The Nominee
Stories
Object:
Contents
"The Nominee" by Keith Hewitt
"Weeping With Faith" by Peter Andrew Smith
* * * * * * *
The Nominee
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 17:5-10
"I don't get you, John," the superintendent said, spooning creamer into his coffee until it took on the color of hot chocolate.
John Randall watched the process with a ghost of a smile on his lips, then shook his head. "If you have to work that hard to kill the taste, why drink that stuff?" he asked, ignoring his lunch companion's comment.
"Why do I drink coffee? Because the bishop won't let me do heroin." He tested the drink, grimaced, and added sugar, stirred it in, making rhythmic tapping noises against the side of the cup with his spoon. "I got hooked on this stuff in seminary -- used to buy a special blend from the Jesuits across the street. Don't know what they did to it, but I never found anything that tasted the same way since. Been drinking it 33 years, though, and haven't liked the flavor since I was 24. I can't give it up -- I need the caffeine. My doctor says I have an addictive personality -- that, from a man who chain smokes in his sleep."
He lifted out the spoon, tapped it once on the rim of the cup, and laid it carefully on the saucer. "Now that you've deflected the conversation away from yourself for a minute, let's get back to you. And I repeat, I don't get you, John. This is a big deal. I don't know why you're even hesitating."
Randall shrugged. "I just don't see the point to it."
"The point is that they want to honor you. The Peace and Justice Coalition picked you out of maybe a dozen candidates to receive their Humanitarian of the Year Award, and here you dither about it." The superintendent shook his head as he sipped his coffee. "Unbelievable," he murmured.
"I've been part of a couple of projects -- done a few things here and there, I don't even know how they would have gotten my name. No."
"The bishop nominated you, John. He knows all about you, and he thinks you deserve this award for all the work you've done. The mission work in San Dión, the work you've done in the Veterans hospitals, the homeless mission, the soup kitchen, civil rights -- and you're a war hero, to boot."
"What I did in the service is two wars behind us now, Martin, and it was not that heroic," Randall said slowly, eyes shifting off the superintendent for a moment as memories flowed, unbidden, then faded... unconsciously, he shivered, drew his arms in closer. "I am not a war hero, anymore than anybody else who took the oath and did their best. And the rest --" He paused, shrugged. "I don't see the big deal."
"You were a missionary in San Dión for how many years? It was supposed to be a two year stint, and you stayed until you caught the galloping never-get-overs from some jungle bug, and had to be evacuated home."
"And there are people who went down with me and are still down there, doing the same work. How are they getting recognized?"
"They're there, you're here. And, as I said, you've done many, many things since you were brought home. You've done wonderful things, John. I know that, you know that -- or you should, anyway -- and the Coalition knows that. Hence the award."
The superintendent paused again, took a sip of his coffee, set it down carefully, and lowered his voice. "Besides, it would be a good thing for the church. We're starting to see our numbers decline -- you have to be a statistician to see it, but it is there, and we're afraid it's just going to get worse. With everything that's going on in the world, people -- some people -- are starting to see us as irrelevant. So if somebody from the church -- let's say you, for instance -- was to get this award, it would show that we really are relevant. Do you understand?"
Randall started to answer quickly, hesitated and took a sip of ice water from his glass, then played with the glass for a few moments, slowly rolling it between his hands. "Let me see if I can make you understand, Martin. I've been a pastor for a long time now, and I figured out some things. When you get past all the bureaucratic nonsense, all the nonessential stuff that we have to deal with, what's left? What is it that we're supposed to do? What is it we're all supposed to do, as followers of Christ? Or, a different way to ask the same question, what are we supposed to be?"
He paused and looked at the superintendent expectantly. He just shook his head. "It's your sermon, John."
"The way I read it, we're supposed to spread the gospel, to reach out to all God's people, and we're supposed to be servants. We are servants to our churches, servants to society, servants to God... but servants. So if we live our lives that way and actually serve... if we do our job... then we shouldn't expect to be recognized for it. Everything I do, everything I've done -- all those things you mentioned -- I've done them all in service to God and to our fellow man. You're a pastor, you know that."
"But surely a little recognition -- a plaque for your office, your picture in the paper, a nice dinner --"
"Good publicity for the church," Randall added.
"-- and maybe a way of attracting people to the church, getting out the message about the good things that we do in society, showing people that a 2,000-year-old religion and a 300-year-old church can still be relevant today -- you can't object to that, can you?"
"What do you think?" Randall asked with a smile and took a sip of water. "It's wrong. It's elevating me when I'm not worthy of being elevated. It's like -- it's like being on a baseball team. You played baseball as a kid?"
"Three years of Little League."
"Then you know what I mean. It would be like playing on a team, and then getting some kind of award or recognition just for showing up. Just for doing the things you committed to do when you signed on. I won't do that."
