That Awkward Moment
Stories
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Contents
"That Awkward Moment" by Keith Hewitt
"Under the Sea" by Frank Ramirez
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That Awkward Moment
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 10:44-48
This is going to be awkward.
It was not a surprise -- not totally, anyway. The night clerk at the Blue Gables was a Trustee, and had called Wilton Lewis before breakfast, with the same tone in his voice that he’d had after he discovered a family of skunks had taken up residence in the crawlspace under the narthex. Lewis, standing at the wall phone with one shoe on and the other in his hand, had listened with appropriate clucking noises at the right spots, promised he would take care of it, and hung up after the clerk began repeating himself.
Once properly shoed, he finished getting ready, all the while thinking about what was to come -- what he would have to do and say, the best approach, how he would report this to the Search Committee. He spent an idle minute or two looking in the mirror on the dresser, trying to decide which tie he should where, finally decided he didn’t really need one, anyway, and chucked them all back into the closet.
It was not a willfully careless or defiant thing -- he just knew he could do that, and they would end up sorted and hung up the next morning. He gave it no more real thought than he gave to the fact that breakfast would be ready when he went downstairs -- two eggs, over easy, toast, and a side of bacon, same as it had been for the last twenty years.
There was a natural order to things -- one didn’t need to ponder it, any more than one might be given to wonder why things fell under the pull of gravity when you dropped them.
But this -- this was going to be awkward, he realized, about an hour later.
He heard a persistent, repetitive noise as he thought, realized that he was drumming his fingers on the file spread out before him on the desk. It was a carefully compiled dossier -- grade reports, two letters of recommendation, a couple of carbon copies of research papers, and carbons of three original sermons. Stapled to the inside front cover of the folder was a letter from Holy Hill Seminary, verifying that one Russell J. Cashmore had obtained his Masters of Divinity Degree from them just months ago.
This was after earning a BS in Civil Engineering from the University of Wisconsin at Joliet, serving two years in the Army, and two more years working at a mission in Vaca Muerto, drilling wells and bringing civilization to local tribes so primitive they had never heard a radio or seen a printed page.
One of the letters of recommendation was from John Randall, the pastor in charge of the mission in Vaca Muerto -- and an old friend of Wilton Lewis, from their days in the 82nd Airborne. It had carried a lot of weight, writing of Cashmore in terms so glowing that it made you think he was being nominated for sainthood -- but with the casual, no BS approach that Randall had always used.
So, Lewis decided, if his friend could skip the BS, so could he. Just get right to it. He closed the file, spent a moment tucking all the papers back in neatly, then folded his hands on the file and looked across the desk at the earnest young man sitting across from him. “Russell, for someone just out of seminary, you come to us very highly recommended. And your work speaks for itself. You were able to explain the Revelation of John in a way that made me think I understood it -- for a little while, at least.” He smiled a little stiffly, self conscious about the insincerity behind the flattery.
The young man seemed not to notice, instead he returned the smile with a wide grin. Davis wondered, idly, if Russell actually had more teeth than usual, or just was able to display more of them. “Thank you, sir, Mister Lewis. I even understood it, myself, for a day or two.”
“I don’t doubt it. And your recommendation from Reverend Randall practically glowed. I know him from way back, and he’s not an easy man to impress. So I know you must be very special. That’s why we invited you to come here and interview for our church, Russell. It was obvious that -- on paper -- you were the most qualified applicant we had. We didn’t even invite any of the other candidates to come talk to us.”
The young man leaned forward in his seat, his expression very excited. “Thank you, Mister Lewis. I had no idea.”
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. But now that I see you -- that you’re here, I mean -- I think there may be an issue.”
There was a long silence, then the young man’s face seemed to slide down into wariness, and he leaned back in the chair, folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, Mister Lewis?”
There was another long silence, then Lewis finally said, slowly, “Russell, I have to be honest with you. You’ve seen the community, Port William. You had a little while to look around town, this morning, and I hope you took time to do that. So you have to realize, Russell, that you’re a little...blacker than what we had in mind when we invited you to interview as our pastor.”
“Oh?” It was a single syllable that seemed to hang in the air for a long time.
