Fake Fire
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Fake Fire" by Timothy Merrill
"With Sighs Too Deep" by Richard Jensen
* * * * * * * *
Fake Fire
by Timothy Merrill
Acts 2:1-21
I live in Colorado, a beautiful place to live. But summers lately have been hot and dry, and the national forests are vulnerable to wildfires.
The summer of 2002 was particularly difficult. Fires began burning as early as April. In June, the Hayman fire destroyed over 100,000 acres of forest and consumed hundreds of buildings, including homes. When the wind was right, the smoke hung like an apocalyptic cloud over the city of Denver, dropping ash and smoke particles, and posing a serious health hazard, especially to those with asthma or lung disease. The cost to fight this fire alone exceeded $25 million.
Then, incredibly, we learned that a forest service employee had set the fire! After the Show Low fire had consumed over 300,000 acres in Arizona, another forest service employee was arrested for starting this inferno as well.
We're fascinated with fire. We've even developed myths to explain how fire came to mortals. It was Prometheus, we learn, who carried fire from the gods of Olympus to the mortals on earth and paid dearly for his trouble.
Fire can heat us or hurt us, warm us or waste us. We enjoy its glow in a fireplace, its comforting presence at a campfire, and its flame on a candle. We're intrigued by its mystery when we strike a match and watch the phosphorus tip explode into flame.
Hollywood even needs fire for its action scenes. What Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, or Terminator movie could hit the screen without flashy pyrotechnics, exploding buildings that turn into a ball of flame, cars that fly into the air and hit the ground in a maelstrom of roiling fire, or houses that become raging infernos?
Creating such effects is not only difficult but very dangerous. That's why PDI/DreamWorks visual effects supervisor, Ken Bielenberg, is trying to create the first photo-realistic, completely computer-generated flames. To do this, he's already spent hours in the studio parking lot lighting fires; he studies flame footage in the studio. When the animated movie Shrek hit the theatres in 2001, his work was prominently featured. The breath of the dragon and the burning bridge all emerged from his pixilated work. There was so much detail in these frames of fire that just one of the 1,400 processors used to create the fire took thirty hours to render just one frame.
Fake fire. Hollywood can do it. The church can't. Pentecost is about fire, flames of fire. It's about power. It's about the Holy Spirit energizing what would otherwise be a powerless church.
Some churches have gone so high tech, they think they're the religious counterpart to PDI/DreamWorks. Fiddle with your pixels if you want, but you can't computer-generate the Holy Spirit. The fire's got to be real.
(from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series IV, Cycle C, 0-7880-1963-5 [CSS Publishing: Lima, Ohio, 2003], pp. 82-83)
With Sighs Too Deep
By Richard Jensen
Romans 8:22-27
Over at last. That's the only thought she could think about just now. Over at last. The funeral finished. The committal service completed. She was home now and weary; bone weary. Her husband, Carl, was safely tucked into the grave. How had she ever endured the year of his agony?
Carl and Melissa Gregory were in their early sixties. Carl had worked for the railroad most of his life. It was blue collar work but he got paid well. Melissa worked outside of the home on occasion. She had secretarial skills. Occasionally she helped out at her church. Sometimes she would get work as a "temp" filling in at the secretary level. The Gregorys had two grown children. They lived too far away to make it back for the funeral. That was all right with Melissa. They had come so often during the year of Carl's dying. She thought their presence during the waning days of his life was more important than their presence at the funeral though she did miss them terribly that day. It was tough after the funeral and then to come home to an empty house.
Carl's cancer was diagnosed almost exactly one year ago. His doctor caught it at one of Carl's regular check ups. "You've got a growth in your prostrate gland," Dr. Bean had told Carl. "We'd better do a biopsy." When the results of the biopsy came back Dr. Bean was a bit upset. The growth was malignant. The cancer was there and spreading fast. Dr. Bean was fond of Carl Gregory. And Carl had been faithful in getting his annual physical. Still, here he found cancer in an advanced state. Dr. Bean called Carl with the bad news. "You'd better get in here as soon as you can, Carl," Dr. Bean had said, "We've got to go to work on that cancer right way."
Melissa remembered that phone call from Dr. Bean like it was yesterday. Could it really be a year ago already? And what a year! Carl was so sick. Nothing the doctors tried seemed to work on the cancerous growth. Carl was in and out of hospitals and treatment centers all year. Wherever Carl was sent, Melissa followed. They were a lonely pair trudging off to ever new venues of healing -- healing that never came. Melissa could only think of that year as a kind of hell. And now hell was over. Carl died at last. The funeral was over too. And she was home alone. What new kind of hell awaited her?
As Melissa wandered aimlessly around the Gregory home the night of the funeral, she didn't know what to do. It was as if she was lost in the caverns of her own home. Several times she tried to pray. It was the same thing each time. She could find no words to pray. She didn't now what to say to God. She didn't know how to pray in this dire moment. She could only sigh and groan. Words wouldn't come. But groans came. And sighs came. Groans and sighs poured forth from the innermost depth of her being. Gut wrenching groans. Bone shaking sighs. She could only hope that God could make something out of her groanings. That's all she had for God now. It was as if she had forgotten how to pray.
At the end of her murmuring lament she trudged off to bed. She would be alone there too. As she cast herself down on her pillow she heard a familiar sound. The first fresh breath of spring blew gently through the bedroom window kissing her aching body with a hint of new life.
