A Way To Meet Jesus
Stories
Contents
“A Way To Meet Jesus” by David O. Bales
“Prairie Lessons” by David O. Bales
A Way To Meet Jesus
by David O. Bales
Acts 2:14a, 22-32
Stuart’s head felt like a full balloon, throbbing with each step as he jostled up Ben Gurion Airport’s jetway. He gave up trying to walk and reset his watch at the same time. Jet lag was enough, but the added irritation of decompressing a head cold was almost disabling. After ten hours of flight he’d gotten to sleep 45 minutes before landing, only to be awakened then every five minutes by the speaker directly above him blaring out these gagging sounding messages that didn’t make sense when the message was repeated in English smothered with the same language. He stumbled out of the jetway feeling as if he was being vomited into all the people in Israel.
The ceiling lights hurt his sleepy eyes. Nonetheless, he had to look around carefully. Someone would be holding a sign with his name on it. He was on a different flight from the rest of the tour; yet, at least he’d managed to land on time. His best friend EJ had won a tour of the Holy Land, but his wife just had their third child. Two weeks before, he’d entered Stuart’s office. He placed a hand on Stuart’s desk and leaned toward him, “Lynn and I’ve deliberated who to give this tour to. We think it might be what you need. It’s been a year since…” He let his voice trail off. He leaned down and placed his other hand also on the desk in front of Stuart. “We’ve been wanting to do something for you. Please take this tour and see if it offers you some … some comfort,” he said as though embarrassed to speak the word.
A young woman in a blue blazer held a sign outside the baggage area: “Mr. Prentice.” In twenty minutes Stuart was led to another blue-blazered young woman who grabbed his heavy suitcase and surprised him as she hefted it with a perfect swing into the maw of the bus’s storage. While Israel’s scenery slid by his window and passengers exclaimed about each rock, bush, and building he tried to sleep. Seven or eight minutes after he’d finally nodded off, the bus emptied at the hotel in Tiberius. The hotel staff smiled as they spoke their strange version of English, having to repeat most statements twice and herding him to his room. His legs buckled and he collapsed onto the bed.
First thing the next morning he took cold medicine. He walked into the breakfast room placing each step gently in order to cushion the pain in his head. At the buffet he selected cheese and sardines and recalled EJ’s advice, “Face each day with hope and prayer.” So he held his aching head erect and figured that in these circumstances, one out of two wasn’t bad.
Most of the tourists were couples and assigned to a corresponding couple for their meals. He, however, was alone, as he became more aware every day. He found the table with his name and sat. Wait-staff fluttered by floating their strange Hebraic sounds after them. He glanced at the next table and the couple bowed in prayer over their salads and pastries. He thought, “Well, EJ, does their prayer count?” He looked back to see a man and woman standing with full plates across his table. They wore identical khaki safari coats. They grinned. The woman was husky, maybe 60. The man, thin and tottery, appeared twice her age. Stuart thought that if his cold pills would release the pressure in his ears, he’d be able to hear a creak with the man’s every movement. He half stood and aimed an upturned hand to the table. The two sat. Milt and Nancy would be his partners for ten days. Stuart blew his nose and welcomed them. The three exchanged home cities, families and professions. Nancy was Milt’s daughter and they lived together in northern Minnesota.
After a few minutes of introductory chatter Stuart pointed to their identical jackets with a question on his face. Milt said, “So if one of us gets lost the other can describe what she looks like,” and he laughed so hard his upper dentures nearly fell out. “Oh Daddy,” Nancy said, and slapped him lightly on his shoulder. Stuart laughed also, and coughed. In the months after Patsy’s death he’d laughed a few times for the sake of others, so he’d look as though he were recovering from mourning. This was one of the few times he’d laughed because he was genuinely amused. He’d wondered what partners he’d get in the luck of the draw; but, these two should be tolerable for the duration.
The tour met Stuart’s expectations as a whirlwind. The first two days were fuzzy because of his cold, but he recovered. For five days their gargantuan bus negotiated tortuous roads and survived suicidal traffic to shuttle its tourists to sites from the Mediterranean coast to the northern Galilee. The sixth day was into the southern Jordan Valley, ending with the tour disgorged at a Jerusalem hotel. At the evening meal as the three toasted with their Maccabee beer, Stuart asked his “mates,” as he called them, “You two don’t go into the churches and shrines. You hanging around outside for a smoke?”
