Sign Of The Cross
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Sign of the Cross" by C. David McKirachan
"Blow the Trumpet in Zion" by Larry Winebrenner
"Cleansing the Heart" by Larry Winebrenner
"Tailgating" by C. David McKirachan
"Be Ye Reconciled" by Larry Winebrenner
"Buried Treasure" by Larry Winebrenner
"A Fast Acceptable to God" by Larry Winebrenner
What's Up This Week
Lent is a time for self-examination, for taking a "spiritual inventory" of our lives -- and especially on Ash Wednesday, when many of us wear ashes as an outward sign of the transitory, sinful nature of our existence. In the feature piece of this special Ash Wednesday edition of StoryShare, David McKirachan recounts the story of one faithful parishioner who proudly showed off the mark of ashes on his forehead -- not out of pious conceit but because he deeply understood the meaning of God's grace and forgiveness. McKirachan also offers a brief meditation on the need to slow down the pace of our busy lives during Lent so that we can listen to and collaborate with God. We also have several stories from Larry Winebrenner, a new addition to the StoryShare writing team. His contributions to this issue range from tales about an angry shepherd whose life was irrevocably changed, a kindly old man who fixes dolls (and relationships), and a town that protected itself from invasion by gathering hordes of the poor and needy, to a recollection of an unusual trumpet sound in Krakow, Poland.
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Sign of the Cross
by C. David McKirachan
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Protestants don't do ashes. Yeah, I know. But it never made sense to me to deny people the gift of sensory blessing that anointing and ashes offer. Ashes are so clearly a mark of being part of something important, something important enough to wear on your forehead out in public. What? Are we so bent on fitting in, on being secular? Are we so focused on being non-Catholic that we can't claim our identity as Christians?
When I came to Shrewsbury, a nice, conservative, non-Catholic community, I suggested we offer ashes on Ash Wednesday and anointing on Maundy Thursday. I expected a minor hassle at least. But to my surprise, I had people thanking me.
George Bett was one of them. He had grown up in a Catholic neighborhood and felt left out on a few occasions. But on Ash Wednesday he felt something else. He thought it wasn't right that only Roman Catholics got to visibly demonstrate their Christianity and their acceptance of their mortality and their sin and their gratitude for the Savior's passion. After that sentence he had to take a breath. His wife Dorothy giggled. She does that a lot. She said, "Tell him what you did after you got the ashes, George." He hesitated. "Go on, tell David," she continued. "He has a right to know. It was his fault you demanded that we go grocery shopping after the 8:00 service. We had to find a grocery store that was open after 10 o'clock at night just so you could show off your ashes."
He looked down at her. She's diminutive. He smiled and replied, "Why should I tell him? You already did."
George was not a simple man. He was humble. He didn't believe in showing off. Well, maybe for his wife -- he loved to hear her giggle. But he believed that first and foremost he was a Christian. And he was proud of it. Don't read "arrogant" there -- I said "proud." His faith meant the world to him. He'd been through some places in his life when his faith was all he had. He wore those ashes as proudly as he wore his medals from the war. I never doubted that he knew that he'd done nothing to be proud of. He knew it was the mercy and the grace of God that had "left a blessing behind Him."
I told that story at George's funeral, two days before Christmas the next year. I was tempted to open the casket before we buried him and make the sign of the cross on his forehead. He would have been proud.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Blow the Trumpet in Zion
by Larry Winebrenner
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Have you ever tried to blow a trumpet?
It looks so easy. You just put your lips to the mouthpiece and blow. But just try that. Either no sound will emerge, or your lips will quiver and a harsh sound will split the air. It takes a bit of skill and learning. I found that out as a freshman in high school when I joined the drum and bugle corps.
Thus, when Joel advises, no commands, that the trumpet be blown, he's not talking directly to you. You individually are not told to blare away. The prophet Joel cries out, "Blow the trumpet in Zion!" It's an alert to God's people. People are to be called to arms. A great army is to be gathered.
We don't do much trumpet-blowing anymore -- except in the drum and bugle corps. We have electronic communications, the internet, text messaging. Who needs a trumpet? Yet we still have the concept in our language. When you want to gather defenders, we still refer to a call to arms. This refers to the trumpet call.
Several years ago I was on a cultural exchange to Jagellonian University in Krakow (Poland). The dormitory was about a mile from campus in the city. Busses were available. Walking was more leisurely and more pleasant. Krakow is one of the few walled cities of Europe in which the wall is still intact. Before explosives and tanks the wall provided defense against attack from enemy forces. There was even a small, fort-like building called a barbican some distance from the gate. This kept the gates from being charged and the wall breached through a crashed-down gate.
Early in my stay, I entered the city toward dusk. A beautiful trumpet sounded from a tower. I, in my ignorance, thought it was beautiful. It was, however, the trumpet call to arms, reminding the residents of the way their city was defended against barbarian invaders back in the Middle Ages.
Suddenly, in mid-note, the trumpet stopped. What happened? Did the trumpeter suddenly choke up? Surely it was not a heart attack. A citizen standing nearby, also listening, noted my concern -- my confusion. "It's part of the memory," he told me. He mentioned a date that I've forgotten. "There was an attack by a large barbarian horde. It was sudden, unexpected. But the lookout in the tower saw them swarming toward the city. He immediately began trumpeting the warning to the barbican, to the city, so the gates could be secured. A barbarian from beyond the barbican miraculously struck the trumpeter in the throat with an arrow."
The memory. That's not what Joel suggests. Twice he calls forth, "Blow the trumpet." Not for memory. No, Joel's command is a call to faith.
