Shining On The Hill
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Shining on the Hill" by Peter Andrew Smith
"The Sign of the Covenant" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Race" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Prisoner" by Larry Winebrenner
"Silence Throws Us into the Solitude of Reflection" by W. Lamar Massingill
"On Eagle's Wings" by Larry Winebrenner
"Pain Is Generosity in Disguise" by W. Lamar Massingill
"All That God Created Is Good... Really?" by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
After God ravaged the earth in the great flood, he told Noah that the rainbow was a sign of his covenant with every living creature. In the same way, the cross signifies the new covenant in Jesus. This week's edition of StoryShare features pieces by Peter Andrew Smith and Larry Winebrenner that demonstrate the power those symbols still have to bring people together and speak of God's love in diverse settings from the frontier wilderness to the modern urban jungle. We also have moving stories of sacrifice from Larry Winebrenner, meditations on silence and pain from Lamar Massingill, and an entertaining mini-drama from John Sumwalt that you can use have your children participate in the telling of Noah's story.
* * * * * * * * *
Shining on the Hill
by Peter Andrew Smith
Genesis 9:8-17
"What's that, Mommy?" the little boy asked, pointing at the light shining from the hill.
"That's the cross on St. Joseph's Hospital," his mother answered.
"But why is it all lit up?"
"So that people who are lost can know that Jesus invites us back to God. At night, you can see that cross from anywhere in the city." His mother held his hand tightly. "And that is a very good thing. Because if you can see the cross you can find your way home."
The little boy remembered that conversation as time passed and he grew older. One night he got off at the wrong bus stop and didn't recognize any of the buildings and streets. His heart raced and he frantically searched for something familiar. He looked up and saw the cross shining from the hill. He felt the fear lift from him as he realized he was not lost. With the cross to guide him, he knew how to get home.
The little boy grew into a teenager and was never worried about losing his way, no matter where he went. Whether he was down at the harbor or by the railway station, he could see the cross standing on the hill above the hospital. When the darkness came, the cross became a beacon of light that shone over the city.
Even when the teenager lied about where he was going to his mother, the cross was still there. He checked to make sure it was when he went with some friends to the abandoned school. Somehow he felt better that it was there, even if he didn't want to look at it when he was smashing windows in the vacant building or smoking the cigarettes stolen from someone's parents.
When his mother got sick, the teenager (who was now a young man) went to the hospital for the first time and discovered it was a group of buildings -- a hospital, a free clinic, and a rehabilitation center. Looking up, the young man was surprised at how small the cross was. He had assumed that since the cross could be seen anywhere in the city that it must be gigantic but standing at its base the cross was actually only as wide as a man with outstretched arms.
Each day that he visited his mother, he looked up at the cross and prayed. He promised God anything and everything if his mother's cancer would simply go away. The day his mother died the young man walked out of the hospital and never looked back and never looked up.
The man kept his eyes turned away from the cross in the years that followed. He didn't look for it at night because he didn't care where he was anymore. He drank and smoked whatever he could buy from the dealers on the streets and lived in the shadows of the alleyways. When he ran out of money he took what he wanted from the other people on the streets.
In the darkest part of one night, he woke with his head pounding and his body aching. He shivered in his wet clothes and realized he was lying in a puddle underneath a streetlight. He was covered in bruises and cuts marked his arms and hands. He looked around and realized he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. He saw his reflection in the puddle and was shocked by what he saw. The gaunt face with hollow eyes staring back at him was that of a stranger.
Lying alone and in pain, he thought there was nothing left for him in life. The man tried to stand but fell to his knees. His eyes looked up for a brief instant and he saw it -- the cross was shining brightly from the hill. The man stared at the cross reaching into the shadows of the city for a long time until his eyes began to tear. He wept for his mother and for becoming the stranger he found himself that night.
When he could cry no more tears he found himself praying for the first time since his mother died. He asked God for forgiveness and he asked God for help. When he said "Amen" and opened his eyes the cross still shone brightly in the darkness.
The man pulled himself to his feet and began to limp toward the free clinic he remembered was at the hospital. As he limped toward the invitation of the cross the man did something he had not done his whole life. He thanked God for the cross shining from the hill and everything it meant.
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.
The Sign of the Covenant
by Larry Winebrenner
Genesis 9.8-17
She was just an ordinary Native-American girl living in what is now Pennsylvania. When my great-great-great-great-grandfather saw her, it was still the western wilderness. Henry Martin was a trader, well liked by the tribes he traded with. He was fair in his dealings, had good trade items, and refused to trade in either alcohol or firearms.
Henry called the young woman "My Indian Princess." The family took him seriously and ever since have claimed they have an "Indian Princess" in their ancestry. A rainbow brought them together. He was looking at a beautiful rainbow that seemed to arch across the entire valley before him. The bright colors, the beauty of the scene, took away his breath.
Abigail [the English name she adopted] stood behind him with a basket of berries she had picked. "I can make the colored circle," she told him.
Her presence startled him. He turned. His breath was once again swept away by beauty. "It's called a rainbow," he explained.
"It is a circle of colored light caused by sunlight on drops of water. I can make one. Come, I'll show you." She may not have been a trapper, but she surely had him snared. He followed her like a puppy. She led him to a stream flowing through an open field.