The superintendent sighed and took a deep drink of coffee before setting the cup down and shaking his head. "You're being difficult, John. And stubborn and I think I'm going to have to have a long, uncomfortable talk with the bishop tonight over dinner."
Randall shrugged. "Sorry, Martin."
The superintendent stood up, counted out the money for their lunch, dropped it on the table with their check, and said thoughtfully, "Well, I wouldn't be too sorry, John. This is exactly what I told the bishop you would say. And then I told him something else."
Randall stood up and eyed his superintendent curiously. "What was that, Martin?"
"Just that I would rather have a single servant than a dozen heroes -- and I was pretty sure Jesus felt the same way. You know -- we servants have to stick together." And with a flash of a smile, he turned away.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
Weeping With Faith
by Peter Andrew Smith
Lamentations 1:1-6; Psalm 137
Pastor Tom looked over the plates filled with various sandwiches and sweets. "I don't think I have ever seen this much food at a church reception."
"A congregation doesn't celebrate a milestone like this too often," Sally said from the other side of the buffet table. "You have to try those egg salad sandwiches."
"Are they Pat's?" Pastor Tom took one. "Wow, they are incredible. I would love to know what she does to make them taste like this."
"I keep asking and she keeps telling me the secret ingredient is love."
Pastor Tom laughed. "That sounds like Pat. Do you know where she is? I want to thank her for all the work she put into planning the anniversary celebration."
Sally shook her head. "I haven't seen her since the service ended."
Pastor Tom took another sandwich and moved past the food toward the cluster of people looking at old pictures of the church. He exchanged pleasantries with them and asked if they had seen Pat.
"The last place I saw her was in worship," John said. "Maybe she went to look at the mural the youth group are painting."
Pastor Tom went outside and admired the work of the teenagers in celebrating the congregation's life. He asked but no one had seen Pat. He also checked the choir room where singers were presenting favourite anthems from the last hundred years and the nursery where children were coloring happily. Pat was nowhere to be found.
"You might try her usual pew," Hazel said from among the children.
"Why would she be in the sanctuary?" Pastor Tom asked. "There is nothing going on there."
"It was the last place I saw her."
Pastor Tom moved past all the activity and laughter into the quiet stillness of the sanctuary. He saw Pat, her head bowed, sitting in the place her family had occupied for generations. He closed the door quietly and slipped into the pew beside her.
"Oh, hello Pastor," she said wiping her face with her hands.
"Pat, I just wanted to thank you for all your hard work in making the congregational celebration a success."
"Thank you." She gave him a smile. "There were some wonderful ideas and great people who made it possible."
"Everyone is enjoying themselves," Pastor Tom said. He noticed the wetness on Pat's cheeks. "Are you okay?"
"I just needed a few moments of quiet." Pat started to get up. "I suppose I should get back to work."
Pastor Tom touched her arm. "Everything is going fine out there. There is not need to rush away from this peace and quiet."
"Good." Pat slumped down in her seat. "I could use a little more time here. I'm just finding it hard to be around people so happy right now. I mean I know I should be excited about our church anniversary but well...."
"You don't feel much like celebrating."
"Is there something wrong with me, Pastor?"
"I can't imagine why you would say that. You've been through a difficult time this past month with your house fire."
"I thank God that no one was home when it happened and we're all safe," Pat said.
"The fire destroyed everything though, didn't it?"
"We lost possessions but they can be replaced." Pat looked down. "I should be grateful."
"You can be grateful and grieve at the same time," Pastor Tom said softly.
Pat's eyes filled with tears. "I just think of everything that happened in that house, all the times with the kids when they were growing up. It feels like I have lost a part of me but it was just a stupid house."
Pastor Tom reached over and took her hand. "It was the home you and Carl bought together, the place you raised your family. You have every reason to feel sorrow now that it is gone."
"I wish I had more faith so I wouldn't be crying on a day like today." Pat wiped a tear from her cheek. "It's the church anniversary, a time of thankfulness and I'm hiding in the sanctuary."
"You are sad and you found a quiet place to pray and cry," Pastor Tom said. "Sometimes in our celebrations when we look back on the achievements of the church we forget that one of the most important things we do as a congregation is give people a safe place to come and open their hearts to God."
Pat looked up. "So you don't think I am a bad person for feeling sad today?"
"Not in the least," Pastor Tom said. "In fact, I think you have reminded me of something important for us to be thankful for this day."
"What's that?" Pat asked.
"That God loves us just as deeply when we are hurting and in pain as God does when we are grateful and filled with appreciation."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, October 6, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"The Nominee" by Keith Hewitt
"Weeping With Faith" by Peter Andrew Smith
* * * * * * *
The Nominee
by Keith Hewitt
Luke 17:5-10
"I don't get you, John," the superintendent said, spooning creamer into his coffee until it took on the color of hot chocolate.
