Where's Your Jesus Now?
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Where's Your Jesus Now?" by Sandra Herrmann
"God Is Still Speaking, But Are We Listening?" by Alex Gondola
What's Up This Week
Because we can't perceive God with our natural senses, it can be easy to dismiss his constant presence in our lives. Yet, as we see in "Where's Your Jesus Now?" God is constantly there, especially in our times of greatest need. In "God Is Still Speaking, But Are We Listening?" Alex Gondola points out that, just as God is always with us, he also can speak to us in various ways, guiding and directing us, but it is important to be attentive enough to listen to what he has to say.
* * * * * * * * *
Where's Your Jesus Now?
By Sandra Herrmann
Matthew 14:22-33
Sheila didn't know when she had become afraid of the water. Maybe she always had. She remembered a girl down the street losing her father on a sunny summer weekend when she was seven. He had dived in to save another child from drowning. He had pushed her into the arms of another man who had swum from the raft that was kept, tethered, in the deeper area of the lake waters. But her friend's father had drowned, too tired to reach the raft himself.
Maybe the water, always a foreign realm, had become menacing when she was thirteen. She had been at a different beach, on a different raft, when some of the bigger boys had begun rocking it like a seesaw. The reed mat on the top had been slippery, and as the seesawing became more violent, she had slid off into the water.
Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one. Others fell in on top of her, and she was driven to the bottom of the lake. She had fought for the surface at first, but the many arms and legs had battered her, and she found herself looking upward as the sun brightened the green water. Then came the screams.
Suddenly, a young female lifeguard was holding her, shouting: "Stop fighting right now! If you don't stop fighting, I'll hold you under! Do you understand me?"
It had taken everything she had in her to stop fighting. Her body had a mind of its own, and was determined to gain the surface, the clear air. Nevertheless, she somehow stopped and the lifeguard dragged her onto the breakwater. Another guard came and walked her back to the main beach as she kept bending over and coughing the water out of her lungs and stomach. She was banned from the raft for the summer.
So her memories of swimming weren't all fun, to say the least. She really couldn't decide if they had caused her fear, or if the fear preceded the memories. She did know that she hadn't ever relaxed in the water, no matter how many swimming lessons, no matter how she had tried to learn to float, only to sink and get a nose full of water.
What she did know was that she was now an adult and still afraid of the water. Moreover, she was dating a man who had apparently been fathered by a fish. While she sat on the shore, he would take out a sailboard, skimming the edge of the board across the waves, nearly taking off into the air on particularly windy days. She would watch, cheer, even laugh. But try it? No. She wouldn't even get in a boat.
Oh, she loved to play along the shore, even splashing around in waist-deep water. But swim? "I don't know how. I can't." Then, when he tried to forcibly drag her into deeper water, the shrieked admission: "I can't swim! I'm afraid of the water!"
He was astounded. He would teach her, he said. He would help her learn to float. And he did, patiently. Holding her up as she stretched out over the water, he would tell her to arch her back just a bit. "Put your head back on the water. Pretend you're in the bathtub. Relax. I've got you."
In that one summer, she had learned how to float and then how to tread water. She could, at last, relax a bit because she knew she could always tread water, no matter how she got in -- by falling in fun or by accident. She wasn't a good swimmer, even so, but she could stay afloat. It was a great summer -- the best of her life.
That winter, they were married. Their honeymoon was a long weekend at a luxury hotel, with a spa, a swimming pool, and cable TV. It was heaven. They enjoyed each other, they enjoyed the appointments of the hotel, and at last they put on their swimsuits and went down to the pool.
Sheila was proud of the fact that she was no longer afraid of the water. They swam back and forth around the pool. Then Jack climbed out of the pool and went around to the low diving board. "Come on, Sheila, jump in with me."
She stood on the edge of the pool and shook her head. Then she sat down and dropped into the water. "See, I'm in the water." And she swam over to Jack.
"Oh, come on, Sheila! You can do better than that. Even if you just jump from the side of the pool. Remember how you were at the beginning of summer? You're so much better than that now. Come on, jump!"
