The Blindness
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"The Blindness" by Keith Hewitt
"Parents, Feed Your Lambs" by John Sumwalt
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The Blindness
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
Go to Central Hospital, and take the elevator to the 11th floor. Room 1108. You will find him there.
"And that's just what I'm afraid of," Anton murmured to himself, as he watched the numbers change above the elevator door, counting up to he knew not what. ... 3... 4... 5... "It's like sending a sheep into the wolf's den." ... 6... 7... 8... Although he was alone, he did not speak loudly, ever mindful of the presence of hidden microphones and security camera. ... 9... 10... 11...
The car whispered to a stop, so gently that he couldn't quite be sure that it had until the doors parted and a recorded voice announced, cheerlessly, "Eleventh Floor... Eleventh Floor... exit or stand clear of the doors. Have your identification ready. Eleventh Floor."
Anton's heart fluttered, and he hesitated in mid-step toward the door. Identification... he had not stopped at the registration desk. He had not been prepared to give them his ID and fingerprints and certainly not ready to answer questions about why he was there. I'm here because a voice called to me while I was at work and told me to come here immediately after I was done. He gamed out that response and the questions that would follow and smiled grimly.
No, there was nothing he could tell them about why he was there. Nothing they would believe. The safe thing -- the intelligent -- thing to do, would be to pretend he'd made a mistake, and go down to another floor... maybe call on Human Resources, just in case somebody was monitoring him on camera. He would seem a little scatterbrained, but it would be a logical reason to visit.
That would definitely be the thing to do, he thought -- and stepped out of the car. Almost immediately, the doors closed behind him with a soft shooshing sound, and he heard the sound of it descending to another floor; his stomach sank with it. There was a nurse's station directly across from him and corridors running to either side. Two nurses sat behind the counter, one talking on the telephone while the other keyed information into a computer. A security guard, tall and broadly built, with a freshly pressed black uniform that at once set him apart from the medical staff in their pastel scrubs, lounged at the counter near the monitor, trying to distract the nurse who was typing.
Nurses and orderlies bustled by, some pushing carts, one of them practically bumping into him before he could take a step back and out of the way. The orderly offered a growled apology as he hurried by. Anton folded his arm and tucked the small black case under it, squeezed it with his elbow, and held it tightly against any casual collisions. It was when he looked down to assure himself that it was safely cradled that he realized the pale blue scrubs he wore at the State Children's Home were the same color as the nurse's scrubs, here -- or near enough so as not to be able to tell the difference under fluorescent lights.
Had he gone home from work, instead of coming straight here, he would undoubtedly have changed clothes and the realization emboldened him. With something almost like confidence, he set off down the hall where Room 1108 should be, according to the sign. He was halfway there when he realized that one of the rooms had two more black-clad security officers standing outside, and these were not lounging casually.
He was already convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they were guarding the entrance to Room 1108 -- that just seemed to be the way his luck was running that day. Each step, as he casually tried to glance at the room numbers and estimate which one was 1108, drew him closer. As he walked, trying not to look like he was thinking frantically about what he would do, alien sensory inputs nibbled at his concentration -- the pungent, oppressive smell of disinfectant and its sly undercurrent of biological waste... bed pans that needed emptying, other less describable aromas; somewhere down the hall, a woman was moaning loudly, and somewhere just behind him a man laughed endlessly while he teased his own shadow.
The triangle of light protruding from the wall above the door opposite his destination flickered on, glowing ivory, and a floor nurse who happened to be nearby responded. He could hear loud voices coming from that room, then almost as he arrived at his destination, the light changed from ivory to blue, and a mechanical voice over the PA announced, "Code Blue, Room 1107... Code Blue, Room 1107... Code Blue, Room 1107."
As befitted Central Hospital, a handful of staff began converging on the room almost immediately, one racing behind a cart loaded with supplies and a defibrillator. The attention of the guards at the door was thus diverted when Anton tried to wipe all expression off his face and simply thread the needle between them, pushing open the heavy door to 1108. One of them glanced at him; he took the case out from under his arm and held it up briefly, as if in explanation.
Assuming permission, Anton pushed through -- and was not stopped.
It was not until the door was closed behind him that he let himself melt a little and leaned back against it for a moment while he tried to get his pounding heart under control. While he was doing that, a voice from just around the corner called out, slightly agitated, "Who's there? I want to be left alone."
And I want to leave you alone, Anton thought, but instead stepped forward and looked around the corner, past the curtain that was half-pulled around the bed. The figure on the bed was uncovered; spindly legs poked out from under a dark blue robe, large enough to effectively drown whatever shape its owner might have -- only hands and face were visible above the waistline. His hands were large, with long, delicate fingers that might have served well for playing the piano, but the face -- with its severe features, close-set eyes, and its deep, permanent scowl -- hinted that they probably were more likely put to use crushing baby birds or strangling cats.