When he could stand the silence no longer, Lewis waved his hand toward the street outside his window and said, “Port William is not racist, Russell. You may find some of that hateful nonsense elsewhere in the valley, here, but Port William is not. It’s just that we don’t have any Negro families in town. The nearest ones, I think, would be over in Ghent. People here wouldn’t know what to make of you, and I think you would have a very hard time being a spiritual leader to -- well, to a whole church of white people. We wouldn’t have anything in common. I’m sorry. I don’t see this working out.”
“I see. But you’re not racist?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not. But, Mister Lewis, do you realize you haven’t called me by anything but my first name since we met? You haven’t called me Mister Cashmore, or Reverend Cashmore, just Russell. Does that seem odd?”
Lewis hesitated. “I suppose so...Reverend Cashmore.”
“But that doesn’t bother me. I figure I will either earn your respect, or I won’t, and that’s on me. But you know what I found really interesting?”
Lewis sighed. “No, what?” You need to wind this up and start making some calls, he thought.
“You said that I wouldn’t have anything in common with the rest of you folks here in Port William. And I trust you -- I think you believe that. But you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong, because I know you. John Randall told me all about you, and I got some of it from the letters you’ve written to me.”
He leaned forward, gazed intently at Lewis. “Mister Lewis, I believe that two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ died on the cross for my sins. Your sins, my sins, the sins of everyone in this town, everyone in this country, and everyone in this world. He didn’t die for white men’s sins -- though there’s plenty of them. He didn’t die for black men’s sins -- and there’s plenty of them, too. He died for all our sins. And I know that forgiveness flows down on all of us from Golgotha, just as surely as God’s grace is poured out over the entire human race, if we’ll just accept it.”
He reached out, covered Lewis’ hands with his -- Lewis flinched, but didn’t move, too surprised to react otherwise. “Mister Lewis, I have a fire in my heart that was put there by the Holy Spirit, and it burns inside of me something fierce -- it burns inside of me, and the only way I can satisfy the burning is to preach the Gospel to people who need to hear it. We may be different, Mister Lewis -- I can look at our hands, and see that we are -- but that difference is just skin deep, and the only differences that really matter are the ones in here.” He touched his own chest for a moment. “This is where the love of Christ resides. This is where the need to serve our fellow man is ignited. This is what makes us more alike than we are different.”
After another long silence, Lewis grunted and said, “Do you really believe that?”
“I do. I believe it was the Holy Spirit that led me here -- and that led you to call me here. I believe I’m here for a reason. And for starters, that reason is to share the love of God with you.”
“And you are willing to live here...to take all the sideways looks and the jokes behind your back...maybe even to your face?”
The young man shrugged. “Jesus took worse for me. And, like I said, this wasn’t my idea -- it was the Holy Spirit that brought me here.”
“Right.” Lewis looked down at his own hands, still folded on his desktop -- and the strong, black hands that covered them. The clock ticked loudly, seemed to drag between ticks. A thousand things ran through his mind, but that single sentence -- that Russell Cashmore believed he had been sent by God -- was the only one that lingered. Silly as it may sound, he thought, what if it’s true? Change was coming -- people could feel it. Maybe this was how it would begin in Port William.
“Then I think, Russell -- Reverend Cashmore -- that you have a new home...and we have a new pastor.” He stood up, extended his hand.
With a smile, Russell Cashmore accepted the position. They talked for another twenty minutes before Lewis gently urged him out the door. When the young man was gone, Lewis sat down once more and reached for the phone. There were calls to make -- first to the flabbergasted clerk from the Blue Gables, then to the other elders. It was not going to be an easy conversation to have with any of them, but he was buoyed up by the knowledge that he was doing the right thing.
Even so, he thought, this is going to be awkward...
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.
Under the Sea
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 98
Whether it’s the Grammy’s, the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, the Country Music Awards, the People’s Choice Awards, or the wall of fame in our special corner where we put up a poster of our favorite singer/songwriter, there’s no getting around the fact that someone has to write the songs we love!
In the old days they used to talk about Tin Pan Alley, a place where lyricists and composers sat together in little rooms and wrote the songs the whole world sings. Burt Bacharach and Hal David were one such songwriting pair, writing hit after hit after hit. Neil Diamond was one of those, before he became famous in his own right. The same was true for Carole King, who released a CD a few years ago of her demos back when she used to write hits for others.
Think of the last time you heard a song that really got under your skin. Perhaps you didn’t even notice it at first, but suddenly, you couldn’t stop humming it. Soon, everyone you know is singing along. Then, before you know it, it’s been replaced by another new song. Soon we’re all singing that one.
