My Stone Soup
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"My Stone Soup" by Frank Ramirez
"What the Hell Am I Doing Here?" by C. David McKirachan
"Such a Deal!" by C. David McKirachan
"The Fear of the Lord" by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Sometimes it seems as if it's impossible to make sense out of our lives -- but in this week's StoryShare, we have four disparate pieces whose common thread is trying to understand and cope with unusual circumstances. Frank Ramirez retells a well-known old chestnut -- and probes beneath it to think about why it was one of his mother's favorites. David McKirachan shares a moment from his ministry when he felt completely overwhelmed and wondered what he was doing… and the startling yet calming whisper he heard in response. McKirachan also tells about a favorite haunt, and uses that as a springboard to ponder how Jesus must have been incredibly frustrated by those who couldn't grasp what he was saying -- but even so, we are still invited to the incredible banquet he hosts for us. Finally, Jo Perry-Sumwalt offers a gripping tale about an earthquake and a serene woman who is confident that, as the hymn tells us, "God will take care of you."
* * * * * * * * *
My Stone Soup
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 111
He provides food for those who fear him; he is ever mindful of his covenant.
-- Psalm 111:5
My mother grew up in East Los Angeles during the Great Depression. Her mother, my grandmother, was often in the sanitarium with tuberculosis and died while Mom was still a child. Her father worked constantly to feed his six children. Though they never starved, there was sometimes very little food.
Mom talks about mustard sandwiches, and going without lunch at school, and always wishing there was just a little bit more. Since she lived without a mom at home, she resolved that when she grew up she would always be there for her children and make sure they had enough to eat.
I remember hearing her talk of those days without a trace of bitterness or regret, but I was impressed as a child that even though there were ten of us in the family and money had to be stretched, she was always home for us. There was always enough to eat.
Mom loved stories, and since there was no one to read to her she always read to us. One of her favorites was Stone Soup. I liked the story too, but when I was older I asked myself, why did she so enjoy this one?
Here's my version of Stone Soup, as I like to tell it. After the story is over I'll make a guess why it was one of my mothers' favorites:
This is the story of Stone Soup.
Once a long time ago in a land fairly far away, there was a village where all the people were crabby. No one ever shared. All the people were suspicious of each other -- and they were especially suspicious of strangers.
One day a tired Traveler came to the village as night was falling. He was very tired and very hungry. He hoped he could find a place to stay and something to eat, but it was not a friendly village. All the doors were closed and all the windows were dark. He knocked on a couple of doors and asked for something to eat, but everyone said they had no food, nothing to share.
Finally, he picked up a large stone and knocked on another door. When a woman answered he told her that he did not want any food, just a big pot and a place where they could boil water.
"What good will that do?" the woman asked suspiciously. "Where is the food to cook in that pot? I don't have any. Neither does anyone else in this town."
"I don't need any food from you," said the Traveler pleasantly. "I'm going to make Stone Soup."
"Stone Soup?"
"Yes. It is very good. All we need is a pot, some water, and a very large stone." The woman was curious. She lent him a large pot; then followed him with some suspicion to the town square. There the Traveler started a fire, boiled the water, and threw in the large stone. "Soon it will be done," the Traveler said. "Of course, it would taste better if we had a few onions…"
The woman said, "I might be able to find some onions. I'll be right back." Once the onions were boiling, some more of the villagers came out to see what was going on. The Traveler promised they would get to share some of the Stone Soup. "Of course," he said, "it would taste just a little better if only we had a few carrots -- and potatoes -- and greens -- and…" Soon everyone in the village brought vegetables and beef and chicken and fish, until the smell of the rich soup made everyone more hungry than they could imagine. Bowls were produced and everyone laughed and shared and ate.
Everyone in the village was so friendly and laughing so much that they never even noticed that the Traveler had quietly left to go to the next village -- because, of course, he was very special, something more than just a tired stranger. He had come to save them from themselves. Who do you think this Traveler was?
