Legion
Stories
Contents
“Legion” by C. David McKirachan
“Runaway” by Keith Hewitt
Legion
by C. David McKirachan
Luke 8:26-39
This passage invites us on so many contemporary journeys. ‘Legion’ is an appropriate name.
Demonic possession is not to be found in the accepted lexicon of mental illness. But as we face our congregations, the wrestling matches occurring among the spirits of our people are hard to ignore. The most blatant confrontations occurring in our congregations are nothing short of spiritual warfare, especially when we are willing to carry Christ’s presence. A prophetic presence often elicits reactions nothing short of spiritual street fights. As we dare to journey into the dark places of our culture’s ideologies, holding Christ’s compassion and hope, the beasties that come out roaring are nothing short of amazing. They got teeth too.
The chains of law do not hold them. They’ll blow through those like the paper the statutes are written on (or the flash drives if you prefer). Reason itself is left behind, or used against us with aphorisms like ‘that doesn’t make sense’, ‘we have to pay the bills’, or even ‘the Bible is against it’. Shining light into the shadows cast by ‘we’ve always done it that way before’ invites roaring and foaming. If you don’t believe that, ask everybody to change where they sit on Sunday mornings. Nuff said.
If we are to be a community of spiritual presence, we invite spiritual conversation and reaction. Confronting the pain of our people in down to earth practical ways, is a quest to set them free from the ism’s that enslave their lives. Helping them learn that they are not victims, and introducing the concept that God’s light makes life more fun, productive, and whole, brings us into territory that is normally under the control of all kinds of dark beasties.
I was taught that the purpose of an interim pastor is to poke into the wood work of a church, find the soft spots that everybody keeps painting over, and disturb the rats that live there.
My response was twofold. ‘Isn’t that the purpose of every ministry? Or if we’re an installed pastor are we there to apply another coat of paint?’
If disturbing rats in the holy wood work isn’t a spiritual discipline that draws us into spiritual skirmishes, what is?
So, if we are to tell it like it is, preach the Good News of Christ’s authority. Remind the people that they are here to be a light to the nations, to be the people of Easter and Pentecost even in the graveyards of cynicism and judgmental denial. We’d better put our big boy (or girl) pants on and get ready to confront the monsters.
A long time ago I took a heavy red cedar branch from a tree knocked down by a storm. I worked on it for a couple months, until the staff that was in it came out. It’s not a cane. It reaches from the ground to just above my head. It’s the kind of staff a shepherd might carry going into country where predators prowl. I put it in the corner of my study at church where it sat for decades, a reminder. I’m looking at it now.
I realized during my first job in the pastoral ministry that not all the critters coming into the gates of the pasture where I worked were lambs. Some of them were equipped with claws and fangs. I was there to bring the non-anxious presence of Christ into every situation I faced. People needed to get to know the compassionate Christ in this place, maybe through me. But I kept an eye on that staff to remember that the Lord faced some pretty tough cookies in his ministry. So if that was going to be my business, I’d better remember I had his sheep to protect.
It never left the corner, except when I moved. But it was there, nonetheless.
* * *
Runaway
by Keith Hewitt
1 Kings 19:1-4, (5-7), 8-15a
“Where are you headed?”
It took Maddie Blaine a few beats to realize the question was directed at her. She opened her eyes, winced slightly at the fluorescent sky and turned her head toward the source of the intrusion. The speaker was an elderly man in a long tan coat, and a fedora that was stylish back in the 60s, and now making an ironic comeback among hipster types. He looked at her with frank directness, his eyes big and owlish behind thick lenses set in horn rimmed frames. While her brain quickly scrolled through the faces of everyone she ought to recognize — a process that may or may not have been dulled by a martini or three — she licked her dry lips, cleared her throat, and muttered, “What was that?”
The gentleman smiled. “I asked where you were headed, Miss — or Ms — ” he leaned closer, and his eyes narrowed. “Or should I say Pastor?”
There was a moment where she contemplated the reality of telepathy, or perhaps the possibility that the man could somehow see inside her soul…then she reached up and touched the white tab collar at her throat. Oh, she thought, I really should have taken this off. “Please, I’m off duty.” She took the tab out from under her collar, slipped it into her pocket. “Let’s just make it Miss. Or Ms. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
His head bobbed slightly in acknowledgment. “Right. So where are you headed — Pastor?”
“Anywhere but here. But nowhere, until the fog lifts.”