They enjoyed Stuart’s joke. “Fifty years ago,” Milt said, “I’d have given anything for a cigarette. But we didn’t come to learn legends or admire fourth century architecture.”
“It’s our adventure,” Nancy put in. “Don’t get many of them in the winter. We planned to stay outside here as much as possible, especially in this lovely weather.”
Milt said, “We want to see the lay of the land and at least glimpse some of what it was like in biblical times.”
“I’m a little like that,” Stuart said. “I enjoy the archaeological digs more than the shrines.”
Milt said, “Noticed you left the group at Elijah’s Spring.”
“I was turned off,” he said, as he scanned their faces for signs of a negative judgment upon him. Most of the conversations between travelers had been exclamations of religious astonishment if not ecstasy. Stuart didn’t think that his fellow tourists spoke seriously to one another. Especially no one expressed doubt. And Stuart, except with Patsy, wasn’t in the habit of sharing his deeper thoughts and feelings. He leaned across the table and said softly, “The leader lost me in his obsession with Elijah’s miracles.” His statement brought nods from Milt and Nancy. He continued, “Throwing salt into a spring to purify it, cursing 42 boys so they’d be mauled by bears, floating an ax-head on water….”
Milt and Nancy didn’t show disapproval. On the flight home, he recalled that evening’s meal and assumed that what he said was partially prompted by grief at Patsy’s death. He was still emotionally raw. But he’d also been ready to tell the truth. Whatever motivated him, without forethought he let loose more of his life.
“When I was 13, 14, I thought about being a pastor. That faded. But when I got to college at least I took a course in the history of Christianity. I already had my quarrels with the Bible: Killing witches, that’s murder. Judging people by their parents—back a thousand years. So Jesus was descended from King David? Did anyone calculate—all those kings, wives, and generations—how many hundreds of thousands of men were also descended from David? Slavery then as common as the internet today. Lottery for church leaders. The prof was an atheist and he had a chip on his shoulder. Pointed out the negative more than the positive: Christians’ slap hazard method of finding predictions of Jesus in the Old Testament; divine right of kings; saints’ bones like lucky charms; he especially enjoyed noting that in 1974 the Vatican exonerated the Jews collectively from crucifying Jesus.”
Milt made an “mm sound,” and listened courteously. A group at the next take shrieked their chairs on the floor as they rose to leave. Nancy raised her eyebrows and said, “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
Stuart took a deep breath and continued. “It’s not just the past that bothers me. Some of the Christians I’ve been around. My cousin Donna. Couple years older than me, quotes the Bible like it’s magic words. Swings it like a club. Our family call her ‘knock em downa.’ Other religions to her are demon worship. Christian views other than hers are tools of Satan. Especially Catholics. Those old boys are hell on wheels. I watched her one Thanksgiving shredding my aunt’s faith in an impromptu inquisition. All in sincere concern for her immortal soul of course, and all in the name of Jesus. ‘Jesus this and Jesus that.’ I’m not sure Jesus is greatly concerned about her this’s and that’s. Makes me sick of the name ‘Jesus.’”
With that, Stuart had said his piece to the world, to the church, to God if God cared to listen. Strangely, he wasn’t angry now. He’d become angry as he’d gotten into the flow of his gripes, but now he sat quietly, almost contritely in front of these two Minnesotans across his table who seemed to accept him complaints and all.
After a few moments Nancy said, “We’ve been around Christians like Donna.” Milt blew out a deep breath and said, “Can’t say I haven’t copied some of your cousin’s antics. I’m not proud of it. Also not proud of what Christians have done across the ages.” He shook his head, and began speaking toward the table between them, “We’ve seen some interesting things these last few days, heard some Bible stories retold, listened to some legends. We believe the Bible,” he glanced to Nancy to complete what he wanted to say but couldn’t formulate. Nancy gave a grim smile, “We believe the Bible is as human as Jesus. Kind of scary, huh?”
Milt tapped his hand on the table a few times and looked right and left, getting his thoughts together. “It’s not hard to notice that the early Christians grabbed anything in the Old Testament that looked like Jesus’ life and declared it a prediction. That’s okay. Made sense to how people thought then. Human book. What was God supposed to do, communicate with them in ways that only make sense to us a couple thousand years later? For two millennia—no matter what gets plastered onto it—the center of the Christian faith is living with the risen Jesus. It’s a relationship, a forgiven relationship, but a relationship always, never a doctrine first or even morality first. And God won’t always grab your collar and shake you. Sometimes God starts the relationship in a quiet way with your honest questions.”