Just as the people of Krakow were called to defend their city, so are the people of God called to defend their faith -- a call that is more insistent today than even then; a call more certainly indicated by another bugle blast than the one in Krakow.
It was January 27, 1965. The place was London. A nation mourned the loss of a great leader, Sir Winston Churchill. It was almost as if Churchill remembered the Joel passage and how mourners ripped apart their apparel in grief. Joel counseled, "rend your hearts, not your clothes." Sir Winston had a message for those at the funeral. A funeral is not the end of things, of life. At the end of the service, from the church tower, the bugler blew the well-known notes of "Taps." As the last note of "Taps" sounded, far off from another church tower across the city sounded the stirring notes of "Reveille."
Cleansing the Heart
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 51:1-17
Jesse was a bitter old man. No one was sure why. Sure, his wife died without giving him a son; left him with a daughter barely yet weaned. But there were lots of widowers in the land. And, yes, he was poor. A hundred sheep hardly produced enough wool to pay taxes -- both to Rome and to the Temple. Again, he wasn't alone in this situation. Hundreds of fellow citizens, barely making ends meet, were subject to the same taxes. But such sheer meanness was not to be encountered in all Israel -- then. Back then.
What miracle transformed this monster into the most-loved citizen in the community was unknown. He simply disappeared for half a year some time back and reappeared a new man.
Children used to run away, shrieking when he walked down the street. They now gathered like chicks around a mother hen, crying, "Tell us a story!" Neighbors once shunned him. Now, when help is needed you can hear them say, "Get Jesse. You can depend on him."
Now, if there were a candidate for replacing the paragon of meanness exemplified by the "old Jesse," it was Jeremiah. Lazy; insensitive; threatening -- a true reflection of the man who disappeared for half a year.
One night, as Jesse tended his flock and counted the stars, he heard the rustle of one coming by stealth. He grasped his stave but made no sudden move.
"If ye be a four-legged wolf," murmured Jesse, "prepare to meet your maker. If ye be a two-legged wolf, depart the way ye came and I'll not crack your skull." Although Jesse had changed his character, he had not become a fool. He still guarded his sheep with vigilance.
"Don't strike me, Jesse. I come in peace," said a familiar voice.
"Aye, Jeremiah," rejoined Jesse. "And that's why ye approach like a varmint."
"I wished to speak with you alone. Had you a companion, I would have departed."
"With good reason," replied Jesse, still alert. He knew from experience the heart of a blackguard like Jeremiah. Had he not once been a blackguard himself? He continued, "Come ye in the moonlight so I may see you."
Jeremiah advanced in the moonlight, no weapon in hand. He sat beside Jesse at the old man's behest but did not engage in amenities, as was proper. He rushed right into the purpose of his call.
"Jesse, my grandfather says no one as hateful as you used to be has ever lived -- until I came along."
"Then you're pretty bad," chortled Jesse, but this was no revelation to the shepherd.
Jeremiah stiffened at Jesse's obvious amusement. He grabbed a grass stalk and bit it as if he wanted to bite Jesse's head off. "I don't want to be hateful," he ground out, "I just can't help myself."
"You're right about that," said Jesse. "I've been right where you are." His voice carried the faraway sound of one remembering.
"How'd you change, Jesse?" asked Jeremiah with a plaintive voice.
Jesse looked at Jeremiah a long time. He knew what the younger man was going through, but he wasn't sure he could help the youth. "Let me tell you a story," said Jesse. Jeremiah sulked. He hadn't come out into the cold night air to listen to an old man spin a yarn. But he listened. Here's the story Jesse told.
There once was a poor shepherd. He didn't have many sheep, but each was precious to him. There was one lamb, though, that was his daughter's special pet. It had one black leg, and they called it Blackfoot. Blackfoot followed the shepherd's daughter everywhere she went.
One day, Blackfoot was missing. The poor shepherd left his daughter to tend the sheep while he went to look for Blackfoot. Soon he found Blackfoot -- at least the remains of the lamb. Five thieves had slaughtered Blackfoot and were eating the roasted lamb. Full of anger and with murder in his heart, he charged the bandits with his stave. They met his charge and beat him soundly. They broke many of his bones and left him for dead.
Soon an ancient widow woman happened upon the scene. She too thought the shepherd was dead -- but a slight moan startled her. It seemed this beat-up bag of broken bones still had life in him. By means even she did not understand, she managed to drag him to her hut. There she began to do what she could to save the shepherd's life.
As the shepherd gained consciousness, he could only think of the life he had lived. And now he was going to die. He had been born wicked. He had an evil heart. He was so evil that he wondered whether even God could stand his presence.
After two weeks, he could painfully murmur a few words. Each word he uttered shot pains of agony through his broken ribs. Much of his conversation was silent and was with God. Over and over he would beg, "Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions." As he spoke silently with God, the widow ministered to his needs. She gave him what little food she had, even denying herself.
He found himself saying to God, "You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart." He prayed, "Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones that you have crushed rejoice."
After several months he was fully healed. He could stand! He could walk! He searched out the widow who had saved his life. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you spend weeks and weeks healing me? I'm a poor man. I have nothing with which to pay you."
She smiled -- sadly, the shepherd thought. "You have your life. Use it well," she said. Then she gave up the ghost. Her sacrifice had cost her everything she had. The shepherd remembered his prayers while he was suffering -- they had all been about himself. But all she did had been about him. Yes, he had his life. And now he was going to make it count for something.
"That poor shepherd was you," said Jeremiah in awe.
