At The Rail
Stories
Object:
Contents
"At the Rail" by Keith Hewitt
"Two Cities. One God." by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
At the Rail
by Keith Hewitt
Ephesians 2:11-22
The sanctuary was dark, the neat rows of narrow stained-glass windows on either side screened from sunlight by the trees, so that only a smattering of light came through and spilled in pools of subdued color on the wood floor. Half a dozen dark, polished pews lined either side of the center aisle, standing empty, waiting for Sunday to come so they could serve a purpose once more. At the front, behind an oak rail, stood a massive wooden assembly that might have been a pulpit or a siege tower, meant for battering down intransigent sinners and their errant ways; the altar, behind, was a simple wooden table, almost an afterthought.
It was there that Obadiah lay, now finally wept out, though the tears had formed puddles on the floor, cold to the touch of his cheek. He opened his eyes and raised his head, looked up at the simple wooden cross that was set upon the altar and wondered why... what was the sense, what was the plan?
Why this long, bloody journey... a moment of triumph... and then death?
"If anyone can understand, I reckon you can," he said softly. "But I sure can't." He lowered his head once more and stared at the floor...
"You know what I don't understand?"
The question crackled through the sanctuary; Obadiah jerked his head up, looked fearfully at the cross -- then raised himself up to a sitting position and turned his head, realizing that the voice had come from behind, not before, him. Grief and fear struggled briefly, settled on tension.
The speaker was a white man, Obadiah's age or a little younger -- the thin, fair fuzz on his face said the man hadn't shaved for a while, but didn't really need to, either. His face was drawn, eyes almost hollow, and the ragged white shirt he wore hung on him like clothes draped over the back of a chair; his gray woolen pants were cinched in as tightly as the belt would take them and were worn almost through between his thighs, as though he had done a lot of walking. His shoes -- what was left of them -- confirmed that surmise.
Soldier, Obadiah thought. He didn't need to see the forage cap or the uniform tunic. He had seen enough of these shuffling scarecrows marching by to know one when he saw him out of uniform. He sat, mute, while his mind raced.
"What I don't understand, is what a colored man is doing here in this church -- my church," the soldier said... and Obadiah sensed real wonder in his voice, though it was still loud in the confines of the sanctuary.
Obadiah hesitated, discreetly looked the soldier over to see if he was carrying a weapon, then stood up and dusted off his hands on the seat of his pants, stood with feet apart, ready to fight or flee as the situation demanded. "I needed a place to do me some cryin,' and some prayin'," he explained as neutrally as he could, all the while eyeing the soldier. "I needed me a church -- I didn't know this one was yours. I'm sorry, sir, truly I am."
The soldier took a few steps closer to him, and Obadiah tensed. "You needed you a church, and it didn't much matter which one. Is that about it?"
Obadiah nodded, a quick bob of his head. Imperceptibly, the muscles in his legs tightened, and his heart began to speed up.
"And why is that -- what should I call you? Seems to me if you're going to break into my church, I should at least know your name."
"Obadiah. Sir," he added, as an afterthought.
The soldier nodded. "So why is that, Obadiah? What caused you to violate common decency in this way?"
Obadiah cast his eyes down, thought better of it and raised his face, looked the soldier directly in the eye. "The news, sir. About Mister Lincoln -- they shot him dead! You heard, didn't you? They shot him dead!" His voice started to climb; he forced it down. "You did hear, didn't you?"
The soldier nodded, sighed. "And that is exactly what I expected you to say. No good excuse, but you were so overcome with grief you had to violate this church, is that it?"
Obadiah shrugged. "More or less. Sir."
"So I guess, with the whole world turned upside down and inside out, you figured it would be just dandy to sneak into a church not your own, and weep for your savior, your great Emancipator?"
Obadiah nodded, bobbed his head again. "Yes, sir, I guess I did." He looked around, took in the world with a sweep of his hands and frowned. "A day like this don't come along every day, sir. But when it does, I reckon I need a church to help me through it."
