Somebody Else's Treasure
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Somebody Else's Treasure" by Frank Ramirez
"For She Loved Much" by Craig Kelly
* * * * * * * * *
Somebody Else's Treasure
Frank Ramirez
1 Kings 21:1-10 (11-14) 15-21a
Ahab went home resentful and sullen because of what Naboth the Jezreelite had said to him; for he had said, "I will not give you my ancestral inheritance." He lay down on his bed, turned away his face, and would not eat.
-- 1 Kings 21:4
So just what is underneath Oak Island? Treasure? Whose? Or nothing, nothing at all. Either way, the thought of owning what may belong to someone else has led to at least six deaths and the expenditure of millions of dollars.
Oak Island lies off the shores of Nova Scotia. It's not very large, only about 140 acres. The tree covered isle rises no more than about 35 feet above sea level. But the legends that surround the spot known as the Money Pit are legion.
According to one story a sixteen year old first excavated the pit to a depth of about thirty feet before abandoning the project, claiming that he had dug through a layer of logs that along with a mysterious inscription seemed to indicate that something was buried beneath. But it was over a half century before this story appeared in print.
Others followed. Subsequent expeditions dug deeper and deeper. Some claimed a stone included the inscription that two million pounds were buried forty feet below the surface. That stone, if it ever existed, has not been seen since 1912. Flooding forced some of the early excavators to give up the attempt.
When an 1861 attempt failed, some blamed the collapse of the shaft on the presence of a subterranean cavern, but others claimed it was a trap left by those who hit the treasure. The first fatality occurred on this expedition.
A century later a new attempt created a pit that delved more than two hundred feet in depth. A video camera was lowered, and some claimed that the pictures taken showed human bones, artifacts, and hints of wonderful treasure. Others who saw the footage claimed that nothing was visible.
And what treasure is hidden there? Some say pirate treasure, along with the buried remains of those who knew too much about where and how it was buried. Some say that the British buried treasure so it would not fall into the hands of revolutionaries during the war for American Independence. There are even stories that Marie Antoinette's jewels are buried deep beneath the island.
There have been no end of books, documentaries, and television features exploring -- though not explaining -- the mystery that is stretched out over a thin layer of facts, with plenty of heart-stopping subsonic music.
All along there are plenty who insist it is nothing but a hole, and that there is no substantiation earlier than the twentieth century for any of the stories.
The truth is not yet known -- even as yet another group announces on the internet its plans to excavate and get to the bottom of the mystery. To this day no one knows what treasure motivated this person to go to such extremes to hide and protect it, if there is any treasure at all. But what is known is that the allure of getting what someone else owns can be overwhelming. The prophet Micah defines happiness as each person being under their own vine and their own fig tree (Micah 4:4). Paul writes to Timothy of a "good treasure" (2 Timothy 1:14) a treasure that cannot and should not be hidden, but which grows richer when shared with others. But in today's scripture passage Ahab's desire for Naboth's field drives him to distraction, to the point where he is willing to put the matter in his wife Jezebel's hands, and she in turn, to satisfy her husband's desire for another treasure, is willing for another to commit perjury so that Naboth is unjustly executed. Maybe this is why one of the Ten Commandments insists "You shall not covet…" (Exodus 20:17).
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
For She Loved Much
Craig Kelly
Luke 7:36—8:3
May 30, 20--
Okay, I'm going back. I know I've toyed with the idea for a while now, but tonight, I'm really going to do it. The only problem is -- I really have no idea what I'm doing!
I remember thinking when I left, "I am never setting foot in this place again!" So many memories, so many tears, so many times I just wanted to crawl under a rock after being in there. But it was work; it was a paycheck. That and the tips weren't bad, either. But I always had this feeling like a little of me was dying every time I went in there. I felt a little deader (is that a word?) after every night.
Of course, no one would know that looking at me. I was the belle of the ball! Spinning on that pole every night, doing table dances, giving those businessmen and athletes and oil rig workers and whoever else a table dance or a lap dance, fulfilling their fantasies -- I was really living it up, wasn't I? Taking dollar bills out of my G-string… I was being showered in money! What a life!
More like "What life?" I wasn't Chrissie anymore; I was "Crystal," the eleven o'clock show. I was a rack of meat on display. No one knew me, where I was born, what my favorite color was, unless it was maybe the color of my lingerie. No one knew how I was abused as a child. No one knew how I ran away from home at thirteen to get away from an abusive step-grandfather. No one knew that the corner of Madison and Twelfth was my corner for a while. No one knew that I longed for that next heroin escape, not that I would feel good, but that I would just stop feeling bad. No one knew how dirty I felt as the men would run their hands up and down my back as I danced on them. I remember spending at least an half an hour in a steaming hot shower at the end of every night, trying to scrub away that filthy feeling until the hot water ran out. No one knew and no one cared.