That's the story, the way I tell it. Regardless of who you think that traveler might be, I now can guess one reason Mom loved the story. The story tells us there's enough food out there. The problem is how to get it out of hiding and out of hoarding, and into the pot. Even today, with economic problems and conflict the world over, there is enough food.
There's enough food. God made the world that way. As the Psalmist says, God has made enough food for everyone. How will we see to it that it is distributed fairly? How will we get the food out of hiding and out of hoarding, and into the world?
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly thirty years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
What the Hell Am I Doing Here?
by C. David McKirachan
1 Kings 2, 10-12; 3:3-14
The sanctuary at my first parish could seat 160 people if we used folding chairs to supplement the pews. It was illegal, but Easter was a big day. Usually the folding chairs weren't necessary. Seventy or 80 was a good Sunday. Since we had 180 on the rolls, I wasn't upset. We got a lot done. There was a lot to do in the inner city.
My second church was in the suburbs. The sanctuary sat 500. There were 1,000 members on the books. On my first Sunday I went out and sat behind the pulpit and had a case of the "What the hell am I doing here's." We've all had them. It's a good question to ask in the face of a task that requires a stretch, that's daunting in scope. I sat there thinking I just didn't have that much peanut butter in my jar. There was no way I could make spiritual sandwiches for everybody.
I had experiences that these people had never dreamed of. I'd been places they would never consider going. But what did I have to give to them? They were more educated, better heeled (and toed), and I doubted they wanted to hear about my radical ideas of sharing with the poor. They weren't -- poor that is, and they were glad there were few or none of "them" attending. Soccer leagues and pool clubs and day-care issues were more up their alley. My experience was in crisis intervention (a daily normality in the city), rent strikes, and disarming angry trustees at joint board meetings (and I mean arms in the literal sense). I doubted these folks brought unregistered guns to church.
"What the hell am I doing here?" was a perfectly reasonable question.
But I had applied for this job. I'd interviewed. I'd passed COM's muster, I'd met the congregation, candidated, and been voted in. So much had led to this moment. And this was a call. It wasn't a job, it was a call. God put me here for some reason. But there were more people sitting out there than two Easter services. Now what?
First Kings doesn't say much about Solomon's angst at this juncture in his life. The prayer in his dream is the only indication that he had any feeling except complete humble confidence. Yeah, right. How would you like to follow King David? But it does say, "I am but a little child. I do not know how to go out and to come in." It had finally hit him. All the getting there was done. Now it was time to belly up to the bar and be the one in charge.
As I sat listening to the prelude, ruminating on my severe limitations, I heard a whisper in my ear, clear and calm. "What you have is enough." I jumped about a foot and turned to see who had snuck up on me. Nobody was there but the choir smiling at the new pastor. Then I knew. I felt the words as clearly as I had heard them. I felt their confidence and their hope.
I spent fourteen years in the suburbs. I rarely knew what I was doing, but I did the best I could. Looking back, it wasn't half bad. But on that first Sunday, I was blessed. And I knew what I was doing there, not because I was so wise, or because I had credentials, or because I was pure. I knew I was there because my Lord had confidence in me. During those years I often told Him that He was nuts, but fighting with God is vaguely like fighting with my mother, useless in the short and long run. You'd think we would learn.
Such a Deal!
by C. David McKirachan
John 6:51-58
"I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh." The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, "How can this man give us his flesh to eat?" So Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink."
-- John 6:51-55
There's this restaurant I frequent in Seabright called the Waterfront Cafe. It's built out on a pier, surrounded by boats. Sunsets to die for. They have two chefs who can do things with shrimp that are right up there with the sunsets. Marty, the owner, sits at the end of the bar presiding over his domain with a baseball-hat crown. He used to carry around a cigar, until they made it illegal. He comes to church, then goes back to the restaurant and discusses my sermons. It's become a real focus of evangelism. When I go to this place, I'm known, appreciated, and very well fed.