The man looked over his shoulder at the bank of windows facing the runway. “Fog?”
“I have a ticket for Milwaukee. Apparently Mitchell is socked in right now, so they’re keeping Milwaukee flights on the ground.”
The man nodded and smiled, “Milwaukee — home of Laverne and Shirley. And the Fonz. Are you visiting?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Going home. I did my best, and it wasn’t good enough — so I’m calling it quits. Throwing in the towel. Folding my cards. Packing it in.” She sat up, then, straightened her back in the plastic seat, and said, “Did you ever notice how many euphemisms we have for failure — for giving up?”
“I guess we do have a few,” he admitted. “What happened?”
“I’m — I was — serving at a church out in Glenstone. I’ve been there for three years, and it’s been a battle the whole time. They’re bigoted, they’ve lost sight of the Gospel, and every time I try to reach out and show them what they’re doing, they just ignore me. And last week, the administrative council told me they wanted to look at replacing me, because I was, quote, too harsh and judgmental, unquote. They’re going to take it up with the bishop — and I told them not to bother, because I was done trying to save their dark, petty souls.” She shrugged. “So here I am.”
“What changed after three years?”
“Nothing — and that was the problem. I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed…I prayed for strength, I prayed for the right words, I prayed for guidance and wisdom in sharing God’s word with them…and nothing happened. Nothing changed. It just got worse.”
“I see.”
“No matter what I did, God wasn’t there for me. So I figured, hey, maybe Glenstone is out of his service area, so I should just stop trying. Or maybe I just suck at being a pastor.” She shrugged again. “Either way, it was pretty clear that I was just wasting my time and theirs, so adios amigos, hasta la nunca — I won’t be back,” she added in a poor version of an Austrian accent.
“I see.”
She paused, then looked at him closely. “So what’s your deal? Why do you care?”
He looked past her for a moment or two, then said, “Oh, I don’t know that I do, exactly. I’m just kind of a people watcher, I guess — I watch, and I try to figure out what’s going on in their lives, and then I talk to them to see if I was right.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“Oh, it is, it is…I could sit in a place like this — forever. Such a rich tapestry of lives being woven together in unexpected ways — people who don’t know one another, and will likely never meet again, still brought together here at this place and time. If I had to label it with one word, it would be fascinating. But you might miss some of that, sitting here with your eyes closed. You miss the experience.”
When she said nothing, the old man sat up a little straighter and looked around, then nodded across the gate waiting area, toward a slender young man standing by a charging station. “Take him — what do you suppose his story is?”
Maddie followed his gaze; her eyes narrowed, then widened. She stood up, left her carryon sitting on the seat next to her, and walked up to the young man. “Bobby?”
He looked back at her, his expression confused. “Pastor Maddie? What are you — I heard you were leaving?”
She shrugged off the question. “What are you doing? Where are your parents?”
“I’m getting out. I’ve got a friend in Denver, I’m going to go visit him and crash for awhile.” He paused, seemed embarrassed. “All that stuff you’ve been saying in church — I — you were right. I did what you said I should do — I told my parents about, you know — me — and they went ballistic. Dad said no son of his would be a fruit, so I said that must mean I wasn’t his son. And I left.”
Maddie’s heart sank. “Bobby, I know I didn’t tell you to do that. You can’t just give up on your parents like that. Not this fast.”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
She sighed. “That’s different. I’ve been — it’s just different.”
He looked away for a moment, then back at her. “I’ve been praying ever since I realized I was gay. Praying that God would help me tell my parents, that he would help me explain it to them — make them okay with it. Okay with me. But he’s been quiet. He’s not here for me — hasn’t been — so maybe if I’m somewhere else, he’ll make an appearance.” He gestured toward the gate. “Listen, I have to check in, so…” She nodded, and he went to check in with the gate agent.
As he stood at the desk, Maddie realized the old man was standing next to her, now. He nodded toward the young man and said, “Interesting, isn’t it?”
She rolled her eyes. “What?”
“After three years, the one message that got through was what you did, not what you said.” She looked at him, and he added, “You said it yourself — God’s not here, so it’s okay to run. That was the lesson Bobby learned. It’s the lesson the rest of your congregation is going to learn. Is it really the one you wanted to teach?” He cocked his head slightly, then, and added, “Just asking, Pastor.”
She didn’t answer…
Not with words.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 23, 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.