"Yes," said Jesse. "You see, I found out something about life. It's not what you get that counts with the Lord. It's what you give. God has no delight in burnt offering. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart."
Jeremiah got up to leave. "I'll remember that, Jesse. I'll remember that."
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.
Tailgating
by C. David McKirachan
2 Corinthians 5:20--6:10
I teach at Monmouth University. Great place. Over the years it's gotten more and more selective, so the kids are quicker and sharper. But they're still college students. In other words, they don't do their homework, they cut class, and it's an effort to keep them awake if not focused. I remember those days.
Part of what I teach is collaborative problem-solving. One would think that would be a breeze with smart and semi-motivated students. But it's not. I realized a long time ago that they have not been taught to collaborate. They don't know how to play together. They're used to competing and they're used to goal orientation, getting the job done as quickly as possible. They trouble is, that ain't collaborating. They've done plenty of group work on their journey to this height of educational mastery. They've probably gotten A's for doing it in a non-collaborative manner. But that's because the teachers are interested in getting the problems solved efficiently and on time. Gotta prepare them for the standardized tests.
Collaboration is an art. It has to do with emphasizing both relational dynamics and assertiveness. It has to do with a disciplined approach to affirmation of each and every person in the group, of working through sticking points, and creating a consensus rather than a majority/minority situation. Some of them are natural dominators. And it's pretty evenly divided between guys and girls. After all, this bunch is full of winners. This bunch is part of the top 5% of the pyramid. They know they've got good answers. Their SATs prove it.
This is demonstrative of one of our culture's blind spots. We're in a hurry. I don't know how we got here, but that's the road we happen to be on right now. The speed limit is real high and going under it is not an option. I was driving in Virginia once, and realized that the chances of dying were much higher there than at home in bucolic New Jersey. Semis were reading the magazines on my backseat at 75 miles an hour. If you were big and fast, you had a right to intimidate anybody that wasn't moving at your pace. They don't do collaboration either.
You know what's interesting? It only takes a few days for the kids to catch on. It's as if all the lessons that our hunter/gatherer and tribal ancestors learned about keeping the bunch together and coming up with a solution that allowed space for each and all -- it's as if those lessons are still there. They might be buried under all kinds of cultural idiocy. But they're still there.
On Ash Wednesday we begin the season of Lent. Speed and self-examination don't mix. Repentance and efficiency are not happy bedfellows. We are called to be collaborators with God. God's willing to allow for our hang ups and stupidity and know-it-all idiocy. That's what the cross is about. So it might be a good idea to find the slowest, least efficient one in the bunch and match their gait. If we're going to be ambassadors for the boss, we ought to at least imitate the boss' style. After all, Lent's only six weeks long. Then we can get back to tailgating.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Be Ye Reconciled
by Larry Winebrenner
2 Corinthians 5:20--6:10
Mary Jane slowly walked with her doll toward the doll hospital. She had overheard her mother talking to her father.
"I don't know what to do with that child," her mother had said. "She's willful, disobedient, and she wet the bed again last night."
"Now, now," her father had soothed. "As you say, she is a child. Give her a chance."
"You don't have to wash the sheets," her mother retorted.
Mary Jane kicked a stone on the sidewalk. She did try -- and sometimes her mother was so unreasonable. Just this morning, while looking for her favorite doll to bring to the doll hospital, her mother told her to pick up her things from the floor.
"Now!" her mother had demanded.
She entered the doll hospital. It was in a neighbor's garage.
The doll hospital had been Ezra Nehemiah's brainstorm after he retired from his job as mail carrier. He was sitting in the park one day. Maggie had warned him to stay out from under her feet now that he was retired. "If you lay around here doing nothing, I can find plenty for you to do. Wash dishes. Do the laundry. Vacuum." She could have gone on, but he fled lest she decided to make him do them anyhow. He hated washing dishes. His vision of hell was washing dishes from the heavenly banquets for all eternity.
So there he was, sitting on a park bench, wondering about how to fill his time. Fishing? Nope -- not enough patience. Golf? What? Chase a little white ball all over a field in the hot sun?
A little boy walked up to him, a doll in one hand, its head in the other. "Mister," said the tot, "can you fix my doll's head?" A twist and the head was back on. The sheer delight of the child made Ezra seek other toys that were broken. The problem was that some of the parents gave him funny looks and called their children over to them when he asked if they had any toys to fix.
Well, if he couldn't go to the dolls, he'd have them come to him. Soon there was a steady stream of customers. High finance, too. A nickel to repair a broken head, a penny for each arm or leg, ten dollars for an appendectomy (though he hadn't had any calls for that). He didn't do bicycles, but he had repaired a couple of baby carriages and a little red wagon.
Mary Jane's problem was some stuffing coming out of a tear in the body of the doll. Mr. Nehemiah placed the doll carefully on the examining table. "My, my. This looks bad," he said. "How did it happen? Did you get mad at her and tear her?"
"Mr. Ne'miah!" sputtered Mary Jane.
"Nehemiah," he corrected.
"That's what I said... Ne'miah," asserted Mary Jane. "I don't know what to do with that child. She's willful, disobedient. I wouldn't be s'prised if she wet the bed last night."
Ezra Nehemiah gave Mary Jane a thoughtful look. "Maybe we should just throw her in the trash then," he suggested.
"Mr. Ne'miah!" she shouted.
"Nehemiah," he corrected.
"That's what I said... Ne'miah. I can't throw her in the trash. I love her too much."
"Kinda like your mother loves you?"
"Yeah. But..."
"But she would throw you away?"
