What Kind Of Fool Are You?
Stories
Object:
Contents
"What Kind of Fool Are You?" by John Sumwalt
"A Matter of Orders" by Keith Hewitt
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What Kind of Fool Are You?
John Sumwalt
1 Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23
If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that you may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.
-- 1 Corinthians 3:18-19
There are many different kinds of fools. When I preach the apostle Paul's words about fools and foolishness in 1 Corinthians, I begin the sermon with two of my favorite Abraham Lincoln stories:
In her book, Yankee From Olympus, Catherine Drinker Bowen describes the day President Lincoln visited Fort Stevens not far from Washington DC. "It was July 12, 1864... The president climbed a parapet. He had never seen a battle... The firing began... On the parapet five feet from him a man fell. Three feet away, so close Lincoln could have touched him, an officer fell dead. 'Get down, you fool!' a young voice shouted. Automatically the president stepped back. It was Wendell Holmes, angry and terrified. From the protection of the bulwark, Lincoln looked down at the white face, streaked with dirt... 'Captain,' he said, 'I'm glad you know how to talk to a civilian.' "
In 1902, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. was appointed by President Theodore Roosevelt to serve as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, where he served in distinction for thirty years, retiring in 1932 at the age of ninety.
Pat Hickey summarized another favorite Lincoln story in an article in the March 3rd issue of the Washington Times. He describes what was to be a duel to the death, a fools act that Lincoln would regret for the rest of his life:
"The duel between Abraham Lincoln and Illinois State Auditor James J. Shields was to take place by the Mississippi River near Alton, Illinois, on September 22, 1842. Earlier, there had appeared in the Sangamo journal, a Whig newspaper based in the state capital of Springfield, a series of letters attacking Shields under the nom de plume "Rebecca." Shields' honesty, courage, integrity, and national origin were treated with abuse and sharp wit...."
Many historians have concluded that the future president collaborated with his future wife, Mary Todd, and Julia Jayne, a friend, on the letters. "Shields confronted Lincoln. Though illegal in Illinois, the challenge gained momentum, and the newspapers of the time publicized the event for weeks. It would have been difficult for any man, let alone a politician on the rise, to back down. As the individual challenged, Lincoln had the choice of weapons and chose large cavalry broadswords. While seconds argued the protocols, cooler heads attempted to prevail. Shields would not be mollified, however. At one point, looking to deter Shields, the 6-foot-4-inch Lincoln reached with his broadsword and cut a length of branch from a tree, showing Shields how his 7-inch height advantage gave him an edge. Eventually, bloodshed was avoided, and Lincoln apologized. Lincoln and Shields ultimately became friends."
Carl Sandburg wrote in his biography, Lincoln: The Prairie Years and The War Years, that "The duel had become a joke but Lincoln never afterward mentioned it and his friends saw it as a sore point that shouldn't be spoken of to him. A story arose and lived on that when first, as the challenged party, he had his choice of weapons, he said, 'How about cow dung at five paces?' " (Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc, New York, 1954, p. 77)
Hickey added that later, "During the Civil War, an officer asked the president about the aborted duel, and an angry Lincoln advised him to never speak of it again."
I will conclude the sermon with brief accounts of two well-known martyrs who lived and died for the foolishness of the gospel by giving their lives for others as Christ did.
Oscar Romero, assassinated as he celebrated Mass, was Archbishop in El Salvador during the late 1970s and spoke out passionately for the poor and against the violence of government soldiers that became known as death squads.
Peter Feuerherd wrote of Archbishop Romero in the December 2010 edition of St Anthony Messenger magazine: "At a time when the press in El Salvador was heavily censored, his Sunday homilies, broadcast over the radio, offered hope for those who wanted recognition and condemnation of massacres in the countryside, as government troops and militias swept through whole villages, killing thousands. Romero heard the stories as he listened to peasants who trekked... to their archbishop's office, pleading with him to say something. So he did. Romero's condemnations of the violence became bolder toward the end of his three-year tenure as archbishop. He challenged wealthy Catholic families, who were well-known for public displays of piety but financed death squads. He emphasized the church's call for the rights of workers to organize, and decried the poverty that caused so many Salvadorans to leave the country in search of work. He called upon the leaders of the only country formally dedicated to Jesus, the Savior, to live up to its namesake."