The soldier took a few more steps closer to him, his expression mask like in the shadowed interior of the sanctuary. "I reckon that's true," the soldier repeated softly, echoing Obadiah. "Let me tell you a secret, Obadiah," he added, closer, now. "I just heard the same news... and I'm here for the same reason."
Obadiah frowned. "For Mister Lincoln -- sir?"
The smile that split the soldier's weary face was less amused, more bemused. "For Mister Lincoln," he agreed. "I spent three years and four months marching and fighting -- I saw things I never thought I'd see, did things I don't want to believe I did. For three years and four months, I did my utmost duty to pull us out of the Union, and I shed blood to do it." He paused, blinked, his eyes fixed on things unseen by anyone else, then visibly snapped back to here-and-now. "My comrades and me, we were sworn enemies of the Union. And then, one day, it was over."
"Over?"
"General Lee surrendered, and my own division surrendered two days later. Lined up in ranks and marched in front of some damned Union officer, so spit-and-polished he made me want to vomit. But you know what he said, when it was all over?"
"No sir," Obadiah answered uncomfortably. No white man had ever spoken to him this way -- had shared so openly, not with the confidence of arrogance but the simple need to tell the truth.
"This smarmy little general called us to attention and told us that the war was over. He told us that the president had ordered that we be given parole and allowed to return home -- to live in peace, with our fellow citizens in the restored United States."
"He did?"
"He did. Then he said that the president, himself, had told him that we'd been fighting long enough... it was time to start binding our wounds so we could be one nation, again." He paused, shrugged. "I started walking home the same day. I didn't understand it -- I didn't understand how a man who could be so driven to win the war could be just as driven to forgive us all, to let bygones be bygones... but I didn't care. And then, today, right back there in town, I heard the news. That he was gone. I thought for a little bit, to figure out how I felt about that -- and then I knew. I had to come here to have a little conversation with God."
"I understand," Obadiah said simply.
"I'm not so sure of that -- but you may," the soldier admitted. "What I am sure of is this: we are from two different worlds, Obadiah -- but that man, dying -- he brought us together. He set us both free, and I guess that says something."
Obadiah hesitated, then stepped down the one step from the altar and opened the narrow gate in the rail, held it for the soldier. The soldier stepped up to the rail, stared at Obadiah, then looked down at the gate, back at him... and nodded wordlessly. He stepped through, and Obadiah let the gate swing closed.
Together, they approached the altar to mourn -- not as enemies, but brothers.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
Two Cities. One God.
by Frank Ramirez
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
He said to them, "Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while." For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.
-- Mark 6:31
My guess is that relatively few Christians today are familiar at all with the work of the fourth-century theologian Augustine of Hippo (354-430). This most influential of ancient writers as a young man he lived a wild life. His mother, who was a Christian, tirelessly prayed for him. And even though it did not appear as if her prayers were having any effect, she did not lose hope.
Augustine himself was all the time looking for the answers. He took advantage of the great marketplace of ideas that existed in the Roman Empire and tried the philosophies of many of the great religions of his day -- but always, he came up against the fact that he was sinful, in his own eyes a failure, with no hope, despite his best efforts of changing.
Perhaps part of the problem was that when he finally discovered Christianity, the faith of his mother, he prayed to the God he fervently believed in -- but his prayer that he might be converted -- but not yet! Not yet! Not until he had the chance to live a little more. He did not want to give in.
Augustine wrote of the controversy in his heart -- his struggle with his sinful self, of self against self. Then one day in 386, he became overwhelmed, crying aloud, weeping and wailing, while his friend Alypius stood by silently, waiting -- waiting until Augustine finally opened the Christian scriptures and read, from Paul's letter to the Romans 13:13-14: "... let us live honorably as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy. Instead, put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires."
His conversion was every bit as dramatic as it was complete. When Augustine gave his heart to God, he went all the way. Once captured by God, he sought to escape from the world, to found a monastic community where he might study scripture in silence. He wanted to go to that quiet place that Jesus spoke of to his disciples, that there, with a few friends, he might read the scriptures, pray, and remain untainted by the world until he was called out of life into his eternal reward.
