Standing Up To The General
Stories
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Contents
"Standing Up to the General" by Frank Ramirez
"God's Way or My Way?" by Sandra Herrmann
"Candidates" by Keith Hewitt
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Standing Up to the General
by Frank Ramirez
Proverbs 31:10-31
She opens her hand to the poor, and reaches out her hands to the needy. ...Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.
-- Proverbs 31:20, 25
Even before the Civil War Ann Gilbert Rowland (1811-1888) had already demonstrated that she could remain calm and self-possessed in the worst of calamites and the toughest of circumstances -- war. Rowland wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, so even the infamous General Robert E. Lee of the invading Confederate Army, in 1863, didn't intimidate her.
One of the plain people, Ann Rowland dressed austerely, wearing the prayer covering and bonnet that was a part of their religious faithfulness. She and her husband Jonas lived near Longmeadow, Maryland, a few miles north of Hagerstown. She, Jonas, and their eight children were active members of the Dunker congregation in that area.
Ann took an active part in the economic and political life of the region. She was well known in the community for her charity to the poor and indigent, whom she often fed. She was active in the temperance movement. Some years before she had worked tirelessly in her area to expand the voting franchise, which in the young American republic was originally limited to white, male property owners, to now include all males, regardless of whether they owned property or not.
In 1850 some in her Longmeadow congregation proposed converting a worn-out school building into a new church meetinghouse. Ann and her husband opposed the measure as short-sighted. In response they donated the land for a new church, fired the bricks, laid the foundations, and led church members in the construction of the new meetinghouse, which they paid for themselves.
Her husband later injured himself badly and was disabled after attempting to move large stones used in the building of their barn. After he died in 1855, Ann continued to run the farm and its properties on her own.
During the Civil War, Maryland found itself in the awkward position of a slave state that remained in the Union. In 1862 the Confederate army invaded the state. Ann's church, the Dunkers, came to public attention during that campaign when the Dunker Meetinghouse near Sharpsburg became the landmark at the center of the Battle of Antietam, the bloodiest day in American history. Though Lee had hoped to impress the Marylanders so they would switch sides, the loss of the crucial battle along with the ragged appearance of his troops appalled many.
Nevertheless Lee's army once again invaded Maryland in 1863, prior to crossing over into Pennsylvania for the decisive Battle of Gettysburg. When the Confederates arrived in the Longmeadow area the residents braced themselves for the inevitable theft of their farm animals and stores of food by the invaders.
As it turned out, Lee's army spent a week in the Longmeadow area and used the local Dunker church for its headquarters. Ann Rowland marched over to the simple meetinghouse, refusing to stop when ordered by the sentries. Instead, she went boldly up to General Lee and informed him that she was taking the church's Bible away with her before it too was confiscated by his army. General Lee, impressed with her boldness, assured her that if she left it there for their morning devotions, he would personally see to it that it remained where it belonged.
A few days later Ann Rowland hid her most prized horse, Old Jen, in a hidden alcove in the barn, while the other horses were being stolen by the Confederates. No one counted on Old Jen panicking that she was somehow left out of the excitement, and her neigh drew the attention of the Confederates, who found her hiding place and took her as well.
Rowland once more marched over to the church and demanded the horse's return. The General complied.
Despite the theft of much of her property, Ann Rowland was appalled by the hunger of the troops. Like other Dunkers during that war, she took seriously the command of Jesus to "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you... (Luke 6:27)." She baked bread and gave it freely to the starving Confederate soldiers.
She charged, however, for the meat that she served during the week that those troops camped in the area, meat that she kept hidden in a secret place above the smokehouse. Once, when a soldier followed her to discover the hiding place, she held out her carving knife and told him not to take another step closer. The soldier, who knew nothing of the nonviolent beliefs of the Dunkers, complied. Later, General Lee posted guards to protect the meager supplies she had left.
Sometimes the description of the household manager portrayed in Proverbs 31:10-31 is used as an over-pious description of what some imagine to be the perfect wife -- but in both biblical and early American history the woman was often expected to be the financial and agricultural manager of all the farm's enterprises. Ann Rowland displayed many of the qualities of the competent manager described in the biblical text.
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.
God's Way or My Way?
by Sandra Herrmann
Proverbs 31:10-31; James 3:13--4:3, 7-8a
Race Patterson was pacing up and down the living room in his hotel suite. Gordon West was watching and listening, because when Race got into pacing, anything anyone said would be held against them. Things had been going well until the latest TV ads appeared. No one knew who sponsored them, but they were a slap in the face to Race, who had -- until these ads -- been the frontrunner for the Senate seat he wanted.