"Stand here," she directed, pointing to a spot on the ground. "Look there," she said, pointing to a rock beyond the creek. She stood on a bank with a bit of birch bark holding water. She drizzled the water onto a flat rock beneath her. A fine mist splashed into the air and a circle of color appeared. "See," she said, "I made a circle of color."
Henry laughed. "You made a splash of water. God made the rainbow," he told her.
She became disturbed. "You are laughing at me," she accused.
Henry ran over to her. Without thinking of what he was doing, he grabbed her thin arms with his enormous hands and held her so he could speak face-to-face. "No, no, no," he said. "I am not making fun of you. In my holy book it tells of the first rainbow that God made. It was a promise."
She shook a bit fearfully at his sudden attack. She meekly asked, "Will you let go of my arms and tell me the story?" Abigail later said, "When he let go of my arms, I intended to flee. But I couldn't. His hands no longer held me -- his eyes did. As he told me the story and explained what 'covenant' meant, I knew I would make a covenant with him and be his wife forever. Just like the covenant of God."
The Race
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 25:1-10
Bruce dragged his feet on the way to the track. It wasn't that he wasn't excited -- he was. This was the day of the local Soap Box Derby. And he was in it. It was just that Dad would be there.
Dad was a four-letter man at the local high school -- football, basketball, baseball, and track. He had all kind of scholarship offers, but he could never pass the entrance exams.
Bruce was smart enough -- As and Bs -- but an athlete he was not. He couldn't make a single team in any of the little league sports. Every time he failed to make a team, Dad would say, "You shame me." The Soap Box Derby seemed like the only place Bruce did well. He won most of the informal races. His greatest competition was Ted Anderson. And he beat Ted in almost all the races they had.
Up ahead was the track. The most expensive Soap Box Derby track in the world, people said. Some day it would be the end of I-95 leading from the interstate highway to US 1. But the interstate had gotten bogged down on one side of Miami. The multimillion-dollar ramp sat useless on the other side of the city. Useless, except for soap box derby races.
There was Dad, right next to Chester Anderson, Ted's father. Ted was already seated in his racer. Bruce quickly climbed into the racer Dad had helped him build. Before Dad could make any suggestions, Ted's dad said, "Ted, you'd better win this race today. My boss has a lot of money bet on you, and if you don't win, I'm going to be out of a job." As Chester Anderson spoke to Ted, Dad's hand almost crushed Bruce's shoulder where it rested. For the first time ever, Dad had nothing to say to him.
Half way down the track, Bruce realized he was going to win. This was one time Dad wasn't going to say, "You shame me." He was giddy with joy. Then he glanced over at Ted. Maybe he'd grin. Ted would realize he was going to come in second one more time -- the time it counted... in the big race. He saw the tears being blown back along Ted's face. Yes! He knew he was going to lose.
Suddenly, Ted's father's job became more important than Dad's praise. Bruce had been told often enough that he shamed Dad. What would one more time hurt?
He changed his posture. "When you sit like that, you lose speed," the teacher had warned.
He began to wiggle. "Sit still," the teacher had instructed. "Moving around causes you to slow down."
The one thing he couldn't do was pull on his brake lever. That would be too obvious. Yet what else could he do? He was still a foot ahead of Ted and the finish line loomed dangerously close. He resigned himself to winning when suddenly Ted's racer went past him just before the finish line. Ted won.
Here came Dad. "Young man," he announced, "I have something to say to you. Come over here where others can't hear us." Bruce shuffled over away from the crowd of well wishers mobbing Ted.
"I saw what you did out there," said Dad, a serious look on his face. Suddenly he grabbed Bruce and pulled him close. Dad hugged him and said, "You make me proud."
The Prisoner
by Larry Winebrenner
1 Peter 3:18-22
It was a long, dark journey -- and he only had three days to complete the task. The cavern was cold, at least at first. But the farther down he traveled, the warmer it got. The smell of burning sulfur was strong: it burnt the eyes; it assailed the nostrils; it choked and dried the throat almost beyond endurance.
Then he reached the door. The door had been placed there by the angels. None from the outside could enter. None on the inside could leave. Two angels with swords of flame guarded the door.
When he approached, one said, "You're not supposed to be here."
"Open the door," the man said. The door was opened until the man passed through. Then it was closed with a ringing clang! Guards on the inside grabbed at him. They would have taken him prisoner. They would have thrust him into the deepest dungeon. They would have put him in the darkest cell. They would have locked him in the hottest room.
He stopped them with a single glance. Then he turned to the massive cavern where the prisoners were being punished. "You rebels!" he cried. "Will you still deny your Lord? God loves you." His voice rang throughout all the caverns. Every sufferer heard the message. "God loves you!"
Then the man turned. "Where is he?" demanded the man. The guard only pointed. Down -- the lowest level.
The man descended to the cell holding the prisoner he sought. He kicked the iron door, and it clanged against the far wall. The prisoner looked up. Momentary hope fluttered in his eyes -- then abject terror bathed him like a flood.
"Jesus!" croaked the prisoner.
"I want you," said Jesus.
The prisoner shrank into one corner, trying to merge himself into the wall itself. "No," he whimpered.
