The Mountain
Stories
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Contents
What's Up This Week
"The Mountain" by Keith Hewitt
"Now That's Scary!" by Frank Ramirez
What's Up This Week
Fear is a powerful thing -- psychologists tell us it's one of the most primal motivators of human behavior. In this week's StoryShare, Keith Hewitt takes us up on a mountain, where a man drags himself up a very long flight of stairs. The drop-off is vast… but still he marches on -- and discovers an unusual companion who gets him talking, and thinking, about his life. Then Frank Ramirez offers a brief meditation on his fears, and on the story from 2 Samuel about the Ark of the Covenant… and he concludes that getting close to God is both dangerous and wonderful beyond words.
* * * * * * * * *
The Mountain
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 24
Tom had had a colonoscopy once, and this was a lot like that.
Not the procedure, but the experience. One minute he had been chatting with a nurse, making nervous small talk, and the next they were telling him everything was done and he was fine. There had been no loss of consciousness, no veil of sleep -- but a look at the clock on the procedure room wall confirmed what must have happened: Time had gotten totally away from him. Half an hour of his life, more or less, was gone, and he had no idea how it had happened or what had occurred during that time -- other than the knowledge that it was gone, there was no sensation of time passed, of things forgotten. It was like someone took the videotape of his life, chopped out a half-hour, and spliced the ends together.
It was a most peculiar feeling.
On this day, if he had been asleep he would have said that he woke up walking, woke up in mid-stride as he climbed a series of stone steps… only he had not been asleep. He was just there all of a sudden. And try as he might, he could not remember what had been happening just before he became aware. He puzzled over this for a time, falling into the rhythm of the steps without having to think. The steps were broad and deep, not too high, and the rhythm was hypnotic: Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up.
Eventually, he realized that the memory was just gone -- there was only the here and now. Okay, so what was the here and now? He stopped short, and the sudden change was almost jarring. He lurched forward, caught himself, and pulled back, standing there with hands on hips, looking around carefully.
The stairway was carved into the side of a mountain, going around it clockwise and ascending at a gentle angle. The steps looked like native stone, and they were almost as deep as he was tall, and wide enough for two people to walk abreast without being too close -- though Tom would not want to be the person on the left edge, without the comfort of a railing to separate him from empty space. He stepped carefully to the edge to look down, and was disappointed for his efforts -- the ground was far below, and there was a layer of clouds or fog diffusing the view, making it all indistinct; he stepped back quickly and unconsciously reached out with one hand to touch the solid comfort of the mountain that formed a wall on the right side of the stairway.
So how far up did this thing go? Cautiously he stepped away from the wall and looked up, taking a hesitant half-step toward the edge, then another, craning his neck to look up the stairway. It was no help. The stairs disappeared around the curve of the mountain as they ascended, and looking directly up gave him no more information, for the summit was also veiled in clouds, white and cottony, at once seeming near enough to touch and yet far, far away.
"So," he murmured, "which way do I go?" He pondered the question for what seemed like a long time, finally arriving at a decision. Or at least a way to make a decision: he reached into his pocket, found his lucky Eisenhower dollar (how did he know it would be there when he didn't even know why he carried it? -- he shrugged off the question) and pulled it out. "Heads I go up, tails I go down," he pronounced, and he carefully flipped the coin.
The coin spun in the air, alternating views of president and moon as it arced to the ground. It landed on the stone with a sharp ping, flipped once more so he could see that is was heads-up… and then slid off the step, over the side. Tom automatically took a step toward the edge, as though he might still catch it, and then pulled back. Maybe somebody down there would find it someday. In the meantime, his decision was made.
He started to climb.
It was slow going. His legs didn't hurt as much as he expected them to, and he never seemed to get out of breath, but his shoulders felt as though he was carrying the weight of the world up the mountain with him. As he climbed, he swung his arms in great circles, then flexed his shoulders, forcing his arms back as far as they would go, then hunching forward. Nothing seemed to help. He decided to stop thinking about it, focusing instead on the climb. Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up…
How high had he climbed? His mind tackled the problem, anxious for the diversion. Let's say six inches of rise per step, so every two steps would be a foot. He tried to gauge how fast he was walking, and decided that he probably was doing about one pace every second. That made it one foot every eight seconds. Sixty seconds in a minute… call it eight feet a minute, just to keep things clean, 'cause he was probably a little off. Not exactly a world record, but if he kept the pace up, that would be 480 feet of elevation in an hour, or a mile of elevation in eleven hours. In about three days he could climb Everest, as long as there were stairs.
