The Prisoner
Stories
Object:
Contents
"The Prisoner" by Keith Hewitt
"Heavenly Talkback" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
The Prisoner
by Keith Hewitt
Genesis 45:1-15
It was late in the day and Colonel Wagner was weary. His back hurt from sitting too long and his head hurt from reading too much. It was an occupational hazard -- his workday consisted almost exclusively of reviewing files, talking to interrogators, interviewing prisoners, and then issuing a final disposition for them, making sure that all of the appropriate paperwork was done -- hearing records, transportation orders, death warrants... it was an endless parade of paperwork.
Most days, the only way he got through it was by reminding himself that somebody had to do these things for the greater glory of the Reich.
On this day, aside from the usual stack of Communists and agitators, there had been a special delivery of intellectual traitors -- the SS had broken up a clandestine student newspaper at the University, and rounded up those “students” who were believed to be a part of publishing or distributing it, as well as a handful of academics -- probably closet Stalinists -- who had apparently encouraged them to go astray.
Word had come down from the District that these traitors were to be processed quickly -- not that overcrowding was an issue, but they didn’t want the contamination to linger any longer than it had to. As he went through the files, Wagner wondered idly if the war was going as badly as some of the whispers hinted...
Whatever the reason, it bothered him to do things this way. The proper sequence of events was arrest, a few cycles of interrogation and isolation, and then an interview before disposition was made official. That time allowed his staff to determine if the criminal knew anything useful. It also allowed him time to review the file to make sure everything was in order before passing sentence and then holding the hearing.
Today they were practically dragging them off the truck and into his office.
Wagner rubbed his temple with one hand as he reached for the next red-labeled file with the other. He dropped it on the green felt blotter, adjusted the desk lamp, flipped the folder open, planted an elbow on either side of it as he looked down, slowly massaging his temples as he scanned the contents.
Date
Prisoner Number
Name and Birth date...
He stopped. There, on the third line of that first page of typewritten onionskin, he stopped and stared: Herr Doctor Michael Blum. Born 23 März 1910.
Impossible!
The veins in his temple were physically throbbing to the touch, now. As a lump formed in the pit of his stomach, he used one hand to flip through the file, finally turning over some papers stapled to the right side... and under those, clipped to the manila folder, was a picture of the prisoner: a nondescript man, dark hair brushed to one side, wire rimmed glasses that made his dark eyes seem larger than life, mouth framed by a sketchy goatee.
“Lieber Gott,” Wagner breathed, invoking a God he did not believe in as he stared at the picture... but saw a much younger image -- a boy, really, with sandy hair and thick glasses.
There was a sharp rap at the door and a crisp voice said, “Prisoner Number Five Seven Two One, Herr Oberst.”
“Kommen Sie herein,” Wagner answered immediately and closed the folder. He folded his hands atop it as though to prevent anyone from seeing the contents. Praying he was wrong but knowing he wasn’t, Wagner waited for the door to open and the guards to shove in the prisoner. Prisoner 5721, Doctor Blum, stumbled to the center of the floor, almost fell, but was caught and dragged up by the shackles on his hands by one of the guards flanking him.
Blum was smallish, almost mousy; he was barefoot, his clothes were torn and his hair was tousled, and the cheek below his right eye was beginning to swell -- overall, not too much worse for the wear, considering he was a political prisoner. He stood, head hung low and eyes cast to the floor. One of the guards prodded him with a truncheon -- a gratuitously hard jab in the ribs -- and he looked up.
There it is, Wagner, judged, that look in his eye, I can tell. Immediately, Wagner gestured toward the guards to turn him loose and then added gruffly, “Leave the prisoner.”
One of them -- an old corporal -- hesitated. “Herr Oberst?” Unstated was the reminder that they were in a hurry and this was not supposed to take long.
