Who Me?
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Who Me?" by C. David McKirachan
"Getting in Shape" by C. David McKirachan
"What Kind of Man?" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
Who Me?
by C. David McKirachan
Joshua 3:7-17
My father was a tall pulpit preacher. He was an important figure in the national church and friend to important people. My brother won the Homiletics prize at Princeton and ended up working with Martin Luther King. My sister told me I'd never be free of the ghosts of my family if I went into the ministry. So I did.
I got a job in a little church in Newark. They paid my salary with the money from the Coke machine. After five years of wrestling with despair and slum lords, I got a job offer from a struggling church in the suburbs with hundreds on the rolls and few in the pews. My first Sunday in the pulpit I was informed just before going into the sanctuary that the boiler had given up the ghost during a test. We would need $10,000 to get a replacement for the beast in the basement.
So I sat in front of the choir feeling very unequal to the task. The crisis with the boiler was just a bit of the heap that these people were looking to me to lead them through. No matter what my classy family had done, this one was up to me, and I didn't have a clue.
There was a whisper in my ear, clear as a bell, "What you have is enough."
I thought it was a member of the choir that had come to give me a pat on the back. I looked. They all sat there wondering what this new kid was doing, staring at his shoes. And then it hit me, I'd been called here. The Lord had spoken through the perhaps misguided, perhaps inexperienced committee and congregation, but the call had come from God. God wanted me there and would provide the resources to work wonders in the name of Christ. I'd survived five years in hell, now it was time to face the suburbs.
So I stood up and got going.
Joshua was laboring in a big shadow. His mentor was Moses. Gimme a break. But the Lord wasn't about to short circuit this whole endeavor because one guy had been a super hero and had become an icon. This unruly bunch needed a leader. Joshua had the chops. But most of all he'd watched Moses struggle with the mantle of leadership, and he'd watched Moses bow before the Lord. Joshua had seen the power of such a relationship. And he'd learned that it wasn't so much Moses, but the two of them, Moses and the Lord that had led the people to freedom and beyond. So when the Lord called Joshua, he may have had his doubts, but he knew what the right answer to the call was.
The rest is history.
I got through the worship service, but the boiler loomed. The next day we got a letter in the mail from a lawyer, informing us that we would shortly be receiving a check from the estate of a lady in Florida who'd grown up in the church and had remembered us in her will. It covered the boiler with fifty bucks to spare.
Getting in Shape
by C. David McKirachan
1 Thessalonians 2:9-13
When I was in college I was on two varsity teams: fencing and rugby. They kept me running around most of the year. If I had a break from either one, I'd make sure there was an intramural context for punishing my body. You'd think that rugby would involve much more conditioning, but the workout our fencing coach put us through was on the edge of sadistic. He kept rubbing his chin and saying softly, "Take another few laps (or whatever exercise he had us doing right then). I want to make sure you don't fall apart on the strip." So you want us to fall apart on the track?
Rugby was brutal. The coach was this nice guy who transformed into a werewolf on the practice field. If you weren't covered in mud mixed with a little blood, you weren't "putting out." Just what do you put out when you're empty?
They both knew what they were doing. Two things are needed to compete at a high level, foundational basics drilled into the players until they breathe and dream the game. Both these monsters had drills that bored holes into our souls and left us with reflexes that hadn't been there before. Then there's conditioning. They say you can't coach speed, but you can coach stamina and strength. So they coached.
I appreciated both these ghouls. They weren't exactly friends, but they taught me about humility, valuing what I was good at, developing it like sharpening a knife, and at the same time looking clearly at myself to see what I wasn't. Both strengths and weaknesses got attention, lots of attention.
When I went into the ministry, I was a little disappointed that seminary didn't have workouts. I didn't expect us to spend time in the weight room. But I would have appreciated more coaching from people who were willing to mentor us, develop us in our strengths and weaknesses. Prayer, discernment, teaching, healing, stewardship, preaching aren't academic subjects that you can read and discuss. That's all well and good but if we're to be able to face the demons in this "dark and fearful world" then we ought to get the foundational basics drilled into us and work hard to develop the stamina and strength to keep going in the face of tough offenses and defenses. That's what I always tried to do when given the task of mentoring.