It was a face Anton knew well, a fact given away by his sudden intake of breath.
"Who are you?" the figure demanded. The eyes turned toward him, but did not focus. "I can't see you."
Anton started to speak, had to stop and wet his lips. "M-my name is Anton, Prosecutor General. Sir," he added cautiously. Immediately, he thought that he should have used a different name -- but what would be the point? Even if he left now, and the guards didn't stop him, they would eventually figure out who he was. The Prosecutor General had vast powers and the investigative resources of the state on his side, and was not afraid to use them. Anton had many friends, many fellow travelers of The Way, who could attest to that.
Those that weren't dead.
"You seem surprised," the man on the bed challenged. "If you are here to poke or prod me, you should know who I am."
Anton started to speak several times, stopped each time, and finally said, "I did not know why I was coming here, or who I would see. I was simply told to come... and I came." Why was he being so blunt, he asked himself, and immediately knew the answer: because truth was his only defense.
The man on the bed seemed suddenly cold -- he wrapped his arms around himself, stuck each hand into the opposite sleeve. "Who told you this?" he asked, shifting his unseeing gaze toward his feet. "Are you with the Committee for State Security?"
Anton started to frown, held it in check -- could even the Prosecutor General be afraid of the Committee for State Security? It seemed ludicrous -- the Prosecutor General was the one who fed criminals and terrorists to the CSS. "I heard a voice telling me to do this, Prosecutor General. I'm a simple man, I'm not with State Security."
The man twitched, cocked his head to one side. "A voice? Whose voice?"
"An angel, I suspect. The voice just told me to come to this hospital, to this room."
The man just stared at him for several long moments, and then -- unaccountably -- there was the ghost of a weary smile, a rending of muscles and lips to which his face clearly was not accustomed. "Only an angel?" he grunted. "Before this happened --" he gestured toward his eyes, "-- I had your Jesus talk to me, Anton."
Once again, Anton's heart fluttered and for the first time he forgot about the men outside the door. He stepped up closer to the bed, until he was alongside it. "Jesus, you said?"
"I did. We were in the car -- I was being driven to meet with State Security about some new arrests -- a new roundup. One of our informants in another city had rooted out another synod -- a group of home churches --"
Anton nodded, forgetting he couldn't be seen. "I know what a synod is."
"-- there would be hundreds of followers of The Way. Maybe a thousand. All potentially disloyal, all with their heads in the clouds, totally unreliable as citizens, and if we moved fast we could round them all up. We were meeting to plan simultaneous raids on their next Sabbath, when they would be in worship in their home churches."
Anton's spine tingled, the front line in a battle between his instinct to run, and his desire to hear more. "I know how that works, Prosecutor General."
"What? I suppose you do. But we were driving to meet with State Security, and all of a sudden there was this incredibly bright light -- I was sure that we were about to get hit by a semi or something. I grabbed onto the door handle -- I didn't know what else to do -- and then I looked over... and no farther than from me to you, on the back seat with me, I saw someone. I saw him, and I knew it was Jesus."
"How did you know? What did he look like?" Anton asked anxiously.
The man hesitated, then shook his head. "I can't tell you -- I can't tell you anything about what he looked like, or how I knew it was Jesus. I just knew." He was agitated now, and he reached, flailed 'til he found Anton's wrist and grabbed it. Anton started to pull away, but the grip was strong -- and he realized this man wasn't trying to take him prisoner, but just make him listen... make him hear what he was saying. "He looked at me, and he was just so, so sad... and he said, 'Why do you do these things to me? Why do you persecute me?' "
Staring intently, now, the Prosecutor General recited carefully, "I told him it was my duty. That while we could not control what an individual thought, the state absolutely could not tolerate organized religion. It has been a cancer on our human history for too long now. I told him that I did it to -- to make the world a better place."
"And then what happened?" Anton asked, after the man had trailed off.
"He just looked at me and tilted his head to one side and he said, 'My son, how can you make the world a better place by taking away its hope? You need to see things differently.' And then he reached out and touched my eyes -- and I could no longer see."
"What happened?" Anton asked and leaned over to peer into his eyes. Other than not focusing, they seemed to be fine -- no cloudiness, no marks, no blood.
"The doctors thought I'd had a stroke of some kind. Now one of them is saying I have something called psychic blindness -- that I am physically able to see, but my mind won't process the vision. All words... all guesses. The truth is, Jesus said I needed to see differently, and then took my sight. I know that now."
"Did you tell the doctors what you told me?"
The man's smile was without humor. "If I had, I would not be here. I would be locked away in an asylum somewhere, while the doctors calculated how much of a lobotomy they would need to do to keep all of the state's secrets safely locked away. The state has no room for men of faith -- not if that faith is not in the state. But I am helpless and blind. And I'm lost."
Anton smiled gently. "You were lost, Prosecutor General. But now, I believe, you're found. Jesus Christ is the hope of the world -- and he is your hope too. Do you believe that now?"