Francine Cotton leaned against the TV console, her arms folded across her middle. But this was not a protective stance. It was her way of keeping her own words sweet and mild. As Race passed her on his third circuit of the room, she moved slightly, sighing as she took in a breath.
"Don't bother, Francine. I'm thinking this through. Just give me some space."
"What's to think through, Race?" she asked. "We have a campaign, a plan, and an agreement on the tenor of the race. The only thing to think about is whether you want to stick to the plan or change your approach, get down in the muck with the rest of them."
"Easy to say, Francine! Easy for us to decide in advance. But we have to decide what response to make to these latest ads! They make me look like a fool -- like a fool who has no idea what I'm getting into."
Gordon lifted a finger for Race's attention. "This is what I warned you about in the beginning, Race. When you said you 'had to remain true to your faith and values.' I told you then, once you're on the level of running for the Senate, you have to have big backers. Compromises have to be made. You want that office, you've got to get real. That kind of power attracts the sharks. You've got to get shark-proof."
Race stopped pacing. "What kind of a statesman would I be if I sell out to get the votes? I'm not running for the Senate for the power, unless it's the power to change the world for the better."
Gordon snorted and rested his back against the wall. "First you've gotta get the votes, my man. Plenty of time to change the world once you're elected."
Francine held out her hands toward Gordon. "And if we win the office by selling out to special interests, what then? They don't put their money into candidates who won't follow through once they have the office." She turned to Race. "If you stick to your principles, people will vote for you. And then you have the opportunities to begin to do what you're running for."
"Yeah, yeah," Gordon sneered. "The humble statesman seeking to serve the people. It's a great gimmick, but we are way behind in the money game, so we have no way to respond to these ads even if you wanted to, which evidently you don't. I'm telling you, Race, you have to make a couple of deals here. But don't pay any attention to me," he added, nodding toward Francine, "let her tell the press you're not a politician. But I'm warning you, if you want the office, you have to make some compromises, some deals with those who can help you get those votes. You think Jamieson is running those ads? No way. He's got these other organizations running those ads. Not one penny from his official coffers has been spent yet.
"For God's sake, Race, don't you see what's going on here? You think Jamieson ties the hands of his people when they have the opportunity to get big money to run that kind of ad?"
Race frowned at Gordon. "You think that Jamieson agreed to those ads? That he had some hand in their creation?"
"Oh brother!" Gordon raised his hands toward the ceiling. "No. I doubt that Jamieson had a hand in their creation. But he's hitched his wagon to these groups who can run those ads on his behalf, and he can truthfully say that he had nothing to do with it. He's made them some promises, my friend, and they've taken off to make you look weak and foolish so their boy can be elected. Now, I've got some guys who would like to talk to us, and they have the wherewithal to launch some ads in Jamieson's direction. You don't necessarily have to commit but just listen to what they want, Race."
"And what is it they want, Gordon?" Francine asked.
"They want Race! They want a guy who's as good as his word! They want a guy with some ambition! Ambition is not a dirty word, Francine! Nobody wants a wimp and nobody's going to vote for a wimp. You've got to show these guys that Race has got some strength, Francine. Honestly, don't you want Race to be our next Senator? Don't you have any ambition for him to win and serve?"
Race held up a hand. "Don't even bother to answer, Francine." He turned away from both of them, walked over to the window, and pulled back a curtain so he could look down on the Convention Center across the street. He stood for a long moment, so long that it seemed he had forgotten both of his advisors. But at last he turned back toward the room, letting the curtain fall back in place.
"I need to pray about all this." He turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
Gordon shook his head from side to side, sighing. Francine just looked at the floor. The silence dragged on, as they waited for Race to re-emerge from the bedroom.
"Prayer," Gordon scoffed. "Does God ever tell us to go for it?"
"Often," Francine replied softly. "It's just hard for us to listen."
Nearly an hour later, Race emerged from the bedroom. Gordon and Francine eyed their boss closely. He looked more tired than he had when he left them. They both waited in silence.
Finally, Race said, "I always thought that God wanted me to run for this office. And I always thought that I knew what He wanted me to accomplish. But I cannot forget that God's ways are not the way of the world. And neither can you, Gordon. It may sound weird to the world, even to those who vote for me, but I really want to be a statesman, someone I can be proud of, not a politician whose sole ambition is to win election after election. I hope I win. I want to win. But some costs are too high. I want to be a peacemaker, not a powerbroker."
"Yeah, good luck with that," Gordon said and left the room.