"Yes," said Jesus. "I love even you. I forgive you, Judas Iscariot."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active in First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
Silence Throws Us into the Solitude of Reflection
by W. Lamar Massingill
Mark 1:9-15
For 21 years now, I have attended a silent retreat at a place called Manresa House in Convent, Louisiana, under the spiritual direction of Jesuit priests. It took me a couple of days to get used to the reality of silence, as we live in such a noisy, distracting world. The retreat always wins over every other invitation during the last week of April. I hear sounds, of course, but they are sounds we rarely hear in the rush of our culture. Also, the silence throws me into solitude, so that I can reflect on my own life and my own growing up and growing on.
The sound of a meal, the chirping of birds, a thunderstorm, or even listening to someone breathe during the Eucharist makes the gift of my hearing more spiritual. The silence during my retreat seems to make everything sacred. For instance, what is more sacred to our daily living then food? There is something spiritual about hearing 110 people eating and not one saying anything, yet everyone saying something. I must confess that I've never heard as clearly the sounds of our humanity; the sounds we always make, but never hear; sounds which remind us in gentle and natural ways of who we are. Without a healthy sense of identity, there can be no healthy sense of the spiritual. In the silence I am reminded in primal ways that our humanity is a gift from God. The sounds of eating, walking, breathing, feeling, bathing, swallowing, chewing, pouring, digesting, and dressing become sounds that elevate our commonness to something sacramental; something full of grace.
At Manresa House, I experience what a retreat should be, at least for me -- namely, a time of reflection and solitude with yourself and the God within you. The spiritual directors, instead of making you do something, encourage you to be somebody. And what else could possibly encourage that but silence? Silence forces solitude. If conversation were allowed, people would be meeting up with other people and leave the retreat having never met the God or themselves who lives within them. Silence tosses us into ourselves so we can emerge to be with others. We enter, in order to exit. We love ourselves before we can love others.
I never quite understood the journey of Christ into the wilderness until I learned this truth. I believe it was an act of self-love in the richest sense. It was inevitable. It is one of the most creative paradoxes of human experience: the journey toward others begins with the journey into ourselves. We begin the process of knowing ourselves before we can know others. Loving ourselves healthily is the first movement we make toward loving others healthily. We must make friends with all of who we are before we can be creative toward life and others. The command of Jesus to love others as you love yourself was more than a moral imperative; it was a psychological reality. The fact is: you will love others as you love yourself. The way you relate to the most important person in your life, yourself, becomes the way you relate to others. If you see yourself in a negative vein, then you will likely view others that way as well. In the silent solitude of the wilderness, Jesus came face-to-face with all that he was, and made friends with all, and emerged claiming his own place in his world -- able to love people with sacrificial love, and able to be more creative in his ministry to them.
W. Lamar Massingill, a former Southern Baptist pastor, is now the minister at Richton United Methodist Church in Richton, Mississippi. He also serves as religion editor for the Magnolia Gazette and as a guest columnist for the United Methodist Advocate and the Richton Dispatch. Massengill is the author of two books, New Eyes: A Spirituality of Identity Formation and Soul Places, and he has lectured widely on the interaction between religion and psychology. He is a graduate of William Carey University and New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary.
On Eagle's Wings
by Larry Winebrenner
Mark 1:9-15
Achievement does not make one wise; strength does not give one understanding.
An eagle was soaring high above the river, high above the landscape, high above the mountains. He was flying about as high as any creature ever had flown. Suddenly, he heard the voice of God. "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."
"Wow," said the eagle. "God has seen how high I've flown. God has even said I was the Beloved. God is well pleased with me."
Then something like a dove swept past him. From above him. It was not possible. He had flown higher than any other creature. Yet this dove-creature flew down. He watched the dove-creature. It kept descending until it reached a man-creature standing in the water. It lit on the man-creature. Then it drove the man-creature away from the water. All the way into the desert.
What kind of dove was this? It could fly higher than he could. It had stronger talons than the eagle's claws. It could control the men-creatures the eagle feared and avoided.
Perhaps this wasn't a bird after all. Maybe that dove-creature was a spirit. Or even a god. Well, the eagle wasn't about to investigate. After all, hadn't he flown higher than any other creature? Hadn't God called him beloved? Son?
So, in his ignorance, the eagle didn't note this momentous event -- the first time in recorded human history that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit appeared together.
Pain Is Generosity in Disguise
by W. Lamar Massingill
Mark 1:9-15
No human being can stonewall reality, not even Jesus as he traveled the earth as a human being. Regardless of how powerful we think we are, life is more powerful. It will take our pitiful attempts -- our "stones," if you will -- crush them, mix them with water, and have a drink.
After we learn that we cannot stop life's "stuff" from coming our way, we stand in our own wilderness -- helpless, dripping wet, feeling heavy -- and finally we begin asking the hopeful questions: What have I got going for me? How can I learn from this particular "stuff" that feels so bad? In the wilderness that Jesus was not led or directed into, but according to Mark driven into, Jesus spent 40 days and 40 nights learning what it meant to be Jesus. It was surely as painful, if not more so, than our own wildernesses. Perhaps even chaotic.