The man shrugged. "How can I not? He called to me, Anton. He called to me."
Anton set the small black case on the bedside tray and zipped it open. As he did, he continued to speak. "Can I tell you a secret, Prosecutor General? Jesus calls to each of us. He has called to me... and to my brothers and sisters in The Way. And we've answered. He has called to others, and they have not. But now he's called to you, and you know it -- so the question is, what do you want to do about it?"
He hung his head, almost whispered. "For all of the things I've done, I should be lost. I can never undo the evil that I've done. There is nothing I can do."
Anton took his hand, squeezed it firmly. "Then I will tell you another secret. The minute -- the second -- you accept Jesus... the moment you start to follow The Way... when you admit what you've done, and say you need help... then everything you've ever done is wiped away. Clean. That is his promise to us."
He shook his head. "It cannot be, Anton. You don't know the things I've done."
"But I do... and it can be. All you need do is ask."
Tears were streaming out of those vacant eyes now, and he shivered. "Then I'm asking. I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm asking for forgiveness."
Briefly, Anton squeezed his hand between both of his. "Then your sins are forgiven. You have been reborn." Releasing one hand, he took a small vial of water out of his case, opened it, and sprinkled the water on the man's head. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you --" He hesitated. He couldn't very well baptize him as Prosecutor General.
"Gregory," the man in the bed answered. "My name is Gregory."
"I baptize you, Gregory. Arise and walk The Way, as a new man, born again through the grace of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ."
The man's eyes closed, then opened -- and then, slowly, focused on Anton, who was standing next to the head of the bed and leaning over it slightly. "You!" he gasped. "My God, I know you! I sent you to prison!"
Anton smiled. "Seven years in the labor reeducation center," he agreed, "and it made my faith even stronger. I thank you for that gift, Gregory."
"But how can you forgive what I did?"
"How can I not? God has forgiven both of us, so who am I to argue?" He capped the vial, put it back in his case, and closed it. "And now it's time for me to go, and let you start your own path along The Way -- you can find me, if you need me. But I want you to know this: Yesterday you were my enemy, and today you are my brother. I would much rather have you as a brother. I am glad we're walking The Way together."
Gregory was still pondering where that walk would take him when the nurse came in to check his vitals.
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.
Parents, Feed Your Lambs
by John Sumwalt
John 21:1-19
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs."
-- John 21:15
It was late on a Saturday night when Pastor Pete received a text from the parent of a teenager who was active in the church's youth group: "Jake's best friend committed suicide tonight. Pray for us!"
Pastor Pete knew how devastating this news was to Jake and his parents and to all of the other youth families in the congregation. After he got off the phone with several parents who were worried about how their teenagers would respond to this tragedy, Pastor Pete sat down at his desk and rewrote the sermon he had prepared for that Sunday, adding words of comfort and hope much like he would preach at a funeral.
A few months later, the pastor prepared another sermon that more directly addressed the questions raised in the time following the suicide. The congregation was rapt from the moment he mentioned this sad event that was still heavy in every heart:
The recent passing of our dear friend has given us pause. We wonder what we can do better to prevent tragedies like this. And we have been asking each other what we can do to prepare our children and youth to cope with these kinds of life-shaking events that happen from time to time in every community.
There is a temptation to point fingers and to blame someone. Reflection usually brings us to a realization that this can happen at any time in any family. Some suicides are the result of untreated depression, of a chemical imbalance or an inability to express emotions. The symptoms are not always obvious to those of us who are untrained.
There are no simple solutions or quick cures. But there is something that those of us in the church are in a unique position to do. We can offer friendship. Christian community is built around friendship with Jesus and friendship with others who walk with him.
Jesus called his disciples friends because he said he shared everything with them and he trusted them with his life. He said good friends are willing to give their lives for each other (John 15:12-15).
We all need friends like that. We promise each other this kind of friendship when we become members of the church. A commitment to prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness is about a special bond of friendship with Christ and each other.
The old hymn, "Blest Be The Tie That Binds" celebrates this: "We share each other's woes, our mutual burdens bear; and often for each other flows the sympathizing tear."
This kind of friendship is what we hope for our children when we bring them for baptism. It is what we wish for them to experience as babies in worship, in the nursery, and in our fellowship groups. The goal of our Sunday school classes is to nurture in them the values of Christian living found in the scriptures. We reinforce this in church camps, youth groups, mission trips, and other service projects.
When I observe young adults home from college or the military hugging their friends after a worship service, I know we have succeeded in giving them what we promised when they were baptized.
When they come up to me and tell me how thankful they are that the church made it possible for them to go on a mission trip, how they learned the joy of giving of themselves for others, I know they have the faith they will need to see them through the inevitable tragedies that come into every life.