"No," said Mary Jane, "it's just that she doesn't understand me."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. She makes me pick up my things."
"Wow. That's unreasonable," said Mr. Nehemiah. "She sounds like a real witch."
"My mother's not a witch," Mary Jane stated positively.
"But she makes you pick up..."
"I know I said that," interrupted Mary Jane. "But I'm s'posed to. It's just that I don't want to."
"You love your mother."
"Uh-huh."
"And you had an argument."
"Uh-huh."
"Sounds like you need to be reconciled to your mother," counseled Ezra Nehemiah.
"What does that mean?"
"You have to make things right between you two. If it were me, I'd go apologize to my mother and tell her I love her. Now, hold your doll's hand while I sew her up so it doesn't hurt her."
When Mary Jane left, she said, "Thanks Mr. Ne'miah."
"Mary Jane," he said. "You need to say my name right. It's the same as the second shortest man in the Bible."
"Zacchaeus?"
Ezra held his hand next to her knees.
"No. Knee-high-miah."
She giggled. "Who's the shortest?"
"A friend of Job -- Bildad the Shuhite."
Mary Jane ran all the way home. She ran right up to her mother who was vacuuming. "We need to be reconciled," she said. "Now is the time. I love you. I'm sorry I've been disobedient. And Mother, if I wet the bed, it's not because I want to. I just can't help it."
Her mother looked at her daughter, almost in shock. She turned off the vacuum cleaner and took Mary Jane into her arms. She hugged her daughter tightly. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.
Buried Treasure
by Larry Winebrenner
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
In the days of the great Khans, the Mongol hordes spread all the way from the Sea of Japan to the Mediterranean Sea. They swept through the land, pillaging, burning, destroying, and terrorizing whole kingdoms, let alone individual cities or particular families.
In one city in their path a mayor was instructed to gather the treasure of the city and hold it for the ruling khan when he came to the city. This city had very little wealth, for there were many beggars, widows, orphans, and people with handicapped conditions -- both physical and mental.
The mayor called the city council together to discuss the matter. "We have no choice but to give in to their demands," he told the council. "Otherwise, they will destroy the town and take whatever we have by force."
"When they see how little we have, they will destroy the town anyhow," pointed out another.
"All we have plenty of are poor and sick people," commented one bitter councilman.
The oldest man on the council listened to the complaints. Finally, he spoke. "If the only treasure we have are the halt, the lame, and the blind, then that is the treasure we give them."
Not knowing what else to do, the council began gathering every one of the "undesirables" they could find into city center. That meant spending some of the city's meager wealth on food and supplies for the poor. As word filtered out to surrounding communities about the food and care, the poor from miles around began to migrate to the city.
When the khan and his mighty army finally arrived to collect the treasure, the mayor spread his arms, indicating a population of needy larger than the khan's army. "This is our treasure," he told the khan.
The khan looked at the multitude crowded into squares, streets, and even rooftops. "Bah!" he said. "A city this poor could have no treasure." He then took his army to find a more promising city for booty.
The town spent all its wealth on the needy, thereby saving their town from destruction.
A Fast Acceptable to God
by Larry Winebrenner
Isaiah 58:1-12
Henry was a good Christian. He went to church every Sunday. Why, he had a medal for perfect attendance that he proudly appended to his lapel every Sunday. It had 12 perfect attendance bars hanging below it -- one for each additional year of perfect attendance. And give? He not only tithed, he gave 15% most weeks. He taught a class of seventh-grade boys. He'd often said that alone should get him into heaven.
Prayers were not neglected by Henry. He talked to God almost an hour every day -- and if there were problems in the church, longer than that. So why didn't he feel better about his faith? Why this subtle discontent with his religion? One day he took it directly to God.
"Lord," said Henry, "why do I fast, but you do not see? Why humble myself, but you do not notice?" He was so intent on thinking about how he would state more of his concerns that he paused in his prayer. For the first time, God got a chance to talk back.
"Henry, I'm not sure you understand what faith is all about."
Henry almost dropped the glass of cherry soda pop he always used to wet his throat when he prayed. Prayer was often a very dry experience.
"My son," God continued, "why do you attend church in the first place? Just last week you told your neighbor Jesse that you couldn't stay with his invalid mother while he took Jean to the hospital. You had to attend church. It was nice of you to help the old woman into the backseat of Jesse's car, but the woman suffered as if beaten from the ride. And once they arrived at the hospital, she was left in terror by herself in the car."
Henry decided not to wear his attendance medals to church from now on.
"But I do tithe -- actually a tithe and a half, Lord," commented Henry.
"Don't go there, Henry," suggested God. "Think about where you get that money."
Henry thought about the run-down apartment building. But he did have to make a profit, didn't he? There were taxes and upkeep and his tithe and a half.
"My child," said God, "is to bow down the head like a bulrush what prayer is all about? Will you call a tithe and a half acceptable to the Lord? Is not this the faith that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them? Maybe your discontent in your faith has more to do with what you are trying to achieve, and not what you are doing to please me."
Suddenly the light dawned. Henry remembered his Bible. He had read where God said, "Offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday."
Now his prayer was answered. The Lord will guide him continually. The Lord will satisfy his needs in parched places. He would be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.
"Amen, Lord," said Henry. "Amen."
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.
