The Mayor's Wife
Stories
Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Mayor's Wife" by David O. Bales
"Being Forgiven" by Frank R. Fisher
"Twice Forgiven" by Constance Berg
What's Up This Week
When we truly grasp the powerful reality of God's forgiveness of our sins, it's a mind-blowing experience -- for as we realize in our honest moments, we hardly merit God's grace. In the featured story of this edition of StoryShare, David Bales offers a story with an interesting modern update of a manipulative Jezebel-type character -- one who is difficult to sympathize with and who deserves her comeuppance. But our Lord offers forgiveness even to those who seem to be evil, and our other stories this week are compelling examples of forgiveness in action. Frank Fisher provides a first-person account from Simon the Pharisee of Jesus' response to a "street woman," and the how seeing it changed his heart. And Constance Berg shares the story of a terrible traffic accident, and the remarkable forgiveness and reconciliation that followed after years of guilt and anger.
* * * * * * * * *
The Mayor's Wife
David O. Bales
1 Kings 21:1-10 (11-14) 15-21a
I only contacted you because she's gone too far, to an extreme that can't be imagined; and she does it so stealthily. I need someone who'll take seriously what only a few of us know fully: the depths this woman has sunk to.
I need your oath. Swear that what I say is completely off the record. My information must be anonymous. Agreed?
Good question. I chose you because of some things you've reported in the paper and because you're new in town. No one who's lived here long keeps a neutral perspective when it comes to the mayor and Mrs. Moore. You'll have to believe me, and I'll have to trust you.
You going to take out paper and pencil?
Tape recorder? I don't know. I don't want my voice in this. I'm serious about not being identified. Yes, tape is more accurate. But give me your word that when you transcribe this you'll destroy the tape. Paranoid, you think. I can tell. Well, listen and decide.
Robert D. Moore Sr. was mayor for 20 years, and now Robert D. Jr. has reigned for another 16. The behavior of Robert Jr.'s wife Diane Moore must be exposed. I've been around since the beginning of Old Bob's reign. He started the political plums and pork. Graft: dishonest, impure graft. He got kickbacks and protection money from anyone who worked for or around the city. The chief of police was in his pocket, and most council members too. But, and this is the point, Old Bob distributed money in all directions. By being free with his favors and only keeping a fraction of his gains, he became more and more secure in office.
But Young Robert D. didn't begin that way. That family attribute had to be acquired through marriage instead of by DNA. Diane worked for Old Bob in his last two administrations, and he handpicked her for his son.
Don't you see? Old Bob as much as trained her to take over, since he wanted his son and not a daughter-in-law to be the next mayor.
You're new in town. All you know about Mrs. Moore is her charities. She follows the "small percentage" theory of her father-in-law. She takes a lot, distributes most in favors, and maintains her philanthropic faÁade, but even a small slice of her extortion and blackmail is a great deal. Last week your paper displayed her on the front page with another charity for disabled children. Her goal is to be pictured at least once a month in your paper. Most people know her that way.
No, never had children. Don't think they tried.
Technically she's his secretary. But she directs the mayor. If he gives an order when she's not there, they wait and phone her to check what she wants. Few city workers don't owe her favors. Or she holds knowledge of an indiscretion over them like an anvil ready to drop if they don't toe to her line.
Her photo in your paper kicked me over the edge. I was at that event. Had to be there -- all shirt-and-tied up. I'd just come from the courthouse where she as much as celebrated her greatest victory. She did it her way, not with balloons and banners, but with a smirk. The mayor's door was open. I saw her smile in the mayor's office. I saw her newspaper smile, and that did it.
Twelve years ago Terence Bailey won election as district attorney. He was Young Bob's pick, and he won handily. He followed orders for the first two years. Then, even though he wasn't breaking open the organization, he started prosecuting cases he shouldn't. She warned him -- politely, of course. He did it anyway. Not a huge rebellion. He argued that he must prosecute some flagrant crimes. If he didn't, the whole administration would rip apart from public outcry.
