Just Like -- Us?
Stories
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Contents
"Just Like -- Us?" by Keith Hewitt
"Baptism by Water and… by Fire" by Larry Winebrenner
"Saving the Afflicted" by Larry Winebrenner
* * * * * * * * *
We like to think we know the people we're close to -- friends, neighbors, the people we share the sanctuary with on Sunday morning. But the truth is that everyone has secrets, and everyone is different. How we deal with those differences says a lot about who we are, and the church we're a part of. Keith Hewitt explores this truth in his story, "Just Like -- Us?"
Just Like -- Us?
by Keith Hewitt
Romans 15:4-13
It was like watching the Zapruder film.
I had seen it already -- had to, since the Chair of the Staff Parish Relations Committee was out of town, and it fell on me to run the emergency meeting -- but that night I had to sit quietly while it the clip was played again and again, a hundred (okay, a dozen) times at normal speed, slow motion, stop action, until every molecule of information had been drained from the 53 seconds of jerky, slightly pixilated cell phone video blown up to fill a 19-inch monitor.
A crowd of picketers; a crowd of counter-picketers; as the lines move, a young, dark haired man comes to the middle of the picture. He is holding a sign that says, "Why can't gays marry?" on top, and "We want to start a family" on the bottom. A woman from the counter-picketers challenges him; the words are lost in the muddle of sound on the video -- but they're not important, not really. The man shouts something back, the woman answers in kind, and reaches for the sign, tries to yank it out of his hands. There's a struggle, which she ends up winning, wrestling the picket sign out of his grip and holding it up like a captured flag.
The young man grabs for the sign, and she pivots away, slashing down with the picket sign as she moves. The corner catches him on the side of the head, and he reels back, one hand clutching the side of his head, blood seeping through his fingers. The counter-picketers nearest him shrink away, even as the angry woman throws down the sign and stamps on it before disappearing back into the crowd.
End of clip, with the young man staring at the camera, bloody, dazed, and mouthing something that can't be heard over the crowd noise.
"And where was this?" one of the committee members asked -- Logan, I think.
"Madison, nine years ago," Mrs. Wagner answered.
"I mean where was this -- the video?" Yes, it was Logan.
"On the internet. Some video site. I found it by accident," she added quickly, "but once I saw it, I had to let you know." She glanced down toward the end of the table with a significant arch of one eyebrow, at the man seated there.
Josh had been quiet the whole time, sitting impassively as we cycled through the same clip, slowing, then stopping to be sure, then continuing on to those last few seconds. When the sign came slicing down was the only time I saw his face change, and then it was a momentary wince while his hand reached for the side of his head, lingered for a moment touching his hair before he lowered it again, clasped it on the table in front of him. As he did, I was struck by how little had changed in nine years.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Mrs. Wagner demanded, before I could speak.
He spread his hands. "What would you like me to say, Mrs. Wagner?"
I rapped on the table with my knuckles; all eyes turned toward me. "If you don't mind, I'd like to chair the meeting." Mrs. Wagner's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. After a moment of silence, I looked directly toward the end of the table. "Do you have anything you'd like to add to this, Josh?"
He paused, seemed to be searching for the right words, finally shrugged and said, "There's not a lot to say, pastor. It was a lawful demonstration, and as far as I know a lawful counter-demonstration. Right up to the point where that woman grabbed the sign and used it as a weapon, it was just a bunch of folks exercising their First Amendment rights. And she was clearly the one who was in the wrong."
Logan stirred in his seat and said hesitantly, "I don't know. It looked like there was provocation on both sides."
"What I want to know is, what are we going to do about it?" Mrs. Wagner demanded.
"Frankly," I said carefully, "I'm not sure there's anything that needs to be done. Even if there was fault to be found -- and I'm not saying there was -- this was nine years ago. I don't see the relevance today."
"The relevance as you call it, is that that man teaches Sunday school in our church." She looked at Josh. "And you run the youth group." She glared for a moment; then shook her head. "That hardly seems appropriate."