Francine turned away, but she smiled to herself. A little prayer seemed to go a long way. As long as Race was at peace with himself, she knew he would do well.
Race shrugged. To himself, he said, "Well, win or lose, I have to be true to myself and God." He picked up his coat and invited Francine to the hotel restaurant for dinner.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Candidates
by Keith Hewitt
Mark 9:30-37
The lights had been off for almost twenty minutes now, but the auditorium stage was still hot -- a fact Mark Poole remarked upon as he took a tissue from his pocket and dabbed sweat from his brow. He'd considered, briefly, the possibility that he was feverish, decided that it was far more likely the thousands of watts of carefully balanced lighting that had flooded the stage for the better part of two hours.
Katherine Rolland looked up from the papers spread in front of her on the desk -- printouts of everything she had asked, with written notes and hasty transcriptions of the others' questions -- looked around the auditorium, then back at Poole, and shrugged. "You can't release that much hot air in a confined space and not expect it to stay warm for a while," she explained, her voice and expression serious. Only the faintest twinkle in her hazel eyes hinted that there might be some lightness to her answer.
Poole nodded. "I suppose so." Absently, he looked toward stage left, where two men were reeling up cable, pulling it up, and ripping tape loose from the floor as they walked. Poole winced a little -- the janitors had spent a great deal of time refinishing the hardwood floor, and he was just sure he could see the finish peeling off with the industrial grade duct tape. He made a mental note not to see any emails from the Maintenance Department on Monday. "Still, in all, I think it went okay," he said softly, turned to the woman behind the desk and asked, "What do you think?"
Without missing a beat, Rolland gathered the papers together, tapped them into a neat sheaf, and held them at an angle as she sat up straight and looked directly at him. "The two presidential candidates sparred tonight on a high school stage in the battleground state of Wisconsin. Neither candidate made any serious gaffes when answering questions from the panel of journalists or those submitted by voters across the country via Facebook and Twitter. They did address one another directly, several times, exchanging verbal jabs over their experience, record, and the perceived failure by both sides to live up to previous commitments to stick to positive messaging in their commercials."
Poole blinked. "I'm impressed."
One corner of Rolland's mouth curled upward. "Don't be. I wrote that three days ago in a hotel room in Miami. Or was it Detroit?" She paused and shrugged. "No matter. I already knew how it was going to go, unless someone seriously screwed up -- and that just wasn't going to happen. Their handlers have them conditioned like Pavlov's dogs -- there's a programmed answer for everything. All they have to do is consider who asked it, where they are, and who their audience is. Isolate the variables, then -- bing! -- out pops the right answer."
Poole considered this and his eyebrows crept together just a bit. "You seem a little cynical, Ms Rolland." It was not a question.
"Not cynical. I am just a little too familiar with it all and wishing I wasn't." She leaned back in her seat, turned slightly, and gestured toward the hallway at the back of the auditorium. "Both candidates are out there now, focused on looking calm and confident for the cameras, answering questions with self-assurance but not arrogance. The A-list reporters are there with them, getting their sound bytes and not asking anything too hard. Don't want to acquire a reputation for being difficult, you know."
She turned the other way and gestured toward the backstage area. "The surrogates are back there, giving their unbiased assessment that their candidate won the debate hands down, and if -- God forbid -- either of the candidates actually said something original or unexpected, they're working their magic to explain it away or exploit it. The second tier reporters, locals, and bloggers are there, lapping it up."
A woman interrupted her silently, stepping up next to the chair and waiting for her to finish. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and carried a hard plastic case; she smiled when Rolland looked at her. "Your mics and your IFB, Miss Rolland," she said simply.
Rolland's eyes flickered to the ID hanging around her neck -- one of the locals. Wordlessly, she unclipped the dual lapel microphones from her dress and handed them to the woman. As she nestled them into their niches in the foam interior of the box, she hummed softly. Rolland reached up with one hand and took the IFB out of her ear, unplugged the cord, and handed the device to her. The woman nodded her thanks and packed the IFB in the box, as well.
"If you don't think the debates are worthwhile, why moderate one of them?" Poole asked.
Rolland shook her head. "Because it's all part of the dance. Every four years, two candidates battle it out for the presidency, and we're expected to hold debates as though how well a person stands up under the lights and how eloquent they are, actually has something to do with how well they'll govern. Meanwhile, the candidates have spent the last couple of years playing water polo with every other candidate in their party, shoving them underwater and standing on their shoulders so they can make it to the top spot. Once there, they balance their time between modestly pointing out how likeable, intelligent, and well-equipped they are for the office and pumping out attack ads that make the other guy look like Darth Vader going through nicotine withdrawal."