Wagner said nothing, but gestured again, a little more emphatically. The guards looked at one another and then released their grip on the little man and spun on their heels. As they left, they closed the door behind them, leaving the Colonel and the prisoner staring at one another. The door was thick and padded -- no one would be able to hear anything on the other side. Wagner knew that because he could never hear anything that happened on the far side of the door.
Sometimes, these days, in the middle of the night, he was glad for that.
After a long silence during which the only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock and the wheezing of the man in shackles, Wagner licked his lips and said, “So, Herr Doctor Blum -- how is my mother?”
The mousy man before him leaned a little closer, eyes squinting, then straightened up, his mouth set in a wry smile. “Our mother is fine, Herr Oberst Wagner. I’m sure she would have sent her regards had she known you would be arresting me.” He lifted his shackled hands, palms spread apart.
“No doubt,” Wagner answered, almost spitting the words. “What are you doing here?”
“I am here as a guest of the state, Herr Oberst. You among all people should understand that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I am afraid I don’t. I am a doctor, Herr Oberst -- a university professor. You tell me why a harmless little man such as myself would be arrested and then we will both have the answer.”
Wagner tapped the folder with one finger. “You know why you are here. Crimes against National Socialism. Defeatism. Treason. Do you want the whole list?”
Blum shrugged, winced a little as one of his shoulders reminded him of the beating he had received the night before. “Am I to be tried? Then I should see the list before, I suppose.”
“Idiot, this is your trial -- all the trial you are going to get. Once I’ve made my disposition, the sentence will be executed and the courts will be notified.”
“Then I suppose that puts me in a rather interesting position, what with you being my brother --”
“Step brother,” Wagner interrupted.
“-- and all. Still, I don’t imagine that matters all that much to you. You made that clear ten years ago when you joined the SS -- love of the Fatherland, sense of duty and all that. So sentence me as you will. Do your duty to whatever gods you have chosen to worship.”
Wagner stood up, walked around in front of the desk and stood there, looking down at Blum, spine tingling as he spoke. “You really don’t understand, do you? I deal with men like you every day. I --” He hesitated, continued more softly, carefully... almost as though he was listening to himself as he spoke. “I sentence men to death every day for their crimes. Whether it’s death at the guillotine or a slow death at one of the Konzentrationslager, it’s all the same. It does not behoove you to speak flippantly about your disposition.”
Blum was silent for the space of several heartbeats, and his skin was paler, now. “It is as bad as that?”
“Worse,” Wagner spat. “That little rag your students published -- it was treason and you advised them how to do it and what should be in it. The State has no use for you. You are a parasite and a criminal. You and those children.”
“They’re just children. Hardly older than you were the last time I saw you. Blame me, if you must, but not them. I influenced them.”
“They allowed themselves to be influenced. There is no mercy for them, either.”
His head was ready to split, now. Visions of childhood swam through his thoughts, dragging memories behind them, and he could not shake them out of his sight. “Look, confess now, give me a list of everyone involved --”
“Impossible.”
Wagner slammed one hand on the front of the desk, cracking like a gunshot through the office, and he crackled, “This is not some intellectual exercise! Give me that list and a confession and I can have you committed to a mental institution for the duration of the war. Behave yourself and I can have you out in a year or two.” Blum stared back at him silently; he added, “The alternative is a camp. Your life expectancy there is probably less than a year.”
Blum hesitated; there was fear in his eyes -- the wry expression was long gone. “If I do that, what happens to the people on the list?”
“Arrest. Sentenced to camp,” Blum lied. “Give me that list and it will all be over, kleiner Bruder,” he added quietly, almost gently, almost whispering the name he had called his half-brother a lifetime ago.
Blum wavered, then looked Wagner in the eye. “You are doing this for our mother.”
“Yes,” Wagner lied, again.
“No,” Blum answered softly. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Don’t be a fool! This is life or death. This isn’t one of your pretty little philosophical exercises, kleiner Bruder. This is real life. You are a prisoner!”
Blum shook his head. “You are the prisoner, grosser Bruder, prisoner of your duty to a perverted, evil state.”