Josh looked back at her steadily. "Are you telling me that a gay man can't do those things for the church?"
"Well, obviously." She looked around the table for support before going on; looking at their expressions, I felt she was probably getting some. "I suppose there might be some things that a homosexual could do --"
"Like cooking? Or decorating the sanctuary?" Josh interjected with a wry smile.
The uneasy titter of laughter that went around the table seemed to anger her. "That is not what I said. Stop putting words in my mouth! I'm just saying that we can't have you in a position where you're with young boys. Nothing personal, it's just that I don't think we can trust you. We can't afford the liability."
"And yet," he said slowly, carefully forming his words around his ideas, "when you assumed I was heterosexual, you didn't mind me being in that same position with young girls."
"That's just apples and oranges, and you know it!"
"Mrs. Wagner," Josh said formally, "I would really feel better if you used a simile that didn't involve fruit."
There was more laughter, and Mrs. Wagner's face was turning shades of red, now. "You know what I mean!"
"I'm afraid I do," he sighed. "Mrs. Wagner, I've been here almost three years, teaching Sunday school for two, and I don't think there's ever been a complaint. Has there?" He shifted his eyes from her to me.
I shook my head. "No, Josh."
"Then why is this suddenly an issue? Before you found this video, was there ever an occasion where my personal lifestyle even came up in conversation? Did anyone question it?"
"No, but that's not the point. Before now, we just assumed you were normal. And now…" She trailed off, gestured at the image frozen on the monitor.
"And now I'm not," he finished for her.
She shrugged.
"So what is it you want to have happen?"
"I think you should resign from teaching -- from any involvement with youth. And if you won't, then the SPRC needs to relieve you of that duty." She looked at me. "Is that right? Or do I have to frame it as a motion?"
I took a deep breath, once more tried to organize the things I'd been thinking for three days, now. I let it out slowly; then said quietly, "Before anyone does anything, or makes a motion, or makes any decisions, I want you to think about this. Until I saw this video, I never gave any thought to Josh's sexuality -- he was just a man, just a person, like everyone else. Now it's out, and there are people that don't seem to be very comfortable with it." There were nods around the table; I went on.
"Mrs. Wagner --" I locked eyes with her, "-- I don't question what you do in the bedroom." The bluntness was calculated for effect, and the look on her face told me it had worked. After a couple of moments of silence, I turned to Logan. "Logan, we've known each other for almost ten years. I don't question what you do, either, and I'm pretty sure you don't think about what I do. At least I hope you don't."
He smiled, flushed a little in the fluorescent light.
I looked at everyone, then -- half a dozen slightly uncomfortable faces around a long table. "Here's the thing -- what I think of as normal is probably different from what you think. My lifestyle might be different from yours, and both of ours might be different from someone else's. How we live our lives and whom we love, how we love -- nobody's quite the same. But what brings us here, what binds us together, is who loves us." I paused, tried to catch the eye of each person around the table, and went on.
"We're all here because somewhere in our life, some time in our life, Jesus touched us. Somewhere, somehow, we became aware of the power of his healing and the possibility of redemption -- and that overshadowed everything else. And I truly believe that what makes us alike is way more important than what makes us different. The church is here to praise God and bring people to Jesus -- not keep them away."
Mrs. Wagner lowered her eyes, looked away as I finished speaking. And then, without looking up, she said softly, "I move that Josh Morgan be removed from all duties at this church."
The motion died for lack of a second. I breathed a sigh of relief, and she left a few minutes later.
Later, in the parking lot, Josh stopped me before I got into my car. He shook my hand, said quietly, "Pastor, I just wanted to say thanks -- those were some mighty nice things you said, back there." Then he smiled. "I think my brother would have liked to have heard them, himself."
"Brother?"
He nodded. "He's six years older than me, but we always did look a lot alike -- particularly at low resolution."
Realization dawned slowly, and I shook my head -- no wonder he hadn't changed much in nine years! "But if that was your brother -- why didn't you just say so?"