On March 23, 1980, Archbishop Romero made the following appeal to the men of the armed forces:
"Brothers, you came from our own people. You are killing your own brothers. Any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God, which says, 'Thou shalt not kill.' No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God. No one has to obey an immoral law. It is high time you obeyed your consciences rather than sinful orders. The church cannot remain silent before such an abomination.... In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cry rises to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you: stop the repression."
Archbishop Romero was murdered the day after this speech was heard on the radio:
The story of Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish friar, who took the place of another man who was sentenced to die at Auschwitz, is told by Chuck Colson in The Volunteer at Auschwitz. Colson describes the scene in the death camp:
"A prisoner from Barracks 14, where Father Kolbe was housed, managed to escape. The prisoners from that barracks were paraded before the commandant... a monster named Fritsch, levied sentence. "Ten of you will die in the starvation bunker." The starvation bunker was the horror of horrors: both food and water were denied; many prisoners spent their dying days howling, attacking each other, clawing the walls in a frenzy of fear...
Fritsch walked down the lines of prisoners, selecting his victims. One poor wretch, whose number -- 5659 -- was on the list, groaned and cried out: "My poor wife, my poor children, what will they do?" Suddenly, there was a commotion in the ranks. A prisoner had broken out of line, calling for the commandant...
"Halt!" he called. "What does this Polish pig want of me?" The prisoners gasped... It was Father Kolbe who had spoken... The frail priest spoke softly to the Nazi butcher. "I would like to die in place of one of the men you condemned."
"Why?" shouted the commandant... The priest bowed his head: "I am an old man, sir, and good for nothing."
"In whose place do you want to die?" "For that one," Kolbe responded, pointing to the weeping prisoner -- number 5659 -- who had cried for his wife and children. "Who are you?" asked Fritsch... The prisoner looked back at him, a strange fire in his dark eyes. "I am a priest." "Ein Pfaffe!" the commandant snorted. He nodded to his assistant. Number 5659 was crossed out, and number 16670 -- Kolbe's number -- replaced it... Father Kolbe died as he had lived, serving and loving others. From the death cell came not the sounds of frenzied despair but the faint sounds of singing. This time, the prisoners had a shepherd to lead them through the shadows of the valley of death. (Story adapted from Chuck Colson, The Volunteer at Auschwitz, in The Book of Virtues, William J. Bennett, ed. [New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993], pp. 806-807)
Before his death, Maximillian Kolbe wrote to a fellow priest:
"It is sad to see how in our times the disease called "indifferentism" is spreading in all its forms, not just among those in the world but also among the members of religious orders. But indeed, since God is worthy of infinite glory, it is our first and most pressing duty to give him such glory as we, in our weakness, can manage -- even that we would never, poor exiled creatures that we are, be able to render him such glory as he truly deserves. Because God's glory shines through most brightly in the salvation of the souls that Christ redeemed with his own blood, let it be the chief concern of the apostolic life to bring salvation and an increase in holiness to as many souls as possible."
As I said, "There are many different kinds of fools." What kind of fool are you?
(Any one of these stories would serve well as a single illustration. More information can be found in the books and magazines cited and online.)
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
A Matter of Orders
Keith Hewitt
Matthew 5:38-48
During the height of trench warfare in World War I, British troops suffered an average of 1,000 casualties a day even when no offensives were taking place. To the British High Command, this was considered normal "wastage"...
Major Wesley Haversham sat at his desk and read through the stack of reports that appeared there, as if by magic, every morning precisely at 06:30. For the most part they were deadly dull, but still required reading in the event that some subordinate might have stumbled across something interesting -- but he read, as it were, with one eye, and let the other focus on memories of the country house in Lindley Wood, or the cottage on the Dover shore, or that suggestible young ma'moiselle in Abbeville, on his last leave.
What was her name, again? He pondered the question, unconsciously drew up his kilt a bit so he could scratch one knee as he thought... and read.
He was occupied, thus, when his eyes reached the bottom of one page and he realized what he thought he had read -- then flitted back to the top and scanned through the report again. By the time they reached the bottom again, all thoughts of the lovely Marie -- or was it Madeline? -- had fled.
