Trusting in God
Stories
Contents
“Trusting in God” by Peter Andrew Smith
“The Power of a Name” by David O. Bales
“Through A Dark Valley Toward the Table Of An Enemy” by David O. Bales
Trusting in God
by Peter Andrew Smith
1 John 3:16-24
Jane handed Mary a cup of coffee. “Is anyone else around?”
Mary shook her head. “No, Ken and Pastor Mark headed off to their meeting so it’s just the two of us at the church until they get back.”
“Good.” Jane sat down across the desk from Mary. “Can I ask you a question?”
Mary sat back in her chair and sipped at the beverage. “Certainly.”
“How did you know we should avoid the outreach effort?”
“Honestly? I didn’t.”
“Really?” Jane raised an eyebrow. “It seemed like you had a hint that something was amiss from the moment the group came to speak to us. All of us had some questions but we thought we should invest time and money from our church into their effort. They had a great plan, the team was experienced, and they brought something we didn’t have. From everything we saw the ministry was a good partner for us.”
Mary nodded. “They certainly did a great presentation. Stephen is someone with a great deal of experience and the need is certainly there among the street people.”
“Now I think it was a good thing we took some time to consider the proposal. We learned the hard way at this church not to rush into things like we did when we hired the associate.”
Mary sighed. “That wasn’t a wise thing to do before references were checked.”
Jane tilted her head. “Yet at the meeting when we had to make our decision, what was it that made you speak so confidently that we should not go ahead with their efforts at this time? Did you know about the scandal that would break involving their finances?”
Mary shook her head. “That actually surprised me. I asked around and went through all their documents and everything looked solid.”
“So how did you know to speak out against it?”
Mary sipped her coffee. “I prayed about it.”
“And?”
“The more I prayed the more I came to believe that we should not put our name and our resources behind what was being planned.”
“Huh.” Jane looked at her friend. “You know I went into the meeting certain that they were going to be a great match for us. Even after you spoke, I still thought of all the good we could do through them.”
“I know.” Mary paused. “To be honest one of the hardest things I ever did was stand up and speak against being part of the effort. I know Stephen and respect him, but I knew that it was not for us.”
Jane tilted her head. “How did you know?”
“I trusted in God.” Mary put her coffee mug down. “Remember when Pastor Mark spoke about the letter of John and the most important thing is to rest our hearts in God’s presence and when we do, we should live our faith as well as speaking it?”
“I do and can still hear him saying then when we do those things then we will know the truth. There was some great discussion in the Bible study on those verses because of his words. I honestly never thought about praying and seeking to know God’s will in that way.”
“Neither had I,” Mary said. “I kept thinking of that sermon as I was praying about the ministry. Everything looked fine with their proposal, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that God didn’t want us to go in that direction.”
“So, you prayed, and God told you not to vote for it?”
Mary laughed. “I wish it were that simple. I prayed about it each day and never got more than a feeling about what I should do.”
“Really?”
“My heart was pounding after hearing everyone speak about how this was a great opportunity, and we are so lucky that they came to us.” She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when I stood up and said what I believed.”
“You could hear a pin drop when you finished,” Jane said.
“I know. I assumed when Pat called for the vote that everyone would ignore me.”
“We certainly didn’t. Even Ken agreed we shouldn’t partner with them at this time.” Jane took a drink from her coffee. “Given what has happened in the last few weeks, I’m certainly glad that we listened to you. How did you know to trust your feeling?”
“I didn’t trust the feeling. I trusted God.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“If you were in support of the ministry, why did you vote to not partner with them?
Jane tapped her chin. “I guess because you spoke against it and I trust you.”
“Exactly,” Mary picked up her coffee cup again. “In the same way, I didn’t know why God was moving me to speak against it but I trust God so I said what I did.”
“Given what has happened I am really glad you did.”
“So am I,” Mary said. “So am I.”