No such luck. But then, Jesus was no more successful in finding that quiet place when compassion called him to serve those who were like sheep without a shepherd.
In those days churches drafted their pastors and made them serve for life. Augustine studiously avoided those cities that were looking for pastors because he wanted no part of the world. At one point he traveled to the city of Hippo in North Africa because he knew they already had a pastor. Unfortunately the pastor only spoke Greek and the people of the city spoke Latin. They drafted Augustine and he spent the rest of his life in that city serving as its pastor.
The result is that the voluminous writings of that theologian were written and influenced by the fact that Augustine had to deal with the day-to-day problems of an ordinary church. He was no ivory tower writer.
So when the Roman Empire fell apart, Augustine, who had grown accustomed to serving people in their everyday lives, had everyday answers for their problems.
Many wondered, as the barbarians destroyed Rome, if Christianity -- and God -- had failed and fallen with the eternal city, which by that time had endured over a thousand years.
Not so, Augustine insisted. There are two cities, Augustine would insist: a City of God and a City of the World. Rome was not to be mistaken for heaven. In his great work, The City of God, Augustine compared the fate of those who suffered with the fall of Rome with the sufferings of Job, something that had to be endured. One who lost everything in political disaster might become as poor as Job was, yet remain rich spiritually, heavily tried, but not overcome, able to say that the Lord has given and the Lord has taken away -- blessed be the name of the Lord.
Had Augustine succeeded in retreating to the desert, he might never have shared the wisdom that shaped Christian thought for the next millennium, anymore than those who were like sheep without a shepherd would ever have been fed, literally as well as spiritually, if Jesus had not taught his disciples -- and us -- to have compassion for them and to feed his sheep.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 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 22, 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.
"At the Rail" by Keith Hewitt
"Two Cities. One God." by Frank Ramirez
* * * * * * * *
At the Rail
by Keith Hewitt
Ephesians 2:11-22
The sanctuary was dark, the neat rows of narrow stained-glass windows on either side screened from sunlight by the trees, so that only a smattering of light came through and spilled in pools of subdued color on the wood floor. Half a dozen dark, polished pews lined either side of the center aisle, standing empty, waiting for Sunday to come so they could serve a purpose once more. At the front, behind an oak rail, stood a massive wooden assembly that might have been a pulpit or a siege tower, meant for battering down intransigent sinners and their errant ways; the altar, behind, was a simple wooden table, almost an afterthought.
It was there that Obadiah lay, now finally wept out, though the tears had formed puddles on the floor, cold to the touch of his cheek. He opened his eyes and raised his head, looked up at the simple wooden cross that was set upon the altar and wondered why... what was the sense, what was the plan?
Why this long, bloody journey... a moment of triumph... and then death?
"If anyone can understand, I reckon you can," he said softly. "But I sure can't." He lowered his head once more and stared at the floor...
"You know what I don't understand?"
The question crackled through the sanctuary; Obadiah jerked his head up, looked fearfully at the cross -- then raised himself up to a sitting position and turned his head, realizing that the voice had come from behind, not before, him. Grief and fear struggled briefly, settled on tension.
The speaker was a white man, Obadiah's age or a little younger -- the thin, fair fuzz on his face said the man hadn't shaved for a while, but didn't really need to, either. His face was drawn, eyes almost hollow, and the ragged white shirt he wore hung on him like clothes draped over the back of a chair; his gray woolen pants were cinched in as tightly as the belt would take them and were worn almost through between his thighs, as though he had done a lot of walking. His shoes -- what was left of them -- confirmed that surmise.
Soldier, Obadiah thought. He didn't need to see the forage cap or the uniform tunic. He had seen enough of these shuffling scarecrows marching by to know one when he saw him out of uniform. He sat, mute, while his mind raced.
"What I don't understand, is what a colored man is doing here in this church -- my church," the soldier said... and Obadiah sensed real wonder in his voice, though it was still loud in the confines of the sanctuary.
