A Thanksgiving Reflection
Stories
NOTE: This installment covers both Thanksgiving Day and Christ The King Sunday.
The Lord has done many great things. We need to give thanks for bad and good news. However, let's do something a little different -- instead of asking God to intervene because of bad news -- let's thank God for every good thing: every tiny, small, GOOD thing. Let's pay attention to the glorious gift of life we have been given. Let's get a little uncomfortable and enjoy the good things. Let's dance and sing and laugh and love! Happy Thanksgiving!
A Thanksgiving Reflection
By Rick McCracken-Bennett
Do not fear, O soil; be glad and rejoice, for the Lord has done great things!"
-- Joel 2:21
A friend of mine recently took her daughter to the doctor fearing that she had broken her wrist. In tow, as well, was her youngest, a pre-school boy. After a half an hour of fidgeting in the waiting room they were led to the exam room. The physician came in and after a quick look-see, had a nurse take the girl for an x-ray. All the while, the boy sat in a corner chair, playing with some toy or another, totally oblivious to the events swirling around him.
After what seemed like an eternity, the doctor came back into the room and announced that he "had some good news, and some bad news. The good news is that your wrist is not broken." And from the corner of the room, without even looking up, her little brother asked, "What's the bad news?"
I wonder if today, on this national day of Thanksgiving, we couldn't ask the first question and, just for one day, or for this hour, not ask the second. For now take a look around our world in search of good news and not the bad. I'm not suggesting that we put our head in the sand and pretend we're living in Nirvana or Eden or over the rainbow. I just think that we would do well to think about and thank about the good news.
That's what I think our reading today from the book of Joel is trying to help us do. Yes, there have been bad times... really, really bad times. It's been so bad that even the soil of the earth, the animals of the field, the pastures and trees have been affected. But that was then. Now, the prophet tells them, is a time for being glad and rejoicing.
Time to thank God for the spring rain and the late fall rain. To dance for joy that the threshing floors are going to be full once again with grain and their vats with the finest wine and oil. There's food enough for all and, perhaps best of all, the shame they had felt for so very long is gone forever.
Now that's giving thanks! When God saves, the saving doesn't stop with people, the whole of creation gets in the act. Everything that God created benefits when God saves.
But have you noticed that when practically any group is praying together, a church or a small group or a family; that it's easy to think of things that are going badly and to ask God to intervene. Sickness, poor weather, national and regional disasters, hailstorms and tornados, victims of crime, victims of war... all of those spring immediately to our lips. And, I hasten to add, they should. These are things going on in our world that require God's attention. But when the invitation is given to share words of thanksgiving, the room goes oddly silent. Why is that? Are our eyes closed? Are we not paying attention? Or do we feel a bit silly saying what's on our mind?
Are we really ready to admit (especially for the guys) that the sunrise this morning took our breath away and almost brought us to tears with its beauty? Or tell about a simple kindness that a stranger bestowed on us? We might think to give thanks for the birth of a child, but forget to thank God for how the little creature smells, or curls its lip, or (you think anyway) recognizes Grandpa's voice.
If we took the time to think and make a list, I would bet that we really have a great deal to be thankful for. Good health, good kids, a roof over our heads, a few dollars in the bank after our bills, a car that runs most of the time, neighbors who look after our cats when we're away for more than a day, a cozy fire, the crunch of the grass after a good frost, the taste of a fantastic cup of coffee, and on and on. I'm not trying to be silly or cute, there are just so many gifts and blessings to be thankful for, that if we listed them all we would be here for a very long time.
So, just for today, if it comes into your mind like my friend's son to ask, "What's the bad news?" say to yourself, "Don't know, don't care, because I want to bask in the wonderful knowledge that God has richly blessed me and, for these few moments, that is all I need to know."
Rick McCracken-Bennett, an Episcopal priest and church planter, is 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. McCracken-Bennett has been an avid storyteller for almost 20 years, sharing his stories in churches, libraries, schools, and conferences. He is a member of the National Storytelling Network, the National Organization of Biblical Storytellers, and the Storytellers of Central Ohio. His doctoral thesis, Future Story, explored the use of stories to help bring about change in the church. McCracken-Bennett is a graduate of Findlay College, St. Meinrad School of Theology, and Seabury-Western Theological Seminary.
See?
David Mc McKirachan
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you -- you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, "What will we eat?" or "What will we drink?" or "What will we wear?" For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.
-- Matthew 6:25-33
This chunk of scripture opens two doors for me. One of them brings me to a hill above a banana grove on the eastern bank of the Sea of Galilee. I stood there and saw the hill curving away at my feet like an amphitheater to the right and left. The guide told me that tradition has it that this was the sight of the Sermon on the Mount. It makes sense. He could have sat down there in the banana grove, spoken in normal tones, and been heard by everyone on the hill, with 20,000 women and kids. And as he spoke, their view was not only of him, but of the hills that fall away down to the water of the sea. It is a place of green and blooming. "Consider the lilies..." would have been accompanied with a sweep of his hand.