A waiter came to clear their dishes. They sat quietly again. The old man gave a little gasp along with a wide smile, “Got an idea. I can’t blame you for what you associate with the name ‘Jesus.’ But ‘Yeshua.’ What the guide talked about today, Jesus’ Aramaic name. Try relating to Yeshua before he got mixed up into all the stuff we Christians have been so busy layering onto the faith from our own personalities and prejudices. Excavate through what we’ve done to Yeshua and see if you can view him without the problems we’ve added to the faith. Call him ‘Yeshua.’ It’ll make him feel at home. See if that changes your opinion of him, like the first Pentecost that happened a few blocks down the street. When the Holy Spirit came on people, Yeshua was the same, but the people were changed. That’s still what the risen Yeshua does—changes people.”
Milt began slowly getting up from his chair and Nancy stepped behind him to help. Stuart thought they’d have more to say. His cousin Donna would have more to say; but, they wished him a good night’s sleep and teetered off to the elevator.
Four days later Stuart sat by a window on the bus to the airport. His cold was gone and he didn’t dread the flight. As Israel’s countryside slid by, he mulled through his scattered thoughts, memories, and feelings about Yeshua and the Christian faith. The daily shuffling to different sites and hotels made the 10 days seem half a lifetime. He wondered which sites Patsy would have liked. He recalled EJ’s concern for him and Milt and Nancy’s friendship. He thought again of his teenage faith.
When his flight was called and he joined his fellow passengers lining into the jetway, his mind was on Yeshua. Nothing outwardly dramatic occurred while edging forward; but, he quietly placed his faith in Yeshua, so that, when he exited the jetway into the plane, it was like leaving a birth canal into a new life.
Preaching point: Yeshua/Jesus remains the same; but his Holy Spirit changes us.
* * *
Prairie Lessons
by David O. Bales
Psalm 16
In late April, 1919 Arnold had just turned 13. His mother didn’t think he was old enough to be guiding Reverend Hunter, but most of the homesteaders agreed with Arnold’s father that Reverend Hunter would be lost in no time if he drove any farther onto the Montana prairie alone. A gust shoved the car to the side. Reverend Hunter wrestled with the steering wheel to hold straight.
The windows had to remain open a few inches to keep the windshield from freezing, so Arnold and Reverend Hunter wore all the clothes they could get on, blankets around their shoulders and half a buffalo robe stretched across their laps and tucked under their legs. Arnold yanked the buffalo robe closer. It was as heavy as a lead blanket and as clumsy but warm. For Arnold it seemed a touch of the old west. His father would never say where he finally sold it. For years after the family had fled their homestead (with the newspaper recording their name on the list of tax defaulters) Arnold wondered what became of it.
“Over the next rise,” Arnold said, “some terrible gumbo ruts last fall.” However, as the Model T rolled down the incline, evidence of last fall’s few puddles had already been pounded to frozen
dust. Half an hour later a few pin pricks of snow hit the windshield. Yet within a hundred yards any sign of precipitation vanished, the sky again offering only a burning intensity, a strange match to the freezing drought.
“Not enough moisture to make snow,” Reverend Hunter said, shaking his head, as he did at every empty homestead he saw, where wind was already flapping tar paper off abandoned walls.
“The Bonners lived there,” Arnold said. He’d gone to school for two months in the winter with the family’s four children. Last winter was so severe that school was cancelled for a month when the temperature didn’t rise above zero. The Bonner family became so desperate that they yanked out their newly tamped fence posts for firewood. Trees near the house had been cut half a decade before. Arnold’s father had said, “They’ve gone back to Madison on the same train that brought them.” Then he’d turned to Arnold’s mother a little too loudly, “We’ll probably be next.” His mother covered her eyes with her forearm and dashed into the bedroom.
An unexpected hole hit the Ford and bumped Reverend Hunter out of his head shaking. He took a breath as though trying to inspire himself, “We’ll pray for rain in worship. At least it’s too cold for grasshoppers yet,” and gave a forced chuckle. His attempt to be encouraging failed both of them. Arnold couldn’t tell how old Reverend Hunter was because his skin wasn’t tanned and wrinkled like the farmers. Arnold watched him driving and his every glance from the road to the prairie was like he was seeing it for the first time. He spoke as if by proclamation, trying to convince himself and Arnold, “We must have faith.” Arnold’s mother had faith, though not like the Reverend’s. Arnold promised himself that to his dying day he’d remember her on her knees every night crying, praying for rain.
