Verbs And Nouns
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Verbs and Nouns" by C. David McKirachan
"The Hospitality Committee" by C. David McKirachan
"The Bush that Was Burned to Set a Heart Ablaze" by Larry Winebrenner
"Overcome Evil with Good" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Cross" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Verbs and Nouns
by C. David McKirachan
Exodus 3:1-15
In our constant dialogue with the mystery of the universe, we tend to discuss who God is and how God acts and what God did to this or that. Rarely do the conversations take into account the simple truth that God is "other." It's understandable. We are nouns. We see the world as a material environment. Our actions are almost always directed toward other "nounish" stuff. It's an interesting exercise to try to speak of some concept without grounding it in material categories. Most of the time we revert to analogies that refer to that which we can touch and measure.
This is not a problem for our everyday activities. This doesn't put a crimp on getting in the SUV and doing a grocery run, picking up the soccer team, or going to work. Nouns one and all... But when we try to communicate about anything spiritual, we automatically run into an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp. That which is spiritual transcends the terms we are using to discuss it. So it is that some of our brethren want to nail down our faith with literalism or moralism. Such approaches to the faith allow nouns to rule the day. "If you do this or that you are going to Hell." is all about nouns. Our activities and our destinations are comfortably in the realm of "stuff" that we can understand. And even better, God becomes a noun. A VERY BIG NOUN.
Now Moses was a smart guy. According to Cecil B. he figured out how to build half of Egypt without breaking a sweat. Engineers are very respected dudes. They know how to put up buildings and bridges and pyramids and make them stay put. I remember seeing "Ten Commandments" when I was a kid. I was impressed. The only part of the show that bothered me was the burning bush scene and the other moments in the film that featured God. It didn't seem to me that they were weird enough. They boomed and smoked and lightninged and burned, but there was no strangeness to them. It seemed to me that if God were to show up it would be so totally weird that it wouldn't be so... And there I ran out of language.
After a few decades of education and contemplation I realized that I wasn't such a stupid kid. The stupidity came later. I realized that the whole Bible is about encounters between the nouns that make up this world and the verb that is God. The difference between them is what makes the story interesting. God doesn't do things. God is. We're the ones that do. God was very honest to Charlton Heston. "Who are you?" I thought that was a good question. If he went to Yule Brenner and said, "A bush told me to let my people go," Moses wouldn't have gotten much traction. But I don't know how much more credibility was developed with a form of the verb "to be." But people of power are just that. They have gotten where they are because they've been good with stuff. And they expect everything to fit into those categories. So do we all.
Moses had an experience that changed him. Stuff wasn't top of the list for him anymore. He saw reality through a new lens. That experience made him a dangerous being. He was a being that was no longer limited by nouns and that included Pharaoh. If we are to let Moses' experience teach us anything we must allow the God who is "other" to have a place in the universe we inhabit. We must make a place for that which makes no sense if we insist upon using the logic of cause and effect. We must be willing to let God be God and be willing to accept God's relationship with us as grace.
If you really want to push this to the limit, consider what this means about the incarnation. Talk about mind bending...
The Hospitality Committee
by C. David McKirachan
Romans 12:9-21
I enjoy working in Presbytery. Call me nuts. I see it as a way of being connected to other Christians laboring in the vineyard. It tends to be sweaty and frustrating and sometimes forces me to exercise some spiritual disciplines that I'd rather not. But it also demonstrates to me that the Lord's work is rarely run on my agenda.
At one period I had risen, or floated, up to the significant position of chair of the Strategy Committee. When we weren't tangled in conflicting priorities, we actually were helping the Presbytery see beyond its present tense out toward options it wouldn't have considered without our prodding. I represented the governing body at gatherings and conferences and fulfilled my committee responsibilities with organized and entertaining reports. Boy was I getting places. Then one weekend I took a test that helped us determine what our spiritual gifts were. It was interesting. Visioning came out high on the list and I nodded sagely at my natural inclination to do what I was doing. But then I noticed that higher still was the gift of Hospitality.
Now, I like parties just as well as the next guy. But this burr refused to be brushed off with such simple dismissals. I found myself digging around finding biblical references to hospitality. Hebrews and Romans snagged me. This was more than giving parties. It was an intentional apprehension of the dynamic of fellowship. The more I noodled about it I saw how absolutely central it was and continues to be for the church. The early church flourished because of covered dish suppers (that served pork chops) where people shared their lives as they ate together. The open handed and hearted hospitality that they displayed was a revolutionary presence and dynamic in a world that did not affirm such things. The more I considered it, the more I saw that it is the foundation of evangelism, of pastoral care, of mission, of Christian Education, and as it lifts itself toward God becomes Worship.
Then I looked at the Presbytery structure. There was no committee dealing with it. There was no attention paid to it. There was no priority placed on it. It was supposed to develop by osmosis. Yeah, right. Like that was happening. Most churches have fellowship committees and most churches treat them as back waters of unimportant activities that are nice but have little to do with the "real" and "important" work of ministry. I was just as guilty of this as anyone. I affectionately called our Fellowship Committee, "The tea and crumpet bunch."
