Signs, Signs, Signs!
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Contents
What's Up This Week
"Signs, Signs, Signs!" by Rick McCracken-Bennett
"Small but Mighty Faithful" by Rick McCracken-Bennett
"Dinner with Jesus" by David Leininger
What's Up This Week
How do you describe something that you cannot see? How do you make the intangible tangible? As Christians, we face that question every day as we seek to bring a spiritual reality into the physical world. How can we "write the vision" as Habakkuk puts it (Habakkuk 3:2b)? Some try to cram the infinite into our finite language with catchy phrases or plays on words, as Rick McCracken-Bennett writes in "Signs, Signs, Signs!" Is there a better way to accomplish this? Perhaps the answer can be found in McCracken-Bennett's "Small but Mighty Faithful" and David Leininger's "Dinner with Jesus." McKirachan's "Head Hugs" and "Holding On" suggest that hanging on to our faith will save us.
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Signs, Signs, Signs!
By Rick McCracken-Bennett
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
"Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it."
-- Habakkuk 3:2b
Everywhere we look there are signs. What do our signs say? What do they say about the vision that God has given to us? Do they welcome or turn away?
It seems like it was a lifetime ago that the Five Man Electrical Band sang, "Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. Blocking out the scenery breaking my mind. Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?" Actually, it was over thirty years ago and I can still remember all the words!
I found myself humming that song shortly after I passed a sign that sits in front of a rural church near my home. Now you should know up front that I have definite opinions about church signs. Basically, I don't like most of them. But I'll get to that in a moment.
The sign had this message:
R U 2 BZ
2 GO 2
CH__ __ CH?
WHAT'S MISSING?
UR
I drove by the next day to make sure I had read it correctly since the two-inch-high letters are difficult to read at 55 miles an hour (one of my pet peeves -- the size of the letters, not the speed limit!). But the sign had already been changed. This particular morning it read:
WE WORSHIPPED
ON THE SABBATH.
WHAT DID YOU DO?
And once again I found myself humming, Sign, sign everywhere a sign.
I wondered to whom they thought this sign would appeal. Who did they hope it would attract? No one I knew, that's for sure.
I have a friend who makes banners and signs for everyone from politicians to realtors to churches. I asked him one day what his biggest frustration was in his job. Without a moment's hesitation he said, "People always want to put way too much on their signs." Then he showed me a banner that he was re-doing for an organization. Against his recommendation they had tried to cram way too much onto the vinyl banner. The letters would have to be too small and there was just too much information to grasp at 35 miles an hour. He recommended less text and larger letters. They insisted on a new banner, the same size, the same text, but with larger letters. I drive by it at least twice every day and I have yet to understand what they are trying to communicate to me.
One evening I was looking for a particular church where I had been asked to give a presentation on the care and feeding of newcomers in the church. I was unfamiliar with the neighborhood but saw an "Episcopal Church Welcomes You" sign. But alas, there was no arrow telling me which way to turn. I decided that since the sign was on the left side of the road that I should turn left. Wrong. Then I turned around and flew past the church because their sign was parallel to the street and unlit. Before this occurred I had been trying to figure out how to begin my presentation. Suddenly I knew exactly what I would say.
Like I said, I have a problem with some church signs.
I do have to say that there was one sign that I liked. It was put up immediately after the Ohio State/Michigan game a year ago. If you don't know already, that rivalry has to be one of the fiercest in college sports. The sign read:
JESUS SAID
LOVE YOUR ENEMIES
OHIO STATE--42
ENEMIES--39
So, what do I think a church sign should look like? The answer is as old as our scriptures, it seems to me: Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner (or a driver going 55 miles an hour) can read it.
Now all we have to do I discern the vision that God is trying to tell us. Then we'll be all set.
Small but Mighty Faithful
By Rick McCracken-Bennett
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
"... [W]e ourselves boast of you among the churches of God for your steadfastness and faith during all your persecutions and the afflictions that you are enduring."
-- 2 Thessalonians 1:4
We all know of a congregation that is doing extraordinary work for the kingdom of God. Here is a story of one of them.
I often find myself speaking of a small church I once served. I had taken a ten-year hiatus from my work as a pastor and this was the church I served when I reentered.
