Gunda
Sermon
ASSAYINGS: THEOLOGICAL FAITH TESTINGS
Sermons For Pentecost (Middle Third)
In the movie, Days of Thunder, Cole Thunder (Tom Cruise) when asked by his girlfriend why he races 200 miles per hour NASCAR stock cars, haughtily answers, "I want to be able to control that which is out of control." Our text for today raises the question: Are we unable to control anything? "What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
A little while later in the film, while in the middle of a heated argument because Cole has just previously chased a taxi cab, recklessly and violently, around a hotel parking lot, his girlfriend points her index finger at his face and says, "Listen Cole, you better wake up out of your little dream land and learn what everybody else in the world knows, that people are not in control of anything, we are finally and ultimately powerless, and the quicker you learn that lesson, my weak minded immature friend, the better off you will be!"
"What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
Not too many months ago, an entire nation said to its insensitive and manipulative leaders, "We are sorry, but as far as we're concerned you are not our leaders anymore because you do not have our best interests at heart. You are only concerned about your political futures. We are going to elect our own leaders who are compassionate toward our welfare and our country's welfare. And if you don't like it, then lump it. If you don't like it, shoot us, because life under your regime is worse than death anyway." The East German leaders ultimately discovered that they were powerless when they did not have anyone to "lord over." And the end result was a new East Germany as well as new leadership.
Walter Wink writes, "Many innocent people may die while the (demonic) powers appear to gain in invincibility with every death, but that is only an illusion. Their very brutality and desperation is evidence that their legitimacy is fast eroding. Their appeal to force is itself an admission that they can no longer command voluntary consent. Whenever sufficient numbers of people withdraw their consent, the (evil) powers inevitably fall."1
"What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
A story: Dr. Pennell stepped out of the door of the hospital. He had seen a group of men coming down the hill with a stretcher. "Whom are you bringing?" he asked the men as they lowered the stretcher in front of him.
The men shrugged their shoulders. "We don't know. We found the man lying by the side of the road. He is seriously wounded. Do you have room for him, Sahib?" We want to leave him here and continue on our way." The doctor bent over the man on the stretcher. He could tell that the patient was an Afghan, a member of the Patau tribe which was always at war with the surrounding population.
"Bring him in," said the doctor. "For him we have a bed." After the patient was settled, Dr. Pennell came to examine him.
"Sahib," moaned the patient, trying to tear the bandage off his eyes, "give me back my sight! Then I can go and find the man that did this to me. I want revenge! I want to kill him. After that I don't care whether I am blind the rest of my life! I just want revenge! Revenge! My enemy took my eyes. He will have to pay for it with his life. There is nothing more powerful than revenge!"
The doctor sat down beside his bed and told the man a story.
"Many years ago," he said, "the British government sent Captain Conolly as an envoy to Afghanistan. He never arrived in the capitol, however. On a lonely stretch of the road, he was seized by a tribe of that country. They took away his baggage, bound him, accused him of espionage, and threw him into prison. He had no idea what would happen to him.
"Weeks and months went by in terrible monotony. The guards mistreated him. The food was bad and very scarce. The only light he had in his cell came from a hole near the ceiling.
"In his misery he had only one comfort. That was a little prayer book that the guards had allowed Captain Conolly to keep. He had received it as a farewell gift from his sister when he left for India. The prayers and songs comforted him; he felt the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ in his cell.
"The prayer book did something else. Conolly was able to persuade the guards to give him a pen and something like ink to write with. Now he filled the margins of the little book with reports of his experience as a prisoner. He also wrote how he felt about those experiences and what effect they had on his soul. The prayer book became a diary of his prison life.
"A whole year passed by. The last entry in the prayer book was by someone else. It said that Conolly had been brought out of prison, publicly flogged, and then had been forced to dig his own grave.
"He was never seen again. No one except the tribe in Afghanistan knew about his execution. In vain his family and friends, and the government in England waited for some news of him. Twenty-one years went by.