Two cups of tea, three calls to Forward Headquarters -- communications with the Front were not as reliable as they ought to be -- and a call to the hospital just down the road gave him the information he needed. He looked down at his notes, squeezed into the margins of the report, and shook his head, clucking apologetically. "So sorry, old chap," he said to no one in particular, "but you seem to have mucked things up for yourself pretty thoroughly."
He picked up the phone -- an elegant brass and ebony device that had come with the chateau -- and turned the crank briskly a couple of times. This one was wired directly to the Old Man's office; he answered with a raspy growl, and Haversham unconsciously sat up a little straighter. "It's Haversham, Colonel. We've had another one of those discipline cases -- a sergeant, up on the line."
"Bring it in. And get me his commanding officer."
"On his way, sir. Captain by the name of Wilkes -- our good luck he happened to be in hospital, getting some wound or other tended to. He should be here shortly."
"You come now. Have your man show Wilkes in when he gets here."
"As you say, sir."
Haversham stood up quickly, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in his kilt, fingered the corners of his ruddy mustache, and scooped up the papers from his desk, marched down the short hallway to the Old Man's office, heels clicking on the marble floor like a metronome. The two sentries flanking the double doors of the office snapped to attention as he approached, remained frozen as he knocked, then entered.
Haversham had time to go over the report before Asbury Wilkes arrived from hospital, some twenty minutes later. Wilkes was shown in by a grim-looking private, who disappeared as soon as military courtesy would allow. Haversham eyed the new arrival dubiously -- the man was all of 25 or 26, lanky, with tousled hair and a couple days' growth of beard. His blouse and kilt were wrinkled, his boots were muddy, and there was a malodorous air about him -- Haversham began to wonder what, exactly, was on those boots and leggings.
It was the eyes that caught and held his attention, though -- they were clear and blue... and belonged to a much older man. They flickered over Haversham and the Old Man and then locked straight ahead as he saluted with a hand swathed in clean white gauze. "Captain Wilkes, reporting as ordered."
"At ease," the Old Man grunted, almost reluctantly. As Wilkes took a breath and clasped his hands behind him -- assuming a position that was considered "at ease," but was not -- the Old Man continued in a somewhat more friendly tone, "Injured your hand, did you?"
Wilkes nodded. "Yes, sir. Rat bite, nothing much. The surgeon was able to stitch things up, straightaway."
Rat bite... Haversham looked around the Old Man's office -- the elegant mahogany desk, the fireplace that took up most of one wall, with the delicately carved chairs set around it to make a formal, informal space, and the floor to ceiling windows behind the desk. A tray of breakfast, half-eaten, sat on a spidery mahogany table at the Old Man's elbow.
A rat bite…
He was distracted enough to miss the first part of what the Old Man said, realized what was happening and tuned in quickly. "-- Haversham, here, read your disciplinary report for 30 December, and brought it to me when he saw that you had given administrative punishment to one of your men --" He looked down at his desk, then up at Wilkes again. "-- a Corporal Reilly. Tell us about it, Captain."
Wilkes' eyes flickered to both men, again, then focused on something past them, through the windows. "I believe the report is complete, Colonel. Corporal Reilly broke regimental standing orders by attempting to make contact with the German lines, sir."
"Making contact with the Hun -- sounds more like treason, Captain." It was a statement, not a question.
The captain shook his head slightly -- maybe an inch either way. "No, sir. He was using a -- uh -- liberated French rifle, to launch V-B grenades toward the German lines. They were inert, with messages tied around them."
"Messages?"
"Yes, sir. Messages. Contact with the enemy is forbidden under regimental standing orders. I advised Corporal Reilly of his breach of orders, and gave him
administrative punishment for his actions." Pause. "I also seized the rifle and the remaining grenades, sir."
"What type of administrative punishment did you administer?"
"We are due to be pulled off the line in four days, Colonel. Once we are off the line, he will be restricted to his quarters. No leave, no visitors."
The Old Man looked at him closely, one manicured finger tapping lightly on the desktop as he considered what to say next. "Does that seem like sufficient discipline, Captain? He did violate orders."