Sheila climbed back out, and stood on the side of the pool. It wasn't that big, she knew. She could easily get back over to the side. She started to sweat. How could she still be so afraid to jump in the water? What would Jack think if she couldn't do it?
Then Jack said the thing that stopped her in her tracks. "Sheila," he said, "where's your Jesus now? Can't Jesus help you do this?"
Religion had been a problem between them. He was no believer, but she was. They had argued calmly about their beliefs and had friendly debates on religious issues. However, this felt like a more serious challenge. She wanted to say, "No fair, Jack. We've agreed not to be nasty to each other about our beliefs. No fair!" But she knew, as she stood there and trembled, that he was right. She trusted God when she had to. But this? Could she trust God with her fear of the water? It seemed more primal than a simple question of "trust me." Then she remembered a story from the gospels. For a moment she stood there, perched on the edge of the tiles, and she said to herself, "He's right. I have no way to talk to him about faith if I can't trust Jesus for this."
She held out her right hand, and said softly to her Lord, "Okay, Dad. Take my hand..." and she jumped!
She soared. She splashed. She laughed out loud. So did Jack. When Jack asked why she had held her hand up before she jumped, she told him, with a huge smile and dancing eyes.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
God Is Still Speaking, But Are We Listening?
By Alex Gondola
Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28
In the mid-1970s, I was finishing up my theological schooling as an intern in a specialized youth ministry in Binghamton, New York. One day I was traveling on the four-lane bypass that went around Utica, a city about ninety miles north of Binghamton, in the center of the state. At that point, I'd driven past Utica quite a few times on the New York State thruway on my way to college. But, to my recollection, I never had stopped there, even for gas. Nor had I given Utica any thought. I didn't know at the time Annette Funicello, Mouskateer and star of Beach Blanket Bingo, was born there. Nor did I know that Utica furnaces were made there, although Utica towels were not. I knew nothing and thought nothing at all about Utica, except that it had a somewhat strange name (not knowing at the time it was classical). I just wanted to bypass the city to get somewhere else.
I was driving past Utica when, out of nowhere, I heard a loud, clear voice saying, "You will work in this town." It sounded almost as if it had come out of the radio in my car! The radio was on. But they weren't talking about employment. Nor was I looking for a job. The experience was unprovoked, unexpected, and more than a little unnerving. I wondered, could it be God was speaking to me? Why me? Why that message? Why Utica? Why then? If God was speaking to me, why would God choose to speak through the AM radio of a '75 Pinto? Readers may judge my mental stability for themselves (as they may already have). What I do know is eight months later, when I got my first full-time call to an ordained position, it was as an associate minister in... Utica, New York!
I believe God sometimes speaks to us that directly. Some readers may have had experiences like that; although I've never had another. Other times, God may speak to us through our dreams. Joseph in Genesis, Joseph in Nazareth, Nebuchadnezzar, and Pilate's wife are examples. My mother's mother came to this country as a young woman from a corner of the Austro-Hungarian empire, which is now Slovakia. She never had the benefit of much formal education, maybe eight years in a village school -- although she spoke and wrote three languages. But Grandma, though not educated, was wise in other ways. One way she was wise was paying attention to dreams. She remembered her dreams, wrote them down, and worked at interpreting them. She was good at it. Other people would bring Grandma their dreams, and she would tell them what she thought. Often the message she got through a dream had something to do with God, God's will, or God's guidance. (Freud interpreted dreams, too, but his died-in-the-wool atheism and hostility to religion kept him from finding God in any.)
Joseph in Genesis is a great illustration of someone who was listening to God, in his dreams, in everyday events, and even in times of great adversity. Because Joseph was paying attention, God was able to use him as an instrument to save many, including his hostile brothers. My denomination, the United Church of Christ, has a slogan, "God is still speaking." But are we still listening? God's word to us is rarely as direct or clear as that one-time experience I reported. So we need to stay "tuned in."