* * *
The Power of A Name
by David O. Bales
Acts 4:5-12
The rest of the crew ate their lunches sitting 25 yards away on two half stacks of 18-foot fir three-by-tens. Some groups are just like this, Whit comforted himself. Luck of the draw which one I’ve fallen into. He grabbed his sandwich from his insulated lunch bag. As he thought about his lunch location—alone and so obviously on the outside of the plant’s swing shift crew—he couldn’t come up with any other reason why he didn’t fit in. The fellows in the crew weren’t terrible. They treated one another okay. All he figured is that on his first day at work, his foreman noted he’d traveled around a lot and he’d answered, “just like Jesus did.” He guessed his response had spread and become a mark against him.
Five years ago, he’d decided to grab a little adventure while he was still young. He loaded his fifteen-year-old Subaru with its odometer reading 172,000 miles. He expected to pick up jobs in mills or plants, maybe even farms, any place that needed a skilled fork-lift driver, and that he was. Most grunts, hands, humpers, shelvers or stackers, whichever term was used in the industry, wanted to learn to drive a forklift and advance from physical labor. Whit, however, received a letter from every employer he left. They were always sad he departed but they gave a letter of recommendation. He had a handful now from different businesses which, community by community over five years, got him a job as forklift driver almost instantly. He didn’t miss a day’s work, worked quickly and never stabbed or spilled a load. The long metal forks could carve a pallet like a knife; but, from warehouses to mills to factories, for him those forks, large or small, were like his fingers gliding swiftly into any minimally provided slot.
His forklift skill bankrolled his tour of America, as he called it. But the joy of his youthful adventure stalled in Michigan. Again, he’d gained a job, a wood-treating plant; yet, for the first time in his life he didn’t fit in. He admitted it after a week, and he was disturbed. His sojourns had produced friends at every job. No matter what distance the foreman tried to maintain with the crew, he was always the foreman’s friend too. It had happened that way all his life. Not here.
He took a sip of coffee from his thermos lid and looked up to see Tim walking his way with his silver lunch pail. Tim didn’t speak as he sat down next to Whit on the pile of lumber. Whit waited a while, gazed at the steam releasing from retort number two and finally said, “How’s it going this evening?”
“Oh, okay, but the guys are being kind of rough.”
Whit was glad to have human contact but wasn’t sure what was going on with Tim. He said, “Interesting bunch of fellows here.”
Tim looked off toward the bone yard as he dug into his lunch pail, “Sometimes their ribbing goes too far.”
Both young men took a few bites. Tim gestured to the forklift parked across the yard. “You’re a magician on that Hyster.”
“All I’ve done since high school. Started in a sawmill.” He realized from Tim’s expression that he wanted to be away from the others. He kept talking, “How long you work here?”
“Right out of high school.”
“You’re from here?”
“Yeah, all my life, like most of the crew. Worked here long enough I don’t smell the creosote anymore. Must be like people who run chicken farms. I think, how can they smell that every day? But they think, how can you smell creosote every day?”
They crew was laughing. Whit noticed they looked at him and Tim. He thought Tim had caught it also. “So,” Tim said, “where you from?”
“Vancouver.”
“A Canuck.”
“No, no. I forget I’m not in Washington anymore. Vancouver, Washington. It was ‘Vancouver’ long before they had one in BC. Farther east I go the fewer people know of the one in Washington. It’s a great place.”
“But you didn’t stay there,” Tim said.
Whit was glad to talk, and Tim was also. “I’ll settle down sometime. You know, get married, family and all. But I want to see some different parts first.”
“You’ll end up in Vancouver?”
“Probably. Vancouver or at least southwest Washington. Wouldn’t want to live long without smelling leaf mold or having moss on my roof.”
“I’ll end up in Michigan. No doubt,” Tim said. He sounded sad. They sat silently through a few more chews of their evening lunch. Whit himself blabbering. “Vancouver, Washington, Vancouver, BC. Should’ve changed our name when BC outgrew it. Even had it on the ballot once. Suggestion was ‘Fort Vancouver,’ which was pretty good, because that’s how it started. But Vancouver’s had two high schools for a long time, one named ‘Fort Vancouver,’ and the other ‘Hudson’s Bay.’ You can bet those Hudson’s Bay grads were the ones who voted it down. My Mom’s still mad it didn’t pass. Course, she attended Fort Vancouver.”