As far as Mrs. Moore was concerned that wasn't his call. I was walking out of the mayor's office when word came Bailey was making his first forbidden prosecution. Mrs. Moore said, "Oh he is, is he?" She smiled that left-handed little smile, and I knew she'd break him if it took half her fortune and the rest of her life.
Last week... What was that? Over there. Sounded like somebody. Didn't you hear something? Guess I'm jumpy.
Last week's newspaper with her picture included the story of Bailey's resignation. I've got my suspicions of how she did it. When your paper was delivered to his desk, Young Bob held it up so she'd see her picture on the front page. She said, "Give me that." She thumbed to the second page, dropped the paper onto his desk, pointed to "D.A. Resigns," smiled slightly, touched her finger to her temple, and walked into her office. She got him. Took her ten years.
Don't look so skeptical. No, I can't prove it. I'm telling you we're dealing here not with just an evil person, but with intelligent wickedness. You can dig around a little. I think you'll find others who might say a few things -- some older guys nearest to retirement, particularly in the city streets department. We took flak from the public when they caught us blacktopping the mayor's driveway.
Will you look into it? And I need your word that you'll transcribe this and not include my name. No matter if Young Bob loses the next election, Mrs. Moore is owed enough favors and knows enough secrets to rule this city until she dies. Your word that you'll look into this?
This document was discovered in a manila envelope behind a file cabinet when the Herald newspaper building was sold. Included was the following portion of a newspaper article:
WIDOW OF EX-MAYOR HONORED
Mrs. Diane Moore, 94, was laid to rest Saturday in the largest funeral since....
David O. Bales is a retired Presbyterian minister 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 and is a contributing author to Sermons on the Second Readings (Series II, Cycle A).
Being Forgiven
Frank R. Fisher
Luke 7:36--8:3
From Simon the Pharisee, to Jesus the... the...
Who are you, Jesus? I don't know how to address you! But I discovered some things about you tonight that give me a clue; things I didn't believe when you arrived. But perhaps I'd better talk about tonight before I talk about those beliefs.
When I invited you to dine with me I did so out of a sense of curiosity. I also knew your presence would draw in other fascinating guests. You were a sort of trophy to display -- the latest fad from the countryside for my friends and I to belittle. I guess you know that. You knew it long before my invitation ever reached you!
Today was such a fine day for a banquet. And being a fine day it simply added to my love of being a host. "Host" -- a word we both know has deep meanings and obligations. I wasn't much of a host to you, was I?
When you arrived I was standing next to the courtyard entry, being seen and envied by the human trash who hang around outside the courtyard. They wanted to see the great people dine and try to snatch some food from the servers. As my guests arrived, I would give them a kiss of peace and gesture to my slaves to care for them. They'd usher the guests to their couches, help them to recline, wash their feet, and then anoint their heads.
When I saw you, I made a different gesture. My slaves knew what it meant. They rushed you past me, so there would be no time for a kiss, and showed you to your couch. They left you there immediately without helping you, washing your feet, or anointing you. The other guests understood the snub. They knew you were to be the evening's curiosity -- someone whose only importance was the diversion you'd provide.
It happened soon after the meal began. A prostitute, one of the dregs watching us dine from afar, raced in, dodged my slaves, and threw herself down at your feet. She began to cry on your feet, washing them with her tears and drying them with her hair. Then she broke open an alabaster jar and began to anoint your feet with a very costly ointment.
I don't have to tell you I was boiling inside! "If this man were a prophet," I thought, "he'd have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him. He'd know she's a sinner."
You looked at me with a strange look on your face. Then you said you had a question for me. I thought you were simply trying to distract my attention from this sinful woman, so I told you to go ahead.
"A certain creditor had two debtors;" you said. "One owed 500 denarii, and the other 50. When they could not pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?"