“Why?” Wagner demanded. “Why do you insist on dying?”
“Why do you insist on sentencing me? You tell me you do this every day -- do you stop to think about the people to whom you are doing it? Do you hear their voices? Do you even see their faces? I cannot ask for better treatment than one of them -- if I do, then I become one of their oppressors.”
“You are a fool!” Wagner exploded.
He spread his hands again. “As may be. But I am a guilty fool. And an honest one. Do what you must.”
Wagner glared at the little man, slapped him, and the sting on his own hand was almost as bad as what must have happened to Blum. The mousy little man reeled and Wagner stalked back to his chair, sat down, and opened the folder again. He sat, frozen -- then grabbed a pen, drew ink from the well, and scrawled hastily before he could lose his nerve. “Prisoner Five Seven Two One, you have been found guilty of defeatism and crimes against the State. You are sentenced to twelve years at Todeswald.” He raised his voice a notch. “Guards!”
The two guards entered at once, saluted. “Herr Oberst?”
“This prisoner requires immediate transportation to Todeswald. Requisition a car from the motor pool and be prepared to drive him.”
The older soldier saluted again. “Yes, sir.” He hurried away.
Wagner stared down at the folder and began making other notes. After a time, the prisoner asked softly, “Do you remember what you said to me when I started school, grosser Bruder?”
Wagner could not look up. The other guard just looked puzzled, looking from one man to the other uncertainly.
“I was frightened -- I did not want to leave home. Do you remember what you told me?” Blum asked again.
Wagner stared at the flimsy paper inside the file. So many bare facts -- nothing about the real man. Nothing about the child that had grown up with an older step-brother. Nothing about the soul of the man.
He raised his head, was about to answer when the corporal returned. “The car is ready, Herr Oberst.”
“Very good” Wagner stood, marched around the desk, stopped in front of the prisoner. Their eyes met and locked and then he nodded slowly. “I remember, kleiner Bruder.”
Without taking his eyes off the prisoner, Wagner reached out to the old guard and snatched the pistol out of his holster, pressed the muzzle against the soldier’s chest, and pulled the trigger twice -- ba-bang -- then did the same to the other guard before the first had fallen very far. Calmly, he reached down to the first and pulled the keys off his belt, began to unshackle Blum, who stood there in stunned silence.
“I told you, ‘Don’t worry, little brother -- I will watch out for you,’ “ Wagner said, as the shackles fell. “Now, you have escaped. Take the car and head for the border. Switzerland is only an hour away.” He handed him a fistful of marks from his wallet -- all that he had.
“But the others --”
“I do this for you, and for our mother. Count your blessings and go, kleine Bruder.”
Blum just stared -- then seemed to snap back to reality. Without a word, he walked to the door, stuffing the money in his pockets. Then he paused, one hand on the door, and looked back at Wagner. “Thank you, grosser Bruder.”
When Blum was gone, Wagner walked back to his desk -- stepping over one of the guards -- and began going through the files he had already processed. One by one, he scratched out what he had written, and wrote in new orders, set them in his out basket. With luck, the secretary would process the releases without question... and maybe, some day, his little brother would know that he had, at least, tried to help.
Wagner let a full two hours pass before he picked up the phone and reported the escape. It wasn’t until much later that he noticed the headache was gone...
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
Heavenly Talkback
by Frank Ramirez
Matthew 15:(10-20) 21-28
He answered, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table."
-- Matthew 15:26-27
The 2010 season was a difficult one for the Buffalo Bills. They struggled with a tough schedule and with what seemed an understaffed roster. Nevertheless they were admired for the great level of effort they gave and many sympathized with one agonizing loss after another, as they came close to achieving great upsets, only to fall short in the end.
On November 28 the Bills trailed an extremely talented Pittsburgh Steelers team who seemed to have a very safe lead late in the game. They came back to tie, however, and sent the game into Sudden Death overtime. Then Bills receiver Steve Johnson found himself alone in the end zone with the perfect pass dropped into his hands -- only to inexplicably drop it. It was a devastating moment! The Steelers went on to score and win the game.