So I said a few prayers for forgiveness and guidance and decided to start a committee of one. I became the Hospitality Committee of presbytery. I invited the ministers and elders of the Presbytery to my home for a party, no agenda, and no key note speaker. Come and let us celebrate our life together. After the initial puzzlement, a bunch came. And you know what? We enjoyed the fellowship! Then I thought we could have more hospitality at our pastors' retreat. So I volunteered to have a Happy Hour each evening. That really went over well. And so it went.
I think it surprised us as intentional focused professionals who are more than a little stuck in ruts established very carefully by our co-dependant personalities and our approval orientation and our refusal to believe that it's okay to actually enjoy life, it surprised us that we could actually enjoy a church meeting. Actually, it's very subversive. Don't tell anyone you approve of this kind of thing. They might think you're a light weight. Oh well, such are the judgments of the world. Tell them you're having a theological debate. Did you hear the one about the duck and the mongoose? Sit down. It's a long story. Blest be the tie that binds...
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
The Bush that Was Burned to Set a Heart Ablaze
by Larry Winebrenner
Exodus 3:1-15
Jethro walked over to the tent of his son-in-law. He found Zipporah, his daughter, playing with Gershom.
"He's a fine looking grandson," said Jethro as he walked up. Then to his eleven-year-old son, David, "Take Gershom over there under that tree and teach him to walk."
Zipporah recognized her father's mood. "You want to talk to me," she observed.
"I've not come to scold you," said Jethro. "I just wanted to ask about your husband."
"Moses?" she said in a startled voice. "Has he done something wrong?"
"No. No. It's just that he seems--, well, not unhappy, but..."
"Without spirit," finished Zipporah. She glanced toward David and Gershom. They were playing well. She turned back to her father. "Are you worried about him?"
"Not exactly. He does more work than a hired servant. And he keeps our records easy to understand. He almost seems like a scribe. Yes. Efficient, but lifeless. Like a scribe.
Zipporah plucked a long-stemmed blade of grass and chewed on the lower end.
"You think Moses is uninteresting. At first I thought you..."
"He's interesting, like a jewel with no life, Like where he's gone."
"The wilderness trail."
"Yes. It seems strange when everything is so dry and exhausted around here. Why go into the wilderness?"
"A traveler said there was good pasture to be found over by Mount Horeb," she said.
Jethro took his daughter's hands and gazed into her eyes.
"Exactly," he said. "When he first arrived, he'd have sent a servant to confirm the pasture. But to lead the entire flock?"
Zipporah returned her father's gaze and said, "Father. I know what you are saying. Moses does seem distracted -- like there's something he forgot. Or needs to do but can't get a handle on it. But he's fine, father. He'll snap out of it."
David wandered over holding Gershom's hand.
"Did I hear Mount Horeb mentioned? That's a haunted mountain," he assured them.
Jethro laughed.
"That old folktale has existed from the time it was a little hill that grew into a giant mountain."
"Hills don't grow," said David, careful not to sass his father in saying it.
"That's just a figure of speech, son," said Jethro as he tousled David's hair. David hated that but said nothing. He shuffled away from the old man's hand.
"Everybody says it's haunted," he insisted.
"Maybe by the spirit of God Most High Creator of Heaven and Earth and All That Is," counseled the priest, kindly. "No ghost or evil spirit would dare abide where the Holy One resides."
David, unconvinced, moved back off with Gershom to play.
"Maybe God Most High will talk to Moses and help him find what he's seeking."
Zipporah's voice was hopeful.
"So you recognize Moses' mood, too, daughter. Well, God Most High does whatever that One wants, even with an Egyptian."
"Father, you taught us not to distinguish one people over another," complained the woman.
"Nor was I. The only reason I mentioned his background was to affirm God Most High ruled every heart."
A week later Moses appeared without the sheep. He moved and spoke as though he were in a dream world.
"The sheep!" exclaimed Zipporah as Jethro hurried to Moses' tent. "What happened to the sheep?"
"They are fine. In good pasture. The servants working with me can tend them," he murmured.
Jethro arrived. He gave Moses as good look.
"You've seen God Most High," he whispered reverently.
"No," said Moses. "Not saw. Heard."
"How did you know it was the Holy One speaking if you did not see God Most High? Where did you hear this voice? In a cavern? In the wind? How do you know it was real?"
"In a burning bush."
"Burning bush? You saw a burning bush and thought you heard the voice of God Most High?" queried the priest, doubt dripping from his series of questions. "How many bushes have I seen burn and never perceived any voice in them?"
"This bush burned but was not consumed by the flames," testified Moses. "I was called by name. I was given a mission. Now excuse me, Father-in-law. We must be on our way."
"We?" responded Zipporah.
"Yes, my darling," Moses answered. "Gather a few things so we can leave immediately. I AM will provide."
"I AM?" queried Jethro.