The woman closed the lid on the plastic case and snapped the tabs shut with a click. "Thank you, Miss Rolland. Good job, tonight."
Rolland smiled. "Thank you --" She glanced at the ID again, "-- Peggy. You and the rest of the production crew have been really great. Top notch."
Peggy smiled shyly. "We try. Now I just want to finish up here so I can make it to the shelter in time."
Poole actually looked at her for the first time. "Shelter?"
"The Division Street Mission, Mister Poole. I do the overnight shift there on the weekends -- I volunteer through my church. There's a bunch of us who do it." She glanced toward the back of the auditorium, then back to him. "You know, it gives the workers a break. They sure can use it too."
"I suppose so."
"I like it -- gives me something meaningful to do after all this --" she rolled her eyes and gestured toward the entire room. "I mean, I love my job, but there's only so much of this craziness I can take." Her eyes traveled to the back of the auditorium again and she sighed. "Excuse me."
As Peggy left, Katherine Rolland looked at her notes one more time and then slid them into a thin portfolio. "And Sunday, this will be all the talk of the interview programs. Lots of in-depth analysis and augury, 'til every last word and gesture has been dissected and its influence debated."
Poole nodded. "I like watching those shows."
"I'm glad somebody does. It's bad enough having to be on them -- can't imagine... well, never mind. The point is, we tend to assign more meaning to things than they actually have. In the end, any presidential campaign is just two guys slugging it out -- trying to prove that they are smarter, tougher, stronger, more compassionate, and more deeply spiritual than the other guy. You remember those bum fighting videos from a few years ago? It's like that -- except it is two rich guys beating the snot out of one another and the winner gets to be president."
Poole frowned. "I think I'm a little sorry I talked to you, Ms. Rolland."
Rolland shrugged. "Sorry. You caught me on a bad night -- my censor burned out because my BS filter got clogged tonight." She stood up and stretched discreetly. "You know, I used to have a lot cuter analogy -- I compared the presidential campaign to a couple of puppies, stepping on one another to get to the food dish. Then I realized that it's way more cutthroat than that."
"Excuse me..."
Both turned toward the sound of the voice and found that Peggy had rejoined them on the stage. She nodded toward a small knot of girls in green uniforms, standing deferentially to one side. "Listen, my daughter -- she's over there, with my scout troop -- my daughter wanted to know if either of you would like a water. They brought some extras." As if to back up her claim, she held up a pair of water bottles.
Rolland smiled mechanically. "Actually, Peggy, I think I'm going to need something a lot..." She hesitated, trailed off, and then smiled again. "No, thank you." She looked past Peggy, to the girls. "No thank you, ladies. But that was nice of you." They giggled and whispered to one another, embarrassed to be addressed directly by a TV star.
Poole just shook his head, waved it off.
Peggy smiled, nodded. "Okay, just checking. Time to get out of here -- I can still get my daughter to her grandma's and make it to the shelter, if the rest of the girls get picked up on time."
"At Grandma's for the weekend?" Rolland asked, in spite of herself. Too many years of asking questions... she thought.
For just a moment, Peggy's smile melted, then was back. "Only for another few months. Her daddy'll be back from deployment in February. Then if he doesn't want to work at the shelter, I can still go and she'll just stay home."
"I see. Well, good luck with that," Rolland added, not sure what else to say.
Peggy nodded, smiled, and turned away.
Resuming, then, Poole said, "You paint a pretty grim picture, Ms. Rolland."
She sighed. "Just a realistic one, Principal Poole. Politics isn't patty cake -- the candidates are running for the toughest job in the world. They need to be just as tough, and a little bit ruthless, to get it."
"I remember that somebody once said that anyone who campaigns for the presidency probably shouldn't be trusted with it."
"Makes sense to me."
"Then maybe that's the problem -- we're looking to put the wrong people into office," Poole said slowly. "Maybe we don't want fighters -- maybe we want people that are more concerned with doing for others than themselves. Forget winning at any cost."
Rolland smiled crookedly. "Your mother raised a very naive man, Mister Poole. Politics is a real-world sport, not some fantasy game. Where would you ever find people like that -- and what do you think they'd be able to do?"
Poole blinked at the question, as he watched Peggy herd her scout troop toward the auditorium doors. Across the empty auditorium now he heard them giggling as they went out through the double doors. "I don't know," he said wistfully. "But it might be nice to find out."
