Called Not From But To The Tax Office
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Called not From but To the Tax Office" by Alex Gondola
"Praise the Lord, Make Melody to Him" by Alex Gondola
"Not My Home" by Craig Kelly
What's Up This Week
We live in an uncertain world. What is right? What is certain? What is the sure path to take? It can feel like we're trying to find direction with a broken compass, not receiving any direction. As Christians, we know who is the true north star of our faith, guiding us through life's twists and turns. Alex Gondola examines the lives of two people who have been guided by God's sure direction in "Called not from but to the Tax Office" and "Praise the Lord, Make Melody to Him." In "Not My Home," Craig Kelly tells the story of one man who, despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles, kept a sure and certain faith that kept his eyes fixed for home.
* * * * * * * * *
Called not from but to the Tax Office
Alex Gondola
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26
April Bowersock is my favorite tax collector. In 2004, she was elected treasurer of our county, and began serving her first four-year term. In 2006, she also was president of our church council. Before that, April was our congregation's volunteer treasurer for three years. I've talked with her about her work. April considers her position as county treasurer more than a job. It's a calling. In her work, she sees people from every walk of life. She sometimes has the opportunity to be a confidant or counselor to individuals and families in times of trouble. She understands herself as a helper who is giving back to our community through public service. In addition, her work, and that of her staff, funds organizations and programs that improve the quality of our life together. These include law enforcement, through the sheriff's department; courts, the keeping of essential records; health care, mental health services; education; a highly respected county home; environmental protection; and infrastructure like roads and bridges, to name just a few.
April didn't start out with the intention of becoming a public official. First, she worked in a bank and then in business. When she was approached about running for treasurer, it just clicked. She was excited about the prospect. Her first and only political campaign so far was a challenge. Her day-to-day work sometimes is pressure-filled. Still, it's rewarding for her to work at what she believes is her God-given calling. I was honored to be invited to April's swearing-in ceremony before the county commissioners and the press and to provide the Bible used for that event.
Every year the Gallup organization polls Americans on their perception of the honesty and integrity of various professions. This survey provides some insight into the relative popularity of various jobs. Nurses usually are rated highest, followed this year by grade-school teachers, pharmacists, and physicians. Clergy are somewhere in the middle, along with police officers. Near the bottom are local office holders and state office holders. Members of Congress are almost dead last, just above used-car salesmen and the advertising profession. IRS agents and other tax collectors don't appear on this scale. But my guess is they aren't among America's favored professions. Still, April is one of several elected officials from our congregation I am proud to know. Matthew was called from his tax office to follow Jesus. But some are called to the tax office as a Christian vocation. Luther encouraged us to embrace the priesthood of all believers, and reminded us that any honest work can be a God-given calling. That's why April Bowersock is my favorite tax collector, and why pastors should remember to honor and celebrate all the varied ministries of the laity.
Praise the Lord, Make Melody to Him
Alex Gondola
Psalm 33:1-12
Another Christian living out a calling is named Allsbrooks Smith Jr. He has led worship at our church several times. Allsbrooks is a musician. He began playing piano at age seven. He has played professionally for forty years. An African American himself, he's a great illustration of a quote from Martin Luther King Jr.: "Set you self earnestly to discover what you are made to and then give yourself passionately to the doing of it."
Allsbrooks knows what he was "made to do." It's to spend his life communicating with people spiritually through music. He's really good at it. Allsbrooks puts his entire self into his music, praising God, not with the ten-stringed lyre, but with 88 piano keys and his commentaries on his playing. He's an accomplished musician with a nationwide reputation. A graduate of Baldwin Wallace College, he holds an artist's certificate in piano and earned his Master's in performance from Indiana University. For years, he toured the country with Barbara Chong-Gossard as a piano duo. He has taught at Findlay, Bluffton, and Bowling Green State Universities in Ohio.
But most important is Allsbrooks' witness as a Christian. He's openly joyous, but not arrogant, and he uses his music as a vehicle to praise God. In that, he reminds me of Johann Sebastian Bach, who proclaimed the sole purpose of all his music was to glorify God. Or Franz Josef Hayden, who declared he could only write and play "happy music." The words to one of my favorite hymns sums it up:
When in our music God is glorified, and adoration leaves no room for pride
It is as if the whole creation cries, "Alleluia!"
How often, making music have we found, a new dimension in the world of sound,
As worship moves us to a more profound, alleluia!