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StoryShare, February 25, 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
"Sign of the Cross" by C. David McKirachan
"Blow the Trumpet in Zion" by Larry Winebrenner
"Cleansing the Heart" by Larry Winebrenner
"Tailgating" by C. David McKirachan
"Be Ye Reconciled" by Larry Winebrenner
"Buried Treasure" by Larry Winebrenner
"A Fast Acceptable to God" by Larry Winebrenner
What's Up This Week
Lent is a time for self-examination, for taking a "spiritual inventory" of our lives -- and especially on Ash Wednesday, when many of us wear ashes as an outward sign of the transitory, sinful nature of our existence. In the feature piece of this special Ash Wednesday edition of StoryShare, David McKirachan recounts the story of one faithful parishioner who proudly showed off the mark of ashes on his forehead -- not out of pious conceit but because he deeply understood the meaning of God's grace and forgiveness. McKirachan also offers a brief meditation on the need to slow down the pace of our busy lives during Lent so that we can listen to and collaborate with God. We also have several stories from Larry Winebrenner, a new addition to the StoryShare writing team. His contributions to this issue range from tales about an angry shepherd whose life was irrevocably changed, a kindly old man who fixes dolls (and relationships), and a town that protected itself from invasion by gathering hordes of the poor and needy, to a recollection of an unusual trumpet sound in Krakow, Poland.
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Sign of the Cross
by C. David McKirachan
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Protestants don't do ashes. Yeah, I know. But it never made sense to me to deny people the gift of sensory blessing that anointing and ashes offer. Ashes are so clearly a mark of being part of something important, something important enough to wear on your forehead out in public. What? Are we so bent on fitting in, on being secular? Are we so focused on being non-Catholic that we can't claim our identity as Christians?
When I came to Shrewsbury, a nice, conservative, non-Catholic community, I suggested we offer ashes on Ash Wednesday and anointing on Maundy Thursday. I expected a minor hassle at least. But to my surprise, I had people thanking me.
George Bett was one of them. He had grown up in a Catholic neighborhood and felt left out on a few occasions. But on Ash Wednesday he felt something else. He thought it wasn't right that only Roman Catholics got to visibly demonstrate their Christianity and their acceptance of their mortality and their sin and their gratitude for the Savior's passion. After that sentence he had to take a breath. His wife Dorothy giggled. She does that a lot. She said, "Tell him what you did after you got the ashes, George." He hesitated. "Go on, tell David," she continued. "He has a right to know. It was his fault you demanded that we go grocery shopping after the 8:00 service. We had to find a grocery store that was open after 10 o'clock at night just so you could show off your ashes."
He looked down at her. She's diminutive. He smiled and replied, "Why should I tell him? You already did."
George was not a simple man. He was humble. He didn't believe in showing off. Well, maybe for his wife -- he loved to hear her giggle. But he believed that first and foremost he was a Christian. And he was proud of it. Don't read "arrogant" there -- I said "proud." His faith meant the world to him. He'd been through some places in his life when his faith was all he had. He wore those ashes as proudly as he wore his medals from the war. I never doubted that he knew that he'd done nothing to be proud of. He knew it was the mercy and the grace of God that had "left a blessing behind Him."
I told that story at George's funeral, two days before Christmas the next year. I was tempted to open the casket before we buried him and make the sign of the cross on his forehead. He would have been proud.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Blow the Trumpet in Zion
by Larry Winebrenner
Joel 2:1-2, 12-17
Have you ever tried to blow a trumpet?
It looks so easy. You just put your lips to the mouthpiece and blow. But just try that. Either no sound will emerge, or your lips will quiver and a harsh sound will split the air. It takes a bit of skill and learning. I found that out as a freshman in high school when I joined the drum and bugle corps.
Thus, when Joel advises, no commands, that the trumpet be blown, he's not talking directly to you. You individually are not told to blare away. The prophet Joel cries out, "Blow the trumpet in Zion!" It's an alert to God's people. People are to be called to arms. A great army is to be gathered.
We don't do much trumpet-blowing anymore -- except in the drum and bugle corps. We have electronic communications, the internet, text messaging. Who needs a trumpet? Yet we still have the concept in our language. When you want to gather defenders, we still refer to a call to arms. This refers to the trumpet call.
Several years ago I was on a cultural exchange to Jagellonian University in Krakow (Poland). The dormitory was about a mile from campus in the city. Busses were available. Walking was more leisurely and more pleasant. Krakow is one of the few walled cities of Europe in which the wall is still intact. Before explosives and tanks the wall provided defense against attack from enemy forces. There was even a small, fort-like building called a barbican some distance from the gate. This kept the gates from being charged and the wall breached through a crashed-down gate.
Early in my stay, I entered the city toward dusk. A beautiful trumpet sounded from a tower. I, in my ignorance, thought it was beautiful. It was, however, the trumpet call to arms, reminding the residents of the way their city was defended against barbarian invaders back in the Middle Ages.
Suddenly, in mid-note, the trumpet stopped. What happened? Did the trumpeter suddenly choke up? Surely it was not a heart attack. A citizen standing nearby, also listening, noted my concern -- my confusion. "It's part of the memory," he told me. He mentioned a date that I've forgotten. "There was an attack by a large barbarian horde. It was sudden, unexpected. But the lookout in the tower saw them swarming toward the city. He immediately began trumpeting the warning to the barbican, to the city, so the gates could be secured. A barbarian from beyond the barbican miraculously struck the trumpeter in the throat with an arrow."
The memory. That's not what Joel suggests. Twice he calls forth, "Blow the trumpet." Not for memory. No, Joel's command is a call to faith.
Just as the people of Krakow were called to defend their city, so are the people of God called to defend their faith -- a call that is more insistent today than even then; a call more certainly indicated by another bugle blast than the one in Krakow.