"Then it so happened that one day a Russian officer was sauntering along a street in Buchara, a city in central Asia. He stopped in a second-hand shop. Among the odds and ends he discovered an English prayer book with all kinds of entries in the margins which he could not decipher. He saw a name and address on the flyleaf, however. 'Perhaps this little book is important to someone,' he thought to himself, and sent it to England.
"That is how Captain Conolly's sister received the prayer book which she had given to her brother 21 years before!
"With great anguish she read the account of the prison experience of her brother and was greatly moved by his thoughts during the days before his execution.
"What should she do? The terrible injustice done to her brother called for revenge. For Christian revenge! She was not wealthy, but she sent all the money that she could to Dr. Pennell's hospital with these instructions: 'Please keep a bed free in your hospital at all times for a sick or wounded Afghan, and use the money to take care of him until he regains his health. I am doing this in memory of my brother who suffered so much at the hands of Afghans and who died in their country.' "
There was complete silence at the bed of the wounded Afghan when Pennell had finished his story. The doctor put his hand on the shoulder of the blind man. "My friend," he said, "you are now lying in that bed. That you are being taken care of is a revenge for the death of Captain Conolly."
For the first time in his life, the man who so passionately desired revenge and who had so curtly rejected the message of Christ sensed a power that is stronger than hate. It is the power of love.2
"What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
A parable: Paul Dicerio sat nursing a glass of beer at Vero's Pub, a neighborhood bar with good food and a good reputation. In deep thought, he glanced over at the bulletin board near the entrance. The picture on the placard was of him. Paul was running for state senator and election day was tomorrow. "Vote Paul Dicerio for State Senator" the poster said in large bold capitals. "Boy, has it all been worth it?" Paul reminisced. He thought about the sacrifices he had made thus far. He had been away from his family every evening for the last six months; the meetings, the speeches, the time and the money. "Was it all worth it?" he continued to consider. "At every turn I've had to defend my reputation, respond to smear tactics," his thoughts rambled on. "To become a leader one somehow has to put one's self in compromising power positions," Paul's thoughts continued, "Money, power, prestige, a good old boy in the community ... is that what it really takes to get elected? What about integrity and decency and ethical values and compassion and common courtesy?" Paul's thoughts meandered almost out of control now. He felt tired. "I guess it's time to go home," he mused. But Paul Dicerio didn't get up from his bar stool. Because a name kept on nagging at his mind. Gunda Tobias. That name kept on flashing across his mind subliminally and uncontrollably.
"Now there is a powerful person," Paul thought to himself. "But certainly not the way I am powerful. She has very little money, she doesn't have a job title, she doesn't have any academic degrees, she is certainly not a good old boy and hardly prestigious," he thought. "What is it about Gunda Tobias?"
Gunda had grown up in poverty in Eastern Europe. She had come to the United States with nothing but immigration papers. Shortly after that she had married. Gunda and her husband William raised four children, and put them through college. Will had died 10 years ago leaving Gunda with more time than money to pursue her community volunteer efforts.
Paul's thoughts continued to gravitate and meditate on Gunda. "Now that woman has power," Paul thought to himself. He recalled two years ago when this small, stooped woman in a faded dress and well worn pumps was awarded the Citizenship Award for Outstanding Service in the County. The award was presented to Gunda in the glittering community banquet hall amidst the community's high rollers and influential people dressed in formal black and tasteful gowns. And the center of it all? A little old lady. Gunda Tobias. She was the one who received the Outstanding Service Award for her excellent work with bridge housing for the homeless over the past 15 years.
"No mayor or county commissioner or state representative holds the key to as much power as Gunda does in this community," Paul Dicerio murmured to himself. "She is rich. The most powerful weapon against the evils of this earth; the caring heart. The wealth of the compassionate spirit," Paul thought.