"Ah," I sighed inside, "Jesus is simply trying to act like a normal guest. He's playing a riddle game." I thought I'd play along and answer your too-obvious question. "I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt," I answered.
Immediately you said I'd judged rightly. But then you turned toward the woman and said to me: "Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little."
All around me people were whispering, "Who is this who even forgives sins?" I had no need to whisper. Nor did I need the confirmation of my thoughts when you told the woman her sins were forgiven. You sent her off then with a blessing of peace, telling her how her faith had saved her.
No, I did not heed the whisperers. I knew who you were. A prophet yes, you were that -- for you'd demonstrated your knowledge of my thoughts all too clearly. I knew you had to be more than a prophet. "But," I thought, "how can this be? Only God can forgive sins!"
It was later that night when my thoughts calmed. Then the true realizations came to me. You are the Messiah, my Lord, my Savior, my Master. And I need to be forgiven of much more than did the woman whom you forgave tonight.
Please, Jesus, please forgive me for the way I treated you tonight. But please forgive me even more for the way I have treated others -- my slaves, the people who surround my courtyard looking in, and so many others. Please Jesus, forgive this little one who now loves you so very much.
My tears are flowing freely now. I hope they do not erase this page. But somehow I know you have already heard my plea and have forgiven me. I know the wonder of being forgiven, and the incredible nature of the grace you've given me.
I heard from my friend Mary of Magdala that you are setting out soon with your disciples to proclaim the Good News to all those you meet. I want to come with you! The papers are all complete. My slaves are free; my home and all I own is being sold, and the money is being given to those who used to watch me feast in splendor.
Please, let me follow you, Messiah. Let me tell all those whom we meet how such love is possible. Let me tell them about being set free -- about being forgiven.
Frank R. Fisher is a second-career interim/transitional pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). He currently serves as the interim pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Bushnell, Illinois. A former paramedic and administrator for the Chicago Fire Department, Fisher is an Oblate of the ecumenical Abbey of John the Baptist and Saint Benedict in Bartonville, Illinois.
Twice Forgiven
Constance Berg
"Your sins are forgiven... go in peace."
Luke 7:48, 50
Robby was changing the channel on the radio when he came to the intersection. He was on his way home from a long day at work and he was tired. The music was keeping him awake.
Robby didn't see the stop sign. He didn't see the car coming into his path. He only heard a terrible crash as his van hit the small car. There was a loud boom and the car exploded in flames. The driver had no hope even to realize what had killed him on that lonely country highway. Robby jumped out of his van in terror, not knowing what to do. He wished beyond anything that this was all a dream.
The following days were a nightmare: he was charged with reckless driving and failure to yield at a stop sign. He was going to trial for vehicular manslaughter. At the tender age of 21, Robby was finding out that in this case, he was guilty until proven innocent.
The trial was swift and the sentence was considered lenient: 10 years in the penitentiary and $120,000 in restitution for the family of the man who died. But Robby felt it wasn't strong enough. He would have given anything to trade places with the man. Robby was only 21; the man, 53. Robby didn't have a girlfriend; the man had a wife, three children, and two grandchildren. Robby was just beginning his career; the man was due for early retirement in two years.
Robby suffered from depression and attended classes in prison. He learned woodworking skills and became recognized for his quick wit and fine detail. Soon he was in a rehabilitation home, helping mentor woodworking students at the high school. He told his story wherever he went, warning young drivers to stay alert and to drive defensively.
When Robby had been in prison seven years, he was released. He had saved his money and his family was waiting with open arms. He would stay with them until he got on his feet. He would purchase equipment and do woodworking. At the age of 28, Robby was starting his life.
Robby fell in love and soon made enough to buy a two-bedroom condominium with a huge garage. He worked out of his home while his wife worked at the library.