The smile faded. "Because I wanted to see what kind of church this really was. I love my brother, pastor, and I just wouldn't have felt right being part of a church that would exclude him because of who he is. And I think it turned out okay after all."
"I think so, too. And I understand," I answered -- and I did.
"So I just wanted to thank you for what you said."
I nodded, slid into my car without saying anything. I started to close the door, hesitated a moment -- then said softly, "I wish I could take credit, Josh, but I can't. Truth is, I heard those words once before, from another pastor…the first time I was welcomed into a church that chose not to exclude me."
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
Baptism by Water and... by Fire!
by Larry Winebrenner
Matthew 3:1-12
The date was 10 Tevet 3791 and the place was a ford on the River Jordan.
The focus was a young man standing in the shallows of the Jordan. Young, about thirty years of age, but proclaiming the will of God like one of the ancient prophets.
"Look at the crowd, Andy," said one of two men as they arrive from their trek. The scent of their clothing identified them as fishers. Their accent, Galilean. They had journeyed from the Sea of Galilee.
"Yeah," drawled Andy. "Quite a stew -- soldiers, merchants. And look at that. Both Sadducees and Pharisees."
"Spyin' or serious about religion?" muttered Jimmie. He wasn't really looking for a reply.
The two big men walked closer to the preacher but didn't follow any of the group who waded out to the man for baptism. The preaching didn't stop. It was just more sporadic. They watched as they located a spot in the shadow of a mighty rock.
"His name is John," said Jimmie.
"I know," said Andy. "Like your brother."
"Hah! My brother isn't a religious nut. He isn't even religious. He said. 'Why should I wear out my sandals just to go see some loud-mouthed preacher? I haven't lost anything there,' when I asked if he'd like to join us."
Andy laughed.
"Your pop has enough trouble just getting you two to synagogue on sabbath."
"Yeah."
There was a bit of silence. Each man nurtured his own thoughts as he watched the parade of folk going to be baptized. Each watched in wonder as a lone woman made her way out to the baptizer. They wondered what he would do when the woman reached him.
"Do you confess your sins and ask for God to forgive them?" he asked, just as he had asked everyone else.
She spoke in a clear, vibrant voice. "With all my heart."
He murmured some words to her as he baptized her. She returned to shore with shining eyes and a beatific smile.
"I've never been to a baptism before," said Andy.
"It's not common, but not uncommon either. I've heard that some of the religious communities like the Essenes practice it daily."
Andy smiled.
"Like taking a bath daily to wash away their sins. Whadda you think those religious nuts do that needs washing away?"
"I don't know. Pride, maybe. Or jealousy."
"What about those Pharisees wading out to John?" asked Andy, surprise in his voice.
Jimmie looked at three making their way toward John.
"The old boy rapped their knuckles. 'Brood of vipers,' he called them. But there they go."
"He's not old."
"Who?"
"John."
"No," said Jimmie, "but he seems much older than he is."
"I'm goin'," said Andy.
"Where?"
"To get baptized."
"You crazy?" sputtered Jimmie. "You haven't sinned enough to get baptized for."
"Maybe not," admitted his friend. "But when Sadducees and..."
"Sadduccee. There's just one. Three Pharisees. One Sadducee."
Andy laughed again. He was feeling great, feeling like laughing.
"Split all the hairs you want, James, but when men that good feel the need to be baptized, I'm going, too."
Jimmie was taken aback. When Andy used his formal name, it was like his mother correcting him for some indiscretion. And he had his share of indiscretions his mother would never know about.
"All right. I'll go with you. But if he rejects us because we smell like our nets, don't blame me," Jimmie said.
The two waded out to John. The baptizer paused. He hadn't done this with anyone else.
Oh Lord, thought Andy. He's going to tell us we smell too bad to receive baptism.
John's dark penetrating eyes seemed to search the depths of their souls.
