Questions For Lunch
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Questions for Lunch" by Keith Hewitt
"Carved" by C. David McKirachan
* * * * * * * *
Questions for Lunch
by Keith Hewitt
John 12:20-33
Akadios studied his friend, staring moodily into his cup as he moved it slowly in his hand, as though he might find an answer sloshing at the bottom. When he did not speak, Akadios picked up his own cup and sipped at the wine, set it down again with enough force to cause Phaedo to look up from his reverie. "You didn't ask to share lunch so you could talk about the weather," Akadios said, "nor do I think you care that much about my business."
Phaedo grudged a smile. "You're right. Not that your company is not charming, as always... but you're right."
"So are you going to tell me what's really on your mind or carry it to your grave? Either suits me." It was a lie and both men knew it -- Akadios had been Phaedo's mentor for years before the younger man moved to Jerusalem to become a factor, assembling caravans and securing mercenaries to guard them. They still corresponded, as often as a somewhat indifferent mail system would permit.
Phaedo looked directly at him, then. "I saw him."
"Him --?" Akadios gestured with one hand, to encourage him to finish the thought.
Phaedo shifted his eyes to look from side to side and then cast a look over his shoulder before leaning toward his friend. "Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth," he said quietly, looked again over his shoulder.
"The mad rabbi?"
"I'm not so sure he's mad. And he's more than a rabbi."
Akadios shrugged. "As you will. But you know as well as I do that this province is known for producing false prophets and mad messiahs as regularly as a hen laying eggs. Galilee is especially known for sending them forth. There must be madness in that lake water." He took another sip of wine and smacked his lips softly... this really is an exceptional wine, he thought. "How did you find him? The last we talked, you'd had no luck."
"My luck changed. I found out that Philip of Bethsaida -- you remember him?"
"Tall, for one of them. Gawky. You helped him get fish to market for a while."
"Right. I found out that Philip is one of this Jesus' followers, so I asked him to let me know the next time they were near Jerusalem. They are -- and he did."
"So what did you think? Is this Jesus the man you thought he'd be?"
"I don't know. He's more, I think. And less."
It was Akadios' turn to smile. "Your teachers would be unhappy, Phaedo. You cannot frame a true answer on an illogical premise like that."
"Yet, I stand by it." He raised the cup, took a long drink, and set it down empty. "I heard him speak, and he was powerful. His voice, his face, his words -- he spoke with such passion, such authority, that I knew, sitting there, that he had the authority behind him. He knew exactly what he was talking about, Akadios. He talked about the law, and their God, and so many other things -- but whatever he said, it touched me. Even if I didn't understand, it made me hunger to learn more so I could understand."
"So you believe he is a real prophet?"
"He presented himself so strongly that it was hard for me not to believe. And then --" He trailed off.
"And then?" Akadios prodded gently.
"I talked to Philip again, and we actually got to meet with him privately, some friends and me. And he wasn't what I expected."
"How so?"
"His expression -- his face -- when he spoke to the people, it was strong, full of confidence. When it was just us -- when the crowds had gone away -- it was like he aged many years. His face was drawn and weary. His words seemed almost -- well, sorrowful. He was like a man who had been on a long journey, who just realized that he had much further to go before he could rest."
"It has been, what, two years?"
"Since we heard of him and another year before that, I understand."
"He probably is tired. If he truly does spend all his time going from place to place, preaching, it's bound to wear him down."
"Yes, but it's more than that. He said -- and I'm not sure he knew we were there, he may have thought it was just his disciples with him -- but he said his soul was troubled, and he talked about dying."
"Dying?"
"He said that unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a single seed. But if it does die, it produces many more seeds with its death."
Akadios looked puzzled, scratched absently on the lobe of his ear. "Well, that's true -- about the wheat, I mean. But I don't know what he meant by it."
"I think he meant that he was going to die. That he had to die, in order to accomplish whatever he was sent to do. Because it was after that that he said his soul was troubled. And then he said, 'What can I do, ask to be saved? No, it's what I was sent to do.' "
There was a long silence, then, broken when Akadios said, "Hmmph. I don't understand that at all. He's some kind of dying prophet? I suppose he's right enough about the dying thing, if he keeps talking the way he does. He's not exactly endearing himself to the authorities, Jewish or Roman. Sooner or later, it's bound to happen."
"It's like he's afraid of it -- but then he wants it to happen, because that's what's supposed to happen. He finished by asking God -- their god -- to glorify God's name. I suppose for sending him to do this thing, whatever it is." He paused -- a long, silent hesitation. "And here's the really strange part." Phaedo paused again, licked his lips. "I think God answered him."