This passage is one I use to show whoever has had the misfortune to get me that effective ministry has to do with modeling our lives as demonstrations of the basics of the gospel. We have to be willing to express the radical nature of the law of love. We have to be willing to let people see compassion on the hoof. We have to be willing to be bold. We have to be willing to be confident of God's presence. We have to be willing to get to know our gifts, sharpen them like tools, and to be very aware of our vulnerabilities, learning to strengthen them. And we have to always remember it is not our word we preach. It is God's.
They usually look at me like I have two heads. I guess that's how I looked at my coaches.
Take another lap.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
What Kind of Man?
by Keith Hewitt
Matthew 23:1-12
The battery in the clock on the wall was dying, but not quite dead. It could no longer put out enough juice to push the second hand completely around the face of the clock, and now struggled to push it past the "8" on the dial. In the still of the night, it would tick off ten seconds, from 6 to 8, and then pause while the needle-like second hand fell back to the bottom of the hour, then began repeating the same ten seconds, ad infinitum.
Warner Jones stared at the clock, mesmerized by the sight and sound of time repeating itself, barely listening to the grim-faced man across the desk. He had been speaking for what seemed like forever, and it was only when there was a sudden silence in the room that Warner realized the man had paused... asked him something, no doubt, but for the life of him he didn't know what it might be.
His eyes shifted from the clock to the man, took in the eyebrows knitted together, the creases in the forehead, the faint bags under the eyes. The eyes were fixed on him, now, focused intently as though waiting for him to do something. He leaned forward slightly, elbows spread out on the desk, and said softly, "M-hmm?"
"Have you been listening, Reverend?" the man asked, eyebrows drawing even closer together -- they were almost overlapping, now.
Warner sighed, inside, and nodded. "Yes, of course. You were saying that you've discovered certain... irregularities. Money missing from church accounts."
"That's right. A substantial amount and all from funds that were accessible to you, in one way or another."
Warner nodded again. "I understand."
The man looked even more worried, now. "I don't think you do, Reverend. There's almost $17,000 missing, and I'm afraid it looks like it all ties back to you." Pause. "Directly to you, Reverend."
Warner leaned back in his chair, glanced at the clock, again, then at his watch, before he looked back to the man. "I really do understand, Donald. I understand completely. There have been substantial funds -- church funds -- misappropriated, and you've discovered the discrepancy. And you also believe I took them."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I didn't exactly say that, Reverend -- but it does at least look like you did, so this is very serious. You have to understand just how bad this looks -- nearly $17,000 siphoned into a numbered Swiss account, all funds that you could have accessed and the account was opened while you were on that sabbatical in Europe. It looks bad. Real bad."
"I'm sure it does," Warner said patiently.
"And it's really going to be ugly if... well, if it turns out to be true." The man fidgeted, looked away as though he couldn't bear to make eye contact with the elderly pastor with the gentle, slightly bemused expression. "You've always talked about how important it was to be honest and trustworthy... to follow the Lord's commandments, and be an example to your fellow man. You've talked to us about tithing and giving to the church and second mile giving... and here... here you are taking from the church." His eyes turned back to Warner, and they were almost pleading. "You hold yourself up in front of us as a man of God, Reverend -- supposed to be a good example -- and you do this? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I've made some horrible mistake."
Warner leaned back in his chair, then, and folded his hands over his pot belly, index fingers raised and touching one another, tip to tip. "Donald, did you know that when the Nominations Committee picked you to chair the Finance Committee, I voted against it?"
The man frowned. "You did?"
"I did. I feel I should be honest with you, now, Donald. I voted against you, because I knew you would be trouble. You are way too smart and too inquisitive. I knew it would only be a matter of time."
"So you're admitting it?"
Warner didn't answer, instead plowed on steadily, eyes fixed on the clock, with its struggling second hand. "You and I both know what a scandal like this is going to mean, Donald. People have certain... expectations for their clergy, don't they?"
"You mean, like they'll be honest and not steal from the church? That they'll actually live by the commandments they preach to us?" There was a harshness to his tone that hadn't been there before, an edge to his voice. "Yes, we have those expectations, Reverend. We expect you to live up to what you preach, to be at least as good as us."
"As good as you?" Warner chuckled. "If we're being honest, let's be completely honest. You expect us to be better than you. To be shining examples of moral behavior and rectitude."
The man shrugged. "Okay. You set yourselves up for it, don't you?"