"Two righteous men," said John. "Sinful, but righteous. How rare you are. I'm baptizing you with water. But let me tell you something. Another is coming. I'm not worthy to untie his sandals and wash his feet. But you'll see him. And he also will baptize you. But not with water. He's going to baptize you with holiness. He's going to baptize you with... fire!"
He baptized them together; then turned to the next person.
They walked out of the Jordan. Their hearts were afire with wonder, their very souls soared. They sat in the shadow of a mighty rock, not talking.
Finally Andy said, "I'm going to stick around. I want to be this man's disciple."
Jimmie didn't argue.
"I can't," he said. "The old man and Johnny both would come and have my hide. Pop had a conniption fit when I told him I was coming. Mom came to my defense. She's the only one that can do anything with that old thunderbolt father of mine."
"Well, you've been blessed in a way you would never have been blessed if you'd stayed at home. When I was baptized, my heart burned for God. Didn't you feel that way, too?"
"Yeah," said Jimmie as he got up to leave. "But the baptizer said something that will never happen to us."
"You mean the baptism with fire?"
"Yeah."
"Well," said Andy. "I reckon he was just talking figuratively."
"Probably," agreed Jimmie, and headed back toward the Sea of Galilee. "I'll tell Simon where you are."
And one special day of Pentecost was just three years away.
Saving the Afflicted
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19
May he defend the afflicted among the people and save the children of the needy; may he crush the oppressor.
-- Psalm 72:4
Sherman's quote, "War is hell," and his infamous march to the sea portrays a rather violent, unfeeling man. Ask any Southerner and they'll tell you he knew about hell because he was the spawn of the devil if not Old Nick himself.
A closer reading of history reveals quite a different picture. [That noise you hear is my Southern grandmother rolling over inner grave!]
For example, did you know he spared the city of Savannah, Georgia, completely? Nary a house was burned. Not a single person shot or injured.
Now it is true that the mayor of the city led a delegation to meet him and offer not to fight if he would spare the city. That, of course, precipitated the decision. But, if he were the devil he was reputed to be, why would he show mercy? A really violent man would simply have thought how much easier this victory would be.
Another untold story though shows the character of the man. His army cut a swath through the South from Atlanta to the sea. Its purpose was to divide the forces of the South and discourage the people.
Many a historian and genealogical researcher has despaired because nothing was spared. Courthouses and their records, churches and their records, homes with their journals, letters and diaries were all put to the torch.
At one point outside Augusta a young woman was dragged into his tent and accused of theft and spying.
Though frightened out of her wits, the woman hardly more than a child faced her enemy.
"Yes," she said. "I was trying to steal. Steal medicine for my sick child about to die. But I don't know nothin' about spyin'. I guess I would if I knew how, but all I was doin' was tryin' to he'p my afflicted child."
Sherman was impressed by her spunk. He ordered the guard to have a soldier go with her and bring back the child.
"It could be a trap, sir," warned the guard.
"Then I'd advise the soldier who accompanies her to keep very alert," ordered the general.
Shortly the child was brought to Sherman. He saw the pitiful condition of a child on the edge of death.
He rubbed his hand over his brow.
"My God," he muttered. "This is the enemy we're fighting?"
He had the child attended by the regiment surgeon and sent the woman away with medical supplies for the child.
The surgeon stopped by the tent.
"General," he said. "That may have been a grievous mistake. Now she'll nurse him back to health. He'll grow up and plan another revolt and you'll be too old to stop it."
Sherman laughed.
"What if he grows up to be a statesman that resolves disagreements without conflict? I'd hope that for him. I suspect he'll simply grow up to be a dirt farmer trying to eke out a living in a desolate land. But whatever the future, doctor, what do you think is the righteous thing to do with an afflicted child?"
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
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StoryShare, December 5, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
"Just Like -- Us?" by Keith Hewitt
"Baptism by Water and… by Fire" by Larry Winebrenner
"Saving the Afflicted" by Larry Winebrenner
* * * * * * * * *
We like to think we know the people we're close to -- friends, neighbors, the people we share the sanctuary with on Sunday morning. But the truth is that everyone has secrets, and everyone is different. How we deal with those differences says a lot about who we are, and the church we're a part of. Keith Hewitt explores this truth in his story, "Just Like -- Us?"