The other day someone asked me if the dinner we get there is worth the price. The question bothered me -- it made no sense to me. I tried to answer by saying that the food is exceptional and the service is great, but in the middle of my answer I realized that the value of the place for me has little to do with the price of the meal. I realized the Waterfront isn't just where I go to buy food. It's full of memories and moments, of relationships and small traditions. I felt like the questioner and I were having two different conversations. To answer him, I'd either have to deny my experience of value to talk in his language of dollars and cents and comparisons with the beer joint down the road, or I'd have to speak in terms that transcended his frame of reference.
Sometimes I wonder why Jesus didn't just fry the idiots that surrounded him. John's gospel is full of these multi-level conversations with Truth and Glory coming out of the Lord's mouth, with everybody else not getting, not seeing, not even breathing in the same dimension as the Incarnate Word standing before them.
It gets frightening when I use a little humility and realize that I would have probably been one of the idiots. It's easy not to understand. It's easy not to see. It's hard not to keep operating on automatic and to notice that something exceptional is happening right before our eyes. Food's food, money's money, my kid's a pain in the neck, and my schedule is stupid. But here and now we are alive. Here and now eternity intersects our day with a touch and a whisper. Here and now we have an opportunity to taste and see that the Lord is good.
Such multi-dimensional gobbledygook led the Pharisees to mumble and grumble and ask stupid questions like "How can we consume this man's flesh?" I would have fried 'em. But we shouldn't be too hard on them. We have phrases like "measurable and attainable." We choose efficiency over beauty. We teach kids to bisect a cone rather than teaching them how to be intimate or deal with conflict. Yep, I think I'd fry us too.
But He didn't -- and He goes on refraining from doing so. He goes on nourishing us in spite of our tendency to worry about the bottom line and to look at our watches when the sermon gets too long. He's more than calories on the hoof for mind, body, and spirit. He's the entree in a banquet of love… and He's the host… and He's the entertainment.
Are we getting our money's worth? If you gotta ask, you can't afford it.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
The Fear of the Lord
by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
Psalm 34:9-14; Ephesians 5:15-20
Come, O children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord. Which of you desires life, and covets many days to enjoy good? Keep your tongue from evil, and your lips from speaking deceit. Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.
-- Psalm 34:11-14
Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts...
-- Ephesians 5:18-19
There was no warning. One moment, busy afternoon rush hour crowds were bustling in and out of the subway terminal. Men and women of various ages, carrying briefcases, shopping bags, backpacks, and young children, brushed determinedly past one another on their way to and from countless locations. A group of tourists with floral print shirts and cameras craned their necks to take in the vaulted ceilings and marble pillars of the old 96th Street terminal as they descended into its artificially lit atmosphere. Two teachers herded 20 children on a late spring field trip up to the street on the adjoining staircase. Three youths dressed like gang members surreptitiously drew out spray paint cans, and two stood watch while the third emblazoned the wall behind one of the pillars with gang symbols and slogans. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, chose not to acknowledge the vandalism. It was the end of the day. Almost everyone just wanted to get home.
The next moment, the ground began to tremble, as if the switch on a giant vibrating machine had been thrown. Surprise registered on every face, and people struggled to keep their footing. Many failed. In another moment, the trembling became violent shaking. Crumbling concrete began to fall. Sharp, jutting segments of tiled floor rose up, exposing earth, and worse, gaping chasms beneath. Water pipes and electrical circuitry were torn free, creating showers of water and intermittent sparks. Artificial lights went out, avalanches of dirt and masonry fell, and soon all natural light from the former entrances and exits of the terminal was blocked out.
While it seemed an interminable amount of time to those who endured it, the quaking actually lasted less than one minute. When it ceased abruptly, so did the screams of the crowds. People who could move began to free themselves from debris in the total darkness. Voices called out names in terrified uncertainty; some were answered, some were not. Then the sounds of weeping and moaning could be heard. Someone flicked on a cigarette lighter, but was urged to put it out immediately; there was no way of knowing if gas pipes had been ruptured nearby.
A voice called out for a flashlight, if anyone had one, and two or three came on. Those who were uninjured began to move among the immobile. Handkerchiefs, scarves, and torn clothing became bandages and tourniquets. In a few moments, emergency generators kicked in and cast an eerie, but welcome, yellow/orange light over the devastation. People used to being in charge began to direct those who wandered aimlessly. Everyone trapped within the cavern created by the quake was accounted for, freed from the rubble if possible, and gathered together in the most open, secure section of ground. Volunteers cared for the injured and covered the dead. Names were exchanged. The injured and stricken were comforted.