I'll never forget the evening I met their Vestry and we hammered out an agreement that would amount to about a one-third time in this small, rural, shrinking village. While the Vestry met to discuss whether or not to call me I walked into the sanctuary and had a look around. My first thoughts bring me to shame to remember them. I stood in the pulpit and looked out at the smallest nave I had ever seen. Perhaps if you were careful you could squeeze a hundred in but sixty or seventy looked to be about the most it would hold. I remember thinking (I am ashamed to say) that I couldn't imagine preparing a sermon for only those few people. It was actually worse than that when I learned that only about forty folks showed up on any given Sunday.
But what was I to do? This would allow me to gradually get back into the active ministry while I kept my day job. It would work for now. It turns out that I stayed there joyfully for over eight years, the longest pastorate in the 100-year history of this church.
I, of course, quickly grew to love these people, their village, and the smell of the nave on Sunday before anyone else showed up. I preached, visited, married them, and buried them. It was a wonderful time in my life and the life of my family.
After I left, even though we had set up a cluster relationship to ease the financial burdens of this and two other churches, the congregation began to shrink; from forty to less than 25 most times. And yet, they kept at it. Too proud to ask the diocese for money, they hunkered down and refused to give up. They looked the death of the congregation in the face and kept going with the mission and ministry of the church.
You see... this little church provided (at least) three essential ministries to that part of the county and no one in the congregation was willing to let those go.
Many years before they had started a program that fed the elderly every weekday with a home-cooked meal, often with food from their own gardens, mixed with lots and lots of fun and fellowship. Though the program now received funding from outside the church, the congregational volunteers that worked each and every day has kept this service available to the sixty or more people that showed up each day. I can't imagine that village without this program.
They also provided an "off-the grid" pantry. Though they understood why other pantries in the county could only allow a certain number of visits a month, this church decided to not link up with them and simply gave food to whoever came their way. That pantry continues solely on donations from the congregation and though they have no doubt been "taken" a time or two, they give gladly to the poor who come to their door week after week.
If that wasn't enough for a congregation of around 25 people, they provide a well-attended after-school tutoring program that, with the help of a small grant, allows them to have a certified teacher to lead their work.
Perhaps this doesn't sound like much. Certainly it pales in the sight of program and corporate sized churches and their work. But I wonder... what if every 25 people in our current congregations worked as faithfully in their mission and ministry? What would happen to the hunger, the illiteracy, and the loneliness in our parts of the mission field?
As you might imagine, I never tire of telling all I meet about this small but very faithful congregation. I never stop giving thanks to God for them.
Rick McCracken-Bennett is an avid storyteller, an Episcopal priest and church planter, and the founding pastor of All Saints Episcopal Church in New Albany, Ohio. Rick began his ministry as a Roman Catholic priest, and he has also served as an alcohol and drug treatment counselor and as the director of an outpatient treatment center for adults and children.
Dinner with Jesus
David Leininger
Luke 19:1-10
You know, I used to wish I were tall. All the other kids were bigger. They were stronger... faster. I was a shrimp... and it used to bother me. I used to lie in my bed at night wishing that I were the biggest kid in town. Then NOBODY would push me around. None of the other kids could beat me up. None of them could ever call Zacchaeus names (at least not if they wanted to keep their teeth in). None of them would ever give me any trouble again. Yeah, I wanted to be TALL... but...
As time went along, of course, I stopped worrying about it too much. As we get older, we learn to stop being concerned about things over which we have no control. Anyway, whenever those old dreams about being tall would glance across my mind, I would just content myself with thinking, "It doesn't matter. When I sit on top of my money, I am the tallest man in Jericho. Ha!"
Yes, I DO have some money. I admit that it all might not have been obtained in the most upright of fashions. But, we tax collectors don't make our livings by being particularly upright. And I know that is at least part of the reason that people have hated me -- they have thought I got my money dishonestly. Well, perhaps yes, perhaps no. But they know how it works. If tax collectors took only what was due for the Emperor, we would have nothing for ourselves. I sometimes wonder whether these people of Israel would rather have a Roman coming around for the Empire's portion rather than one of their own, another Jew. At least another Jew is going to have SOME feeling for his own people -- a Roman would have NONE!
I have to admit that I probably went into this tax-collecting business for more than just the money. In a way, I probably wanted to get back at some of my wonderful neighbors, the ones who taunted me and bullied me when I was growing up. If I had been a little taller back then, they might have left me alone. But I wasn't and they didn't, so when I became old enough to make a career for myself, tax collecting didn't seem like such a bad thing -- I could make a pile of money and stick it to my so-called friends at the same time. And I didn't have to worry about how tall or short I was because if anyone gave me any trouble, I could call the tallest Roman legionnaire in Jericho to back me up. Short doesn't matter when you have very tall protectors.
