One Big Family
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Object:
Contents
"One Big Family" by Frank Ramirez
"Sacrifice" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
One Big Family
by Frank Ramirez
Ephesians 3:14-21
For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name. --Ephesians 3:14-15
Forgery. Lies. Bribery. The creation of a shadow organization to channel money and paperwork. False papers. False titles. Chicanery. Did I mention lies?
And the penalty? How about reward instead? Over six thousand people, scattered around the globe, speaking every imaginable tongue and holding citizenship papers in many countries, take their name from this extraordinary person, who on top of everything else only recently died at the age of 106.
Is this fair? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s certainly proper, and it would be nice to think that any one of us, if put in the same situation, might be just as willing to bend, break, or blow up the rules, because in the process this extraordinary person saved the lives of 669 children who would otherwise have likely died in horrible circumstances.
Just who are we talking about? Well, when he died on July 1, 2015 he was Sir Nicholas George Winton, but when he was born on May 19, 1909, he was Nicholas George Wertheim. HIs parents, German Jews, emigrated to London two years before he was born. His family later converted to Christianity, changed their last name from Wertheim to Winton, and had little George baptized.
His father was a banker, so it was no surprise that young George would also seek a career in finance. He became a stockbroker, and in 1938 was preparing for a ski vacation, when his life took a major turn.
Though a Christian, Wertheim was one of those who opposed appeasing the rising Nazi regime in Germany. As the world began to slide into the second world-wide war of the twentieth century, Winton’s friend Martin Blake called him, urging him to cancel his vacation and come to Czechoslovakia to see what was happening to the Jewish population of that country.
Winton realized not only the extent of the coming catastrophe, but he became convinced he had to transport as many children as he could out of the country while not attracting too much attention from the Gestapo. He invented what he called a “Children’s Section” for the British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia. He not only had to convince families of Czech Jews to entrust their children to him, he also had to arrange for foster families in England to raise those children. All manner of real and false documents, including visas to get into England, and passes to get out of Czechoslovakia, as well as trains to move the children from one point to another, had to be arranged.
All this took money, money he had to raise, then use to grease palms to get the necessary signatures, and during all of this Winton continued to operate his brokerage firm. Everything had to look completely normal, whatever normal might look like in a world gone mad.
He was soon tailed by Nazi agents, his life in jeopardy. Other Nazis, the recipients of bribes, aided him. All the while the danger grew.
Ultimately Winton managed to move 669 children on seven trains from certain death to freedom and a new life. He kept photographs, documents, and records in the hopes of eventually reuniting the children with their families, but most of the families these children left behind died in the concentration camps.
At the bitter end, with the invasion of Poland on September 1, 1938, the Germans closed the borders, and a final train with 250 children was prevented from leaving. Those children disappeared. All are believed to have died in the camps.
Winton called no attention to what he had done. After the war he and his wife Grete raised three chidren, while he continued to work for humanitarian causes. Then, in 1988, Grete discovered a scrapbook in their attic with all the details of the program. She insisted that Winton, now nearly 80, needed to tell the world what he had done, so that the surviving children, who were now adults, might know more about their origins.
Those children and their descendants now number over 6,000, and they often refer to themselves as Winton’s children and grandchildren. They considered him an elder member of their families, and honored him whenever they could. Some referred to him as Britain’s Schindler, a reference to Oskar Schindler who had managed to save thousands of Jews during World War II.
Winton went on to receive many rewards but remained unassuming, if a bit pleased with the attention, until the end of his days, which were long.
In Paul’s letter to the Ephesians the apostle speaks of every family in heaven and on earth taking the name of our heavenly father. In a much smaller way this is mirrored by the generations of Winton’s children who identify themselves by his name as the savior of hundreds of lives.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and is the senior pastor of the Union Center Church of the Brethren near Nappanee, Indiana. Frank has served congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. He and his wife Jennie share three adult children, all married, and three grandchildren. He enjoys writing, reading, exercise, and theater.
* * * * * * *
Sacrifice
by Keith Hewitt
2 Samuel 11:1-15
Do you have any idea what you just gave me? Joab wondered, watching the broad back of the Hittite soldier as he parted the tent flaps and left to join his unit. No, of course you don’t, Uriah -- you are too loyal a soldier to spy on your king, or your commander.
Joab examined the broken seal idly, just to confirm what he already knew -- and, no, there was no sign that it had been broken and re-melted; everything looked perfect. The tightly-wrapped scroll had not been seen by any eyes between David’s palace and Joab’s tent. Assuming King David kept his mouth shut, nobody else should ever know what was contained in the letter he had just read.
Only Joab, who would be left to wonder why.