-- When in Our Music God is Glorified, Fred Pratt Green, 1972
How blessed Christ's church is to have musicians like Allsbrooks Smith Jr., who make melody to God, play skillfully, and in their own way, "sing" a new song to a new generation. Allsbrooks still travels the country and is available for church services or concerts. I recommend him highly.
Alex Gondola is Senior Pastor of St. Paul United Church of Christ in Wapakoneta, Ohio. He is the author of four books, all published by CSS Publishing Company, as well as numerous articles in clergy journals.
Not My Home
Craig Kelly
Genesis 12:1-9
"Ow! Stop poking me!"
Cory let out a quiet, frustrated growl as he gritted his teeth. He wasn't sure what upset him more -- the fact that he had to wait in this long, incredibly slow-moving line in front of an annoying five-year-old, or the fact that this little brat found a small piece of lumber and kept poking him with it, his high-pitched laugh grating at Cory's ears. It wasn't enough that he had to wait out in the hot summer sun, swirls of dust curling up his nostrils and in his ears. Now he had to deal with the little spawn of Satan behind him.
I swear if this little twerp doesn't quit, I'll --
Suddenly Cory felt a sharp jab behind his knee, buckling it and sending him to the ground. The brat's laughter rose another half-octave.
That's it... he dies now.
Cory spun around with a ferocious yell, fist raised, ready to knock his nemesis into next week. His foe must have realized his impending doom, as his eyes were now the size of dinner plates. He screamed bloody murder, as if Death itself stood before him. Teeth bared, Cory started to move in for the death blow....
"Ow!"
A firm hand grabbed Cory's arm, stopping his swing in mid-motion. "Yori Nakamura! What on earth are you doing?"
Cory knew if his father broke out the full Japanese name when addressing him, it was not going to be pretty. His mother also looked at him in disbelief, her eyes watering to wash out the dust... or at least that's what she kept saying.
He quickly played out the ensuing argument in his head, repeating the scenario to see if he could convince his father of the necessity of beating this whimpering child in front of him to a pulp. No use. This was Father. He'd lose that fight.
"Nothing, Father," he muttered. "I'm sorry."
"This is difficult enough. I cannot deal with having to discipline you on top of everything! Now, behave yourself! Is that clear?"
"Yes, Father," Cory replied, dejected. He hung his head low as the barrage of poking resumed. Thankfully, about fifteen minutes later, the brat's mother finally got a clue as to what was going on and brought the poking to a halt. "Kenji, good boys don't poke people. You're a good boy, right?"
You've got to be joking....
After another twenty minutes, Cory and his parents finally made it to the front of the line.
"Name?"
The man sat at a desk at the entrance of a government-issued tent. On either side of him was a soldier armed with a rifle, ensuring that order would be maintained. The desk was bare except for a couple of stacks of paper, each with an iron paperweight on top to keep the papers from flying off into the surrounding mountains. He didn't look up as he spoke.
"Hiraku Nakamura, my wife, Tamiko, and my son, Cory -- I mean, Yori." Ever since their elderly former neighbor misheard baby Yori's name, he had been Cory to everyone.
"Nakamura, family of three...." The man leafed through his notes. "From Los Angeles?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"You will be in Block 31. Report to the barracks there after you have finished processing." The man still didn't look up.
"Thank you," Cory's father said quietly as they turned to walk around the tent and into what lied beyond. Almost as an aside, as if he forgot to mention it before, the man at the desk said, still looking down, "Welcome to Manzanar."
Cory's father said nothing as they continued to walk past the tent, though a gate, and into the "community" of Manzanar, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada in eastern California, complete with a barbed-wire fence.
* * *
"Why do you still carry it around? It's useless! Throw it away, for heaven's sake! No sense being reminded of what we've lost!"
Cory woke up with a start, brushing the dust of his face and out of his hair. The cloth walls between the barrack rooms did little to keep the desert out, covering everything and everyone with a fine layer of sand and dust. He had never heard Mother speak this forcefully before. Even in their small barrack, Cory's mother always spoke softly enough for Cory to sleep undisturbed, but this night was different.