Johnson, who played his college ball at Kentucky, had not been drafted until the seventh round by the Bills until 2008. Some might have thought his chances of making the ball club in the first place were limited but by hard work he had earned himself a place on the roster and had impressed many by his place. However, the dropped pass brought him the sort of instant fame that no player desires.
Afterward a disconsolate Johnson faced reporters and shared his emotions. “How would you feel? All of a sudden, when the biggest play needs to be made, you don’t make it. You feel bad. I’m devastated right now.” He went on to say, “I had the game in my hands and then dropped it. I’ll never get over it. Ever.”
There was great sympathy for him in the media, but the next day, November 29, he tweeted something that puzzled folks who don’t regularly attend church. Using the abbreviated jargon that accommodates tweets, which much use a strictly limited number of characters, he sent out the following message -- to God!
I PRAISE YOU 24/7! AND THIS HOW YOU DO ME! YOU EXPECT ME TO LEARN FROM THIS? HOW?! ILL NEVER FORGET THIS! EVER! THX THO...
Many sports pundits were shocked. Was this any way to talk to God? Some seemed to expect lightning to drop from the sky and incinerate Johnson.
Anyone who actually reads the Bible, who really listens to what Job said, or who has prayed the Psalms, knows that talking back to God, treating God as real and holding God accountable, even taking God to task, is not only acceptable but perhaps even celebrated by the biblical writers. Seeing God in failure as well as success is a biblical attitude. The brief “THX THO” is exactly the way psalms of complaint and lament end. Biblical writers recognize that people who take God seriously go through a process of anguish and recovery and include God in that journey.
That’s why it shouldn’t be any surprise that Jesus does not reject the Syro-Phoenician woman who not only answers him back but takes him to task for repeating the prejudiced attitudes of his contemporaries....
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 14, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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 Prisoner" by Keith Hewitt
"Heavenly Talkback" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
The Prisoner
by Keith Hewitt
Genesis 45:1-15
It was late in the day and Colonel Wagner was weary. His back hurt from sitting too long and his head hurt from reading too much. It was an occupational hazard -- his workday consisted almost exclusively of reviewing files, talking to interrogators, interviewing prisoners, and then issuing a final disposition for them, making sure that all of the appropriate paperwork was done -- hearing records, transportation orders, death warrants... it was an endless parade of paperwork.
Most days, the only way he got through it was by reminding himself that somebody had to do these things for the greater glory of the Reich.
On this day, aside from the usual stack of Communists and agitators, there had been a special delivery of intellectual traitors -- the SS had broken up a clandestine student newspaper at the University, and rounded up those “students” who were believed to be a part of publishing or distributing it, as well as a handful of academics -- probably closet Stalinists -- who had apparently encouraged them to go astray.
Word had come down from the District that these traitors were to be processed quickly -- not that overcrowding was an issue, but they didn’t want the contamination to linger any longer than it had to. As he went through the files, Wagner wondered idly if the war was going as badly as some of the whispers hinted...
Whatever the reason, it bothered him to do things this way. The proper sequence of events was arrest, a few cycles of interrogation and isolation, and then an interview before disposition was made official. That time allowed his staff to determine if the criminal knew anything useful. It also allowed him time to review the file to make sure everything was in order before passing sentence and then holding the hearing.
Today they were practically dragging them off the truck and into his office.
Wagner rubbed his temple with one hand as he reached for the next red-labeled file with the other. He dropped it on the green felt blotter, adjusted the desk lamp, flipped the folder open, planted an elbow on either side of it as he looked down, slowly massaging his temples as he scanned the contents.
Date
Prisoner Number
Name and Birth date...
He stopped. There, on the third line of that first page of typewritten onionskin, he stopped and stared: Herr Doctor Michael Blum. Born 23 März 1910.
Impossible!