John Randall watched the process with a ghost of a smile on his lips, then shook his head. "If you have to work that hard to kill the taste, why drink that stuff?" he asked, ignoring his lunch companion's comment.
"Why do I drink coffee? Because the bishop won't let me do heroin." He tested the drink, grimaced, and added sugar, stirred it in, making rhythmic tapping noises against the side of the cup with his spoon. "I got hooked on this stuff in seminary -- used to buy a special blend from the Jesuits across the street. Don't know what they did to it, but I never found anything that tasted the same way since. Been drinking it 33 years, though, and haven't liked the flavor since I was 24. I can't give it up -- I need the caffeine. My doctor says I have an addictive personality -- that, from a man who chain smokes in his sleep."
He lifted out the spoon, tapped it once on the rim of the cup, and laid it carefully on the saucer. "Now that you've deflected the conversation away from yourself for a minute, let's get back to you. And I repeat, I don't get you, John. This is a big deal. I don't know why you're even hesitating."
Randall shrugged. "I just don't see the point to it."
"The point is that they want to honor you. The Peace and Justice Coalition picked you out of maybe a dozen candidates to receive their Humanitarian of the Year Award, and here you dither about it." The superintendent shook his head as he sipped his coffee. "Unbelievable," he murmured.
"I've been part of a couple of projects -- done a few things here and there, I don't even know how they would have gotten my name. No."
"The bishop nominated you, John. He knows all about you, and he thinks you deserve this award for all the work you've done. The mission work in San Dión, the work you've done in the Veterans hospitals, the homeless mission, the soup kitchen, civil rights -- and you're a war hero, to boot."
"What I did in the service is two wars behind us now, Martin, and it was not that heroic," Randall said slowly, eyes shifting off the superintendent for a moment as memories flowed, unbidden, then faded... unconsciously, he shivered, drew his arms in closer. "I am not a war hero, anymore than anybody else who took the oath and did their best. And the rest --" He paused, shrugged. "I don't see the big deal."
"You were a missionary in San Dión for how many years? It was supposed to be a two year stint, and you stayed until you caught the galloping never-get-overs from some jungle bug, and had to be evacuated home."
"And there are people who went down with me and are still down there, doing the same work. How are they getting recognized?"
"They're there, you're here. And, as I said, you've done many, many things since you were brought home. You've done wonderful things, John. I know that, you know that -- or you should, anyway -- and the Coalition knows that. Hence the award."
The superintendent paused again, took a sip of his coffee, set it down carefully, and lowered his voice. "Besides, it would be a good thing for the church. We're starting to see our numbers decline -- you have to be a statistician to see it, but it is there, and we're afraid it's just going to get worse. With everything that's going on in the world, people -- some people -- are starting to see us as irrelevant. So if somebody from the church -- let's say you, for instance -- was to get this award, it would show that we really are relevant. Do you understand?"
Randall started to answer quickly, hesitated and took a sip of ice water from his glass, then played with the glass for a few moments, slowly rolling it between his hands. "Let me see if I can make you understand, Martin. I've been a pastor for a long time now, and I figured out some things. When you get past all the bureaucratic nonsense, all the nonessential stuff that we have to deal with, what's left? What is it that we're supposed to do? What is it we're all supposed to do, as followers of Christ? Or, a different way to ask the same question, what are we supposed to be?"
He paused and looked at the superintendent expectantly. He just shook his head. "It's your sermon, John."
"The way I read it, we're supposed to spread the gospel, to reach out to all God's people, and we're supposed to be servants. We are servants to our churches, servants to society, servants to God... but servants. So if we live our lives that way and actually serve... if we do our job... then we shouldn't expect to be recognized for it. Everything I do, everything I've done -- all those things you mentioned -- I've done them all in service to God and to our fellow man. You're a pastor, you know that."
"But surely a little recognition -- a plaque for your office, your picture in the paper, a nice dinner --"
"Good publicity for the church," Randall added.
"-- and maybe a way of attracting people to the church, getting out the message about the good things that we do in society, showing people that a 2,000-year-old religion and a 300-year-old church can still be relevant today -- you can't object to that, can you?"
"What do you think?" Randall asked with a smile and took a sip of water. "It's wrong. It's elevating me when I'm not worthy of being elevated. It's like -- it's like being on a baseball team. You played baseball as a kid?"
"Three years of Little League."
"Then you know what I mean. It would be like playing on a team, and then getting some kind of award or recognition just for showing up. Just for doing the things you committed to do when you signed on. I won't do that."
The superintendent sighed and took a deep drink of coffee before setting the cup down and shaking his head. "You're being difficult, John. And stubborn and I think I'm going to have to have a long, uncomfortable talk with the bishop tonight over dinner."