The other door opens onto walks with my mother. She was so close to the earth and sometimes I thought she practiced the old religions by the light of the moon. Anything she touched bloomed with abandon. Anytime we walked anywhere it was an education in seeing, appreciating, and sensing the connections that are there among all things. She knew the Latin names of every weed and flower. She recognized every bird by its song and plumage. But names and categories were only labels. She knew them, saw them, appreciated them, and knew how to share life with them. We invariably came home from our walks with a salad, picked by the wayside.
We live horribly separated lives. We yearn for the touch of love every day. We ache to be known by another, to trust and be appreciated for whom we are, not what we do and thus judged by what we don't. But we live in fear and separation as a rule. It is exhausting and debilitating. To pause in our rush of fatigue and stress is almost more than we can manage. Yet this day of Thanksgiving draws us like a magnet even in our brokenness. We want something that just might be here, even if we don't quite know how to find it.
These two humans, the Lord and my mother shared something very basic, though separated by millennia. Both were connected to the world around them by a deep appreciation for the gift of life and all its diverse glory. They paid attention. They saw. And it made them grateful. Their connection to life made them children of eternity. It's what makes any of us blessed enough to share the gift eternal. And in the face of such wonder and delight, anxiety doesn't have a chance.
On this day of remembrance, I pray that perhaps we might pause long enough to actually notice the gift we've been given; to see; to embrace; to offer a profound "Wow!" to the universe and its maker. Just don't try to eat the weeds unless you know what you've picked.
Chow Down
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 126
We are a strange society. Maybe we've gotten so comfortable as a rule that we have no authentic emotional reactions. Since death is so hidden we don't appreciate life. Since we spend so much time watching "reality" TV we have little connection with the real world. Since we have such carefully sanitized and climate-controlled environments we may understand the seasons and the weather objectively, but we don't know the feel of the ooze of mud and the impact of an icy breath. When was the last time we were truly hungry, or bone tired from a day of work in the fields? And our relationships are conducted through the type of email and text messaging. Once I asked a premarital couple that if their careers took them in different directions, how would they run their marriage. They looked at each other and immediately agreed that they'd have to split up. I wouldn't marry them. But then I'm a Neanderthal.
I hear the complaints about our celebration of Thanksgiving Day and I'm puzzled. We humans have celebrated the harvest since we could grunt. We've feasted and chanted and sung and played games and jumped up and down and laughed and made a mess and cleaned it up and went back at it again, snoring in our fullness. Anthropologically, such ridiculous behavior is a combination coping mechanism that denies the specter of famine that stalks us in our collective unconscious and a childish sensual wallow.
Well, being an affirmed throwback, and one who finds reality TV more obscene than any x-rated movie, and one who spends a good amount of my time at the juncture of life and death, and one who loves to grunt, I'd like to put in a vote for a groaning board and gathering of the tribe and cheering at football games. Yeah, yeah, I know, how can a registered Christian liberal with multiple graduate degrees be so primitive and uncultured? Good grief. I'M HUMAN!
We were designed to live in a pile and love it. We were designed to love each other and grasp life with both hands lifting it to the boss with joy. That's Thanksgiving. Maybe we ought to fast once in a while to get in touch with hunger. We definitely should spend more time in the dirt. But on this day we need to dance like fools and remember the one who plays the tune of life. Today we are the family of God, AND GOD LOVES US! So stop worrying. Chow down. And for God's sake, let's enjoy ourselves. (Burps are legal on Thanksgiving). Oh, and don't forget, Go Giants! Isn't that primitive?
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
Seeing The End
By David O. Bales
John to the seven churches that are in Asia: Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.
To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.
Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail. So it is to be. Amen. "I am the Alpha and the Omega," says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.
-- Revelation 1:4b-8
"At least the preacher wasn't too religious," James said. He pouched out his cheeks as was his older brother manner when speaking the summary of his thoughts.
"And he pronounced 'Smythe' correctly," Dorie said. "Better than that preacher at Aunt Wilma's funeral." She sat at the kitchen table, looking right and left as she spoke to her two brothers. The early evening wind blew hard against the house. Everyone else had left the reception at their father's home. Just the three grown children now, without their spouses, in the kitchen of their dead parents' home.
James and Dorie looked at Phil because, by a lifetime of practice, it was now his turn in the rotation to comment on their father's funeral. Dorie tapped her foot under the kitchen table. James remained standing, arms crossed, back against the refrigerator.
Beside the kitchen window Phil watched the wind strip the last leaves from their parents' giant cherry tree. He was 35 and the youngest. He chewed his gum slowly. His sister and brother waited as they listened to the breeze. Phil was next in the siblings' order to speak.