“See the tangle of tumble weeds up there on the fence wire.” Arnold pointed ahead. “Left.”
As Reverend Hunter turned he spoke, “The cursed railroads. Spreading their lies not only across the continent. Their pamphlets even snookered people in Europe. I’ve collected a few. Gorgeous. Everything looks wonderful. Way to start a new life for anyone willing to work.”
They jostled for a quarter hour beside a low ridge fissured with ravines before they arrived to the school house. It was the only one in 18 miles with a piano. Two buckboards, three wagons and a car rested on the ground stamped hard around the building by children’s games. A man stuck his head from the door. The wind blew his hair up. He closed the door quickly when he identified the car as today’s preacher.
Reverend Hunter stepped in ahead of Arnold and shook hands as he moved toward the claw-footed stove in the middle of the room. As Arnold followed, he noticed a couple friends from school, but he too moved to the stove as fast as was courteous. Everyone had arrived early to get the room warm and talk with their neighbors. Most people hadn’t seen anyone beside family members for a week. Their thin faces manifested their desire, or maybe their doubt, about a word of hope from God.
No one looked pleased with who the preacher was today. Arnold had never been around Reverend Hunter but had heard his father’s disgust. His mother tried to persuade his father to take a better view of Reverend Hunter and honor all pastors no matter their denomination. His father said, “He looks down on us honyockers. Why can’t I look down on him?”
Worship proceeded as Arnold had known it: the piano dragging along the singing, prayers for rain, and the tall lady with the high forehead and black hair offering, “Precious Jesus” after each hymn. The preacher, in an obvious attempt to touch the homesteaders’ lives spoke from Psalm 16, “The LORD is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; I have a goodly heritage.”
He compared the psalm to a land grant. For half an hour he tried to convince the homesteaders to be grateful by starting to talk about Israel crossing the Jordan on dry land. A man sitting in the back near Arnold whispered loudly to his wife, “See, the world’s been drying up for a long time.” He droned through the battles smiting the Canaanites, and then to the distribution of the conquered land. “Behold,” he said, “land given to them who would take it. Just as to you. That’s God’s grace way back in the Old Testament, just like in the New Testament with Jesus.”
By that time the preacher had lost almost everyone’s attention. He must have realized that his message wasn’t hitting the spot he was aiming for because he hurried to wind down. Arnold assumed he wanted to finish and flee, much as the homesteaders were winding down their era of drought on the prairie and about to escape to what they used to call ‘home.’
Reverend Hunter’s last idea seemed spontaneous and spoken slightly in defense of the congregation that wasn’t accepting a sermon that called this land of disappointment “free.” He mumbled quickly, “For me, like Israel’s priests who wouldn’t receive a portion of the promised land, I have only the Lord. ‘The Levites who reside in your towns have no allotment or inheritance with you,’ Deuteronomy 12:12.”
That ended worship and Reverend Hunter hustled Arnold quickly to the freezing Motel T. Arnold had only to tell Reverend Hunter a few turns on the drive back to his family’s sod-thatched dugout house. Reverend Hunter said little to Arnold’s parents, just that Arnold was home safely and he appreciated the directions. He gave a half smile and vanished from their lives.
Within six weeks Arnold’s family too abandoned their claim. It hadn’t rained. The spring wheat didn’t germinate. Prayers didn’t seem to be answered. Their family joined the reverse migration back east to older homes now unfamiliar. Such moves strained family solidarity as the hoax of free land disturbed faith. Many times when Arnold’s parents discussed their farming failure and questioned God’s part in it, his mother said, “I don’t know. Just don’t know. But we still have the Lord.” Arnold was bothered—disoriented—for years by the move. All he held to from the experience was what his mother and Reverend Hunter agreed on: They might not have land, but they had the Lord. It took decades, however, for him finally to be reconciled to never knowing what happened to that buffalo robe.
Preaching point: Life within God’s grace no matter the tragic outward circumstances.
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 19, 2020 issue.
Copyright 2020 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.