Boy, did his shoulders hurt!
"Quite a climb, isn't it?"
The question, in a soft-spoken voice that was still loud in the quiet, was like a punch in the back. Tom jumped, tried to turn, then stumbled -- and he was caught by the strong, sure hands of his visitor, steadying him and then returning him to his feet so he could stand on his own. His heart pounding, Tom stood on the stone step, his back to the mountain, reflecting that it was probably a good thing that he couldn't remember when he had last eaten or had something to drink.
"Who the… who are you?" he finally forced out, and was pleased that his voice didn't tremble.
The man smiled. "Name's Josh. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He looked at Tom closely. "You okay?"
"Yeah, it's just that…" He hesitated, thought about how crazy he would sound if he shared everything, and cut himself off. "Never mind, I was just pretty deep in thought. My name's Tom."
The newcomer smiled. "Good to see you, Tom. Mind some company for a bit?" He raised his face so his eyes looked toward the summit -- or where the summit would be, beyond the clouds. "It's a long way up."
"Sure, thanks. That would be great." Tom shook off the last of the chill that had shot through him and started to climb once more. Josh fell in beside him, keeping his pace. "So, how far up is it?" Tom asked cautiously.
"You know, I can't tell you. I don't know how I'd measure it." He looked at Tom and smiled again. "I guess it's far enough up to get where we're going."
Tom shook his head. "Philosophy major, right?"
Josh laughed softly, and Tom felt warmth from him. "Not exactly." They continued in silence for a few stairs -- Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- and then the newcomer said, "You know what helps pass the time?"
"What's that?" Tom asked politely, flexing his shoulders again. He couldn't believe how much they hurt.
"Talking. Tell me about yourself."
Stalker! Tom screamed in his head, and hesitated.
"Tell you what," Josh said a moment later, "I'll start. Let's talk about what it was like being a kid. I grew up in a small town -- and it was kind of hard sometimes. My folks were married, but my dad wasn't really my father, he was my stepdad. He died when I was young, and I didn't get to meet my real father 'til a long time after that."
Tom nodded, wondering what he was going to share, because when he tried to think about himself, about his life, there didn't seem to be anything there… and suddenly, parts of it started to come back, like grains of sand dribbling through the neck of an hourglass, every grain a moment, a memory. "I was 14 when my dad died," he said, grasping at the first relevant grain of time.
There was a look of shared pain in Josh's eyes. "That must have sucked," he said sympathetically.
"Yeah, it did," Tom said slowly, feeling the memories flow back. It was like they had been locked away, then suddenly freed by giving voice to them. The words tumbled one after another as he talked about the day it happened, and the days and years that followed, finally losing momentum as he got farther from the event. "The stupid thing is, as I got older I always felt a little jealous of people my age who still had their fathers," he finished. "It's dumb, I know," he said apologetically.
"Not at all," Josh assured him. "I totally get that. What about the rest of your family -- brothers, sisters, wife, kids?"
Tom floundered for a moment, grasped at another grain of memory, then gathered in another and another. "I guess I wasn't much good at that stuff," he said weakly, reviewing the memories, and began to talk about how he had drifted away from his sisters, and eventually his mother. Somehow that segued into his other relationships, and now he found himself on the banks of a fast-flowing river of memories; any time he started to run out of things to say, he could dip his hand into the river and come out with more moments from his life.
As he spoke, they climbed on. Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up…It happened without thought; they climbed without tiring as memories flowed between them. When his dip into the river of memories brought up something that made him hesitate, Josh would tell something about himself, or probe gently with a question that made it easier to talk. Girls, then women -- a few with whom he'd actually had relationships, more that he hadn't, much as he wanted to. Dating, then marriage. Twice. Children that somehow never seemed to take the place they should have in his life, because he didn't make the time for them. That almost-affair he'd had once, the one that never quite got off the ground because he'd lost his nerve. They all flowed back, they all flowed through him, and he talked about them in depth, not sparing himself even as the realization of those moments of weakness or darkness seemed to be happening right in front of him; every stray thought he'd ever had seemed to take on a life of its own.