One quiet summer day when Robby was turning wood in his garage he felt an overwhelming sadness at the events of that fateful day. Why hadn't he been paying attention? Why didn't he slow down? He knew the intersection was coming up. Why did that have to happen? Robby put down his instruments and cried. Tears ran down his face until he was drenched.
For seven years he had regretted what had happened, and he had felt guilty about the tragedy of it all. He had talked to the prison chaplain and the counselor numerous times. But this day was different. Robby felt a sadness so intense it engulfed him, consuming him with a grief that he could almost feel. It was as if a heavy weight was on his chest.
Robby sobbed. He cried out loud and found no relief. He looked around at his modest but nice home. He was getting his life back together. He felt proud that he had come this far. But he felt enormous guilt at taking another man's life. He fell to his knees and grabbed his knife. He would end it all. He would take this pain from his heart and never have to deal with it again. He pointed the knife to his heart.
"Oh God, help me. Why did I kill that man? How can I ever undo what I did? Oh God. Oh God. Oh God!" Robby dropped the knife as he cried out in utter anguish.
He cried for several hours until all his energy was gone. He remembers feeling cold and hungry. And he remembers the instant when he felt warm. He prayed that God would deliver him from this anguish, and suddenly he felt a warmth pour over him, like a dip in a warm tub. Robby asked for forgiveness from the bottom of his heart. He asked God to be with him.
It took several days to admit what happened to his new wife, but she was understanding. "God forgives you, you know that. What you need to do now is ask forgiveness of Mrs. Johanesson." Terror once again gripped Robby, but he knew that Marcia was right. He needed to make amends with the man's widow.
Two months later, Mrs. Johanesson and Robby met at a coffee shop. Robby brought flowers and told her they could never replace her husband, but he felt he had to give her something tangible. He poured out his heart to her as he shared the painful memory of prison, the hours of learning woodworking in the prison woodshops, and the joy of seeing the wood come alive. He shared what happened in his garage and how he felt touched by God. He knew he was forgiven by God. Now he needed to beg Mrs. Johanesson for her forgiveness.
"You couldn't have known this was going to happen, Robby. Still, I hated you. I wanted you to get the death sentence, and I prayed that you would get some awful disease in prison. My anger toward you consumed me until our third grandchild was born. My daughter said I couldn't come to visit until I had figured out if I was going to be a bitter old woman or an understanding Christian. She didn't want me to influence our grandchild in the state I was in. I was a mess. I was bitter, I was angry, I was cynical. I had to make up my mind."
Mrs. Johanesson took Robby's hand. "I hated you so much, there was nothing more to love. One day I asked God to take your life, and suddenly, in the middle of that prayer, I felt I couldn't breathe. I knew right then that if I didn't get over this hatred, it would kill me. It took almost three years, Robby, but I forgave you one night. My death wish for you suddenly turned into a life wish for you. Why did we need two men to die from this tragedy? I was in the pits of despair, but I came out of it after much prayer and therapy. I can honestly tell you that I have forgiven you, Robby. I miss my husband very much, but I wish you only a long and successful life."
"My therapist told me to write you a letter, Robby, and that letter was forwarded to your parole board. They told me about all your public speaking and the mentoring you did at the school woodshop. I felt proud of you in a way. You were released three weeks after that." They hugged and cried as they realized what had happened.
Robby felt drained. How could he ever repay her? He had been assured forgiveness by God, and it had been so important to receive forgiveness from Mrs. Johanesson. He felt a tremendous freedom and a deep joy as he left the restaurant.
He was truly forgiven!
Constance Berg is a former missionary to Chiapas, Mexico. She is currently based in Bakersfield, California, where she serves as the director of 18 nursing homes for handicapped individuals. Berg is the author of three volumes of the CSS series Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit.