After 30 years of serving in ministry and as a hospice chaplain, and training as a therapist that I never really used, I have grown to learn, strange as it may sound to you who read this, that pain is generosity in disguise. I say that because it is precisely in the broken places that we grow up and on, and become not only stronger people but more compassionate (to suffer with) people who empathize with the wounds of others. In a word, we become what Henri Nouwen called "wounded healers."
During my tenure as a hospice chaplain, my patients taught me more about life than I taught them. Melvin, for example, taught me a most primal lesson. In fact, it was the beginning of what I would grow to believe and do still -- namely, that chaos is the very raw material out of which we experience grace.
While I was Melvin's spiritual caregiver years ago, I asked him what was the one thing that had most enriched his life. To my surprise he answered, "Being diagnosed with cancer. It has opened my eyes to what really matters in life as nothing else has ever done. The practice of unwrapping everything, even the chaotic, with the hands of gratitude is the way to unending discoveries of God's gifts."
Incredible. If we trust that grace is enough to care for us, then that trust keeps us reconciled and committed to live with whatever life soaks us with. The Holy One is constantly taking our own chaos and pain, as he did the chaos of Jesus in the wilderness, and like a Generous Alchemist turning it into something mysteriously miraculous and meant to teach us. Are there reasons not to trust this? I think not. I think not.
W. Lamar Massingill is the pastor of Richton United Methodist Church in Richton, Mississippi.
All That God Created Is Good... Really?
by John Sumwalt
Genesis 9:8-17
(Following the reading of Genesis 1:1-5, 24-31, the liturgist or the pastor will introduce a drama and serve as the narrator.)
NARRATOR: The ancient storytellers, who told this first creation story in Genesis around campfires for generations before it was written down, wanted their hearers to know that all that God created is good. The word "good" is repeated seven times. Special emphasis is given the seventh time, after we human beings were created: "God saw everything that God had made, and indeed it was very good."
Still, humankind has long doubted the goodness of some of God's creation. I wonder if Noah had any difficulty deciding which creatures were good enough to take on the ark. If he did, it might have gone something like this. Imagine that this space here between these two chairs is the ark and that this is Noah. (a youth [girl or boy] appears wearing a sign hanging from a string around her or his neck with "NOAH" written on it)
(Narrator reads Genesis 7:11-14a from the pulpit or lectern.)
NARRATOR: "In the six hundredth year of Noah's life, in the second month, on the seventeenth day of the month, on that day all the fountains of the great deep burst forth, and the windows of the heavens were opened. The rain fell on the earth forty days and forty nights. On the very same day Noah with his sons, Shem and Ham and Japheth, and Noah's wife and the three wives of his sons entered the ark, they and every wild animal of every kind, and all domestic animals of every kind, and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth..."
(All of the children present in worship are given the names of animals to hang around their necks. There are two of each; elephants, camels, zebras, giraffe, lions, tigers, bears, horses, cats, dogs, and so on... Two middle school or senior high youth are given signs that read "SNAKE." Two are given signs that read "MOSQUITO." The animals walk past NOAH onto the imaginary ark two by two. NOAH says the names of the animals as they pass.)
NOAH: Welcome aboard, elephants. Good to see you, camels. I'm glad you could make it, zebras. Giraffes good, lions good, tigers good, bears good... (And so on, naming and welcoming each pair of animals until all but the last two pair of animals are safely on the ark. As the two snakes approach the ark, NOAH throws up her or his arms.) Hey, wait a minute, the story doesn't say anything about snakes!
FIRST SNAKE: Oh, yes it does. It's in the Bible.
NARRATOR: (speaking from the pulpit, holding up a large Bible) Sorry, Noah, the snake is right. It's right here in Genesis 7:14-15: "... every wild animal of every kind, and all domestic animals of every kind, and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth, and every bird of every kind... They went into the ark with Noah."
NOAH: (throws up arms again) I don't like snakes! They give me the creepy-jeepies!
NARRATOR: Well, there's nothing I can do about it. Technically, snakes are allowed.
(The snakes move onto the imaginary ark. Two mosquitoes step up and begin to step onto the ark.)
NOAH: Now, this is where I draw the line! I am not taking any mosquitoes. I don't like mosquito bites.
(An older youth or adult wearing a large sign that reads "LAWYER" steps forward and looks toward the NARRATOR.)
LAWYER: Your honor, if it please the court...
NARRATOR: There is no court -- I'm just reading the story.
LAWYER: Whatever. My clients just want what is rightfully theirs. (holds up large Bible) It says right here in chapter 6, verse 19: "And of every living thing, of all flesh, you shall bring two of every kind into the ark, to keep them alive with you; they shall be male and female."
NARRATOR: He's right, Noah, that is just what it says.
NOAH: (taking out a large fly-swatter) Well, all right, but I'm going to watch them every minute. (the mosquitoes step onto the ark)
NARRATOR: And so shall it ever be. Hear these words of promise. (Reads Genesis 9:8-17, the Hebrew scripture of the day -- then holds up the Bible.) The Word of God for the People of God.
Congregation: Amen!
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt are the former co-editors of StoryShare, and John is the author of nine books.
