A Regrettable Necessity
Stories
Note: This installment was originally published in 2010.
Contents
What's Up This Week
"A Regrettable Necessity" by Keith Hewitt
"Construction Site" by Craig M. Kelly
What's Up This Week
We often hear that it is a very dangerous thing to be a Christian -- but while that is still very true in many places around the world today, what does that really mean for many of us who have to sacrifice relatively little in our daily lives? In this week's edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt and Craig Kelly remind us of the extreme sacrifices we may have to make with tales of a guard who has to deal with what he thinks are irrational followers of Jesus, and of a man who is repeatedly imprisoned for worshiping Christ. Are we truly prepared to pick up our cross and likewise follow the Master?
* * * * * * * * *
A Regrettable Necessity
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 5:27-32
"They're back."
"Of course they are. Why wouldn't they be? Anything to make my life more difficult," Samuel answered, still reading the scroll in front of him. He paused, touched a finger to the text to mark his spot, stayed hunched over the desk, and rolled his eyes up far enough to look at the young man who stood before him. The man's chest rose and fell a little more rapidly than it should for a man his age, even if he had run from Simon's Colonnade to the warren of rooms at the opposite end of the Temple. "Who's back?" Samuel rumbled.
The young man was briefly puzzled, as though he couldn't understand the old man's obtuseness, but that expression melted like frost under the sun, replaced by righteous indignation. "That madman's followers! They're back in the Temple again."
The old man sighed and lowered his gaze; then he lifted his hand and let the scroll roll back upon itself. "They don't learn, do they?" he said softly, almost inaudibly.
"Sir?"
"Don't 'sir' me, Aaron -- save it for the priests. I said, 'they don't learn.' "
"No s---, Samuel," the young man answered, stammering slightly as he tripped over the old man's name. "I'm surprised they would risk it, though -- after being imprisoned and all."
Samuel grunted. "They didn't exactly do hard time, did they, son?"
"Well… no." Aaron hesitated, sorry to have brought it up. When it was discovered that the prisoners had somehow vanished from their cells, there had been a firestorm of accusations, questions, and threats -- yet no one had come forward to actually point a finger, to report someone for aiding and abetting a jailbreak, or even falling asleep on duty. There was just the absurd statement by the chief jailer that the so-called disciples had been locked behind bars at night, and were not behind those same bars the next day -- with no other evidence of escape.
And now this -- it was almost as though the criminals were mocking them.
"What are they doing this time?" the old man asked, slowly tapping his stylus on the edge of his desk, his eyes fixed forward, not looking at anything in the room. Young Aaron might have been surprised to know what he was seeing… but then, he had not been on the hill last spring, watching the madman gasp out the last verses of his life from the grasp of a Roman tree.
In a long life that was now starting to look like equal portions of service and folly, Samuel had seen too many men die. But none of them had done it like this one… none had brought the same air of destiny and desperation intertwined, and none of them had had the look of cosmic understanding behind the pain. And while many men were thankful when death finally drew near enough to drape its cold blanket of numbness over them, Samuel had never seen anyone else look… satisfied.
That was the only word for it.
Samuel blinked suddenly, aware that the young man was speaking. He threshed his memory, coming up with the kernel of Aaron's words, and nodded as though he had heard and digested everything. "So, more of the same, in other words." It was not really a question.
Aaron nodded, reflecting the old guard's understanding. "Exactly."
"Idiots," Samuel muttered. If they won't learn from history, they should at least learn from the fate of their leader.
"Shall I take a detail and arrest them then?" Aaron asked, when nothing followed Samuel's muttered epithet.
"I wonder," he said quietly, not exactly answering the question.
"Sir?" Aaron couldn't help himself; the old man surprised him.
"I wonder if we're giving them just what they want when we do that."
"What do you mean?"
"Any other false prophet -- any of these madmen that have come along -- once he's killed or been discredited, his followers disperse. Kill the shepherd, the sheep scatter. It's always that way -- it's always been that way." He waved a hand toward the outer temple. "But these are the exact opposite. Kill their leader, and they band together. Punish them, and they get more vocal. They go against all reason."