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StoryShare, June 17, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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What's Up This Week
"The Mayor's Wife" by David O. Bales
"Being Forgiven" by Frank R. Fisher
"Twice Forgiven" by Constance Berg
What's Up This Week
When we truly grasp the powerful reality of God's forgiveness of our sins, it's a mind-blowing experience -- for as we realize in our honest moments, we hardly merit God's grace. In the featured story of this edition of StoryShare, David Bales offers a story with an interesting modern update of a manipulative Jezebel-type character -- one who is difficult to sympathize with and who deserves her comeuppance. But our Lord offers forgiveness even to those who seem to be evil, and our other stories this week are compelling examples of forgiveness in action. Frank Fisher provides a first-person account from Simon the Pharisee of Jesus' response to a "street woman," and the how seeing it changed his heart. And Constance Berg shares the story of a terrible traffic accident, and the remarkable forgiveness and reconciliation that followed after years of guilt and anger.
* * * * * * * * *
The Mayor's Wife
David O. Bales
1 Kings 21:1-10 (11-14) 15-21a
I only contacted you because she's gone too far, to an extreme that can't be imagined; and she does it so stealthily. I need someone who'll take seriously what only a few of us know fully: the depths this woman has sunk to.
I need your oath. Swear that what I say is completely off the record. My information must be anonymous. Agreed?
Good question. I chose you because of some things you've reported in the paper and because you're new in town. No one who's lived here long keeps a neutral perspective when it comes to the mayor and Mrs. Moore. You'll have to believe me, and I'll have to trust you.
You going to take out paper and pencil?
Tape recorder? I don't know. I don't want my voice in this. I'm serious about not being identified. Yes, tape is more accurate. But give me your word that when you transcribe this you'll destroy the tape. Paranoid, you think. I can tell. Well, listen and decide.
Robert D. Moore Sr. was mayor for 20 years, and now Robert D. Jr. has reigned for another 16. The behavior of Robert Jr.'s wife Diane Moore must be exposed. I've been around since the beginning of Old Bob's reign. He started the political plums and pork. Graft: dishonest, impure graft. He got kickbacks and protection money from anyone who worked for or around the city. The chief of police was in his pocket, and most council members too. But, and this is the point, Old Bob distributed money in all directions. By being free with his favors and only keeping a fraction of his gains, he became more and more secure in office.
But Young Robert D. didn't begin that way. That family attribute had to be acquired through marriage instead of by DNA. Diane worked for Old Bob in his last two administrations, and he handpicked her for his son.
Don't you see? Old Bob as much as trained her to take over, since he wanted his son and not a daughter-in-law to be the next mayor.
You're new in town. All you know about Mrs. Moore is her charities. She follows the "small percentage" theory of her father-in-law. She takes a lot, distributes most in favors, and maintains her philanthropic faÁade, but even a small slice of her extortion and blackmail is a great deal. Last week your paper displayed her on the front page with another charity for disabled children. Her goal is to be pictured at least once a month in your paper. Most people know her that way.
No, never had children. Don't think they tried.
Technically she's his secretary. But she directs the mayor. If he gives an order when she's not there, they wait and phone her to check what she wants. Few city workers don't owe her favors. Or she holds knowledge of an indiscretion over them like an anvil ready to drop if they don't toe to her line.
Her photo in your paper kicked me over the edge. I was at that event. Had to be there -- all shirt-and-tied up. I'd just come from the courthouse where she as much as celebrated her greatest victory. She did it her way, not with balloons and banners, but with a smirk. The mayor's door was open. I saw her smile in the mayor's office. I saw her newspaper smile, and that did it.
Twelve years ago Terence Bailey won election as district attorney. He was Young Bob's pick, and he won handily. He followed orders for the first two years. Then, even though he wasn't breaking open the organization, he started prosecuting cases he shouldn't. She warned him -- politely, of course. He did it anyway. Not a huge rebellion. He argued that he must prosecute some flagrant crimes. If he didn't, the whole administration would rip apart from public outcry.
As far as Mrs. Moore was concerned that wasn't his call. I was walking out of the mayor's office when word came Bailey was making his first forbidden prosecution. Mrs. Moore said, "Oh he is, is he?" She smiled that left-handed little smile, and I knew she'd break him if it took half her fortune and the rest of her life.