“A Way To Meet Jesus” by David O. Bales
“Prairie Lessons” by David O. Bales
A Way To Meet Jesus
by David O. Bales
Acts 2:14a, 22-32
Stuart’s head felt like a full balloon, throbbing with each step as he jostled up Ben Gurion Airport’s jetway. He gave up trying to walk and reset his watch at the same time. Jet lag was enough, but the added irritation of decompressing a head cold was almost disabling. After ten hours of flight he’d gotten to sleep 45 minutes before landing, only to be awakened then every five minutes by the speaker directly above him blaring out these gagging sounding messages that didn’t make sense when the message was repeated in English smothered with the same language. He stumbled out of the jetway feeling as if he was being vomited into all the people in Israel.
The ceiling lights hurt his sleepy eyes. Nonetheless, he had to look around carefully. Someone would be holding a sign with his name on it. He was on a different flight from the rest of the tour; yet, at least he’d managed to land on time. His best friend EJ had won a tour of the Holy Land, but his wife just had their third child. Two weeks before, he’d entered Stuart’s office. He placed a hand on Stuart’s desk and leaned toward him, “Lynn and I’ve deliberated who to give this tour to. We think it might be what you need. It’s been a year since…” He let his voice trail off. He leaned down and placed his other hand also on the desk in front of Stuart. “We’ve been wanting to do something for you. Please take this tour and see if it offers you some … some comfort,” he said as though embarrassed to speak the word.
A young woman in a blue blazer held a sign outside the baggage area: “Mr. Prentice.” In twenty minutes Stuart was led to another blue-blazered young woman who grabbed his heavy suitcase and surprised him as she hefted it with a perfect swing into the maw of the bus’s storage. While Israel’s scenery slid by his window and passengers exclaimed about each rock, bush, and building he tried to sleep. Seven or eight minutes after he’d finally nodded off, the bus emptied at the hotel in Tiberius. The hotel staff smiled as they spoke their strange version of English, having to repeat most statements twice and herding him to his room. His legs buckled and he collapsed onto the bed.
First thing the next morning he took cold medicine. He walked into the breakfast room placing each step gently in order to cushion the pain in his head. At the buffet he selected cheese and sardines and recalled EJ’s advice, “Face each day with hope and prayer.” So he held his aching head erect and figured that in these circumstances, one out of two wasn’t bad.
Most of the tourists were couples and assigned to a corresponding couple for their meals. He, however, was alone, as he became more aware every day. He found the table with his name and sat. Wait-staff fluttered by floating their strange Hebraic sounds after them. He glanced at the next table and the couple bowed in prayer over their salads and pastries. He thought, “Well, EJ, does their prayer count?” He looked back to see a man and woman standing with full plates across his table. They wore identical khaki safari coats. They grinned. The woman was husky, maybe 60. The man, thin and tottery, appeared twice her age. Stuart thought that if his cold pills would release the pressure in his ears, he’d be able to hear a creak with the man’s every movement. He half stood and aimed an upturned hand to the table. The two sat. Milt and Nancy would be his partners for ten days. Stuart blew his nose and welcomed them. The three exchanged home cities, families and professions. Nancy was Milt’s daughter and they lived together in northern Minnesota.
After a few minutes of introductory chatter Stuart pointed to their identical jackets with a question on his face. Milt said, “So if one of us gets lost the other can describe what she looks like,” and he laughed so hard his upper dentures nearly fell out. “Oh Daddy,” Nancy said, and slapped him lightly on his shoulder. Stuart laughed also, and coughed. In the months after Patsy’s death he’d laughed a few times for the sake of others, so he’d look as though he were recovering from mourning. This was one of the few times he’d laughed because he was genuinely amused. He’d wondered what partners he’d get in the luck of the draw; but, these two should be tolerable for the duration.
The tour met Stuart’s expectations as a whirlwind. The first two days were fuzzy because of his cold, but he recovered. For five days their gargantuan bus negotiated tortuous roads and survived suicidal traffic to shuttle its tourists to sites from the Mediterranean coast to the northern Galilee. The sixth day was into the southern Jordan Valley, ending with the tour disgorged at a Jerusalem hotel. At the evening meal as the three toasted with their Maccabee beer, Stuart asked his “mates,” as he called them, “You two don’t go into the churches and shrines. You hanging around outside for a smoke?”