As they’d nearly finished their lunches, Tim said, “I’d like to get out of here.” He turned his face toward the rest of the crew that was laughing uproariously.
“Going away from something or to something?”
Tim squinted, “Kind of both. Where you headed next?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t been here long. Need to earn some money first. Even a piece of driftwood needs the tide.”
Number three retort blew off its steam. After the sound died away, Tim said, “And you put up with lots of changes and lots of new people. Hard sometimes?”
Whit decided to chance an explanation of his faith. “Not too bad. I get along with almost anybody. But … but … like the name ‘Vancouver,’ I’ll tell you; I have a problem with names. He paused and could tell Tim was interested if not confused. “I’m sensitive to people slinging around the name ‘Jesus’ or ‘Christ.’ You know, ‘hallowed be thy name.’ Cuss words are just verbal sawdust. I know that. Don’t mean anything. Except, I cringe when somebody names Jesus. He’s real to me. Don’t want to sound hokey, but he travels with me. So, new places and new people don’t usually bother me.” He turned toward the crew and Tim seemed to understand his look.
Tim was clearly listening. Whit said, “Make sense?”
The lunch horn blasted from the top of the prefab building. Tim stood up. “I guess,” he said, “I won’t cuss about Jesus.” He turned back to Whit holding his hand to shake. “I’m glad you stopped here for a while.”
For Whit, this was much of what his adventure was about. He shook hands with Tim. Whether Tim understood the handshake of this new friendship, it was in the name of Jesus, a name by which all kinds of miracles happen.
Preaching point: A name with a living person behind it.
(“You are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” Matthew 1:21.)
* * *
Through A Dark Valley Toward The Table Of An Enemy
by David O. Bales
Psalm 23
When Solomon began his reign in Jerusalem, over a few hills to the north in a small Benjamite village, ten-year-old Simai was excited. His uncle had returned from the army and today for the first time, Simai would herd the clan’s sheep with him. Before he left with his shepherd’s bag, he said to his father, “Will Uncle Eliakim talk about our grandparents?”
“Oh yes,” his father said, turning away his smirk. “Your Uncle Eliakim talks.”
“He knows about King David?”
“Definitely. After a while listening to him, you’d think he knows everything, or at least has an opinion about everything.”
His mother, who was across the room, chuckled and shushed her husband.
Simai darted from the house, pleased to be alone with an adult who might spend time talking with him. Usually, his ideas and questions wore out adults until they said, “get along now.”
His uncle, finally released from David’s army, waited at the sheepfold. “First before leading the flock, we pray our shepherd’s psalm,” he said. “Your grandfather started the ritual of always praying the shepherd’s psalm before a day’s herding.” All the villagers had learned the new psalm and Simai was thrilled to show that he could recite it perfectly.
They didn’t have far to drive the flock of 26. Soon uncle and nephew stopped on a knoll and leaned back into the shade of a myrtle bush. The sheep spread out the slope before them and they’d have at least half an hour before they must tend them.
Since his parents said that Uncle Eliakim liked to talk and that he knew about what had gone on in the generations before, Simai was prepared to ask about a person he daydreamed of, a man from their larger clan, King Saul’s grandson. He wanted to learn more about that disabled man who’d been whisked to King David’s palace to live like the king’s sons.
Simai stood a last time and counted the sheep out loud as Uncle Eliakim became comfortable on the ground. He groaned in pain and rubbed his shoulder. “Battle wound,” he said. Simai plopped next to him.
Uncle Eliakim smiled, “Good place to think,” he said as he gazed to the flock and then over the broken hills.
Simai saw his chance to start the conversation. “I think about one of us, being related to Saul and Jonathan, summoned to Jerusalem to live in David’s palace, like Mephibosheth.” He smiled up to his uncle as though what he’d said was a profound or at least a worthy aspiration.
“Why’s that?” Uncle Eliakim asked.
“Someone from our little village. We’re always hungry—only one robe, sandals we wear until they’re just straps under our feet—then whooshed away to live like instant royalty.” What it must have been like for Mephibosheth!”