Obadiah hesitated, discreetly looked the soldier over to see if he was carrying a weapon, then stood up and dusted off his hands on the seat of his pants, stood with feet apart, ready to fight or flee as the situation demanded. "I needed a place to do me some cryin,' and some prayin'," he explained as neutrally as he could, all the while eyeing the soldier. "I needed me a church -- I didn't know this one was yours. I'm sorry, sir, truly I am."
The soldier took a few steps closer to him, and Obadiah tensed. "You needed you a church, and it didn't much matter which one. Is that about it?"
Obadiah nodded, a quick bob of his head. Imperceptibly, the muscles in his legs tightened, and his heart began to speed up.
"And why is that -- what should I call you? Seems to me if you're going to break into my church, I should at least know your name."
"Obadiah. Sir," he added, as an afterthought.
The soldier nodded. "So why is that, Obadiah? What caused you to violate common decency in this way?"
Obadiah cast his eyes down, thought better of it and raised his face, looked the soldier directly in the eye. "The news, sir. About Mister Lincoln -- they shot him dead! You heard, didn't you? They shot him dead!" His voice started to climb; he forced it down. "You did hear, didn't you?"
The soldier nodded, sighed. "And that is exactly what I expected you to say. No good excuse, but you were so overcome with grief you had to violate this church, is that it?"
Obadiah shrugged. "More or less. Sir."
"So I guess, with the whole world turned upside down and inside out, you figured it would be just dandy to sneak into a church not your own, and weep for your savior, your great Emancipator?"
Obadiah nodded, bobbed his head again. "Yes, sir, I guess I did." He looked around, took in the world with a sweep of his hands and frowned. "A day like this don't come along every day, sir. But when it does, I reckon I need a church to help me through it."
The soldier took a few more steps closer to him, his expression mask like in the shadowed interior of the sanctuary. "I reckon that's true," the soldier repeated softly, echoing Obadiah. "Let me tell you a secret, Obadiah," he added, closer, now. "I just heard the same news... and I'm here for the same reason."
Obadiah frowned. "For Mister Lincoln -- sir?"
The smile that split the soldier's weary face was less amused, more bemused. "For Mister Lincoln," he agreed. "I spent three years and four months marching and fighting -- I saw things I never thought I'd see, did things I don't want to believe I did. For three years and four months, I did my utmost duty to pull us out of the Union, and I shed blood to do it." He paused, blinked, his eyes fixed on things unseen by anyone else, then visibly snapped back to here-and-now. "My comrades and me, we were sworn enemies of the Union. And then, one day, it was over."
"Over?"
"General Lee surrendered, and my own division surrendered two days later. Lined up in ranks and marched in front of some damned Union officer, so spit-and-polished he made me want to vomit. But you know what he said, when it was all over?"
"No sir," Obadiah answered uncomfortably. No white man had ever spoken to him this way -- had shared so openly, not with the confidence of arrogance but the simple need to tell the truth.
"This smarmy little general called us to attention and told us that the war was over. He told us that the president had ordered that we be given parole and allowed to return home -- to live in peace, with our fellow citizens in the restored United States."
"He did?"
"He did. Then he said that the president, himself, had told him that we'd been fighting long enough... it was time to start binding our wounds so we could be one nation, again." He paused, shrugged. "I started walking home the same day. I didn't understand it -- I didn't understand how a man who could be so driven to win the war could be just as driven to forgive us all, to let bygones be bygones... but I didn't care. And then, today, right back there in town, I heard the news. That he was gone. I thought for a little bit, to figure out how I felt about that -- and then I knew. I had to come here to have a little conversation with God."
"I understand," Obadiah said simply.
"I'm not so sure of that -- but you may," the soldier admitted. "What I am sure of is this: we are from two different worlds, Obadiah -- but that man, dying -- he brought us together. He set us both free, and I guess that says something."
Obadiah hesitated, then stepped down the one step from the altar and opened the narrow gate in the rail, held it for the soldier. The soldier stepped up to the rail, stared at Obadiah, then looked down at the gate, back at him... and nodded wordlessly. He stepped through, and Obadiah let the gate swing closed.
