given body parts for an invitation to a party.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University.
Shining Moments
It's More Than a Hallmark Cardby Terry Cain
What shall I return to the Lord for all his bounty to me? I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord...
Psalm 116:12-13
Rose and Liz had had a very good day, so Rose thought. Though it was Rose's birthday she had tried to make the day very special for her daughter, and Liz seemed to thoroughly enjoy the trip to the zoo and eating out at her favorite fast food place. Moreover, her eight-year-old daughter seemed to appreciate the simple fact that Rose had spent the entire day with her doing the things Liz liked. Rose might have chosen to spend her 29th birthday doing things other than what her daughter chose to do, but being with Liz and seeing her have a very special, fun day was priceless for Rose, no matter what they did. There were just the two of them, and with the move to a new community where Rose had landed a new teaching position, there wasn't any other family around and they hadn't much time to make new friends yet.
The strange part of it all was that something seemed to have changed for her daughter since that day. It wasn't that she was really sad or seemed depressed; however a change did seem to come over Liz. Her mother noticed that each morning for a few days Liz would come into her room with an expectant attitude and visit a little or just simply be quiet as her mother got dressed. Then Liz would leave the room, in what appeared to be a discouraged mood, and get herself dressed for school in her own room. Something seemed wrong with Liz, but her mother couldn't put her finger on it. Rose had asked casually once or twice if anything was bothering her daughter, but Liz always assured her things were fine. It didn't seem to be the move to a new place or the old friends she left behind and missed. Liz was happy with her new school and had quickly made three best friends. But this had been going on since her birthday three weeks ago.
Rose picked up her Bible for her habitual brief morning devotions and turned to Psalm 116, which her devotional guide had scheduled for that day. The Psalm was all about appreciating God's goodness and gifts to us. One of the verses she paused over was verse 12: "What can I offer the Lord for all his goodness to me?" How does one thank God besides saying thank you and really meaning it?
For some reason Rose's mind flashed back to her gift to one of her graduate professors she had felt very close to -- one who gave special attention to his students. Dr. London often had small groups of students -- four or five at a time -- into his home for coffee and informal visits. He had a way of showing he really cared about his students. When Rose graduated and was leaving college, she wanted to do something to show him how much she appreciated his classes and his kindness. Rose had just taken up oil painting as a hobby, and she saw an opportunity to thank Professor London by giving him one of her paintings. She gave him one of her first attempts, a pretty red autumn tree in a park. He thanked her, and during one last visit she and Liz paid Dr. London at his home she noticed that he had hung the painting in his dinning room.
She had thanked him with the painting, and he had thanked her by hanging it in a prominent place in his home. Later she began to think about it all. Dr. London was a lifelong bachelor in his late 60s. As she thought more about the situation, she began to realize that he was a very orderly man; perhaps he could even be described as persnickety. His home was manicured and always perfect. He took pride in his furnishings. The decor was impeccable. Everyone noticed and commented on his exceptional good taste. Soon it began to dawn on Rose that her painting was a very amateurish product and that perhaps it did not belong in the exquisitely decorated home Dr. London had created. The more she thought about it, the more uncomfortable she became. He had hung her picture to thank her. But was he comfortable with it? Probably not!
The same day as this epiphany, she returned home after her day of teaching to a second epiphany. She entered her apartment quietly enough that her daughter did not hear her come in. Liz was sitting on the couch with one of her new friends, Patty. Before Liz knew her mother had come into the apartment, Rose overheard her say to Patty, "It has been over three weeks, and she hasn't worn it yet."
It only took a moment for Rose to realize the problem: Liz had saved up her money for some time to buy her mother a beautiful sweater to give her on her 29th birthday. She had hung it in the closet and totally spaced it off. Only then did she remember the gift from her daughter. It all came to her now, and with tears in her eyes she realized that she should have thanked her daughter and shown her appreciation by wearing the new sweater. Feeling her own pain, she realized how her forgetfulness and neglect had hurt her daughter. The verse from her scripture reading that prompted her to remember her gift to Dr. London now came back to her with greater significance. How do we thank others and God? By lovingly using what they -- her daughter and God -- had given her!
Terry Cain is a retired United Methodist pastor, and the author of the CSS titles Shaking Wolves Out of Cherry Trees and Lions and Cows Dining Together.