Eliakim scowled. “That’s not how it was.”
Simai gave his uncle a questioning look.
“Somebody’s smoothed out all the wrinkles on that story for you, as bad as the demons sneaking in to weaken your corral gate or punching holes in your roof. What makes you think life was somehow better, easier, even more religious in the last generation than right now?”
“Well,” Simai muttered.
“I don’t mean our food and clothing. I mean what kings are like and how they keep their power and pay for their extravagance?”
Simai was perplexed. The village claimed Uncle Eliakim as the great believer, the center of his troop’s faith. He sounded as though he denied King David’s kindness to Mephibosheth. Everyone had heard how David proved his loyalty to his great friend Jonathan and maintained his faithfulness with Saul’s family by finding who might be alive from the former dynasty. It was Jonathan’s son, Mephibosheth.
“People might make up a story about a life of ease for Mephibosheth, but get your eyes lower than the stars,” Uncle Eliakim said. “You think David was flowing with gracious love for all? He was a killer. First thing he was known for was killing. You know about Goliath?”
“Yes,” Simai spoke loudly. “What a great victory!”
Uncle Eliakim stared down at Simai long enough for Simai to feel embarrassed.
“Get these bloodthirsty ideas of war out of your daydreams,” Eliakim scolded him. “I can’t tell you how terrible war is. When you’re there. When you see it. When you hear a man screaming in pain, his entrails hanging out from a wound. His friend tries to help him, and he’s stabbed from the back all the way through his body. Men writhing on the ground in agony, the victors slashing their throats and watching them bleed to death. I won’t have you glorifying such things. Yahweh commands us not to kill, yet everybody speaks out of the corner of their mouth after that, ‘except in our wars.’”
Simai lowered his eyes and said quietly, “Everyone talks about King David.”
“People might sing their songs about David,” Eliakim said, “and we recite his psalm; but don’t you know that every tribe glorifies its chief? We’re supposed to be different. Didn’t anyone tell you about David and his band before he was king, that they fought for the Philistines? That he and his men constantly looted helpless villages, butchering all the men and women, pretending to serve the Philistines? Folks reckon that a great trick on the Philistines, but they don’t think so when they consider a raiding party surrounding our village and making you watch your parents executed, their blood on the ground at your feet. Forget that pretty stuff about war.”
Simai frowned in confusion.
“You might like to ponder Mephibosheth, but David was a killer. Later he let the rest of the uncles and cousins of Mephibosheth be executed. Years ago, I visited Mephibosheth twice in Jerusalem. Let me tell you, our relative was scared to death when he went there. He knew how many lives ended at David’s sword. One thing, other than the king’s soldiers, got Mephibosheth into David’s palace. One thing. We have that too. Our shepherd’s psalm. He knew David had been a shepherd and he’d written the psalm; but, as he was led to Jerusalem, it made no difference that his guards told him he’d be hosted at the king’s table on a royal pension. He expected he was hobbling through death’s darkest valley. He might not be able to trust the man who wrote that psalm; but, being hustled to the king’s fortress, he trusted that our God Yahweh would somehow protect him, even if he were eating in the presence of his family’s enemies.”
Eliakim struggled to his feet, “Uh oh, looks like they’re wandering.” He pointed to the farthest sheep. The others were nibbling after her. Simai grabbed the staff and they set out, one to each side to surround the flock. The grass wasn’t plentiful and by then the sheep had spread out. So Simai and his uncle didn’t talk much the rest of the day. When Simai returned home he mentioned a few things that Uncle Eliakim had said about their shepherd’s psalm.
His Father said, “Yes, Eliakim’s always been a great believer. A little odd, but a great believer.”
Preaching point: Taking the shepherd’s psalm not sentimentally, but seriously
(1 Samuel 27: David and his raiding party plunder innocent villages, slaughtering every man and woman. 2 Samuel 9: David transfers Mephibosheth to his Jerusalem palace. 2 Samuel 21: David agrees to have Saul’s remaining sons and grandsons executed.)
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 25, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 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.