Well, somewhere out there is a songwriter whose name none of us knows. We probably couldn’t pronounce it even if we knew. This songwriter has written one hit after another, songs that the boys sing to attract the girls. These songs start off in a distant corner of the globe, but it’s not long before they’re singing these songs everywhere, in places we can’t even dream of.
Because of course, it’s not just people that sing. Birds sing. Beagles howl. And you probably know that whales sing too! Humpback whales sing as they swim through the ocean, and many of them sing the exact same song all around the world. Scientists have studied whale songs and recently recorded eleven different songs. That’s enough for a CD!
And they’ve learned that new songs are first introduced by whales who swim Down Under. That’s right, the waters off Australia is where new whale songs are written by some talented underwater equivalent of John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
It’s thought perhaps that when whales migrate, they take new songs with them. These songs then begin to drift east, as whales repeat them and teach each other the new music.
Now for some reason only the male humpback whale sings. Why do they sing? Probably for the same reasons that all guys sing -- it’s romantic, females are attracted to the songs, and probably because they’re just fun to sing.
Anyway who knows? Maybe there’s a whale like Barry Manilow, who sings to himself, “I write the songs that make the whole world sing,” although in truth that prolific songwriter did not actually write that particular song -- that one was written by Bruce Johnston.
The Psalmist calls upon us to sing joyfully, but also to sing a new song! Churches can be slow to start singing new songs. After all, there are many old favorites that have been sung for decades that are really popular and speak to our hearts, but there are also always new songs being written. They may start with one church or one soloist, and though of them may not spread very far, plenty of others get heard, are taken up elsewhere, and soon are sung in churches across the country, and even around the world.
A great new song can spread like a whale song in the ocean, from church to church, person to person, until certain new songs are as well known as some of the oldies but goodies.
It is important to sing the old songs of the church, but it can also be important to learn new songs so we can praise God with new words and new hearts! They provide us with an opportunity to praise in new ways the God who made us, and whales, and every other creature under the heavens!
(Use a search engine if you like to download some of songs the humpback whale sings. You can play these during or after this story is shared.)
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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 10, 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.
"That Awkward Moment" by Keith Hewitt
"Under the Sea" by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * *
That Awkward Moment
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 10:44-48
This is going to be awkward.
It was not a surprise -- not totally, anyway. The night clerk at the Blue Gables was a Trustee, and had called Wilton Lewis before breakfast, with the same tone in his voice that he’d had after he discovered a family of skunks had taken up residence in the crawlspace under the narthex. Lewis, standing at the wall phone with one shoe on and the other in his hand, had listened with appropriate clucking noises at the right spots, promised he would take care of it, and hung up after the clerk began repeating himself.
Once properly shoed, he finished getting ready, all the while thinking about what was to come -- what he would have to do and say, the best approach, how he would report this to the Search Committee. He spent an idle minute or two looking in the mirror on the dresser, trying to decide which tie he should where, finally decided he didn’t really need one, anyway, and chucked them all back into the closet.
It was not a willfully careless or defiant thing -- he just knew he could do that, and they would end up sorted and hung up the next morning. He gave it no more real thought than he gave to the fact that breakfast would be ready when he went downstairs -- two eggs, over easy, toast, and a side of bacon, same as it had been for the last twenty years.
There was a natural order to things -- one didn’t need to ponder it, any more than one might be given to wonder why things fell under the pull of gravity when you dropped them.
But this -- this was going to be awkward, he realized, about an hour later.
He heard a persistent, repetitive noise as he thought, realized that he was drumming his fingers on the file spread out before him on the desk. It was a carefully compiled dossier -- grade reports, two letters of recommendation, a couple of carbon copies of research papers, and carbons of three original sermons. Stapled to the inside front cover of the folder was a letter from Holy Hill Seminary, verifying that one Russell J. Cashmore had obtained his Masters of Divinity Degree from them just months ago.
This was after earning a BS in Civil Engineering from the University of Wisconsin at Joliet, serving two years in the Army, and two more years working at a mission in Vaca Muerto, drilling wells and bringing civilization to local tribes so primitive they had never heard a radio or seen a printed page.
One of the letters of recommendation was from John Randall, the pastor in charge of the mission in Vaca Muerto -- and an old friend of Wilton Lewis, from their days in the 82nd Airborne. It had carried a lot of weight, writing of Cashmore in terms so glowing that it made you think he was being nominated for sainthood -- but with the casual, no BS approach that Randall had always used.