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published October 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
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StoryShare, September 23, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
"Standing Up to the General" by Frank Ramirez
"God's Way or My Way?" by Sandra Herrmann
"Candidates" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Standing Up to the General
by Frank Ramirez
Proverbs 31:10-31
She opens her hand to the poor, and reaches out her hands to the needy. ...Strength and dignity are her clothing, and she laughs at the time to come.
-- Proverbs 31:20, 25
Even before the Civil War Ann Gilbert Rowland (1811-1888) had already demonstrated that she could remain calm and self-possessed in the worst of calamites and the toughest of circumstances -- war. Rowland wasn't afraid of anyone or anything, so even the infamous General Robert E. Lee of the invading Confederate Army, in 1863, didn't intimidate her.
One of the plain people, Ann Rowland dressed austerely, wearing the prayer covering and bonnet that was a part of their religious faithfulness. She and her husband Jonas lived near Longmeadow, Maryland, a few miles north of Hagerstown. She, Jonas, and their eight children were active members of the Dunker congregation in that area.
Ann took an active part in the economic and political life of the region. She was well known in the community for her charity to the poor and indigent, whom she often fed. She was active in the temperance movement. Some years before she had worked tirelessly in her area to expand the voting franchise, which in the young American republic was originally limited to white, male property owners, to now include all males, regardless of whether they owned property or not.
In 1850 some in her Longmeadow congregation proposed converting a worn-out school building into a new church meetinghouse. Ann and her husband opposed the measure as short-sighted. In response they donated the land for a new church, fired the bricks, laid the foundations, and led church members in the construction of the new meetinghouse, which they paid for themselves.
Her husband later injured himself badly and was disabled after attempting to move large stones used in the building of their barn. After he died in 1855, Ann continued to run the farm and its properties on her own.
During the Civil War, Maryland found itself in the awkward position of a slave state that remained in the Union. In 1862 the Confederate army invaded the state. Ann's church, the Dunkers, came to public attention during that campaign when the Dunker Meetinghouse near Sharpsburg became the landmark at the center of the Battle of Antietam, the bloodiest day in American history. Though Lee had hoped to impress the Marylanders so they would switch sides, the loss of the crucial battle along with the ragged appearance of his troops appalled many.
Nevertheless Lee's army once again invaded Maryland in 1863, prior to crossing over into Pennsylvania for the decisive Battle of Gettysburg. When the Confederates arrived in the Longmeadow area the residents braced themselves for the inevitable theft of their farm animals and stores of food by the invaders.
As it turned out, Lee's army spent a week in the Longmeadow area and used the local Dunker church for its headquarters. Ann Rowland marched over to the simple meetinghouse, refusing to stop when ordered by the sentries. Instead, she went boldly up to General Lee and informed him that she was taking the church's Bible away with her before it too was confiscated by his army. General Lee, impressed with her boldness, assured her that if she left it there for their morning devotions, he would personally see to it that it remained where it belonged.
A few days later Ann Rowland hid her most prized horse, Old Jen, in a hidden alcove in the barn, while the other horses were being stolen by the Confederates. No one counted on Old Jen panicking that she was somehow left out of the excitement, and her neigh drew the attention of the Confederates, who found her hiding place and took her as well.
Rowland once more marched over to the church and demanded the horse's return. The General complied.
Despite the theft of much of her property, Ann Rowland was appalled by the hunger of the troops. Like other Dunkers during that war, she took seriously the command of Jesus to "Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you... (Luke 6:27)." She baked bread and gave it freely to the starving Confederate soldiers.
She charged, however, for the meat that she served during the week that those troops camped in the area, meat that she kept hidden in a secret place above the smokehouse. Once, when a soldier followed her to discover the hiding place, she held out her carving knife and told him not to take another step closer. The soldier, who knew nothing of the nonviolent beliefs of the Dunkers, complied. Later, General Lee posted guards to protect the meager supplies she had left.
Sometimes the description of the household manager portrayed in Proverbs 31:10-31 is used as an over-pious description of what some imagine to be the perfect wife -- but in both biblical and early American history the woman was often expected to be the financial and agricultural manager of all the farm's enterprises. Ann Rowland displayed many of the qualities of the competent manager described in the biblical text.
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.
God's Way or My Way?
by Sandra Herrmann
Proverbs 31:10-31; James 3:13--4:3, 7-8a
Race Patterson was pacing up and down the living room in his hotel suite. Gordon West was watching and listening, because when Race got into pacing, anything anyone said would be held against them. Things had been going well until the latest TV ads appeared. No one knew who sponsored them, but they were a slap in the face to Race, who had -- until these ads -- been the frontrunner for the Senate seat he wanted.