"I suppose we do, at that. For all the preaching, for all the teaching we do, the most important lessons we teach our parishioners don't come from the pulpit, or the classroom. They come from how we live our lives, from the kind of people we are. That's why you've opened a real can of worms, here, Donald."
The man looked surprised. "I have? Don't you mean you have, Reverend?"
"I meant what I said. By your digging around, not being willing to accept the easy answers you found, you've brought us to a pretty unfortunate place. You're about to bring me down -- to bring me down in flames, aren't you? You are about to destroy whatever trust the people have in their clergy -- and not just me, but any man who comes after me. Does that seem fair?"
"Does it seem fair for you to steal from us -- from the church? When you're up there every Sunday, being holier-than-thou. Literally."
"But that's my job, Donald. My job is to teach you and to provide you with a good example. I can't very well do that if you're going to expose me for embezzling, now, can I? Think of the damage you'll do if you come forward with those claims. Think of all the sermons, all the Sunday school lessons, washed away in an instant, because of a little reckless activity... a little failing on my part."
The uneasiness was gone, now, the hesitation vanished. "A little failing? Seventeen thousand dollars is hardly a little failing. The way I understand it, it's grand theft. And I'm not going to do all that damage, Reverend -- you are. You and what you did."
Warner sighed, looked directly at the man once more. "I was afraid you would say that. Just as I was afraid you wouldn't stop digging."
There was a discreet knock at the door and without moving Warner said crisply, "Come in." Two men in sports coats entered, and Donald knew without having to see their badges that they were police -- and he felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Reverend was going to do the right thing, he was going to --
He almost missed it when Warner said, almost apologetically, "He's the one, Inspector -- the one I told you about. I told you I had my suspicions, and they've been confirmed." Donald's jaw dropped as he gradually understood what was happening, and Warner continued smoothly, "Of course, I can't talk about what may or may not have been confessed to me, but I can tell you that almost $27,000 was taken from various accounts here, at the church, and funneled into a Swiss numbered account. I believe if you take a look at this gentleman's checking account, you'll find that the money was just transferred into it within the last day or so."
"Now wait a minute --" Donald began indignantly and shot to his feet.
Immediately, the younger plainclothes detective grabbed him, handcuffed him behind his back as he struggled, stammering, trying to force out the words that were suddenly all jumbled up inside him. With a faint look of disgust, the older detective said, "Take him out and read him his rights, Jerry. We can sort this out down at the station."
The younger detective half-walked, half-dragged the protesting man out of the pastor's study. Both of the remaining men looked after him in silence, then after an appropriate time Warner said, "You know, I don't understand it -- you just never know who you're dealing with. But I'm sure you'll find more than enough evidence to tie him to the crime."
The detective nodded. "I'm sure we will. I know it must have been hard for you to call us -- but you did the right thing, Reverend. You really did. People like this -- they have to be dealt with."
"They do," Warner agreed, "but promise me -- you'll be gentle, won't you? After all, the money is all there, I'm sure. Honestly, he may have some sort of emotional disorder -- not that I can say anything about it. But I wouldn't want him treated harshly."
The detective smiled, then, and extended a hand; Warner stood up and took it, shook it firmly as the detective said, "You know, Reverend, you're being awfully forgiving about this, all things considered. If it were me, I'd want his head on a stick."
Warner smiled. "I suppose that's the difference between us, Detective. It's your job to enforce the law -- it's my job to teach it, to be the best example I can be to my people, and to hold them accountable -- but with mercy. Anything less would mean I was falling down on my job."
"Right, right, I suppose it does. Anyway, Reverend, I'll call you if I have any questions. And we'll be sure to get that money back to you as soon as we can. I know how churches are -- I'm sure you can use it."
"You know, I'm sure we can, at that," Warner agreed, as they walked to the door. "But the important thing in all this is that I can stand before my congregation on Sunday and know that justice is being done, and that I'm practicing what I preach. I mean, if I can't live up to the standards I set for them, what kind of man would that make me?"
"Indeed," the detective agreed. "What sort of man would that make you?" He never imagined that one day he would know the real answer to that question.
And the answer would be that he was just another man...
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 2, 2014, issue.
Copyright 2014 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.