Palm Sunday
Mea Culpa
by C. David McKirachan
Down through the years I noticed I was always grumpy and out of sorts on Palm Sunday. While the Sunday School was waving its palms and the congregation was getting all revved up for Easter, I would develop a galloping version of badly suppressed rage. Careful self-analysis led to a totally wrong conclusion. I patted myself on the head and told myself, "Self, you're tired. You've come through Lent and all the classes and preparation for Easter, the special worship services designed, set up, printed, etc., blah blah blah..."
Self was not convinced. There was something else going on under the old skin. One Palm Sunday a concerned parishioner took me aside after all the hoohah of the day and asked me, "Are you going to be able to get over your anger by next Sunday?"
It was one of those moments that leave even ministers speechless. It took me a while to process what they'd told me. But by Sunday evening I realized I was angry -- angry and hurt. But why should Palm Sunday make me angry and hurt? By Maundy Thursday I had moved away from unconscious to more focused.
There is something horrible about this day. It's the triumphalism of the idiots who surrounded Jesus. They all cheered and yelled and celebrated, and it had nothing to do with Him. They didn't care about Him. They didn't listen to Him, or know Him, or even see Him. They pushed ahead with their own agendas, without reference to truth or reality. They were not cheering for Him. They were cheering for the worst form of hypocrisy. They were cheering because they thought they had God on their side.
We don't like to face the truth that it was good people, nice people, church folks, who put the cross on Jesus' back and approved of the spikes in his hands and feet. On this day of palms and hosannas we celebrate while He cries. On this day our sin, our zeal for being right and good and winners, inspires us to march to the drum of militant Christianity. And He is silent riding on the foal of an ass.
Why do we refuse to pay attention to Him? Because nobody wants to accept a loser. How can we celebrate that? How can we make any sense of this guy who had it all and threw it away? That's not the Christ we want. That's not consistent with our self-image.
Yup. I'm angry. And it takes a week of fighting with Him tooth and nail about what He intends to do to get me to a place of acceptance where I can grieve. I don't think we're worth what He has done. I don't think I'm worth what He has done. I disagree with Him. So, I guess I'm guilty too. This acceptance stuff is painful. If I would preach the Good News, I better get used to the painful parts of it.
But every once in a while I still wish he would have fried a Pharisee or two. That's what I would have done. Ah, there's the rub.
Forgive me, Lord.
Maundy Thursday
Do Thisby David O. Bales
Exodus 12:1-14
"I'm telling you what the Lord told Aaron and me," Moses said. "Now is the decisive moment. This time we'll gain our freedom; and we've been commanded to prepare for it by a meal. I've told you the particulars. It's not difficult." But as Moses repeated this, he felt the same resistance as when he'd said it the first time to these Hebrew field workers. He'd gathered them near their village at twilight as they returned home from tending Egypt's crops.
Men stood back a ways from the Lord's two leaders. They knew Moses and Aaron well, and listened respectfully. This pair of fellows had brought them a great deal of grief -- having to work harder, bricks without straw -- because these two had marched right in to Pharaoh's court and demanded he release the Hebrew workers.
Well, these Hebrews were exhausted. They'd toiled at Egypt's building projects and in Egypt's fields, and had been harassed, bullied, and maltreated until they felt only a breath away from dying. Their hopes climbed each time Pharaoh agreed to let them go; but then he didn't. They'd viewed Pharaoh's promises as if they were peering out their slavery's open prison door. But in the past, each time they'd gazed toward freedom the door slammed in their face.
When Moses had given the instructions the first time, no one spoke directly to him. It was late and no one could see well, everyone having worked until dusk. So a few of the men in the crowd just spoke to one another in response. "Not again." Or "We've followed them before and it hasn't worked." And "They've gotten us into more trouble...."
A man close to Aaron spoke. "I'm against it. We've been tossed around like rats in a dog's mouth. So far, nothing you've said worked to get us out of here. Why should we kill one of our best lambs, go through all the fuss with the blood and dinner, and trust that you know what you're talking about?"
Moses had realized the people's condition before he and Aaron came to deliver the Lord's message. But Moses continued, believing that in giving them something to do -- and not a terribly difficult thing -- that the Lord was providing them a physical means of bolstering their hope. Moses said, "Do this. It's not much, just a gathering of family and neighbors to eat a lamb whose blood is smeared on the doorposts and lintels of your house."
No one responded this time, just a hundred or so dusty men standing hopeless and hungry beyond the sun's last light.