Until that night. Until I met Mary. She was the first person who didn't look at me in the club with that familiar mixture of arousal and contempt. I can still taste the hot soup she brought me. I can still feel the texture of the cover of that little New Testament she gave me. I remember the tone of her voice -- it was gentle, non-threatening, non-condemning. She told me there was someone out there who actually loved me. I didn't know what she meant. I knew what love was, and it always left me hurt at the end. Sex was love. I couldn't imagine love being anything else. And then she told me how there was a man who loved me by dying for me. "Wait a minute!" I thought. "This was someone who didn't even want to be with me, and yet he loved me anyway? He would actually die for me? What kind of love was that? What kind of man is this Jesus?"
I remember meeting with Mary off and on for weeks after that, asking her questions and listening to her answers. I can still hear the worship music at her church the first time I went there. "How deep the Father's love for us… Amazing love, how can it be, that thou, my God, shouldst die for me…." I remember hearing those words of repentance and forgiveness that my past could be wiped away and I could become a new person. I had thought I had cried all the tears I could possibly cry in the dressing room at the club, but I could feel the wetness on my cheek. I still remember my tears falling on the altar as I knelt down. I wiped them with my hair; I didn't want the wood to be marked up somehow.
Even after all of that, it took me almost a year to leave that club. It was a strange time, stripping on Saturday night and going to church on Sunday. But I needed that time to learn and grow; I know that now. I needed to get to know myself all over again.
And now, here I am with my GED and a year away from finishing nursing school! I guess it would have been just so easy to stay here in my new life, living in bliss, cut off from my past. As I prayed, though, I thought about all those girls who would sit next to me in the dressing room, seeing the deadness in their eyes that had mirrored my own. How could I accept Jesus' amazing love and forgiveness and keep it all to myself? Those other girls need that love, too.
So here I am, armed with those same New Testaments and some bags full of sandwiches. I'm going to work my way up to the soup. My pastor gave me some advice on what to say, but I still feel like I don't know what to do! But I know Jesus will give me the words to speak. You have forgiven me of so much, Lord Jesus, and I want to show you how much I love you by spreading that love to others. Guide my steps and my words as I go back. I love you, Jesus. I love you so much. Love, Chrissie.
Author's Note: While this is fictional, I wish to acknowledge Harmony Dust and her work with Treasures Ministries, which provided the inspiration for this story. For more information on Harmony and Treasures Ministries, visit their website: www.iamatreasure.com.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
**************
StoryShare, June 13, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
"Somebody Else's Treasure" by Frank Ramirez
"For She Loved Much" by Craig Kelly
* * * * * * * * *
Somebody Else's Treasure
Frank Ramirez
1 Kings 21:1-10 (11-14) 15-21a
Ahab went home resentful and sullen because of what Naboth the Jezreelite had said to him; for he had said, "I will not give you my ancestral inheritance." He lay down on his bed, turned away his face, and would not eat.
-- 1 Kings 21:4
So just what is underneath Oak Island? Treasure? Whose? Or nothing, nothing at all. Either way, the thought of owning what may belong to someone else has led to at least six deaths and the expenditure of millions of dollars.
Oak Island lies off the shores of Nova Scotia. It's not very large, only about 140 acres. The tree covered isle rises no more than about 35 feet above sea level. But the legends that surround the spot known as the Money Pit are legion.
According to one story a sixteen year old first excavated the pit to a depth of about thirty feet before abandoning the project, claiming that he had dug through a layer of logs that along with a mysterious inscription seemed to indicate that something was buried beneath. But it was over a half century before this story appeared in print.
Others followed. Subsequent expeditions dug deeper and deeper. Some claimed a stone included the inscription that two million pounds were buried forty feet below the surface. That stone, if it ever existed, has not been seen since 1912. Flooding forced some of the early excavators to give up the attempt.
When an 1861 attempt failed, some blamed the collapse of the shaft on the presence of a subterranean cavern, but others claimed it was a trap left by those who hit the treasure. The first fatality occurred on this expedition.
A century later a new attempt created a pit that delved more than two hundred feet in depth. A video camera was lowered, and some claimed that the pictures taken showed human bones, artifacts, and hints of wonderful treasure. Others who saw the footage claimed that nothing was visible.
And what treasure is hidden there? Some say pirate treasure, along with the buried remains of those who knew too much about where and how it was buried. Some say that the British buried treasure so it would not fall into the hands of revolutionaries during the war for American Independence. There are even stories that Marie Antoinette's jewels are buried deep beneath the island.
There have been no end of books, documentaries, and television features exploring -- though not explaining -- the mystery that is stretched out over a thin layer of facts, with plenty of heart-stopping subsonic music.
All along there are plenty who insist it is nothing but a hole, and that there is no substantiation earlier than the twentieth century for any of the stories.