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StoryShare, March 1, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Shining on the Hill" by Peter Andrew Smith
"The Sign of the Covenant" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Race" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Prisoner" by Larry Winebrenner
"Silence Throws Us into the Solitude of Reflection" by W. Lamar Massingill
"On Eagle's Wings" by Larry Winebrenner
"Pain Is Generosity in Disguise" by W. Lamar Massingill
"All That God Created Is Good... Really?" by John Sumwalt
What's Up This Week
After God ravaged the earth in the great flood, he told Noah that the rainbow was a sign of his covenant with every living creature. In the same way, the cross signifies the new covenant in Jesus. This week's edition of StoryShare features pieces by Peter Andrew Smith and Larry Winebrenner that demonstrate the power those symbols still have to bring people together and speak of God's love in diverse settings from the frontier wilderness to the modern urban jungle. We also have moving stories of sacrifice from Larry Winebrenner, meditations on silence and pain from Lamar Massingill, and an entertaining mini-drama from John Sumwalt that you can use have your children participate in the telling of Noah's story.
* * * * * * * * *
Shining on the Hill
by Peter Andrew Smith
Genesis 9:8-17
"What's that, Mommy?" the little boy asked, pointing at the light shining from the hill.
"That's the cross on St. Joseph's Hospital," his mother answered.
"But why is it all lit up?"
"So that people who are lost can know that Jesus invites us back to God. At night, you can see that cross from anywhere in the city." His mother held his hand tightly. "And that is a very good thing. Because if you can see the cross you can find your way home."
The little boy remembered that conversation as time passed and he grew older. One night he got off at the wrong bus stop and didn't recognize any of the buildings and streets. His heart raced and he frantically searched for something familiar. He looked up and saw the cross shining from the hill. He felt the fear lift from him as he realized he was not lost. With the cross to guide him, he knew how to get home.
The little boy grew into a teenager and was never worried about losing his way, no matter where he went. Whether he was down at the harbor or by the railway station, he could see the cross standing on the hill above the hospital. When the darkness came, the cross became a beacon of light that shone over the city.
Even when the teenager lied about where he was going to his mother, the cross was still there. He checked to make sure it was when he went with some friends to the abandoned school. Somehow he felt better that it was there, even if he didn't want to look at it when he was smashing windows in the vacant building or smoking the cigarettes stolen from someone's parents.
When his mother got sick, the teenager (who was now a young man) went to the hospital for the first time and discovered it was a group of buildings -- a hospital, a free clinic, and a rehabilitation center. Looking up, the young man was surprised at how small the cross was. He had assumed that since the cross could be seen anywhere in the city that it must be gigantic but standing at its base the cross was actually only as wide as a man with outstretched arms.
Each day that he visited his mother, he looked up at the cross and prayed. He promised God anything and everything if his mother's cancer would simply go away. The day his mother died the young man walked out of the hospital and never looked back and never looked up.
The man kept his eyes turned away from the cross in the years that followed. He didn't look for it at night because he didn't care where he was anymore. He drank and smoked whatever he could buy from the dealers on the streets and lived in the shadows of the alleyways. When he ran out of money he took what he wanted from the other people on the streets.
In the darkest part of one night, he woke with his head pounding and his body aching. He shivered in his wet clothes and realized he was lying in a puddle underneath a streetlight. He was covered in bruises and cuts marked his arms and hands. He looked around and realized he had no idea where he was or how he had gotten there. He saw his reflection in the puddle and was shocked by what he saw. The gaunt face with hollow eyes staring back at him was that of a stranger.
Lying alone and in pain, he thought there was nothing left for him in life. The man tried to stand but fell to his knees. His eyes looked up for a brief instant and he saw it -- the cross was shining brightly from the hill. The man stared at the cross reaching into the shadows of the city for a long time until his eyes began to tear. He wept for his mother and for becoming the stranger he found himself that night.
When he could cry no more tears he found himself praying for the first time since his mother died. He asked God for forgiveness and he asked God for help. When he said "Amen" and opened his eyes the cross still shone brightly in the darkness.
The man pulled himself to his feet and began to limp toward the free clinic he remembered was at the hospital. As he limped toward the invitation of the cross the man did something he had not done his whole life. He thanked God for the cross shining from the hill and everything it meant.
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.
The Sign of the Covenant
by Larry Winebrenner
Genesis 9.8-17
She was just an ordinary Native-American girl living in what is now Pennsylvania. When my great-great-great-great-grandfather saw her, it was still the western wilderness. Henry Martin was a trader, well liked by the tribes he traded with. He was fair in his dealings, had good trade items, and refused to trade in either alcohol or firearms.
Henry called the young woman "My Indian Princess." The family took him seriously and ever since have claimed they have an "Indian Princess" in their ancestry. A rainbow brought them together. He was looking at a beautiful rainbow that seemed to arch across the entire valley before him. The bright colors, the beauty of the scene, took away his breath.
Abigail [the English name she adopted] stood behind him with a basket of berries she had picked. "I can make the colored circle," she told him.
Her presence startled him. He turned. His breath was once again swept away by beauty. "It's called a rainbow," he explained.
"It is a circle of colored light caused by sunlight on drops of water. I can make one. Come, I'll show you." She may not have been a trapper, but she surely had him snared. He followed her like a puppy. She led him to a stream flowing through an open field.