“Trusting in God” by Peter Andrew Smith
“The Power of a Name” by David O. Bales
“Through A Dark Valley Toward the Table Of An Enemy” by David O. Bales
Trusting in God
by Peter Andrew Smith
1 John 3:16-24
Jane handed Mary a cup of coffee. “Is anyone else around?”
Mary shook her head. “No, Ken and Pastor Mark headed off to their meeting so it’s just the two of us at the church until they get back.”
“Good.” Jane sat down across the desk from Mary. “Can I ask you a question?”
Mary sat back in her chair and sipped at the beverage. “Certainly.”
“How did you know we should avoid the outreach effort?”
“Honestly? I didn’t.”
“Really?” Jane raised an eyebrow. “It seemed like you had a hint that something was amiss from the moment the group came to speak to us. All of us had some questions but we thought we should invest time and money from our church into their effort. They had a great plan, the team was experienced, and they brought something we didn’t have. From everything we saw the ministry was a good partner for us.”
Mary nodded. “They certainly did a great presentation. Stephen is someone with a great deal of experience and the need is certainly there among the street people.”
“Now I think it was a good thing we took some time to consider the proposal. We learned the hard way at this church not to rush into things like we did when we hired the associate.”
Mary sighed. “That wasn’t a wise thing to do before references were checked.”
Jane tilted her head. “Yet at the meeting when we had to make our decision, what was it that made you speak so confidently that we should not go ahead with their efforts at this time? Did you know about the scandal that would break involving their finances?”
Mary shook her head. “That actually surprised me. I asked around and went through all their documents and everything looked solid.”
“So how did you know to speak out against it?”
Mary sipped her coffee. “I prayed about it.”
“And?”
“The more I prayed the more I came to believe that we should not put our name and our resources behind what was being planned.”
“Huh.” Jane looked at her friend. “You know I went into the meeting certain that they were going to be a great match for us. Even after you spoke, I still thought of all the good we could do through them.”
“I know.” Mary paused. “To be honest one of the hardest things I ever did was stand up and speak against being part of the effort. I know Stephen and respect him, but I knew that it was not for us.”
Jane tilted her head. “How did you know?”
“I trusted in God.” Mary put her coffee mug down. “Remember when Pastor Mark spoke about the letter of John and the most important thing is to rest our hearts in God’s presence and when we do, we should live our faith as well as speaking it?”
“I do and can still hear him saying then when we do those things then we will know the truth. There was some great discussion in the Bible study on those verses because of his words. I honestly never thought about praying and seeking to know God’s will in that way.”
“Neither had I,” Mary said. “I kept thinking of that sermon as I was praying about the ministry. Everything looked fine with their proposal, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that God didn’t want us to go in that direction.”
“So, you prayed, and God told you not to vote for it?”
Mary laughed. “I wish it were that simple. I prayed about it each day and never got more than a feeling about what I should do.”
“Really?”
“My heart was pounding after hearing everyone speak about how this was a great opportunity, and we are so lucky that they came to us.” She took a deep breath. “I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when I stood up and said what I believed.”
“You could hear a pin drop when you finished,” Jane said.
“I know. I assumed when Pat called for the vote that everyone would ignore me.”
“We certainly didn’t. Even Ken agreed we shouldn’t partner with them at this time.” Jane took a drink from her coffee. “Given what has happened in the last few weeks, I’m certainly glad that we listened to you. How did you know to trust your feeling?”
“I didn’t trust the feeling. I trusted God.”
“I don’t follow you.”
“If you were in support of the ministry, why did you vote to not partner with them?
Jane tapped her chin. “I guess because you spoke against it and I trust you.”
“Exactly,” Mary picked up her coffee cup again. “In the same way, I didn’t know why God was moving me to speak against it but I trust God so I said what I did.”
“Given what has happened I am really glad you did.”
“So am I,” Mary said. “So am I.”