"That is God Most high's name. Excuse me. I have to help Zipporah pack."
The old priest walked away shaking his head. "He really did see--" he paused and amended, "heard God Most High. I'll miss them. But at least he's no longer lethargic," he muttered to himself.
Little did he know.
Overcome Evil with Good
by Larry Winebrenner
Romans 12:9-21
Foxy was considered the slyest, not the wisest, creature in the woods. Old Owl was the wisest.
Now Foxy loved honey. That is, when he could get it.
But he couldn't climb like a bear.
And he couldn't fly like a bee.
Nor could he cut a tree down like a beaver.
He thought, I can't climb like a bear or fly like a bee or cut down a bee-tree like a beaver. What shall I do to get honey?
He decided to find a cool spot and lie down and think. There were some huckleberry bushes nearby. It was cool there. He would lie under them and think.
As he lay there, thinking very hard, he heard a buzzy voice say, "It is so wonderful to collect honey for the queen. She is the most important bee in the world."
Suddenly, an idea popped into Foxy's head.
"Little Bee." called Foxy. "I have a message for you."
The bees had not seen Foxy resting under the huckleberry bush. They were startled. They flew to a place where they could see under the huckleberry bush.
"It's Foxy," buzzed Little Bee to another bee.
"What's your message?" asked the other bee.
"I love honey," said Foxy. "I know you have lots of honey in your tree. I can't climb like a bear, fly like you, or fell your tree like a beaver. But look at my coat. What color is it?"
"Red."
"What color is fire?" asked Foxy.
"Red."
"I feel nervous. If I get too nervous, I run through the woods so fast, it catches on fire," sneered the sly one.
"Oh, don't do that," cried Little Bee. "Even if our tree did not burn, the smoke would injure our queen. Maybe kill her."
"If I just had some honey, it would calm my nerves, I wouldn't feel like running."
"We can't give you any of ours. It's sealed in wax containers."
"I guess I'll just have to run, then," snarled Foxy.
"Wait!" buzzed Little Bee. "Give us until tomorrow to see what we can do."
"Maybe I can hold off until tomorrow," said Foxy. "But I'm getting nervouser and nervouser to run."
The two bees flew directly to the hive. They told Queen Bee the threat by Foxy.
"We could send out our Swarm Army," said Queen Bee. "But Foxy has a thick fur hard to penetrate. He'll cover his nose with his paws and sweep away those on his back with his long bushy tale. Those who do sting him will lose their lives doing it. Before I send out the Swarm Army, go ask Old Owl what he thinks."
Little Bee flew directly to Old Owl's tree. He buzzed and buzzed until Old Owl grumpily said, "Who is this waking me up in the middle of the day?"
Old Owl stayed awake at night and slept all day.
"I'm sorry Mr. Owl," buzzed Little Bee. "But Queen Bee sent me to seek your advice."
"Couldn't it wait until tonight?" grumped Old Owl.
"No sir," buzzed Little Bee. "Foxy is going to run through the woods and set everything on fire with his red coat if we don't give him honey."
"Foxy can't set anything on fire unless he brought some fire from the humans. But that's too dangerous. He might get burnt up, too. But because you told him you were going to the queen, he knows you believed his story. He will find some other way to threaten you."
"What should we do?" wept Little Bee.
"Overcome evil with good," hooted the wise one. And he went back to sleep.
When Little Bee reported Old Owl's advice to Queen Bee, she said, "Then we have to give Foxy more honey than he asks for."
She sent out messengers to all the hives in the area, "Please donate the honey you collect tomorrow to Foxy so he won't set the woods on fire."
All the other hives knew they would be destroyed too with a fire. The hives in hollow logs knew it. The hives in the rocks knew it. The hives in other trees knew it. They knew it and agreed to help.
"Little Bee," said Queen Bee. "Go tell Foxy he will have his honey tomorrow."
Little Bee did as Queen Bee ordered. Foxy went to sleep that night dreaming of the honey he would get the next day.
When morning came, the bees came.
"Put the honey on my paws so I can lick it off," Foxy ordered the bees.
The bees came in the hundreds. The bees came in the thousands. Bees came in the tens of thousands. Bees came in such large swarms they couldn't be counted.
First they covered Foxy's paws. Then they covered Foxy's legs. Then they covered Foxy's shoulders. Then they covered Foxy's back. Foxy ate and ate the honey. His tummy became full.
"Enough!" he cried.
But the bees kept coming. They covered Foxy's head. Then they covered Foxy's tail. Foxy began running away. But the bees kept coming. They covered Foxy until he could run no more.
When the day was over, Queen Bee thanked all the hives. She reported, "We have followed Old Owl's advice. We have overcome evil with good."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
The Cross
by Keith Hewitt
Matthew 16:21-28
Randall was starting his second cup of coffee when the bell jingled above the diner's door and his father entered. He raised his head, nodded as his father removed his hat and coat, hung them on the rack by the door, and made his way to the back of the diner where Randall sat in a corner booth with his back to the wall. "'Morning, Dad," he said cheerfully, as the old man neared.