Just Like -- Us?
by Keith Hewitt
Romans 15:4-13
It was like watching the Zapruder film.
I had seen it already -- had to, since the Chair of the Staff Parish Relations Committee was out of town, and it fell on me to run the emergency meeting -- but that night I had to sit quietly while it the clip was played again and again, a hundred (okay, a dozen) times at normal speed, slow motion, stop action, until every molecule of information had been drained from the 53 seconds of jerky, slightly pixilated cell phone video blown up to fill a 19-inch monitor.
A crowd of picketers; a crowd of counter-picketers; as the lines move, a young, dark haired man comes to the middle of the picture. He is holding a sign that says, "Why can't gays marry?" on top, and "We want to start a family" on the bottom. A woman from the counter-picketers challenges him; the words are lost in the muddle of sound on the video -- but they're not important, not really. The man shouts something back, the woman answers in kind, and reaches for the sign, tries to yank it out of his hands. There's a struggle, which she ends up winning, wrestling the picket sign out of his grip and holding it up like a captured flag.
The young man grabs for the sign, and she pivots away, slashing down with the picket sign as she moves. The corner catches him on the side of the head, and he reels back, one hand clutching the side of his head, blood seeping through his fingers. The counter-picketers nearest him shrink away, even as the angry woman throws down the sign and stamps on it before disappearing back into the crowd.
End of clip, with the young man staring at the camera, bloody, dazed, and mouthing something that can't be heard over the crowd noise.
"And where was this?" one of the committee members asked -- Logan, I think.
"Madison, nine years ago," Mrs. Wagner answered.
"I mean where was this -- the video?" Yes, it was Logan.
"On the internet. Some video site. I found it by accident," she added quickly, "but once I saw it, I had to let you know." She glanced down toward the end of the table with a significant arch of one eyebrow, at the man seated there.
Josh had been quiet the whole time, sitting impassively as we cycled through the same clip, slowing, then stopping to be sure, then continuing on to those last few seconds. When the sign came slicing down was the only time I saw his face change, and then it was a momentary wince while his hand reached for the side of his head, lingered for a moment touching his hair before he lowered it again, clasped it on the table in front of him. As he did, I was struck by how little had changed in nine years.
"Do you have anything to say for yourself?" Mrs. Wagner demanded, before I could speak.
He spread his hands. "What would you like me to say, Mrs. Wagner?"
I rapped on the table with my knuckles; all eyes turned toward me. "If you don't mind, I'd like to chair the meeting." Mrs. Wagner's eyes narrowed, but she said nothing. After a moment of silence, I looked directly toward the end of the table. "Do you have anything you'd like to add to this, Josh?"
He paused, seemed to be searching for the right words, finally shrugged and said, "There's not a lot to say, pastor. It was a lawful demonstration, and as far as I know a lawful counter-demonstration. Right up to the point where that woman grabbed the sign and used it as a weapon, it was just a bunch of folks exercising their First Amendment rights. And she was clearly the one who was in the wrong."
Logan stirred in his seat and said hesitantly, "I don't know. It looked like there was provocation on both sides."
"What I want to know is, what are we going to do about it?" Mrs. Wagner demanded.
"Frankly," I said carefully, "I'm not sure there's anything that needs to be done. Even if there was fault to be found -- and I'm not saying there was -- this was nine years ago. I don't see the relevance today."
"The relevance as you call it, is that that man teaches Sunday school in our church." She looked at Josh. "And you run the youth group." She glared for a moment; then shook her head. "That hardly seems appropriate."
Josh looked back at her steadily. "Are you telling me that a gay man can't do those things for the church?"
"Well, obviously." She looked around the table for support before going on; looking at their expressions, I felt she was probably getting some. "I suppose there might be some things that a homosexual could do --"
"Like cooking? Or decorating the sanctuary?" Josh interjected with a wry smile.