* * *
The Power of A Name
by David O. Bales
Acts 4:5-12
The rest of the crew ate their lunches sitting 25 yards away on two half stacks of 18-foot fir three-by-tens. Some groups are just like this, Whit comforted himself. Luck of the draw which one I’ve fallen into. He grabbed his sandwich from his insulated lunch bag. As he thought about his lunch location—alone and so obviously on the outside of the plant’s swing shift crew—he couldn’t come up with any other reason why he didn’t fit in. The fellows in the crew weren’t terrible. They treated one another okay. All he figured is that on his first day at work, his foreman noted he’d traveled around a lot and he’d answered, “just like Jesus did.” He guessed his response had spread and become a mark against him.
Five years ago, he’d decided to grab a little adventure while he was still young. He loaded his fifteen-year-old Subaru with its odometer reading 172,000 miles. He expected to pick up jobs in mills or plants, maybe even farms, any place that needed a skilled fork-lift driver, and that he was. Most grunts, hands, humpers, shelvers or stackers, whichever term was used in the industry, wanted to learn to drive a forklift and advance from physical labor. Whit, however, received a letter from every employer he left. They were always sad he departed but they gave a letter of recommendation. He had a handful now from different businesses which, community by community over five years, got him a job as forklift driver almost instantly. He didn’t miss a day’s work, worked quickly and never stabbed or spilled a load. The long metal forks could carve a pallet like a knife; but, from warehouses to mills to factories, for him those forks, large or small, were like his fingers gliding swiftly into any minimally provided slot.
His forklift skill bankrolled his tour of America, as he called it. But the joy of his youthful adventure stalled in Michigan. Again, he’d gained a job, a wood-treating plant; yet, for the first time in his life he didn’t fit in. He admitted it after a week, and he was disturbed. His sojourns had produced friends at every job. No matter what distance the foreman tried to maintain with the crew, he was always the foreman’s friend too. It had happened that way all his life. Not here.
He took a sip of coffee from his thermos lid and looked up to see Tim walking his way with his silver lunch pail. Tim didn’t speak as he sat down next to Whit on the pile of lumber. Whit waited a while, gazed at the steam releasing from retort number two and finally said, “How’s it going this evening?”
“Oh, okay, but the guys are being kind of rough.”
Whit was glad to have human contact but wasn’t sure what was going on with Tim. He said, “Interesting bunch of fellows here.”
Tim looked off toward the bone yard as he dug into his lunch pail, “Sometimes their ribbing goes too far.”
Both young men took a few bites. Tim gestured to the forklift parked across the yard. “You’re a magician on that Hyster.”
“All I’ve done since high school. Started in a sawmill.” He realized from Tim’s expression that he wanted to be away from the others. He kept talking, “How long you work here?”
“Right out of high school.”
“You’re from here?”
“Yeah, all my life, like most of the crew. Worked here long enough I don’t smell the creosote anymore. Must be like people who run chicken farms. I think, how can they smell that every day? But they think, how can you smell creosote every day?”
They crew was laughing. Whit noticed they looked at him and Tim. He thought Tim had caught it also. “So,” Tim said, “where you from?”
“Vancouver.”
“A Canuck.”
“No, no. I forget I’m not in Washington anymore. Vancouver, Washington. It was ‘Vancouver’ long before they had one in BC. Farther east I go the fewer people know of the one in Washington. It’s a great place.”
“But you didn’t stay there,” Tim said.
Whit was glad to talk, and Tim was also. “I’ll settle down sometime. You know, get married, family and all. But I want to see some different parts first.”
“You’ll end up in Vancouver?”
“Probably. Vancouver or at least southwest Washington. Wouldn’t want to live long without smelling leaf mold or having moss on my roof.”
“I’ll end up in Michigan. No doubt,” Tim said. He sounded sad. They sat silently through a few more chews of their evening lunch. Whit himself blabbering. “Vancouver, Washington, Vancouver, BC. Should’ve changed our name when BC outgrew it. Even had it on the ballot once. Suggestion was ‘Fort Vancouver,’ which was pretty good, because that’s how it started. But Vancouver’s had two high schools for a long time, one named ‘Fort Vancouver,’ and the other ‘Hudson’s Bay.’ You can bet those Hudson’s Bay grads were the ones who voted it down. My Mom’s still mad it didn’t pass. Course, she attended Fort Vancouver.”