It was a small elderly woman with a soft halo of white hair who discovered the boys behind the pillar. One, half buried in rubble, was unconscious. Another, clearly in shock, with blood streaming down his face from a scalp wound, sat rocking next to his unconscious friend. The third, clearly terrified, had withdrawn from the two and drank repeatedly from a pint-sized bottle of liquor. As yet, the alcohol had not dulled the fear in his eyes.
"Let's move your friend out into the open, away from this loose rubble," the old woman said softly to the uninjured boy. "Then we can get some men to free your other friend."
"Mind your own business, Grandma," the boy said angrily, and continued to drink from the bottle. The old woman sought help for the injured youths, then made rounds of the others who were hurt and frightened. As time passed, with nothing to occupy time but thinking of their plight, fear and tension grew.
"What are we going to do to get out of here?" someone finally demanded loudly. "We can't just sit here trapped."
"Don't touch anything!" cried another. "You'll cause an avalanche!"
"What about aftershocks?" asked another. "If more concrete falls, we could all be crushed!"
"Have faith," the small, white-haired woman implored. "Pray for help to come soon. God will take care of us."
"Like he took care of them?" shouted an angry voice, indicating the covered bodies of the dead. "No thanks!"
"This space is too small for all of us," cried a claustrophobe. "Stop arguing! We'll run out of air!"
Authoritarian voices demanded calm and quiet, but fear was much stronger than reason. Several people appeared to be near total panic. The gang youth with the liquor bottle began to laugh uncontrollably amid the shouting and crying, adding to the chaos, until it seemed there was no hope of restoring order and calm.
Suddenly the ground began to tremble beneath them again. Low rumbling rose into another terrifying roar as the movement increased to a shaking. The angry, frightened, and hysterical voices were muted in terror, but mercifully the shaking subsided without becoming a full-blown quake: the aftershock. After its shock began to wear off again, amid the coughing and brushing off of dirt and dust, a soft, quavering voice could be heard singing a familiar hymn. Searching eyes identified the elderly woman, kneeling between the unconscious gang youth and his unresponsive friend with the head wound, holding the hand of one and soothing the brow of the other as she sang. No one spoke; every ear was intent on the song.
Be not dismayed whate'er betide, God will take care of you;
Beneath his wings of love abide, God will take care of you.
Through days of toil when heart doth fail, God will take care of you;
When dangers fierce your path assail, God will take care of you.
No matter what may be the test, God will take care of you;
Lean weary one upon his breast, God will take care of you.
The uninjured youth stared at the half-empty liquor bottle in his hand for a few moments, then tossed it at one of the piles of rubble. Gradually the words became louder and clearer, until everyone who was able either hummed or joined in the refrain:
God will take care of you, through every day, o'er all the way;
He will take care of you, God will take care of you.
Hours later, rescue crews worked feverishly to free the trapped and injured from the earthquake's devastation. Amid pain-filled moans and anguished cries on the street level, the peaceful sound of singing greeted them as they began the careful excavation of the old 96th Street subway terminal. And as the crews lifted those survivors to safety, the puzzle of their serenity was answered when a small elderly woman with a halo of white hair paused as she reached the surface, deeply inhaled the fresh night air, and said, "Thank you, Lord, for sending your Holy Spirit to comfort us in the hour of our need." Then the rescue workers smiled at one another as the woman was helped to an ambulance, humming the tune of the familiar hymn as she went.
Jo Perry-Sumwalt is the director of Christian education at Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. Jo and her husband John are the former co-editors of StoryShare, and they are the co-authors of two books.