"Just do this," Moses tried one more time. "Get the lamb on the 10th, keep it until the 14th, then slaughter it at twilight. Tie up your skirt around your waist, wear your sandals, even in the house, and have your walking staff at hand. This gets you ready to light out to freedom."
"It might get us ready for another beating," a man said. The crowd was growing around Moses and Aaron, as more work groups trudged in the darkness toward their evening meal. As each man arrived he heard the reason for the gathering from the man who arrived before him. The sweat of the day's work hung in the air like the smell of despair. Would these men go home and prepare their families as they were told? Would they carry out Moses' instructions, which sounded so bizarre? Would the Lord this time decisively smash Pharaoh's pride and Pharaoh's people?
Aaron stepped closer to Moses and spoke loudly, "Friends, you've been faithful. You've waited. You've hoped. You've been the ones who've suffered Pharaoh's wrath as he has fruitlessly struggled against the Lord."
"We sure have," came a voice from the men, and many grumbled their agreement.
"But this isn't much to do as you wait and hope one more time," Aaron said. "If you can't believe that the Lord will cast a final plague upon the Egyptians, at least take this one step for the rest of us. Don't destroy the faith and hope of the whole Hebrew people. You can do something that might help everyone. Moses and I ask you, for the sake of the faith of all the Hebrew people, to do this for them if not for the Lord."
Most of the men turned to leave. Even if they'd wanted to question or argue more, they didn't have the energy. A few stayed with Moses and Aaron a while longer. "You're just getting us into more trouble," a man said. "Sure are," another agreed.
"Let's give it a try," a third man said. He stood by Moses and spoke. "We've had our hopes crushed. We have less food now than before. We almost don't have anything left to lose. It's worth a try. If nothing happens, the Egyptians won't even know we've eaten a meal together. They seldom come around our huts. They won't see the blood on our lintels and doorposts. Let's do it and hope. Moses and Aaron have been pounding their foreheads against Pharaoh for months now. Let's do it for them."
"All right," said one man as he turned to leave. The Hebrew beside him joined him, but said, "I don't know." The others left, shuffling home to eat, to think, and to tell their wives and children about a special meal that seemed ridiculous but which Moses and Aaron had repeatedly begged them to do, even if they were out of faith or the hope that the Lord's miracles would free them.
* * *
(The following paragraphs can be used as a transition from this story to a celebration of the Lord's Table.)
Later, the Passover meal that the Hebrews were asked to prepare would be remembered as a night different from all other nights. Later, the ritual feast they'd eat would be repeated and venerated; but on this evening, first hearing of what they were to do, the people were stunned.
At times, our faith is low and our hope hits the minus numbers -- like the faith of those Hebrews in the 13th century B.C. Jesus' students experienced such emotions when Jesus was arrested after the Passover meal. However, we, as they -- strong or weak in faith, buoyant or sinking in hope -- come to the Lord's Table as the people who try to obey Jesus when he says merely, "Do to this in remembrance of me." On this night, with our Hebrew ancestors and with Jesus' faltering disciples, no matter how crushing the circumstance, we wait for the miracles to begin.
David O. Bales is the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, and a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. He is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS).
Don't Help Me!
by Terry Cain
(John 13:1-20, the scripture concerning Jesus washing the feet of his disciples, is very powerful because it speaks to a variety of issues such as humility and serving. One take on the story that may not receive as much attention is our tendency to not want to be obligated to anyone, which is certainly connected to pride. The following story indicates how this can lead to events of possibly tragic proportions.)
Old man Steed, as he was called by the townspeople, lived on the edge of the village in a small house with his wife. Reference was always made to him and not usually to his wife because he was a blustery, proud, unfriendly, domineering sort of man, whereas his wife was very quiet to the point of withdrawal. With Mr. Steed working at odd jobs around town they were somehow able to eke out a living, supplemented by an extensive garden they grew every year which culminated in a good supply of canned fruits and vegetables for the winter.
Mr. Steed was a cold and unfriendly individual who would never accept any help or act of kindness from anyone. He said he did not want to be beholden to any person. One memorable incident perfectly illustrated his philosophy of isolation and independence. A well-to-do family in town, in a flurry of housecleaning, gathered clothes they no longer wore from their closets; because the clothes were almost like new, the family didn't want to throw them away and they thought it would be a nice gesture to give the clothing to the Steed couple. The gesture was received with an unpleasant coldness; as the family left the Steed cottage, before they got out of sight they saw Mr. Steed go out back, throw the boxes of clothes in a ditch, and burn them.