The uneasy titter of laughter that went around the table seemed to anger her. "That is not what I said. Stop putting words in my mouth! I'm just saying that we can't have you in a position where you're with young boys. Nothing personal, it's just that I don't think we can trust you. We can't afford the liability."
"And yet," he said slowly, carefully forming his words around his ideas, "when you assumed I was heterosexual, you didn't mind me being in that same position with young girls."
"That's just apples and oranges, and you know it!"
"Mrs. Wagner," Josh said formally, "I would really feel better if you used a simile that didn't involve fruit."
There was more laughter, and Mrs. Wagner's face was turning shades of red, now. "You know what I mean!"
"I'm afraid I do," he sighed. "Mrs. Wagner, I've been here almost three years, teaching Sunday school for two, and I don't think there's ever been a complaint. Has there?" He shifted his eyes from her to me.
I shook my head. "No, Josh."
"Then why is this suddenly an issue? Before you found this video, was there ever an occasion where my personal lifestyle even came up in conversation? Did anyone question it?"
"No, but that's not the point. Before now, we just assumed you were normal. And now…" She trailed off, gestured at the image frozen on the monitor.
"And now I'm not," he finished for her.
She shrugged.
"So what is it you want to have happen?"
"I think you should resign from teaching -- from any involvement with youth. And if you won't, then the SPRC needs to relieve you of that duty." She looked at me. "Is that right? Or do I have to frame it as a motion?"
I took a deep breath, once more tried to organize the things I'd been thinking for three days, now. I let it out slowly; then said quietly, "Before anyone does anything, or makes a motion, or makes any decisions, I want you to think about this. Until I saw this video, I never gave any thought to Josh's sexuality -- he was just a man, just a person, like everyone else. Now it's out, and there are people that don't seem to be very comfortable with it." There were nods around the table; I went on.
"Mrs. Wagner --" I locked eyes with her, "-- I don't question what you do in the bedroom." The bluntness was calculated for effect, and the look on her face told me it had worked. After a couple of moments of silence, I turned to Logan. "Logan, we've known each other for almost ten years. I don't question what you do, either, and I'm pretty sure you don't think about what I do. At least I hope you don't."
He smiled, flushed a little in the fluorescent light.
I looked at everyone, then -- half a dozen slightly uncomfortable faces around a long table. "Here's the thing -- what I think of as normal is probably different from what you think. My lifestyle might be different from yours, and both of ours might be different from someone else's. How we live our lives and whom we love, how we love -- nobody's quite the same. But what brings us here, what binds us together, is who loves us." I paused, tried to catch the eye of each person around the table, and went on.
"We're all here because somewhere in our life, some time in our life, Jesus touched us. Somewhere, somehow, we became aware of the power of his healing and the possibility of redemption -- and that overshadowed everything else. And I truly believe that what makes us alike is way more important than what makes us different. The church is here to praise God and bring people to Jesus -- not keep them away."
Mrs. Wagner lowered her eyes, looked away as I finished speaking. And then, without looking up, she said softly, "I move that Josh Morgan be removed from all duties at this church."
The motion died for lack of a second. I breathed a sigh of relief, and she left a few minutes later.
Later, in the parking lot, Josh stopped me before I got into my car. He shook my hand, said quietly, "Pastor, I just wanted to say thanks -- those were some mighty nice things you said, back there." Then he smiled. "I think my brother would have liked to have heard them, himself."
"Brother?"
He nodded. "He's six years older than me, but we always did look a lot alike -- particularly at low resolution."
Realization dawned slowly, and I shook my head -- no wonder he hadn't changed much in nine years! "But if that was your brother -- why didn't you just say so?"
The smile faded. "Because I wanted to see what kind of church this really was. I love my brother, pastor, and I just wouldn't have felt right being part of a church that would exclude him because of who he is. And I think it turned out okay after all."
"I think so, too. And I understand," I answered -- and I did.
"So I just wanted to thank you for what you said."