His father took a tabloid paper from under his arm, opened it and dropped it on the table, and stabbed at it with his finger. Randall glanced down at it, narrowed his eyes at the headline, and the black and white photo of three tanned, shriveled heads arrayed on a crude table. The misshapen faces stared woefully toward the camera, mouths set in grim, sewn lines. The headline above the photo screamed, "Lost Missionaries Found!"
His father took the seat to his left, exhaling softly at the effort. "It says here your friends have been located."
Randall nodded silently as he scanned the photo, then the rest of the front page -- a stack of lurid headlines running alongside the feature story and photo. His eyes flickered back to the photo, then to his father.
"Your mother would like you to reconsider this mission trip nonsense. Says it's too dangerous and I have to agree. It says, right there, that the natives of the upper Rio Fangoso have killed every missionary sent there since the turn of the century."
Randall nodded again, leaned forward and tapped another, smaller headline. "And it says, right here, that President Eisenhower has negotiated a treaty with space aliens to swap gold bullion from Fort Knox for flying saucer technology." He looked at his father, one eyebrow arched into a question mark. "Are you going to believe everything you read?"
"So are you going to tell me it's safe?"
Randall hesitated. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"No."
"Then no, it's not." Randall leaned back, lifted the cup to his lips and blew gently on the black, steaming coffee for a moment or two, mind racing, fighting the tingle that wanted to start at the base of his spine. Finally he took a sip, set the cup down, kept his hands on it, absorbing the warmth. "You read the same things I did, Dad. There's diphtheria, yellow fever, dysentery, and half a dozen other bugs that can lay me low or kill me dead, depending on how lucky I am. And there are probably two dozen kinds of snakes, toads, and spiders that can do the same thing. That's a fact."
He raised the cup, took another sip, set it down before his father could speak. "It's not as safe at staying here in Wisconsin -- but then neither was jumping into France or Holland. Neither was hunting Nazi war criminals. But I did it anyway, because that's what I needed to do -- it's what I was good at, and I was being called to serve."
His father's expression was fixed, not giving away anything -- the same expression he'd had when Randall told him he'd volunteered to be airborne. "Your country isn't calling you anymore, son," he said softly. "You did your duty and we're proud of you for it. But this --" He shook his head, unable to put words to it.
Randall smiled gently, wanted to reach out and lay his hand on his father's, but hesitated, and never moved. "It's not my country, Dad. But I think I'm still being called. They need missionaries, Dad -- people who can think on their feet, and stay alive when things are dicey. God's calling me to do this -- you know… what Jesus said about taking up your cross and following him? That's me. That's what I have to do." He leaned back again, shrugged. "And if I have to carry it to the Upper Fangoso, so be it. There are worse places."
"Not many," the old man said darkly.
Images flashed through Randall's mind -- battlefields and bombed-out cellars, death camps and back alleys. "More than you think," he answered.
"Don't get me wrong, son -- going to church is fine and I think wanting to do God's work is fine, too, but does it really mean that you have to die for him? The way Jesus did?"
Randall smiled, shook his head. "I don't think that's what it means, Dad. Taking up the cross means being willing to take up the burden God lays on you -- to do what he wants you to. Not to die the way Jesus did."
The old man looked at him closely, then. "But it could still happen." It was not a question.
Randall hesitated, nodded, and then added thoughtfully, "I could get hit by a bus in downtown Joliet, too. I think when it's time for your clock to get punched, it's going to happen no matter where you are -- and I guess if that's true, then I'd rather it happen while I'm doing something worthwhile."
There was a long silence; finally the old man rumbled, "Then what am I supposed to tell your mother?"
Randall reached out, laid a hand on his father's shoulder. "Tell her you tried your best but I wouldn't listen. I'm still leaving next week."
His father considered this for a bit, then hunched forward and tapped the paper with his finger, again. "And this? Is this a fake?"
Randall shrugged. "You saw them -- who could say, for sure, who they are? Or if they're real, at all?"
"I suppose you're right." He looked at the picture again, pushed the paper aside.
Conversation moved, then, to other things -- memories and plans and the things that must be said before any long trip. Randall and his father talked through breakfast, nearly to lunch, before the old man made ready to leave. When he did, Randall walked him to the door, saw him out -- then snapped his fingers as though he'd forgotten something, and returned to the booth. He picked up the tabloid and looked at the picture once more, to be sure, then sighed.
"You really did know them, didn't you?"
The gravelly voice, nearly in his ear, made him jump. Heart racing, he turned to see his father standing there once more -- and as he looked into those clear blue eyes he couldn't say what he wanted to say. He just nodded. "Two of them," he admitted.
"I won't tell your mother, if you won't," his father said and patted him on the shoulder. "I don't like keeping secrets from her but I think that's a cross you and I have to bear... until you come home."
"Until then," Randall promised and both men shouldered their burdens. They did not seem so heavy... to begin with.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). 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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 28, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.