And then there was last year at the church council meeting the night Pastor Nelson suggested opening a day-care center in the church. Pastor Nelson went over his reasons: It was a good use of the building, it would attract young families, it was another source of income, and the Baptists down the street already had a day-care center. But Gunda stood up at the council meeting room table and changed the agenda from one of self-interest to one of moral and ethical integrity.
Gunda butted in, "Why is the church in the day-care business? How would this be a part of the ministry of the church?"
"Well, Gunda," said Neal Olson, "you know that it's getting harder every day to put food on the table. Both husband and wife must have full-time jobs."
"That's not true," said Gunda. "You know it's not true. It is not hard for anyone in this church, for anyone in this neighborhood, to put food on the table. There are people in this town for whom putting food on the table is quite a challenge, but I haven't heard any talk about them. If we are talking about ministry to them, then I'm in favor of the idea. No, what we're talking about is ministry to those for whom it has become harder every day to have two cars, a VCR, a place at the lake or a motor home. I just hate to see the church telling these young couples that somehow their marriage will be better or their family life more fulfilling if they can only get more stuff. The church ought to be courageous enough to say, 'That's a lie. Things don't make a marriage or a family.' "
"I wrestle with her impotence," Paul's mind continued, "but she just goes on changing the church, the community ... while I wish for more power and resources, she uses her power and resources to do what she can do at the moment ... 'what gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all.' I think Saint John said that," Paul Dicerio reflected as he finally walked out of Vero's Pub. It was getting late. He had to get up early and go to the polls.3
1. Walter Wink, "Waging Spiritual Warfare With the Powers," Weavings, Volume V, Number 2, March/April (1990), pp. 39-41.
2. Adapted from Staerker als Hass in Hoeher als alle Vernunft by Anni Dyck (Basel: Agape-Verlag, 1965). Her source was Sammlung de Lange: Lillian Cox, "God's Mighty Men."
3. Two sources inspired me in writing this parable. Some of the thoughts and monologue also came from the following sources: Robert Fulghum's essay on Mother Teresa in his book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten and Stanley Hauerwas' and William H. Willimon's article in The Christian Century, titled "Ministry As More Than A Helping Profession," March 15, 1989.
A little while later in the film, while in the middle of a heated argument because Cole has just previously chased a taxi cab, recklessly and violently, around a hotel parking lot, his girlfriend points her index finger at his face and says, "Listen Cole, you better wake up out of your little dream land and learn what everybody else in the world knows, that people are not in control of anything, we are finally and ultimately powerless, and the quicker you learn that lesson, my weak minded immature friend, the better off you will be!"
"What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
Not too many months ago, an entire nation said to its insensitive and manipulative leaders, "We are sorry, but as far as we're concerned you are not our leaders anymore because you do not have our best interests at heart. You are only concerned about your political futures. We are going to elect our own leaders who are compassionate toward our welfare and our country's welfare. And if you don't like it, then lump it. If you don't like it, shoot us, because life under your regime is worse than death anyway." The East German leaders ultimately discovered that they were powerless when they did not have anyone to "lord over." And the end result was a new East Germany as well as new leadership.
Walter Wink writes, "Many innocent people may die while the (demonic) powers appear to gain in invincibility with every death, but that is only an illusion. Their very brutality and desperation is evidence that their legitimacy is fast eroding. Their appeal to force is itself an admission that they can no longer command voluntary consent. Whenever sufficient numbers of people withdraw their consent, the (evil) powers inevitably fall."1
"What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
A story: Dr. Pennell stepped out of the door of the hospital. He had seen a group of men coming down the hill with a stretcher. "Whom are you bringing?" he asked the men as they lowered the stretcher in front of him.
The men shrugged their shoulders. "We don't know. We found the man lying by the side of the road. He is seriously wounded. Do you have room for him, Sahib?" We want to leave him here and continue on our way." The doctor bent over the man on the stretcher. He could tell that the patient was an Afghan, a member of the Patau tribe which was always at war with the surrounding population.