The truth is not yet known -- even as yet another group announces on the internet its plans to excavate and get to the bottom of the mystery. To this day no one knows what treasure motivated this person to go to such extremes to hide and protect it, if there is any treasure at all. But what is known is that the allure of getting what someone else owns can be overwhelming. The prophet Micah defines happiness as each person being under their own vine and their own fig tree (Micah 4:4). Paul writes to Timothy of a "good treasure" (2 Timothy 1:14) a treasure that cannot and should not be hidden, but which grows richer when shared with others. But in today's scripture passage Ahab's desire for Naboth's field drives him to distraction, to the point where he is willing to put the matter in his wife Jezebel's hands, and she in turn, to satisfy her husband's desire for another treasure, is willing for another to commit perjury so that Naboth is unjustly executed. Maybe this is why one of the Ten Commandments insists "You shall not covet…" (Exodus 20:17).
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
For She Loved Much
Craig Kelly
Luke 7:36—8:3
May 30, 20--
Okay, I'm going back. I know I've toyed with the idea for a while now, but tonight, I'm really going to do it. The only problem is -- I really have no idea what I'm doing!
I remember thinking when I left, "I am never setting foot in this place again!" So many memories, so many tears, so many times I just wanted to crawl under a rock after being in there. But it was work; it was a paycheck. That and the tips weren't bad, either. But I always had this feeling like a little of me was dying every time I went in there. I felt a little deader (is that a word?) after every night.
Of course, no one would know that looking at me. I was the belle of the ball! Spinning on that pole every night, doing table dances, giving those businessmen and athletes and oil rig workers and whoever else a table dance or a lap dance, fulfilling their fantasies -- I was really living it up, wasn't I? Taking dollar bills out of my G-string… I was being showered in money! What a life!
More like "What life?" I wasn't Chrissie anymore; I was "Crystal," the eleven o'clock show. I was a rack of meat on display. No one knew me, where I was born, what my favorite color was, unless it was maybe the color of my lingerie. No one knew how I was abused as a child. No one knew how I ran away from home at thirteen to get away from an abusive step-grandfather. No one knew that the corner of Madison and Twelfth was my corner for a while. No one knew that I longed for that next heroin escape, not that I would feel good, but that I would just stop feeling bad. No one knew how dirty I felt as the men would run their hands up and down my back as I danced on them. I remember spending at least an half an hour in a steaming hot shower at the end of every night, trying to scrub away that filthy feeling until the hot water ran out. No one knew and no one cared.
Until that night. Until I met Mary. She was the first person who didn't look at me in the club with that familiar mixture of arousal and contempt. I can still taste the hot soup she brought me. I can still feel the texture of the cover of that little New Testament she gave me. I remember the tone of her voice -- it was gentle, non-threatening, non-condemning. She told me there was someone out there who actually loved me. I didn't know what she meant. I knew what love was, and it always left me hurt at the end. Sex was love. I couldn't imagine love being anything else. And then she told me how there was a man who loved me by dying for me. "Wait a minute!" I thought. "This was someone who didn't even want to be with me, and yet he loved me anyway? He would actually die for me? What kind of love was that? What kind of man is this Jesus?"
I remember meeting with Mary off and on for weeks after that, asking her questions and listening to her answers. I can still hear the worship music at her church the first time I went there. "How deep the Father's love for us… Amazing love, how can it be, that thou, my God, shouldst die for me…." I remember hearing those words of repentance and forgiveness that my past could be wiped away and I could become a new person. I had thought I had cried all the tears I could possibly cry in the dressing room at the club, but I could feel the wetness on my cheek. I still remember my tears falling on the altar as I knelt down. I wiped them with my hair; I didn't want the wood to be marked up somehow.
Even after all of that, it took me almost a year to leave that club. It was a strange time, stripping on Saturday night and going to church on Sunday. But I needed that time to learn and grow; I know that now. I needed to get to know myself all over again.
And now, here I am with my GED and a year away from finishing nursing school! I guess it would have been just so easy to stay here in my new life, living in bliss, cut off from my past. As I prayed, though, I thought about all those girls who would sit next to me in the dressing room, seeing the deadness in their eyes that had mirrored my own. How could I accept Jesus' amazing love and forgiveness and keep it all to myself? Those other girls need that love, too.
So here I am, armed with those same New Testaments and some bags full of sandwiches. I'm going to work my way up to the soup. My pastor gave me some advice on what to say, but I still feel like I don't know what to do! But I know Jesus will give me the words to speak. You have forgiven me of so much, Lord Jesus, and I want to show you how much I love you by spreading that love to others. Guide my steps and my words as I go back. I love you, Jesus. I love you so much. Love, Chrissie.
Author's Note: While this is fictional, I wish to acknowledge Harmony Dust and her work with Treasures Ministries, which provided the inspiration for this story. For more information on Harmony and Treasures Ministries, visit their website: www.iamatreasure.com.
Craig Kelly writes copy for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio.
**************
StoryShare, June 13, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 5450 N. Dixie Highway, Lima, Ohio 45807.