It has become more difficult for us to achieve this goal in recent years for one simple reason; our children are not present consistently enough in the life of the church to form lasting bonds with their peers -- and with the kind of loving adults who, in past years, have made the critical difference in young lives.
This is not the beginning of judgmental guilt trip. It is plain fact.
Presence has become the most difficult part of our membership promise to keep as families are pulled in multiple directions by the ever-increasing pace of our modern world. No parent intends for their child to miss over half of the weekly worship services and Sunday school classes and youth group meetings, but it happens all the time.
We are overwhelmed by all of the choices we have to make -- or perhaps it is that we are overwhelmed because of all the choices we have made.
Our children and youth want to be present in church activities, but somehow can't make it happen. Our youth coordinator told me of an event planned by several members of the Youth Fellowship group who were excited about attending, and when the night of the activity came only one youth was able to attend -- and she was not one who had said she would come.
A parent told me, with that sad, "this is beyond my control" look, of a youth who had to choose not to attend a youth event because of too many other things going on in his life, though he wanted very much to be there with his friends.
Parents do have to make tough choices. And sometimes this will mean our children will not be able to participate in some church activities. This happened with my own children a number of times. This is not the point, nor is it to lay on guilt trips. Lord knows we have enough guilt as it is.
The problem is this; given all of the complexities of our lives today, how will we give our children and youth opportunities for Christian friendship?
None of us would argue that band, chorus, school plays, football, volleyball, soccer, basketball, wrestling, cheerleading, dance recitals, hockey, baseball, swimming, school and club trips, or scouting events, as valuable as they are, should be more important than presence in worship and church groups. But the reality is that they have become more important by default, in spite of our best intentions.
What to do?
Here are my humble suggestions, and I do mean humble, because I know I have not done any better as a parent than most other parents I know in the church.
As much as possible, in every season including summer, make worship a habitual activity for the whole family. What we are, who we are, that we exist at all, is a gift of God. Without some acknowledgment of that fact on a regular basis, we tend to suffer more in this world than we need to suffer. Those who ignore their Creator usually suffer the most, though they don't discover this until the levies break or the planes hit the Trade Towers.
This is not to say that God causes suffering or punishes us for inattentiveness. God loves us unfailingly, eternally, no matter what we do. Attendance in worship is not something done to earn God's favor. We have that unconditionally.
Skipping worship is like skipping Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner at Mom's house. Mom still loves you, but you don't have the benefit of her loving presence and guidance (that is unless your mom is a bank robber or a mass murderer, in which case you've got other problems).
Let your teenagers sit with their friends in the back of the church if that's what they need but be present with them to give praise to God without exception. Do not give them a choice about worship attendance unless you also give them a choice about attending school. Given the choice, many teens would opt out of math or English classes. It's boring, they say, which is exactly what they may say about worship. "So what," you say, "this is what we do in our family!"
Have a family rule about not taking a job that requires working on Sunday morning -- or attend a service at an alternate time like our Monday evening service.
Make coaches and scout leaders aware that your family has a commitment to worship and Sunday school. Talk to other Christian parents about joining you in taking a stand.
Bring visiting relatives and friends along to worship or ask them to excuse you while you go. Make worship a part of your planning for vacations and other Sunday outings. Stand firm in being who you are and doing what you have promised.
If you have only one hour to give to God on a Sunday morning take your place in worship with your children, as you said you would do when you held them in your arms before the baptismal font.
It is absolutely necessary for parents of confirmation students to attend worship with their children. It may be inconvenient, but no more inconvenient than the three AM feedings when they were infants, or walking the floor waiting and worrying at midnight when they are sixteen. It is what we signed up for when decided to become parents.
Children and youth need parents, grandparents, Sunday school teachers, and youth counselors who set clear boundaries based on the teachings of Jesus -- and whose own lives are grounded through weekly worship, prayer, regular Bible study, and service. They value what they see respected adults doing.
Children and youth need guidance. Guide them!
I know what you are thinking. "Pastor, I can never do all of that. My life is already too full. I feel so unworthy."
That is a good place to start. That, and to remember that most of us are here and who we are because someone who felt just as unworthy was there for us.
This is how the church has always bumbled along -- with a bunch of "unworthies" like you and me doing the best we can to love each other as Christ loves us.
It was quiet in the church as Pastor Pete took his seat behind the pulpit and as the choir got up to sing. He let out a long sigh and wondered, with that familiar tightness in his stomach, if he had said the right thing.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
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StoryShare, April 14, 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.
"The Blindness" by Keith Hewitt
"Parents, Feed Your Lambs" by John Sumwalt
* * * * * * * *
The Blindness
by Keith Hewitt
Acts 9:1-6 (7-20)
Go to Central Hospital, and take the elevator to the 11th floor. Room 1108. You will find him there.