But one winter day a frightening episode took place. Mr. Steed had been hired to make a spice rack for the kitchen of a family that lived just over a mile out in the country. He gave the family a date when he would have the project finished, and despite their insistence that there was no hurry nor any need to have the spice rack done at any certain time, Steed set a date and, true to his nature, was determined to hold to his promise.
Unfortunately, the morning he finished the spice rack a blizzard came up. This could not have been foreseen when he made his deadline promise -- but Steed was beside himself as to how to get the rack to the family. The problem was that he had a very serious bout of the gout, and it would have been virtually impossible for him to make the mile-plus journey even had there been no blizzard. Mrs. Steed, knowing how upset her husband was not to keep his promise, volunteered to take the rack to the family on her bicycle, the only other form of transportation the Steeds had. Steed was upset over the idea of his wife going out in the storm, but despite his grave reluctance, he yielded to his better instincts. They tied the rack in the basket on the bike handlebars and she started out.
Luckily, at that moment a neighbor drove up in a car and saw Ms. Steed starting out. The neighbor insisted on taking her in the car, but old man Steed vehemently refused the offer. Off Mrs. Steed went, and she was soon out of sight.
Later that day Earl, a neighbor of the Steeds, drove up in his pickup with the bicycle that he had recognized as belonging to the Steeds in the back of the truck. He had found it alongside the road in the snow, and no one was around. When he was told about the journey Mrs. Steed had started out on, he said he saw no way she could have made it since the blizzard had gotten so much worse. Fearing the worst, Steed broke down and sobbed. Earl said he would get some help and search along the road on foot -- it was no longer possible for any vehicle to get through.
At that moment the phone rang. Steed was so broken up that Earl answered it. It seems that Ellen Green, the person who originally offered to give Mrs. Steed a ride in her car, had finally decided that she needed to double back and pick up Mrs. Steed because the weather was getting severe. When she found her, Mrs. Steed had already fallen from her bike and was struggling off the road. Ellen almost didn't see her in the whiteout. But they were now safe at the house where old man Steed's spice rack had been safely delivered.
Steed cried some more that night, but they were tears of joy over his wife's safety. After hearing the full story, Earl pondered whether he should mention to old man Steed the sermon he had heard in church the previous Sunday. The sermon was about Peter refusing to let Jesus wash his feet, and how, had the disciples clearly understood Jesus' imminent death on the cross for them, they would have said, "No! No! Please don't die for us!"
Good Friday
The Power of Push-Upsby Chuck Cammarata
Mr. Simmons was a high school teacher. He taught English, and in his comparative religions class he had a young man named Hank who was as hard as nails. You know the type, full of bravado and macho; a great athlete. But Mr. Simmons has been teaching a long time and he knew that there was more to this young man than met the eye. He was looking for ways to get through to Hank.
One day after school Mr. Simmons was walking by the weight room and there was Hank pumping iron. Mr. Simmons wandered in, made some small talk with Hank, and then said, "You're a pretty strong guy, aren't you, Hank?"
"Well, yeah," Hank said, trying to be modest.
"How many push-ups do you think you can do?" queried Mr. Simmons.
"I don't know," Hank answered. "I've never tried to max out on push-ups."
"Well, do you think you could do fifty?"
"Oh yeah, easy."
"A hundred?"
"Absolutely!"
"How about 200?"
"Well, I don't know," Hank replied. "That's a lot of push-ups."
"Well. why don't we find out what you are made of?" said Mr. Simmons. "Next Monday in my class come prepared to do push-ups, and we'll see how many you can do."
Hank spent the week practicing and getting in the right frame of mind. Monday morning he showed up in Mr. Simmons' class with a muscle shirt and shorts, ready to show his stuff. Mr. Simmons called him to the front of the class and said, "This morning Hank is going to help me to illustrate for you the uniquely Christian concept of grace. But before we get started, I brought doughnuts today."
Mr. Simmons walked up to a student sitting in the first row of seats and said, "Jenny, would you like a doughnut?"
"Yes, I would," Jenny answered.
Mr. Simmons held out the box, but then he pulled it back. "I forgot to tell you that you can only have a doughnut if Hank here does ten push-ups for you. Do you still want one, Jenny?"
She looked at Hank and he smiled, dropped to the floor, and pumped out ten quick ones. Jenny took her doughnut and Mr. Simmons moved to the next person in the row. "How about you?" he asked.