So, Lewis decided, if his friend could skip the BS, so could he. Just get right to it. He closed the file, spent a moment tucking all the papers back in neatly, then folded his hands on the file and looked across the desk at the earnest young man sitting across from him. “Russell, for someone just out of seminary, you come to us very highly recommended. And your work speaks for itself. You were able to explain the Revelation of John in a way that made me think I understood it -- for a little while, at least.” He smiled a little stiffly, self conscious about the insincerity behind the flattery.
The young man seemed not to notice, instead he returned the smile with a wide grin. Davis wondered, idly, if Russell actually had more teeth than usual, or just was able to display more of them. “Thank you, sir, Mister Lewis. I even understood it, myself, for a day or two.”
“I don’t doubt it. And your recommendation from Reverend Randall practically glowed. I know him from way back, and he’s not an easy man to impress. So I know you must be very special. That’s why we invited you to come here and interview for our church, Russell. It was obvious that -- on paper -- you were the most qualified applicant we had. We didn’t even invite any of the other candidates to come talk to us.”
The young man leaned forward in his seat, his expression very excited. “Thank you, Mister Lewis. I had no idea.”
“No, I’m sure you wouldn’t. But now that I see you -- that you’re here, I mean -- I think there may be an issue.”
There was a long silence, then the young man’s face seemed to slide down into wariness, and he leaned back in the chair, folded his hands in his lap. “Yes, Mister Lewis?”
There was another long silence, then Lewis finally said, slowly, “Russell, I have to be honest with you. You’ve seen the community, Port William. You had a little while to look around town, this morning, and I hope you took time to do that. So you have to realize, Russell, that you’re a little...blacker than what we had in mind when we invited you to interview as our pastor.”
“Oh?” It was a single syllable that seemed to hang in the air for a long time.
When he could stand the silence no longer, Lewis waved his hand toward the street outside his window and said, “Port William is not racist, Russell. You may find some of that hateful nonsense elsewhere in the valley, here, but Port William is not. It’s just that we don’t have any Negro families in town. The nearest ones, I think, would be over in Ghent. People here wouldn’t know what to make of you, and I think you would have a very hard time being a spiritual leader to -- well, to a whole church of white people. We wouldn’t have anything in common. I’m sorry. I don’t see this working out.”
“I see. But you’re not racist?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not. But, Mister Lewis, do you realize you haven’t called me by anything but my first name since we met? You haven’t called me Mister Cashmore, or Reverend Cashmore, just Russell. Does that seem odd?”
Lewis hesitated. “I suppose so...Reverend Cashmore.”
“But that doesn’t bother me. I figure I will either earn your respect, or I won’t, and that’s on me. But you know what I found really interesting?”
Lewis sighed. “No, what?” You need to wind this up and start making some calls, he thought.
“You said that I wouldn’t have anything in common with the rest of you folks here in Port William. And I trust you -- I think you believe that. But you’re wrong. I know you’re wrong, because I know you. John Randall told me all about you, and I got some of it from the letters you’ve written to me.”
He leaned forward, gazed intently at Lewis. “Mister Lewis, I believe that two thousand years ago, Jesus Christ died on the cross for my sins. Your sins, my sins, the sins of everyone in this town, everyone in this country, and everyone in this world. He didn’t die for white men’s sins -- though there’s plenty of them. He didn’t die for black men’s sins -- and there’s plenty of them, too. He died for all our sins. And I know that forgiveness flows down on all of us from Golgotha, just as surely as God’s grace is poured out over the entire human race, if we’ll just accept it.”
He reached out, covered Lewis’ hands with his -- Lewis flinched, but didn’t move, too surprised to react otherwise. “Mister Lewis, I have a fire in my heart that was put there by the Holy Spirit, and it burns inside of me something fierce -- it burns inside of me, and the only way I can satisfy the burning is to preach the Gospel to people who need to hear it. We may be different, Mister Lewis -- I can look at our hands, and see that we are -- but that difference is just skin deep, and the only differences that really matter are the ones in here.” He touched his own chest for a moment. “This is where the love of Christ resides. This is where the need to serve our fellow man is ignited. This is what makes us more alike than we are different.”
After another long silence, Lewis grunted and said, “Do you really believe that?”