“Legion” by C. David McKirachan
“Runaway” by Keith Hewitt
Legion
by C. David McKirachan
Luke 8:26-39
This passage invites us on so many contemporary journeys. ‘Legion’ is an appropriate name.
Demonic possession is not to be found in the accepted lexicon of mental illness. But as we face our congregations, the wrestling matches occurring among the spirits of our people are hard to ignore. The most blatant confrontations occurring in our congregations are nothing short of spiritual warfare, especially when we are willing to carry Christ’s presence. A prophetic presence often elicits reactions nothing short of spiritual street fights. As we dare to journey into the dark places of our culture’s ideologies, holding Christ’s compassion and hope, the beasties that come out roaring are nothing short of amazing. They got teeth too.
The chains of law do not hold them. They’ll blow through those like the paper the statutes are written on (or the flash drives if you prefer). Reason itself is left behind, or used against us with aphorisms like ‘that doesn’t make sense’, ‘we have to pay the bills’, or even ‘the Bible is against it’. Shining light into the shadows cast by ‘we’ve always done it that way before’ invites roaring and foaming. If you don’t believe that, ask everybody to change where they sit on Sunday mornings. Nuff said.
If we are to be a community of spiritual presence, we invite spiritual conversation and reaction. Confronting the pain of our people in down to earth practical ways, is a quest to set them free from the ism’s that enslave their lives. Helping them learn that they are not victims, and introducing the concept that God’s light makes life more fun, productive, and whole, brings us into territory that is normally under the control of all kinds of dark beasties.
I was taught that the purpose of an interim pastor is to poke into the wood work of a church, find the soft spots that everybody keeps painting over, and disturb the rats that live there.
My response was twofold. ‘Isn’t that the purpose of every ministry? Or if we’re an installed pastor are we there to apply another coat of paint?’
If disturbing rats in the holy wood work isn’t a spiritual discipline that draws us into spiritual skirmishes, what is?
So, if we are to tell it like it is, preach the Good News of Christ’s authority. Remind the people that they are here to be a light to the nations, to be the people of Easter and Pentecost even in the graveyards of cynicism and judgmental denial. We’d better put our big boy (or girl) pants on and get ready to confront the monsters.
A long time ago I took a heavy red cedar branch from a tree knocked down by a storm. I worked on it for a couple months, until the staff that was in it came out. It’s not a cane. It reaches from the ground to just above my head. It’s the kind of staff a shepherd might carry going into country where predators prowl. I put it in the corner of my study at church where it sat for decades, a reminder. I’m looking at it now.
I realized during my first job in the pastoral ministry that not all the critters coming into the gates of the pasture where I worked were lambs. Some of them were equipped with claws and fangs. I was there to bring the non-anxious presence of Christ into every situation I faced. People needed to get to know the compassionate Christ in this place, maybe through me. But I kept an eye on that staff to remember that the Lord faced some pretty tough cookies in his ministry. So if that was going to be my business, I’d better remember I had his sheep to protect.
It never left the corner, except when I moved. But it was there, nonetheless.
* * *
Runaway
by Keith Hewitt
1 Kings 19:1-4, (5-7), 8-15a
“Where are you headed?”
It took Maddie Blaine a few beats to realize the question was directed at her. She opened her eyes, winced slightly at the fluorescent sky and turned her head toward the source of the intrusion. The speaker was an elderly man in a long tan coat, and a fedora that was stylish back in the 60s, and now making an ironic comeback among hipster types. He looked at her with frank directness, his eyes big and owlish behind thick lenses set in horn rimmed frames. While her brain quickly scrolled through the faces of everyone she ought to recognize — a process that may or may not have been dulled by a martini or three — she licked her dry lips, cleared her throat, and muttered, “What was that?”
The gentleman smiled. “I asked where you were headed, Miss — or Ms — ” he leaned closer, and his eyes narrowed. “Or should I say Pastor?”
There was a moment where she contemplated the reality of telepathy, or perhaps the possibility that the man could somehow see inside her soul…then she reached up and touched the white tab collar at her throat. Oh, she thought, I really should have taken this off. “Please, I’m off duty.” She took the tab out from under her collar, slipped it into her pocket. “Let’s just make it Miss. Or Ms. Whatever makes you comfortable.”
His head bobbed slightly in acknowledgment. “Right. So where are you headed — Pastor?”
“Anywhere but here. But nowhere, until the fog lifts.”
The man looked over his shoulder at the bank of windows facing the runway. “Fog?”