"Yes, Mr. Simmons."
"Hank, ten more, please."
Again Hank willingly dropped and gave them ten. The first row of seven students was finished and Hank had done 70 push-ups without even really working hard. He got through another seven sets for the second row pretty easily, but he was having to work hard enough now that he was sweating. The third row came, and now Hank was really working hard. Mr. Simmons came to a young woman named Natalie. Before he could even ask her, she looked at poor Hank and said, "Mr. Simmons, I don't want a doughnut. Thank you anyway."
Hank breathed a little sigh of relief. But Mr. Simmons said, "Hank, give me ten. Natalie, there's a doughnut here for you, and even if you don't take it Hank has to do ten for it."
Hank had done over 200 push-ups now, and each one was a strain and a pain. The whole class was feeling for him. But there were still several students who hadn't received their doughnuts. Next was Jake. "Ah, Mr. Simmons," he said, "I'll take the donut but I'll do my own push-ups."
"Well," said the teacher, "that's a generous offer, but there is only one person who can do these push-ups today. Hank, give me ten."
Now the class was beginning to get angry at Mr. Simmons. By this time, when Hank finished each ten he wasn't even getting up. He was staying down on the floor breathing heavily and sweating profusely. But he was determined. There were only four more classmates to go; then only three more; then only two more. As Mr. Simmons approached the next-to-last student, there was a knock at the classroom door. In came two students who had arrived at school late that day. As they walked in the rest of the class sighed and there were cries of "No! Go back. Don't come in."
But Mr. Simmons was gracious. "No, no, don't listen to them. Come on in. Would you like a doughnut this morning?"
Hank did 300 push-ups that day. At the end he lay totally spent; he had nothing left to give. He could barely move. The class roared with applause, but he was so exhausted that he barely even heard it. Mr. Simmons sat down, leaving Hank on the floor beside him. The class got quiet. It was nearly time for the bell. They could still hear Hank gasping on the floor. All Mr. Simmons said was, "Grace."
As the bell rang, some students understood; most didn't.
That's the way it is -- even in the church. Some get grace, and others don't; some never do -- they never understand it, never really experience it.
The day after Hank did his push-ups, Mr. Simmons asked the class what they had done with their doughnuts. One girl said, "I couldn't eat it after all that Hank went through. I just felt so bad for him. I saved the doughnut in my refrigerator at home."
A boy in the class, a big, strong kid himself, said, "I'll do my own push-ups. I didn't eat my doughnut either. I didn't earn it."
Hank listened as person after person shared this reason and that for not having eaten the doughnuts, until finally one shy little girl named Sally who always sat in the back of the class got to her feet and said, "I just want to say thanks to Hank. I could never have done those push-ups. So after all you did for me I savored every bite of my doughnut. It was delicious."
Mr. Simmons said with a huge smile on his face, "Yes, Sally! You got it! You understand grace."
Chuck Cammarata is the pastor of Fairview Presbyterian Church in Fairview, Pennsylvania. He is the author of the CSS titles Lighting the Flame and Lectionary Worship Workbook.
Man of Discipline
by C. David McKirachan
I am a Roman soldier. That tells almost everything about me. It has been my life since I was a boy with nothing but fuzz on my chin. The muscles and scars and reflexes that are hung on my bones have all been formed by the marching and drilling, the discipline and raw power of the army. I am a foot soldier, trained in the use of the javelin and shield and sword. They are the tools of my trade, as surely as a blacksmith uses a hammer and anvil and forge.
I was a farmer's son, born in the sunny country to the south of Mother Rome. My father assumed I would be what he was. I grew and learned and dreamed. I dreamed of more than the pig sty and the plowing. I dreamed of what was beyond. I dreamed of conquest. I remember yelling at him in the doorway of our home. I was an arrogant child. Finally I left, tired of the arguments. I went to the center of the world. I went looking for the army. I puffed myself up as large as I could and listened to them laugh.
They were hard men. I don't mean cruel. They were hard like some stone or metal. They were formed in some furnace that melted human flesh and forged Roman soldiers. They wore power like a skin. They were terrifying, and I wanted to be exactly like them. Sometimes I see a young boy look at me and I can tell what he is thinking. I have become like those hard men were. But now I realize they were human. We bleed.