Sometime later -- it must have been hours, it might have been days -- the story of his life moved on to other things. Friends he had made and used; business deals that brought him money or commercial success, but wounded his soul… they were all there. In every detail they were all there, much as he had tried to erase them. Yes, there were moments where things had gone well, places he had risen above himself or set aside convenience for right, but they were depressingly few and far between, tiny nuggets in an endless slurry of mud.
The torrent faded to a stream, and finally to a trickle -- and then the memories stopped, leaving him in the puddle of a life he now realized had been poorly spent. No wonder he'd not wanted to remember, he thought, and felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Still he climbed, hardly able to see the steps. Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up…
"My folks made me go to church," Josh said quietly. "How about yours?"
Tom shrugged. "I went. Not as much as I should have. I went away from church for a long time, but eventually I found my way back. But it wasn't the center of my life by any means." He shrugged again. "I was too busy with other things, I guess."
"I guess," Josh repeated, and slowed to a stop. Tom went up one step, then noticed his companion was no longer pacing him. He stopped and turned to look back at him. The light -- how long had it been light? he wondered, and put the thought aside -- struck Josh and lit his face, etching his strong features against the background of open space. "Did you learn anything there?" he asked.
Tom frowned. "Not enough. I didn't make it a part of my life, I didn't drop everything and follow God. I was no Mother Teresa, that's for sure. But I did finally realize that Jesus came for people like me -- even for people like me," he repeated slowly, turning the phrase over carefully, as though it was one more memory that had just come to him. "I remember that someone once told me Jesus was the best of us, sent to redeem the worst of us. I'd always hoped there was something to all that, that me believing in him would make some difference. But I was still me -- a life of mistakes."
"Accepting Jesus was never meant to make you perfect," Josh said quietly, "just to make you realize that you never could be. And that you didn't have to be." He stepped up, level with Tom, then reached out and touched his arm gently. "How are those shoulders?"
"Did I tell you they hurt?" Tom asked, frowning, and flexed his arms, then his shoulders experimentally. There was nothing -- no pain, no sensation of weight. The frown faded to puzzlement. "I don't understand."
"You've shed your burdens, Tom. All of those things -- all the mistakes, all the shortcomings, all the sins -- you turned them over to me. And now they're gone."
"But I didn't… I don't…" Tom stammered, staring at Joshua as the tears returned. Joshua smiled and stepped close to embrace him, and the warmth of his embrace made everything else fade.
A long time later, he released Tom and stepped back. He nodded up the stairs, now fading around the curve of the mountain, disappearing beyond a veil of cloud that was suddenly close enough to touch. "I brought you this far, brother -- I think you can make it the rest of the way on your own. It's not much farther."
Tom looked up the stairway, in the direction Joshua had looked, then turned back to him, about to speak… but he was gone. Tom turned around completely, as though he might somehow be clinging to the rock wall of the mountain, but there was no sign of him. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and sidled up to the outer edge of the stairs, looking down the way they had come.
No sign of him there, but the clouds were gone now, burned off by an eternal sun, and on down the mountain he could see hundreds, thousands -- an uncountable number of stairways clinging to the mountainside, each gradually winding its way toward the summit, like looking down a screw at an infinite number of threads. And if he leaned out and peered closely at the curving paths of the stairs nearest him -- but still far away -- he could see movement: pairs of dark specks making their way toward eternity.
He watched for some time, and then he heard Josh's voice saying, "It's not much farther." He smiled and turned away from the panorama, then began to climb once more.
His steps were light and quick, and the memories that were left carried him home.
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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Now That's Scary!
by Frank Ramirez
2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19
The anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; and God struck him there because he reached out his hand to the ark; and he died there beside the ark of God.
-- 2 Samuel 6:7
I suspect everyone had special fears when they were younger. If we're lucky we outgrow those fears.
One of my great fears when I was young was army ants. There were no army ants living within thousands and thousands of miles of me, but that didn't matter. I'd seen the devastation they'd leave behind after rushing through an area on a documentary when I was very young, and the images didn't leave me. As I lay in bed at night I was sure the rustling of the grass outside my window was the arrival of millions of army ants who would shortly overwhelm me and leave behind nothing but a few bones before scurrying on their way.
By the way, I was also afraid of a strange series of folds in the curtain of my bedroom that reminded me of Frankenstein's face glaring down at me. And there were other fears as well.