"It's not useless, Tami," Cory's father said, quiet yet resolved. In the light of the lantern, Cory could see his mother sitting on a small wooden chair, the light of the lantern reflecting off the tears running down her face while also playing shadow games with the white polka dots in his mother's red bandana. Cory could see his father, sitting on another small chair beside his mother, holding a small photograph with the same strong grip he felt two years earlier when he almost punched young Kenji Tanaka. When his father held the picture at just at the right angle, Cory could make out a fence surrounding a small, wooden, two-story house -- their house, on 21st Street back in Los Angeles.
Cory's father continued: "You were born here in America, Tami. You had a good home from the time you were a child. You are accustomed to it. Not me. You know I came from a poor family in Kitayama, and we did not have a good home. When I was finally able to come to America, I had to work hard in that butcher shop to find a home for us. How long did we live in that small apartment together? Even after Cory was born, we had to make it work! Then, finally, after saving and praying and hoping, we finally had our own home. It wasn't much, but it was ours. Our sweat, our tears -- they finally gave us a home that we could call our own, a home where we could raise our son. Then, a year later, we have to leave it! No!" He stood erect, defiant, thrusting the dusty picture in his wife's face. "I don't care if someone else lives in my house, mows my lawn, gets my mail, or eats my food."
Tears streamed down their faces. "If I say that this is not my home, I'm saying I have no hope. I will never say that. Never." He pointed slowly at the picture. "Whenever I see this picture, I see our home, our son's future home, and it is waiting for us. I know it, and nothing -- no barbed wire, no watchtowers, no government order will convince me otherwise."
The room was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Then, slowly, deliberately, Tamiko Nakamura rose from her chair and walked to the small window casting a faint glow of moonlight into the room. Reaching up behind her head, she untied the bandana, shook the wrinkles out, and held it over the window.
"What are you doing?" Cory asked quietly.
She looked at her son and smiled. "I'm seeing if this material would make nice curtains for our kitchen window... when we get back home."
Cory felt a tear trickle down his cheek, washing the desert dust away with it.
Craig Kelly is the Editorial Assistant for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing. This is his first publication.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, June 8, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
What's Up This Week
"Called not From but To the Tax Office" by Alex Gondola
"Praise the Lord, Make Melody to Him" by Alex Gondola
"Not My Home" by Craig Kelly
What's Up This Week
We live in an uncertain world. What is right? What is certain? What is the sure path to take? It can feel like we're trying to find direction with a broken compass, not receiving any direction. As Christians, we know who is the true north star of our faith, guiding us through life's twists and turns. Alex Gondola examines the lives of two people who have been guided by God's sure direction in "Called not from but to the Tax Office" and "Praise the Lord, Make Melody to Him." In "Not My Home," Craig Kelly tells the story of one man who, despite seemingly insurmountable obstacles, kept a sure and certain faith that kept his eyes fixed for home.
* * * * * * * * *
Called not from but to the Tax Office
Alex Gondola
Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26
April Bowersock is my favorite tax collector. In 2004, she was elected treasurer of our county, and began serving her first four-year term. In 2006, she also was president of our church council. Before that, April was our congregation's volunteer treasurer for three years. I've talked with her about her work. April considers her position as county treasurer more than a job. It's a calling. In her work, she sees people from every walk of life. She sometimes has the opportunity to be a confidant or counselor to individuals and families in times of trouble. She understands herself as a helper who is giving back to our community through public service. In addition, her work, and that of her staff, funds organizations and programs that improve the quality of our life together. These include law enforcement, through the sheriff's department; courts, the keeping of essential records; health care, mental health services; education; a highly respected county home; environmental protection; and infrastructure like roads and bridges, to name just a few.
April didn't start out with the intention of becoming a public official. First, she worked in a bank and then in business. When she was approached about running for treasurer, it just clicked. She was excited about the prospect. Her first and only political campaign so far was a challenge. Her day-to-day work sometimes is pressure-filled. Still, it's rewarding for her to work at what she believes is her God-given calling. I was honored to be invited to April's swearing-in ceremony before the county commissioners and the press and to provide the Bible used for that event.
Every year the Gallup organization polls Americans on their perception of the honesty and integrity of various professions. This survey provides some insight into the relative popularity of various jobs. Nurses usually are rated highest, followed this year by grade-school teachers, pharmacists, and physicians. Clergy are somewhere in the middle, along with police officers. Near the bottom are local office holders and state office holders. Members of Congress are almost dead last, just above used-car salesmen and the advertising profession. IRS agents and other tax collectors don't appear on this scale. But my guess is they aren't among America's favored professions. Still, April is one of several elected officials from our congregation I am proud to know. Matthew was called from his tax office to follow Jesus. But some are called to the tax office as a Christian vocation. Luther encouraged us to embrace the priesthood of all believers, and reminded us that any honest work can be a God-given calling. That's why April Bowersock is my favorite tax collector, and why pastors should remember to honor and celebrate all the varied ministries of the laity.