Our discipline is our life. We follow our orders and bring the power of Rome wherever we march. Few are willing to even stand before us. They are fools if they try. Our legion's standard is hung with tokens of the best who did try. Except for one. It is his story I tell. Strange -- in all the battle and blood, I never faced anything with power like that. And he was one man. Perhaps you will see.
Judea is not a place of ease. The climate is one of extremes, blistering and bone-chilling. Armor is a torture device in Judea's sun, and after it sets the night steals all warmth. There is nothing in the air to hold the heat of the day. But it was the dust that bothered me the most. Any breeze at all raises clouds of the stuff. And to march in it is a nightmare.
The people are the same -- full of extremes. They do not take life lightly, but live with hard lines. They are willing to contest Rome's power. They will not accept any yoke, even that of Rome. In other words, they are fools. But I respect that kind of fierceness, even though I must meet it with the sword.
I was stationed in Jerusalem, their capital. But "capital" is not the right word for that city. They have this strange God who gave them that rock. For them it is holy ground. So it is not the seat of their king or center of their wealth that they care about. It is their temple, and the promise it remembers. I know little about gods. I join my comrades in the worship of Mithras, but that is part of my legion's code. Gods are less than important to me -- I trust my legion. These Hebrews seem to trust nothing except their God. Their homeland and Jerusalem are proofs to them of this God's choice of them as unique and special. I mean no sacrilege when I say that if I was a god and was blessing my people, I would find better proofs of my love. At least I would deal with the dust.
Their celebration of freedom is a time of unrest. They crowd into their city. They remember the defeat of Egypt by their God. Egypt is a good kingdom to defeat. Its riches are famous. But this was no breaking of walls or pillaging of wealth. They won freedom from slavery -- another gift from this strange giver. And so they celebrate and remember and become insulting to us, we who are their new masters. It is our duty to keep the peace for Rome. Passover is not a time of celebration for Roman governors or soldiers.
The news was sketchy, but we had heard that there was a new leader of these fanatics. He was a miracle worker and a speaker of the words of his God. They call such a man a prophet. Miracles and words are not sources of concern; but when people speak of him as an heir to the throne of their great king David, when they gather to celebrate their time of promise and freedom and his name is on all their lips, we must pay attention. Mobs are dangerous creatures. Mobs filled with religious zeal are doubly dangerous. We sharpened our swords and prepared.
The Jewish rulers of the city were no more pleased with this situation than we were. They were realists. They knew that revolution was madness. There would be no winning for them. They had much to lose. So their expectation was less happy than ours. They saw this man as a danger, a rabble-rouser. Such a prophet they did not need. I thought them disgusting. They were neither faithful to their heritage nor honest about their desires for comfort and power. Such folk are dangerous.
So we waited between the dangerous, zealous mob and the dangerous, hypocritical leaders. We depended on each other and our swords. If they revolted it would be messy, but it would be over quickly.
Our informants told us that the prophet was coming. He was healing the sick and there were rumors of raising the dead. We had a joke that we could provide him with more opportunities to exercise his power.
He arrived on the first day of the week. The mob loved him. The leaders feared and hated him. We watched. He came riding a young donkey, a beast of burden. He came down through the Kidron Valley and up the slopes toward the massive gates. The crowd grew with each step the donkey took, bobbing as it walked. He sat still. The crowd shouted phrases from their holy books and lay clothes on the road. They stripped branches from the trees and waved the palm fronds as they shouted. He sat on the bobbing donkey in the middle of all the noise and energy and watched the city as his mount climbed the hill.
I could see the man, the center of all the attention. I watched him in his stillness and I remembered my mother. I know that sounds strange. But his look reminded me of her as she watched me argue with my father. That same hope and sadness rested on him. He looked toward the city like a worried parent. It was almost painful to see him.
Before he started the final ascent, one of the rulers stepped forward, right out into the road. He shouted something I could not hear. He looked angry. It was clear he was uncomfortable with this whole demonstration. The prophet reined in the donkey and remained still, looking at this powerful man. The crowd tensed, wondering if their hero would back down. It became almost quiet. When he spoke we could all hear. There was control in his voice. It was as if he was telling a drunk that the tavern was closed before he threw him into the street. There was neither joy nor rage. He just looked straight at that ruler and told him that if the crowd didn't yell the very rocks would. He spoke in Hebrew, but people all around started translating for each other and yelling it in all their different languages. They laughed. The parade moved on, leaving the ruler standing in the road, an enemy. The preacher would need God on his side if he kept humiliating powerful people.