But one of the most frightening things I endured as a child was this particular story. As a child, I was appalled when I came upon the story of Uzzah and the ark of the covenant.
It was so unfair. More important, I knew if I'd have been standing there in Uzzah's place, I'd have put out my hand to right the Ark. I would have expected to be rewarded for it. Big headlines, LOCAL BOY SAVES ARK OF THE COVENANT FROM FALLING! Congratulations from my parents and teachers and the admiration of my friends.
But I would have died if I'd have touched it! Now that's frightening.
The story, as we have it in 2 Samuel 6, may be simply told. King David unified the northern and southern kingdoms and conquered Jerusalem to make it his own District of Columbia. Then, in an effort to make his capital secure, he prepared to take the ark of the covenant to the holy city. There was great singing and dancing. Suddenly the ark began to fall. Uzzah, reacting as most of us would, reached out to prevent this terrible calamity. For his pains, he was struck dead.
When I asked questions about this story I was told the whole matter was a "mystery." We students quickly learned that "mystery," when applied to God, was a synonym for "Shut up, if you know what's good for you." We would understand mysteries, we were told, in the next life. For now, we had to accept them.
I couldn't accept this story. Uzzah did what I would have done. I just knew it. Here I was, eight years old, and I would have been as dead as he. Who wouldn't put a hand out to protect the ark?
Things change. Now that I'm older when I come before the throne of grace I come willingly -- but also with just a little caution. We sometimes forget that while God is good, he is also dangerous -- in the same way that electricity is dangerous. One day an otherwise careful lineman may neglect to remove his wedding ring, make a mistake, and get electrocuted. There is no appeal to such an instant death.
Strange to say, it is dangerous to get too close to God. It is also good beyond words to do so.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and has served as a pastor for nearly thirty years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
**************
StoryShare, July 12, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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
"The Mountain" by Keith Hewitt
"Now That's Scary!" by Frank Ramirez
What's Up This Week
Fear is a powerful thing -- psychologists tell us it's one of the most primal motivators of human behavior. In this week's StoryShare, Keith Hewitt takes us up on a mountain, where a man drags himself up a very long flight of stairs. The drop-off is vast… but still he marches on -- and discovers an unusual companion who gets him talking, and thinking, about his life. Then Frank Ramirez offers a brief meditation on his fears, and on the story from 2 Samuel about the Ark of the Covenant… and he concludes that getting close to God is both dangerous and wonderful beyond words.
* * * * * * * * *
The Mountain
by Keith Hewitt
Psalm 24
Tom had had a colonoscopy once, and this was a lot like that.
Not the procedure, but the experience. One minute he had been chatting with a nurse, making nervous small talk, and the next they were telling him everything was done and he was fine. There had been no loss of consciousness, no veil of sleep -- but a look at the clock on the procedure room wall confirmed what must have happened: Time had gotten totally away from him. Half an hour of his life, more or less, was gone, and he had no idea how it had happened or what had occurred during that time -- other than the knowledge that it was gone, there was no sensation of time passed, of things forgotten. It was like someone took the videotape of his life, chopped out a half-hour, and spliced the ends together.
It was a most peculiar feeling.
On this day, if he had been asleep he would have said that he woke up walking, woke up in mid-stride as he climbed a series of stone steps… only he had not been asleep. He was just there all of a sudden. And try as he might, he could not remember what had been happening just before he became aware. He puzzled over this for a time, falling into the rhythm of the steps without having to think. The steps were broad and deep, not too high, and the rhythm was hypnotic: Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up.
Eventually, he realized that the memory was just gone -- there was only the here and now. Okay, so what was the here and now? He stopped short, and the sudden change was almost jarring. He lurched forward, caught himself, and pulled back, standing there with hands on hips, looking around carefully.
The stairway was carved into the side of a mountain, going around it clockwise and ascending at a gentle angle. The steps looked like native stone, and they were almost as deep as he was tall, and wide enough for two people to walk abreast without being too close -- though Tom would not want to be the person on the left edge, without the comfort of a railing to separate him from empty space. He stepped carefully to the edge to look down, and was disappointed for his efforts -- the ground was far below, and there was a layer of clouds or fog diffusing the view, making it all indistinct; he stepped back quickly and unconsciously reached out with one hand to touch the solid comfort of the mountain that formed a wall on the right side of the stairway.