Of course, outside of tax collecting, it still matters sometimes. It mattered this morning. Word had come that this incredible teacher about whom the whole nation has been talking, this Jesus of Nazareth, was coming through town. Now, I admit that I have never been the most religious of men. I'm a Jew, but I would confess that I am not the most devout Jew who ever lived... far from it actually. But I was curious about this rabbi. I had heard of some tremendous things he had done... healing the sick, restoring sight to the blind, making the lame to walk. Who wouldn't be curious about someone like that? I wanted to see him. But, apparently half the people in Jericho felt the same way as I did and they were all gathered on the road waiting for this Jesus to pass by. That was when being short mattered again. I couldn't see. The crowd was too dense. No one would let me through to the front. And when they saw who it was who was trying to get past, they crowded in all the closer. I wish I had been taller.
Finally, I got fed up. There was no way I could fight that mob, and if I had stayed where I was, I would have seen nothing. So I went down the road apiece and climbed a tree, a sycamore that stood right by the wayside. True, it had been years since I had climbed a tree. I'm probably lucky that I didn't fall and break my neck. But I perched myself up there and thought, "Ha, I'm the tallest man in Jericho now."
It wasn't long before Jesus came. He was surrounded by a mob, folks crowding in, hanging on his every word. I really couldn't hear him very well until Jesus and the crowd got right near to me and my sycamore. What happened next I will never be able to explain if I live to be older than Methusaleh. As the group made their way under my precarious perch, Jesus stopped. He looked up at me and said, "Zacchaeus, come down here... quickly. I must stay at your house today." I could hardly believe my ears. He knew my name. Who would have told him? And stay at my house? The house of a tax collector? Someone so hated by everyone that they wouldn't even let me get a glimpse of him until I climbed that tree? Jesus was coming home with ME? Incredible!
Needless to say, I hurried down and stood there right next to this fantastic man. No longer did I have to stretch and strain just a for glimpse of him; he was right next to me. And I admit, I felt pretty tall!
Within a short time, we had arrived at my home. My mind was still reeling at the fact that this famous stranger had invited ME to dinner, even if it was at my house. We made our way through the open courtyard and came into the house, leaving the heat of the crowd and the midday desert sun behind us. My wife and servants had already heard we were coming because word went around Jericho like wildfire that Jesus was coming home with that rotten little Zacchaeus. But at a moment like that, I didn't care WHAT people thought... rotten... little... it didn't make any difference. I was about to eat with Jesus, and somehow that seemed to make everything in my life all right.
As we dined together, it became apparent to me that there was nothing I could hide from this man. He knew me inside and out, seemingly better than I even knew myself. I wondered why he would want to spend time with me, but he said something to me that I didn't understand at first, but now that I have had time to reflect on it, I think I know what he meant. He said, "the Son of man came to seek and to save the lost."
Let me explain what happened. By the time our meal was over, I was convinced that I had been wrong in what I had been doing all these years. Not the tax collecting, because somebody has to do that. There is nothing inherently WRONG with being a tax collector. No, what I had done wrong was to seriously overcharge people, to cheat them for my own gain. It was stealing, pure and simple, and our law says "Thou shalt not steal." So I stood up beside the table and said that I was going to make restitution. I would return all that I had taken illegally and pay a 300% interest penalty. I also realized that I could and SHOULD do more to help those in Jericho who were less fortunate than I, so I said I would give half my goods to the poor. I had plenty. I could afford it. Then I sat down.
There was a kind of stunned speechlessness in the room. Everyone just looked at me. Here was that old thief Zacchaeus saying something that was so incredibly out of character that no one could react in any way other than astonished silence. I really felt good about myself at that moment... better than I had in years. It was almost as if a great weight had been lifted from me. I had done something actually GOOD, and without even being forced. Jesus didn't make me do what I did. But somehow, just EATING with him made me WANT to do right. That's when he said what he did... about seeking and saving the lost.
I WAS lost... lost in my own interests, my own greed, my own self-pity. But then down the dusty road came Jesus. He looked up at me on that sycamore branch, and invited me to dinner with him. Suddenly, little lost Zacchaeus had been found... and I will never be little or lost again.
