Finish Line
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Finish Line" by Keith Hewitt
"Prayer Life" by John Fitzgerald
* * * * * * *
Finish Line
by Keith Hewitt
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18
The room was cold and smelled of bleach. Fluorescent lights buzzed just above the threshold of hearing, casting a stark light over the row of tall, narrow tables that marched from one end of the room to the other, side facing side so that when entering the room the first table presented itself broadside-on to the door and the rest followed suit. All but one of them gleamed in the light, steel slabs, slightly pitched to one end, so that the gutters around the edge of each table would drain properly.
Only the nearest table was different. It bore a form that stretched nearly end to end on the table, covered by a white sheet that was tucked under the feet splayed to either side beneath it. And next to the table stood a man in the stark, gray uniform of the Committee for State Security -- a major, if Andre was reading his shoulder flashes correctly.
The major glared at Andre at first, as though he had come to interrupt him, rather than because he was summoned, and then he glanced at the two guards who flanked Andre and flickered his eyes toward the door. When they didn't move, the major said crisply, "I would see the prisoner alone."
The senior guard looked at his comrade, then back at the major. "This one is a Class One prisoner, sir. Not to be left alone with anyone -- he is very dangerous."
"Is he shackled?"
The senior guard started to answer, stopped and grabbed Andre's wrists to make sure they were cuffed and chained to the belt around the prisoner's waist, looked down at his feet and made sure the ankle irons were in place. "Yes, sir."
The major studied Andre, eyes running over the thin, slightly stooped figure that stood before him, and then he allowed a grim smile to flash across his face. "Then I think I am safe, jailer. I wish to see this prisoner alone. It's a matter of state security."
The guard sighed noiselessly. "State security" was the trump card, even when played on other state security regulations -- even regulations about the proper handling of terrorists. He gathered up the other guard by eye, and they left without another word -- only a stern glance at Andre, silently promising another circle of hell if he even tried to do something.
When the double doors closed, swinging back and forth once before coming to a rest, the major crackled, "Come closer."
Obediently, Andre shuffled forward -- the only locomotion possible, given the short length of chain that bound his feet. He stopped when he was nearly at the table, about midway down, while the major stood near the head end of it. He waited silently, then simply raising his hands slightly and holding them out, palms up in a gesture of invitation.
The major started to speak once, hesitated, then licked his lips and started again. There was a look, an expression, that Andre had never seen on the face of someone from State Security before and as he tried to gauge it the major said quietly, "I need information from you."
Andre lowered his hands, then. "I have already told you -- your men -- everything I'm going to tell them. I will freely tell you of myself and of The Way and the work that my Lord and Savior has done in my heart -- but I will not tell you anything else."
The major snorted and shook his head. "You are a naive man. There have been many before you who've said the same thing -- and in the end we learned whatever we wanted from each of them. I can extract information from a stone or make a mute man sing with the proper application of pain and fatigue."
There was ice in his belly now, but Andre tried to keep it from showing. "So I have heard, Major."
"And you have heard correctly. A man subjected to lack of sleep for a week, and then... pressured, shall we say, with just the right stimuli... will surrender virtually anything we ask. Names, places, dates, and times... wife, parents, children... so much will flow that we will have a hard time checking it all. But it will flow," the major promised, then added thoughtfully, "You have only been in custody a month or so, so you're still healthy. That's good. The problem with applying such methods to someone who's been in custody longer is that they will often die before we're done with them. You have no such hope."
The ice stirred and seemed to grow, but it was also most peculiar, because Andre felt a clarity -- a certainty -- that belied the weakness in his knees and the way his hands trembled... trembled so that he clenched them to make them stop. "As God wills it," he said simply, when he was sure his voice would not tremble, as well.
"Tell me what I need to know, and we can avoid further unpleasantness."
"Tell me what you're asking, and I will tell you if I will answer," Andre said with sudden quiet assurance.