James, deciding to wait no longer, coughed and offered another observation. "And the music wasn't as bad as I feared." He ended the sentence on an upturn, for Phil to pick up conversation; but, Phil furrowed his brow with a deeper look of concentration.
"I think mom would have liked it," Dorie said, tapping her foot now against the leg of the kitchen table. She turned again to Phil as though handing a baton. But the room fell silent. After two or three minutes, James said, "Come on, Phil." He held out his arms toward Phil. "What did you think of Dad's funeral?"
Phil moved a step toward them, although still half turned to the window. The wind pushed a few drops of rain sideways against the glass. He spoke quietly, "Dad kept saying he wanted to see the end of the building project."
James said, "Absolutely. He was fixated on it. Even when I was here a month ago and he'd entered the hospital for the first time, he'd say, 'I want to see the end of it.' "
Their father had taken the chairmanship of the church's fund-raising for a new building. The congregation had raised the money and the construction of the gym and classroom complex was nearly complete.
"I'm just amazed he got into the religion stuff at all," Dorie said. "He never even talked about church when we were kids. I think neighbors took him to church after Mom died."
"Well, they saw his abilities real fast," James said. "They threw him into the chairmanship after only a couple years. 'I've got to see the end of it,' he'd say. Like he was obsessed. I thought maybe in the last month he'd had a little stroke thrown into his heart problems."
Phil said, "I was able to drive and visit him once a week in the last month and a half before he died, and he had graphs and charts and blueprints in the house. He was pretty sincere about it. 'I got it started. I want to see the end of it.' Seems that's all he could think of."
"But the service," Dorie said, bringing them back to the subject at hand.
"It was short enough," James said as he laughed, "even though the preacher wandered from beginning to end. He seemed like the cowboy who jumped on his horse and rode off in all directions."
"Yeah," Dorie said, "but he made such a big deal out of Dad's peace at the end, even when he read from that Revelations book."
"He was trying to make a point, I could tell," James said. "It sailed over me, and I think over everybody. Who reads Revelations at a funeral? Pretty baffling stuff: alpha, omega."
Dorie said, "I think he said that seven times in seven minutes, and each time talking about how calm Dad had been during the last week."
"That he was," James said. "In fact, a couple times when I was with him in the hospital he smiled and cried at the same time. He wasn't upset. I'm sure, even though he couldn't talk well. And like a recording he mentioned the end again. The last thing he mumbled was that he'd seen the end. And he smiled. I guess I hadn't told you two that."
"No," Dorie said, "you hadn't. He smiled? Said he'd seen the end?"
Phil was chewing his gum harder, brow more wrinkled, nearly a frown. "That Revelation the pastor read." Dorie and James nodded their heads. "The alpha and omega he kept repeating."
"Those are Greek letters," James said. "I wondered when he read it if that's why fraternities got Greek letters."
Phil stopped chewing his gum, "Well, alpha and omega are the beginning and end of the Greek alphabet. And the Bible said that God was the alpha and the omega."
Dorie's foot stopped. Her eyes became very wide. "So God's the beginning," she said as she turned to James who spoke slowly, "and Dad saw the end."
David O. Bales has been a Presbyterian minister for 30 years. Recently retired as the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS). Bales is a graduate of the University of Portland and San Francisco Theological Seminary.
One Day In Paradise
Frank Fisher
Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, "Are you the King of the Jews?" Jesus answered, "Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?" Pilate replied, "I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?" Jesus answered, "My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here." Pilate asked him, "So you are a king?" Jesus answered, "You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice."
-- John 18:33-37
The alarm sounded clearly as it rang through the firehouse on a bright September morning. It echoed loudly through the bunkroom, across the apparatus floor, and through the kitchen where he sat while sipping his coffee. Being used to the sound he didn't spill a single drop while he put down his cup and quickly folded the morning paper. After all, alarms were his business for he was a proud member of the New York City Fire Department.
His response to the alarm's tone showed the true nature of his professionalism. And without the slightest bit of wasted motion he donned his protective gear and took his place on the Hook and Ladder's jump seat. While he showed no outward emotion his mind was racing rapidly as it put together all the details of this particular alarm. It was at the World Trade Center again; a place where his company had been many times in the past. But the horrific nature of some past calls to that particular building kept him from seeing this as being merely routine.
Within minutes, the repeated upgrade of the alarm, reinforced the special urgency of this one alarm. That urgency overpowered all the details that were coming from his radio. An airplane had struck one of the twin towers. Already the fire on the upper floors was visibly intense.
But the fire's intensity made no difference. As his company pulled up on the street by the building, there was no thought in his mind about his own safety. After all there were people up there. There was no possibility that we would simply stand by and watch them burn.