Praise the Lord, Make Melody to Him
Alex Gondola
Psalm 33:1-12
Another Christian living out a calling is named Allsbrooks Smith Jr. He has led worship at our church several times. Allsbrooks is a musician. He began playing piano at age seven. He has played professionally for forty years. An African American himself, he's a great illustration of a quote from Martin Luther King Jr.: "Set you self earnestly to discover what you are made to and then give yourself passionately to the doing of it."
Allsbrooks knows what he was "made to do." It's to spend his life communicating with people spiritually through music. He's really good at it. Allsbrooks puts his entire self into his music, praising God, not with the ten-stringed lyre, but with 88 piano keys and his commentaries on his playing. He's an accomplished musician with a nationwide reputation. A graduate of Baldwin Wallace College, he holds an artist's certificate in piano and earned his Master's in performance from Indiana University. For years, he toured the country with Barbara Chong-Gossard as a piano duo. He has taught at Findlay, Bluffton, and Bowling Green State Universities in Ohio.
But most important is Allsbrooks' witness as a Christian. He's openly joyous, but not arrogant, and he uses his music as a vehicle to praise God. In that, he reminds me of Johann Sebastian Bach, who proclaimed the sole purpose of all his music was to glorify God. Or Franz Josef Hayden, who declared he could only write and play "happy music." The words to one of my favorite hymns sums it up:
When in our music God is glorified, and adoration leaves no room for pride
It is as if the whole creation cries, "Alleluia!"
How often, making music have we found, a new dimension in the world of sound,
As worship moves us to a more profound, alleluia!
-- When in Our Music God is Glorified, Fred Pratt Green, 1972
How blessed Christ's church is to have musicians like Allsbrooks Smith Jr., who make melody to God, play skillfully, and in their own way, "sing" a new song to a new generation. Allsbrooks still travels the country and is available for church services or concerts. I recommend him highly.
Alex Gondola is Senior Pastor of St. Paul United Church of Christ in Wapakoneta, Ohio. He is the author of four books, all published by CSS Publishing Company, as well as numerous articles in clergy journals.
Not My Home
Craig Kelly
Genesis 12:1-9
"Ow! Stop poking me!"
Cory let out a quiet, frustrated growl as he gritted his teeth. He wasn't sure what upset him more -- the fact that he had to wait in this long, incredibly slow-moving line in front of an annoying five-year-old, or the fact that this little brat found a small piece of lumber and kept poking him with it, his high-pitched laugh grating at Cory's ears. It wasn't enough that he had to wait out in the hot summer sun, swirls of dust curling up his nostrils and in his ears. Now he had to deal with the little spawn of Satan behind him.
I swear if this little twerp doesn't quit, I'll --
Suddenly Cory felt a sharp jab behind his knee, buckling it and sending him to the ground. The brat's laughter rose another half-octave.
That's it... he dies now.
Cory spun around with a ferocious yell, fist raised, ready to knock his nemesis into next week. His foe must have realized his impending doom, as his eyes were now the size of dinner plates. He screamed bloody murder, as if Death itself stood before him. Teeth bared, Cory started to move in for the death blow....
"Ow!"
A firm hand grabbed Cory's arm, stopping his swing in mid-motion. "Yori Nakamura! What on earth are you doing?"
Cory knew if his father broke out the full Japanese name when addressing him, it was not going to be pretty. His mother also looked at him in disbelief, her eyes watering to wash out the dust... or at least that's what she kept saying.
He quickly played out the ensuing argument in his head, repeating the scenario to see if he could convince his father of the necessity of beating this whimpering child in front of him to a pulp. No use. This was Father. He'd lose that fight.
"Nothing, Father," he muttered. "I'm sorry."
"This is difficult enough. I cannot deal with having to discipline you on top of everything! Now, behave yourself! Is that clear?"
"Yes, Father," Cory replied, dejected. He hung his head low as the barrage of poking resumed. Thankfully, about fifteen minutes later, the brat's mother finally got a clue as to what was going on and brought the poking to a halt. "Kenji, good boys don't poke people. You're a good boy, right?"