It was January 27, 1965. The place was London. A nation mourned the loss of a great leader, Sir Winston Churchill. It was almost as if Churchill remembered the Joel passage and how mourners ripped apart their apparel in grief. Joel counseled, "rend your hearts, not your clothes." Sir Winston had a message for those at the funeral. A funeral is not the end of things, of life. At the end of the service, from the church tower, the bugler blew the well-known notes of "Taps." As the last note of "Taps" sounded, far off from another church tower across the city sounded the stirring notes of "Reveille."
Cleansing the Heart
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 51:1-17
Jesse was a bitter old man. No one was sure why. Sure, his wife died without giving him a son; left him with a daughter barely yet weaned. But there were lots of widowers in the land. And, yes, he was poor. A hundred sheep hardly produced enough wool to pay taxes -- both to Rome and to the Temple. Again, he wasn't alone in this situation. Hundreds of fellow citizens, barely making ends meet, were subject to the same taxes. But such sheer meanness was not to be encountered in all Israel -- then. Back then.
What miracle transformed this monster into the most-loved citizen in the community was unknown. He simply disappeared for half a year some time back and reappeared a new man.
Children used to run away, shrieking when he walked down the street. They now gathered like chicks around a mother hen, crying, "Tell us a story!" Neighbors once shunned him. Now, when help is needed you can hear them say, "Get Jesse. You can depend on him."
Now, if there were a candidate for replacing the paragon of meanness exemplified by the "old Jesse," it was Jeremiah. Lazy; insensitive; threatening -- a true reflection of the man who disappeared for half a year.
One night, as Jesse tended his flock and counted the stars, he heard the rustle of one coming by stealth. He grasped his stave but made no sudden move.
"If ye be a four-legged wolf," murmured Jesse, "prepare to meet your maker. If ye be a two-legged wolf, depart the way ye came and I'll not crack your skull." Although Jesse had changed his character, he had not become a fool. He still guarded his sheep with vigilance.
"Don't strike me, Jesse. I come in peace," said a familiar voice.
"Aye, Jeremiah," rejoined Jesse. "And that's why ye approach like a varmint."
"I wished to speak with you alone. Had you a companion, I would have departed."
"With good reason," replied Jesse, still alert. He knew from experience the heart of a blackguard like Jeremiah. Had he not once been a blackguard himself? He continued, "Come ye in the moonlight so I may see you."
Jeremiah advanced in the moonlight, no weapon in hand. He sat beside Jesse at the old man's behest but did not engage in amenities, as was proper. He rushed right into the purpose of his call.
"Jesse, my grandfather says no one as hateful as you used to be has ever lived -- until I came along."
"Then you're pretty bad," chortled Jesse, but this was no revelation to the shepherd.
Jeremiah stiffened at Jesse's obvious amusement. He grabbed a grass stalk and bit it as if he wanted to bite Jesse's head off. "I don't want to be hateful," he ground out, "I just can't help myself."
"You're right about that," said Jesse. "I've been right where you are." His voice carried the faraway sound of one remembering.
"How'd you change, Jesse?" asked Jeremiah with a plaintive voice.
Jesse looked at Jeremiah a long time. He knew what the younger man was going through, but he wasn't sure he could help the youth. "Let me tell you a story," said Jesse. Jeremiah sulked. He hadn't come out into the cold night air to listen to an old man spin a yarn. But he listened. Here's the story Jesse told.
There once was a poor shepherd. He didn't have many sheep, but each was precious to him. There was one lamb, though, that was his daughter's special pet. It had one black leg, and they called it Blackfoot. Blackfoot followed the shepherd's daughter everywhere she went.
One day, Blackfoot was missing. The poor shepherd left his daughter to tend the sheep while he went to look for Blackfoot. Soon he found Blackfoot -- at least the remains of the lamb. Five thieves had slaughtered Blackfoot and were eating the roasted lamb. Full of anger and with murder in his heart, he charged the bandits with his stave. They met his charge and beat him soundly. They broke many of his bones and left him for dead.
Soon an ancient widow woman happened upon the scene. She too thought the shepherd was dead -- but a slight moan startled her. It seemed this beat-up bag of broken bones still had life in him. By means even she did not understand, she managed to drag him to her hut. There she began to do what she could to save the shepherd's life.
As the shepherd gained consciousness, he could only think of the life he had lived. And now he was going to die. He had been born wicked. He had an evil heart. He was so evil that he wondered whether even God could stand his presence.
After two weeks, he could painfully murmur a few words. Each word he uttered shot pains of agony through his broken ribs. Much of his conversation was silent and was with God. Over and over he would beg, "Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions." As he spoke silently with God, the widow ministered to his needs. She gave him what little food she had, even denying herself.
He found himself saying to God, "You desire truth in the inward being; therefore teach me wisdom in my secret heart." He prayed, "Wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. Let me hear joy and gladness; let the bones that you have crushed rejoice."
After several months he was fully healed. He could stand! He could walk! He searched out the widow who had saved his life. "Why?" he asked. "Why did you spend weeks and weeks healing me? I'm a poor man. I have nothing with which to pay you."
She smiled -- sadly, the shepherd thought. "You have your life. Use it well," she said. Then she gave up the ghost. Her sacrifice had cost her everything she had. The shepherd remembered his prayers while he was suffering -- they had all been about himself. But all she did had been about him. Yes, he had his life. And now he was going to make it count for something.
"That poor shepherd was you," said Jeremiah in awe.
"Yes," said Jesse. "You see, I found out something about life. It's not what you get that counts with the Lord. It's what you give. God has no delight in burnt offering. The sacrifice acceptable to God is a broken spirit; a broken and contrite heart."