David E. Leininger is the pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Warren, Pennsylvania. He is the author of Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit (Series VI, Cycle A), God of Justice: A Look at the Ten Commandments for the 21st Century, and A Color-Blind Church, his account of the intriguing match of two congregations -- one black, one white -- in a small community following the reunion of the northern and southern streams of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in 1983.
Head Hugs
C. David McKirachan
Luke 19:1-10
My son Benjamin is now 22. He is not as gargantuan as I, but he's not short. Looking at him now it's hard to believe that at one time he was a little guy. I used to carry him around on my shoulders. He'd fall asleep up there, snoring into my hair. Sometimes his cookie crumbs would give me an interesting frosting.
Anytime it was crowded or we had to move fast that's where he went. When we had to go through a door, I'd quack like a duck. It was a signal. I'd feel his cheek on my head and his arms grip my collar. Sometimes I'd quack just to get a head hug. He didn't mind.
It's hard to keep perspective when were in the middle of a crowd, trying to get through the rush. It's hard not to lose our way, to get separated from our loved ones. It's scary and disorienting and it's absolutely normal in our crazy culture.
I sympathize with Zacchaeus. He wanted to see. And it sounds to me like he didn't have too much of a chance to get a clear heads up perspective. Working for the mob, hated and feared by everybody is a lousy place to be. It's a stitch thinking about him climbing a tree. I wonder what his bodyguard thought. I wonder what all the people he'd ripped off thought. The amazing thing was he didn't seem to care. He needed to see.
Once in a while in life we find something, a moment of clarity or deep desire that calls us to claim a place of perspective. We want to see. We need to see. And all the sophistication and dignity we defend so regularly goes out the window. We're willing to go out on a limb.
But places of perspective are high and windy places, usually lonely and dangerous. It's nice to know that the call of the Lord is not only to climb up and see, but also to come down and have dinner.
I hope Ben remembers his shoulder perch. I wonder if he remembers the duck signal. I'll always remember the head hugs.
Holding On
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 32:1-7
I was taking a break on a February afternoon. Burned out, close enough to the end of the Master's program, sick of trying to communicate to teachers about the importance of heresies and the lines of convergence between Process Theology and Quantum Mechanics, I wanted to breathe. I got two other slackers and drove down the coast toward Santa Cruz.
My usual surfing place was called four-mile beach. It was four miles north of the city limits. There were no surfboards this time. That would have left me with an unreasonable amount of time to bumble through two papers and run my Greek vocabulary for the quiz tomorrow. The three of us slid down the slope to the trail that led down to the beach.
Two arms reached out and gathered the waves onto a beach of grainy sand and rocks. At the end of the right arm was a rock headland, lifting up about thirty feet above the surf that slammed into its base. It was good-sized surf, driven by a storm a few hundred miles out in the Pacific. As the three of us stood there some stray drops of water lifted from the collision up to where we stood on a shelf near the top of the headland. The other guy was another version of me, skinny, tall, booted, typical graduate student. The girl was small, close to five feet and slight. We stood there watching the surf, vacating the intellectual cobwebs.
The wave was different. It didn't move in a set like normal surf. It came by itself, cross grain. I've heard about rogue waves that come out of nowhere and capsize boats. This one was coming in on us.
I grabbed my diminutive friend and started scrambling toward the back of the shelf we were on, yelling, "Get back! Get back!" We got to the rock wall in time to push against it when the water came over the lip where we'd just been. It covered it and kept coming. We laid down and held onto the bumps in the rock floor. There was nothing else to do but pray. It covered us and then began to suck us back toward the edge. We dug in with our heels and held onto each other. One of us would have been gone, but the three of us managed to create enough drag to hold fast to the rock.
The wave was gone as fast as it came. It was surreal. We'd gone from observers to oysters in a moment. But it wasn't the incoming surge that had frightened me. It was the sucking pull, inexorable, without mercy, taking everything back to the cold deep that had been most terrifying. And it was only the grip of friends that had saved all three of us. "... in the rush of great waters... Thou art a hiding place for me, ... thou dost encompass me with deliverance."
We lay there on the rock, wet, cold, and amazed. After much initial whooping and hollering, we drove back to school, shivering and humbled, quietly contemplating our fragility.
I actually got an A on the vocabulary quiz.
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).