The major drew a breath, started to snap back at the impudence, then cut himself off and took a step closer; Andre readied himself for a blow to the gut or a punch in the face. Instead, the major reached to the table, flipped back the sheet and nodded toward the still, pale form that lay there. Just the naked shoulders and head of the man appeared above the sheet. He studied the form and gulped to hold down bile -- there was a pencil-sized hole in the man's skull, behind his right ear, and Andre could see one ragged edge of a much larger wound on the other side of his head, between forehead and ear; the very left side of his forehead bulged slightly, and was discolored.
He was still looking at the wounds, drawn and repulsed at the same time, when he dimly heard the major say, "I want to know about that."
"About what?" Andre asked and glanced at the major before looking back at the body on the table, actually looking at the face... and then, even as the major answered, he knew. For the eyes were open -- not in shock... not in fear, or even pain... but something like peace. And farther down, thin, cracked lips were stretched in a smile of pure joy.
"I want to know why this man is smiling," the major said needlessly.
"You're not going to like the answer," Andre said honestly.
"I didn't ask for you to tell me what I will or won't like! Tell me why this man is smiling! After everything we did -- that happened -- he died like this." He gestured angrily at the smiling corpse.
Andre shrugged, now smiling, himself. "What else can one do, Major, when one sees the finish line and knows he's going to win?"
"But he didn't win!" the major exploded. "We held him in prison, wracked him with pain for unending days, and finally put a bullet in his brain when we decided the time was right!"
Andre drew himself up straight and tall and said, "As may be, Major -- but I know this too. He may have died with your bullet in his brain... but there he also had Christ in his heart and that was all he needed. You didn't kill him, Major -- you just sent him home." He raised his hands, again, palms up, extended as far as the chains would allow and said calmly, "And now... shall we get on with it?"
The guards came in as soon as they heard the shot.
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.
Prayer Life
by John Fitzgerald
Luke 18:9-14
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, became the site for a bloody battle during our nation's Civil War 200 years ago. A recent visit to Gettysburg reminded me of the War Prayer written by Mark Twain. In this prayer Twain captures the attitude of our country prior to this terrible conflict:
It was a time of great and exalting excitement.
The country was up in arms, the war was on,
in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism;
the drums were beating, the bands playing,
the toy pistols popping...
In the churches the pastors preached
devotion to flag and country and
invoked the God of battles,
beseeching His aid in our good cause...
Sunday morning came-the service proceeded;
a war chapter from the Old Testament was read;
the first prayer was said;
it was followed by an organ burst
that shook the building
and with one impulse the house rose,
with glowing eyes and beating hearts,
and poured out that tremendous invocation
Father of us all watch over our noble young soldiers aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset, help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory.
At the height of War between North and South, a Confederate Soldier penned this simple prayer:
I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked God for health I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for but everything that I hoped for.
Despite myself, my prayers were answered.
I am, among men, most richly blessed!
The two prayers cited here have a vast difference in attitude. Twain's prayer demonstrates a nation and church filled with self-righteousness. The rebel soldier witnesses to a contrite spirit upon being surrounded by death and destruction.
The circumstances of life have a way of humbling us. We can be puffed up and pleased with our self-importance. Then life intervenes and we learn there are many things that were not thought of before. Very quickly chaos can descend. All we can do is beseech the Lord for mercy when life spins out of control.
This is the lesson gained by a tax collector or publican Jesus talked about in Luke 18. The tax collector comes across in scripture as someone who has experienced some hard punches in life and prays out of this self-awareness. No one has to talk about humility with our tax collector. He has been there and done that.
The tax collector represents all people who have been knocked around a little by life (and that includes each one of us). Some of us have had our jobs snatched away without notice. Other folks after visiting the doctor receive a bad report throwing their future into jeopardy. There are individuals who have encountered irreparable hurt from somebody they loved and trusted. The list could go on and on about the trouble we have seen.