Jumping off the truck he followed his lieutenant into the building and up the stairs. He knew exactly where they were going. For they'd drilled through this rescue many, many times before. Maybe it was their destination that made him run even more quickly then usual. There was a special urgency in his mind about rescues from day care centers. So he, and his partners, raced up the seemingly endless stairway.
Finally they reached their assignment. And reaching into a crib, he grabbed a baby, covered her securely with this fire coat and returned to the stairway. It was then that the radio echoed the call he'd never thought to hear.
"It's coming down! The tower's coming down! All hands get out of the building! All hands out of the building!"
For a few moments it looked like he'd make it. His feet seemed to sprout wings as he leaped downward toward safety. But then the stairs began to shake crazily. And he heard a rumble coming from above him. Without any hesitation he dropped to the floor of the nearest landing, and curled up in a ball around the child he held so securely.
It was weeks before they found him. All that was left of him was his torso. His head, arms, and legs had been crushed out of existence. But when they turned him over the baby was still beneath him. He never let go of the child he'd given his life to protect.
The alarm sounded clearly as it rang through the universe on a bright morning at the dawn of time. It echoed loudly through the rivers, across the hills, and upward through the stars. For a moment creation itself trembled with the intensity of the sound. But while creation trembled, the Creator did not. The alarm, after all, had been expected. It was one of the more unpleasant side effects from the creation of these beings called human whom the Creator loved so very much. And not even the fall of humans into darkness could shake that steadfast love.
As in all things the necessary response to the alarm was known at the beginning. To humans it seemed long indeed before it occurred. But to the Creator it seemed but an eye blink before a cry was heard from a stable in Bethlehem. Once again creation shook with the sound of this loud alarm. But those attending the birth simply smiled and cuddled the Crying One until peace was restored.
Peace however didn't seem to last long around the Child born that day. There was something special about the Child; something that stirred things up whenever the Child was around. Wise persons and angels attended the Child's birth. Humans of great knowledge marveled at the wisdom shown by the Child, who was now a Youth, during debates in the temple. Then the most incredible mixture of persons ever assembled began to follow the now full-grown Child across the hills of Galilee and through the streets of Jerusalem.
There was of course no doubt about the ending of those lengthy travels. And as the Creator had seen at time's start, the Creator's Child was questioned by Pontius Pilate before being sentenced to twist in agony on a hill called Golgotha. But even while the Child's arms lay pinned by spikes to blood-stained wood, the Child reached out to the humans who'd fastened him there. They reached out in forgiveness to the ones who'd driven the nails. They reached out in hope to the ones who twisted nearby. They reached out in life to all humans everywhere and as they reached out, the Child breathed a last breath. Then all creation screamed in pain and the darkness that had encircled humans seemed to cover all the earth.
For three days the darkness reigned. And then, came the light.
Then came the loving hug of living arms holding all humanity close. And nothing could loosen the Child's hold on the human beings the Child had died to protect.
The alarm will sound clearly as it rings through the skies on a bright morning at the end of time. It will echo loudly through the heavens, down across the earth, and through the graves in which we lie. No trace of darkness will remain on that day. For a blazing light will flash from the east as the King returns to bring the reign of the Creator's kingdom of everlasting light. No trace of sadness will remain on that day. All the Creator's people will dance on that day. We will laugh with joy with those we love and all the saints of light as we behold a New York City firefighter pass a giggling child to a pair of very proud parents. We will cry out with delight as we behold the King embrace one once known as a thief.
And hymns of gladness will fill the air as all human voices join the angels to give thanks to the One whose loving arms never let us go.
All praise be to the One who rescues us from darkness. All praise to the One who transfers us into God's kingdom, and Who bought our peace with the blood of the cross.
Frank R. Fisher, Obl OSB, is a second-career interim/transitional pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). He currently serves as the interim pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Bushnell, Illinois. During the final years of his first career as a paramedic and administrator for the Chicago Fire Department, Fisher graduated from McCormick Theological Seminary and was ordained. He is an Oblate of the ecumenical Abbey of John the Baptist and Saint Benedict in Bartonville, Illinois, where he has joined the rapidly growing number of those who are called to follow Saint Benedict's rule.
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StoryShare, November 26, 2006, issue.
Copyright 2006 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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The Lord has done many great things. We need to give thanks for bad and good news. However, let's do something a little different -- instead of asking God to intervene because of bad news -- let's thank God for every good thing: every tiny, small, GOOD thing. Let's pay attention to the glorious gift of life we have been given. Let's get a little uncomfortable and enjoy the good things. Let's dance and sing and laugh and love! Happy Thanksgiving!
A Thanksgiving Reflection
By Rick McCracken-Bennett
Do not fear, O soil; be glad and rejoice, for the Lord has done great things!"