"Verbs and Nouns" by C. David McKirachan
"The Hospitality Committee" by C. David McKirachan
"The Bush that Was Burned to Set a Heart Ablaze" by Larry Winebrenner
"Overcome Evil with Good" by Larry Winebrenner
"The Cross" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * * *
Verbs and Nouns
by C. David McKirachan
Exodus 3:1-15
In our constant dialogue with the mystery of the universe, we tend to discuss who God is and how God acts and what God did to this or that. Rarely do the conversations take into account the simple truth that God is "other." It's understandable. We are nouns. We see the world as a material environment. Our actions are almost always directed toward other "nounish" stuff. It's an interesting exercise to try to speak of some concept without grounding it in material categories. Most of the time we revert to analogies that refer to that which we can touch and measure.
This is not a problem for our everyday activities. This doesn't put a crimp on getting in the SUV and doing a grocery run, picking up the soccer team, or going to work. Nouns one and all... But when we try to communicate about anything spiritual, we automatically run into an oxymoron, like jumbo shrimp. That which is spiritual transcends the terms we are using to discuss it. So it is that some of our brethren want to nail down our faith with literalism or moralism. Such approaches to the faith allow nouns to rule the day. "If you do this or that you are going to Hell." is all about nouns. Our activities and our destinations are comfortably in the realm of "stuff" that we can understand. And even better, God becomes a noun. A VERY BIG NOUN.
Now Moses was a smart guy. According to Cecil B. he figured out how to build half of Egypt without breaking a sweat. Engineers are very respected dudes. They know how to put up buildings and bridges and pyramids and make them stay put. I remember seeing "Ten Commandments" when I was a kid. I was impressed. The only part of the show that bothered me was the burning bush scene and the other moments in the film that featured God. It didn't seem to me that they were weird enough. They boomed and smoked and lightninged and burned, but there was no strangeness to them. It seemed to me that if God were to show up it would be so totally weird that it wouldn't be so... And there I ran out of language.
After a few decades of education and contemplation I realized that I wasn't such a stupid kid. The stupidity came later. I realized that the whole Bible is about encounters between the nouns that make up this world and the verb that is God. The difference between them is what makes the story interesting. God doesn't do things. God is. We're the ones that do. God was very honest to Charlton Heston. "Who are you?" I thought that was a good question. If he went to Yule Brenner and said, "A bush told me to let my people go," Moses wouldn't have gotten much traction. But I don't know how much more credibility was developed with a form of the verb "to be." But people of power are just that. They have gotten where they are because they've been good with stuff. And they expect everything to fit into those categories. So do we all.
Moses had an experience that changed him. Stuff wasn't top of the list for him anymore. He saw reality through a new lens. That experience made him a dangerous being. He was a being that was no longer limited by nouns and that included Pharaoh. If we are to let Moses' experience teach us anything we must allow the God who is "other" to have a place in the universe we inhabit. We must make a place for that which makes no sense if we insist upon using the logic of cause and effect. We must be willing to let God be God and be willing to accept God's relationship with us as grace.
If you really want to push this to the limit, consider what this means about the incarnation. Talk about mind bending...
The Hospitality Committee
by C. David McKirachan
Romans 12:9-21
I enjoy working in Presbytery. Call me nuts. I see it as a way of being connected to other Christians laboring in the vineyard. It tends to be sweaty and frustrating and sometimes forces me to exercise some spiritual disciplines that I'd rather not. But it also demonstrates to me that the Lord's work is rarely run on my agenda.
At one period I had risen, or floated, up to the significant position of chair of the Strategy Committee. When we weren't tangled in conflicting priorities, we actually were helping the Presbytery see beyond its present tense out toward options it wouldn't have considered without our prodding. I represented the governing body at gatherings and conferences and fulfilled my committee responsibilities with organized and entertaining reports. Boy was I getting places. Then one weekend I took a test that helped us determine what our spiritual gifts were. It was interesting. Visioning came out high on the list and I nodded sagely at my natural inclination to do what I was doing. But then I noticed that higher still was the gift of Hospitality.
Now, I like parties just as well as the next guy. But this burr refused to be brushed off with such simple dismissals. I found myself digging around finding biblical references to hospitality. Hebrews and Romans snagged me. This was more than giving parties. It was an intentional apprehension of the dynamic of fellowship. The more I noodled about it I saw how absolutely central it was and continues to be for the church. The early church flourished because of covered dish suppers (that served pork chops) where people shared their lives as they ate together. The open handed and hearted hospitality that they displayed was a revolutionary presence and dynamic in a world that did not affirm such things. The more I considered it, the more I saw that it is the foundation of evangelism, of pastoral care, of mission, of Christian Education, and as it lifts itself toward God becomes Worship.
Then I looked at the Presbytery structure. There was no committee dealing with it. There was no attention paid to it. There was no priority placed on it. It was supposed to develop by osmosis. Yeah, right. Like that was happening. Most churches have fellowship committees and most churches treat them as back waters of unimportant activities that are nice but have little to do with the "real" and "important" work of ministry. I was just as guilty of this as anyone. I affectionately called our Fellowship Committee, "The tea and crumpet bunch."