"Who Me?" by C. David McKirachan
"Getting in Shape" by C. David McKirachan
"What Kind of Man?" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
Who Me?
by C. David McKirachan
Joshua 3:7-17
My father was a tall pulpit preacher. He was an important figure in the national church and friend to important people. My brother won the Homiletics prize at Princeton and ended up working with Martin Luther King. My sister told me I'd never be free of the ghosts of my family if I went into the ministry. So I did.
I got a job in a little church in Newark. They paid my salary with the money from the Coke machine. After five years of wrestling with despair and slum lords, I got a job offer from a struggling church in the suburbs with hundreds on the rolls and few in the pews. My first Sunday in the pulpit I was informed just before going into the sanctuary that the boiler had given up the ghost during a test. We would need $10,000 to get a replacement for the beast in the basement.
So I sat in front of the choir feeling very unequal to the task. The crisis with the boiler was just a bit of the heap that these people were looking to me to lead them through. No matter what my classy family had done, this one was up to me, and I didn't have a clue.
There was a whisper in my ear, clear as a bell, "What you have is enough."
I thought it was a member of the choir that had come to give me a pat on the back. I looked. They all sat there wondering what this new kid was doing, staring at his shoes. And then it hit me, I'd been called here. The Lord had spoken through the perhaps misguided, perhaps inexperienced committee and congregation, but the call had come from God. God wanted me there and would provide the resources to work wonders in the name of Christ. I'd survived five years in hell, now it was time to face the suburbs.
So I stood up and got going.
Joshua was laboring in a big shadow. His mentor was Moses. Gimme a break. But the Lord wasn't about to short circuit this whole endeavor because one guy had been a super hero and had become an icon. This unruly bunch needed a leader. Joshua had the chops. But most of all he'd watched Moses struggle with the mantle of leadership, and he'd watched Moses bow before the Lord. Joshua had seen the power of such a relationship. And he'd learned that it wasn't so much Moses, but the two of them, Moses and the Lord that had led the people to freedom and beyond. So when the Lord called Joshua, he may have had his doubts, but he knew what the right answer to the call was.
The rest is history.
I got through the worship service, but the boiler loomed. The next day we got a letter in the mail from a lawyer, informing us that we would shortly be receiving a check from the estate of a lady in Florida who'd grown up in the church and had remembered us in her will. It covered the boiler with fifty bucks to spare.
Getting in Shape
by C. David McKirachan
1 Thessalonians 2:9-13
When I was in college I was on two varsity teams: fencing and rugby. They kept me running around most of the year. If I had a break from either one, I'd make sure there was an intramural context for punishing my body. You'd think that rugby would involve much more conditioning, but the workout our fencing coach put us through was on the edge of sadistic. He kept rubbing his chin and saying softly, "Take another few laps (or whatever exercise he had us doing right then). I want to make sure you don't fall apart on the strip." So you want us to fall apart on the track?
Rugby was brutal. The coach was this nice guy who transformed into a werewolf on the practice field. If you weren't covered in mud mixed with a little blood, you weren't "putting out." Just what do you put out when you're empty?
They both knew what they were doing. Two things are needed to compete at a high level, foundational basics drilled into the players until they breathe and dream the game. Both these monsters had drills that bored holes into our souls and left us with reflexes that hadn't been there before. Then there's conditioning. They say you can't coach speed, but you can coach stamina and strength. So they coached.
I appreciated both these ghouls. They weren't exactly friends, but they taught me about humility, valuing what I was good at, developing it like sharpening a knife, and at the same time looking clearly at myself to see what I wasn't. Both strengths and weaknesses got attention, lots of attention.
When I went into the ministry, I was a little disappointed that seminary didn't have workouts. I didn't expect us to spend time in the weight room. But I would have appreciated more coaching from people who were willing to mentor us, develop us in our strengths and weaknesses. Prayer, discernment, teaching, healing, stewardship, preaching aren't academic subjects that you can read and discuss. That's all well and good but if we're to be able to face the demons in this "dark and fearful world" then we ought to get the foundational basics drilled into us and work hard to develop the stamina and strength to keep going in the face of tough offenses and defenses. That's what I always tried to do when given the task of mentoring.
This passage is one I use to show whoever has had the misfortune to get me that effective ministry has to do with modeling our lives as demonstrations of the basics of the gospel. We have to be willing to express the radical nature of the law of love. We have to be willing to let people see compassion on the hoof. We have to be willing to be bold. We have to be willing to be confident of God's presence. We have to be willing to get to know our gifts, sharpen them like tools, and to be very aware of our vulnerabilities, learning to strengthen them. And we have to always remember it is not our word we preach. It is God's.