They enjoyed Stuart’s joke. “Fifty years ago,” Milt said, “I’d have given anything for a cigarette. But we didn’t come to learn legends or admire fourth century architecture.”
“It’s our adventure,” Nancy put in. “Don’t get many of them in the winter. We planned to stay outside here as much as possible, especially in this lovely weather.”
Milt said, “We want to see the lay of the land and at least glimpse some of what it was like in biblical times.”
“I’m a little like that,” Stuart said. “I enjoy the archaeological digs more than the shrines.”
Milt said, “Noticed you left the group at Elijah’s Spring.”
“I was turned off,” he said, as he scanned their faces for signs of a negative judgment upon him. Most of the conversations between travelers had been exclamations of religious astonishment if not ecstasy. Stuart didn’t think that his fellow tourists spoke seriously to one another. Especially no one expressed doubt. And Stuart, except with Patsy, wasn’t in the habit of sharing his deeper thoughts and feelings. He leaned across the table and said softly, “The leader lost me in his obsession with Elijah’s miracles.” His statement brought nods from Milt and Nancy. He continued, “Throwing salt into a spring to purify it, cursing 42 boys so they’d be mauled by bears, floating an ax-head on water….”
Milt and Nancy didn’t show disapproval. On the flight home, he recalled that evening’s meal and assumed that what he said was partially prompted by grief at Patsy’s death. He was still emotionally raw. But he’d also been ready to tell the truth. Whatever motivated him, without forethought he let loose more of his life.
“When I was 13, 14, I thought about being a pastor. That faded. But when I got to college at least I took a course in the history of Christianity. I already had my quarrels with the Bible: Killing witches, that’s murder. Judging people by their parents—back a thousand years. So Jesus was descended from King David? Did anyone calculate—all those kings, wives, and generations—how many hundreds of thousands of men were also descended from David? Slavery then as common as the internet today. Lottery for church leaders. The prof was an atheist and he had a chip on his shoulder. Pointed out the negative more than the positive: Christians’ slap hazard method of finding predictions of Jesus in the Old Testament; divine right of kings; saints’ bones like lucky charms; he especially enjoyed noting that in 1974 the Vatican exonerated the Jews collectively from crucifying Jesus.”
Milt made an “mm sound,” and listened courteously. A group at the next take shrieked their chairs on the floor as they rose to leave. Nancy raised her eyebrows and said, “You’ve thought about this a lot.”
Stuart took a deep breath and continued. “It’s not just the past that bothers me. Some of the Christians I’ve been around. My cousin Donna. Couple years older than me, quotes the Bible like it’s magic words. Swings it like a club. Our family call her ‘knock em downa.’ Other religions to her are demon worship. Christian views other than hers are tools of Satan. Especially Catholics. Those old boys are hell on wheels. I watched her one Thanksgiving shredding my aunt’s faith in an impromptu inquisition. All in sincere concern for her immortal soul of course, and all in the name of Jesus. ‘Jesus this and Jesus that.’ I’m not sure Jesus is greatly concerned about her this’s and that’s. Makes me sick of the name ‘Jesus.’”
With that, Stuart had said his piece to the world, to the church, to God if God cared to listen. Strangely, he wasn’t angry now. He’d become angry as he’d gotten into the flow of his gripes, but now he sat quietly, almost contritely in front of these two Minnesotans across his table who seemed to accept him complaints and all.
After a few moments Nancy said, “We’ve been around Christians like Donna.” Milt blew out a deep breath and said, “Can’t say I haven’t copied some of your cousin’s antics. I’m not proud of it. Also not proud of what Christians have done across the ages.” He shook his head, and began speaking toward the table between them, “We’ve seen some interesting things these last few days, heard some Bible stories retold, listened to some legends. We believe the Bible,” he glanced to Nancy to complete what he wanted to say but couldn’t formulate. Nancy gave a grim smile, “We believe the Bible is as human as Jesus. Kind of scary, huh?”
Milt tapped his hand on the table a few times and looked right and left, getting his thoughts together. “It’s not hard to notice that the early Christians grabbed anything in the Old Testament that looked like Jesus’ life and declared it a prediction. That’s okay. Made sense to how people thought then. Human book. What was God supposed to do, communicate with them in ways that only make sense to us a couple thousand years later? For two millennia—no matter what gets plastered onto it—the center of the Christian faith is living with the risen Jesus. It’s a relationship, a forgiven relationship, but a relationship always, never a doctrine first or even morality first. And God won’t always grab your collar and shake you. Sometimes God starts the relationship in a quiet way with your honest questions.”