The tax collector does not distance himself from trouble and suffering in his walk with God. There is recognition that some of this anguish may have occurred as a result of personal sin. This man prays out of a background of hurt and need for forgiveness. We have recorded in Luke 18:13 his profound utterance, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
The other example in Luke 18 is the prayer of someone far removed from suffering. The Pharisee had studied prayer as a subject for many years. This is someone who had extensive training in the religious life. Don't try to talk about prayer with our Pharisee friend. He knew all about it -- just ask him!
The Pharisee poses as all those good church going people who know nothing about true faith but sure have an exemplary lifestyle. They attend church, they tithe, and they even fast once in a while. There is nothing wrong with that. God honors this kind of behavior. However, nothing in their walk with God permits them to enter into pain or suffering. They would not be caught dead with anyone who has been hurt and witnesses to a lifestyle far beyond the pale of respectable Christian faith.
The Pharisee possessed a closed mind and hard heart. Nothing about the mercy and grace of God could reach him. An irony about this is the Pharisee cloaked his arrogance in garb of religion. Saint Paul warned us in 2 Corinthians 11:14, "Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light."
Pain and suffering can be good teachers. This is what the tax collector knew firsthand. His prayer in Luke 18:13 reflects this knowledge.
Does your prayer life demonstrate the Pharisee or the tax collector? God honors those who depend upon divine mercy and grace each day.
John Fitzgerald lives in Leesburg, Ohio, with his wife Carolyn and has served as pastor at the Leesburg Friends Meeting for the past 27 years. Cornfield Cathedral (Fairway Press, 2013) is the second book authored by Pastor Fitzgerald. John has earned a Master's of Ministry Degree from the Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, Indiana.
*****************************************
StoryShare, October 27, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
"Finish Line" by Keith Hewitt
"Prayer Life" by John Fitzgerald
* * * * * * *
Finish Line
by Keith Hewitt
2 Timothy 4:6-8, 16-18
The room was cold and smelled of bleach. Fluorescent lights buzzed just above the threshold of hearing, casting a stark light over the row of tall, narrow tables that marched from one end of the room to the other, side facing side so that when entering the room the first table presented itself broadside-on to the door and the rest followed suit. All but one of them gleamed in the light, steel slabs, slightly pitched to one end, so that the gutters around the edge of each table would drain properly.
Only the nearest table was different. It bore a form that stretched nearly end to end on the table, covered by a white sheet that was tucked under the feet splayed to either side beneath it. And next to the table stood a man in the stark, gray uniform of the Committee for State Security -- a major, if Andre was reading his shoulder flashes correctly.
The major glared at Andre at first, as though he had come to interrupt him, rather than because he was summoned, and then he glanced at the two guards who flanked Andre and flickered his eyes toward the door. When they didn't move, the major said crisply, "I would see the prisoner alone."
The senior guard looked at his comrade, then back at the major. "This one is a Class One prisoner, sir. Not to be left alone with anyone -- he is very dangerous."
"Is he shackled?"
The senior guard started to answer, stopped and grabbed Andre's wrists to make sure they were cuffed and chained to the belt around the prisoner's waist, looked down at his feet and made sure the ankle irons were in place. "Yes, sir."
The major studied Andre, eyes running over the thin, slightly stooped figure that stood before him, and then he allowed a grim smile to flash across his face. "Then I think I am safe, jailer. I wish to see this prisoner alone. It's a matter of state security."
The guard sighed noiselessly. "State security" was the trump card, even when played on other state security regulations -- even regulations about the proper handling of terrorists. He gathered up the other guard by eye, and they left without another word -- only a stern glance at Andre, silently promising another circle of hell if he even tried to do something.
When the double doors closed, swinging back and forth once before coming to a rest, the major crackled, "Come closer."
Obediently, Andre shuffled forward -- the only locomotion possible, given the short length of chain that bound his feet. He stopped when he was nearly at the table, about midway down, while the major stood near the head end of it. He waited silently, then simply raising his hands slightly and holding them out, palms up in a gesture of invitation.
