A Chance for Grace
Stories
Note: This installment was originally published in 2019.
Wilton Lewis stood with his hands on his hips, studying the sanctuary wall, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to spit, was thwarted by the fact that he was inside, and instead swallowed hard and said, “This is vile. Disgusting and vile.” He turned to his right and added, “I apologize, Reverend Cashmore. This does not represent the good people of Port William. You know that, I hope.”
Russell Cashmore did not answer right away, as he processed the scene before him, and when he finally responded it was to turn toward Lewis, sigh, and shake his head. “I do know that, Will. I will not fool myself that I am welcome here, but I know this is above and beyond being unwelcome. The good people of Port William are more genteel than this.” He looked back at the wall — the spray-painted slur, the obscene drawing — and shook his head again. “I would also guess that they’re better spellers, for the most part.”
Wilton Lewis gave his pastor a quizzical look.
Cashmore inclined his head toward the graffiti. “That should be two g’s, not one.”
Lewis’ eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure this is a joking matter, Reverend.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not, Will. Not at all. But I’ve seen enough of this world to not be surprised when racism shows its ugly head. That kind of hate and ignorance is hard to get rid of.”
Lewis grunted. “I suppose it is. But that doesn’t mean we don’t try. I’ve got a pretty good idea who did this, Reverend — this kind of thing seems right up young Bobby Lee Boudreau’s alley. I’m going to have the sheriff swing by his house and read him the riot act — him and his brothers.”
There was a long silence then, as both men stared at the graffiti — and then Cashmore cleared his throat and said, “Or — we could just ignore it. In fact, maybe one of us can make a special point of going out to his house to invite him to Sunday worship and picnic after. Him and his brothers. Heck, the whole family! I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a Boudreau in church here.”
“I’m fair sure you haven’t, Reverend — they’re a strange bunch, as it is. Having a colored preacher here just reinforces that they’re never going to come. Truth be told, most of us would feel more comfortable if they didn’t. They’re rough folks.”
“All the more reason, then. Let’s not get the sheriff involved — not just yet, anyway. Can you drop by their house and invite them, or should I?”
Lewis hesitated. “If you’re really serious about this, I suppose I can extend the invitation. But don’t expect them to accept it.”
Cashmore smiled. “Oh, I don’t — believe me. Not this time. But we’re going to keep inviting them until they show up. And we’re going to be nice. Maybe get some of the ladies in our Women’s League to bake them some pies.”
Lewis shook his head. “I really don’t understand you, Reverend.”
“’Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret, it leads only to evil.’ Psalm 37:8. The way I see it, we can spend our lives fretting about the Bobby Lee Boudreau’s of the world, and just worry ourselves sick while we try to make them see the light by force. Or we can refuse to worry, and just be nice — be Christian. That way, one of two things happens: either we finally get through to them, and that give us an opportunity to share the Gospel with them; or they never change, but we’ve never wasted time being angry about it. It’s what we’d call a win-win, in my book.”
Lewis was silent for a few moments, considering the proposition, then he shook his head again. “That seems like a very…detached way to look at the world, Reverend Cashmore.”
Cashmore nodded. “It is. It can be. But, believe me, in a world as messed up as this one can be, sometimes, this is a way that’s worked for me. When you’re a man in my position — of my particular coloring, let’s say — you encounter a lot of…crap in this world. And I learned a long time ago that life will be better and more tolerable for me if I respond with love. Not acceptance — but love. It doesn’t mean I don’t fight to change things — but it does change how I fight. Or don’t fight, rather. Because if you respond to hate with grace instead of anger, it will get you farther in the long run.” He paused, smiled self-consciously. “I’m sorry — you didn’t want a sermon, did you? But you get where I’m coming from, don’t you?”
Lewis nodded. “I do. And all I can say is, you’re a better man than me, Reverend Cashmore. But we’ll try it your way — I just hope we don’t have to repaint the sanctuary too many times before we get this figured out.”
Cashmore looked surprised. “Paint it? Oh, no-no-no. We’re going to leave it, Will. Just as it is.”
Lewis frowned. “But it’s disgusting.”
“It is,” Cashmore agreed. “It’s disgusting, as is the anger and hate behind it. But here’s another thing I learned: if you push this kind of hatred back into the shadows, if you submerge it, it will just take it longer to die. I want people to see it — to come to terms with it, and how it makes them feel. I want it to make them uncomfortable. I think it’s a good opportunity for all of us to learn. It stays.”
Just then the door opened, and Russell Cashmore nodded his goodbye to Lewis and left him to go talk to the person who’d entered. Wilton Lewis just stared after him for a bit, then shook his head and muttered, “Well, that’s going to mean another meeting. People aren’t going to want to put up with that.”
And it was only later in the day that he realized…maybe that was the point.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 24, 2019 issue.
Copyright 2019 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.