A waiter came to clear their dishes. They sat quietly again. The old man gave a little gasp along with a wide smile, “Got an idea. I can’t blame you for what you associate with the name ‘Jesus.’ But ‘Yeshua.’ What the guide talked about today, Jesus’ Aramaic name. Try relating to Yeshua before he got mixed up into all the stuff we Christians have been so busy layering onto the faith from our own personalities and prejudices. Excavate through what we’ve done to Yeshua and see if you can view him without the problems we’ve added to the faith. Call him ‘Yeshua.’ It’ll make him feel at home. See if that changes your opinion of him, like the first Pentecost that happened a few blocks down the street. When the Holy Spirit came on people, Yeshua was the same, but the people were changed. That’s still what the risen Yeshua does—changes people.”
Milt began slowly getting up from his chair and Nancy stepped behind him to help. Stuart thought they’d have more to say. His cousin Donna would have more to say; but, they wished him a good night’s sleep and teetered off to the elevator.
Four days later Stuart sat by a window on the bus to the airport. His cold was gone and he didn’t dread the flight. As Israel’s countryside slid by, he mulled through his scattered thoughts, memories, and feelings about Yeshua and the Christian faith. The daily shuffling to different sites and hotels made the 10 days seem half a lifetime. He wondered which sites Patsy would have liked. He recalled EJ’s concern for him and Milt and Nancy’s friendship. He thought again of his teenage faith.
When his flight was called and he joined his fellow passengers lining into the jetway, his mind was on Yeshua. Nothing outwardly dramatic occurred while edging forward; but, he quietly placed his faith in Yeshua, so that, when he exited the jetway into the plane, it was like leaving a birth canal into a new life.
Preaching point: Yeshua/Jesus remains the same; but his Holy Spirit changes us.
* * *
Prairie Lessons
by David O. Bales
Psalm 16
In late April, 1919 Arnold had just turned 13. His mother didn’t think he was old enough to be guiding Reverend Hunter, but most of the homesteaders agreed with Arnold’s father that Reverend Hunter would be lost in no time if he drove any farther onto the Montana prairie alone. A gust shoved the car to the side. Reverend Hunter wrestled with the steering wheel to hold straight.
The windows had to remain open a few inches to keep the windshield from freezing, so Arnold and Reverend Hunter wore all the clothes they could get on, blankets around their shoulders and half a buffalo robe stretched across their laps and tucked under their legs. Arnold yanked the buffalo robe closer. It was as heavy as a lead blanket and as clumsy but warm. For Arnold it seemed a touch of the old west. His father would never say where he finally sold it. For years after the family had fled their homestead (with the newspaper recording their name on the list of tax defaulters) Arnold wondered what became of it.
“Over the next rise,” Arnold said, “some terrible gumbo ruts last fall.” However, as the Model T rolled down the incline, evidence of last fall’s few puddles had already been pounded to frozen
dust. Half an hour later a few pin pricks of snow hit the windshield. Yet within a hundred yards any sign of precipitation vanished, the sky again offering only a burning intensity, a strange match to the freezing drought.
“Not enough moisture to make snow,” Reverend Hunter said, shaking his head, as he did at every empty homestead he saw, where wind was already flapping tar paper off abandoned walls.
“The Bonners lived there,” Arnold said. He’d gone to school for two months in the winter with the family’s four children. Last winter was so severe that school was cancelled for a month when the temperature didn’t rise above zero. The Bonner family became so desperate that they yanked out their newly tamped fence posts for firewood. Trees near the house had been cut half a decade before. Arnold’s father had said, “They’ve gone back to Madison on the same train that brought them.” Then he’d turned to Arnold’s mother a little too loudly, “We’ll probably be next.” His mother covered her eyes with her forearm and dashed into the bedroom.
An unexpected hole hit the Ford and bumped Reverend Hunter out of his head shaking. He took a breath as though trying to inspire himself, “We’ll pray for rain in worship. At least it’s too cold for grasshoppers yet,” and gave a forced chuckle. His attempt to be encouraging failed both of them. Arnold couldn’t tell how old Reverend Hunter was because his skin wasn’t tanned and wrinkled like the farmers. Arnold watched him driving and his every glance from the road to the prairie was like he was seeing it for the first time. He spoke as if by proclamation, trying to convince himself and Arnold, “We must have faith.” Arnold’s mother had faith, though not like the Reverend’s. Arnold promised himself that to his dying day he’d remember her on her knees every night crying, praying for rain.