The expression on Wilkes' face indicated that he'd shrugged, though his shoulders never moved. "Yes, sir."
"Yes sir, it seemed sufficient? Or yes sir, he did violate orders?"
"Yes sir to both, sir. It did seem sufficient, in view of his offense. Corporal Reilly is a good man, sir -- a fine soldier, and a rock out there when we need him to be."
"A fine soldier -- and yet, what was he attempting to do?" The Old Man's voice seemed to be growing even deeper.
Wilkes hesitated. "He was attempting to communicate with the Germans, sir."
"And why is it that Reilly wanted to talk to the Hun?"
"He was --" Wilkes' face grew darker as blood flushed to his cheeks. "He was trying to set up a meeting, sir. A gathering."
"A gathering?"
"To celebrate New Year's, sir. The truce on Christmas went well, Colonel. He wanted to have one more day --"
The Old Man's hand slapped down on the desk, and it was like a rifle shot in the room. "Went well? Consorting with the enemy went well?" His voice was hard, now. "How is it that he can go directly against regimental standing orders -- orders that were issued as a direct result of that damnable Christmas truce -- and you can brush it off like it's nothing?"
"Sir, Corporal Reilly is a good man. It's just that, after the truce, he started to think about what we're going through. He said that he started to think about the child whose birth we celebrate on Christmas, and he wondered how we could honor his birth, but ignore his words."
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth -- we don't ignore those words, Captain!"
Haversham blinked, cleared his throat -- and the Old Man glared at him. He swallowed, shook his head slightly, as if to say never mind. It was clear the Old Man would not really appreciate a clarification, now, as to who said what in the Bible.
Captain Wilkes dodged the issue, instead saying simply, "I believe the words he was thinking of were what Jesus said about not hating, and loving your enemy, and turning the other cheek."
"So your man Reilly is a theologian, as well?"
"I don't believe so, sir. Just a man who got to thinking."
"So all this talk about loving your enemy and such -- does that make sense to you?"
Wilkes licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, then shook his head again, an inch side to side. "Not exactly, sir, but then we're looking at things our way, and not the way Jesus would."
The Old Man's finger tapped again -- what seemed like quite a long time, before he said, "Captain -- son -- those standing orders were issued for a reason, and they were explicit. Fraternization with the enemy is not to be allowed. That nonsense at Christmas cannot be tolerated. And all this talk about Jesus -- well, you said that we don't look at things the same way he did, and you're right. But Jesus never stood watch in a trench, or fired a rifle, either, so I would venture to say he wouldn't look at things the way we do. We both have our ways, and our reasons."
"Yes, sir."
"Have your man brought here, under guard. I will see to appropriate discipline for violation of the orders."
"But --" Wilkes seemed to sag, a bit. "Yes, sir."
"That is all. Dismissed, Captain."
The Old Man looked down at papers on his desk, then, evidently moved on to some other issue already. Wilkes saluted, spun on his heel, and left. When the door closed, he looked up and caught Haversham's eye. "I know young Wilkes isn't happy with me, but this is how it must be, Haversham."
Haversham nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I want an administrative hearing for Corporal Reilly the minute he's brought here. And then I want him shot."
Haversham blinked. "Shot, sir?"
"Yes. Orders are orders. It's unfortunate, but if we shoot this lad now, we may save many more from the same fate later. That Christmas Truce was a thorn in the High Command's side, and they've determined the best way to deal with it. That's why I wanted you to be on the lookout, Major. We've got to squash these things before they get worse."
The Old Man leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, shook his head. "I know this war is a strain on everyone -- it's hell, everybody knows that. But if we let men like Reilly spread their ideas, and don't deal with them firmly --" He looked up at Haversham, and shook his head. "I mean, really -- if this whole 'love your enemy' thing spread through the ranks, how could we ever fight a war?"
Haversham looked past him, out the window, with a sudden, uncertain feeling inside. "How could we, indeed?" he wondered softly.
And the answer didn't comfort him.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
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StoryShare, February 20, 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.
"What Kind of Fool Are You?" by John Sumwalt
"A Matter of Orders" by Keith Hewitt
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What Kind of Fool Are You?