The veins in his temple were physically throbbing to the touch, now. As a lump formed in the pit of his stomach, he used one hand to flip through the file, finally turning over some papers stapled to the right side... and under those, clipped to the manila folder, was a picture of the prisoner: a nondescript man, dark hair brushed to one side, wire rimmed glasses that made his dark eyes seem larger than life, mouth framed by a sketchy goatee.
“Lieber Gott,” Wagner breathed, invoking a God he did not believe in as he stared at the picture... but saw a much younger image -- a boy, really, with sandy hair and thick glasses.
There was a sharp rap at the door and a crisp voice said, “Prisoner Number Five Seven Two One, Herr Oberst.”
“Kommen Sie herein,” Wagner answered immediately and closed the folder. He folded his hands atop it as though to prevent anyone from seeing the contents. Praying he was wrong but knowing he wasn’t, Wagner waited for the door to open and the guards to shove in the prisoner. Prisoner 5721, Doctor Blum, stumbled to the center of the floor, almost fell, but was caught and dragged up by the shackles on his hands by one of the guards flanking him.
Blum was smallish, almost mousy; he was barefoot, his clothes were torn and his hair was tousled, and the cheek below his right eye was beginning to swell -- overall, not too much worse for the wear, considering he was a political prisoner. He stood, head hung low and eyes cast to the floor. One of the guards prodded him with a truncheon -- a gratuitously hard jab in the ribs -- and he looked up.
There it is, Wagner, judged, that look in his eye, I can tell. Immediately, Wagner gestured toward the guards to turn him loose and then added gruffly, “Leave the prisoner.”
One of them -- an old corporal -- hesitated. “Herr Oberst?” Unstated was the reminder that they were in a hurry and this was not supposed to take long.
Wagner said nothing, but gestured again, a little more emphatically. The guards looked at one another and then released their grip on the little man and spun on their heels. As they left, they closed the door behind them, leaving the Colonel and the prisoner staring at one another. The door was thick and padded -- no one would be able to hear anything on the other side. Wagner knew that because he could never hear anything that happened on the far side of the door.
Sometimes, these days, in the middle of the night, he was glad for that.
After a long silence during which the only sounds in the room were the ticking of the clock and the wheezing of the man in shackles, Wagner licked his lips and said, “So, Herr Doctor Blum -- how is my mother?”
The mousy man before him leaned a little closer, eyes squinting, then straightened up, his mouth set in a wry smile. “Our mother is fine, Herr Oberst Wagner. I’m sure she would have sent her regards had she known you would be arresting me.” He lifted his shackled hands, palms spread apart.
“No doubt,” Wagner answered, almost spitting the words. “What are you doing here?”
“I am here as a guest of the state, Herr Oberst. You among all people should understand that.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I am afraid I don’t. I am a doctor, Herr Oberst -- a university professor. You tell me why a harmless little man such as myself would be arrested and then we will both have the answer.”
Wagner tapped the folder with one finger. “You know why you are here. Crimes against National Socialism. Defeatism. Treason. Do you want the whole list?”
Blum shrugged, winced a little as one of his shoulders reminded him of the beating he had received the night before. “Am I to be tried? Then I should see the list before, I suppose.”
“Idiot, this is your trial -- all the trial you are going to get. Once I’ve made my disposition, the sentence will be executed and the courts will be notified.”
“Then I suppose that puts me in a rather interesting position, what with you being my brother --”
“Step brother,” Wagner interrupted.
“-- and all. Still, I don’t imagine that matters all that much to you. You made that clear ten years ago when you joined the SS -- love of the Fatherland, sense of duty and all that. So sentence me as you will. Do your duty to whatever gods you have chosen to worship.”
Wagner stood up, walked around in front of the desk and stood there, looking down at Blum, spine tingling as he spoke. “You really don’t understand, do you? I deal with men like you every day. I --” He hesitated, continued more softly, carefully... almost as though he was listening to himself as he spoke. “I sentence men to death every day for their crimes. Whether it’s death at the guillotine or a slow death at one of the Konzentrationslager, it’s all the same. It does not behoove you to speak flippantly about your disposition.”