I nodded, slid into my car without saying anything. I started to close the door, hesitated a moment -- then said softly, "I wish I could take credit, Josh, but I can't. Truth is, I heard those words once before, from another pastor…the first time I was welcomed into a church that chose not to exclude me."
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a lay speaker, co-youth leader, and former Sunday school teacher at Wilmot United Methodist Church in Wilmot, Wisconsin. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife and two children.
Baptism by Water and... by Fire!
by Larry Winebrenner
Matthew 3:1-12
The date was 10 Tevet 3791 and the place was a ford on the River Jordan.
The focus was a young man standing in the shallows of the Jordan. Young, about thirty years of age, but proclaiming the will of God like one of the ancient prophets.
"Look at the crowd, Andy," said one of two men as they arrive from their trek. The scent of their clothing identified them as fishers. Their accent, Galilean. They had journeyed from the Sea of Galilee.
"Yeah," drawled Andy. "Quite a stew -- soldiers, merchants. And look at that. Both Sadducees and Pharisees."
"Spyin' or serious about religion?" muttered Jimmie. He wasn't really looking for a reply.
The two big men walked closer to the preacher but didn't follow any of the group who waded out to the man for baptism. The preaching didn't stop. It was just more sporadic. They watched as they located a spot in the shadow of a mighty rock.
"His name is John," said Jimmie.
"I know," said Andy. "Like your brother."
"Hah! My brother isn't a religious nut. He isn't even religious. He said. 'Why should I wear out my sandals just to go see some loud-mouthed preacher? I haven't lost anything there,' when I asked if he'd like to join us."
Andy laughed.
"Your pop has enough trouble just getting you two to synagogue on sabbath."
"Yeah."
There was a bit of silence. Each man nurtured his own thoughts as he watched the parade of folk going to be baptized. Each watched in wonder as a lone woman made her way out to the baptizer. They wondered what he would do when the woman reached him.
"Do you confess your sins and ask for God to forgive them?" he asked, just as he had asked everyone else.
She spoke in a clear, vibrant voice. "With all my heart."
He murmured some words to her as he baptized her. She returned to shore with shining eyes and a beatific smile.
"I've never been to a baptism before," said Andy.
"It's not common, but not uncommon either. I've heard that some of the religious communities like the Essenes practice it daily."
Andy smiled.
"Like taking a bath daily to wash away their sins. Whadda you think those religious nuts do that needs washing away?"
"I don't know. Pride, maybe. Or jealousy."
"What about those Pharisees wading out to John?" asked Andy, surprise in his voice.
Jimmie looked at three making their way toward John.
"The old boy rapped their knuckles. 'Brood of vipers,' he called them. But there they go."
"He's not old."
"Who?"
"John."
"No," said Jimmie, "but he seems much older than he is."
"I'm goin'," said Andy.
"Where?"
"To get baptized."
"You crazy?" sputtered Jimmie. "You haven't sinned enough to get baptized for."
"Maybe not," admitted his friend. "But when Sadducees and..."
"Sadduccee. There's just one. Three Pharisees. One Sadducee."
Andy laughed again. He was feeling great, feeling like laughing.
"Split all the hairs you want, James, but when men that good feel the need to be baptized, I'm going, too."
Jimmie was taken aback. When Andy used his formal name, it was like his mother correcting him for some indiscretion. And he had his share of indiscretions his mother would never know about.
"All right. I'll go with you. But if he rejects us because we smell like our nets, don't blame me," Jimmie said.
The two waded out to John. The baptizer paused. He hadn't done this with anyone else.
Oh Lord, thought Andy. He's going to tell us we smell too bad to receive baptism.
John's dark penetrating eyes seemed to search the depths of their souls.
"Two righteous men," said John. "Sinful, but righteous. How rare you are. I'm baptizing you with water. But let me tell you something. Another is coming. I'm not worthy to untie his sandals and wash his feet. But you'll see him. And he also will baptize you. But not with water. He's going to baptize you with holiness. He's going to baptize you with... fire!"
He baptized them together; then turned to the next person.