Last week... What was that? Over there. Sounded like somebody. Didn't you hear something? Guess I'm jumpy.
Last week's newspaper with her picture included the story of Bailey's resignation. I've got my suspicions of how she did it. When your paper was delivered to his desk, Young Bob held it up so she'd see her picture on the front page. She said, "Give me that." She thumbed to the second page, dropped the paper onto his desk, pointed to "D.A. Resigns," smiled slightly, touched her finger to her temple, and walked into her office. She got him. Took her ten years.
Don't look so skeptical. No, I can't prove it. I'm telling you we're dealing here not with just an evil person, but with intelligent wickedness. You can dig around a little. I think you'll find others who might say a few things -- some older guys nearest to retirement, particularly in the city streets department. We took flak from the public when they caught us blacktopping the mayor's driveway.
Will you look into it? And I need your word that you'll transcribe this and not include my name. No matter if Young Bob loses the next election, Mrs. Moore is owed enough favors and knows enough secrets to rule this city until she dies. Your word that you'll look into this?
This document was discovered in a manila envelope behind a file cabinet when the Herald newspaper building was sold. Included was the following portion of a newspaper article:
WIDOW OF EX-MAYOR HONORED
Mrs. Diane Moore, 94, was laid to rest Saturday in the largest funeral since....
David O. Bales is a retired Presbyterian minister 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 and is a contributing author to Sermons on the Second Readings (Series II, Cycle A).
Being Forgiven
Frank R. Fisher
Luke 7:36--8:3
From Simon the Pharisee, to Jesus the... the...
Who are you, Jesus? I don't know how to address you! But I discovered some things about you tonight that give me a clue; things I didn't believe when you arrived. But perhaps I'd better talk about tonight before I talk about those beliefs.
When I invited you to dine with me I did so out of a sense of curiosity. I also knew your presence would draw in other fascinating guests. You were a sort of trophy to display -- the latest fad from the countryside for my friends and I to belittle. I guess you know that. You knew it long before my invitation ever reached you!
Today was such a fine day for a banquet. And being a fine day it simply added to my love of being a host. "Host" -- a word we both know has deep meanings and obligations. I wasn't much of a host to you, was I?
When you arrived I was standing next to the courtyard entry, being seen and envied by the human trash who hang around outside the courtyard. They wanted to see the great people dine and try to snatch some food from the servers. As my guests arrived, I would give them a kiss of peace and gesture to my slaves to care for them. They'd usher the guests to their couches, help them to recline, wash their feet, and then anoint their heads.
When I saw you, I made a different gesture. My slaves knew what it meant. They rushed you past me, so there would be no time for a kiss, and showed you to your couch. They left you there immediately without helping you, washing your feet, or anointing you. The other guests understood the snub. They knew you were to be the evening's curiosity -- someone whose only importance was the diversion you'd provide.
It happened soon after the meal began. A prostitute, one of the dregs watching us dine from afar, raced in, dodged my slaves, and threw herself down at your feet. She began to cry on your feet, washing them with her tears and drying them with her hair. Then she broke open an alabaster jar and began to anoint your feet with a very costly ointment.
I don't have to tell you I was boiling inside! "If this man were a prophet," I thought, "he'd have known who and what kind of woman this is who is touching him. He'd know she's a sinner."
You looked at me with a strange look on your face. Then you said you had a question for me. I thought you were simply trying to distract my attention from this sinful woman, so I told you to go ahead.
"A certain creditor had two debtors;" you said. "One owed 500 denarii, and the other 50. When they could not pay, he canceled the debts for both of them. Now which of them will love him more?"
"Ah," I sighed inside, "Jesus is simply trying to act like a normal guest. He's playing a riddle game." I thought I'd play along and answer your too-obvious question. "I suppose the one for whom he canceled the greater debt," I answered.