-- Joel 2:21
A friend of mine recently took her daughter to the doctor fearing that she had broken her wrist. In tow, as well, was her youngest, a pre-school boy. After a half an hour of fidgeting in the waiting room they were led to the exam room. The physician came in and after a quick look-see, had a nurse take the girl for an x-ray. All the while, the boy sat in a corner chair, playing with some toy or another, totally oblivious to the events swirling around him.
After what seemed like an eternity, the doctor came back into the room and announced that he "had some good news, and some bad news. The good news is that your wrist is not broken." And from the corner of the room, without even looking up, her little brother asked, "What's the bad news?"
I wonder if today, on this national day of Thanksgiving, we couldn't ask the first question and, just for one day, or for this hour, not ask the second. For now take a look around our world in search of good news and not the bad. I'm not suggesting that we put our head in the sand and pretend we're living in Nirvana or Eden or over the rainbow. I just think that we would do well to think about and thank about the good news.
That's what I think our reading today from the book of Joel is trying to help us do. Yes, there have been bad times... really, really bad times. It's been so bad that even the soil of the earth, the animals of the field, the pastures and trees have been affected. But that was then. Now, the prophet tells them, is a time for being glad and rejoicing.
Time to thank God for the spring rain and the late fall rain. To dance for joy that the threshing floors are going to be full once again with grain and their vats with the finest wine and oil. There's food enough for all and, perhaps best of all, the shame they had felt for so very long is gone forever.
Now that's giving thanks! When God saves, the saving doesn't stop with people, the whole of creation gets in the act. Everything that God created benefits when God saves.
But have you noticed that when practically any group is praying together, a church or a small group or a family; that it's easy to think of things that are going badly and to ask God to intervene. Sickness, poor weather, national and regional disasters, hailstorms and tornados, victims of crime, victims of war... all of those spring immediately to our lips. And, I hasten to add, they should. These are things going on in our world that require God's attention. But when the invitation is given to share words of thanksgiving, the room goes oddly silent. Why is that? Are our eyes closed? Are we not paying attention? Or do we feel a bit silly saying what's on our mind?
Are we really ready to admit (especially for the guys) that the sunrise this morning took our breath away and almost brought us to tears with its beauty? Or tell about a simple kindness that a stranger bestowed on us? We might think to give thanks for the birth of a child, but forget to thank God for how the little creature smells, or curls its lip, or (you think anyway) recognizes Grandpa's voice.
If we took the time to think and make a list, I would bet that we really have a great deal to be thankful for. Good health, good kids, a roof over our heads, a few dollars in the bank after our bills, a car that runs most of the time, neighbors who look after our cats when we're away for more than a day, a cozy fire, the crunch of the grass after a good frost, the taste of a fantastic cup of coffee, and on and on. I'm not trying to be silly or cute, there are just so many gifts and blessings to be thankful for, that if we listed them all we would be here for a very long time.
So, just for today, if it comes into your mind like my friend's son to ask, "What's the bad news?" say to yourself, "Don't know, don't care, because I want to bask in the wonderful knowledge that God has richly blessed me and, for these few moments, that is all I need to know."
Rick McCracken-Bennett, an Episcopal priest and church planter, is 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. McCracken-Bennett has been an avid storyteller for almost 20 years, sharing his stories in churches, libraries, schools, and conferences. He is a member of the National Storytelling Network, the National Organization of Biblical Storytellers, and the Storytellers of Central Ohio. His doctoral thesis, Future Story, explored the use of stories to help bring about change in the church. McCracken-Bennett is a graduate of Findlay College, St. Meinrad School of Theology, and Seabury-Western Theological Seminary.
See?
David Mc McKirachan
Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing? Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they? And can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life? And why do you worry about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin, yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will he not much more clothe you -- you of little faith? Therefore do not worry, saying, "What will we eat?" or "What will we drink?" or "What will we wear?" For it is the Gentiles who strive for all these things; and indeed your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things. But strive first for the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be given to you as well.
-- Matthew 6:25-33
This chunk of scripture opens two doors for me. One of them brings me to a hill above a banana grove on the eastern bank of the Sea of Galilee. I stood there and saw the hill curving away at my feet like an amphitheater to the right and left. The guide told me that tradition has it that this was the sight of the Sermon on the Mount. It makes sense. He could have sat down there in the banana grove, spoken in normal tones, and been heard by everyone on the hill, with 20,000 women and kids. And as he spoke, their view was not only of him, but of the hills that fall away down to the water of the sea. It is a place of green and blooming. "Consider the lilies..." would have been accompanied with a sweep of his hand.
The other door opens onto walks with my mother. She was so close to the earth and sometimes I thought she practiced the old religions by the light of the moon. Anything she touched bloomed with abandon. Anytime we walked anywhere it was an education in seeing, appreciating, and sensing the connections that are there among all things. She knew the Latin names of every weed and flower. She recognized every bird by its song and plumage. But names and categories were only labels. She knew them, saw them, appreciated them, and knew how to share life with them. We invariably came home from our walks with a salad, picked by the wayside.