As they’d nearly finished their lunches, Tim said, “I’d like to get out of here.” He turned his face toward the rest of the crew that was laughing uproariously.
“Going away from something or to something?”
Tim squinted, “Kind of both. Where you headed next?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t been here long. Need to earn some money first. Even a piece of driftwood needs the tide.”
Number three retort blew off its steam. After the sound died away, Tim said, “And you put up with lots of changes and lots of new people. Hard sometimes?”
Whit decided to chance an explanation of his faith. “Not too bad. I get along with almost anybody. But … but … like the name ‘Vancouver,’ I’ll tell you; I have a problem with names. He paused and could tell Tim was interested if not confused. “I’m sensitive to people slinging around the name ‘Jesus’ or ‘Christ.’ You know, ‘hallowed be thy name.’ Cuss words are just verbal sawdust. I know that. Don’t mean anything. Except, I cringe when somebody names Jesus. He’s real to me. Don’t want to sound hokey, but he travels with me. So, new places and new people don’t usually bother me.” He turned toward the crew and Tim seemed to understand his look.
Tim was clearly listening. Whit said, “Make sense?”
The lunch horn blasted from the top of the prefab building. Tim stood up. “I guess,” he said, “I won’t cuss about Jesus.” He turned back to Whit holding his hand to shake. “I’m glad you stopped here for a while.”
For Whit, this was much of what his adventure was about. He shook hands with Tim. Whether Tim understood the handshake of this new friendship, it was in the name of Jesus, a name by which all kinds of miracles happen.
Preaching point: A name with a living person behind it.
(“You are to name him Jesus, for he will save his people from their sins” Matthew 1:21.)
* * *
Through A Dark Valley Toward The Table Of An Enemy
by David O. Bales
Psalm 23
When Solomon began his reign in Jerusalem, over a few hills to the north in a small Benjamite village, ten-year-old Simai was excited. His uncle had returned from the army and today for the first time, Simai would herd the clan’s sheep with him. Before he left with his shepherd’s bag, he said to his father, “Will Uncle Eliakim talk about our grandparents?”
“Oh yes,” his father said, turning away his smirk. “Your Uncle Eliakim talks.”
“He knows about King David?”
“Definitely. After a while listening to him, you’d think he knows everything, or at least has an opinion about everything.”
His mother, who was across the room, chuckled and shushed her husband.
Simai darted from the house, pleased to be alone with an adult who might spend time talking with him. Usually, his ideas and questions wore out adults until they said, “get along now.”
His uncle, finally released from David’s army, waited at the sheepfold. “First before leading the flock, we pray our shepherd’s psalm,” he said. “Your grandfather started the ritual of always praying the shepherd’s psalm before a day’s herding.” All the villagers had learned the new psalm and Simai was thrilled to show that he could recite it perfectly.
They didn’t have far to drive the flock of 26. Soon uncle and nephew stopped on a knoll and leaned back into the shade of a myrtle bush. The sheep spread out the slope before them and they’d have at least half an hour before they must tend them.
Since his parents said that Uncle Eliakim liked to talk and that he knew about what had gone on in the generations before, Simai was prepared to ask about a person he daydreamed of, a man from their larger clan, King Saul’s grandson. He wanted to learn more about that disabled man who’d been whisked to King David’s palace to live like the king’s sons.
Simai stood a last time and counted the sheep out loud as Uncle Eliakim became comfortable on the ground. He groaned in pain and rubbed his shoulder. “Battle wound,” he said. Simai plopped next to him.
Uncle Eliakim smiled, “Good place to think,” he said as he gazed to the flock and then over the broken hills.
Simai saw his chance to start the conversation. “I think about one of us, being related to Saul and Jonathan, summoned to Jerusalem to live in David’s palace, like Mephibosheth.” He smiled up to his uncle as though what he’d said was a profound or at least a worthy aspiration.
“Why’s that?” Uncle Eliakim asked.
“Someone from our little village. We’re always hungry—only one robe, sandals we wear until they’re just straps under our feet—then whooshed away to live like instant royalty.” What it must have been like for Mephibosheth!”