"And that's just what I'm afraid of," Anton murmured to himself, as he watched the numbers change above the elevator door, counting up to he knew not what. ... 3... 4... 5... "It's like sending a sheep into the wolf's den." ... 6... 7... 8... Although he was alone, he did not speak loudly, ever mindful of the presence of hidden microphones and security camera. ... 9... 10... 11...
The car whispered to a stop, so gently that he couldn't quite be sure that it had until the doors parted and a recorded voice announced, cheerlessly, "Eleventh Floor... Eleventh Floor... exit or stand clear of the doors. Have your identification ready. Eleventh Floor."
Anton's heart fluttered, and he hesitated in mid-step toward the door. Identification... he had not stopped at the registration desk. He had not been prepared to give them his ID and fingerprints and certainly not ready to answer questions about why he was there. I'm here because a voice called to me while I was at work and told me to come here immediately after I was done. He gamed out that response and the questions that would follow and smiled grimly.
No, there was nothing he could tell them about why he was there. Nothing they would believe. The safe thing -- the intelligent -- thing to do, would be to pretend he'd made a mistake, and go down to another floor... maybe call on Human Resources, just in case somebody was monitoring him on camera. He would seem a little scatterbrained, but it would be a logical reason to visit.
That would definitely be the thing to do, he thought -- and stepped out of the car. Almost immediately, the doors closed behind him with a soft shooshing sound, and he heard the sound of it descending to another floor; his stomach sank with it. There was a nurse's station directly across from him and corridors running to either side. Two nurses sat behind the counter, one talking on the telephone while the other keyed information into a computer. A security guard, tall and broadly built, with a freshly pressed black uniform that at once set him apart from the medical staff in their pastel scrubs, lounged at the counter near the monitor, trying to distract the nurse who was typing.
Nurses and orderlies bustled by, some pushing carts, one of them practically bumping into him before he could take a step back and out of the way. The orderly offered a growled apology as he hurried by. Anton folded his arm and tucked the small black case under it, squeezed it with his elbow, and held it tightly against any casual collisions. It was when he looked down to assure himself that it was safely cradled that he realized the pale blue scrubs he wore at the State Children's Home were the same color as the nurse's scrubs, here -- or near enough so as not to be able to tell the difference under fluorescent lights.
Had he gone home from work, instead of coming straight here, he would undoubtedly have changed clothes and the realization emboldened him. With something almost like confidence, he set off down the hall where Room 1108 should be, according to the sign. He was halfway there when he realized that one of the rooms had two more black-clad security officers standing outside, and these were not lounging casually.
He was already convinced, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that they were guarding the entrance to Room 1108 -- that just seemed to be the way his luck was running that day. Each step, as he casually tried to glance at the room numbers and estimate which one was 1108, drew him closer. As he walked, trying not to look like he was thinking frantically about what he would do, alien sensory inputs nibbled at his concentration -- the pungent, oppressive smell of disinfectant and its sly undercurrent of biological waste... bed pans that needed emptying, other less describable aromas; somewhere down the hall, a woman was moaning loudly, and somewhere just behind him a man laughed endlessly while he teased his own shadow.
The triangle of light protruding from the wall above the door opposite his destination flickered on, glowing ivory, and a floor nurse who happened to be nearby responded. He could hear loud voices coming from that room, then almost as he arrived at his destination, the light changed from ivory to blue, and a mechanical voice over the PA announced, "Code Blue, Room 1107... Code Blue, Room 1107... Code Blue, Room 1107."
As befitted Central Hospital, a handful of staff began converging on the room almost immediately, one racing behind a cart loaded with supplies and a defibrillator. The attention of the guards at the door was thus diverted when Anton tried to wipe all expression off his face and simply thread the needle between them, pushing open the heavy door to 1108. One of them glanced at him; he took the case out from under his arm and held it up briefly, as if in explanation.
Assuming permission, Anton pushed through -- and was not stopped.
It was not until the door was closed behind him that he let himself melt a little and leaned back against it for a moment while he tried to get his pounding heart under control. While he was doing that, a voice from just around the corner called out, slightly agitated, "Who's there? I want to be left alone."
And I want to leave you alone, Anton thought, but instead stepped forward and looked around the corner, past the curtain that was half-pulled around the bed. The figure on the bed was uncovered; spindly legs poked out from under a dark blue robe, large enough to effectively drown whatever shape its owner might have -- only hands and face were visible above the waistline. His hands were large, with long, delicate fingers that might have served well for playing the piano, but the face -- with its severe features, close-set eyes, and its deep, permanent scowl -- hinted that they probably were more likely put to use crushing baby birds or strangling cats.
It was a face Anton knew well, a fact given away by his sudden intake of breath.
"Who are you?" the figure demanded. The eyes turned toward him, but did not focus. "I can't see you."
Anton started to speak, had to stop and wet his lips. "M-my name is Anton, Prosecutor General. Sir," he added cautiously. Immediately, he thought that he should have used a different name -- but what would be the point? Even if he left now, and the guards didn't stop him, they would eventually figure out who he was. The Prosecutor General had vast powers and the investigative resources of the state on his side, and was not afraid to use them. Anton had many friends, many fellow travelers of The Way, who could attest to that.