Jeremiah got up to leave. "I'll remember that, Jesse. I'll remember that."
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.
Tailgating
by C. David McKirachan
2 Corinthians 5:20--6:10
I teach at Monmouth University. Great place. Over the years it's gotten more and more selective, so the kids are quicker and sharper. But they're still college students. In other words, they don't do their homework, they cut class, and it's an effort to keep them awake if not focused. I remember those days.
Part of what I teach is collaborative problem-solving. One would think that would be a breeze with smart and semi-motivated students. But it's not. I realized a long time ago that they have not been taught to collaborate. They don't know how to play together. They're used to competing and they're used to goal orientation, getting the job done as quickly as possible. They trouble is, that ain't collaborating. They've done plenty of group work on their journey to this height of educational mastery. They've probably gotten A's for doing it in a non-collaborative manner. But that's because the teachers are interested in getting the problems solved efficiently and on time. Gotta prepare them for the standardized tests.
Collaboration is an art. It has to do with emphasizing both relational dynamics and assertiveness. It has to do with a disciplined approach to affirmation of each and every person in the group, of working through sticking points, and creating a consensus rather than a majority/minority situation. Some of them are natural dominators. And it's pretty evenly divided between guys and girls. After all, this bunch is full of winners. This bunch is part of the top 5% of the pyramid. They know they've got good answers. Their SATs prove it.
This is demonstrative of one of our culture's blind spots. We're in a hurry. I don't know how we got here, but that's the road we happen to be on right now. The speed limit is real high and going under it is not an option. I was driving in Virginia once, and realized that the chances of dying were much higher there than at home in bucolic New Jersey. Semis were reading the magazines on my backseat at 75 miles an hour. If you were big and fast, you had a right to intimidate anybody that wasn't moving at your pace. They don't do collaboration either.
You know what's interesting? It only takes a few days for the kids to catch on. It's as if all the lessons that our hunter/gatherer and tribal ancestors learned about keeping the bunch together and coming up with a solution that allowed space for each and all -- it's as if those lessons are still there. They might be buried under all kinds of cultural idiocy. But they're still there.
On Ash Wednesday we begin the season of Lent. Speed and self-examination don't mix. Repentance and efficiency are not happy bedfellows. We are called to be collaborators with God. God's willing to allow for our hang ups and stupidity and know-it-all idiocy. That's what the cross is about. So it might be a good idea to find the slowest, least efficient one in the bunch and match their gait. If we're going to be ambassadors for the boss, we ought to at least imitate the boss' style. After all, Lent's only six weeks long. Then we can get back to tailgating.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. He is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
Be Ye Reconciled
by Larry Winebrenner
2 Corinthians 5:20--6:10
Mary Jane slowly walked with her doll toward the doll hospital. She had overheard her mother talking to her father.
"I don't know what to do with that child," her mother had said. "She's willful, disobedient, and she wet the bed again last night."
"Now, now," her father had soothed. "As you say, she is a child. Give her a chance."
"You don't have to wash the sheets," her mother retorted.
Mary Jane kicked a stone on the sidewalk. She did try -- and sometimes her mother was so unreasonable. Just this morning, while looking for her favorite doll to bring to the doll hospital, her mother told her to pick up her things from the floor.
"Now!" her mother had demanded.
She entered the doll hospital. It was in a neighbor's garage.
The doll hospital had been Ezra Nehemiah's brainstorm after he retired from his job as mail carrier. He was sitting in the park one day. Maggie had warned him to stay out from under her feet now that he was retired. "If you lay around here doing nothing, I can find plenty for you to do. Wash dishes. Do the laundry. Vacuum." She could have gone on, but he fled lest she decided to make him do them anyhow. He hated washing dishes. His vision of hell was washing dishes from the heavenly banquets for all eternity.
So there he was, sitting on a park bench, wondering about how to fill his time. Fishing? Nope -- not enough patience. Golf? What? Chase a little white ball all over a field in the hot sun?
A little boy walked up to him, a doll in one hand, its head in the other. "Mister," said the tot, "can you fix my doll's head?" A twist and the head was back on. The sheer delight of the child made Ezra seek other toys that were broken. The problem was that some of the parents gave him funny looks and called their children over to them when he asked if they had any toys to fix.
Well, if he couldn't go to the dolls, he'd have them come to him. Soon there was a steady stream of customers. High finance, too. A nickel to repair a broken head, a penny for each arm or leg, ten dollars for an appendectomy (though he hadn't had any calls for that). He didn't do bicycles, but he had repaired a couple of baby carriages and a little red wagon.
Mary Jane's problem was some stuffing coming out of a tear in the body of the doll. Mr. Nehemiah placed the doll carefully on the examining table. "My, my. This looks bad," he said. "How did it happen? Did you get mad at her and tear her?"
"Mr. Ne'miah!" sputtered Mary Jane.
"Nehemiah," he corrected.
"That's what I said... Ne'miah," asserted Mary Jane. "I don't know what to do with that child. She's willful, disobedient. I wouldn't be s'prised if she wet the bed last night."
Ezra Nehemiah gave Mary Jane a thoughtful look. "Maybe we should just throw her in the trash then," he suggested.
"Mr. Ne'miah!" she shouted.
"Nehemiah," he corrected.
"That's what I said... Ne'miah. I can't throw her in the trash. I love her too much."
"Kinda like your mother loves you?"
"Yeah. But..."
"But she would throw you away?"
"No," said Mary Jane, "it's just that she doesn't understand me."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. She makes me pick up my things."