He re-read the letter, trying to tease out meaning from between the lines of script -- poorly formed, which told him that David had written this himself, rather than trust even his most trustworthy scribe. What possible reason could there be for a king to set up one of his most loyal soldiers for certain death? There had never been any hint of disloyalty in the Hittite. He had come to Israel as a young man -- almost a boy -- and had asked to fight in the King’s army. Strong young bodies always being in demand, his wish had been granted.
And he had served with distinction ever since. Brave, smart, almost slavishly loyal?there was nothing to say that he had done anything wrong. Certainly nothing that would approach David’s level of attention. And yet, here he was, the most powerful man in Israel issuing an order to the second most powerful man, to have another man killed.
Death was a part of the life he had chosen, but to be set up so callously by a man -- no, men -- he had trusted and sworn to serve was something else. The season of war already created too many widows and orphans within the Israelite nation -- to add even one more, deliberately, was distasteful; even now, just minutes after reading, it was already gnawing at his conscience. He had met Uriah’s wife -- what was her name? Bathsheba, he decided -- at the wedding. She had been a comely bride, full of life and laughter, and the idea of seeing her in mourning made him frown.
The bride! he wondered suddenly. Could that be it? Could David and Bathsheba have betrayed Uriah -- together? She was an attractive woman, living in Jerusalem -- maybe there had been some sort of tryst, something that would bring dishonor to Uriah if it were discovered, and could only be remedied by death. If such were the case, there would be no alternative but to arrange for Uriah to become the remedy to an awkward situation. Certainly no reasonable man would expect King David to take the fall.
But surely there has to be another way. Joab picked up a dagger from the table and began to play with it, absent mindedly sticking the point into the wood, then twisting the blade until a small divot was taken out of the rough surface. With the tip, he flicked the fragment across the tent, and went back to digging and twisting.
Uriah was not the first soldier’s wife to find comfort in the bed of another man, while her man was gone, and she would not be the last. Human nature was human nature, and while it would be nice to pretend that women behaved better than their men, he knew it was a fantasy. The difference was that an unlucky man might contract an illness that would be embarrassing to explain to his wife; a woman might end up with child, and no way to explain it to her absent husband.
A-hah! he thought, That must be it. A child born at the wrong time would be obvious to anyone who could do simple arithmetic -- and that presented all sorts of problems, not the least of which was that it was pretty damning evidence of infidelity. And the bastard child of a king would present even more problems.
Problems that had only one good solution.
And now it all made sense. Grimly, he summoned one of his lieutenants -- the one for whom Uriah fought. When the man arrived, Joab was terse. “I have received a message from the King,” he said, holding up the scroll briefly, then dropping it on the table. “Tomorrow morning, you and your men will attack the city’s west gate. The King has word from one of his spies that there is a weakness in the city wall there.”
The lieutenant raised his eyes and peered at the tent wall, as though he could see through it, to the besieged city beyond. “The west wall?” he asked doubtfully. “It is very heavily fortified, sir. I don’t think -- “
“Joseph,” Joab asked, with deceptive quiet, “did I mis-speak, and say that I had received a request from King David?”
Hesitation. “No, sir. It’s just that -- “
Joab stared at the officer with all the frustration that the situation had engendered in him. “Joseph. I was not asking your opinion. If you are not capable of leading your men in this attack, then I will do so myself -- and we will determine who will replace you as commander when we are done. That Hittite boy, Uriah -- he strikes me as a likely replacement for you.”
Just a moment’s hesitation, then. “No, sir. I can lead my men, and I will lead them, tomorrow. As you say. Against the west gate.”
Joab smiled coldly. “Glad to hear it. I expect nothing less from you and your men than a determined assault. Do you understand?” His lieutenant nodded grimly. “Good. Now go and make your preparations -- and report back to me on the Hittite after you attack. I think he’s officer material?a worthy successor for you, perhaps, if anything should happen to you.”
“Yes, sir -- I will certainly keep my eye on him,” Joseph agreed.
“I’m sure you will,” Joab answered, and dismissed his lieutenant with a wave of his hand. When the young man had left, Joab stuck the dagger into the scroll, picked it up off the table without touching it, himself. “I’m sure you will,” he repeated, and flicked the scroll into the brazier, watched it begin to smoke and curl up on itself. When it was nothing but ash, he stirred the ashes with the tip of the dagger. Tomorrow, Uriah would die, and the lieutenant who made it happen would never admit it was anything but a tragic, random battle death.
It’s good, he thought, that no one knows how much a king must sacrifice, sometimes.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, July 26, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.