The major started to speak once, hesitated, then licked his lips and started again. There was a look, an expression, that Andre had never seen on the face of someone from State Security before and as he tried to gauge it the major said quietly, "I need information from you."
Andre lowered his hands, then. "I have already told you -- your men -- everything I'm going to tell them. I will freely tell you of myself and of The Way and the work that my Lord and Savior has done in my heart -- but I will not tell you anything else."
The major snorted and shook his head. "You are a naive man. There have been many before you who've said the same thing -- and in the end we learned whatever we wanted from each of them. I can extract information from a stone or make a mute man sing with the proper application of pain and fatigue."
There was ice in his belly now, but Andre tried to keep it from showing. "So I have heard, Major."
"And you have heard correctly. A man subjected to lack of sleep for a week, and then... pressured, shall we say, with just the right stimuli... will surrender virtually anything we ask. Names, places, dates, and times... wife, parents, children... so much will flow that we will have a hard time checking it all. But it will flow," the major promised, then added thoughtfully, "You have only been in custody a month or so, so you're still healthy. That's good. The problem with applying such methods to someone who's been in custody longer is that they will often die before we're done with them. You have no such hope."
The ice stirred and seemed to grow, but it was also most peculiar, because Andre felt a clarity -- a certainty -- that belied the weakness in his knees and the way his hands trembled... trembled so that he clenched them to make them stop. "As God wills it," he said simply, when he was sure his voice would not tremble, as well.
"Tell me what I need to know, and we can avoid further unpleasantness."
"Tell me what you're asking, and I will tell you if I will answer," Andre said with sudden quiet assurance.
The major drew a breath, started to snap back at the impudence, then cut himself off and took a step closer; Andre readied himself for a blow to the gut or a punch in the face. Instead, the major reached to the table, flipped back the sheet and nodded toward the still, pale form that lay there. Just the naked shoulders and head of the man appeared above the sheet. He studied the form and gulped to hold down bile -- there was a pencil-sized hole in the man's skull, behind his right ear, and Andre could see one ragged edge of a much larger wound on the other side of his head, between forehead and ear; the very left side of his forehead bulged slightly, and was discolored.
He was still looking at the wounds, drawn and repulsed at the same time, when he dimly heard the major say, "I want to know about that."
"About what?" Andre asked and glanced at the major before looking back at the body on the table, actually looking at the face... and then, even as the major answered, he knew. For the eyes were open -- not in shock... not in fear, or even pain... but something like peace. And farther down, thin, cracked lips were stretched in a smile of pure joy.
"I want to know why this man is smiling," the major said needlessly.
"You're not going to like the answer," Andre said honestly.
"I didn't ask for you to tell me what I will or won't like! Tell me why this man is smiling! After everything we did -- that happened -- he died like this." He gestured angrily at the smiling corpse.
Andre shrugged, now smiling, himself. "What else can one do, Major, when one sees the finish line and knows he's going to win?"
"But he didn't win!" the major exploded. "We held him in prison, wracked him with pain for unending days, and finally put a bullet in his brain when we decided the time was right!"
Andre drew himself up straight and tall and said, "As may be, Major -- but I know this too. He may have died with your bullet in his brain... but there he also had Christ in his heart and that was all he needed. You didn't kill him, Major -- you just sent him home." He raised his hands, again, palms up, extended as far as the chains would allow and said calmly, "And now... shall we get on with it?"
The guards came in as soon as they heard the shot.
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.
Prayer Life
by John Fitzgerald
Luke 18:9-14
Gettysburg, Pennsylvania, became the site for a bloody battle during our nation's Civil War 200 years ago. A recent visit to Gettysburg reminded me of the War Prayer written by Mark Twain. In this prayer Twain captures the attitude of our country prior to this terrible conflict:
It was a time of great and exalting excitement.
The country was up in arms, the war was on,
in every breast burned the holy fire of patriotism;
the drums were beating, the bands playing,
the toy pistols popping...