"Wow. That's unreasonable," said Mr. Nehemiah. "She sounds like a real witch."
"My mother's not a witch," Mary Jane stated positively.
"But she makes you pick up..."
"I know I said that," interrupted Mary Jane. "But I'm s'posed to. It's just that I don't want to."
"You love your mother."
"Uh-huh."
"And you had an argument."
"Uh-huh."
"Sounds like you need to be reconciled to your mother," counseled Ezra Nehemiah.
"What does that mean?"
"You have to make things right between you two. If it were me, I'd go apologize to my mother and tell her I love her. Now, hold your doll's hand while I sew her up so it doesn't hurt her."
When Mary Jane left, she said, "Thanks Mr. Ne'miah."
"Mary Jane," he said. "You need to say my name right. It's the same as the second shortest man in the Bible."
"Zacchaeus?"
Ezra held his hand next to her knees.
"No. Knee-high-miah."
She giggled. "Who's the shortest?"
"A friend of Job -- Bildad the Shuhite."
Mary Jane ran all the way home. She ran right up to her mother who was vacuuming. "We need to be reconciled," she said. "Now is the time. I love you. I'm sorry I've been disobedient. And Mother, if I wet the bed, it's not because I want to. I just can't help it."
Her mother looked at her daughter, almost in shock. She turned off the vacuum cleaner and took Mary Jane into her arms. She hugged her daughter tightly. She didn't say a word. She didn't need to.
Buried Treasure
by Larry Winebrenner
Matthew 6:1-6, 16-21
In the days of the great Khans, the Mongol hordes spread all the way from the Sea of Japan to the Mediterranean Sea. They swept through the land, pillaging, burning, destroying, and terrorizing whole kingdoms, let alone individual cities or particular families.
In one city in their path a mayor was instructed to gather the treasure of the city and hold it for the ruling khan when he came to the city. This city had very little wealth, for there were many beggars, widows, orphans, and people with handicapped conditions -- both physical and mental.
The mayor called the city council together to discuss the matter. "We have no choice but to give in to their demands," he told the council. "Otherwise, they will destroy the town and take whatever we have by force."
"When they see how little we have, they will destroy the town anyhow," pointed out another.
"All we have plenty of are poor and sick people," commented one bitter councilman.
The oldest man on the council listened to the complaints. Finally, he spoke. "If the only treasure we have are the halt, the lame, and the blind, then that is the treasure we give them."
Not knowing what else to do, the council began gathering every one of the "undesirables" they could find into city center. That meant spending some of the city's meager wealth on food and supplies for the poor. As word filtered out to surrounding communities about the food and care, the poor from miles around began to migrate to the city.
When the khan and his mighty army finally arrived to collect the treasure, the mayor spread his arms, indicating a population of needy larger than the khan's army. "This is our treasure," he told the khan.
The khan looked at the multitude crowded into squares, streets, and even rooftops. "Bah!" he said. "A city this poor could have no treasure." He then took his army to find a more promising city for booty.
The town spent all its wealth on the needy, thereby saving their town from destruction.
A Fast Acceptable to God
by Larry Winebrenner
Isaiah 58:1-12
Henry was a good Christian. He went to church every Sunday. Why, he had a medal for perfect attendance that he proudly appended to his lapel every Sunday. It had 12 perfect attendance bars hanging below it -- one for each additional year of perfect attendance. And give? He not only tithed, he gave 15% most weeks. He taught a class of seventh-grade boys. He'd often said that alone should get him into heaven.
Prayers were not neglected by Henry. He talked to God almost an hour every day -- and if there were problems in the church, longer than that. So why didn't he feel better about his faith? Why this subtle discontent with his religion? One day he took it directly to God.
"Lord," said Henry, "why do I fast, but you do not see? Why humble myself, but you do not notice?" He was so intent on thinking about how he would state more of his concerns that he paused in his prayer. For the first time, God got a chance to talk back.
"Henry, I'm not sure you understand what faith is all about."
Henry almost dropped the glass of cherry soda pop he always used to wet his throat when he prayed. Prayer was often a very dry experience.
"My son," God continued, "why do you attend church in the first place? Just last week you told your neighbor Jesse that you couldn't stay with his invalid mother while he took Jean to the hospital. You had to attend church. It was nice of you to help the old woman into the backseat of Jesse's car, but the woman suffered as if beaten from the ride. And once they arrived at the hospital, she was left in terror by herself in the car."
Henry decided not to wear his attendance medals to church from now on.
"But I do tithe -- actually a tithe and a half, Lord," commented Henry.
"Don't go there, Henry," suggested God. "Think about where you get that money."
Henry thought about the run-down apartment building. But he did have to make a profit, didn't he? There were taxes and upkeep and his tithe and a half.
"My child," said God, "is to bow down the head like a bulrush what prayer is all about? Will you call a tithe and a half acceptable to the Lord? Is not this the faith that I choose: to loose the bonds of injustice, to undo the thongs of the yoke, to let the oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with the hungry, and bring the homeless poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover them? Maybe your discontent in your faith has more to do with what you are trying to achieve, and not what you are doing to please me."
Suddenly the light dawned. Henry remembered his Bible. He had read where God said, "Offer your food to the hungry and satisfy the needs of the afflicted, then your light shall rise in the darkness and your gloom be like the noonday."
Now his prayer was answered. The Lord will guide him continually. The Lord will satisfy his needs in parched places. He would be like a watered garden, like a spring of water, whose waters never fail.
"Amen, Lord," said Henry. "Amen."
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.
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StoryShare, February 25, 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.