(Series 1, 53 Stories for Preaching, Year 1, 0-7880-1927-9 [CSS Publishing: Lima, Ohio, 2002], pp. 65-66)
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 27, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
"Fake Fire" by Timothy Merrill
"With Sighs Too Deep" by Richard Jensen
* * * * * * * *
Fake Fire
by Timothy Merrill
Acts 2:1-21
I live in Colorado, a beautiful place to live. But summers lately have been hot and dry, and the national forests are vulnerable to wildfires.
The summer of 2002 was particularly difficult. Fires began burning as early as April. In June, the Hayman fire destroyed over 100,000 acres of forest and consumed hundreds of buildings, including homes. When the wind was right, the smoke hung like an apocalyptic cloud over the city of Denver, dropping ash and smoke particles, and posing a serious health hazard, especially to those with asthma or lung disease. The cost to fight this fire alone exceeded $25 million.
Then, incredibly, we learned that a forest service employee had set the fire! After the Show Low fire had consumed over 300,000 acres in Arizona, another forest service employee was arrested for starting this inferno as well.
We're fascinated with fire. We've even developed myths to explain how fire came to mortals. It was Prometheus, we learn, who carried fire from the gods of Olympus to the mortals on earth and paid dearly for his trouble.
Fire can heat us or hurt us, warm us or waste us. We enjoy its glow in a fireplace, its comforting presence at a campfire, and its flame on a candle. We're intrigued by its mystery when we strike a match and watch the phosphorus tip explode into flame.
Hollywood even needs fire for its action scenes. What Die Hard, Lethal Weapon, or Terminator movie could hit the screen without flashy pyrotechnics, exploding buildings that turn into a ball of flame, cars that fly into the air and hit the ground in a maelstrom of roiling fire, or houses that become raging infernos?
Creating such effects is not only difficult but very dangerous. That's why PDI/DreamWorks visual effects supervisor, Ken Bielenberg, is trying to create the first photo-realistic, completely computer-generated flames. To do this, he's already spent hours in the studio parking lot lighting fires; he studies flame footage in the studio. When the animated movie Shrek hit the theatres in 2001, his work was prominently featured. The breath of the dragon and the burning bridge all emerged from his pixilated work. There was so much detail in these frames of fire that just one of the 1,400 processors used to create the fire took thirty hours to render just one frame.
Fake fire. Hollywood can do it. The church can't. Pentecost is about fire, flames of fire. It's about power. It's about the Holy Spirit energizing what would otherwise be a powerless church.
Some churches have gone so high tech, they think they're the religious counterpart to PDI/DreamWorks. Fiddle with your pixels if you want, but you can't computer-generate the Holy Spirit. The fire's got to be real.
(from Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit, Series IV, Cycle C, 0-7880-1963-5 [CSS Publishing: Lima, Ohio, 2003], pp. 82-83)
With Sighs Too Deep
By Richard Jensen
Romans 8:22-27
Over at last. That's the only thought she could think about just now. Over at last. The funeral finished. The committal service completed. She was home now and weary; bone weary. Her husband, Carl, was safely tucked into the grave. How had she ever endured the year of his agony?
Carl and Melissa Gregory were in their early sixties. Carl had worked for the railroad most of his life. It was blue collar work but he got paid well. Melissa worked outside of the home on occasion. She had secretarial skills. Occasionally she helped out at her church. Sometimes she would get work as a "temp" filling in at the secretary level. The Gregorys had two grown children. They lived too far away to make it back for the funeral. That was all right with Melissa. They had come so often during the year of Carl's dying. She thought their presence during the waning days of his life was more important than their presence at the funeral though she did miss them terribly that day. It was tough after the funeral and then to come home to an empty house.
Carl's cancer was diagnosed almost exactly one year ago. His doctor caught it at one of Carl's regular check ups. "You've got a growth in your prostrate gland," Dr. Bean had told Carl. "We'd better do a biopsy." When the results of the biopsy came back Dr. Bean was a bit upset. The growth was malignant. The cancer was there and spreading fast. Dr. Bean was fond of Carl Gregory. And Carl had been faithful in getting his annual physical. Still, here he found cancer in an advanced state. Dr. Bean called Carl with the bad news. "You'd better get in here as soon as you can, Carl," Dr. Bean had said, "We've got to go to work on that cancer right way."
Melissa remembered that phone call from Dr. Bean like it was yesterday. Could it really be a year ago already? And what a year! Carl was so sick. Nothing the doctors tried seemed to work on the cancerous growth. Carl was in and out of hospitals and treatment centers all year. Wherever Carl was sent, Melissa followed. They were a lonely pair trudging off to ever new venues of healing -- healing that never came. Melissa could only think of that year as a kind of hell. And now hell was over. Carl died at last. The funeral was over too. And she was home alone. What new kind of hell awaited her?
As Melissa wandered aimlessly around the Gregory home the night of the funeral, she didn't know what to do. It was as if she was lost in the caverns of her own home. Several times she tried to pray. It was the same thing each time. She could find no words to pray. She didn't now what to say to God. She didn't know how to pray in this dire moment. She could only sigh and groan. Words wouldn't come. But groans came. And sighs came. Groans and sighs poured forth from the innermost depth of her being. Gut wrenching groans. Bone shaking sighs. She could only hope that God could make something out of her groanings. That's all she had for God now. It was as if she had forgotten how to pray.
At the end of her murmuring lament she trudged off to bed. She would be alone there too. As she cast herself down on her pillow she heard a familiar sound. The first fresh breath of spring blew gently through the bedroom window kissing her aching body with a hint of new life.
(Series 1, 53 Stories for Preaching, Year 1, 0-7880-1927-9 [CSS Publishing: Lima, Ohio, 2002], pp. 65-66)
*****************************************
StoryShare, May 27, 2012, issue.
Copyright 2012 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.