So I said a few prayers for forgiveness and guidance and decided to start a committee of one. I became the Hospitality Committee of presbytery. I invited the ministers and elders of the Presbytery to my home for a party, no agenda, and no key note speaker. Come and let us celebrate our life together. After the initial puzzlement, a bunch came. And you know what? We enjoyed the fellowship! Then I thought we could have more hospitality at our pastors' retreat. So I volunteered to have a Happy Hour each evening. That really went over well. And so it went.
I think it surprised us as intentional focused professionals who are more than a little stuck in ruts established very carefully by our co-dependant personalities and our approval orientation and our refusal to believe that it's okay to actually enjoy life, it surprised us that we could actually enjoy a church meeting. Actually, it's very subversive. Don't tell anyone you approve of this kind of thing. They might think you're a light weight. Oh well, such are the judgments of the world. Tell them you're having a theological debate. Did you hear the one about the duck and the mongoose? Sit down. It's a long story. Blest be the tie that binds...
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
The Bush that Was Burned to Set a Heart Ablaze
by Larry Winebrenner
Exodus 3:1-15
Jethro walked over to the tent of his son-in-law. He found Zipporah, his daughter, playing with Gershom.
"He's a fine looking grandson," said Jethro as he walked up. Then to his eleven-year-old son, David, "Take Gershom over there under that tree and teach him to walk."
Zipporah recognized her father's mood. "You want to talk to me," she observed.
"I've not come to scold you," said Jethro. "I just wanted to ask about your husband."
"Moses?" she said in a startled voice. "Has he done something wrong?"
"No. No. It's just that he seems--, well, not unhappy, but..."
"Without spirit," finished Zipporah. She glanced toward David and Gershom. They were playing well. She turned back to her father. "Are you worried about him?"
"Not exactly. He does more work than a hired servant. And he keeps our records easy to understand. He almost seems like a scribe. Yes. Efficient, but lifeless. Like a scribe.
Zipporah plucked a long-stemmed blade of grass and chewed on the lower end.
"You think Moses is uninteresting. At first I thought you..."
"He's interesting, like a jewel with no life, Like where he's gone."
"The wilderness trail."
"Yes. It seems strange when everything is so dry and exhausted around here. Why go into the wilderness?"
"A traveler said there was good pasture to be found over by Mount Horeb," she said.
Jethro took his daughter's hands and gazed into her eyes.
"Exactly," he said. "When he first arrived, he'd have sent a servant to confirm the pasture. But to lead the entire flock?"
Zipporah returned her father's gaze and said, "Father. I know what you are saying. Moses does seem distracted -- like there's something he forgot. Or needs to do but can't get a handle on it. But he's fine, father. He'll snap out of it."
David wandered over holding Gershom's hand.
"Did I hear Mount Horeb mentioned? That's a haunted mountain," he assured them.
Jethro laughed.
"That old folktale has existed from the time it was a little hill that grew into a giant mountain."
"Hills don't grow," said David, careful not to sass his father in saying it.
"That's just a figure of speech, son," said Jethro as he tousled David's hair. David hated that but said nothing. He shuffled away from the old man's hand.
"Everybody says it's haunted," he insisted.
"Maybe by the spirit of God Most High Creator of Heaven and Earth and All That Is," counseled the priest, kindly. "No ghost or evil spirit would dare abide where the Holy One resides."
David, unconvinced, moved back off with Gershom to play.
"Maybe God Most High will talk to Moses and help him find what he's seeking."
Zipporah's voice was hopeful.
"So you recognize Moses' mood, too, daughter. Well, God Most High does whatever that One wants, even with an Egyptian."
"Father, you taught us not to distinguish one people over another," complained the woman.
"Nor was I. The only reason I mentioned his background was to affirm God Most High ruled every heart."
A week later Moses appeared without the sheep. He moved and spoke as though he were in a dream world.
"The sheep!" exclaimed Zipporah as Jethro hurried to Moses' tent. "What happened to the sheep?"
"They are fine. In good pasture. The servants working with me can tend them," he murmured.
Jethro arrived. He gave Moses as good look.
"You've seen God Most High," he whispered reverently.
"No," said Moses. "Not saw. Heard."
"How did you know it was the Holy One speaking if you did not see God Most High? Where did you hear this voice? In a cavern? In the wind? How do you know it was real?"
"In a burning bush."
"Burning bush? You saw a burning bush and thought you heard the voice of God Most High?" queried the priest, doubt dripping from his series of questions. "How many bushes have I seen burn and never perceived any voice in them?"
"This bush burned but was not consumed by the flames," testified Moses. "I was called by name. I was given a mission. Now excuse me, Father-in-law. We must be on our way."
"We?" responded Zipporah.
"Yes, my darling," Moses answered. "Gather a few things so we can leave immediately. I AM will provide."
"I AM?" queried Jethro.