"Then put them in prison and leave them there," Aaron suggested.
"It's not like we let them out on purpose," Samuel reminded him gently.
"Somebody let them out."
"Or not."
There was a pause. Then, "What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Samuel answered after a moment or two. "Just an old man's mind wandering." He fell silent again and stared. His stylus tapped on the desk… tap-tap-tap… keeping time with his rapidly shifting thoughts. These people make no sense. They should be hiding in the hills by now, and yet they come back.
Tap-tap-tap… How many times do they have to be beaten?
Tap-tap-tap… How many nights do they have to spend in prison?
Tap-tap-tap… How many of them do we have to kill?
Tap-tap-tap… and the drumming of the stylus became the clanging of hammers, the slow beat of iron on iron as it drove nails through flesh and muscle -- fast enough to show the executioner meant business, slowly enough to stretch out the anguish, leaving the victim squirming in anticipation of the next blow. And what had the madman said? "Father, forgive them, they don't know what they're doing…"
"What do you want me to do, sir?"
Samuel blinked again, and the sound faded. He looked up at the young Temple guard and tossed the stylus on the desk. "Do, Aaron? You know what to do. Take a couple of dozen men and arrest those troublemakers before they stir up real trouble."
Aaron nodded immediately, spun on his heel, and hurried away, his steps loud as they receded in the hallway. Samuel looked after him. Whatever the madman may have thought, we know what we are doing -- quelling heresy, and quenching rebellion while it can still be done cheaply.
He stood up, stretching old bones and stiff joints, picked up his sword, and belted it on. Yes, we know what we're doing. He leaned over and began puffing out the candles that chased the gloom from his office. As he extinguished them one by one, he found himself on the hill once more, watching the madman's life flicker. What was it he had said? Oh yes. "It is finished." The last candle went out, and he nodded. It's not finished yet, but it soon will be. A regrettable necessity.
But in the darkness he frowned, for something in his old bones told him it was just beginning…
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Construction Site
by Craig M. Kelly
Psalm 118:14-29
He took a deep, long, satisfying breath, taking in the cool morning air until he thought his lungs would burst. He wanted to take in all that he could. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, and as much as he wanted to gaze at the beautiful light, his eyes were still rather weak, forcing him to squint.
Still, walking out of those gates -- well, hobbling anyway -- being able to stand up straight, wearing his old clothes again, a little squinting didn't bother him.
As he stood there soaking in his surroundings, he heard the whirring of gears and belts behind him, coupled with the screech of metal scraping on concrete. The prison gates were closing behind him. This was the third time he had heard that sound behind him, as he had been in prison twice before, and yet hearing the clang of the gate behind him, seeing a world in front of him not surrounded by 12-foot fence topped with razor wire -- it never got old.
Even after everything he experienced -- the beatings, the poor food, the backbreaking work, the interrogations, the torture -- he knew he would do it all again. Seeing the crowded houses full of people, seeing the hopelessness in their eyes, seeing the need -- there was no question. He would suffer it all again if he had to.
He would face that life again because he knew it meant that he was preaching the gospel, an act still punishable by imprisonment or death in that country. Professing Christians faced a life of isolation at best, or more likely a life behind bars, or even no life at all. Choosing to take up their crosses and follow Jesus was often choosing to die in that part of the world.
As the man took his first few steps back into this "free" world, he had to smile in spite of himself. His thoughts drifted back to the last service he held before he had been arrested. It had been four years ago, but he could still remember it as if it had been the night before.
They always met at night -- in barns, abandoned buildings, in forests, in basements, anywhere where they hoped they could avoid prying eyes. Even baptisms were held in the middle of the night, often in frozen rivers. Meeting at night avoided certain complications -- such as a government raid. On this particular night, the man was reading from a Bible that had been smuggled into their village some time earlier. Even now, the man still remembered every word:
This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through it. I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation. The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. Save us, we pray, O Lord! O Lord, we pray, give us success!