Those that weren't dead.
"You seem surprised," the man on the bed challenged. "If you are here to poke or prod me, you should know who I am."
Anton started to speak several times, stopped each time, and finally said, "I did not know why I was coming here, or who I would see. I was simply told to come... and I came." Why was he being so blunt, he asked himself, and immediately knew the answer: because truth was his only defense.
The man on the bed seemed suddenly cold -- he wrapped his arms around himself, stuck each hand into the opposite sleeve. "Who told you this?" he asked, shifting his unseeing gaze toward his feet. "Are you with the Committee for State Security?"
Anton started to frown, held it in check -- could even the Prosecutor General be afraid of the Committee for State Security? It seemed ludicrous -- the Prosecutor General was the one who fed criminals and terrorists to the CSS. "I heard a voice telling me to do this, Prosecutor General. I'm a simple man, I'm not with State Security."
The man twitched, cocked his head to one side. "A voice? Whose voice?"
"An angel, I suspect. The voice just told me to come to this hospital, to this room."
The man just stared at him for several long moments, and then -- unaccountably -- there was the ghost of a weary smile, a rending of muscles and lips to which his face clearly was not accustomed. "Only an angel?" he grunted. "Before this happened --" he gestured toward his eyes, "-- I had your Jesus talk to me, Anton."
Once again, Anton's heart fluttered and for the first time he forgot about the men outside the door. He stepped up closer to the bed, until he was alongside it. "Jesus, you said?"
"I did. We were in the car -- I was being driven to meet with State Security about some new arrests -- a new roundup. One of our informants in another city had rooted out another synod -- a group of home churches --"
Anton nodded, forgetting he couldn't be seen. "I know what a synod is."
"-- there would be hundreds of followers of The Way. Maybe a thousand. All potentially disloyal, all with their heads in the clouds, totally unreliable as citizens, and if we moved fast we could round them all up. We were meeting to plan simultaneous raids on their next Sabbath, when they would be in worship in their home churches."
Anton's spine tingled, the front line in a battle between his instinct to run, and his desire to hear more. "I know how that works, Prosecutor General."
"What? I suppose you do. But we were driving to meet with State Security, and all of a sudden there was this incredibly bright light -- I was sure that we were about to get hit by a semi or something. I grabbed onto the door handle -- I didn't know what else to do -- and then I looked over... and no farther than from me to you, on the back seat with me, I saw someone. I saw him, and I knew it was Jesus."
"How did you know? What did he look like?" Anton asked anxiously.
The man hesitated, then shook his head. "I can't tell you -- I can't tell you anything about what he looked like, or how I knew it was Jesus. I just knew." He was agitated now, and he reached, flailed 'til he found Anton's wrist and grabbed it. Anton started to pull away, but the grip was strong -- and he realized this man wasn't trying to take him prisoner, but just make him listen... make him hear what he was saying. "He looked at me, and he was just so, so sad... and he said, 'Why do you do these things to me? Why do you persecute me?' "
Staring intently, now, the Prosecutor General recited carefully, "I told him it was my duty. That while we could not control what an individual thought, the state absolutely could not tolerate organized religion. It has been a cancer on our human history for too long now. I told him that I did it to -- to make the world a better place."
"And then what happened?" Anton asked, after the man had trailed off.
"He just looked at me and tilted his head to one side and he said, 'My son, how can you make the world a better place by taking away its hope? You need to see things differently.' And then he reached out and touched my eyes -- and I could no longer see."
"What happened?" Anton asked and leaned over to peer into his eyes. Other than not focusing, they seemed to be fine -- no cloudiness, no marks, no blood.
"The doctors thought I'd had a stroke of some kind. Now one of them is saying I have something called psychic blindness -- that I am physically able to see, but my mind won't process the vision. All words... all guesses. The truth is, Jesus said I needed to see differently, and then took my sight. I know that now."
"Did you tell the doctors what you told me?"
The man's smile was without humor. "If I had, I would not be here. I would be locked away in an asylum somewhere, while the doctors calculated how much of a lobotomy they would need to do to keep all of the state's secrets safely locked away. The state has no room for men of faith -- not if that faith is not in the state. But I am helpless and blind. And I'm lost."
Anton smiled gently. "You were lost, Prosecutor General. But now, I believe, you're found. Jesus Christ is the hope of the world -- and he is your hope too. Do you believe that now?"
The man shrugged. "How can I not? He called to me, Anton. He called to me."
Anton set the small black case on the bedside tray and zipped it open. As he did, he continued to speak. "Can I tell you a secret, Prosecutor General? Jesus calls to each of us. He has called to me... and to my brothers and sisters in The Way. And we've answered. He has called to others, and they have not. But now he's called to you, and you know it -- so the question is, what do you want to do about it?"