Alex Gondola is Senior Pastor of St. Paul United Church of Christ in Wapakoneta, Ohio. Alex is the author of four books, all published by CSS, and of numerous articles in clergy journals.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, August 10, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Where's Your Jesus Now?" by Sandra Herrmann
"God Is Still Speaking, But Are We Listening?" by Alex Gondola
What's Up This Week
Because we can't perceive God with our natural senses, it can be easy to dismiss his constant presence in our lives. Yet, as we see in "Where's Your Jesus Now?" God is constantly there, especially in our times of greatest need. In "God Is Still Speaking, But Are We Listening?" Alex Gondola points out that, just as God is always with us, he also can speak to us in various ways, guiding and directing us, but it is important to be attentive enough to listen to what he has to say.
* * * * * * * * *
Where's Your Jesus Now?
By Sandra Herrmann
Matthew 14:22-33
Sheila didn't know when she had become afraid of the water. Maybe she always had. She remembered a girl down the street losing her father on a sunny summer weekend when she was seven. He had dived in to save another child from drowning. He had pushed her into the arms of another man who had swum from the raft that was kept, tethered, in the deeper area of the lake waters. But her friend's father had drowned, too tired to reach the raft himself.
Maybe the water, always a foreign realm, had become menacing when she was thirteen. She had been at a different beach, on a different raft, when some of the bigger boys had begun rocking it like a seesaw. The reed mat on the top had been slippery, and as the seesawing became more violent, she had slid off into the water.
Unfortunately, she wasn't the only one. Others fell in on top of her, and she was driven to the bottom of the lake. She had fought for the surface at first, but the many arms and legs had battered her, and she found herself looking upward as the sun brightened the green water. Then came the screams.
Suddenly, a young female lifeguard was holding her, shouting: "Stop fighting right now! If you don't stop fighting, I'll hold you under! Do you understand me?"
It had taken everything she had in her to stop fighting. Her body had a mind of its own, and was determined to gain the surface, the clear air. Nevertheless, she somehow stopped and the lifeguard dragged her onto the breakwater. Another guard came and walked her back to the main beach as she kept bending over and coughing the water out of her lungs and stomach. She was banned from the raft for the summer.
So her memories of swimming weren't all fun, to say the least. She really couldn't decide if they had caused her fear, or if the fear preceded the memories. She did know that she hadn't ever relaxed in the water, no matter how many swimming lessons, no matter how she had tried to learn to float, only to sink and get a nose full of water.
What she did know was that she was now an adult and still afraid of the water. Moreover, she was dating a man who had apparently been fathered by a fish. While she sat on the shore, he would take out a sailboard, skimming the edge of the board across the waves, nearly taking off into the air on particularly windy days. She would watch, cheer, even laugh. But try it? No. She wouldn't even get in a boat.
Oh, she loved to play along the shore, even splashing around in waist-deep water. But swim? "I don't know how. I can't." Then, when he tried to forcibly drag her into deeper water, the shrieked admission: "I can't swim! I'm afraid of the water!"
He was astounded. He would teach her, he said. He would help her learn to float. And he did, patiently. Holding her up as she stretched out over the water, he would tell her to arch her back just a bit. "Put your head back on the water. Pretend you're in the bathtub. Relax. I've got you."
In that one summer, she had learned how to float and then how to tread water. She could, at last, relax a bit because she knew she could always tread water, no matter how she got in -- by falling in fun or by accident. She wasn't a good swimmer, even so, but she could stay afloat. It was a great summer -- the best of her life.
That winter, they were married. Their honeymoon was a long weekend at a luxury hotel, with a spa, a swimming pool, and cable TV. It was heaven. They enjoyed each other, they enjoyed the appointments of the hotel, and at last they put on their swimsuits and went down to the pool.
Sheila was proud of the fact that she was no longer afraid of the water. They swam back and forth around the pool. Then Jack climbed out of the pool and went around to the low diving board. "Come on, Sheila, jump in with me."
She stood on the edge of the pool and shook her head. Then she sat down and dropped into the water. "See, I'm in the water." And she swam over to Jack.
"Oh, come on, Sheila! You can do better than that. Even if you just jump from the side of the pool. Remember how you were at the beginning of summer? You're so much better than that now. Come on, jump!"