Immediately you said I'd judged rightly. But then you turned toward the woman and said to me: "Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave me no water for my feet, but she has bathed my feet with her tears and dried them with her hair. You gave me no kiss, but from the time I came in she has not stopped kissing my feet. You did not anoint my head with oil, but she has anointed my feet with ointment. Therefore, I tell you, her sins, which were many, have been forgiven; hence she has shown great love. But the one to whom little is forgiven, loves little."
All around me people were whispering, "Who is this who even forgives sins?" I had no need to whisper. Nor did I need the confirmation of my thoughts when you told the woman her sins were forgiven. You sent her off then with a blessing of peace, telling her how her faith had saved her.
No, I did not heed the whisperers. I knew who you were. A prophet yes, you were that -- for you'd demonstrated your knowledge of my thoughts all too clearly. I knew you had to be more than a prophet. "But," I thought, "how can this be? Only God can forgive sins!"
It was later that night when my thoughts calmed. Then the true realizations came to me. You are the Messiah, my Lord, my Savior, my Master. And I need to be forgiven of much more than did the woman whom you forgave tonight.
Please, Jesus, please forgive me for the way I treated you tonight. But please forgive me even more for the way I have treated others -- my slaves, the people who surround my courtyard looking in, and so many others. Please Jesus, forgive this little one who now loves you so very much.
My tears are flowing freely now. I hope they do not erase this page. But somehow I know you have already heard my plea and have forgiven me. I know the wonder of being forgiven, and the incredible nature of the grace you've given me.
I heard from my friend Mary of Magdala that you are setting out soon with your disciples to proclaim the Good News to all those you meet. I want to come with you! The papers are all complete. My slaves are free; my home and all I own is being sold, and the money is being given to those who used to watch me feast in splendor.
Please, let me follow you, Messiah. Let me tell all those whom we meet how such love is possible. Let me tell them about being set free -- about being forgiven.
Frank R. Fisher is a second-career interim/transitional pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). He currently serves as the interim pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Bushnell, Illinois. A former paramedic and administrator for the Chicago Fire Department, Fisher is an Oblate of the ecumenical Abbey of John the Baptist and Saint Benedict in Bartonville, Illinois.
Twice Forgiven
Constance Berg
"Your sins are forgiven... go in peace."
Luke 7:48, 50
Robby was changing the channel on the radio when he came to the intersection. He was on his way home from a long day at work and he was tired. The music was keeping him awake.
Robby didn't see the stop sign. He didn't see the car coming into his path. He only heard a terrible crash as his van hit the small car. There was a loud boom and the car exploded in flames. The driver had no hope even to realize what had killed him on that lonely country highway. Robby jumped out of his van in terror, not knowing what to do. He wished beyond anything that this was all a dream.
The following days were a nightmare: he was charged with reckless driving and failure to yield at a stop sign. He was going to trial for vehicular manslaughter. At the tender age of 21, Robby was finding out that in this case, he was guilty until proven innocent.
The trial was swift and the sentence was considered lenient: 10 years in the penitentiary and $120,000 in restitution for the family of the man who died. But Robby felt it wasn't strong enough. He would have given anything to trade places with the man. Robby was only 21; the man, 53. Robby didn't have a girlfriend; the man had a wife, three children, and two grandchildren. Robby was just beginning his career; the man was due for early retirement in two years.
Robby suffered from depression and attended classes in prison. He learned woodworking skills and became recognized for his quick wit and fine detail. Soon he was in a rehabilitation home, helping mentor woodworking students at the high school. He told his story wherever he went, warning young drivers to stay alert and to drive defensively.
When Robby had been in prison seven years, he was released. He had saved his money and his family was waiting with open arms. He would stay with them until he got on his feet. He would purchase equipment and do woodworking. At the age of 28, Robby was starting his life.