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StoryShare, November 4, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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What's Up This Week
"Signs, Signs, Signs!" by Rick McCracken-Bennett
"Small but Mighty Faithful" by Rick McCracken-Bennett
"Dinner with Jesus" by David Leininger
What's Up This Week
How do you describe something that you cannot see? How do you make the intangible tangible? As Christians, we face that question every day as we seek to bring a spiritual reality into the physical world. How can we "write the vision" as Habakkuk puts it (Habakkuk 3:2b)? Some try to cram the infinite into our finite language with catchy phrases or plays on words, as Rick McCracken-Bennett writes in "Signs, Signs, Signs!" Is there a better way to accomplish this? Perhaps the answer can be found in McCracken-Bennett's "Small but Mighty Faithful" and David Leininger's "Dinner with Jesus." McKirachan's "Head Hugs" and "Holding On" suggest that hanging on to our faith will save us.
* * * * * * * * *
Signs, Signs, Signs!
By Rick McCracken-Bennett
Habakkuk 1:1-4; 2:1-4
"Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner may read it."
-- Habakkuk 3:2b
Everywhere we look there are signs. What do our signs say? What do they say about the vision that God has given to us? Do they welcome or turn away?
It seems like it was a lifetime ago that the Five Man Electrical Band sang, "Sign, sign, everywhere a sign. Blocking out the scenery breaking my mind. Do this, don't do that, can't you read the sign?" Actually, it was over thirty years ago and I can still remember all the words!
I found myself humming that song shortly after I passed a sign that sits in front of a rural church near my home. Now you should know up front that I have definite opinions about church signs. Basically, I don't like most of them. But I'll get to that in a moment.
The sign had this message:
R U 2 BZ
2 GO 2
CH__ __ CH?
WHAT'S MISSING?
UR
I drove by the next day to make sure I had read it correctly since the two-inch-high letters are difficult to read at 55 miles an hour (one of my pet peeves -- the size of the letters, not the speed limit!). But the sign had already been changed. This particular morning it read:
WE WORSHIPPED
ON THE SABBATH.
WHAT DID YOU DO?
And once again I found myself humming, Sign, sign everywhere a sign.
I wondered to whom they thought this sign would appeal. Who did they hope it would attract? No one I knew, that's for sure.
I have a friend who makes banners and signs for everyone from politicians to realtors to churches. I asked him one day what his biggest frustration was in his job. Without a moment's hesitation he said, "People always want to put way too much on their signs." Then he showed me a banner that he was re-doing for an organization. Against his recommendation they had tried to cram way too much onto the vinyl banner. The letters would have to be too small and there was just too much information to grasp at 35 miles an hour. He recommended less text and larger letters. They insisted on a new banner, the same size, the same text, but with larger letters. I drive by it at least twice every day and I have yet to understand what they are trying to communicate to me.
One evening I was looking for a particular church where I had been asked to give a presentation on the care and feeding of newcomers in the church. I was unfamiliar with the neighborhood but saw an "Episcopal Church Welcomes You" sign. But alas, there was no arrow telling me which way to turn. I decided that since the sign was on the left side of the road that I should turn left. Wrong. Then I turned around and flew past the church because their sign was parallel to the street and unlit. Before this occurred I had been trying to figure out how to begin my presentation. Suddenly I knew exactly what I would say.
Like I said, I have a problem with some church signs.
I do have to say that there was one sign that I liked. It was put up immediately after the Ohio State/Michigan game a year ago. If you don't know already, that rivalry has to be one of the fiercest in college sports. The sign read:
JESUS SAID
LOVE YOUR ENEMIES
OHIO STATE--42
ENEMIES--39
So, what do I think a church sign should look like? The answer is as old as our scriptures, it seems to me: Write the vision; make it plain on tablets, so that a runner (or a driver going 55 miles an hour) can read it.
Now all we have to do I discern the vision that God is trying to tell us. Then we'll be all set.
Small but Mighty Faithful
By Rick McCracken-Bennett
2 Thessalonians 1:1-4, 11-12
"... [W]e ourselves boast of you among the churches of God for your steadfastness and faith during all your persecutions and the afflictions that you are enduring."
-- 2 Thessalonians 1:4
We all know of a congregation that is doing extraordinary work for the kingdom of God. Here is a story of one of them.
I often find myself speaking of a small church I once served. I had taken a ten-year hiatus from my work as a pastor and this was the church I served when I reentered.