Akadios stared across the table, eyes narrowed, calculating.
Phaedo nodded. "My friends thought it was thunder in the hills, but I know what I heard. It was a voice -- it seemed to come from everywhere at once, so it was like thunder -- but it was not as loud... and it formed words."
"It did, did it?"
"It said, 'I have glorified it, and will glorify it again.' "
Akadios kept watching his friend's face as he sighed, and said quietly, "If it were anyone but you, Phaedo, I would not believe it. But you -- I know you. You don't spin fanciful tales. You always wanted to know why, but never had any patience for the supernatural stories of our youth."
"So what do you think it means?"
"I don't know. But I can tell you one thing that I'm sure of. If this teacher of yours, this Jesus, really was sent to teach the ways of their God... if he really was sent to be their new leader, their savior... what do they call it?"
"Messiah."
"-- Messiah, then he's not going to die. Not now. I cannot imagine a god -- any god -- planning that for one of his own prophets."
"But what if it's not God that does it, but us -- people, I mean? And what if he's supposed to be some kind of sacrifice? A way to atone to their god for our sins?"
Akadios drained his cup, set it down and said, "All very pretty questions, Phaedo. But it's nonsensical. Why would their god -- even if he exists -- go through all that trouble? Why send someone to die for our sins?"
"Because he loves us?" Phaedo answered quietly, hesitantly.
Akadios chuckled. "Nobody loves us that much, Phaedo. And put your heart at ease -- it's their Passover festival. Nobody is going to die now -- least of all, your rabbi from Galilee."
"I suppose so."
Akadios smiled. "Trust me." His eyes looked past Phaedo, then, toward the window. "Interesting."
"What's that?"
"We must have been here longer than I thought. I would have sworn it was just mid day, but look, it's already getting dark."
Phaedo turned to look, too, and both men stared at the gloom and frowned...
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.
Carved
by C. David McKirachan
Jeremiah 31:31-34
When I was in high school, I was involved with the theater department. You don't join a theater club. Once you're in, you become part of a stew. You're no longer a specific ingredient, but altered by immersion in a sauce of try outs, meltdowns, blocking, building, rehearsing, painting, schlepping, making posters, memorizing, getting yelled at, running lines, laughing, running lines, trying on, running lines, make up, performing, partying, and considering doing it all again. We were doing Thornton Wilder's Our Town. I was in love with the lead. When she glided across the stage, my heart ached. She towed us like a wagon of rocks. When she cried to the stage manager, "Does anyone ever really know how precious each moment is?" tears were running down her face and mine as well and most of the audience when we opened. She could act. I'll always remember his answer, "Saints and poets sometimes..." "Sometimes..."
I have many memories. They form the landscape of my life. I rely on them to help me navigate, to set a course through the often confusing now and to make plans out beyond this immediate context. The past is a great teacher, what's worked, what hasn't, and how the world has happened. They help me see who I am today within a context that is more expansive than this fragile moment. I rely on them. I treasure them, even the hard and painful ones. But there are some moments that are more than memories. Carved into my very being, they are monuments, landmarks that I use not only to make choices, but standing stones that shine with a light brighter than anything near them. Some may seem unimportant in the grand scheme, no thunder claps of insight or slashes of pain. I remember body surfing on Long Beach Island when I was twelve and being hungry. I remember walking with a girl through the woods at church camp. I remember making a model of a PT boat on a card table with my leg in a cast. I remember... Some are understandable. I remember asking my Chris to marry me. I remember deciding to finish seminary and become a minister as I ate chicken parmesan. These moments are as clear as now, clear as clean water in the shining sun. They are jewels that I store in my treasure room of life.
Jeremiah said, the Lord will make a new covenant with us, not as the old one, but one carved on our hearts, imprinted in the place where we make decisions, where we have our identity. That's where God's promise and commitment will dwell. We won't teach it. Everybody will know it, have it in our guts. It will be our identity.
"Saints and poets sometimes..." Each moment is part of the eternal gift of God given to us to appreciate like gems shining in the light of now. Each moment can be as clear, beautiful, and meaningful as a cathedral's window. The Calvary's and the empty tombs of our lives can transcend simple memory or teaching and become clear markers that stand out of the landscape, giving us perspective and hope in our pain and in our victory. We will be poets and saints because we refuse to treat the gift of now cheaply, because God's promise defines this and every moment of our lives.
I don't know if she did any acting after that, but I'll tell you, she blew my socks off and I'll never forget that moment.
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).