They usually look at me like I have two heads. I guess that's how I looked at my coaches.
Take another lap.
C. David McKirachan is pastor of the Presbyterian Church at Shrewsbury in central New Jersey. He also teaches at Monmouth University. McKirachan is the author of I Happened Upon a Miracle and A Year of Wonder (Westminster John Knox).
What Kind of Man?
by Keith Hewitt
Matthew 23:1-12
The battery in the clock on the wall was dying, but not quite dead. It could no longer put out enough juice to push the second hand completely around the face of the clock, and now struggled to push it past the "8" on the dial. In the still of the night, it would tick off ten seconds, from 6 to 8, and then pause while the needle-like second hand fell back to the bottom of the hour, then began repeating the same ten seconds, ad infinitum.
Warner Jones stared at the clock, mesmerized by the sight and sound of time repeating itself, barely listening to the grim-faced man across the desk. He had been speaking for what seemed like forever, and it was only when there was a sudden silence in the room that Warner realized the man had paused... asked him something, no doubt, but for the life of him he didn't know what it might be.
His eyes shifted from the clock to the man, took in the eyebrows knitted together, the creases in the forehead, the faint bags under the eyes. The eyes were fixed on him, now, focused intently as though waiting for him to do something. He leaned forward slightly, elbows spread out on the desk, and said softly, "M-hmm?"
"Have you been listening, Reverend?" the man asked, eyebrows drawing even closer together -- they were almost overlapping, now.
Warner sighed, inside, and nodded. "Yes, of course. You were saying that you've discovered certain... irregularities. Money missing from church accounts."
"That's right. A substantial amount and all from funds that were accessible to you, in one way or another."
Warner nodded again. "I understand."
The man looked even more worried, now. "I don't think you do, Reverend. There's almost $17,000 missing, and I'm afraid it looks like it all ties back to you." Pause. "Directly to you, Reverend."
Warner leaned back in his chair, glanced at the clock, again, then at his watch, before he looked back to the man. "I really do understand, Donald. I understand completely. There have been substantial funds -- church funds -- misappropriated, and you've discovered the discrepancy. And you also believe I took them."
The man shifted uncomfortably. "Well, I didn't exactly say that, Reverend -- but it does at least look like you did, so this is very serious. You have to understand just how bad this looks -- nearly $17,000 siphoned into a numbered Swiss account, all funds that you could have accessed and the account was opened while you were on that sabbatical in Europe. It looks bad. Real bad."
"I'm sure it does," Warner said patiently.
"And it's really going to be ugly if... well, if it turns out to be true." The man fidgeted, looked away as though he couldn't bear to make eye contact with the elderly pastor with the gentle, slightly bemused expression. "You've always talked about how important it was to be honest and trustworthy... to follow the Lord's commandments, and be an example to your fellow man. You've talked to us about tithing and giving to the church and second mile giving... and here... here you are taking from the church." His eyes turned back to Warner, and they were almost pleading. "You hold yourself up in front of us as a man of God, Reverend -- supposed to be a good example -- and you do this? Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me I've made some horrible mistake."
Warner leaned back in his chair, then, and folded his hands over his pot belly, index fingers raised and touching one another, tip to tip. "Donald, did you know that when the Nominations Committee picked you to chair the Finance Committee, I voted against it?"
The man frowned. "You did?"
"I did. I feel I should be honest with you, now, Donald. I voted against you, because I knew you would be trouble. You are way too smart and too inquisitive. I knew it would only be a matter of time."
"So you're admitting it?"
Warner didn't answer, instead plowed on steadily, eyes fixed on the clock, with its struggling second hand. "You and I both know what a scandal like this is going to mean, Donald. People have certain... expectations for their clergy, don't they?"
"You mean, like they'll be honest and not steal from the church? That they'll actually live by the commandments they preach to us?" There was a harshness to his tone that hadn't been there before, an edge to his voice. "Yes, we have those expectations, Reverend. We expect you to live up to what you preach, to be at least as good as us."
"As good as you?" Warner chuckled. "If we're being honest, let's be completely honest. You expect us to be better than you. To be shining examples of moral behavior and rectitude."