We live horribly separated lives. We yearn for the touch of love every day. We ache to be known by another, to trust and be appreciated for whom we are, not what we do and thus judged by what we don't. But we live in fear and separation as a rule. It is exhausting and debilitating. To pause in our rush of fatigue and stress is almost more than we can manage. Yet this day of Thanksgiving draws us like a magnet even in our brokenness. We want something that just might be here, even if we don't quite know how to find it.
These two humans, the Lord and my mother shared something very basic, though separated by millennia. Both were connected to the world around them by a deep appreciation for the gift of life and all its diverse glory. They paid attention. They saw. And it made them grateful. Their connection to life made them children of eternity. It's what makes any of us blessed enough to share the gift eternal. And in the face of such wonder and delight, anxiety doesn't have a chance.
On this day of remembrance, I pray that perhaps we might pause long enough to actually notice the gift we've been given; to see; to embrace; to offer a profound "Wow!" to the universe and its maker. Just don't try to eat the weeds unless you know what you've picked.
Chow Down
C. David McKirachan
Psalm 126
We are a strange society. Maybe we've gotten so comfortable as a rule that we have no authentic emotional reactions. Since death is so hidden we don't appreciate life. Since we spend so much time watching "reality" TV we have little connection with the real world. Since we have such carefully sanitized and climate-controlled environments we may understand the seasons and the weather objectively, but we don't know the feel of the ooze of mud and the impact of an icy breath. When was the last time we were truly hungry, or bone tired from a day of work in the fields? And our relationships are conducted through the type of email and text messaging. Once I asked a premarital couple that if their careers took them in different directions, how would they run their marriage. They looked at each other and immediately agreed that they'd have to split up. I wouldn't marry them. But then I'm a Neanderthal.
I hear the complaints about our celebration of Thanksgiving Day and I'm puzzled. We humans have celebrated the harvest since we could grunt. We've feasted and chanted and sung and played games and jumped up and down and laughed and made a mess and cleaned it up and went back at it again, snoring in our fullness. Anthropologically, such ridiculous behavior is a combination coping mechanism that denies the specter of famine that stalks us in our collective unconscious and a childish sensual wallow.
Well, being an affirmed throwback, and one who finds reality TV more obscene than any x-rated movie, and one who spends a good amount of my time at the juncture of life and death, and one who loves to grunt, I'd like to put in a vote for a groaning board and gathering of the tribe and cheering at football games. Yeah, yeah, I know, how can a registered Christian liberal with multiple graduate degrees be so primitive and uncultured? Good grief. I'M HUMAN!
We were designed to live in a pile and love it. We were designed to love each other and grasp life with both hands lifting it to the boss with joy. That's Thanksgiving. Maybe we ought to fast once in a while to get in touch with hunger. We definitely should spend more time in the dirt. But on this day we need to dance like fools and remember the one who plays the tune of life. Today we are the family of God, AND GOD LOVES US! So stop worrying. Chow down. And for God's sake, let's enjoy ourselves. (Burps are legal on Thanksgiving). Oh, and don't forget, Go Giants! Isn't that primitive?
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. Two of his books, I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder, have been published by Westminster John Knox Press. McKirachan was raised in a pastor's home and he is the brother of a pastor, and he has discovered his name indicates that he has druid roots. Storytelling seems to be a congenital disorder. He lives with his 21-year-old son Ben and his dog Sam.
Seeing The End
By David O. Bales
John to the seven churches that are in Asia: Grace to you and peace from him who is and who was and who is to come, and from the seven spirits who are before his throne, and from Jesus Christ, the faithful witness, the firstborn of the dead, and the ruler of the kings of the earth.
To him who loves us and freed us from our sins by his blood, and made us to be a kingdom, priests serving his God and Father, to him be glory and dominion for ever and ever. Amen.
Look! He is coming with the clouds; every eye will see him, even those who pierced him; and on his account all the tribes of the earth will wail. So it is to be. Amen. "I am the Alpha and the Omega," says the Lord God, who is and who was and who is to come, the Almighty.
-- Revelation 1:4b-8
"At least the preacher wasn't too religious," James said. He pouched out his cheeks as was his older brother manner when speaking the summary of his thoughts.
"And he pronounced 'Smythe' correctly," Dorie said. "Better than that preacher at Aunt Wilma's funeral." She sat at the kitchen table, looking right and left as she spoke to her two brothers. The early evening wind blew hard against the house. Everyone else had left the reception at their father's home. Just the three grown children now, without their spouses, in the kitchen of their dead parents' home.
James and Dorie looked at Phil because, by a lifetime of practice, it was now his turn in the rotation to comment on their father's funeral. Dorie tapped her foot under the kitchen table. James remained standing, arms crossed, back against the refrigerator.