Robby fell in love and soon made enough to buy a two-bedroom condominium with a huge garage. He worked out of his home while his wife worked at the library.
One quiet summer day when Robby was turning wood in his garage he felt an overwhelming sadness at the events of that fateful day. Why hadn't he been paying attention? Why didn't he slow down? He knew the intersection was coming up. Why did that have to happen? Robby put down his instruments and cried. Tears ran down his face until he was drenched.
For seven years he had regretted what had happened, and he had felt guilty about the tragedy of it all. He had talked to the prison chaplain and the counselor numerous times. But this day was different. Robby felt a sadness so intense it engulfed him, consuming him with a grief that he could almost feel. It was as if a heavy weight was on his chest.
Robby sobbed. He cried out loud and found no relief. He looked around at his modest but nice home. He was getting his life back together. He felt proud that he had come this far. But he felt enormous guilt at taking another man's life. He fell to his knees and grabbed his knife. He would end it all. He would take this pain from his heart and never have to deal with it again. He pointed the knife to his heart.
"Oh God, help me. Why did I kill that man? How can I ever undo what I did? Oh God. Oh God. Oh God!" Robby dropped the knife as he cried out in utter anguish.
He cried for several hours until all his energy was gone. He remembers feeling cold and hungry. And he remembers the instant when he felt warm. He prayed that God would deliver him from this anguish, and suddenly he felt a warmth pour over him, like a dip in a warm tub. Robby asked for forgiveness from the bottom of his heart. He asked God to be with him.
It took several days to admit what happened to his new wife, but she was understanding. "God forgives you, you know that. What you need to do now is ask forgiveness of Mrs. Johanesson." Terror once again gripped Robby, but he knew that Marcia was right. He needed to make amends with the man's widow.
Two months later, Mrs. Johanesson and Robby met at a coffee shop. Robby brought flowers and told her they could never replace her husband, but he felt he had to give her something tangible. He poured out his heart to her as he shared the painful memory of prison, the hours of learning woodworking in the prison woodshops, and the joy of seeing the wood come alive. He shared what happened in his garage and how he felt touched by God. He knew he was forgiven by God. Now he needed to beg Mrs. Johanesson for her forgiveness.
"You couldn't have known this was going to happen, Robby. Still, I hated you. I wanted you to get the death sentence, and I prayed that you would get some awful disease in prison. My anger toward you consumed me until our third grandchild was born. My daughter said I couldn't come to visit until I had figured out if I was going to be a bitter old woman or an understanding Christian. She didn't want me to influence our grandchild in the state I was in. I was a mess. I was bitter, I was angry, I was cynical. I had to make up my mind."
Mrs. Johanesson took Robby's hand. "I hated you so much, there was nothing more to love. One day I asked God to take your life, and suddenly, in the middle of that prayer, I felt I couldn't breathe. I knew right then that if I didn't get over this hatred, it would kill me. It took almost three years, Robby, but I forgave you one night. My death wish for you suddenly turned into a life wish for you. Why did we need two men to die from this tragedy? I was in the pits of despair, but I came out of it after much prayer and therapy. I can honestly tell you that I have forgiven you, Robby. I miss my husband very much, but I wish you only a long and successful life."
"My therapist told me to write you a letter, Robby, and that letter was forwarded to your parole board. They told me about all your public speaking and the mentoring you did at the school woodshop. I felt proud of you in a way. You were released three weeks after that." They hugged and cried as they realized what had happened.
Robby felt drained. How could he ever repay her? He had been assured forgiveness by God, and it had been so important to receive forgiveness from Mrs. Johanesson. He felt a tremendous freedom and a deep joy as he left the restaurant.
He was truly forgiven!
Constance Berg is a former missionary to Chiapas, Mexico. She is currently based in Bakersfield, California, where she serves as the director of 18 nursing homes for handicapped individuals. Berg is the author of three volumes of the CSS series Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit.
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StoryShare, June 17, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