John Sumwalt
1 Corinthians 3:10-11, 16-23
If you think that you are wise in this age, you should become fools so that you may become wise. For the wisdom of this world is foolishness with God.
-- 1 Corinthians 3:18-19
There are many different kinds of fools. When I preach the apostle Paul's words about fools and foolishness in 1 Corinthians, I begin the sermon with two of my favorite Abraham Lincoln stories:
In her book, Yankee From Olympus, Catherine Drinker Bowen describes the day President Lincoln visited Fort Stevens not far from Washington DC. "It was July 12, 1864... The president climbed a parapet. He had never seen a battle... The firing began... On the parapet five feet from him a man fell. Three feet away, so close Lincoln could have touched him, an officer fell dead. 'Get down, you fool!' a young voice shouted. Automatically the president stepped back. It was Wendell Holmes, angry and terrified. From the protection of the bulwark, Lincoln looked down at the white face, streaked with dirt... 'Captain,' he said, 'I'm glad you know how to talk to a civilian.' "
In 1902, Oliver Wendell Holmes Jr. was appointed by President Theodore Roosevelt to serve as an Associate Justice of the Supreme Court, where he served in distinction for thirty years, retiring in 1932 at the age of ninety.
Pat Hickey summarized another favorite Lincoln story in an article in the March 3rd issue of the Washington Times. He describes what was to be a duel to the death, a fools act that Lincoln would regret for the rest of his life:
"The duel between Abraham Lincoln and Illinois State Auditor James J. Shields was to take place by the Mississippi River near Alton, Illinois, on September 22, 1842. Earlier, there had appeared in the Sangamo journal, a Whig newspaper based in the state capital of Springfield, a series of letters attacking Shields under the nom de plume "Rebecca." Shields' honesty, courage, integrity, and national origin were treated with abuse and sharp wit...."
Many historians have concluded that the future president collaborated with his future wife, Mary Todd, and Julia Jayne, a friend, on the letters. "Shields confronted Lincoln. Though illegal in Illinois, the challenge gained momentum, and the newspapers of the time publicized the event for weeks. It would have been difficult for any man, let alone a politician on the rise, to back down. As the individual challenged, Lincoln had the choice of weapons and chose large cavalry broadswords. While seconds argued the protocols, cooler heads attempted to prevail. Shields would not be mollified, however. At one point, looking to deter Shields, the 6-foot-4-inch Lincoln reached with his broadsword and cut a length of branch from a tree, showing Shields how his 7-inch height advantage gave him an edge. Eventually, bloodshed was avoided, and Lincoln apologized. Lincoln and Shields ultimately became friends."
Carl Sandburg wrote in his biography, Lincoln: The Prairie Years and The War Years, that "The duel had become a joke but Lincoln never afterward mentioned it and his friends saw it as a sore point that shouldn't be spoken of to him. A story arose and lived on that when first, as the challenged party, he had his choice of weapons, he said, 'How about cow dung at five paces?' " (Harcourt, Brace & World, Inc, New York, 1954, p. 77)
Hickey added that later, "During the Civil War, an officer asked the president about the aborted duel, and an angry Lincoln advised him to never speak of it again."
I will conclude the sermon with brief accounts of two well-known martyrs who lived and died for the foolishness of the gospel by giving their lives for others as Christ did.
Oscar Romero, assassinated as he celebrated Mass, was Archbishop in El Salvador during the late 1970s and spoke out passionately for the poor and against the violence of government soldiers that became known as death squads.
Peter Feuerherd wrote of Archbishop Romero in the December 2010 edition of St Anthony Messenger magazine: "At a time when the press in El Salvador was heavily censored, his Sunday homilies, broadcast over the radio, offered hope for those who wanted recognition and condemnation of massacres in the countryside, as government troops and militias swept through whole villages, killing thousands. Romero heard the stories as he listened to peasants who trekked... to their archbishop's office, pleading with him to say something. So he did. Romero's condemnations of the violence became bolder toward the end of his three-year tenure as archbishop. He challenged wealthy Catholic families, who were well-known for public displays of piety but financed death squads. He emphasized the church's call for the rights of workers to organize, and decried the poverty that caused so many Salvadorans to leave the country in search of work. He called upon the leaders of the only country formally dedicated to Jesus, the Savior, to live up to its namesake."