Blum was silent for the space of several heartbeats, and his skin was paler, now. “It is as bad as that?”
“Worse,” Wagner spat. “That little rag your students published -- it was treason and you advised them how to do it and what should be in it. The State has no use for you. You are a parasite and a criminal. You and those children.”
“They’re just children. Hardly older than you were the last time I saw you. Blame me, if you must, but not them. I influenced them.”
“They allowed themselves to be influenced. There is no mercy for them, either.”
His head was ready to split, now. Visions of childhood swam through his thoughts, dragging memories behind them, and he could not shake them out of his sight. “Look, confess now, give me a list of everyone involved --”
“Impossible.”
Wagner slammed one hand on the front of the desk, cracking like a gunshot through the office, and he crackled, “This is not some intellectual exercise! Give me that list and a confession and I can have you committed to a mental institution for the duration of the war. Behave yourself and I can have you out in a year or two.” Blum stared back at him silently; he added, “The alternative is a camp. Your life expectancy there is probably less than a year.”
Blum hesitated; there was fear in his eyes -- the wry expression was long gone. “If I do that, what happens to the people on the list?”
“Arrest. Sentenced to camp,” Blum lied. “Give me that list and it will all be over, kleiner Bruder,” he added quietly, almost gently, almost whispering the name he had called his half-brother a lifetime ago.
Blum wavered, then looked Wagner in the eye. “You are doing this for our mother.”
“Yes,” Wagner lied, again.
“No,” Blum answered softly. “No, I can’t do that.”
“Don’t be a fool! This is life or death. This isn’t one of your pretty little philosophical exercises, kleiner Bruder. This is real life. You are a prisoner!”
Blum shook his head. “You are the prisoner, grosser Bruder, prisoner of your duty to a perverted, evil state.”
“Why?” Wagner demanded. “Why do you insist on dying?”
“Why do you insist on sentencing me? You tell me you do this every day -- do you stop to think about the people to whom you are doing it? Do you hear their voices? Do you even see their faces? I cannot ask for better treatment than one of them -- if I do, then I become one of their oppressors.”
“You are a fool!” Wagner exploded.
He spread his hands again. “As may be. But I am a guilty fool. And an honest one. Do what you must.”
Wagner glared at the little man, slapped him, and the sting on his own hand was almost as bad as what must have happened to Blum. The mousy little man reeled and Wagner stalked back to his chair, sat down, and opened the folder again. He sat, frozen -- then grabbed a pen, drew ink from the well, and scrawled hastily before he could lose his nerve. “Prisoner Five Seven Two One, you have been found guilty of defeatism and crimes against the State. You are sentenced to twelve years at Todeswald.” He raised his voice a notch. “Guards!”
The two guards entered at once, saluted. “Herr Oberst?”
“This prisoner requires immediate transportation to Todeswald. Requisition a car from the motor pool and be prepared to drive him.”
The older soldier saluted again. “Yes, sir.” He hurried away.
Wagner stared down at the folder and began making other notes. After a time, the prisoner asked softly, “Do you remember what you said to me when I started school, grosser Bruder?”
Wagner could not look up. The other guard just looked puzzled, looking from one man to the other uncertainly.
“I was frightened -- I did not want to leave home. Do you remember what you told me?” Blum asked again.
Wagner stared at the flimsy paper inside the file. So many bare facts -- nothing about the real man. Nothing about the child that had grown up with an older step-brother. Nothing about the soul of the man.
He raised his head, was about to answer when the corporal returned. “The car is ready, Herr Oberst.”
“Very good” Wagner stood, marched around the desk, stopped in front of the prisoner. Their eyes met and locked and then he nodded slowly. “I remember, kleiner Bruder.”