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 25, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
"Questions for Lunch" by Keith Hewitt
"Carved" by C. David McKirachan
* * * * * * * *
Questions for Lunch
by Keith Hewitt
John 12:20-33
Akadios studied his friend, staring moodily into his cup as he moved it slowly in his hand, as though he might find an answer sloshing at the bottom. When he did not speak, Akadios picked up his own cup and sipped at the wine, set it down again with enough force to cause Phaedo to look up from his reverie. "You didn't ask to share lunch so you could talk about the weather," Akadios said, "nor do I think you care that much about my business."
Phaedo grudged a smile. "You're right. Not that your company is not charming, as always... but you're right."
"So are you going to tell me what's really on your mind or carry it to your grave? Either suits me." It was a lie and both men knew it -- Akadios had been Phaedo's mentor for years before the younger man moved to Jerusalem to become a factor, assembling caravans and securing mercenaries to guard them. They still corresponded, as often as a somewhat indifferent mail system would permit.
Phaedo looked directly at him, then. "I saw him."
"Him --?" Akadios gestured with one hand, to encourage him to finish the thought.
Phaedo shifted his eyes to look from side to side and then cast a look over his shoulder before leaning toward his friend. "Jesus. Jesus of Nazareth," he said quietly, looked again over his shoulder.
"The mad rabbi?"
"I'm not so sure he's mad. And he's more than a rabbi."
Akadios shrugged. "As you will. But you know as well as I do that this province is known for producing false prophets and mad messiahs as regularly as a hen laying eggs. Galilee is especially known for sending them forth. There must be madness in that lake water." He took another sip of wine and smacked his lips softly... this really is an exceptional wine, he thought. "How did you find him? The last we talked, you'd had no luck."
"My luck changed. I found out that Philip of Bethsaida -- you remember him?"
"Tall, for one of them. Gawky. You helped him get fish to market for a while."
"Right. I found out that Philip is one of this Jesus' followers, so I asked him to let me know the next time they were near Jerusalem. They are -- and he did."
"So what did you think? Is this Jesus the man you thought he'd be?"
"I don't know. He's more, I think. And less."
It was Akadios' turn to smile. "Your teachers would be unhappy, Phaedo. You cannot frame a true answer on an illogical premise like that."
"Yet, I stand by it." He raised the cup, took a long drink, and set it down empty. "I heard him speak, and he was powerful. His voice, his face, his words -- he spoke with such passion, such authority, that I knew, sitting there, that he had the authority behind him. He knew exactly what he was talking about, Akadios. He talked about the law, and their God, and so many other things -- but whatever he said, it touched me. Even if I didn't understand, it made me hunger to learn more so I could understand."
"So you believe he is a real prophet?"
"He presented himself so strongly that it was hard for me not to believe. And then --" He trailed off.
"And then?" Akadios prodded gently.
"I talked to Philip again, and we actually got to meet with him privately, some friends and me. And he wasn't what I expected."
"How so?"
"His expression -- his face -- when he spoke to the people, it was strong, full of confidence. When it was just us -- when the crowds had gone away -- it was like he aged many years. His face was drawn and weary. His words seemed almost -- well, sorrowful. He was like a man who had been on a long journey, who just realized that he had much further to go before he could rest."
"It has been, what, two years?"
"Since we heard of him and another year before that, I understand."
"He probably is tired. If he truly does spend all his time going from place to place, preaching, it's bound to wear him down."
"Yes, but it's more than that. He said -- and I'm not sure he knew we were there, he may have thought it was just his disciples with him -- but he said his soul was troubled, and he talked about dying."
"Dying?"
"He said that unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains just a single seed. But if it does die, it produces many more seeds with its death."
Akadios looked puzzled, scratched absently on the lobe of his ear. "Well, that's true -- about the wheat, I mean. But I don't know what he meant by it."
"I think he meant that he was going to die. That he had to die, in order to accomplish whatever he was sent to do. Because it was after that that he said his soul was troubled. And then he said, 'What can I do, ask to be saved? No, it's what I was sent to do.' "
There was a long silence, then, broken when Akadios said, "Hmmph. I don't understand that at all. He's some kind of dying prophet? I suppose he's right enough about the dying thing, if he keeps talking the way he does. He's not exactly endearing himself to the authorities, Jewish or Roman. Sooner or later, it's bound to happen."
"It's like he's afraid of it -- but then he wants it to happen, because that's what's supposed to happen. He finished by asking God -- their god -- to glorify God's name. I suppose for sending him to do this thing, whatever it is." He paused -- a long, silent hesitation. "And here's the really strange part." Phaedo paused again, licked his lips. "I think God answered him."