"Bring him in," said the doctor. "For him we have a bed." After the patient was settled, Dr. Pennell came to examine him.
"Sahib," moaned the patient, trying to tear the bandage off his eyes, "give me back my sight! Then I can go and find the man that did this to me. I want revenge! I want to kill him. After that I don't care whether I am blind the rest of my life! I just want revenge! Revenge! My enemy took my eyes. He will have to pay for it with his life. There is nothing more powerful than revenge!"
The doctor sat down beside his bed and told the man a story.
"Many years ago," he said, "the British government sent Captain Conolly as an envoy to Afghanistan. He never arrived in the capitol, however. On a lonely stretch of the road, he was seized by a tribe of that country. They took away his baggage, bound him, accused him of espionage, and threw him into prison. He had no idea what would happen to him.
"Weeks and months went by in terrible monotony. The guards mistreated him. The food was bad and very scarce. The only light he had in his cell came from a hole near the ceiling.
"In his misery he had only one comfort. That was a little prayer book that the guards had allowed Captain Conolly to keep. He had received it as a farewell gift from his sister when he left for India. The prayers and songs comforted him; he felt the presence of the Lord Jesus Christ in his cell.
"The prayer book did something else. Conolly was able to persuade the guards to give him a pen and something like ink to write with. Now he filled the margins of the little book with reports of his experience as a prisoner. He also wrote how he felt about those experiences and what effect they had on his soul. The prayer book became a diary of his prison life.
"A whole year passed by. The last entry in the prayer book was by someone else. It said that Conolly had been brought out of prison, publicly flogged, and then had been forced to dig his own grave.
"He was never seen again. No one except the tribe in Afghanistan knew about his execution. In vain his family and friends, and the government in England waited for some news of him. Twenty-one years went by.
"Then it so happened that one day a Russian officer was sauntering along a street in Buchara, a city in central Asia. He stopped in a second-hand shop. Among the odds and ends he discovered an English prayer book with all kinds of entries in the margins which he could not decipher. He saw a name and address on the flyleaf, however. 'Perhaps this little book is important to someone,' he thought to himself, and sent it to England.
"That is how Captain Conolly's sister received the prayer book which she had given to her brother 21 years before!
"With great anguish she read the account of the prison experience of her brother and was greatly moved by his thoughts during the days before his execution.
"What should she do? The terrible injustice done to her brother called for revenge. For Christian revenge! She was not wealthy, but she sent all the money that she could to Dr. Pennell's hospital with these instructions: 'Please keep a bed free in your hospital at all times for a sick or wounded Afghan, and use the money to take care of him until he regains his health. I am doing this in memory of my brother who suffered so much at the hands of Afghans and who died in their country.' "
There was complete silence at the bed of the wounded Afghan when Pennell had finished his story. The doctor put his hand on the shoulder of the blind man. "My friend," he said, "you are now lying in that bed. That you are being taken care of is a revenge for the death of Captain Conolly."
For the first time in his life, the man who so passionately desired revenge and who had so curtly rejected the message of Christ sensed a power that is stronger than hate. It is the power of love.2
"What gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all."
A parable: Paul Dicerio sat nursing a glass of beer at Vero's Pub, a neighborhood bar with good food and a good reputation. In deep thought, he glanced over at the bulletin board near the entrance. The picture on the placard was of him. Paul was running for state senator and election day was tomorrow. "Vote Paul Dicerio for State Senator" the poster said in large bold capitals. "Boy, has it all been worth it?" Paul reminisced. He thought about the sacrifices he had made thus far. He had been away from his family every evening for the last six months; the meetings, the speeches, the time and the money. "Was it all worth it?" he continued to consider. "At every turn I've had to defend my reputation, respond to smear tactics," his thoughts rambled on. "To become a leader one somehow has to put one's self in compromising power positions," Paul's thoughts continued, "Money, power, prestige, a good old boy in the community ... is that what it really takes to get elected? What about integrity and decency and ethical values and compassion and common courtesy?" Paul's thoughts meandered almost out of control now. He felt tired. "I guess it's time to go home," he mused. But Paul Dicerio didn't get up from his bar stool. Because a name kept on nagging at his mind. Gunda Tobias. That name kept on flashing across his mind subliminally and uncontrollably.