"Stand here," she directed, pointing to a spot on the ground. "Look there," she said, pointing to a rock beyond the creek. She stood on a bank with a bit of birch bark holding water. She drizzled the water onto a flat rock beneath her. A fine mist splashed into the air and a circle of color appeared. "See," she said, "I made a circle of color."
Henry laughed. "You made a splash of water. God made the rainbow," he told her.
She became disturbed. "You are laughing at me," she accused.
Henry ran over to her. Without thinking of what he was doing, he grabbed her thin arms with his enormous hands and held her so he could speak face-to-face. "No, no, no," he said. "I am not making fun of you. In my holy book it tells of the first rainbow that God made. It was a promise."
She shook a bit fearfully at his sudden attack. She meekly asked, "Will you let go of my arms and tell me the story?" Abigail later said, "When he let go of my arms, I intended to flee. But I couldn't. His hands no longer held me -- his eyes did. As he told me the story and explained what 'covenant' meant, I knew I would make a covenant with him and be his wife forever. Just like the covenant of God."
The Race
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 25:1-10
Bruce dragged his feet on the way to the track. It wasn't that he wasn't excited -- he was. This was the day of the local Soap Box Derby. And he was in it. It was just that Dad would be there.
Dad was a four-letter man at the local high school -- football, basketball, baseball, and track. He had all kind of scholarship offers, but he could never pass the entrance exams.
Bruce was smart enough -- As and Bs -- but an athlete he was not. He couldn't make a single team in any of the little league sports. Every time he failed to make a team, Dad would say, "You shame me." The Soap Box Derby seemed like the only place Bruce did well. He won most of the informal races. His greatest competition was Ted Anderson. And he beat Ted in almost all the races they had.
Up ahead was the track. The most expensive Soap Box Derby track in the world, people said. Some day it would be the end of I-95 leading from the interstate highway to US 1. But the interstate had gotten bogged down on one side of Miami. The multimillion-dollar ramp sat useless on the other side of the city. Useless, except for soap box derby races.
There was Dad, right next to Chester Anderson, Ted's father. Ted was already seated in his racer. Bruce quickly climbed into the racer Dad had helped him build. Before Dad could make any suggestions, Ted's dad said, "Ted, you'd better win this race today. My boss has a lot of money bet on you, and if you don't win, I'm going to be out of a job." As Chester Anderson spoke to Ted, Dad's hand almost crushed Bruce's shoulder where it rested. For the first time ever, Dad had nothing to say to him.
Half way down the track, Bruce realized he was going to win. This was one time Dad wasn't going to say, "You shame me." He was giddy with joy. Then he glanced over at Ted. Maybe he'd grin. Ted would realize he was going to come in second one more time -- the time it counted... in the big race. He saw the tears being blown back along Ted's face. Yes! He knew he was going to lose.
Suddenly, Ted's father's job became more important than Dad's praise. Bruce had been told often enough that he shamed Dad. What would one more time hurt?
He changed his posture. "When you sit like that, you lose speed," the teacher had warned.
He began to wiggle. "Sit still," the teacher had instructed. "Moving around causes you to slow down."
The one thing he couldn't do was pull on his brake lever. That would be too obvious. Yet what else could he do? He was still a foot ahead of Ted and the finish line loomed dangerously close. He resigned himself to winning when suddenly Ted's racer went past him just before the finish line. Ted won.
Here came Dad. "Young man," he announced, "I have something to say to you. Come over here where others can't hear us." Bruce shuffled over away from the crowd of well wishers mobbing Ted.
"I saw what you did out there," said Dad, a serious look on his face. Suddenly he grabbed Bruce and pulled him close. Dad hugged him and said, "You make me proud."
The Prisoner
by Larry Winebrenner
1 Peter 3:18-22
It was a long, dark journey -- and he only had three days to complete the task. The cavern was cold, at least at first. But the farther down he traveled, the warmer it got. The smell of burning sulfur was strong: it burnt the eyes; it assailed the nostrils; it choked and dried the throat almost beyond endurance.
Then he reached the door. The door had been placed there by the angels. None from the outside could enter. None on the inside could leave. Two angels with swords of flame guarded the door.
When he approached, one said, "You're not supposed to be here."
"Open the door," the man said. The door was opened until the man passed through. Then it was closed with a ringing clang! Guards on the inside grabbed at him. They would have taken him prisoner. They would have thrust him into the deepest dungeon. They would have put him in the darkest cell. They would have locked him in the hottest room.
He stopped them with a single glance. Then he turned to the massive cavern where the prisoners were being punished. "You rebels!" he cried. "Will you still deny your Lord? God loves you." His voice rang throughout all the caverns. Every sufferer heard the message. "God loves you!"
Then the man turned. "Where is he?" demanded the man. The guard only pointed. Down -- the lowest level.
The man descended to the cell holding the prisoner he sought. He kicked the iron door, and it clanged against the far wall. The prisoner looked up. Momentary hope fluttered in his eyes -- then abject terror bathed him like a flood.
"Jesus!" croaked the prisoner.
"I want you," said Jesus.
The prisoner shrank into one corner, trying to merge himself into the wall itself. "No," he whimpered.