On March 23, 1980, Archbishop Romero made the following appeal to the men of the armed forces:
"Brothers, you came from our own people. You are killing your own brothers. Any human order to kill must be subordinate to the law of God, which says, 'Thou shalt not kill.' No soldier is obliged to obey an order contrary to the law of God. No one has to obey an immoral law. It is high time you obeyed your consciences rather than sinful orders. The church cannot remain silent before such an abomination.... In the name of God, in the name of this suffering people whose cry rises to heaven more loudly each day, I implore you, I beg you, I order you: stop the repression."
Archbishop Romero was murdered the day after this speech was heard on the radio:
The story of Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish friar, who took the place of another man who was sentenced to die at Auschwitz, is told by Chuck Colson in The Volunteer at Auschwitz. Colson describes the scene in the death camp:
"A prisoner from Barracks 14, where Father Kolbe was housed, managed to escape. The prisoners from that barracks were paraded before the commandant... a monster named Fritsch, levied sentence. "Ten of you will die in the starvation bunker." The starvation bunker was the horror of horrors: both food and water were denied; many prisoners spent their dying days howling, attacking each other, clawing the walls in a frenzy of fear...
Fritsch walked down the lines of prisoners, selecting his victims. One poor wretch, whose number -- 5659 -- was on the list, groaned and cried out: "My poor wife, my poor children, what will they do?" Suddenly, there was a commotion in the ranks. A prisoner had broken out of line, calling for the commandant...
"Halt!" he called. "What does this Polish pig want of me?" The prisoners gasped... It was Father Kolbe who had spoken... The frail priest spoke softly to the Nazi butcher. "I would like to die in place of one of the men you condemned."
"Why?" shouted the commandant... The priest bowed his head: "I am an old man, sir, and good for nothing."
"In whose place do you want to die?" "For that one," Kolbe responded, pointing to the weeping prisoner -- number 5659 -- who had cried for his wife and children. "Who are you?" asked Fritsch... The prisoner looked back at him, a strange fire in his dark eyes. "I am a priest." "Ein Pfaffe!" the commandant snorted. He nodded to his assistant. Number 5659 was crossed out, and number 16670 -- Kolbe's number -- replaced it... Father Kolbe died as he had lived, serving and loving others. From the death cell came not the sounds of frenzied despair but the faint sounds of singing. This time, the prisoners had a shepherd to lead them through the shadows of the valley of death. (Story adapted from Chuck Colson, The Volunteer at Auschwitz, in The Book of Virtues, William J. Bennett, ed. [New York: Simon and Schuster, 1993], pp. 806-807)
Before his death, Maximillian Kolbe wrote to a fellow priest:
"It is sad to see how in our times the disease called "indifferentism" is spreading in all its forms, not just among those in the world but also among the members of religious orders. But indeed, since God is worthy of infinite glory, it is our first and most pressing duty to give him such glory as we, in our weakness, can manage -- even that we would never, poor exiled creatures that we are, be able to render him such glory as he truly deserves. Because God's glory shines through most brightly in the salvation of the souls that Christ redeemed with his own blood, let it be the chief concern of the apostolic life to bring salvation and an increase in holiness to as many souls as possible."
As I said, "There are many different kinds of fools." What kind of fool are you?
(Any one of these stories would serve well as a single illustration. More information can be found in the books and magazines cited and online.)
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
A Matter of Orders
Keith Hewitt
Matthew 5:38-48
During the height of trench warfare in World War I, British troops suffered an average of 1,000 casualties a day even when no offensives were taking place. To the British High Command, this was considered normal "wastage"...
Major Wesley Haversham sat at his desk and read through the stack of reports that appeared there, as if by magic, every morning precisely at 06:30. For the most part they were deadly dull, but still required reading in the event that some subordinate might have stumbled across something interesting -- but he read, as it were, with one eye, and let the other focus on memories of the country house in Lindley Wood, or the cottage on the Dover shore, or that suggestible young ma'moiselle in Abbeville, on his last leave.
What was her name, again? He pondered the question, unconsciously drew up his kilt a bit so he could scratch one knee as he thought... and read.