"One Big Family" by Frank Ramirez
"Sacrifice" by Keith Hewitt
* * * * * * *
One Big Family
by Frank Ramirez
Ephesians 3:14-21
For this reason I bow my knees before the Father, from whom every family in heaven and on earth takes its name. --Ephesians 3:14-15
Forgery. Lies. Bribery. The creation of a shadow organization to channel money and paperwork. False papers. False titles. Chicanery. Did I mention lies?
And the penalty? How about reward instead? Over six thousand people, scattered around the globe, speaking every imaginable tongue and holding citizenship papers in many countries, take their name from this extraordinary person, who on top of everything else only recently died at the age of 106.
Is this fair? Maybe, maybe not. But it’s certainly proper, and it would be nice to think that any one of us, if put in the same situation, might be just as willing to bend, break, or blow up the rules, because in the process this extraordinary person saved the lives of 669 children who would otherwise have likely died in horrible circumstances.
Just who are we talking about? Well, when he died on July 1, 2015 he was Sir Nicholas George Winton, but when he was born on May 19, 1909, he was Nicholas George Wertheim. HIs parents, German Jews, emigrated to London two years before he was born. His family later converted to Christianity, changed their last name from Wertheim to Winton, and had little George baptized.
His father was a banker, so it was no surprise that young George would also seek a career in finance. He became a stockbroker, and in 1938 was preparing for a ski vacation, when his life took a major turn.
Though a Christian, Wertheim was one of those who opposed appeasing the rising Nazi regime in Germany. As the world began to slide into the second world-wide war of the twentieth century, Winton’s friend Martin Blake called him, urging him to cancel his vacation and come to Czechoslovakia to see what was happening to the Jewish population of that country.
Winton realized not only the extent of the coming catastrophe, but he became convinced he had to transport as many children as he could out of the country while not attracting too much attention from the Gestapo. He invented what he called a “Children’s Section” for the British Committee for Refugees from Czechoslovakia. He not only had to convince families of Czech Jews to entrust their children to him, he also had to arrange for foster families in England to raise those children. All manner of real and false documents, including visas to get into England, and passes to get out of Czechoslovakia, as well as trains to move the children from one point to another, had to be arranged.
All this took money, money he had to raise, then use to grease palms to get the necessary signatures, and during all of this Winton continued to operate his brokerage firm. Everything had to look completely normal, whatever normal might look like in a world gone mad.
He was soon tailed by Nazi agents, his life in jeopardy. Other Nazis, the recipients of bribes, aided him. All the while the danger grew.
Ultimately Winton managed to move 669 children on seven trains from certain death to freedom and a new life. He kept photographs, documents, and records in the hopes of eventually reuniting the children with their families, but most of the families these children left behind died in the concentration camps.
At the bitter end, with the invasion of Poland on September 1, 1938, the Germans closed the borders, and a final train with 250 children was prevented from leaving. Those children disappeared. All are believed to have died in the camps.
Winton called no attention to what he had done. After the war he and his wife Grete raised three chidren, while he continued to work for humanitarian causes. Then, in 1988, Grete discovered a scrapbook in their attic with all the details of the program. She insisted that Winton, now nearly 80, needed to tell the world what he had done, so that the surviving children, who were now adults, might know more about their origins.
Those children and their descendants now number over 6,000, and they often refer to themselves as Winton’s children and grandchildren. They considered him an elder member of their families, and honored him whenever they could. Some referred to him as Britain’s Schindler, a reference to Oskar Schindler who had managed to save thousands of Jews during World War II.
Winton went on to receive many rewards but remained unassuming, if a bit pleased with the attention, until the end of his days, which were long.
In Paul’s letter to the Ephesians the apostle speaks of every family in heaven and on earth taking the name of our heavenly father. In a much smaller way this is mirrored by the generations of Winton’s children who identify themselves by his name as the savior of hundreds of lives.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and is the senior pastor of the Union Center Church of the Brethren near Nappanee, Indiana. Frank has served congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. He and his wife Jennie share three adult children, all married, and three grandchildren. He enjoys writing, reading, exercise, and theater.
* * * * * * *
Sacrifice
by Keith Hewitt
2 Samuel 11:1-15
Do you have any idea what you just gave me? Joab wondered, watching the broad back of the Hittite soldier as he parted the tent flaps and left to join his unit. No, of course you don’t, Uriah -- you are too loyal a soldier to spy on your king, or your commander.
Joab examined the broken seal idly, just to confirm what he already knew -- and, no, there was no sign that it had been broken and re-melted; everything looked perfect. The tightly-wrapped scroll had not been seen by any eyes between David’s palace and Joab’s tent. Assuming King David kept his mouth shut, nobody else should ever know what was contained in the letter he had just read.