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StoryShare, August 16, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"My Stone Soup" by Frank Ramirez
"What the Hell Am I Doing Here?" by C. David McKirachan
"Such a Deal!" by C. David McKirachan
"The Fear of the Lord" by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
Sometimes it seems as if it's impossible to make sense out of our lives -- but in this week's StoryShare, we have four disparate pieces whose common thread is trying to understand and cope with unusual circumstances. Frank Ramirez retells a well-known old chestnut -- and probes beneath it to think about why it was one of his mother's favorites. David McKirachan shares a moment from his ministry when he felt completely overwhelmed and wondered what he was doing… and the startling yet calming whisper he heard in response. McKirachan also tells about a favorite haunt, and uses that as a springboard to ponder how Jesus must have been incredibly frustrated by those who couldn't grasp what he was saying -- but even so, we are still invited to the incredible banquet he hosts for us. Finally, Jo Perry-Sumwalt offers a gripping tale about an earthquake and a serene woman who is confident that, as the hymn tells us, "God will take care of you."
* * * * * * * * *
My Stone Soup
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 111
He provides food for those who fear him; he is ever mindful of his covenant.
-- Psalm 111:5
My mother grew up in East Los Angeles during the Great Depression. Her mother, my grandmother, was often in the sanitarium with tuberculosis and died while Mom was still a child. Her father worked constantly to feed his six children. Though they never starved, there was sometimes very little food.
Mom talks about mustard sandwiches, and going without lunch at school, and always wishing there was just a little bit more. Since she lived without a mom at home, she resolved that when she grew up she would always be there for her children and make sure they had enough to eat.
I remember hearing her talk of those days without a trace of bitterness or regret, but I was impressed as a child that even though there were ten of us in the family and money had to be stretched, she was always home for us. There was always enough to eat.
Mom loved stories, and since there was no one to read to her she always read to us. One of her favorites was Stone Soup. I liked the story too, but when I was older I asked myself, why did she so enjoy this one?
Here's my version of Stone Soup, as I like to tell it. After the story is over I'll make a guess why it was one of my mothers' favorites:
This is the story of Stone Soup.
Once a long time ago in a land fairly far away, there was a village where all the people were crabby. No one ever shared. All the people were suspicious of each other -- and they were especially suspicious of strangers.
One day a tired Traveler came to the village as night was falling. He was very tired and very hungry. He hoped he could find a place to stay and something to eat, but it was not a friendly village. All the doors were closed and all the windows were dark. He knocked on a couple of doors and asked for something to eat, but everyone said they had no food, nothing to share.
Finally, he picked up a large stone and knocked on another door. When a woman answered he told her that he did not want any food, just a big pot and a place where they could boil water.
"What good will that do?" the woman asked suspiciously. "Where is the food to cook in that pot? I don't have any. Neither does anyone else in this town."
"I don't need any food from you," said the Traveler pleasantly. "I'm going to make Stone Soup."
"Stone Soup?"
"Yes. It is very good. All we need is a pot, some water, and a very large stone." The woman was curious. She lent him a large pot; then followed him with some suspicion to the town square. There the Traveler started a fire, boiled the water, and threw in the large stone. "Soon it will be done," the Traveler said. "Of course, it would taste better if we had a few onions…"
The woman said, "I might be able to find some onions. I'll be right back." Once the onions were boiling, some more of the villagers came out to see what was going on. The Traveler promised they would get to share some of the Stone Soup. "Of course," he said, "it would taste just a little better if only we had a few carrots -- and potatoes -- and greens -- and…" Soon everyone in the village brought vegetables and beef and chicken and fish, until the smell of the rich soup made everyone more hungry than they could imagine. Bowls were produced and everyone laughed and shared and ate.
Everyone in the village was so friendly and laughing so much that they never even noticed that the Traveler had quietly left to go to the next village -- because, of course, he was very special, something more than just a tired stranger. He had come to save them from themselves. Who do you think this Traveler was?
That's the story, the way I tell it. Regardless of who you think that traveler might be, I now can guess one reason Mom loved the story. The story tells us there's enough food out there. The problem is how to get it out of hiding and out of hoarding, and into the pot. Even today, with economic problems and conflict the world over, there is enough food.
There's enough food. God made the world that way. As the Psalmist says, God has made enough food for everyone. How will we see to it that it is distributed fairly? How will we get the food out of hiding and out of hoarding, and into the world?