Francine Cotton leaned against the TV console, her arms folded across her middle. But this was not a protective stance. It was her way of keeping her own words sweet and mild. As Race passed her on his third circuit of the room, she moved slightly, sighing as she took in a breath.
"Don't bother, Francine. I'm thinking this through. Just give me some space."
"What's to think through, Race?" she asked. "We have a campaign, a plan, and an agreement on the tenor of the race. The only thing to think about is whether you want to stick to the plan or change your approach, get down in the muck with the rest of them."
"Easy to say, Francine! Easy for us to decide in advance. But we have to decide what response to make to these latest ads! They make me look like a fool -- like a fool who has no idea what I'm getting into."
Gordon lifted a finger for Race's attention. "This is what I warned you about in the beginning, Race. When you said you 'had to remain true to your faith and values.' I told you then, once you're on the level of running for the Senate, you have to have big backers. Compromises have to be made. You want that office, you've got to get real. That kind of power attracts the sharks. You've got to get shark-proof."
Race stopped pacing. "What kind of a statesman would I be if I sell out to get the votes? I'm not running for the Senate for the power, unless it's the power to change the world for the better."
Gordon snorted and rested his back against the wall. "First you've gotta get the votes, my man. Plenty of time to change the world once you're elected."
Francine held out her hands toward Gordon. "And if we win the office by selling out to special interests, what then? They don't put their money into candidates who won't follow through once they have the office." She turned to Race. "If you stick to your principles, people will vote for you. And then you have the opportunities to begin to do what you're running for."
"Yeah, yeah," Gordon sneered. "The humble statesman seeking to serve the people. It's a great gimmick, but we are way behind in the money game, so we have no way to respond to these ads even if you wanted to, which evidently you don't. I'm telling you, Race, you have to make a couple of deals here. But don't pay any attention to me," he added, nodding toward Francine, "let her tell the press you're not a politician. But I'm warning you, if you want the office, you have to make some compromises, some deals with those who can help you get those votes. You think Jamieson is running those ads? No way. He's got these other organizations running those ads. Not one penny from his official coffers has been spent yet.
"For God's sake, Race, don't you see what's going on here? You think Jamieson ties the hands of his people when they have the opportunity to get big money to run that kind of ad?"
Race frowned at Gordon. "You think that Jamieson agreed to those ads? That he had some hand in their creation?"
"Oh brother!" Gordon raised his hands toward the ceiling. "No. I doubt that Jamieson had a hand in their creation. But he's hitched his wagon to these groups who can run those ads on his behalf, and he can truthfully say that he had nothing to do with it. He's made them some promises, my friend, and they've taken off to make you look weak and foolish so their boy can be elected. Now, I've got some guys who would like to talk to us, and they have the wherewithal to launch some ads in Jamieson's direction. You don't necessarily have to commit but just listen to what they want, Race."
"And what is it they want, Gordon?" Francine asked.
"They want Race! They want a guy who's as good as his word! They want a guy with some ambition! Ambition is not a dirty word, Francine! Nobody wants a wimp and nobody's going to vote for a wimp. You've got to show these guys that Race has got some strength, Francine. Honestly, don't you want Race to be our next Senator? Don't you have any ambition for him to win and serve?"
Race held up a hand. "Don't even bother to answer, Francine." He turned away from both of them, walked over to the window, and pulled back a curtain so he could look down on the Convention Center across the street. He stood for a long moment, so long that it seemed he had forgotten both of his advisors. But at last he turned back toward the room, letting the curtain fall back in place.
"I need to pray about all this." He turned and walked into the bedroom, closing the door quietly behind him.
Gordon shook his head from side to side, sighing. Francine just looked at the floor. The silence dragged on, as they waited for Race to re-emerge from the bedroom.
"Prayer," Gordon scoffed. "Does God ever tell us to go for it?"
"Often," Francine replied softly. "It's just hard for us to listen."
Nearly an hour later, Race emerged from the bedroom. Gordon and Francine eyed their boss closely. He looked more tired than he had when he left them. They both waited in silence.
Finally, Race said, "I always thought that God wanted me to run for this office. And I always thought that I knew what He wanted me to accomplish. But I cannot forget that God's ways are not the way of the world. And neither can you, Gordon. It may sound weird to the world, even to those who vote for me, but I really want to be a statesman, someone I can be proud of, not a politician whose sole ambition is to win election after election. I hope I win. I want to win. But some costs are too high. I want to be a peacemaker, not a powerbroker."
"Yeah, good luck with that," Gordon said and left the room.