"Yes," said Jesus. "I love even you. I forgive you, Judas Iscariot."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active in First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
Silence Throws Us into the Solitude of Reflection
by W. Lamar Massingill
Mark 1:9-15
For 21 years now, I have attended a silent retreat at a place called Manresa House in Convent, Louisiana, under the spiritual direction of Jesuit priests. It took me a couple of days to get used to the reality of silence, as we live in such a noisy, distracting world. The retreat always wins over every other invitation during the last week of April. I hear sounds, of course, but they are sounds we rarely hear in the rush of our culture. Also, the silence throws me into solitude, so that I can reflect on my own life and my own growing up and growing on.
The sound of a meal, the chirping of birds, a thunderstorm, or even listening to someone breathe during the Eucharist makes the gift of my hearing more spiritual. The silence during my retreat seems to make everything sacred. For instance, what is more sacred to our daily living then food? There is something spiritual about hearing 110 people eating and not one saying anything, yet everyone saying something. I must confess that I've never heard as clearly the sounds of our humanity; the sounds we always make, but never hear; sounds which remind us in gentle and natural ways of who we are. Without a healthy sense of identity, there can be no healthy sense of the spiritual. In the silence I am reminded in primal ways that our humanity is a gift from God. The sounds of eating, walking, breathing, feeling, bathing, swallowing, chewing, pouring, digesting, and dressing become sounds that elevate our commonness to something sacramental; something full of grace.
At Manresa House, I experience what a retreat should be, at least for me -- namely, a time of reflection and solitude with yourself and the God within you. The spiritual directors, instead of making you do something, encourage you to be somebody. And what else could possibly encourage that but silence? Silence forces solitude. If conversation were allowed, people would be meeting up with other people and leave the retreat having never met the God or themselves who lives within them. Silence tosses us into ourselves so we can emerge to be with others. We enter, in order to exit. We love ourselves before we can love others.
I never quite understood the journey of Christ into the wilderness until I learned this truth. I believe it was an act of self-love in the richest sense. It was inevitable. It is one of the most creative paradoxes of human experience: the journey toward others begins with the journey into ourselves. We begin the process of knowing ourselves before we can know others. Loving ourselves healthily is the first movement we make toward loving others healthily. We must make friends with all of who we are before we can be creative toward life and others. The command of Jesus to love others as you love yourself was more than a moral imperative; it was a psychological reality. The fact is: you will love others as you love yourself. The way you relate to the most important person in your life, yourself, becomes the way you relate to others. If you see yourself in a negative vein, then you will likely view others that way as well. In the silent solitude of the wilderness, Jesus came face-to-face with all that he was, and made friends with all, and emerged claiming his own place in his world -- able to love people with sacrificial love, and able to be more creative in his ministry to them.
W. Lamar Massingill, a former Southern Baptist pastor, is now the minister at Richton United Methodist Church in Richton, Mississippi. He also serves as religion editor for the Magnolia Gazette and as a guest columnist for the United Methodist Advocate and the Richton Dispatch. Massengill is the author of two books, New Eyes: A Spirituality of Identity Formation and Soul Places, and he has lectured widely on the interaction between religion and psychology. He is a graduate of William Carey University and New Orleans Baptist Theological Seminary.
On Eagle's Wings
by Larry Winebrenner
Mark 1:9-15
Achievement does not make one wise; strength does not give one understanding.
An eagle was soaring high above the river, high above the landscape, high above the mountains. He was flying about as high as any creature ever had flown. Suddenly, he heard the voice of God. "You are my Son, the Beloved; with you I am well pleased."
"Wow," said the eagle. "God has seen how high I've flown. God has even said I was the Beloved. God is well pleased with me."
Then something like a dove swept past him. From above him. It was not possible. He had flown higher than any other creature. Yet this dove-creature flew down. He watched the dove-creature. It kept descending until it reached a man-creature standing in the water. It lit on the man-creature. Then it drove the man-creature away from the water. All the way into the desert.
What kind of dove was this? It could fly higher than he could. It had stronger talons than the eagle's claws. It could control the men-creatures the eagle feared and avoided.
Perhaps this wasn't a bird after all. Maybe that dove-creature was a spirit. Or even a god. Well, the eagle wasn't about to investigate. After all, hadn't he flown higher than any other creature? Hadn't God called him beloved? Son?
So, in his ignorance, the eagle didn't note this momentous event -- the first time in recorded human history that Father, Son, and Holy Spirit appeared together.
Pain Is Generosity in Disguise
by W. Lamar Massingill
Mark 1:9-15
No human being can stonewall reality, not even Jesus as he traveled the earth as a human being. Regardless of how powerful we think we are, life is more powerful. It will take our pitiful attempts -- our "stones," if you will -- crush them, mix them with water, and have a drink.
After we learn that we cannot stop life's "stuff" from coming our way, we stand in our own wilderness -- helpless, dripping wet, feeling heavy -- and finally we begin asking the hopeful questions: What have I got going for me? How can I learn from this particular "stuff" that feels so bad? In the wilderness that Jesus was not led or directed into, but according to Mark driven into, Jesus spent 40 days and 40 nights learning what it meant to be Jesus. It was surely as painful, if not more so, than our own wildernesses. Perhaps even chaotic.