Sheila climbed back out, and stood on the side of the pool. It wasn't that big, she knew. She could easily get back over to the side. She started to sweat. How could she still be so afraid to jump in the water? What would Jack think if she couldn't do it?
Then Jack said the thing that stopped her in her tracks. "Sheila," he said, "where's your Jesus now? Can't Jesus help you do this?"
Religion had been a problem between them. He was no believer, but she was. They had argued calmly about their beliefs and had friendly debates on religious issues. However, this felt like a more serious challenge. She wanted to say, "No fair, Jack. We've agreed not to be nasty to each other about our beliefs. No fair!" But she knew, as she stood there and trembled, that he was right. She trusted God when she had to. But this? Could she trust God with her fear of the water? It seemed more primal than a simple question of "trust me." Then she remembered a story from the gospels. For a moment she stood there, perched on the edge of the tiles, and she said to herself, "He's right. I have no way to talk to him about faith if I can't trust Jesus for this."
She held out her right hand, and said softly to her Lord, "Okay, Dad. Take my hand..." and she jumped!
She soared. She splashed. She laughed out loud. So did Jack. When Jack asked why she had held her hand up before she jumped, she told him, with a huge smile and dancing eyes.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
God Is Still Speaking, But Are We Listening?
By Alex Gondola
Genesis 37:1-4, 12-28
In the mid-1970s, I was finishing up my theological schooling as an intern in a specialized youth ministry in Binghamton, New York. One day I was traveling on the four-lane bypass that went around Utica, a city about ninety miles north of Binghamton, in the center of the state. At that point, I'd driven past Utica quite a few times on the New York State thruway on my way to college. But, to my recollection, I never had stopped there, even for gas. Nor had I given Utica any thought. I didn't know at the time Annette Funicello, Mouskateer and star of Beach Blanket Bingo, was born there. Nor did I know that Utica furnaces were made there, although Utica towels were not. I knew nothing and thought nothing at all about Utica, except that it had a somewhat strange name (not knowing at the time it was classical). I just wanted to bypass the city to get somewhere else.
I was driving past Utica when, out of nowhere, I heard a loud, clear voice saying, "You will work in this town." It sounded almost as if it had come out of the radio in my car! The radio was on. But they weren't talking about employment. Nor was I looking for a job. The experience was unprovoked, unexpected, and more than a little unnerving. I wondered, could it be God was speaking to me? Why me? Why that message? Why Utica? Why then? If God was speaking to me, why would God choose to speak through the AM radio of a '75 Pinto? Readers may judge my mental stability for themselves (as they may already have). What I do know is eight months later, when I got my first full-time call to an ordained position, it was as an associate minister in... Utica, New York!
I believe God sometimes speaks to us that directly. Some readers may have had experiences like that; although I've never had another. Other times, God may speak to us through our dreams. Joseph in Genesis, Joseph in Nazareth, Nebuchadnezzar, and Pilate's wife are examples. My mother's mother came to this country as a young woman from a corner of the Austro-Hungarian empire, which is now Slovakia. She never had the benefit of much formal education, maybe eight years in a village school -- although she spoke and wrote three languages. But Grandma, though not educated, was wise in other ways. One way she was wise was paying attention to dreams. She remembered her dreams, wrote them down, and worked at interpreting them. She was good at it. Other people would bring Grandma their dreams, and she would tell them what she thought. Often the message she got through a dream had something to do with God, God's will, or God's guidance. (Freud interpreted dreams, too, but his died-in-the-wool atheism and hostility to religion kept him from finding God in any.)
Joseph in Genesis is a great illustration of someone who was listening to God, in his dreams, in everyday events, and even in times of great adversity. Because Joseph was paying attention, God was able to use him as an instrument to save many, including his hostile brothers. My denomination, the United Church of Christ, has a slogan, "God is still speaking." But are we still listening? God's word to us is rarely as direct or clear as that one-time experience I reported. So we need to stay "tuned in."
Alex Gondola is Senior Pastor of St. Paul United Church of Christ in Wapakoneta, Ohio. Alex is the author of four books, all published by CSS, and of numerous articles in clergy journals.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, August 10, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