"Now there is a powerful person," Paul thought to himself. "But certainly not the way I am powerful. She has very little money, she doesn't have a job title, she doesn't have any academic degrees, she is certainly not a good old boy and hardly prestigious," he thought. "What is it about Gunda Tobias?"
Gunda had grown up in poverty in Eastern Europe. She had come to the United States with nothing but immigration papers. Shortly after that she had married. Gunda and her husband William raised four children, and put them through college. Will had died 10 years ago leaving Gunda with more time than money to pursue her community volunteer efforts.
Paul's thoughts continued to gravitate and meditate on Gunda. "Now that woman has power," Paul thought to himself. He recalled two years ago when this small, stooped woman in a faded dress and well worn pumps was awarded the Citizenship Award for Outstanding Service in the County. The award was presented to Gunda in the glittering community banquet hall amidst the community's high rollers and influential people dressed in formal black and tasteful gowns. And the center of it all? A little old lady. Gunda Tobias. She was the one who received the Outstanding Service Award for her excellent work with bridge housing for the homeless over the past 15 years.
"No mayor or county commissioner or state representative holds the key to as much power as Gunda does in this community," Paul Dicerio murmured to himself. "She is rich. The most powerful weapon against the evils of this earth; the caring heart. The wealth of the compassionate spirit," Paul thought.
And then there was last year at the church council meeting the night Pastor Nelson suggested opening a day-care center in the church. Pastor Nelson went over his reasons: It was a good use of the building, it would attract young families, it was another source of income, and the Baptists down the street already had a day-care center. But Gunda stood up at the council meeting room table and changed the agenda from one of self-interest to one of moral and ethical integrity.
Gunda butted in, "Why is the church in the day-care business? How would this be a part of the ministry of the church?"
"Well, Gunda," said Neal Olson, "you know that it's getting harder every day to put food on the table. Both husband and wife must have full-time jobs."
"That's not true," said Gunda. "You know it's not true. It is not hard for anyone in this church, for anyone in this neighborhood, to put food on the table. There are people in this town for whom putting food on the table is quite a challenge, but I haven't heard any talk about them. If we are talking about ministry to them, then I'm in favor of the idea. No, what we're talking about is ministry to those for whom it has become harder every day to have two cars, a VCR, a place at the lake or a motor home. I just hate to see the church telling these young couples that somehow their marriage will be better or their family life more fulfilling if they can only get more stuff. The church ought to be courageous enough to say, 'That's a lie. Things don't make a marriage or a family.' "
"I wrestle with her impotence," Paul's mind continued, "but she just goes on changing the church, the community ... while I wish for more power and resources, she uses her power and resources to do what she can do at the moment ... 'what gives life is God's Spirit; man's power is of no use at all.' I think Saint John said that," Paul Dicerio reflected as he finally walked out of Vero's Pub. It was getting late. He had to get up early and go to the polls.3
1. Walter Wink, "Waging Spiritual Warfare With the Powers," Weavings, Volume V, Number 2, March/April (1990), pp. 39-41.
2. Adapted from Staerker als Hass in Hoeher als alle Vernunft by Anni Dyck (Basel: Agape-Verlag, 1965). Her source was Sammlung de Lange: Lillian Cox, "God's Mighty Men."
3. Two sources inspired me in writing this parable. Some of the thoughts and monologue also came from the following sources: Robert Fulghum's essay on Mother Teresa in his book, All I Really Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten and Stanley Hauerwas' and William H. Willimon's article in The Christian Century, titled "Ministry As More Than A Helping Profession," March 15, 1989.