He was occupied, thus, when his eyes reached the bottom of one page and he realized what he thought he had read -- then flitted back to the top and scanned through the report again. By the time they reached the bottom again, all thoughts of the lovely Marie -- or was it Madeline? -- had fled.
Two cups of tea, three calls to Forward Headquarters -- communications with the Front were not as reliable as they ought to be -- and a call to the hospital just down the road gave him the information he needed. He looked down at his notes, squeezed into the margins of the report, and shook his head, clucking apologetically. "So sorry, old chap," he said to no one in particular, "but you seem to have mucked things up for yourself pretty thoroughly."
He picked up the phone -- an elegant brass and ebony device that had come with the chateau -- and turned the crank briskly a couple of times. This one was wired directly to the Old Man's office; he answered with a raspy growl, and Haversham unconsciously sat up a little straighter. "It's Haversham, Colonel. We've had another one of those discipline cases -- a sergeant, up on the line."
"Bring it in. And get me his commanding officer."
"On his way, sir. Captain by the name of Wilkes -- our good luck he happened to be in hospital, getting some wound or other tended to. He should be here shortly."
"You come now. Have your man show Wilkes in when he gets here."
"As you say, sir."
Haversham stood up quickly, smoothed out imaginary wrinkles in his kilt, fingered the corners of his ruddy mustache, and scooped up the papers from his desk, marched down the short hallway to the Old Man's office, heels clicking on the marble floor like a metronome. The two sentries flanking the double doors of the office snapped to attention as he approached, remained frozen as he knocked, then entered.
Haversham had time to go over the report before Asbury Wilkes arrived from hospital, some twenty minutes later. Wilkes was shown in by a grim-looking private, who disappeared as soon as military courtesy would allow. Haversham eyed the new arrival dubiously -- the man was all of 25 or 26, lanky, with tousled hair and a couple days' growth of beard. His blouse and kilt were wrinkled, his boots were muddy, and there was a malodorous air about him -- Haversham began to wonder what, exactly, was on those boots and leggings.
It was the eyes that caught and held his attention, though -- they were clear and blue... and belonged to a much older man. They flickered over Haversham and the Old Man and then locked straight ahead as he saluted with a hand swathed in clean white gauze. "Captain Wilkes, reporting as ordered."
"At ease," the Old Man grunted, almost reluctantly. As Wilkes took a breath and clasped his hands behind him -- assuming a position that was considered "at ease," but was not -- the Old Man continued in a somewhat more friendly tone, "Injured your hand, did you?"
Wilkes nodded. "Yes, sir. Rat bite, nothing much. The surgeon was able to stitch things up, straightaway."
Rat bite... Haversham looked around the Old Man's office -- the elegant mahogany desk, the fireplace that took up most of one wall, with the delicately carved chairs set around it to make a formal, informal space, and the floor to ceiling windows behind the desk. A tray of breakfast, half-eaten, sat on a spidery mahogany table at the Old Man's elbow.
A rat bite…
He was distracted enough to miss the first part of what the Old Man said, realized what was happening and tuned in quickly. "-- Haversham, here, read your disciplinary report for 30 December, and brought it to me when he saw that you had given administrative punishment to one of your men --" He looked down at his desk, then up at Wilkes again. "-- a Corporal Reilly. Tell us about it, Captain."
Wilkes' eyes flickered to both men, again, then focused on something past them, through the windows. "I believe the report is complete, Colonel. Corporal Reilly broke regimental standing orders by attempting to make contact with the German lines, sir."
"Making contact with the Hun -- sounds more like treason, Captain." It was a statement, not a question.
The captain shook his head slightly -- maybe an inch either way. "No, sir. He was using a -- uh -- liberated French rifle, to launch V-B grenades toward the German lines. They were inert, with messages tied around them."
"Messages?"
"Yes, sir. Messages. Contact with the enemy is forbidden under regimental standing orders. I advised Corporal Reilly of his breach of orders, and gave him
administrative punishment for his actions." Pause. "I also seized the rifle and the remaining grenades, sir."
"What type of administrative punishment did you administer?"
"We are due to be pulled off the line in four days, Colonel. Once we are off the line, he will be restricted to his quarters. No leave, no visitors."