After 30 years of serving in ministry and as a hospice chaplain, and training as a therapist that I never really used, I have grown to learn, strange as it may sound to you who read this, that pain is generosity in disguise. I say that because it is precisely in the broken places that we grow up and on, and become not only stronger people but more compassionate (to suffer with) people who empathize with the wounds of others. In a word, we become what Henri Nouwen called "wounded healers."
During my tenure as a hospice chaplain, my patients taught me more about life than I taught them. Melvin, for example, taught me a most primal lesson. In fact, it was the beginning of what I would grow to believe and do still -- namely, that chaos is the very raw material out of which we experience grace.
While I was Melvin's spiritual caregiver years ago, I asked him what was the one thing that had most enriched his life. To my surprise he answered, "Being diagnosed with cancer. It has opened my eyes to what really matters in life as nothing else has ever done. The practice of unwrapping everything, even the chaotic, with the hands of gratitude is the way to unending discoveries of God's gifts."
Incredible. If we trust that grace is enough to care for us, then that trust keeps us reconciled and committed to live with whatever life soaks us with. The Holy One is constantly taking our own chaos and pain, as he did the chaos of Jesus in the wilderness, and like a Generous Alchemist turning it into something mysteriously miraculous and meant to teach us. Are there reasons not to trust this? I think not. I think not.
W. Lamar Massingill is the pastor of Richton United Methodist Church in Richton, Mississippi.
All That God Created Is Good... Really?
by John Sumwalt
Genesis 9:8-17
(Following the reading of Genesis 1:1-5, 24-31, the liturgist or the pastor will introduce a drama and serve as the narrator.)
NARRATOR: The ancient storytellers, who told this first creation story in Genesis around campfires for generations before it was written down, wanted their hearers to know that all that God created is good. The word "good" is repeated seven times. Special emphasis is given the seventh time, after we human beings were created: "God saw everything that God had made, and indeed it was very good."
Still, humankind has long doubted the goodness of some of God's creation. I wonder if Noah had any difficulty deciding which creatures were good enough to take on the ark. If he did, it might have gone something like this. Imagine that this space here between these two chairs is the ark and that this is Noah. (a youth [girl or boy] appears wearing a sign hanging from a string around her or his neck with "NOAH" written on it)
(Narrator reads Genesis 7:11-14a from the pulpit or lectern.)
NARRATOR: "In the six hundredth year of Noah's life, in the second month, on the seventeenth day of the month, on that day all the fountains of the great deep burst forth, and the windows of the heavens were opened. The rain fell on the earth forty days and forty nights. On the very same day Noah with his sons, Shem and Ham and Japheth, and Noah's wife and the three wives of his sons entered the ark, they and every wild animal of every kind, and all domestic animals of every kind, and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth..."
(All of the children present in worship are given the names of animals to hang around their necks. There are two of each; elephants, camels, zebras, giraffe, lions, tigers, bears, horses, cats, dogs, and so on... Two middle school or senior high youth are given signs that read "SNAKE." Two are given signs that read "MOSQUITO." The animals walk past NOAH onto the imaginary ark two by two. NOAH says the names of the animals as they pass.)
NOAH: Welcome aboard, elephants. Good to see you, camels. I'm glad you could make it, zebras. Giraffes good, lions good, tigers good, bears good... (And so on, naming and welcoming each pair of animals until all but the last two pair of animals are safely on the ark. As the two snakes approach the ark, NOAH throws up her or his arms.) Hey, wait a minute, the story doesn't say anything about snakes!
FIRST SNAKE: Oh, yes it does. It's in the Bible.
NARRATOR: (speaking from the pulpit, holding up a large Bible) Sorry, Noah, the snake is right. It's right here in Genesis 7:14-15: "... every wild animal of every kind, and all domestic animals of every kind, and every creeping thing that creeps on the earth, and every bird of every kind... They went into the ark with Noah."
NOAH: (throws up arms again) I don't like snakes! They give me the creepy-jeepies!
NARRATOR: Well, there's nothing I can do about it. Technically, snakes are allowed.
(The snakes move onto the imaginary ark. Two mosquitoes step up and begin to step onto the ark.)
NOAH: Now, this is where I draw the line! I am not taking any mosquitoes. I don't like mosquito bites.
(An older youth or adult wearing a large sign that reads "LAWYER" steps forward and looks toward the NARRATOR.)
LAWYER: Your honor, if it please the court...
NARRATOR: There is no court -- I'm just reading the story.
LAWYER: Whatever. My clients just want what is rightfully theirs. (holds up large Bible) It says right here in chapter 6, verse 19: "And of every living thing, of all flesh, you shall bring two of every kind into the ark, to keep them alive with you; they shall be male and female."
NARRATOR: He's right, Noah, that is just what it says.
NOAH: (taking out a large fly-swatter) Well, all right, but I'm going to watch them every minute. (the mosquitoes step onto the ark)
NARRATOR: And so shall it ever be. Hear these words of promise. (Reads Genesis 9:8-17, the Hebrew scripture of the day -- then holds up the Bible.) The Word of God for the People of God.
Congregation: Amen!
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt are the former co-editors of StoryShare, and John is the author of nine books.
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StoryShare, March 1, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