"That is God Most high's name. Excuse me. I have to help Zipporah pack."
The old priest walked away shaking his head. "He really did see--" he paused and amended, "heard God Most High. I'll miss them. But at least he's no longer lethargic," he muttered to himself.
Little did he know.
Overcome Evil with Good
by Larry Winebrenner
Romans 12:9-21
Foxy was considered the slyest, not the wisest, creature in the woods. Old Owl was the wisest.
Now Foxy loved honey. That is, when he could get it.
But he couldn't climb like a bear.
And he couldn't fly like a bee.
Nor could he cut a tree down like a beaver.
He thought, I can't climb like a bear or fly like a bee or cut down a bee-tree like a beaver. What shall I do to get honey?
He decided to find a cool spot and lie down and think. There were some huckleberry bushes nearby. It was cool there. He would lie under them and think.
As he lay there, thinking very hard, he heard a buzzy voice say, "It is so wonderful to collect honey for the queen. She is the most important bee in the world."
Suddenly, an idea popped into Foxy's head.
"Little Bee." called Foxy. "I have a message for you."
The bees had not seen Foxy resting under the huckleberry bush. They were startled. They flew to a place where they could see under the huckleberry bush.
"It's Foxy," buzzed Little Bee to another bee.
"What's your message?" asked the other bee.
"I love honey," said Foxy. "I know you have lots of honey in your tree. I can't climb like a bear, fly like you, or fell your tree like a beaver. But look at my coat. What color is it?"
"Red."
"What color is fire?" asked Foxy.
"Red."
"I feel nervous. If I get too nervous, I run through the woods so fast, it catches on fire," sneered the sly one.
"Oh, don't do that," cried Little Bee. "Even if our tree did not burn, the smoke would injure our queen. Maybe kill her."
"If I just had some honey, it would calm my nerves, I wouldn't feel like running."
"We can't give you any of ours. It's sealed in wax containers."
"I guess I'll just have to run, then," snarled Foxy.
"Wait!" buzzed Little Bee. "Give us until tomorrow to see what we can do."
"Maybe I can hold off until tomorrow," said Foxy. "But I'm getting nervouser and nervouser to run."
The two bees flew directly to the hive. They told Queen Bee the threat by Foxy.
"We could send out our Swarm Army," said Queen Bee. "But Foxy has a thick fur hard to penetrate. He'll cover his nose with his paws and sweep away those on his back with his long bushy tale. Those who do sting him will lose their lives doing it. Before I send out the Swarm Army, go ask Old Owl what he thinks."
Little Bee flew directly to Old Owl's tree. He buzzed and buzzed until Old Owl grumpily said, "Who is this waking me up in the middle of the day?"
Old Owl stayed awake at night and slept all day.
"I'm sorry Mr. Owl," buzzed Little Bee. "But Queen Bee sent me to seek your advice."
"Couldn't it wait until tonight?" grumped Old Owl.
"No sir," buzzed Little Bee. "Foxy is going to run through the woods and set everything on fire with his red coat if we don't give him honey."
"Foxy can't set anything on fire unless he brought some fire from the humans. But that's too dangerous. He might get burnt up, too. But because you told him you were going to the queen, he knows you believed his story. He will find some other way to threaten you."
"What should we do?" wept Little Bee.
"Overcome evil with good," hooted the wise one. And he went back to sleep.
When Little Bee reported Old Owl's advice to Queen Bee, she said, "Then we have to give Foxy more honey than he asks for."
She sent out messengers to all the hives in the area, "Please donate the honey you collect tomorrow to Foxy so he won't set the woods on fire."
All the other hives knew they would be destroyed too with a fire. The hives in hollow logs knew it. The hives in the rocks knew it. The hives in other trees knew it. They knew it and agreed to help.
"Little Bee," said Queen Bee. "Go tell Foxy he will have his honey tomorrow."
Little Bee did as Queen Bee ordered. Foxy went to sleep that night dreaming of the honey he would get the next day.
When morning came, the bees came.
"Put the honey on my paws so I can lick it off," Foxy ordered the bees.
The bees came in the hundreds. The bees came in the thousands. Bees came in the tens of thousands. Bees came in such large swarms they couldn't be counted.
First they covered Foxy's paws. Then they covered Foxy's legs. Then they covered Foxy's shoulders. Then they covered Foxy's back. Foxy ate and ate the honey. His tummy became full.
"Enough!" he cried.
But the bees kept coming. They covered Foxy's head. Then they covered Foxy's tail. Foxy began running away. But the bees kept coming. They covered Foxy until he could run no more.
When the day was over, Queen Bee thanked all the hives. She reported, "We have followed Old Owl's advice. We have overcome evil with good."
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
The Cross
by Keith Hewitt
Matthew 16:21-28
Randall was starting his second cup of coffee when the bell jingled above the diner's door and his father entered. He raised his head, nodded as his father removed his hat and coat, hung them on the rack by the door, and made his way to the back of the diner where Randall sat in a corner booth with his back to the wall. "'Morning, Dad," he said cheerfully, as the old man neared.