He hung his head, almost whispered. "For all of the things I've done, I should be lost. I can never undo the evil that I've done. There is nothing I can do."
Anton took his hand, squeezed it firmly. "Then I will tell you another secret. The minute -- the second -- you accept Jesus... the moment you start to follow The Way... when you admit what you've done, and say you need help... then everything you've ever done is wiped away. Clean. That is his promise to us."
He shook his head. "It cannot be, Anton. You don't know the things I've done."
"But I do... and it can be. All you need do is ask."
Tears were streaming out of those vacant eyes now, and he shivered. "Then I'm asking. I'm sorry for what I've done, and I'm asking for forgiveness."
Briefly, Anton squeezed his hand between both of his. "Then your sins are forgiven. You have been reborn." Releasing one hand, he took a small vial of water out of his case, opened it, and sprinkled the water on the man's head. "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I baptize you --" He hesitated. He couldn't very well baptize him as Prosecutor General.
"Gregory," the man in the bed answered. "My name is Gregory."
"I baptize you, Gregory. Arise and walk The Way, as a new man, born again through the grace of God and the sacrifice of Jesus Christ."
The man's eyes closed, then opened -- and then, slowly, focused on Anton, who was standing next to the head of the bed and leaning over it slightly. "You!" he gasped. "My God, I know you! I sent you to prison!"
Anton smiled. "Seven years in the labor reeducation center," he agreed, "and it made my faith even stronger. I thank you for that gift, Gregory."
"But how can you forgive what I did?"
"How can I not? God has forgiven both of us, so who am I to argue?" He capped the vial, put it back in his case, and closed it. "And now it's time for me to go, and let you start your own path along The Way -- you can find me, if you need me. But I want you to know this: Yesterday you were my enemy, and today you are my brother. I would much rather have you as a brother. I am glad we're walking The Way together."
Gregory was still pondering where that walk would take him when the nurse came in to check his vitals.
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.
Parents, Feed Your Lambs
by John Sumwalt
John 21:1-19
When they had finished breakfast, Jesus said to Simon Peter, "Simon, son of John, do you love me more than these?" He said to him, "Yes, Lord; you know that I love you." Jesus said to him, "Feed my lambs."
-- John 21:15
It was late on a Saturday night when Pastor Pete received a text from the parent of a teenager who was active in the church's youth group: "Jake's best friend committed suicide tonight. Pray for us!"
Pastor Pete knew how devastating this news was to Jake and his parents and to all of the other youth families in the congregation. After he got off the phone with several parents who were worried about how their teenagers would respond to this tragedy, Pastor Pete sat down at his desk and rewrote the sermon he had prepared for that Sunday, adding words of comfort and hope much like he would preach at a funeral.
A few months later, the pastor prepared another sermon that more directly addressed the questions raised in the time following the suicide. The congregation was rapt from the moment he mentioned this sad event that was still heavy in every heart:
The recent passing of our dear friend has given us pause. We wonder what we can do better to prevent tragedies like this. And we have been asking each other what we can do to prepare our children and youth to cope with these kinds of life-shaking events that happen from time to time in every community.
There is a temptation to point fingers and to blame someone. Reflection usually brings us to a realization that this can happen at any time in any family. Some suicides are the result of untreated depression, of a chemical imbalance or an inability to express emotions. The symptoms are not always obvious to those of us who are untrained.
There are no simple solutions or quick cures. But there is something that those of us in the church are in a unique position to do. We can offer friendship. Christian community is built around friendship with Jesus and friendship with others who walk with him.
Jesus called his disciples friends because he said he shared everything with them and he trusted them with his life. He said good friends are willing to give their lives for each other (John 15:12-15).
We all need friends like that. We promise each other this kind of friendship when we become members of the church. A commitment to prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness is about a special bond of friendship with Christ and each other.
The old hymn, "Blest Be The Tie That Binds" celebrates this: "We share each other's woes, our mutual burdens bear; and often for each other flows the sympathizing tear."
This kind of friendship is what we hope for our children when we bring them for baptism. It is what we wish for them to experience as babies in worship, in the nursery, and in our fellowship groups. The goal of our Sunday school classes is to nurture in them the values of Christian living found in the scriptures. We reinforce this in church camps, youth groups, mission trips, and other service projects.
When I observe young adults home from college or the military hugging their friends after a worship service, I know we have succeeded in giving them what we promised when they were baptized.
When they come up to me and tell me how thankful they are that the church made it possible for them to go on a mission trip, how they learned the joy of giving of themselves for others, I know they have the faith they will need to see them through the inevitable tragedies that come into every life.
It has become more difficult for us to achieve this goal in recent years for one simple reason; our children are not present consistently enough in the life of the church to form lasting bonds with their peers -- and with the kind of loving adults who, in past years, have made the critical difference in young lives.