I'll never forget the evening I met their Vestry and we hammered out an agreement that would amount to about a one-third time in this small, rural, shrinking village. While the Vestry met to discuss whether or not to call me I walked into the sanctuary and had a look around. My first thoughts bring me to shame to remember them. I stood in the pulpit and looked out at the smallest nave I had ever seen. Perhaps if you were careful you could squeeze a hundred in but sixty or seventy looked to be about the most it would hold. I remember thinking (I am ashamed to say) that I couldn't imagine preparing a sermon for only those few people. It was actually worse than that when I learned that only about forty folks showed up on any given Sunday.
But what was I to do? This would allow me to gradually get back into the active ministry while I kept my day job. It would work for now. It turns out that I stayed there joyfully for over eight years, the longest pastorate in the 100-year history of this church.
I, of course, quickly grew to love these people, their village, and the smell of the nave on Sunday before anyone else showed up. I preached, visited, married them, and buried them. It was a wonderful time in my life and the life of my family.
After I left, even though we had set up a cluster relationship to ease the financial burdens of this and two other churches, the congregation began to shrink; from forty to less than 25 most times. And yet, they kept at it. Too proud to ask the diocese for money, they hunkered down and refused to give up. They looked the death of the congregation in the face and kept going with the mission and ministry of the church.
You see... this little church provided (at least) three essential ministries to that part of the county and no one in the congregation was willing to let those go.
Many years before they had started a program that fed the elderly every weekday with a home-cooked meal, often with food from their own gardens, mixed with lots and lots of fun and fellowship. Though the program now received funding from outside the church, the congregational volunteers that worked each and every day has kept this service available to the sixty or more people that showed up each day. I can't imagine that village without this program.
They also provided an "off-the grid" pantry. Though they understood why other pantries in the county could only allow a certain number of visits a month, this church decided to not link up with them and simply gave food to whoever came their way. That pantry continues solely on donations from the congregation and though they have no doubt been "taken" a time or two, they give gladly to the poor who come to their door week after week.
If that wasn't enough for a congregation of around 25 people, they provide a well-attended after-school tutoring program that, with the help of a small grant, allows them to have a certified teacher to lead their work.
Perhaps this doesn't sound like much. Certainly it pales in the sight of program and corporate sized churches and their work. But I wonder... what if every 25 people in our current congregations worked as faithfully in their mission and ministry? What would happen to the hunger, the illiteracy, and the loneliness in our parts of the mission field?
As you might imagine, I never tire of telling all I meet about this small but very faithful congregation. I never stop giving thanks to God for them.
Rick McCracken-Bennett is an avid storyteller, an Episcopal priest and church planter, and the founding pastor of All Saints Episcopal Church in New Albany, Ohio. Rick began his ministry as a Roman Catholic priest, and he has also served as an alcohol and drug treatment counselor and as the director of an outpatient treatment center for adults and children.
Dinner with Jesus
David Leininger
Luke 19:1-10
You know, I used to wish I were tall. All the other kids were bigger. They were stronger... faster. I was a shrimp... and it used to bother me. I used to lie in my bed at night wishing that I were the biggest kid in town. Then NOBODY would push me around. None of the other kids could beat me up. None of them could ever call Zacchaeus names (at least not if they wanted to keep their teeth in). None of them would ever give me any trouble again. Yeah, I wanted to be TALL... but...
As time went along, of course, I stopped worrying about it too much. As we get older, we learn to stop being concerned about things over which we have no control. Anyway, whenever those old dreams about being tall would glance across my mind, I would just content myself with thinking, "It doesn't matter. When I sit on top of my money, I am the tallest man in Jericho. Ha!"
Yes, I DO have some money. I admit that it all might not have been obtained in the most upright of fashions. But, we tax collectors don't make our livings by being particularly upright. And I know that is at least part of the reason that people have hated me -- they have thought I got my money dishonestly. Well, perhaps yes, perhaps no. But they know how it works. If tax collectors took only what was due for the Emperor, we would have nothing for ourselves. I sometimes wonder whether these people of Israel would rather have a Roman coming around for the Empire's portion rather than one of their own, another Jew. At least another Jew is going to have SOME feeling for his own people -- a Roman would have NONE!
I have to admit that I probably went into this tax-collecting business for more than just the money. In a way, I probably wanted to get back at some of my wonderful neighbors, the ones who taunted me and bullied me when I was growing up. If I had been a little taller back then, they might have left me alone. But I wasn't and they didn't, so when I became old enough to make a career for myself, tax collecting didn't seem like such a bad thing -- I could make a pile of money and stick it to my so-called friends at the same time. And I didn't have to worry about how tall or short I was because if anyone gave me any trouble, I could call the tallest Roman legionnaire in Jericho to back me up. Short doesn't matter when you have very tall protectors.