Francine turned away, but she smiled to herself. A little prayer seemed to go a long way. As long as Race was at peace with himself, she knew he would do well.
Race shrugged. To himself, he said, "Well, win or lose, I have to be true to myself and God." He picked up his coat and invited Francine to the hotel restaurant for dinner.
Sandra Herrmann is a retired United Methodist pastor living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin.
Candidates
by Keith Hewitt
Mark 9:30-37
The lights had been off for almost twenty minutes now, but the auditorium stage was still hot -- a fact Mark Poole remarked upon as he took a tissue from his pocket and dabbed sweat from his brow. He'd considered, briefly, the possibility that he was feverish, decided that it was far more likely the thousands of watts of carefully balanced lighting that had flooded the stage for the better part of two hours.
Katherine Rolland looked up from the papers spread in front of her on the desk -- printouts of everything she had asked, with written notes and hasty transcriptions of the others' questions -- looked around the auditorium, then back at Poole, and shrugged. "You can't release that much hot air in a confined space and not expect it to stay warm for a while," she explained, her voice and expression serious. Only the faintest twinkle in her hazel eyes hinted that there might be some lightness to her answer.
Poole nodded. "I suppose so." Absently, he looked toward stage left, where two men were reeling up cable, pulling it up, and ripping tape loose from the floor as they walked. Poole winced a little -- the janitors had spent a great deal of time refinishing the hardwood floor, and he was just sure he could see the finish peeling off with the industrial grade duct tape. He made a mental note not to see any emails from the Maintenance Department on Monday. "Still, in all, I think it went okay," he said softly, turned to the woman behind the desk and asked, "What do you think?"
Without missing a beat, Rolland gathered the papers together, tapped them into a neat sheaf, and held them at an angle as she sat up straight and looked directly at him. "The two presidential candidates sparred tonight on a high school stage in the battleground state of Wisconsin. Neither candidate made any serious gaffes when answering questions from the panel of journalists or those submitted by voters across the country via Facebook and Twitter. They did address one another directly, several times, exchanging verbal jabs over their experience, record, and the perceived failure by both sides to live up to previous commitments to stick to positive messaging in their commercials."
Poole blinked. "I'm impressed."
One corner of Rolland's mouth curled upward. "Don't be. I wrote that three days ago in a hotel room in Miami. Or was it Detroit?" She paused and shrugged. "No matter. I already knew how it was going to go, unless someone seriously screwed up -- and that just wasn't going to happen. Their handlers have them conditioned like Pavlov's dogs -- there's a programmed answer for everything. All they have to do is consider who asked it, where they are, and who their audience is. Isolate the variables, then -- bing! -- out pops the right answer."
Poole considered this and his eyebrows crept together just a bit. "You seem a little cynical, Ms Rolland." It was not a question.
"Not cynical. I am just a little too familiar with it all and wishing I wasn't." She leaned back in her seat, turned slightly, and gestured toward the hallway at the back of the auditorium. "Both candidates are out there now, focused on looking calm and confident for the cameras, answering questions with self-assurance but not arrogance. The A-list reporters are there with them, getting their sound bytes and not asking anything too hard. Don't want to acquire a reputation for being difficult, you know."
She turned the other way and gestured toward the backstage area. "The surrogates are back there, giving their unbiased assessment that their candidate won the debate hands down, and if -- God forbid -- either of the candidates actually said something original or unexpected, they're working their magic to explain it away or exploit it. The second tier reporters, locals, and bloggers are there, lapping it up."
A woman interrupted her silently, stepping up next to the chair and waiting for her to finish. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and carried a hard plastic case; she smiled when Rolland looked at her. "Your mics and your IFB, Miss Rolland," she said simply.
Rolland's eyes flickered to the ID hanging around her neck -- one of the locals. Wordlessly, she unclipped the dual lapel microphones from her dress and handed them to the woman. As she nestled them into their niches in the foam interior of the box, she hummed softly. Rolland reached up with one hand and took the IFB out of her ear, unplugged the cord, and handed the device to her. The woman nodded her thanks and packed the IFB in the box, as well.
"If you don't think the debates are worthwhile, why moderate one of them?" Poole asked.
Rolland shook her head. "Because it's all part of the dance. Every four years, two candidates battle it out for the presidency, and we're expected to hold debates as though how well a person stands up under the lights and how eloquent they are, actually has something to do with how well they'll govern. Meanwhile, the candidates have spent the last couple of years playing water polo with every other candidate in their party, shoving them underwater and standing on their shoulders so they can make it to the top spot. Once there, they balance their time between modestly pointing out how likeable, intelligent, and well-equipped they are for the office and pumping out attack ads that make the other guy look like Darth Vader going through nicotine withdrawal."