In the churches the pastors preached
devotion to flag and country and
invoked the God of battles,
beseeching His aid in our good cause...
Sunday morning came-the service proceeded;
a war chapter from the Old Testament was read;
the first prayer was said;
it was followed by an organ burst
that shook the building
and with one impulse the house rose,
with glowing eyes and beating hearts,
and poured out that tremendous invocation
Father of us all watch over our noble young soldiers aid, comfort, and encourage them in their patriotic work; bless them, shield them in the day of battle and hour of peril, bear them in His mighty hand, make them strong and confident, invincible in the bloody onset, help them to crush the foe, grant to them and to their flag and country imperishable honor and glory.
At the height of War between North and South, a Confederate Soldier penned this simple prayer:
I asked God for strength that I might achieve.
I was made weak that I might learn humbly to obey.
I asked God for health I might do greater things.
I was given infirmity that I might do better things.
I asked for riches that I might be happy.
I was given poverty that I might be wise.
I asked for all things that I might enjoy life.
I was given life that I might enjoy all things.
I got nothing that I asked for but everything that I hoped for.
Despite myself, my prayers were answered.
I am, among men, most richly blessed!
The two prayers cited here have a vast difference in attitude. Twain's prayer demonstrates a nation and church filled with self-righteousness. The rebel soldier witnesses to a contrite spirit upon being surrounded by death and destruction.
The circumstances of life have a way of humbling us. We can be puffed up and pleased with our self-importance. Then life intervenes and we learn there are many things that were not thought of before. Very quickly chaos can descend. All we can do is beseech the Lord for mercy when life spins out of control.
This is the lesson gained by a tax collector or publican Jesus talked about in Luke 18. The tax collector comes across in scripture as someone who has experienced some hard punches in life and prays out of this self-awareness. No one has to talk about humility with our tax collector. He has been there and done that.
The tax collector represents all people who have been knocked around a little by life (and that includes each one of us). Some of us have had our jobs snatched away without notice. Other folks after visiting the doctor receive a bad report throwing their future into jeopardy. There are individuals who have encountered irreparable hurt from somebody they loved and trusted. The list could go on and on about the trouble we have seen.
The tax collector does not distance himself from trouble and suffering in his walk with God. There is recognition that some of this anguish may have occurred as a result of personal sin. This man prays out of a background of hurt and need for forgiveness. We have recorded in Luke 18:13 his profound utterance, "God, have mercy on me, a sinner."
The other example in Luke 18 is the prayer of someone far removed from suffering. The Pharisee had studied prayer as a subject for many years. This is someone who had extensive training in the religious life. Don't try to talk about prayer with our Pharisee friend. He knew all about it -- just ask him!
The Pharisee poses as all those good church going people who know nothing about true faith but sure have an exemplary lifestyle. They attend church, they tithe, and they even fast once in a while. There is nothing wrong with that. God honors this kind of behavior. However, nothing in their walk with God permits them to enter into pain or suffering. They would not be caught dead with anyone who has been hurt and witnesses to a lifestyle far beyond the pale of respectable Christian faith.
The Pharisee possessed a closed mind and hard heart. Nothing about the mercy and grace of God could reach him. An irony about this is the Pharisee cloaked his arrogance in garb of religion. Saint Paul warned us in 2 Corinthians 11:14, "Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light."
Pain and suffering can be good teachers. This is what the tax collector knew firsthand. His prayer in Luke 18:13 reflects this knowledge.
Does your prayer life demonstrate the Pharisee or the tax collector? God honors those who depend upon divine mercy and grace each day.
John Fitzgerald lives in Leesburg, Ohio, with his wife Carolyn and has served as pastor at the Leesburg Friends Meeting for the past 27 years. Cornfield Cathedral (Fairway Press, 2013) is the second book authored by Pastor Fitzgerald. John has earned a Master's of Ministry Degree from the Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, Indiana.
*****************************************
StoryShare, October 27, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