Eliakim scowled. “That’s not how it was.”
Simai gave his uncle a questioning look.
“Somebody’s smoothed out all the wrinkles on that story for you, as bad as the demons sneaking in to weaken your corral gate or punching holes in your roof. What makes you think life was somehow better, easier, even more religious in the last generation than right now?”
“Well,” Simai muttered.
“I don’t mean our food and clothing. I mean what kings are like and how they keep their power and pay for their extravagance?”
Simai was perplexed. The village claimed Uncle Eliakim as the great believer, the center of his troop’s faith. He sounded as though he denied King David’s kindness to Mephibosheth. Everyone had heard how David proved his loyalty to his great friend Jonathan and maintained his faithfulness with Saul’s family by finding who might be alive from the former dynasty. It was Jonathan’s son, Mephibosheth.
“People might make up a story about a life of ease for Mephibosheth, but get your eyes lower than the stars,” Uncle Eliakim said. “You think David was flowing with gracious love for all? He was a killer. First thing he was known for was killing. You know about Goliath?”
“Yes,” Simai spoke loudly. “What a great victory!”
Uncle Eliakim stared down at Simai long enough for Simai to feel embarrassed.
“Get these bloodthirsty ideas of war out of your daydreams,” Eliakim scolded him. “I can’t tell you how terrible war is. When you’re there. When you see it. When you hear a man screaming in pain, his entrails hanging out from a wound. His friend tries to help him, and he’s stabbed from the back all the way through his body. Men writhing on the ground in agony, the victors slashing their throats and watching them bleed to death. I won’t have you glorifying such things. Yahweh commands us not to kill, yet everybody speaks out of the corner of their mouth after that, ‘except in our wars.’”
Simai lowered his eyes and said quietly, “Everyone talks about King David.”
“People might sing their songs about David,” Eliakim said, “and we recite his psalm; but don’t you know that every tribe glorifies its chief? We’re supposed to be different. Didn’t anyone tell you about David and his band before he was king, that they fought for the Philistines? That he and his men constantly looted helpless villages, butchering all the men and women, pretending to serve the Philistines? Folks reckon that a great trick on the Philistines, but they don’t think so when they consider a raiding party surrounding our village and making you watch your parents executed, their blood on the ground at your feet. Forget that pretty stuff about war.”
Simai frowned in confusion.
“You might like to ponder Mephibosheth, but David was a killer. Later he let the rest of the uncles and cousins of Mephibosheth be executed. Years ago, I visited Mephibosheth twice in Jerusalem. Let me tell you, our relative was scared to death when he went there. He knew how many lives ended at David’s sword. One thing, other than the king’s soldiers, got Mephibosheth into David’s palace. One thing. We have that too. Our shepherd’s psalm. He knew David had been a shepherd and he’d written the psalm; but, as he was led to Jerusalem, it made no difference that his guards told him he’d be hosted at the king’s table on a royal pension. He expected he was hobbling through death’s darkest valley. He might not be able to trust the man who wrote that psalm; but, being hustled to the king’s fortress, he trusted that our God Yahweh would somehow protect him, even if he were eating in the presence of his family’s enemies.”
Eliakim struggled to his feet, “Uh oh, looks like they’re wandering.” He pointed to the farthest sheep. The others were nibbling after her. Simai grabbed the staff and they set out, one to each side to surround the flock. The grass wasn’t plentiful and by then the sheep had spread out. So Simai and his uncle didn’t talk much the rest of the day. When Simai returned home he mentioned a few things that Uncle Eliakim had said about their shepherd’s psalm.
His Father said, “Yes, Eliakim’s always been a great believer. A little odd, but a great believer.”
Preaching point: Taking the shepherd’s psalm not sentimentally, but seriously
(1 Samuel 27: David and his raiding party plunder innocent villages, slaughtering every man and woman. 2 Samuel 9: David transfers Mephibosheth to his Jerusalem palace. 2 Samuel 21: David agrees to have Saul’s remaining sons and grandsons executed.)
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StoryShare, April 25, 2021 issue.
Copyright 2021 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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