“See the tangle of tumble weeds up there on the fence wire.” Arnold pointed ahead. “Left.”
As Reverend Hunter turned he spoke, “The cursed railroads. Spreading their lies not only across the continent. Their pamphlets even snookered people in Europe. I’ve collected a few. Gorgeous. Everything looks wonderful. Way to start a new life for anyone willing to work.”
They jostled for a quarter hour beside a low ridge fissured with ravines before they arrived to the school house. It was the only one in 18 miles with a piano. Two buckboards, three wagons and a car rested on the ground stamped hard around the building by children’s games. A man stuck his head from the door. The wind blew his hair up. He closed the door quickly when he identified the car as today’s preacher.
Reverend Hunter stepped in ahead of Arnold and shook hands as he moved toward the claw-footed stove in the middle of the room. As Arnold followed, he noticed a couple friends from school, but he too moved to the stove as fast as was courteous. Everyone had arrived early to get the room warm and talk with their neighbors. Most people hadn’t seen anyone beside family members for a week. Their thin faces manifested their desire, or maybe their doubt, about a word of hope from God.
No one looked pleased with who the preacher was today. Arnold had never been around Reverend Hunter but had heard his father’s disgust. His mother tried to persuade his father to take a better view of Reverend Hunter and honor all pastors no matter their denomination. His father said, “He looks down on us honyockers. Why can’t I look down on him?”
Worship proceeded as Arnold had known it: the piano dragging along the singing, prayers for rain, and the tall lady with the high forehead and black hair offering, “Precious Jesus” after each hymn. The preacher, in an obvious attempt to touch the homesteaders’ lives spoke from Psalm 16, “The LORD is my chosen portion and my cup; you hold my lot. The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; I have a goodly heritage.”
He compared the psalm to a land grant. For half an hour he tried to convince the homesteaders to be grateful by starting to talk about Israel crossing the Jordan on dry land. A man sitting in the back near Arnold whispered loudly to his wife, “See, the world’s been drying up for a long time.” He droned through the battles smiting the Canaanites, and then to the distribution of the conquered land. “Behold,” he said, “land given to them who would take it. Just as to you. That’s God’s grace way back in the Old Testament, just like in the New Testament with Jesus.”
By that time the preacher had lost almost everyone’s attention. He must have realized that his message wasn’t hitting the spot he was aiming for because he hurried to wind down. Arnold assumed he wanted to finish and flee, much as the homesteaders were winding down their era of drought on the prairie and about to escape to what they used to call ‘home.’
Reverend Hunter’s last idea seemed spontaneous and spoken slightly in defense of the congregation that wasn’t accepting a sermon that called this land of disappointment “free.” He mumbled quickly, “For me, like Israel’s priests who wouldn’t receive a portion of the promised land, I have only the Lord. ‘The Levites who reside in your towns have no allotment or inheritance with you,’ Deuteronomy 12:12.”
That ended worship and Reverend Hunter hustled Arnold quickly to the freezing Motel T. Arnold had only to tell Reverend Hunter a few turns on the drive back to his family’s sod-thatched dugout house. Reverend Hunter said little to Arnold’s parents, just that Arnold was home safely and he appreciated the directions. He gave a half smile and vanished from their lives.
Within six weeks Arnold’s family too abandoned their claim. It hadn’t rained. The spring wheat didn’t germinate. Prayers didn’t seem to be answered. Their family joined the reverse migration back east to older homes now unfamiliar. Such moves strained family solidarity as the hoax of free land disturbed faith. Many times when Arnold’s parents discussed their farming failure and questioned God’s part in it, his mother said, “I don’t know. Just don’t know. But we still have the Lord.” Arnold was bothered—disoriented—for years by the move. All he held to from the experience was what his mother and Reverend Hunter agreed on: They might not have land, but they had the Lord. It took decades, however, for him finally to be reconciled to never knowing what happened to that buffalo robe.
Preaching point: Life within God’s grace no matter the tragic outward circumstances.
*****************************************
StoryShare, April 19, 2020 issue.
Copyright 2020 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.