His father took a tabloid paper from under his arm, opened it and dropped it on the table, and stabbed at it with his finger. Randall glanced down at it, narrowed his eyes at the headline, and the black and white photo of three tanned, shriveled heads arrayed on a crude table. The misshapen faces stared woefully toward the camera, mouths set in grim, sewn lines. The headline above the photo screamed, "Lost Missionaries Found!"
His father took the seat to his left, exhaling softly at the effort. "It says here your friends have been located."
Randall nodded silently as he scanned the photo, then the rest of the front page -- a stack of lurid headlines running alongside the feature story and photo. His eyes flickered back to the photo, then to his father.
"Your mother would like you to reconsider this mission trip nonsense. Says it's too dangerous and I have to agree. It says, right there, that the natives of the upper Rio Fangoso have killed every missionary sent there since the turn of the century."
Randall nodded again, leaned forward and tapped another, smaller headline. "And it says, right here, that President Eisenhower has negotiated a treaty with space aliens to swap gold bullion from Fort Knox for flying saucer technology." He looked at his father, one eyebrow arched into a question mark. "Are you going to believe everything you read?"
"So are you going to tell me it's safe?"
Randall hesitated. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"
"No."
"Then no, it's not." Randall leaned back, lifted the cup to his lips and blew gently on the black, steaming coffee for a moment or two, mind racing, fighting the tingle that wanted to start at the base of his spine. Finally he took a sip, set the cup down, kept his hands on it, absorbing the warmth. "You read the same things I did, Dad. There's diphtheria, yellow fever, dysentery, and half a dozen other bugs that can lay me low or kill me dead, depending on how lucky I am. And there are probably two dozen kinds of snakes, toads, and spiders that can do the same thing. That's a fact."
He raised the cup, took another sip, set it down before his father could speak. "It's not as safe at staying here in Wisconsin -- but then neither was jumping into France or Holland. Neither was hunting Nazi war criminals. But I did it anyway, because that's what I needed to do -- it's what I was good at, and I was being called to serve."
His father's expression was fixed, not giving away anything -- the same expression he'd had when Randall told him he'd volunteered to be airborne. "Your country isn't calling you anymore, son," he said softly. "You did your duty and we're proud of you for it. But this --" He shook his head, unable to put words to it.
Randall smiled gently, wanted to reach out and lay his hand on his father's, but hesitated, and never moved. "It's not my country, Dad. But I think I'm still being called. They need missionaries, Dad -- people who can think on their feet, and stay alive when things are dicey. God's calling me to do this -- you know… what Jesus said about taking up your cross and following him? That's me. That's what I have to do." He leaned back again, shrugged. "And if I have to carry it to the Upper Fangoso, so be it. There are worse places."
"Not many," the old man said darkly.
Images flashed through Randall's mind -- battlefields and bombed-out cellars, death camps and back alleys. "More than you think," he answered.
"Don't get me wrong, son -- going to church is fine and I think wanting to do God's work is fine, too, but does it really mean that you have to die for him? The way Jesus did?"
Randall smiled, shook his head. "I don't think that's what it means, Dad. Taking up the cross means being willing to take up the burden God lays on you -- to do what he wants you to. Not to die the way Jesus did."
The old man looked at him closely, then. "But it could still happen." It was not a question.
Randall hesitated, nodded, and then added thoughtfully, "I could get hit by a bus in downtown Joliet, too. I think when it's time for your clock to get punched, it's going to happen no matter where you are -- and I guess if that's true, then I'd rather it happen while I'm doing something worthwhile."
There was a long silence; finally the old man rumbled, "Then what am I supposed to tell your mother?"
Randall reached out, laid a hand on his father's shoulder. "Tell her you tried your best but I wouldn't listen. I'm still leaving next week."
His father considered this for a bit, then hunched forward and tapped the paper with his finger, again. "And this? Is this a fake?"
Randall shrugged. "You saw them -- who could say, for sure, who they are? Or if they're real, at all?"
"I suppose you're right." He looked at the picture again, pushed the paper aside.
Conversation moved, then, to other things -- memories and plans and the things that must be said before any long trip. Randall and his father talked through breakfast, nearly to lunch, before the old man made ready to leave. When he did, Randall walked him to the door, saw him out -- then snapped his fingers as though he'd forgotten something, and returned to the booth. He picked up the tabloid and looked at the picture once more, to be sure, then sighed.
"You really did know them, didn't you?"
The gravelly voice, nearly in his ear, made him jump. Heart racing, he turned to see his father standing there once more -- and as he looked into those clear blue eyes he couldn't say what he wanted to say. He just nodded. "Two of them," he admitted.
"I won't tell your mother, if you won't," his father said and patted him on the shoulder. "I don't like keeping secrets from her but I think that's a cross you and I have to bear... until you come home."
"Until then," Randall promised and both men shouldered their burdens. They did not seem so heavy... to begin with.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). 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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 28, 2011, issue.
Copyright 2011 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.