Beside the kitchen window Phil watched the wind strip the last leaves from their parents' giant cherry tree. He was 35 and the youngest. He chewed his gum slowly. His sister and brother waited as they listened to the breeze. Phil was next in the siblings' order to speak.
James, deciding to wait no longer, coughed and offered another observation. "And the music wasn't as bad as I feared." He ended the sentence on an upturn, for Phil to pick up conversation; but, Phil furrowed his brow with a deeper look of concentration.
"I think mom would have liked it," Dorie said, tapping her foot now against the leg of the kitchen table. She turned again to Phil as though handing a baton. But the room fell silent. After two or three minutes, James said, "Come on, Phil." He held out his arms toward Phil. "What did you think of Dad's funeral?"
Phil moved a step toward them, although still half turned to the window. The wind pushed a few drops of rain sideways against the glass. He spoke quietly, "Dad kept saying he wanted to see the end of the building project."
James said, "Absolutely. He was fixated on it. Even when I was here a month ago and he'd entered the hospital for the first time, he'd say, 'I want to see the end of it.' "
Their father had taken the chairmanship of the church's fund-raising for a new building. The congregation had raised the money and the construction of the gym and classroom complex was nearly complete.
"I'm just amazed he got into the religion stuff at all," Dorie said. "He never even talked about church when we were kids. I think neighbors took him to church after Mom died."
"Well, they saw his abilities real fast," James said. "They threw him into the chairmanship after only a couple years. 'I've got to see the end of it,' he'd say. Like he was obsessed. I thought maybe in the last month he'd had a little stroke thrown into his heart problems."
Phil said, "I was able to drive and visit him once a week in the last month and a half before he died, and he had graphs and charts and blueprints in the house. He was pretty sincere about it. 'I got it started. I want to see the end of it.' Seems that's all he could think of."
"But the service," Dorie said, bringing them back to the subject at hand.
"It was short enough," James said as he laughed, "even though the preacher wandered from beginning to end. He seemed like the cowboy who jumped on his horse and rode off in all directions."
"Yeah," Dorie said, "but he made such a big deal out of Dad's peace at the end, even when he read from that Revelations book."
"He was trying to make a point, I could tell," James said. "It sailed over me, and I think over everybody. Who reads Revelations at a funeral? Pretty baffling stuff: alpha, omega."
Dorie said, "I think he said that seven times in seven minutes, and each time talking about how calm Dad had been during the last week."
"That he was," James said. "In fact, a couple times when I was with him in the hospital he smiled and cried at the same time. He wasn't upset. I'm sure, even though he couldn't talk well. And like a recording he mentioned the end again. The last thing he mumbled was that he'd seen the end. And he smiled. I guess I hadn't told you two that."
"No," Dorie said, "you hadn't. He smiled? Said he'd seen the end?"
Phil was chewing his gum harder, brow more wrinkled, nearly a frown. "That Revelation the pastor read." Dorie and James nodded their heads. "The alpha and omega he kept repeating."
"Those are Greek letters," James said. "I wondered when he read it if that's why fraternities got Greek letters."
Phil stopped chewing his gum, "Well, alpha and omega are the beginning and end of the Greek alphabet. And the Bible said that God was the alpha and the omega."
Dorie's foot stopped. Her eyes became very wide. "So God's the beginning," she said as she turned to James who spoke slowly, "and Dad saw the end."
David O. Bales has been a Presbyterian minister for 30 years. Recently retired as the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS). Bales is a graduate of the University of Portland and San Francisco Theological Seminary.
One Day In Paradise
Frank Fisher
Then Pilate entered the headquarters again, summoned Jesus, and asked him, "Are you the King of the Jews?" Jesus answered, "Do you ask this on your own, or did others tell you about me?" Pilate replied, "I am not a Jew, am I? Your own nation and the chief priests have handed you over to me. What have you done?" Jesus answered, "My kingdom is not from this world. If my kingdom were from this world, my followers would be fighting to keep me from being handed over to the Jews. But as it is, my kingdom is not from here." Pilate asked him, "So you are a king?" Jesus answered, "You say that I am a king. For this I was born, and for this I came into the world, to testify to the truth. Everyone who belongs to the truth listens to my voice."
-- John 18:33-37
The alarm sounded clearly as it rang through the firehouse on a bright September morning. It echoed loudly through the bunkroom, across the apparatus floor, and through the kitchen where he sat while sipping his coffee. Being used to the sound he didn't spill a single drop while he put down his cup and quickly folded the morning paper. After all, alarms were his business for he was a proud member of the New York City Fire Department.
His response to the alarm's tone showed the true nature of his professionalism. And without the slightest bit of wasted motion he donned his protective gear and took his place on the Hook and Ladder's jump seat. While he showed no outward emotion his mind was racing rapidly as it put together all the details of this particular alarm. It was at the World Trade Center again; a place where his company had been many times in the past. But the horrific nature of some past calls to that particular building kept him from seeing this as being merely routine.