So how far up did this thing go? Cautiously he stepped away from the wall and looked up, taking a hesitant half-step toward the edge, then another, craning his neck to look up the stairway. It was no help. The stairs disappeared around the curve of the mountain as they ascended, and looking directly up gave him no more information, for the summit was also veiled in clouds, white and cottony, at once seeming near enough to touch and yet far, far away.
"So," he murmured, "which way do I go?" He pondered the question for what seemed like a long time, finally arriving at a decision. Or at least a way to make a decision: he reached into his pocket, found his lucky Eisenhower dollar (how did he know it would be there when he didn't even know why he carried it? -- he shrugged off the question) and pulled it out. "Heads I go up, tails I go down," he pronounced, and he carefully flipped the coin.
The coin spun in the air, alternating views of president and moon as it arced to the ground. It landed on the stone with a sharp ping, flipped once more so he could see that is was heads-up… and then slid off the step, over the side. Tom automatically took a step toward the edge, as though he might still catch it, and then pulled back. Maybe somebody down there would find it someday. In the meantime, his decision was made.
He started to climb.
It was slow going. His legs didn't hurt as much as he expected them to, and he never seemed to get out of breath, but his shoulders felt as though he was carrying the weight of the world up the mountain with him. As he climbed, he swung his arms in great circles, then flexed his shoulders, forcing his arms back as far as they would go, then hunching forward. Nothing seemed to help. He decided to stop thinking about it, focusing instead on the climb. Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up…
How high had he climbed? His mind tackled the problem, anxious for the diversion. Let's say six inches of rise per step, so every two steps would be a foot. He tried to gauge how fast he was walking, and decided that he probably was doing about one pace every second. That made it one foot every eight seconds. Sixty seconds in a minute… call it eight feet a minute, just to keep things clean, 'cause he was probably a little off. Not exactly a world record, but if he kept the pace up, that would be 480 feet of elevation in an hour, or a mile of elevation in eleven hours. In about three days he could climb Everest, as long as there were stairs.
Boy, did his shoulders hurt!
"Quite a climb, isn't it?"
The question, in a soft-spoken voice that was still loud in the quiet, was like a punch in the back. Tom jumped, tried to turn, then stumbled -- and he was caught by the strong, sure hands of his visitor, steadying him and then returning him to his feet so he could stand on his own. His heart pounding, Tom stood on the stone step, his back to the mountain, reflecting that it was probably a good thing that he couldn't remember when he had last eaten or had something to drink.
"Who the… who are you?" he finally forced out, and was pleased that his voice didn't tremble.
The man smiled. "Name's Josh. Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He looked at Tom closely. "You okay?"
"Yeah, it's just that…" He hesitated, thought about how crazy he would sound if he shared everything, and cut himself off. "Never mind, I was just pretty deep in thought. My name's Tom."
The newcomer smiled. "Good to see you, Tom. Mind some company for a bit?" He raised his face so his eyes looked toward the summit -- or where the summit would be, beyond the clouds. "It's a long way up."
"Sure, thanks. That would be great." Tom shook off the last of the chill that had shot through him and started to climb once more. Josh fell in beside him, keeping his pace. "So, how far up is it?" Tom asked cautiously.
"You know, I can't tell you. I don't know how I'd measure it." He looked at Tom and smiled again. "I guess it's far enough up to get where we're going."
Tom shook his head. "Philosophy major, right?"
Josh laughed softly, and Tom felt warmth from him. "Not exactly." They continued in silence for a few stairs -- Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- and then the newcomer said, "You know what helps pass the time?"
"What's that?" Tom asked politely, flexing his shoulders again. He couldn't believe how much they hurt.
"Talking. Tell me about yourself."
Stalker! Tom screamed in his head, and hesitated.
"Tell you what," Josh said a moment later, "I'll start. Let's talk about what it was like being a kid. I grew up in a small town -- and it was kind of hard sometimes. My folks were married, but my dad wasn't really my father, he was my stepdad. He died when I was young, and I didn't get to meet my real father 'til a long time after that."
Tom nodded, wondering what he was going to share, because when he tried to think about himself, about his life, there didn't seem to be anything there… and suddenly, parts of it started to come back, like grains of sand dribbling through the neck of an hourglass, every grain a moment, a memory. "I was 14 when my dad died," he said, grasping at the first relevant grain of time.