As he had looked upon the group of believers gathered together, knowing they were the tip of the iceberg as it were, with thousands more gathered in other parts of the country worshiping this same Jesus who was rejected and crucified, he knew this scripture was for them.
"My brothers and sisters," he had said, "you all know what we face every day. Just yesterday, one of our brothers was paraded through town by the authorities, open to public scorn and torment. Some of us know from experience what awaited him in prison, along with all of our brothers and sisters who are imprisoned on account of our Lord. We face persecution and death at every turn.
"But take heart! Be strong and courageous! This path we are called to take is not ours alone. Jesus walked the same path, beaten and bloodied, carrying a cross on his back! He shares our suffering and gives us the strength to endure. He is the stone that was rejected, and yet look at what that stone has built! I have gone from village to village and have seen the gospel message spreading like a wildfire! Whole families, whole villages are turning to Jesus! And no matter what the police, what the government does to us, Christ is still that rock of our salvation, the foundation stone that was rejected! We, my brothers and sisters, are that kingdom that shall not be shaken, with Christ as our cornerstone! This is the day of salvation! Let us rejoice and be glad in it! O Lord, give us success!"
It was not an hour after that message that he was handcuffed and dragged back to prison. For four years he endured harsh confinement and unspeakable torture, among other things. He had to live out that message yet again.
And yet here he was, walking free. As his eyes finally adjusted to the sunlight, he took another look at the people around him, living as those who have no hope. His legs gained new strength as he walked on.
There was building to be done.
[Author's Note: While this is an independent work of fiction, I would like to credit my inspiration for this story: The Heavenly Man: The Remarkable True Story of Chinese Christian Brother Yun, by Brother Yun and Paul Hattaway. I would recommend it to anyone who wants to know more of what Christians have to endure for their faith in other parts of the world.]
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
**************
StoryShare, April 11, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
Contents
What's Up This Week
"A Regrettable Necessity" by Keith Hewitt
"Construction Site" by Craig M. Kelly
What's Up This Week
We often hear that it is a very dangerous thing to be a Christian -- but while that is still very true in many places around the world today, what does that really mean for many of us who have to sacrifice relatively little in our daily lives? In this week's edition of StoryShare, Keith Hewitt and Craig Kelly remind us of the extreme sacrifices we may have to make with tales of a guard who has to deal with what he thinks are irrational followers of Jesus, and of a man who is repeatedly imprisoned for worshiping Christ. Are we truly prepared to pick up our cross and likewise follow the Master?
* * * * * * * * *
A Regrettable Necessity
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 5:27-32
"They're back."
"Of course they are. Why wouldn't they be? Anything to make my life more difficult," Samuel answered, still reading the scroll in front of him. He paused, touched a finger to the text to mark his spot, stayed hunched over the desk, and rolled his eyes up far enough to look at the young man who stood before him. The man's chest rose and fell a little more rapidly than it should for a man his age, even if he had run from Simon's Colonnade to the warren of rooms at the opposite end of the Temple. "Who's back?" Samuel rumbled.
The young man was briefly puzzled, as though he couldn't understand the old man's obtuseness, but that expression melted like frost under the sun, replaced by righteous indignation. "That madman's followers! They're back in the Temple again."
The old man sighed and lowered his gaze; then he lifted his hand and let the scroll roll back upon itself. "They don't learn, do they?" he said softly, almost inaudibly.
"Sir?"
"Don't 'sir' me, Aaron -- save it for the priests. I said, 'they don't learn.' "
"No s---, Samuel," the young man answered, stammering slightly as he tripped over the old man's name. "I'm surprised they would risk it, though -- after being imprisoned and all."
Samuel grunted. "They didn't exactly do hard time, did they, son?"
"Well… no." Aaron hesitated, sorry to have brought it up. When it was discovered that the prisoners had somehow vanished from their cells, there had been a firestorm of accusations, questions, and threats -- yet no one had come forward to actually point a finger, to report someone for aiding and abetting a jailbreak, or even falling asleep on duty. There was just the absurd statement by the chief jailer that the so-called disciples had been locked behind bars at night, and were not behind those same bars the next day -- with no other evidence of escape.