The woman closed the lid on the plastic case and snapped the tabs shut with a click. "Thank you, Miss Rolland. Good job, tonight."
Rolland smiled. "Thank you --" She glanced at the ID again, "-- Peggy. You and the rest of the production crew have been really great. Top notch."
Peggy smiled shyly. "We try. Now I just want to finish up here so I can make it to the shelter in time."
Poole actually looked at her for the first time. "Shelter?"
"The Division Street Mission, Mister Poole. I do the overnight shift there on the weekends -- I volunteer through my church. There's a bunch of us who do it." She glanced toward the back of the auditorium, then back to him. "You know, it gives the workers a break. They sure can use it too."
"I suppose so."
"I like it -- gives me something meaningful to do after all this --" she rolled her eyes and gestured toward the entire room. "I mean, I love my job, but there's only so much of this craziness I can take." Her eyes traveled to the back of the auditorium again and she sighed. "Excuse me."
As Peggy left, Katherine Rolland looked at her notes one more time and then slid them into a thin portfolio. "And Sunday, this will be all the talk of the interview programs. Lots of in-depth analysis and augury, 'til every last word and gesture has been dissected and its influence debated."
Poole nodded. "I like watching those shows."
"I'm glad somebody does. It's bad enough having to be on them -- can't imagine... well, never mind. The point is, we tend to assign more meaning to things than they actually have. In the end, any presidential campaign is just two guys slugging it out -- trying to prove that they are smarter, tougher, stronger, more compassionate, and more deeply spiritual than the other guy. You remember those bum fighting videos from a few years ago? It's like that -- except it is two rich guys beating the snot out of one another and the winner gets to be president."
Poole frowned. "I think I'm a little sorry I talked to you, Ms. Rolland."
Rolland shrugged. "Sorry. You caught me on a bad night -- my censor burned out because my BS filter got clogged tonight." She stood up and stretched discreetly. "You know, I used to have a lot cuter analogy -- I compared the presidential campaign to a couple of puppies, stepping on one another to get to the food dish. Then I realized that it's way more cutthroat than that."
"Excuse me..."
Both turned toward the sound of the voice and found that Peggy had rejoined them on the stage. She nodded toward a small knot of girls in green uniforms, standing deferentially to one side. "Listen, my daughter -- she's over there, with my scout troop -- my daughter wanted to know if either of you would like a water. They brought some extras." As if to back up her claim, she held up a pair of water bottles.
Rolland smiled mechanically. "Actually, Peggy, I think I'm going to need something a lot..." She hesitated, trailed off, and then smiled again. "No, thank you." She looked past Peggy, to the girls. "No thank you, ladies. But that was nice of you." They giggled and whispered to one another, embarrassed to be addressed directly by a TV star.
Poole just shook his head, waved it off.
Peggy smiled, nodded. "Okay, just checking. Time to get out of here -- I can still get my daughter to her grandma's and make it to the shelter, if the rest of the girls get picked up on time."
"At Grandma's for the weekend?" Rolland asked, in spite of herself. Too many years of asking questions... she thought.
For just a moment, Peggy's smile melted, then was back. "Only for another few months. Her daddy'll be back from deployment in February. Then if he doesn't want to work at the shelter, I can still go and she'll just stay home."
"I see. Well, good luck with that," Rolland added, not sure what else to say.
Peggy nodded, smiled, and turned away.
Resuming, then, Poole said, "You paint a pretty grim picture, Ms. Rolland."
She sighed. "Just a realistic one, Principal Poole. Politics isn't patty cake -- the candidates are running for the toughest job in the world. They need to be just as tough, and a little bit ruthless, to get it."
"I remember that somebody once said that anyone who campaigns for the presidency probably shouldn't be trusted with it."
"Makes sense to me."
"Then maybe that's the problem -- we're looking to put the wrong people into office," Poole said slowly. "Maybe we don't want fighters -- maybe we want people that are more concerned with doing for others than themselves. Forget winning at any cost."
Rolland smiled crookedly. "Your mother raised a very naive man, Mister Poole. Politics is a real-world sport, not some fantasy game. Where would you ever find people like that -- and what do you think they'd be able to do?"
Poole blinked at the question, as he watched Peggy herd her scout troop toward the auditorium doors. Across the empty auditorium now he heard them giggling as they went out through the double doors. "I don't know," he said wistfully. "But it might be nice to find out."
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published October 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
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StoryShare, September 23, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