Within minutes, the repeated upgrade of the alarm, reinforced the special urgency of this one alarm. That urgency overpowered all the details that were coming from his radio. An airplane had struck one of the twin towers. Already the fire on the upper floors was visibly intense.
But the fire's intensity made no difference. As his company pulled up on the street by the building, there was no thought in his mind about his own safety. After all there were people up there. There was no possibility that we would simply stand by and watch them burn.
Jumping off the truck he followed his lieutenant into the building and up the stairs. He knew exactly where they were going. For they'd drilled through this rescue many, many times before. Maybe it was their destination that made him run even more quickly then usual. There was a special urgency in his mind about rescues from day care centers. So he, and his partners, raced up the seemingly endless stairway.
Finally they reached their assignment. And reaching into a crib, he grabbed a baby, covered her securely with this fire coat and returned to the stairway. It was then that the radio echoed the call he'd never thought to hear.
"It's coming down! The tower's coming down! All hands get out of the building! All hands out of the building!"
For a few moments it looked like he'd make it. His feet seemed to sprout wings as he leaped downward toward safety. But then the stairs began to shake crazily. And he heard a rumble coming from above him. Without any hesitation he dropped to the floor of the nearest landing, and curled up in a ball around the child he held so securely.
It was weeks before they found him. All that was left of him was his torso. His head, arms, and legs had been crushed out of existence. But when they turned him over the baby was still beneath him. He never let go of the child he'd given his life to protect.
The alarm sounded clearly as it rang through the universe on a bright morning at the dawn of time. It echoed loudly through the rivers, across the hills, and upward through the stars. For a moment creation itself trembled with the intensity of the sound. But while creation trembled, the Creator did not. The alarm, after all, had been expected. It was one of the more unpleasant side effects from the creation of these beings called human whom the Creator loved so very much. And not even the fall of humans into darkness could shake that steadfast love.
As in all things the necessary response to the alarm was known at the beginning. To humans it seemed long indeed before it occurred. But to the Creator it seemed but an eye blink before a cry was heard from a stable in Bethlehem. Once again creation shook with the sound of this loud alarm. But those attending the birth simply smiled and cuddled the Crying One until peace was restored.
Peace however didn't seem to last long around the Child born that day. There was something special about the Child; something that stirred things up whenever the Child was around. Wise persons and angels attended the Child's birth. Humans of great knowledge marveled at the wisdom shown by the Child, who was now a Youth, during debates in the temple. Then the most incredible mixture of persons ever assembled began to follow the now full-grown Child across the hills of Galilee and through the streets of Jerusalem.
There was of course no doubt about the ending of those lengthy travels. And as the Creator had seen at time's start, the Creator's Child was questioned by Pontius Pilate before being sentenced to twist in agony on a hill called Golgotha. But even while the Child's arms lay pinned by spikes to blood-stained wood, the Child reached out to the humans who'd fastened him there. They reached out in forgiveness to the ones who'd driven the nails. They reached out in hope to the ones who twisted nearby. They reached out in life to all humans everywhere and as they reached out, the Child breathed a last breath. Then all creation screamed in pain and the darkness that had encircled humans seemed to cover all the earth.
For three days the darkness reigned. And then, came the light.
Then came the loving hug of living arms holding all humanity close. And nothing could loosen the Child's hold on the human beings the Child had died to protect.
The alarm will sound clearly as it rings through the skies on a bright morning at the end of time. It will echo loudly through the heavens, down across the earth, and through the graves in which we lie. No trace of darkness will remain on that day. For a blazing light will flash from the east as the King returns to bring the reign of the Creator's kingdom of everlasting light. No trace of sadness will remain on that day. All the Creator's people will dance on that day. We will laugh with joy with those we love and all the saints of light as we behold a New York City firefighter pass a giggling child to a pair of very proud parents. We will cry out with delight as we behold the King embrace one once known as a thief.
And hymns of gladness will fill the air as all human voices join the angels to give thanks to the One whose loving arms never let us go.
All praise be to the One who rescues us from darkness. All praise to the One who transfers us into God's kingdom, and Who bought our peace with the blood of the cross.
Frank R. Fisher, Obl OSB, is a second-career interim/transitional pastor in the Presbyterian Church (USA). He currently serves as the interim pastor of First Presbyterian Church in Bushnell, Illinois. During the final years of his first career as a paramedic and administrator for the Chicago Fire Department, Fisher graduated from McCormick Theological Seminary and was ordained. He is an Oblate of the ecumenical Abbey of John the Baptist and Saint Benedict in Bartonville, Illinois, where he has joined the rapidly growing number of those who are called to follow Saint Benedict's rule.
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StoryShare, November 26, 2006, issue.
Copyright 2006 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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