There was a look of shared pain in Josh's eyes. "That must have sucked," he said sympathetically.
"Yeah, it did," Tom said slowly, feeling the memories flow back. It was like they had been locked away, then suddenly freed by giving voice to them. The words tumbled one after another as he talked about the day it happened, and the days and years that followed, finally losing momentum as he got farther from the event. "The stupid thing is, as I got older I always felt a little jealous of people my age who still had their fathers," he finished. "It's dumb, I know," he said apologetically.
"Not at all," Josh assured him. "I totally get that. What about the rest of your family -- brothers, sisters, wife, kids?"
Tom floundered for a moment, grasped at another grain of memory, then gathered in another and another. "I guess I wasn't much good at that stuff," he said weakly, reviewing the memories, and began to talk about how he had drifted away from his sisters, and eventually his mother. Somehow that segued into his other relationships, and now he found himself on the banks of a fast-flowing river of memories; any time he started to run out of things to say, he could dip his hand into the river and come out with more moments from his life.
As he spoke, they climbed on. Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up…It happened without thought; they climbed without tiring as memories flowed between them. When his dip into the river of memories brought up something that made him hesitate, Josh would tell something about himself, or probe gently with a question that made it easier to talk. Girls, then women -- a few with whom he'd actually had relationships, more that he hadn't, much as he wanted to. Dating, then marriage. Twice. Children that somehow never seemed to take the place they should have in his life, because he didn't make the time for them. That almost-affair he'd had once, the one that never quite got off the ground because he'd lost his nerve. They all flowed back, they all flowed through him, and he talked about them in depth, not sparing himself even as the realization of those moments of weakness or darkness seemed to be happening right in front of him; every stray thought he'd ever had seemed to take on a life of its own.
Sometime later -- it must have been hours, it might have been days -- the story of his life moved on to other things. Friends he had made and used; business deals that brought him money or commercial success, but wounded his soul… they were all there. In every detail they were all there, much as he had tried to erase them. Yes, there were moments where things had gone well, places he had risen above himself or set aside convenience for right, but they were depressingly few and far between, tiny nuggets in an endless slurry of mud.
The torrent faded to a stream, and finally to a trickle -- and then the memories stopped, leaving him in the puddle of a life he now realized had been poorly spent. No wonder he'd not wanted to remember, he thought, and felt the sting of tears in his eyes. Still he climbed, hardly able to see the steps. Step-Step-Step-Step-Step Up -- Step-Step-Step-Step Up…
"My folks made me go to church," Josh said quietly. "How about yours?"
Tom shrugged. "I went. Not as much as I should have. I went away from church for a long time, but eventually I found my way back. But it wasn't the center of my life by any means." He shrugged again. "I was too busy with other things, I guess."
"I guess," Josh repeated, and slowed to a stop. Tom went up one step, then noticed his companion was no longer pacing him. He stopped and turned to look back at him. The light -- how long had it been light? he wondered, and put the thought aside -- struck Josh and lit his face, etching his strong features against the background of open space. "Did you learn anything there?" he asked.
Tom frowned. "Not enough. I didn't make it a part of my life, I didn't drop everything and follow God. I was no Mother Teresa, that's for sure. But I did finally realize that Jesus came for people like me -- even for people like me," he repeated slowly, turning the phrase over carefully, as though it was one more memory that had just come to him. "I remember that someone once told me Jesus was the best of us, sent to redeem the worst of us. I'd always hoped there was something to all that, that me believing in him would make some difference. But I was still me -- a life of mistakes."
"Accepting Jesus was never meant to make you perfect," Josh said quietly, "just to make you realize that you never could be. And that you didn't have to be." He stepped up, level with Tom, then reached out and touched his arm gently. "How are those shoulders?"
"Did I tell you they hurt?" Tom asked, frowning, and flexed his arms, then his shoulders experimentally. There was nothing -- no pain, no sensation of weight. The frown faded to puzzlement. "I don't understand."
"You've shed your burdens, Tom. All of those things -- all the mistakes, all the shortcomings, all the sins -- you turned them over to me. And now they're gone."
"But I didn't… I don't…" Tom stammered, staring at Joshua as the tears returned. Joshua smiled and stepped close to embrace him, and the warmth of his embrace made everything else fade.