And now this -- it was almost as though the criminals were mocking them.
"What are they doing this time?" the old man asked, slowly tapping his stylus on the edge of his desk, his eyes fixed forward, not looking at anything in the room. Young Aaron might have been surprised to know what he was seeing… but then, he had not been on the hill last spring, watching the madman gasp out the last verses of his life from the grasp of a Roman tree.
In a long life that was now starting to look like equal portions of service and folly, Samuel had seen too many men die. But none of them had done it like this one… none had brought the same air of destiny and desperation intertwined, and none of them had had the look of cosmic understanding behind the pain. And while many men were thankful when death finally drew near enough to drape its cold blanket of numbness over them, Samuel had never seen anyone else look… satisfied.
That was the only word for it.
Samuel blinked suddenly, aware that the young man was speaking. He threshed his memory, coming up with the kernel of Aaron's words, and nodded as though he had heard and digested everything. "So, more of the same, in other words." It was not really a question.
Aaron nodded, reflecting the old guard's understanding. "Exactly."
"Idiots," Samuel muttered. If they won't learn from history, they should at least learn from the fate of their leader.
"Shall I take a detail and arrest them then?" Aaron asked, when nothing followed Samuel's muttered epithet.
"I wonder," he said quietly, not exactly answering the question.
"Sir?" Aaron couldn't help himself; the old man surprised him.
"I wonder if we're giving them just what they want when we do that."
"What do you mean?"
"Any other false prophet -- any of these madmen that have come along -- once he's killed or been discredited, his followers disperse. Kill the shepherd, the sheep scatter. It's always that way -- it's always been that way." He waved a hand toward the outer temple. "But these are the exact opposite. Kill their leader, and they band together. Punish them, and they get more vocal. They go against all reason."
"Then put them in prison and leave them there," Aaron suggested.
"It's not like we let them out on purpose," Samuel reminded him gently.
"Somebody let them out."
"Or not."
There was a pause. Then, "What do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing," Samuel answered after a moment or two. "Just an old man's mind wandering." He fell silent again and stared. His stylus tapped on the desk… tap-tap-tap… keeping time with his rapidly shifting thoughts. These people make no sense. They should be hiding in the hills by now, and yet they come back.
Tap-tap-tap… How many times do they have to be beaten?
Tap-tap-tap… How many nights do they have to spend in prison?
Tap-tap-tap… How many of them do we have to kill?
Tap-tap-tap… and the drumming of the stylus became the clanging of hammers, the slow beat of iron on iron as it drove nails through flesh and muscle -- fast enough to show the executioner meant business, slowly enough to stretch out the anguish, leaving the victim squirming in anticipation of the next blow. And what had the madman said? "Father, forgive them, they don't know what they're doing…"
"What do you want me to do, sir?"
Samuel blinked again, and the sound faded. He looked up at the young Temple guard and tossed the stylus on the desk. "Do, Aaron? You know what to do. Take a couple of dozen men and arrest those troublemakers before they stir up real trouble."
Aaron nodded immediately, spun on his heel, and hurried away, his steps loud as they receded in the hallway. Samuel looked after him. Whatever the madman may have thought, we know what we are doing -- quelling heresy, and quenching rebellion while it can still be done cheaply.
He stood up, stretching old bones and stiff joints, picked up his sword, and belted it on. Yes, we know what we're doing. He leaned over and began puffing out the candles that chased the gloom from his office. As he extinguished them one by one, he found himself on the hill once more, watching the madman's life flicker. What was it he had said? Oh yes. "It is finished." The last candle went out, and he nodded. It's not finished yet, but it soon will be. A regrettable necessity.