Akadios stared across the table, eyes narrowed, calculating.
Phaedo nodded. "My friends thought it was thunder in the hills, but I know what I heard. It was a voice -- it seemed to come from everywhere at once, so it was like thunder -- but it was not as loud... and it formed words."
"It did, did it?"
"It said, 'I have glorified it, and will glorify it again.' "
Akadios kept watching his friend's face as he sighed, and said quietly, "If it were anyone but you, Phaedo, I would not believe it. But you -- I know you. You don't spin fanciful tales. You always wanted to know why, but never had any patience for the supernatural stories of our youth."
"So what do you think it means?"
"I don't know. But I can tell you one thing that I'm sure of. If this teacher of yours, this Jesus, really was sent to teach the ways of their God... if he really was sent to be their new leader, their savior... what do they call it?"
"Messiah."
"-- Messiah, then he's not going to die. Not now. I cannot imagine a god -- any god -- planning that for one of his own prophets."
"But what if it's not God that does it, but us -- people, I mean? And what if he's supposed to be some kind of sacrifice? A way to atone to their god for our sins?"
Akadios drained his cup, set it down and said, "All very pretty questions, Phaedo. But it's nonsensical. Why would their god -- even if he exists -- go through all that trouble? Why send someone to die for our sins?"
"Because he loves us?" Phaedo answered quietly, hesitantly.
Akadios chuckled. "Nobody loves us that much, Phaedo. And put your heart at ease -- it's their Passover festival. Nobody is going to die now -- least of all, your rabbi from Galilee."
"I suppose so."
Akadios smiled. "Trust me." His eyes looked past Phaedo, then, toward the window. "Interesting."
"What's that?"
"We must have been here longer than I thought. I would have sworn it was just mid day, but look, it's already getting dark."
Phaedo turned to look, too, and both men stared at the gloom and frowned...
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.
Carved
by C. David McKirachan
Jeremiah 31:31-34
When I was in high school, I was involved with the theater department. You don't join a theater club. Once you're in, you become part of a stew. You're no longer a specific ingredient, but altered by immersion in a sauce of try outs, meltdowns, blocking, building, rehearsing, painting, schlepping, making posters, memorizing, getting yelled at, running lines, laughing, running lines, trying on, running lines, make up, performing, partying, and considering doing it all again. We were doing Thornton Wilder's Our Town. I was in love with the lead. When she glided across the stage, my heart ached. She towed us like a wagon of rocks. When she cried to the stage manager, "Does anyone ever really know how precious each moment is?" tears were running down her face and mine as well and most of the audience when we opened. She could act. I'll always remember his answer, "Saints and poets sometimes..." "Sometimes..."
I have many memories. They form the landscape of my life. I rely on them to help me navigate, to set a course through the often confusing now and to make plans out beyond this immediate context. The past is a great teacher, what's worked, what hasn't, and how the world has happened. They help me see who I am today within a context that is more expansive than this fragile moment. I rely on them. I treasure them, even the hard and painful ones. But there are some moments that are more than memories. Carved into my very being, they are monuments, landmarks that I use not only to make choices, but standing stones that shine with a light brighter than anything near them. Some may seem unimportant in the grand scheme, no thunder claps of insight or slashes of pain. I remember body surfing on Long Beach Island when I was twelve and being hungry. I remember walking with a girl through the woods at church camp. I remember making a model of a PT boat on a card table with my leg in a cast. I remember... Some are understandable. I remember asking my Chris to marry me. I remember deciding to finish seminary and become a minister as I ate chicken parmesan. These moments are as clear as now, clear as clean water in the shining sun. They are jewels that I store in my treasure room of life.
Jeremiah said, the Lord will make a new covenant with us, not as the old one, but one carved on our hearts, imprinted in the place where we make decisions, where we have our identity. That's where God's promise and commitment will dwell. We won't teach it. Everybody will know it, have it in our guts. It will be our identity.
"Saints and poets sometimes..." Each moment is part of the eternal gift of God given to us to appreciate like gems shining in the light of now. Each moment can be as clear, beautiful, and meaningful as a cathedral's window. The Calvary's and the empty tombs of our lives can transcend simple memory or teaching and become clear markers that stand out of the landscape, giving us perspective and hope in our pain and in our victory. We will be poets and saints because we refuse to treat the gift of now cheaply, because God's promise defines this and every moment of our lives.
I don't know if she did any acting after that, but I'll tell you, she blew my socks off and I'll never forget that moment.
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).
*****************************************
StoryShare, March 25, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