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly thirty years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
What the Hell Am I Doing Here?
by C. David McKirachan
1 Kings 2, 10-12; 3:3-14
The sanctuary at my first parish could seat 160 people if we used folding chairs to supplement the pews. It was illegal, but Easter was a big day. Usually the folding chairs weren't necessary. Seventy or 80 was a good Sunday. Since we had 180 on the rolls, I wasn't upset. We got a lot done. There was a lot to do in the inner city.
My second church was in the suburbs. The sanctuary sat 500. There were 1,000 members on the books. On my first Sunday I went out and sat behind the pulpit and had a case of the "What the hell am I doing here's." We've all had them. It's a good question to ask in the face of a task that requires a stretch, that's daunting in scope. I sat there thinking I just didn't have that much peanut butter in my jar. There was no way I could make spiritual sandwiches for everybody.
I had experiences that these people had never dreamed of. I'd been places they would never consider going. But what did I have to give to them? They were more educated, better heeled (and toed), and I doubted they wanted to hear about my radical ideas of sharing with the poor. They weren't -- poor that is, and they were glad there were few or none of "them" attending. Soccer leagues and pool clubs and day-care issues were more up their alley. My experience was in crisis intervention (a daily normality in the city), rent strikes, and disarming angry trustees at joint board meetings (and I mean arms in the literal sense). I doubted these folks brought unregistered guns to church.
"What the hell am I doing here?" was a perfectly reasonable question.
But I had applied for this job. I'd interviewed. I'd passed COM's muster, I'd met the congregation, candidated, and been voted in. So much had led to this moment. And this was a call. It wasn't a job, it was a call. God put me here for some reason. But there were more people sitting out there than two Easter services. Now what?
First Kings doesn't say much about Solomon's angst at this juncture in his life. The prayer in his dream is the only indication that he had any feeling except complete humble confidence. Yeah, right. How would you like to follow King David? But it does say, "I am but a little child. I do not know how to go out and to come in." It had finally hit him. All the getting there was done. Now it was time to belly up to the bar and be the one in charge.
As I sat listening to the prelude, ruminating on my severe limitations, I heard a whisper in my ear, clear and calm. "What you have is enough." I jumped about a foot and turned to see who had snuck up on me. Nobody was there but the choir smiling at the new pastor. Then I knew. I felt the words as clearly as I had heard them. I felt their confidence and their hope.
I spent fourteen years in the suburbs. I rarely knew what I was doing, but I did the best I could. Looking back, it wasn't half bad. But on that first Sunday, I was blessed. And I knew what I was doing there, not because I was so wise, or because I had credentials, or because I was pure. I knew I was there because my Lord had confidence in me. During those years I often told Him that He was nuts, but fighting with God is vaguely like fighting with my mother, useless in the short and long run. You'd think we would learn.
Such a Deal!
by C. David McKirachan
John 6:51-58
"I am the living bread that came down from heaven. Whoever eats of this bread will live forever; and the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh." The Jews then disputed among themselves, saying, "How can this man give us his flesh to eat?" So Jesus said to them, "Very truly, I tell you, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood have eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day; for my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink."
-- John 6:51-55
There's this restaurant I frequent in Seabright called the Waterfront Cafe. It's built out on a pier, surrounded by boats. Sunsets to die for. They have two chefs who can do things with shrimp that are right up there with the sunsets. Marty, the owner, sits at the end of the bar presiding over his domain with a baseball-hat crown. He used to carry around a cigar, until they made it illegal. He comes to church, then goes back to the restaurant and discusses my sermons. It's become a real focus of evangelism. When I go to this place, I'm known, appreciated, and very well fed.
The other day someone asked me if the dinner we get there is worth the price. The question bothered me -- it made no sense to me. I tried to answer by saying that the food is exceptional and the service is great, but in the middle of my answer I realized that the value of the place for me has little to do with the price of the meal. I realized the Waterfront isn't just where I go to buy food. It's full of memories and moments, of relationships and small traditions. I felt like the questioner and I were having two different conversations. To answer him, I'd either have to deny my experience of value to talk in his language of dollars and cents and comparisons with the beer joint down the road, or I'd have to speak in terms that transcended his frame of reference.