Of course, outside of tax collecting, it still matters sometimes. It mattered this morning. Word had come that this incredible teacher about whom the whole nation has been talking, this Jesus of Nazareth, was coming through town. Now, I admit that I have never been the most religious of men. I'm a Jew, but I would confess that I am not the most devout Jew who ever lived... far from it actually. But I was curious about this rabbi. I had heard of some tremendous things he had done... healing the sick, restoring sight to the blind, making the lame to walk. Who wouldn't be curious about someone like that? I wanted to see him. But, apparently half the people in Jericho felt the same way as I did and they were all gathered on the road waiting for this Jesus to pass by. That was when being short mattered again. I couldn't see. The crowd was too dense. No one would let me through to the front. And when they saw who it was who was trying to get past, they crowded in all the closer. I wish I had been taller.
Finally, I got fed up. There was no way I could fight that mob, and if I had stayed where I was, I would have seen nothing. So I went down the road apiece and climbed a tree, a sycamore that stood right by the wayside. True, it had been years since I had climbed a tree. I'm probably lucky that I didn't fall and break my neck. But I perched myself up there and thought, "Ha, I'm the tallest man in Jericho now."
It wasn't long before Jesus came. He was surrounded by a mob, folks crowding in, hanging on his every word. I really couldn't hear him very well until Jesus and the crowd got right near to me and my sycamore. What happened next I will never be able to explain if I live to be older than Methusaleh. As the group made their way under my precarious perch, Jesus stopped. He looked up at me and said, "Zacchaeus, come down here... quickly. I must stay at your house today." I could hardly believe my ears. He knew my name. Who would have told him? And stay at my house? The house of a tax collector? Someone so hated by everyone that they wouldn't even let me get a glimpse of him until I climbed that tree? Jesus was coming home with ME? Incredible!
Needless to say, I hurried down and stood there right next to this fantastic man. No longer did I have to stretch and strain just a for glimpse of him; he was right next to me. And I admit, I felt pretty tall!
Within a short time, we had arrived at my home. My mind was still reeling at the fact that this famous stranger had invited ME to dinner, even if it was at my house. We made our way through the open courtyard and came into the house, leaving the heat of the crowd and the midday desert sun behind us. My wife and servants had already heard we were coming because word went around Jericho like wildfire that Jesus was coming home with that rotten little Zacchaeus. But at a moment like that, I didn't care WHAT people thought... rotten... little... it didn't make any difference. I was about to eat with Jesus, and somehow that seemed to make everything in my life all right.
As we dined together, it became apparent to me that there was nothing I could hide from this man. He knew me inside and out, seemingly better than I even knew myself. I wondered why he would want to spend time with me, but he said something to me that I didn't understand at first, but now that I have had time to reflect on it, I think I know what he meant. He said, "the Son of man came to seek and to save the lost."
Let me explain what happened. By the time our meal was over, I was convinced that I had been wrong in what I had been doing all these years. Not the tax collecting, because somebody has to do that. There is nothing inherently WRONG with being a tax collector. No, what I had done wrong was to seriously overcharge people, to cheat them for my own gain. It was stealing, pure and simple, and our law says "Thou shalt not steal." So I stood up beside the table and said that I was going to make restitution. I would return all that I had taken illegally and pay a 300% interest penalty. I also realized that I could and SHOULD do more to help those in Jericho who were less fortunate than I, so I said I would give half my goods to the poor. I had plenty. I could afford it. Then I sat down.
There was a kind of stunned speechlessness in the room. Everyone just looked at me. Here was that old thief Zacchaeus saying something that was so incredibly out of character that no one could react in any way other than astonished silence. I really felt good about myself at that moment... better than I had in years. It was almost as if a great weight had been lifted from me. I had done something actually GOOD, and without even being forced. Jesus didn't make me do what I did. But somehow, just EATING with him made me WANT to do right. That's when he said what he did... about seeking and saving the lost.
I WAS lost... lost in my own interests, my own greed, my own self-pity. But then down the dusty road came Jesus. He looked up at me on that sycamore branch, and invited me to dinner with him. Suddenly, little lost Zacchaeus had been found... and I will never be little or lost again.