“I do. I believe it was the Holy Spirit that led me here -- and that led you to call me here. I believe I’m here for a reason. And for starters, that reason is to share the love of God with you.”
“And you are willing to live here...to take all the sideways looks and the jokes behind your back...maybe even to your face?”
The young man shrugged. “Jesus took worse for me. And, like I said, this wasn’t my idea -- it was the Holy Spirit that brought me here.”
“Right.” Lewis looked down at his own hands, still folded on his desktop -- and the strong, black hands that covered them. The clock ticked loudly, seemed to drag between ticks. A thousand things ran through his mind, but that single sentence -- that Russell Cashmore believed he had been sent by God -- was the only one that lingered. Silly as it may sound, he thought, what if it’s true? Change was coming -- people could feel it. Maybe this was how it would begin in Port William.
“Then I think, Russell -- Reverend Cashmore -- that you have a new home...and we have a new pastor.” He stood up, extended his hand.
With a smile, Russell Cashmore accepted the position. They talked for another twenty minutes before Lewis gently urged him out the door. When the young man was gone, Lewis sat down once more and reached for the phone. There were calls to make -- first to the flabbergasted clerk from the Blue Gables, then to the other elders. It was not going to be an easy conversation to have with any of them, but he was buoyed up by the knowledge that he was doing the right thing.
Even so, he thought, this is going to be awkward...
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.
Under the Sea
by Frank Ramirez
Psalm 98
Whether it’s the Grammy’s, the Rock n Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony, the Country Music Awards, the People’s Choice Awards, or the wall of fame in our special corner where we put up a poster of our favorite singer/songwriter, there’s no getting around the fact that someone has to write the songs we love!
In the old days they used to talk about Tin Pan Alley, a place where lyricists and composers sat together in little rooms and wrote the songs the whole world sings. Burt Bacharach and Hal David were one such songwriting pair, writing hit after hit after hit. Neil Diamond was one of those, before he became famous in his own right. The same was true for Carole King, who released a CD a few years ago of her demos back when she used to write hits for others.
Think of the last time you heard a song that really got under your skin. Perhaps you didn’t even notice it at first, but suddenly, you couldn’t stop humming it. Soon, everyone you know is singing along. Then, before you know it, it’s been replaced by another new song. Soon we’re all singing that one.
Well, somewhere out there is a songwriter whose name none of us knows. We probably couldn’t pronounce it even if we knew. This songwriter has written one hit after another, songs that the boys sing to attract the girls. These songs start off in a distant corner of the globe, but it’s not long before they’re singing these songs everywhere, in places we can’t even dream of.
Because of course, it’s not just people that sing. Birds sing. Beagles howl. And you probably know that whales sing too! Humpback whales sing as they swim through the ocean, and many of them sing the exact same song all around the world. Scientists have studied whale songs and recently recorded eleven different songs. That’s enough for a CD!
And they’ve learned that new songs are first introduced by whales who swim Down Under. That’s right, the waters off Australia is where new whale songs are written by some talented underwater equivalent of John Lennon and Paul McCartney.
It’s thought perhaps that when whales migrate, they take new songs with them. These songs then begin to drift east, as whales repeat them and teach each other the new music.
Now for some reason only the male humpback whale sings. Why do they sing? Probably for the same reasons that all guys sing -- it’s romantic, females are attracted to the songs, and probably because they’re just fun to sing.
Anyway who knows? Maybe there’s a whale like Barry Manilow, who sings to himself, “I write the songs that make the whole world sing,” although in truth that prolific songwriter did not actually write that particular song -- that one was written by Bruce Johnston.
The Psalmist calls upon us to sing joyfully, but also to sing a new song! Churches can be slow to start singing new songs. After all, there are many old favorites that have been sung for decades that are really popular and speak to our hearts, but there are also always new songs being written. They may start with one church or one soloist, and though of them may not spread very far, plenty of others get heard, are taken up elsewhere, and soon are sung in churches across the country, and even around the world.
A great new song can spread like a whale song in the ocean, from church to church, person to person, until certain new songs are as well known as some of the oldies but goodies.
It is important to sing the old songs of the church, but it can also be important to learn new songs so we can praise God with new words and new hearts! They provide us with an opportunity to praise in new ways the God who made us, and whales, and every other creature under the heavens!
(Use a search engine if you like to download some of songs the humpback whale sings. You can play these during or after this story is shared.)
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.
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 10, 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.