Together, they approached the altar to mourn -- not as enemies, but brothers.
Keith Hewitt is the author of two volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). Keith's newest book NaTiVity Dramas: The Third Season will be published September 2012. He is a local pastor, co-youth leader, former Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He lives in southeastern Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and assorted dogs and cats.
Two Cities. One God.
by Frank Ramirez
Mark 6:30-34, 53-56
He said to them, "Come away to a deserted place all by yourselves and rest a while." For many were coming and going, and they had no leisure even to eat.
-- Mark 6:31
My guess is that relatively few Christians today are familiar at all with the work of the fourth-century theologian Augustine of Hippo (354-430). This most influential of ancient writers as a young man he lived a wild life. His mother, who was a Christian, tirelessly prayed for him. And even though it did not appear as if her prayers were having any effect, she did not lose hope.
Augustine himself was all the time looking for the answers. He took advantage of the great marketplace of ideas that existed in the Roman Empire and tried the philosophies of many of the great religions of his day -- but always, he came up against the fact that he was sinful, in his own eyes a failure, with no hope, despite his best efforts of changing.
Perhaps part of the problem was that when he finally discovered Christianity, the faith of his mother, he prayed to the God he fervently believed in -- but his prayer that he might be converted -- but not yet! Not yet! Not until he had the chance to live a little more. He did not want to give in.
Augustine wrote of the controversy in his heart -- his struggle with his sinful self, of self against self. Then one day in 386, he became overwhelmed, crying aloud, weeping and wailing, while his friend Alypius stood by silently, waiting -- waiting until Augustine finally opened the Christian scriptures and read, from Paul's letter to the Romans 13:13-14: "... let us live honorably as in the day, not in reveling and drunkenness, not in debauchery and licentiousness, not in quarreling and jealousy. Instead, put on the Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh, to gratify its desires."
His conversion was every bit as dramatic as it was complete. When Augustine gave his heart to God, he went all the way. Once captured by God, he sought to escape from the world, to found a monastic community where he might study scripture in silence. He wanted to go to that quiet place that Jesus spoke of to his disciples, that there, with a few friends, he might read the scriptures, pray, and remain untainted by the world until he was called out of life into his eternal reward.
No such luck. But then, Jesus was no more successful in finding that quiet place when compassion called him to serve those who were like sheep without a shepherd.
In those days churches drafted their pastors and made them serve for life. Augustine studiously avoided those cities that were looking for pastors because he wanted no part of the world. At one point he traveled to the city of Hippo in North Africa because he knew they already had a pastor. Unfortunately the pastor only spoke Greek and the people of the city spoke Latin. They drafted Augustine and he spent the rest of his life in that city serving as its pastor.
The result is that the voluminous writings of that theologian were written and influenced by the fact that Augustine had to deal with the day-to-day problems of an ordinary church. He was no ivory tower writer.
So when the Roman Empire fell apart, Augustine, who had grown accustomed to serving people in their everyday lives, had everyday answers for their problems.
Many wondered, as the barbarians destroyed Rome, if Christianity -- and God -- had failed and fallen with the eternal city, which by that time had endured over a thousand years.
Not so, Augustine insisted. There are two cities, Augustine would insist: a City of God and a City of the World. Rome was not to be mistaken for heaven. In his great work, The City of God, Augustine compared the fate of those who suffered with the fall of Rome with the sufferings of Job, something that had to be endured. One who lost everything in political disaster might become as poor as Job was, yet remain rich spiritually, heavily tried, but not overcome, able to say that the Lord has given and the Lord has taken away -- blessed be the name of the Lord.
Had Augustine succeeded in retreating to the desert, he might never have shared the wisdom that shaped Christian thought for the next millennium, anymore than those who were like sheep without a shepherd would ever have been fed, literally as well as spiritually, if Jesus had not taught his disciples -- and us -- to have compassion for them and to feed his sheep.
Frank Ramirez has served as a pastor for nearly 30 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 22, 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.