A long time later, he released Tom and stepped back. He nodded up the stairs, now fading around the curve of the mountain, disappearing beyond a veil of cloud that was suddenly close enough to touch. "I brought you this far, brother -- I think you can make it the rest of the way on your own. It's not much farther."
Tom looked up the stairway, in the direction Joshua had looked, then turned back to him, about to speak… but he was gone. Tom turned around completely, as though he might somehow be clinging to the rock wall of the mountain, but there was no sign of him. He hesitated, took a deep breath, and sidled up to the outer edge of the stairs, looking down the way they had come.
No sign of him there, but the clouds were gone now, burned off by an eternal sun, and on down the mountain he could see hundreds, thousands -- an uncountable number of stairways clinging to the mountainside, each gradually winding its way toward the summit, like looking down a screw at an infinite number of threads. And if he leaned out and peered closely at the curving paths of the stairs nearest him -- but still far away -- he could see movement: pairs of dark specks making their way toward eternity.
He watched for some time, and then he heard Josh's voice saying, "It's not much farther." He smiled and turned away from the panorama, then began to climb once more.
His steps were light and quick, and the memories that were left carried him home.
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, and works in the IT department at a major public safety testing organization.
Now That's Scary!
by Frank Ramirez
2 Samuel 6:1-5, 12b-19
The anger of the Lord was kindled against Uzzah; and God struck him there because he reached out his hand to the ark; and he died there beside the ark of God.
-- 2 Samuel 6:7
I suspect everyone had special fears when they were younger. If we're lucky we outgrow those fears.
One of my great fears when I was young was army ants. There were no army ants living within thousands and thousands of miles of me, but that didn't matter. I'd seen the devastation they'd leave behind after rushing through an area on a documentary when I was very young, and the images didn't leave me. As I lay in bed at night I was sure the rustling of the grass outside my window was the arrival of millions of army ants who would shortly overwhelm me and leave behind nothing but a few bones before scurrying on their way.
By the way, I was also afraid of a strange series of folds in the curtain of my bedroom that reminded me of Frankenstein's face glaring down at me. And there were other fears as well.
But one of the most frightening things I endured as a child was this particular story. As a child, I was appalled when I came upon the story of Uzzah and the ark of the covenant.
It was so unfair. More important, I knew if I'd have been standing there in Uzzah's place, I'd have put out my hand to right the Ark. I would have expected to be rewarded for it. Big headlines, LOCAL BOY SAVES ARK OF THE COVENANT FROM FALLING! Congratulations from my parents and teachers and the admiration of my friends.
But I would have died if I'd have touched it! Now that's frightening.
The story, as we have it in 2 Samuel 6, may be simply told. King David unified the northern and southern kingdoms and conquered Jerusalem to make it his own District of Columbia. Then, in an effort to make his capital secure, he prepared to take the ark of the covenant to the holy city. There was great singing and dancing. Suddenly the ark began to fall. Uzzah, reacting as most of us would, reached out to prevent this terrible calamity. For his pains, he was struck dead.
When I asked questions about this story I was told the whole matter was a "mystery." We students quickly learned that "mystery," when applied to God, was a synonym for "Shut up, if you know what's good for you." We would understand mysteries, we were told, in the next life. For now, we had to accept them.
I couldn't accept this story. Uzzah did what I would have done. I just knew it. Here I was, eight years old, and I would have been as dead as he. Who wouldn't put a hand out to protect the ark?
Things change. Now that I'm older when I come before the throne of grace I come willingly -- but also with just a little caution. We sometimes forget that while God is good, he is also dangerous -- in the same way that electricity is dangerous. One day an otherwise careful lineman may neglect to remove his wedding ring, make a mistake, and get electrocuted. There is no appeal to such an instant death.
Strange to say, it is dangerous to get too close to God. It is also good beyond words to do so.
Frank Ramirez is a native of Southern California and has served as a pastor for nearly thirty years in Church of the Brethren congregations in Los Angeles, California; Elkhart, Indiana; and Everett, Pennsylvania. A graduate of LaVerne College and Bethany Theological Seminary, Ramirez is the author of numerous books, articles, and short stories. His CSS titles include Partners in Healing, He Took a Towel, The Bee Attitudes, and three volumes of Lectionary Worship Aids.
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StoryShare, July 12, 2009, issue.
Copyright 2009 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.