The Old Man looked at him closely, one manicured finger tapping lightly on the desktop as he considered what to say next. "Does that seem like sufficient discipline, Captain? He did violate orders."
The expression on Wilkes' face indicated that he'd shrugged, though his shoulders never moved. "Yes, sir."
"Yes sir, it seemed sufficient? Or yes sir, he did violate orders?"
"Yes sir to both, sir. It did seem sufficient, in view of his offense. Corporal Reilly is a good man, sir -- a fine soldier, and a rock out there when we need him to be."
"A fine soldier -- and yet, what was he attempting to do?" The Old Man's voice seemed to be growing even deeper.
Wilkes hesitated. "He was attempting to communicate with the Germans, sir."
"And why is it that Reilly wanted to talk to the Hun?"
"He was --" Wilkes' face grew darker as blood flushed to his cheeks. "He was trying to set up a meeting, sir. A gathering."
"A gathering?"
"To celebrate New Year's, sir. The truce on Christmas went well, Colonel. He wanted to have one more day --"
The Old Man's hand slapped down on the desk, and it was like a rifle shot in the room. "Went well? Consorting with the enemy went well?" His voice was hard, now. "How is it that he can go directly against regimental standing orders -- orders that were issued as a direct result of that damnable Christmas truce -- and you can brush it off like it's nothing?"
"Sir, Corporal Reilly is a good man. It's just that, after the truce, he started to think about what we're going through. He said that he started to think about the child whose birth we celebrate on Christmas, and he wondered how we could honor his birth, but ignore his words."
"An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth -- we don't ignore those words, Captain!"
Haversham blinked, cleared his throat -- and the Old Man glared at him. He swallowed, shook his head slightly, as if to say never mind. It was clear the Old Man would not really appreciate a clarification, now, as to who said what in the Bible.
Captain Wilkes dodged the issue, instead saying simply, "I believe the words he was thinking of were what Jesus said about not hating, and loving your enemy, and turning the other cheek."
"So your man Reilly is a theologian, as well?"
"I don't believe so, sir. Just a man who got to thinking."
"So all this talk about loving your enemy and such -- does that make sense to you?"
Wilkes licked his lips, which were suddenly dry, then shook his head again, an inch side to side. "Not exactly, sir, but then we're looking at things our way, and not the way Jesus would."
The Old Man's finger tapped again -- what seemed like quite a long time, before he said, "Captain -- son -- those standing orders were issued for a reason, and they were explicit. Fraternization with the enemy is not to be allowed. That nonsense at Christmas cannot be tolerated. And all this talk about Jesus -- well, you said that we don't look at things the same way he did, and you're right. But Jesus never stood watch in a trench, or fired a rifle, either, so I would venture to say he wouldn't look at things the way we do. We both have our ways, and our reasons."
"Yes, sir."
"Have your man brought here, under guard. I will see to appropriate discipline for violation of the orders."
"But --" Wilkes seemed to sag, a bit. "Yes, sir."
"That is all. Dismissed, Captain."
The Old Man looked down at papers on his desk, then, evidently moved on to some other issue already. Wilkes saluted, spun on his heel, and left. When the door closed, he looked up and caught Haversham's eye. "I know young Wilkes isn't happy with me, but this is how it must be, Haversham."
Haversham nodded. "Yes, sir."
"I want an administrative hearing for Corporal Reilly the minute he's brought here. And then I want him shot."
Haversham blinked. "Shot, sir?"
"Yes. Orders are orders. It's unfortunate, but if we shoot this lad now, we may save many more from the same fate later. That Christmas Truce was a thorn in the High Command's side, and they've determined the best way to deal with it. That's why I wanted you to be on the lookout, Major. We've got to squash these things before they get worse."
The Old Man leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach, shook his head. "I know this war is a strain on everyone -- it's hell, everybody knows that. But if we let men like Reilly spread their ideas, and don't deal with them firmly --" He looked up at Haversham, and shook his head. "I mean, really -- if this whole 'love your enemy' thing spread through the ranks, how could we ever fight a war?"
Haversham looked past him, out the window, with a sudden, uncertain feeling inside. "How could we, indeed?" he wondered softly.
And the answer didn't comfort him.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
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StoryShare, February 20, 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.