You've got to be joking....
After another twenty minutes, Cory and his parents finally made it to the front of the line.
"Name?"
The man sat at a desk at the entrance of a government-issued tent. On either side of him was a soldier armed with a rifle, ensuring that order would be maintained. The desk was bare except for a couple of stacks of paper, each with an iron paperweight on top to keep the papers from flying off into the surrounding mountains. He didn't look up as he spoke.
"Hiraku Nakamura, my wife, Tamiko, and my son, Cory -- I mean, Yori." Ever since their elderly former neighbor misheard baby Yori's name, he had been Cory to everyone.
"Nakamura, family of three...." The man leafed through his notes. "From Los Angeles?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"You will be in Block 31. Report to the barracks there after you have finished processing." The man still didn't look up.
"Thank you," Cory's father said quietly as they turned to walk around the tent and into what lied beyond. Almost as an aside, as if he forgot to mention it before, the man at the desk said, still looking down, "Welcome to Manzanar."
Cory's father said nothing as they continued to walk past the tent, though a gate, and into the "community" of Manzanar, at the foot of the Sierra Nevada in eastern California, complete with a barbed-wire fence.
* * *
"Why do you still carry it around? It's useless! Throw it away, for heaven's sake! No sense being reminded of what we've lost!"
Cory woke up with a start, brushing the dust of his face and out of his hair. The cloth walls between the barrack rooms did little to keep the desert out, covering everything and everyone with a fine layer of sand and dust. He had never heard Mother speak this forcefully before. Even in their small barrack, Cory's mother always spoke softly enough for Cory to sleep undisturbed, but this night was different.
"It's not useless, Tami," Cory's father said, quiet yet resolved. In the light of the lantern, Cory could see his mother sitting on a small wooden chair, the light of the lantern reflecting off the tears running down her face while also playing shadow games with the white polka dots in his mother's red bandana. Cory could see his father, sitting on another small chair beside his mother, holding a small photograph with the same strong grip he felt two years earlier when he almost punched young Kenji Tanaka. When his father held the picture at just at the right angle, Cory could make out a fence surrounding a small, wooden, two-story house -- their house, on 21st Street back in Los Angeles.
Cory's father continued: "You were born here in America, Tami. You had a good home from the time you were a child. You are accustomed to it. Not me. You know I came from a poor family in Kitayama, and we did not have a good home. When I was finally able to come to America, I had to work hard in that butcher shop to find a home for us. How long did we live in that small apartment together? Even after Cory was born, we had to make it work! Then, finally, after saving and praying and hoping, we finally had our own home. It wasn't much, but it was ours. Our sweat, our tears -- they finally gave us a home that we could call our own, a home where we could raise our son. Then, a year later, we have to leave it! No!" He stood erect, defiant, thrusting the dusty picture in his wife's face. "I don't care if someone else lives in my house, mows my lawn, gets my mail, or eats my food."
Tears streamed down their faces. "If I say that this is not my home, I'm saying I have no hope. I will never say that. Never." He pointed slowly at the picture. "Whenever I see this picture, I see our home, our son's future home, and it is waiting for us. I know it, and nothing -- no barbed wire, no watchtowers, no government order will convince me otherwise."
The room was silent for what seemed like an eternity. Then, slowly, deliberately, Tamiko Nakamura rose from her chair and walked to the small window casting a faint glow of moonlight into the room. Reaching up behind her head, she untied the bandana, shook the wrinkles out, and held it over the window.
"What are you doing?" Cory asked quietly.
She looked at her son and smiled. "I'm seeing if this material would make nice curtains for our kitchen window... when we get back home."
Cory felt a tear trickle down his cheek, washing the desert dust away with it.
Craig Kelly is the Editorial Assistant for CSS Publishing Company in Lima, Ohio. Hesitant to call himself an aspiring freelance writer, he is a self-proclaimed "dabbler" in writing. This is his first publication.
**********************************************
How to Share Stories
You have good stories to share, probably more than you know: personal stories as well as stories from others that you have used over the years. If you have a story you like, whether fictional or "really happened," authored by you or a brief excerpt from a favorite book, send it to StoryShare for review. Simply email the story to us at storyshare@sermonsuite.com.
**************
StoryShare, June 8, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 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., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