Sometimes I wonder why Jesus didn't just fry the idiots that surrounded him. John's gospel is full of these multi-level conversations with Truth and Glory coming out of the Lord's mouth, with everybody else not getting, not seeing, not even breathing in the same dimension as the Incarnate Word standing before them.
It gets frightening when I use a little humility and realize that I would have probably been one of the idiots. It's easy not to understand. It's easy not to see. It's hard not to keep operating on automatic and to notice that something exceptional is happening right before our eyes. Food's food, money's money, my kid's a pain in the neck, and my schedule is stupid. But here and now we are alive. Here and now eternity intersects our day with a touch and a whisper. Here and now we have an opportunity to taste and see that the Lord is good.
Such multi-dimensional gobbledygook led the Pharisees to mumble and grumble and ask stupid questions like "How can we consume this man's flesh?" I would have fried 'em. But we shouldn't be too hard on them. We have phrases like "measurable and attainable." We choose efficiency over beauty. We teach kids to bisect a cone rather than teaching them how to be intimate or deal with conflict. Yep, I think I'd fry us too.
But He didn't -- and He goes on refraining from doing so. He goes on nourishing us in spite of our tendency to worry about the bottom line and to look at our watches when the sermon gets too long. He's more than calories on the hoof for mind, body, and spirit. He's the entree in a banquet of love… and He's the host… and He's the entertainment.
Are we getting our money's worth? If you gotta ask, you can't afford it.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
The Fear of the Lord
by Jo Perry-Sumwalt
Psalm 34:9-14; Ephesians 5:15-20
Come, O children, listen to me; I will teach you the fear of the Lord. Which of you desires life, and covets many days to enjoy good? Keep your tongue from evil, and your lips from speaking deceit. Depart from evil, and do good; seek peace, and pursue it.
-- Psalm 34:11-14
Do not get drunk with wine, for that is debauchery; but be filled with the Spirit, as you sing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs among yourselves, singing and making melody to the Lord in your hearts...
-- Ephesians 5:18-19
There was no warning. One moment, busy afternoon rush hour crowds were bustling in and out of the subway terminal. Men and women of various ages, carrying briefcases, shopping bags, backpacks, and young children, brushed determinedly past one another on their way to and from countless locations. A group of tourists with floral print shirts and cameras craned their necks to take in the vaulted ceilings and marble pillars of the old 96th Street terminal as they descended into its artificially lit atmosphere. Two teachers herded 20 children on a late spring field trip up to the street on the adjoining staircase. Three youths dressed like gang members surreptitiously drew out spray paint cans, and two stood watch while the third emblazoned the wall behind one of the pillars with gang symbols and slogans. No one seemed to notice, or if they did, chose not to acknowledge the vandalism. It was the end of the day. Almost everyone just wanted to get home.
The next moment, the ground began to tremble, as if the switch on a giant vibrating machine had been thrown. Surprise registered on every face, and people struggled to keep their footing. Many failed. In another moment, the trembling became violent shaking. Crumbling concrete began to fall. Sharp, jutting segments of tiled floor rose up, exposing earth, and worse, gaping chasms beneath. Water pipes and electrical circuitry were torn free, creating showers of water and intermittent sparks. Artificial lights went out, avalanches of dirt and masonry fell, and soon all natural light from the former entrances and exits of the terminal was blocked out.
While it seemed an interminable amount of time to those who endured it, the quaking actually lasted less than one minute. When it ceased abruptly, so did the screams of the crowds. People who could move began to free themselves from debris in the total darkness. Voices called out names in terrified uncertainty; some were answered, some were not. Then the sounds of weeping and moaning could be heard. Someone flicked on a cigarette lighter, but was urged to put it out immediately; there was no way of knowing if gas pipes had been ruptured nearby.