They walked out of the Jordan. Their hearts were afire with wonder, their very souls soared. They sat in the shadow of a mighty rock, not talking.
Finally Andy said, "I'm going to stick around. I want to be this man's disciple."
Jimmie didn't argue.
"I can't," he said. "The old man and Johnny both would come and have my hide. Pop had a conniption fit when I told him I was coming. Mom came to my defense. She's the only one that can do anything with that old thunderbolt father of mine."
"Well, you've been blessed in a way you would never have been blessed if you'd stayed at home. When I was baptized, my heart burned for God. Didn't you feel that way, too?"
"Yeah," said Jimmie as he got up to leave. "But the baptizer said something that will never happen to us."
"You mean the baptism with fire?"
"Yeah."
"Well," said Andy. "I reckon he was just talking figuratively."
"Probably," agreed Jimmie, and headed back toward the Sea of Galilee. "I'll tell Simon where you are."
And one special day of Pentecost was just three years away.
Saving the Afflicted
by Larry Winebrenner
Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19
May he defend the afflicted among the people and save the children of the needy; may he crush the oppressor.
-- Psalm 72:4
Sherman's quote, "War is hell," and his infamous march to the sea portrays a rather violent, unfeeling man. Ask any Southerner and they'll tell you he knew about hell because he was the spawn of the devil if not Old Nick himself.
A closer reading of history reveals quite a different picture. [That noise you hear is my Southern grandmother rolling over inner grave!]
For example, did you know he spared the city of Savannah, Georgia, completely? Nary a house was burned. Not a single person shot or injured.
Now it is true that the mayor of the city led a delegation to meet him and offer not to fight if he would spare the city. That, of course, precipitated the decision. But, if he were the devil he was reputed to be, why would he show mercy? A really violent man would simply have thought how much easier this victory would be.
Another untold story though shows the character of the man. His army cut a swath through the South from Atlanta to the sea. Its purpose was to divide the forces of the South and discourage the people.
Many a historian and genealogical researcher has despaired because nothing was spared. Courthouses and their records, churches and their records, homes with their journals, letters and diaries were all put to the torch.
At one point outside Augusta a young woman was dragged into his tent and accused of theft and spying.
Though frightened out of her wits, the woman hardly more than a child faced her enemy.
"Yes," she said. "I was trying to steal. Steal medicine for my sick child about to die. But I don't know nothin' about spyin'. I guess I would if I knew how, but all I was doin' was tryin' to he'p my afflicted child."
Sherman was impressed by her spunk. He ordered the guard to have a soldier go with her and bring back the child.
"It could be a trap, sir," warned the guard.
"Then I'd advise the soldier who accompanies her to keep very alert," ordered the general.
Shortly the child was brought to Sherman. He saw the pitiful condition of a child on the edge of death.
He rubbed his hand over his brow.
"My God," he muttered. "This is the enemy we're fighting?"
He had the child attended by the regiment surgeon and sent the woman away with medical supplies for the child.
The surgeon stopped by the tent.
"General," he said. "That may have been a grievous mistake. Now she'll nurse him back to health. He'll grow up and plan another revolt and you'll be too old to stop it."
Sherman laughed.
"What if he grows up to be a statesman that resolves disagreements without conflict? I'd hope that for him. I suspect he'll simply grow up to be a dirt farmer trying to eke out a living in a desolate land. But whatever the future, doctor, what do you think is the righteous thing to do with an afflicted child?"
Larry Winebrenner is now retired and living in Miami Gardens, Florida. He taught for 33 years at Miami-Dade Community College, and served as pastor of churches in Georgia, Florida, Indiana, and Wisconsin. Larry is currently active at First United Methodist Church in downtown Miami, where he leads discussion in an adult fellowship group on Sunday mornings and preaches occasionally. He has authored two college textbooks, written four novels, served as an editor for three newspapers and an academic journal, and contributed articles to several magazines.
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StoryShare, December 5, 2010, issue.
Copyright 2010 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.