“I have a ticket for Milwaukee. Apparently Mitchell is socked in right now, so they’re keeping Milwaukee flights on the ground.”
The man nodded and smiled, “Milwaukee — home of Laverne and Shirley. And the Fonz. Are you visiting?”
She shook her head. “Nope. Going home. I did my best, and it wasn’t good enough — so I’m calling it quits. Throwing in the towel. Folding my cards. Packing it in.” She sat up, then, straightened her back in the plastic seat, and said, “Did you ever notice how many euphemisms we have for failure — for giving up?”
“I guess we do have a few,” he admitted. “What happened?”
“I’m — I was — serving at a church out in Glenstone. I’ve been there for three years, and it’s been a battle the whole time. They’re bigoted, they’ve lost sight of the Gospel, and every time I try to reach out and show them what they’re doing, they just ignore me. And last week, the administrative council told me they wanted to look at replacing me, because I was, quote, too harsh and judgmental, unquote. They’re going to take it up with the bishop — and I told them not to bother, because I was done trying to save their dark, petty souls.” She shrugged. “So here I am.”
“What changed after three years?”
“Nothing — and that was the problem. I prayed, and I prayed, and I prayed…I prayed for strength, I prayed for the right words, I prayed for guidance and wisdom in sharing God’s word with them…and nothing happened. Nothing changed. It just got worse.”
“I see.”
“No matter what I did, God wasn’t there for me. So I figured, hey, maybe Glenstone is out of his service area, so I should just stop trying. Or maybe I just suck at being a pastor.” She shrugged again. “Either way, it was pretty clear that I was just wasting my time and theirs, so adios amigos, hasta la nunca — I won’t be back,” she added in a poor version of an Austrian accent.
“I see.”
She paused, then looked at him closely. “So what’s your deal? Why do you care?”
He looked past her for a moment or two, then said, “Oh, I don’t know that I do, exactly. I’m just kind of a people watcher, I guess — I watch, and I try to figure out what’s going on in their lives, and then I talk to them to see if I was right.”
“Sounds fascinating.”
“Oh, it is, it is…I could sit in a place like this — forever. Such a rich tapestry of lives being woven together in unexpected ways — people who don’t know one another, and will likely never meet again, still brought together here at this place and time. If I had to label it with one word, it would be fascinating. But you might miss some of that, sitting here with your eyes closed. You miss the experience.”
When she said nothing, the old man sat up a little straighter and looked around, then nodded across the gate waiting area, toward a slender young man standing by a charging station. “Take him — what do you suppose his story is?”
Maddie followed his gaze; her eyes narrowed, then widened. She stood up, left her carryon sitting on the seat next to her, and walked up to the young man. “Bobby?”
He looked back at her, his expression confused. “Pastor Maddie? What are you — I heard you were leaving?”
She shrugged off the question. “What are you doing? Where are your parents?”
“I’m getting out. I’ve got a friend in Denver, I’m going to go visit him and crash for awhile.” He paused, seemed embarrassed. “All that stuff you’ve been saying in church — I — you were right. I did what you said I should do — I told my parents about, you know — me — and they went ballistic. Dad said no son of his would be a fruit, so I said that must mean I wasn’t his son. And I left.”
Maddie’s heart sank. “Bobby, I know I didn’t tell you to do that. You can’t just give up on your parents like that. Not this fast.”
“Well, you are, aren’t you?”
She sighed. “That’s different. I’ve been — it’s just different.”
He looked away for a moment, then back at her. “I’ve been praying ever since I realized I was gay. Praying that God would help me tell my parents, that he would help me explain it to them — make them okay with it. Okay with me. But he’s been quiet. He’s not here for me — hasn’t been — so maybe if I’m somewhere else, he’ll make an appearance.” He gestured toward the gate. “Listen, I have to check in, so…” She nodded, and he went to check in with the gate agent.
As he stood at the desk, Maddie realized the old man was standing next to her, now. He nodded toward the young man and said, “Interesting, isn’t it?”
She rolled her eyes. “What?”
“After three years, the one message that got through was what you did, not what you said.” She looked at him, and he added, “You said it yourself — God’s not here, so it’s okay to run. That was the lesson Bobby learned. It’s the lesson the rest of your congregation is going to learn. Is it really the one you wanted to teach?” He cocked his head slightly, then, and added, “Just asking, Pastor.”
She didn’t answer…
Not with words.
*****************************************
StoryShare, June 23, 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.