Wilton Lewis stood with his hands on his hips, studying the sanctuary wall, not trusting himself to speak. He wanted to spit, was thwarted by the fact that he was inside, and instead swallowed hard and said, “This is vile. Disgusting and vile.” He turned to his right and added, “I apologize, Reverend Cashmore. This does not represent the good people of Port William. You know that, I hope.”
Russell Cashmore did not answer right away, as he processed the scene before him, and when he finally responded it was to turn toward Lewis, sigh, and shake his head. “I do know that, Will. I will not fool myself that I am welcome here, but I know this is above and beyond being unwelcome. The good people of Port William are more genteel than this.” He looked back at the wall — the spray-painted slur, the obscene drawing — and shook his head again. “I would also guess that they’re better spellers, for the most part.”
Wilton Lewis gave his pastor a quizzical look.
Cashmore inclined his head toward the graffiti. “That should be two g’s, not one.”
Lewis’ eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure this is a joking matter, Reverend.”
“Oh, I’m sure it’s not, Will. Not at all. But I’ve seen enough of this world to not be surprised when racism shows its ugly head. That kind of hate and ignorance is hard to get rid of.”
Lewis grunted. “I suppose it is. But that doesn’t mean we don’t try. I’ve got a pretty good idea who did this, Reverend — this kind of thing seems right up young Bobby Lee Boudreau’s alley. I’m going to have the sheriff swing by his house and read him the riot act — him and his brothers.”
There was a long silence then, as both men stared at the graffiti — and then Cashmore cleared his throat and said, “Or — we could just ignore it. In fact, maybe one of us can make a special point of going out to his house to invite him to Sunday worship and picnic after. Him and his brothers. Heck, the whole family! I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a Boudreau in church here.”
“I’m fair sure you haven’t, Reverend — they’re a strange bunch, as it is. Having a colored preacher here just reinforces that they’re never going to come. Truth be told, most of us would feel more comfortable if they didn’t. They’re rough folks.”
“All the more reason, then. Let’s not get the sheriff involved — not just yet, anyway. Can you drop by their house and invite them, or should I?”
Lewis hesitated. “If you’re really serious about this, I suppose I can extend the invitation. But don’t expect them to accept it.”
Cashmore smiled. “Oh, I don’t — believe me. Not this time. But we’re going to keep inviting them until they show up. And we’re going to be nice. Maybe get some of the ladies in our Women’s League to bake them some pies.”
Lewis shook his head. “I really don’t understand you, Reverend.”
“’Refrain from anger, and forsake wrath. Do not fret, it leads only to evil.’ Psalm 37:8. The way I see it, we can spend our lives fretting about the Bobby Lee Boudreau’s of the world, and just worry ourselves sick while we try to make them see the light by force. Or we can refuse to worry, and just be nice — be Christian. That way, one of two things happens: either we finally get through to them, and that give us an opportunity to share the Gospel with them; or they never change, but we’ve never wasted time being angry about it. It’s what we’d call a win-win, in my book.”
Lewis was silent for a few moments, considering the proposition, then he shook his head again. “That seems like a very…detached way to look at the world, Reverend Cashmore.”
Cashmore nodded. “It is. It can be. But, believe me, in a world as messed up as this one can be, sometimes, this is a way that’s worked for me. When you’re a man in my position — of my particular coloring, let’s say — you encounter a lot of…crap in this world. And I learned a long time ago that life will be better and more tolerable for me if I respond with love. Not acceptance — but love. It doesn’t mean I don’t fight to change things — but it does change how I fight. Or don’t fight, rather. Because if you respond to hate with grace instead of anger, it will get you farther in the long run.” He paused, smiled self-consciously. “I’m sorry — you didn’t want a sermon, did you? But you get where I’m coming from, don’t you?”
Lewis nodded. “I do. And all I can say is, you’re a better man than me, Reverend Cashmore. But we’ll try it your way — I just hope we don’t have to repaint the sanctuary too many times before we get this figured out.”
Cashmore looked surprised. “Paint it? Oh, no-no-no. We’re going to leave it, Will. Just as it is.”
Lewis frowned. “But it’s disgusting.”
“It is,” Cashmore agreed. “It’s disgusting, as is the anger and hate behind it. But here’s another thing I learned: if you push this kind of hatred back into the shadows, if you submerge it, it will just take it longer to die. I want people to see it — to come to terms with it, and how it makes them feel. I want it to make them uncomfortable. I think it’s a good opportunity for all of us to learn. It stays.”
Just then the door opened, and Russell Cashmore nodded his goodbye to Lewis and left him to go talk to the person who’d entered. Wilton Lewis just stared after him for a bit, then shook his head and muttered, “Well, that’s going to mean another meeting. People aren’t going to want to put up with that.”
And it was only later in the day that he realized…maybe that was the point.
*****************************************
StoryShare, February 24, 2019 issue.
Copyright 2019 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.