Only Joab, who would be left to wonder why.
He re-read the letter, trying to tease out meaning from between the lines of script -- poorly formed, which told him that David had written this himself, rather than trust even his most trustworthy scribe. What possible reason could there be for a king to set up one of his most loyal soldiers for certain death? There had never been any hint of disloyalty in the Hittite. He had come to Israel as a young man -- almost a boy -- and had asked to fight in the King’s army. Strong young bodies always being in demand, his wish had been granted.
And he had served with distinction ever since. Brave, smart, almost slavishly loyal?there was nothing to say that he had done anything wrong. Certainly nothing that would approach David’s level of attention. And yet, here he was, the most powerful man in Israel issuing an order to the second most powerful man, to have another man killed.
Death was a part of the life he had chosen, but to be set up so callously by a man -- no, men -- he had trusted and sworn to serve was something else. The season of war already created too many widows and orphans within the Israelite nation -- to add even one more, deliberately, was distasteful; even now, just minutes after reading, it was already gnawing at his conscience. He had met Uriah’s wife -- what was her name? Bathsheba, he decided -- at the wedding. She had been a comely bride, full of life and laughter, and the idea of seeing her in mourning made him frown.
The bride! he wondered suddenly. Could that be it? Could David and Bathsheba have betrayed Uriah -- together? She was an attractive woman, living in Jerusalem -- maybe there had been some sort of tryst, something that would bring dishonor to Uriah if it were discovered, and could only be remedied by death. If such were the case, there would be no alternative but to arrange for Uriah to become the remedy to an awkward situation. Certainly no reasonable man would expect King David to take the fall.
But surely there has to be another way. Joab picked up a dagger from the table and began to play with it, absent mindedly sticking the point into the wood, then twisting the blade until a small divot was taken out of the rough surface. With the tip, he flicked the fragment across the tent, and went back to digging and twisting.
Uriah was not the first soldier’s wife to find comfort in the bed of another man, while her man was gone, and she would not be the last. Human nature was human nature, and while it would be nice to pretend that women behaved better than their men, he knew it was a fantasy. The difference was that an unlucky man might contract an illness that would be embarrassing to explain to his wife; a woman might end up with child, and no way to explain it to her absent husband.
A-hah! he thought, That must be it. A child born at the wrong time would be obvious to anyone who could do simple arithmetic -- and that presented all sorts of problems, not the least of which was that it was pretty damning evidence of infidelity. And the bastard child of a king would present even more problems.
Problems that had only one good solution.
And now it all made sense. Grimly, he summoned one of his lieutenants -- the one for whom Uriah fought. When the man arrived, Joab was terse. “I have received a message from the King,” he said, holding up the scroll briefly, then dropping it on the table. “Tomorrow morning, you and your men will attack the city’s west gate. The King has word from one of his spies that there is a weakness in the city wall there.”
The lieutenant raised his eyes and peered at the tent wall, as though he could see through it, to the besieged city beyond. “The west wall?” he asked doubtfully. “It is very heavily fortified, sir. I don’t think -- “
“Joseph,” Joab asked, with deceptive quiet, “did I mis-speak, and say that I had received a request from King David?”
Hesitation. “No, sir. It’s just that -- “
Joab stared at the officer with all the frustration that the situation had engendered in him. “Joseph. I was not asking your opinion. If you are not capable of leading your men in this attack, then I will do so myself -- and we will determine who will replace you as commander when we are done. That Hittite boy, Uriah -- he strikes me as a likely replacement for you.”
Just a moment’s hesitation, then. “No, sir. I can lead my men, and I will lead them, tomorrow. As you say. Against the west gate.”
Joab smiled coldly. “Glad to hear it. I expect nothing less from you and your men than a determined assault. Do you understand?” His lieutenant nodded grimly. “Good. Now go and make your preparations -- and report back to me on the Hittite after you attack. I think he’s officer material?a worthy successor for you, perhaps, if anything should happen to you.”
“Yes, sir -- I will certainly keep my eye on him,” Joseph agreed.
“I’m sure you will,” Joab answered, and dismissed his lieutenant with a wave of his hand. When the young man had left, Joab stuck the dagger into the scroll, picked it up off the table without touching it, himself. “I’m sure you will,” he repeated, and flicked the scroll into the brazier, watched it begin to smoke and curl up on itself. When it was nothing but ash, he stirred the ashes with the tip of the dagger. Tomorrow, Uriah would die, and the lieutenant who made it happen would never admit it was anything but a tragic, random battle death.
It’s good, he thought, that no one knows how much a king must sacrifice, sometimes.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
*****************************************
StoryShare, July 26, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.