Our centurion turned toward us and told us to remain calm. We would draw our swords only if we had to. There was no need. A few idiots taunted us, but most were too busy following their leader of the moment. As they passed us and entered the town our officer ordered us to march in close formation and shadow the parade. If they were going to cause trouble, we would be there.
The prophet had a destination, the temple of Herod. Herod is no person to associate with gods. But perhaps he needed to build a temple to make up for a few of his greater sins. Whatever his motive, he built a glorious temple. It shines in the Palestinian light like a jewel. It has been a great source of trouble for us. These stiff-necked Hebrews seem to think their God would be insulted if we placed our eagles close to its walls. If their God is so powerful, why are we in charge? The government of Rome sometimes uses diplomacy. We do not seek to cause trouble if it can be avoided. So we have agreed to allow them their own control of the temple grounds. But we observe from the outer court.
As soon as the centurion was sure where the mob was going, he detached a messenger to our headquarters and put us at a run toward the temple. By a few turns we beat the crowd. We went to the gates, but not into the outer courtyard. He was a smart one, our officer. He knew our presence within the walls would incite the crowd to riot. But our presence outside would respect their God and remind them of the presence of Rome's strong arm. We lined the road with our javelins set at our feet and shields at ready. If there was trouble we could respond in a moment.
We could see through the massive gates. We could see the moneychangers' tables where the pilgrims bought holy money with their own, dirty from use in the world. We could see the animal dealers -- doves and sheep and goats all raised to be offered to their God and to be bought with the holy money. It was a holy marketplace and a great source of tax revenue for the empire.
A violent mob sounds like some great beast or a storm on the beach. It is bent on destroying whatever stands in its way. This bunch was different. They called and shouted and even chanted. There was no roar. Perhaps it was the prophet. He came to the temple gates and dismounted. They waited. We waited. He stood a moment, and then strode into the courtyard.
I could not see where he got the whip of cords that he swung, but suddenly he was rampaging through the marketplace like some madman. I saw him grip the edge of one of the massive tables where the coins were traded and heave until it tipped and fell, coins and scales scattering and rolling everywhere. Then he moved into the animal pens, twirling the whip as people and animals and cages and straw scattered before him like one of their desert winds. The sounds that rose from the temple, animal and human, were full of panic and fear. Then I heard him, loud and deep above the chaos. He spoke in Hebrew, but there was no mistaking his command. The moneychangers and animal sellers were routed before him as rebels are routed before the legion.
I heard it said he called them robbers. I heard it said he claimed the temple for his God.
On command we formed to answer a charge of the mob, but they stood gawking. His sudden change from calm to holy rage frightened and confused them. He made no effort to incite them. His actions were not for them. Finally he stood breathing, calm again. The whip dropped from his hand and he moved with slow steps back through the temple's high gate and past us. There was a moment when we tensed and gripped our shields, as if the power in him would hit us like the charge of an army. We all felt it. The hair on our necks stood up as it does before a lightning strike. But he didn't even glance our way. He walked through the crowd, followed by a few of his disciples. He kept going, right out of the city.
There was in that man a power I have never seen or felt, even from the great leaders who order us into battle. Fear does not hurt me anymore. It is like the rain or Judea's dust. It is uncomfortable, but I suffer through it. But in those moments I knew another fear, a different fear. Here was something greater than any force I knew, clear and powerful and ready to act in the moment no matter the cost. And strangely, I felt there was no limit to what this man could do. Somehow his power was not limited by his reach or his muscles. I felt as a child before him. I think we all did. We stood with our puny armor and weapons and watched him walk away. And we felt, I felt, as if greatness had passed me by.
I remembered my boyhood dreams of conquest. I remembered how it felt to want the world and seriously think I could have it. I had learned different. But there, behind my shield, outside that temple gate, I felt it again. I felt the glory of greatness. And I watched it go with a great sadness. My discipline held me in place, but barely. In that moment I knew I saw something larger than even Mother Rome walking there before me. This was something... different. I will never forget it.
We were moved to the hills beyond the city that night. I heard later of the arrest and the crucifixion. So pass the enemies of Rome. Time has gone by, but he haunts me still: his voice, his calm, his power... and one thing more.
As he passed us, I could see his tears.
(From I Happened Upon a Miracle by C. David McKirachan [Westminster John Knox, 2001]. Used by permission of Westminster John Knox Press.)
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StoryShare, April 9, 2006, issue.
Copyright 2006 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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