The man shrugged. "Okay. You set yourselves up for it, don't you?"
"I suppose we do, at that. For all the preaching, for all the teaching we do, the most important lessons we teach our parishioners don't come from the pulpit, or the classroom. They come from how we live our lives, from the kind of people we are. That's why you've opened a real can of worms, here, Donald."
The man looked surprised. "I have? Don't you mean you have, Reverend?"
"I meant what I said. By your digging around, not being willing to accept the easy answers you found, you've brought us to a pretty unfortunate place. You're about to bring me down -- to bring me down in flames, aren't you? You are about to destroy whatever trust the people have in their clergy -- and not just me, but any man who comes after me. Does that seem fair?"
"Does it seem fair for you to steal from us -- from the church? When you're up there every Sunday, being holier-than-thou. Literally."
"But that's my job, Donald. My job is to teach you and to provide you with a good example. I can't very well do that if you're going to expose me for embezzling, now, can I? Think of the damage you'll do if you come forward with those claims. Think of all the sermons, all the Sunday school lessons, washed away in an instant, because of a little reckless activity... a little failing on my part."
The uneasiness was gone, now, the hesitation vanished. "A little failing? Seventeen thousand dollars is hardly a little failing. The way I understand it, it's grand theft. And I'm not going to do all that damage, Reverend -- you are. You and what you did."
Warner sighed, looked directly at the man once more. "I was afraid you would say that. Just as I was afraid you wouldn't stop digging."
There was a discreet knock at the door and without moving Warner said crisply, "Come in." Two men in sports coats entered, and Donald knew without having to see their badges that they were police -- and he felt a wave of relief wash over him. The Reverend was going to do the right thing, he was going to --
He almost missed it when Warner said, almost apologetically, "He's the one, Inspector -- the one I told you about. I told you I had my suspicions, and they've been confirmed." Donald's jaw dropped as he gradually understood what was happening, and Warner continued smoothly, "Of course, I can't talk about what may or may not have been confessed to me, but I can tell you that almost $27,000 was taken from various accounts here, at the church, and funneled into a Swiss numbered account. I believe if you take a look at this gentleman's checking account, you'll find that the money was just transferred into it within the last day or so."
"Now wait a minute --" Donald began indignantly and shot to his feet.
Immediately, the younger plainclothes detective grabbed him, handcuffed him behind his back as he struggled, stammering, trying to force out the words that were suddenly all jumbled up inside him. With a faint look of disgust, the older detective said, "Take him out and read him his rights, Jerry. We can sort this out down at the station."
The younger detective half-walked, half-dragged the protesting man out of the pastor's study. Both of the remaining men looked after him in silence, then after an appropriate time Warner said, "You know, I don't understand it -- you just never know who you're dealing with. But I'm sure you'll find more than enough evidence to tie him to the crime."
The detective nodded. "I'm sure we will. I know it must have been hard for you to call us -- but you did the right thing, Reverend. You really did. People like this -- they have to be dealt with."
"They do," Warner agreed, "but promise me -- you'll be gentle, won't you? After all, the money is all there, I'm sure. Honestly, he may have some sort of emotional disorder -- not that I can say anything about it. But I wouldn't want him treated harshly."
The detective smiled, then, and extended a hand; Warner stood up and took it, shook it firmly as the detective said, "You know, Reverend, you're being awfully forgiving about this, all things considered. If it were me, I'd want his head on a stick."
Warner smiled. "I suppose that's the difference between us, Detective. It's your job to enforce the law -- it's my job to teach it, to be the best example I can be to my people, and to hold them accountable -- but with mercy. Anything less would mean I was falling down on my job."
"Right, right, I suppose it does. Anyway, Reverend, I'll call you if I have any questions. And we'll be sure to get that money back to you as soon as we can. I know how churches are -- I'm sure you can use it."
"You know, I'm sure we can, at that," Warner agreed, as they walked to the door. "But the important thing in all this is that I can stand before my congregation on Sunday and know that justice is being done, and that I'm practicing what I preach. I mean, if I can't live up to the standards I set for them, what kind of man would that make me?"
"Indeed," the detective agreed. "What sort of man would that make you?" He never imagined that one day he would know the real answer to that question.
And the answer would be that he was just another man...
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, November 2, 2014, issue.
Copyright 2014 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.