Randall shrugged. "Sorry, Martin."
The superintendent stood up, counted out the money for their lunch, dropped it on the table with their check, and said thoughtfully, "Well, I wouldn't be too sorry, John. This is exactly what I told the bishop you would say. And then I told him something else."
Randall stood up and eyed his superintendent curiously. "What was that, Martin?"
"Just that I would rather have a single servant than a dozen heroes -- and I was pretty sure Jesus felt the same way. You know -- we servants have to stick together." And with a flash of a smile, he turned away.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
Weeping With Faith
by Peter Andrew Smith
Lamentations 1:1-6; Psalm 137
Pastor Tom looked over the plates filled with various sandwiches and sweets. "I don't think I have ever seen this much food at a church reception."
"A congregation doesn't celebrate a milestone like this too often," Sally said from the other side of the buffet table. "You have to try those egg salad sandwiches."
"Are they Pat's?" Pastor Tom took one. "Wow, they are incredible. I would love to know what she does to make them taste like this."
"I keep asking and she keeps telling me the secret ingredient is love."
Pastor Tom laughed. "That sounds like Pat. Do you know where she is? I want to thank her for all the work she put into planning the anniversary celebration."
Sally shook her head. "I haven't seen her since the service ended."
Pastor Tom took another sandwich and moved past the food toward the cluster of people looking at old pictures of the church. He exchanged pleasantries with them and asked if they had seen Pat.
"The last place I saw her was in worship," John said. "Maybe she went to look at the mural the youth group are painting."
Pastor Tom went outside and admired the work of the teenagers in celebrating the congregation's life. He asked but no one had seen Pat. He also checked the choir room where singers were presenting favourite anthems from the last hundred years and the nursery where children were coloring happily. Pat was nowhere to be found.
"You might try her usual pew," Hazel said from among the children.
"Why would she be in the sanctuary?" Pastor Tom asked. "There is nothing going on there."
"It was the last place I saw her."
Pastor Tom moved past all the activity and laughter into the quiet stillness of the sanctuary. He saw Pat, her head bowed, sitting in the place her family had occupied for generations. He closed the door quietly and slipped into the pew beside her.
"Oh, hello Pastor," she said wiping her face with her hands.
"Pat, I just wanted to thank you for all your hard work in making the congregational celebration a success."
"Thank you." She gave him a smile. "There were some wonderful ideas and great people who made it possible."
"Everyone is enjoying themselves," Pastor Tom said. He noticed the wetness on Pat's cheeks. "Are you okay?"
"I just needed a few moments of quiet." Pat started to get up. "I suppose I should get back to work."
Pastor Tom touched her arm. "Everything is going fine out there. There is not need to rush away from this peace and quiet."
"Good." Pat slumped down in her seat. "I could use a little more time here. I'm just finding it hard to be around people so happy right now. I mean I know I should be excited about our church anniversary but well...."
"You don't feel much like celebrating."
"Is there something wrong with me, Pastor?"
"I can't imagine why you would say that. You've been through a difficult time this past month with your house fire."
"I thank God that no one was home when it happened and we're all safe," Pat said.
"The fire destroyed everything though, didn't it?"
"We lost possessions but they can be replaced." Pat looked down. "I should be grateful."
"You can be grateful and grieve at the same time," Pastor Tom said softly.
Pat's eyes filled with tears. "I just think of everything that happened in that house, all the times with the kids when they were growing up. It feels like I have lost a part of me but it was just a stupid house."
Pastor Tom reached over and took her hand. "It was the home you and Carl bought together, the place you raised your family. You have every reason to feel sorrow now that it is gone."
"I wish I had more faith so I wouldn't be crying on a day like today." Pat wiped a tear from her cheek. "It's the church anniversary, a time of thankfulness and I'm hiding in the sanctuary."
"You are sad and you found a quiet place to pray and cry," Pastor Tom said. "Sometimes in our celebrations when we look back on the achievements of the church we forget that one of the most important things we do as a congregation is give people a safe place to come and open their hearts to God."
Pat looked up. "So you don't think I am a bad person for feeling sad today?"
"Not in the least," Pastor Tom said. "In fact, I think you have reminded me of something important for us to be thankful for this day."
"What's that?" Pat asked.
"That God loves us just as deeply when we are hurting and in pain as God does when we are grateful and filled with appreciation."
Peter Andrew Smith is an ordained minister in the United Church of Canada who currently serves at St. James United Church in Antigonish, Nova Scotia. He is the author of All Things Are Ready (CSS), a book of lectionary-based communion prayers, as well as many stories and articles, which can be found listed at www.peterandrewsmith.com.
*****************************************
StoryShare, October 6, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