This is not the beginning of judgmental guilt trip. It is plain fact.
Presence has become the most difficult part of our membership promise to keep as families are pulled in multiple directions by the ever-increasing pace of our modern world. No parent intends for their child to miss over half of the weekly worship services and Sunday school classes and youth group meetings, but it happens all the time.
We are overwhelmed by all of the choices we have to make -- or perhaps it is that we are overwhelmed because of all the choices we have made.
Our children and youth want to be present in church activities, but somehow can't make it happen. Our youth coordinator told me of an event planned by several members of the Youth Fellowship group who were excited about attending, and when the night of the activity came only one youth was able to attend -- and she was not one who had said she would come.
A parent told me, with that sad, "this is beyond my control" look, of a youth who had to choose not to attend a youth event because of too many other things going on in his life, though he wanted very much to be there with his friends.
Parents do have to make tough choices. And sometimes this will mean our children will not be able to participate in some church activities. This happened with my own children a number of times. This is not the point, nor is it to lay on guilt trips. Lord knows we have enough guilt as it is.
The problem is this; given all of the complexities of our lives today, how will we give our children and youth opportunities for Christian friendship?
None of us would argue that band, chorus, school plays, football, volleyball, soccer, basketball, wrestling, cheerleading, dance recitals, hockey, baseball, swimming, school and club trips, or scouting events, as valuable as they are, should be more important than presence in worship and church groups. But the reality is that they have become more important by default, in spite of our best intentions.
What to do?
Here are my humble suggestions, and I do mean humble, because I know I have not done any better as a parent than most other parents I know in the church.
As much as possible, in every season including summer, make worship a habitual activity for the whole family. What we are, who we are, that we exist at all, is a gift of God. Without some acknowledgment of that fact on a regular basis, we tend to suffer more in this world than we need to suffer. Those who ignore their Creator usually suffer the most, though they don't discover this until the levies break or the planes hit the Trade Towers.
This is not to say that God causes suffering or punishes us for inattentiveness. God loves us unfailingly, eternally, no matter what we do. Attendance in worship is not something done to earn God's favor. We have that unconditionally.
Skipping worship is like skipping Thanksgiving and Christmas dinner at Mom's house. Mom still loves you, but you don't have the benefit of her loving presence and guidance (that is unless your mom is a bank robber or a mass murderer, in which case you've got other problems).
Let your teenagers sit with their friends in the back of the church if that's what they need but be present with them to give praise to God without exception. Do not give them a choice about worship attendance unless you also give them a choice about attending school. Given the choice, many teens would opt out of math or English classes. It's boring, they say, which is exactly what they may say about worship. "So what," you say, "this is what we do in our family!"
Have a family rule about not taking a job that requires working on Sunday morning -- or attend a service at an alternate time like our Monday evening service.
Make coaches and scout leaders aware that your family has a commitment to worship and Sunday school. Talk to other Christian parents about joining you in taking a stand.
Bring visiting relatives and friends along to worship or ask them to excuse you while you go. Make worship a part of your planning for vacations and other Sunday outings. Stand firm in being who you are and doing what you have promised.
If you have only one hour to give to God on a Sunday morning take your place in worship with your children, as you said you would do when you held them in your arms before the baptismal font.
It is absolutely necessary for parents of confirmation students to attend worship with their children. It may be inconvenient, but no more inconvenient than the three AM feedings when they were infants, or walking the floor waiting and worrying at midnight when they are sixteen. It is what we signed up for when decided to become parents.
Children and youth need parents, grandparents, Sunday school teachers, and youth counselors who set clear boundaries based on the teachings of Jesus -- and whose own lives are grounded through weekly worship, prayer, regular Bible study, and service. They value what they see respected adults doing.
Children and youth need guidance. Guide them!
I know what you are thinking. "Pastor, I can never do all of that. My life is already too full. I feel so unworthy."
That is a good place to start. That, and to remember that most of us are here and who we are because someone who felt just as unworthy was there for us.
This is how the church has always bumbled along -- with a bunch of "unworthies" like you and me doing the best we can to love each other as Christ loves us.
It was quiet in the church as Pastor Pete took his seat behind the pulpit and as the choir got up to sing. He let out a long sigh and wondered, with that familiar tightness in his stomach, if he had said the right thing.
John Sumwalt is the pastor of Our Lord's United Methodist Church in New Berlin, Wisconsin, and a noted storyteller in the Milwaukee area. He is the author of nine books, including the acclaimed Vision Stories series and How to Preach the Miracles: Why People Don't Believe Them and What You Can Do About It. John and his wife Jo Perry-Sumwalt served for three years as the co-editors of StoryShare. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Madison and the University of Dubuque Theological Seminary (UDTS), Sumwalt received the Herbert Manning Jr. award for parish ministry from UDTS in 1997.
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StoryShare, April 14, 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.