David E. Leininger is the pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Warren, Pennsylvania. He is the author of Lectionary Tales for the Pulpit (Series VI, Cycle A), God of Justice: A Look at the Ten Commandments for the 21st Century, and A Color-Blind Church, his account of the intriguing match of two congregations -- one black, one white -- in a small community following the reunion of the northern and southern streams of the Presbyterian Church (USA) in 1983.
Head Hugs
C. David McKirachan
Luke 19:1-10
My son Benjamin is now 22. He is not as gargantuan as I, but he's not short. Looking at him now it's hard to believe that at one time he was a little guy. I used to carry him around on my shoulders. He'd fall asleep up there, snoring into my hair. Sometimes his cookie crumbs would give me an interesting frosting.
Anytime it was crowded or we had to move fast that's where he went. When we had to go through a door, I'd quack like a duck. It was a signal. I'd feel his cheek on my head and his arms grip my collar. Sometimes I'd quack just to get a head hug. He didn't mind.
It's hard to keep perspective when were in the middle of a crowd, trying to get through the rush. It's hard not to lose our way, to get separated from our loved ones. It's scary and disorienting and it's absolutely normal in our crazy culture.
I sympathize with Zacchaeus. He wanted to see. And it sounds to me like he didn't have too much of a chance to get a clear heads up perspective. Working for the mob, hated and feared by everybody is a lousy place to be. It's a stitch thinking about him climbing a tree. I wonder what his bodyguard thought. I wonder what all the people he'd ripped off thought. The amazing thing was he didn't seem to care. He needed to see.
Once in a while in life we find something, a moment of clarity or deep desire that calls us to claim a place of perspective. We want to see. We need to see. And all the sophistication and dignity we defend so regularly goes out the window. We're willing to go out on a limb.
But places of perspective are high and windy places, usually lonely and dangerous. It's nice to know that the call of the Lord is not only to climb up and see, but also to come down and have dinner.
I hope Ben remembers his shoulder perch. I wonder if he remembers the duck signal. I'll always remember the head hugs.
Holding On
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 32:1-7
I was taking a break on a February afternoon. Burned out, close enough to the end of the Master's program, sick of trying to communicate to teachers about the importance of heresies and the lines of convergence between Process Theology and Quantum Mechanics, I wanted to breathe. I got two other slackers and drove down the coast toward Santa Cruz.
My usual surfing place was called four-mile beach. It was four miles north of the city limits. There were no surfboards this time. That would have left me with an unreasonable amount of time to bumble through two papers and run my Greek vocabulary for the quiz tomorrow. The three of us slid down the slope to the trail that led down to the beach.
Two arms reached out and gathered the waves onto a beach of grainy sand and rocks. At the end of the right arm was a rock headland, lifting up about thirty feet above the surf that slammed into its base. It was good-sized surf, driven by a storm a few hundred miles out in the Pacific. As the three of us stood there some stray drops of water lifted from the collision up to where we stood on a shelf near the top of the headland. The other guy was another version of me, skinny, tall, booted, typical graduate student. The girl was small, close to five feet and slight. We stood there watching the surf, vacating the intellectual cobwebs.
The wave was different. It didn't move in a set like normal surf. It came by itself, cross grain. I've heard about rogue waves that come out of nowhere and capsize boats. This one was coming in on us.
I grabbed my diminutive friend and started scrambling toward the back of the shelf we were on, yelling, "Get back! Get back!" We got to the rock wall in time to push against it when the water came over the lip where we'd just been. It covered it and kept coming. We laid down and held onto the bumps in the rock floor. There was nothing else to do but pray. It covered us and then began to suck us back toward the edge. We dug in with our heels and held onto each other. One of us would have been gone, but the three of us managed to create enough drag to hold fast to the rock.
The wave was gone as fast as it came. It was surreal. We'd gone from observers to oysters in a moment. But it wasn't the incoming surge that had frightened me. It was the sucking pull, inexorable, without mercy, taking everything back to the cold deep that had been most terrifying. And it was only the grip of friends that had saved all three of us. "... in the rush of great waters... Thou art a hiding place for me, ... thou dost encompass me with deliverance."
We lay there on the rock, wet, cold, and amazed. After much initial whooping and hollering, we drove back to school, shivering and humbled, quietly contemplating our fragility.
I actually got an A on the vocabulary quiz.
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).
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StoryShare, November 4, 2007, issue.
Copyright 2007 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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