A voice called out for a flashlight, if anyone had one, and two or three came on. Those who were uninjured began to move among the immobile. Handkerchiefs, scarves, and torn clothing became bandages and tourniquets. In a few moments, emergency generators kicked in and cast an eerie, but welcome, yellow/orange light over the devastation. People used to being in charge began to direct those who wandered aimlessly. Everyone trapped within the cavern created by the quake was accounted for, freed from the rubble if possible, and gathered together in the most open, secure section of ground. Volunteers cared for the injured and covered the dead. Names were exchanged. The injured and stricken were comforted.
It was a small elderly woman with a soft halo of white hair who discovered the boys behind the pillar. One, half buried in rubble, was unconscious. Another, clearly in shock, with blood streaming down his face from a scalp wound, sat rocking next to his unconscious friend. The third, clearly terrified, had withdrawn from the two and drank repeatedly from a pint-sized bottle of liquor. As yet, the alcohol had not dulled the fear in his eyes.
"Let's move your friend out into the open, away from this loose rubble," the old woman said softly to the uninjured boy. "Then we can get some men to free your other friend."
"Mind your own business, Grandma," the boy said angrily, and continued to drink from the bottle. The old woman sought help for the injured youths, then made rounds of the others who were hurt and frightened. As time passed, with nothing to occupy time but thinking of their plight, fear and tension grew.
"What are we going to do to get out of here?" someone finally demanded loudly. "We can't just sit here trapped."
"Don't touch anything!" cried another. "You'll cause an avalanche!"
"What about aftershocks?" asked another. "If more concrete falls, we could all be crushed!"
"Have faith," the small, white-haired woman implored. "Pray for help to come soon. God will take care of us."
"Like he took care of them?" shouted an angry voice, indicating the covered bodies of the dead. "No thanks!"
"This space is too small for all of us," cried a claustrophobe. "Stop arguing! We'll run out of air!"
Authoritarian voices demanded calm and quiet, but fear was much stronger than reason. Several people appeared to be near total panic. The gang youth with the liquor bottle began to laugh uncontrollably amid the shouting and crying, adding to the chaos, until it seemed there was no hope of restoring order and calm.
Suddenly the ground began to tremble beneath them again. Low rumbling rose into another terrifying roar as the movement increased to a shaking. The angry, frightened, and hysterical voices were muted in terror, but mercifully the shaking subsided without becoming a full-blown quake: the aftershock. After its shock began to wear off again, amid the coughing and brushing off of dirt and dust, a soft, quavering voice could be heard singing a familiar hymn. Searching eyes identified the elderly woman, kneeling between the unconscious gang youth and his unresponsive friend with the head wound, holding the hand of one and soothing the brow of the other as she sang. No one spoke; every ear was intent on the song.
Be not dismayed whate'er betide, God will take care of you;
Beneath his wings of love abide, God will take care of you.
Through days of toil when heart doth fail, God will take care of you;
When dangers fierce your path assail, God will take care of you.
No matter what may be the test, God will take care of you;
Lean weary one upon his breast, God will take care of you.
The uninjured youth stared at the half-empty liquor bottle in his hand for a few moments, then tossed it at one of the piles of rubble. Gradually the words became louder and clearer, until everyone who was able either hummed or joined in the refrain:
God will take care of you, through every day, o'er all the way;
He will take care of you, God will take care of you.
Hours later, rescue crews worked feverishly to free the trapped and injured from the earthquake's devastation. Amid pain-filled moans and anguished cries on the street level, the peaceful sound of singing greeted them as they began the careful excavation of the old 96th Street subway terminal. And as the crews lifted those survivors to safety, the puzzle of their serenity was answered when a small elderly woman with a halo of white hair paused as she reached the surface, deeply inhaled the fresh night air, and said, "Thank you, Lord, for sending your Holy Spirit to comfort us in the hour of our need." Then the rescue workers smiled at one another as the woman was helped to an ambulance, humming the tune of the familiar hymn as she went.
Jo Perry-Sumwalt is the director of Christian education at Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. Jo and her husband John are the former co-editors of StoryShare, and they are the co-authors of two books.
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StoryShare, August 16, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