Without taking his eyes off the prisoner, Wagner reached out to the old guard and snatched the pistol out of his holster, pressed the muzzle against the soldier’s chest, and pulled the trigger twice -- ba-bang -- then did the same to the other guard before the first had fallen very far. Calmly, he reached down to the first and pulled the keys off his belt, began to unshackle Blum, who stood there in stunned silence.
“I told you, ‘Don’t worry, little brother -- I will watch out for you,’ “ Wagner said, as the shackles fell. “Now, you have escaped. Take the car and head for the border. Switzerland is only an hour away.” He handed him a fistful of marks from his wallet -- all that he had.
“But the others --”
“I do this for you, and for our mother. Count your blessings and go, kleine Bruder.”
Blum just stared -- then seemed to snap back to reality. Without a word, he walked to the door, stuffing the money in his pockets. Then he paused, one hand on the door, and looked back at Wagner. “Thank you, grosser Bruder.”
When Blum was gone, Wagner walked back to his desk -- stepping over one of the guards -- and began going through the files he had already processed. One by one, he scratched out what he had written, and wrote in new orders, set them in his out basket. With luck, the secretary would process the releases without question... and maybe, some day, his little brother would know that he had, at least, tried to help.
Wagner let a full two hours pass before he picked up the phone and reported the escape. It wasn’t until much later that he noticed the headache was gone...
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
Heavenly Talkback
by Frank Ramirez
Matthew 15:(10-20) 21-28
He answered, "It is not fair to take the children's food and throw it to the dogs." She said, "Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters' table."
-- Matthew 15:26-27
The 2010 season was a difficult one for the Buffalo Bills. They struggled with a tough schedule and with what seemed an understaffed roster. Nevertheless they were admired for the great level of effort they gave and many sympathized with one agonizing loss after another, as they came close to achieving great upsets, only to fall short in the end.
On November 28 the Bills trailed an extremely talented Pittsburgh Steelers team who seemed to have a very safe lead late in the game. They came back to tie, however, and sent the game into Sudden Death overtime. Then Bills receiver Steve Johnson found himself alone in the end zone with the perfect pass dropped into his hands -- only to inexplicably drop it. It was a devastating moment! The Steelers went on to score and win the game.
Johnson, who played his college ball at Kentucky, had not been drafted until the seventh round by the Bills until 2008. Some might have thought his chances of making the ball club in the first place were limited but by hard work he had earned himself a place on the roster and had impressed many by his place. However, the dropped pass brought him the sort of instant fame that no player desires.
Afterward a disconsolate Johnson faced reporters and shared his emotions. “How would you feel? All of a sudden, when the biggest play needs to be made, you don’t make it. You feel bad. I’m devastated right now.” He went on to say, “I had the game in my hands and then dropped it. I’ll never get over it. Ever.”
There was great sympathy for him in the media, but the next day, November 29, he tweeted something that puzzled folks who don’t regularly attend church. Using the abbreviated jargon that accommodates tweets, which much use a strictly limited number of characters, he sent out the following message -- to God!
I PRAISE YOU 24/7! AND THIS HOW YOU DO ME! YOU EXPECT ME TO LEARN FROM THIS? HOW?! ILL NEVER FORGET THIS! EVER! THX THO...
Many sports pundits were shocked. Was this any way to talk to God? Some seemed to expect lightning to drop from the sky and incinerate Johnson.
Anyone who actually reads the Bible, who really listens to what Job said, or who has prayed the Psalms, knows that talking back to God, treating God as real and holding God accountable, even taking God to task, is not only acceptable but perhaps even celebrated by the biblical writers. Seeing God in failure as well as success is a biblical attitude. The brief “THX THO” is exactly the way psalms of complaint and lament end. Biblical writers recognize that people who take God seriously go through a process of anguish and recovery and include God in that journey.
That’s why it shouldn’t be any surprise that Jesus does not reject the Syro-Phoenician woman who not only answers him back but takes him to task for repeating the prejudiced attitudes of his contemporaries....
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 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.
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StoryShare, August 14, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.