But in the darkness he frowned, for something in his old bones told him it was just beginning…
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Construction Site
by Craig M. Kelly
Psalm 118:14-29
He took a deep, long, satisfying breath, taking in the cool morning air until he thought his lungs would burst. He wanted to take in all that he could. The sun was starting to peek through the clouds, and as much as he wanted to gaze at the beautiful light, his eyes were still rather weak, forcing him to squint.
Still, walking out of those gates -- well, hobbling anyway -- being able to stand up straight, wearing his old clothes again, a little squinting didn't bother him.
As he stood there soaking in his surroundings, he heard the whirring of gears and belts behind him, coupled with the screech of metal scraping on concrete. The prison gates were closing behind him. This was the third time he had heard that sound behind him, as he had been in prison twice before, and yet hearing the clang of the gate behind him, seeing a world in front of him not surrounded by 12-foot fence topped with razor wire -- it never got old.
Even after everything he experienced -- the beatings, the poor food, the backbreaking work, the interrogations, the torture -- he knew he would do it all again. Seeing the crowded houses full of people, seeing the hopelessness in their eyes, seeing the need -- there was no question. He would suffer it all again if he had to.
He would face that life again because he knew it meant that he was preaching the gospel, an act still punishable by imprisonment or death in that country. Professing Christians faced a life of isolation at best, or more likely a life behind bars, or even no life at all. Choosing to take up their crosses and follow Jesus was often choosing to die in that part of the world.
As the man took his first few steps back into this "free" world, he had to smile in spite of himself. His thoughts drifted back to the last service he held before he had been arrested. It had been four years ago, but he could still remember it as if it had been the night before.
They always met at night -- in barns, abandoned buildings, in forests, in basements, anywhere where they hoped they could avoid prying eyes. Even baptisms were held in the middle of the night, often in frozen rivers. Meeting at night avoided certain complications -- such as a government raid. On this particular night, the man was reading from a Bible that had been smuggled into their village some time earlier. Even now, the man still remembered every word:
This is the gate of the Lord; the righteous shall enter through it. I thank you that you have answered me and have become my salvation. The stone that the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. This is the Lord's doing; it is marvelous in our eyes. This is the day that the Lord has made; let us rejoice and be glad in it. Save us, we pray, O Lord! O Lord, we pray, give us success!
As he had looked upon the group of believers gathered together, knowing they were the tip of the iceberg as it were, with thousands more gathered in other parts of the country worshiping this same Jesus who was rejected and crucified, he knew this scripture was for them.
"My brothers and sisters," he had said, "you all know what we face every day. Just yesterday, one of our brothers was paraded through town by the authorities, open to public scorn and torment. Some of us know from experience what awaited him in prison, along with all of our brothers and sisters who are imprisoned on account of our Lord. We face persecution and death at every turn.
"But take heart! Be strong and courageous! This path we are called to take is not ours alone. Jesus walked the same path, beaten and bloodied, carrying a cross on his back! He shares our suffering and gives us the strength to endure. He is the stone that was rejected, and yet look at what that stone has built! I have gone from village to village and have seen the gospel message spreading like a wildfire! Whole families, whole villages are turning to Jesus! And no matter what the police, what the government does to us, Christ is still that rock of our salvation, the foundation stone that was rejected! We, my brothers and sisters, are that kingdom that shall not be shaken, with Christ as our cornerstone! This is the day of salvation! Let us rejoice and be glad in it! O Lord, give us success!"
It was not an hour after that message that he was handcuffed and dragged back to prison. For four years he endured harsh confinement and unspeakable torture, among other things. He had to live out that message yet again.
And yet here he was, walking free. As his eyes finally adjusted to the sunlight, he took another look at the people around him, living as those who have no hope. His legs gained new strength as he walked on.
There was building to be done.
[Author's Note: While this is an independent work of fiction, I would like to credit my inspiration for this story: The Heavenly Man: The Remarkable True Story of Chinese Christian Brother Yun, by Brother Yun and Paul Hattaway. I would recommend it to anyone who wants to know more of what Christians have to endure for their faith in other parts of the world.]
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
**************
StoryShare, April 11, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
