Sin That Grace Abound?
Stories
Object:
Contents
What's Up This Week
"Sin that Grace Abound?" by David O. Bales
"Teacher and Leader!" by Bryan Meadows
"A Night without Stars" by Keith Hewitt
What's Up This Week
In our ultra-independent society, it has become second nature for us to want to carve our own path -- to do things our way. Our lives belong to us, and we can do whatever we want with them. We know what's best for us. Yet, is that really true? Are we our own masters? How do we combine our desire for independence with our calling to follow Jesus, making him the Lord and master of our lives? David O. Bales illustrates our independent, do-it-our-way nature, combined with the grace of a loving God, in "Sin that Grace Abound?" Bryan Meadows also explores this notion of our servant-master relationship with God in "Teacher and Leader!" Sometimes, whether it's by our choices, the circumstances around us, or a combination of the two, the road we can find ourselves on can be very dark and lonely. Keith Hewitt relates the story of a man on a dark road and how he finds light in his darkness in "A Night without Stars."
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Sin that Grace Abound?
By David O. Bales
Romans 6:1b-11
Rodney said, "I just can't believe it didn't work." All his fourteen-year-old mind could dwell on was the poor execution of the plan, not the consequences that they could hear their parents' muted voices deliberating outside their bedroom. Michael, twelve years old, looked like he'd cry again soon.
Michael said, "What do you think they'll do?"
"I don't know. But think of it this way," Rodney said, "it was a great plan. It worked almost perfectly. And the parade was on time!"
Their mother had refused on a weeknight to let them go out at 1:30 in the morning.
"Gosh, Mom," Rodney had said. "It's the 2000 Olympic Torch four blocks from our house. Everybody's going to be there."
"No discussion." At home she sounded the same as she sounded at school. "You have school tomorrow. If you went out at one, you'll find, as the TV says about every place so far, the procession will be at least two hours late and by that time you'll be awake for the rest of the night. You'll sleep in class tomorrow." Having one's mother as principal of one's school was at least a double disadvantage if not a downright disability.
"Dad?" Rodney had turned to his father for a desperate but futile second opinion. Their parents always agreed on what the boys could and couldn't do. Their father shook his head sadly.
So, since the 2000 Olympic Torch being carried near their house was a once in a lifetime chance, Rodney convinced Michael it was worth another chance -- of getting caught sneaking out. Besides, their upstairs bathroom window opened onto the gentle roof from which they could inch down onto the patio wall. If they set a patio chair beneath the spot before going to bed, even their final step down from the wall would be easy. As far as getting in and out of the window, they'd both seen their parents take out the screens for window washing. Easy enough.
All had gone well on their early morning sneak. Michael even took his camera and shot photos of the runner with the torch and the other runners and cars following. After the parade passed and the boys walked back toward their house, Rodney said, "You'll have to hide those pictures for nine years."
"Why?"
"Because by that time you'll be a legal adult and mom and dad can't ground you."
The way back had been smooth: Up the patio chair onto the wall, over the roof, into the bathroom window. When they stepped into the bathroom, however, the light went on. Their mother stood in her bathrobe, arms crossed. How were the boys to know that every night when their father got up to the bathroom he came upstairs to peek in on them? The front door slammed. "That's your Dad. He's been out looking for you."
The boys now sat together on Rodney's bed. Anxiety and dread caught up with them as deep fatigue. But no matter how heavy their eyes felt, their mother had told them to sit there until their parents returned with a verdict. The boys knew the routine. Their parents were deciding on the punishment and they wouldn't be back until they agreed exactly. When either parent mentioned a specific punishment, they did so in identical words. When it came to punishment, the parents sounded like robots -- their voices monotone, listing the reasons and announcing their decision.
Their parents entered the bedroom. Michael leaned into Rodney. Their mother, clearly tired, stood straight and spoke crisply in a voice like she was announcing on the school intercom, "Boys, you disobeyed us and put yourself in danger. We --"
"We were so scared," their father rushed over and hugged them. He started to cry.
Their mother stayed by the door, hesitated, cleared her throat, and said, "Ah, boys, because --"
But their father cried even louder and hugged the boys harder. The boys cried, too. "We didn't know what happened to you," their father said. "We thought somebody stole you."
"We..." their mother tried to continue, but she realized that the boys couldn't hear because their father held their heads next to him and his hands covered their ears.
However, they heard him say, "Let's not, Hon," and they were as shocked as their mother. The three males looked to the doorway where the boys' mother said, "We, ah --"
"No, let's not. Please," he said.
She blinked, then blinked again and slightly shook her head as she did when trying to get the water from her ears after swimming.
"You boys go to sleep, now," their father said. He hugged them and motioned to their mother who walked over to them with slow, stiff steps, looking confused. She hugged them, too. When their parents were gone, Rodney let out a long sigh and smiled to his brother.
Michael reached over next to his bed and grabbed his camera, "You know, the map in the newspaper showed that the torch parade is going in a big circle. We could find a place tonight to see them again."
David O. Bales has been a Presbyterian pastor for 30 years. Currently the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS). Bales is a graduate of the University of Portland and San Francisco Theological Seminary.
"Teacher and Leader!"
Bryan Meadows
Matthew 10:24-39
Back in the day, when yours truly was still in college, I had the opportunity to take a class in tennis. I knew the professor from some other classes I had, and I enjoyed his style of teaching. So how much different could his teaching style be on the tennis court as opposed to the classroom?
Everything seemed to be going well until mid-way through the course he decided to scrimmage me in a tennis match. I knew this was a joke because per his own admission, he had been a professional tennis player. I figured he was going to use me as a mop to clean up the court.
Much to my surprise, he was taking it easy on me. As a matter of fact, I was keeping it close. I scored points on him. He was affirming my introductory skill level. I began to wonder if I might not be a tennis prodigy. With sweat dripping off my chin and my heart pounding, I kept up the pressure on my instructor. And I asked the all important question: Could I really beat this guy?
It was his serve. He tossed up the ball, struck it hard and I watched as the ball sailed over the net toward the back court where I stood. According to my position and my observation, I thought the ball hit the back foul line. So, as instructed, I called it as I saw it: "FOUL!"
My tennis professor -- the professional tennis player -- took exception to the call. From his vantage point, it appeared that the ball was in play. However, with my growing confidence in this game, and knowing that I had this former pro on the ropes, there could hardly be any doubt to whether my call was wrong. I called, and it was final. And there's where this game took an abrupt turn.
My professor -- the former tennis pro -- began his second serve. In an effort to properly describe what happened next, let me ask you this question: Have you ever stood 60 feet away from a tennis ball and had it shot at you at over 100 miles per hour? I didn't bother trying to return it. I felt fortunate to simply get out of the way of the little yellow rocket that was intended to do me bodily harm! In that moment, I realized this monumental truth: This student (me) was not above his teacher (the former professional!).
Looking back, thinking about that episode in my life, it reminds me of the words Jesus spoke: "A disciple is not above the teacher, nor a slave above the master; It is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher and the slave like the master...."
These days, as I find myself locked up in the unfair game of life, I frequently ask the question: What would my teacher Jesus have me to do in these particular situations?
As followers of Christ, it's important that all of us be reminded of our place in this relationship with God. The answer to this is really simple: We are students to the risen Christ. We are neither supposed to be more than our teacher, nor shall we ever come to the place where we surpass our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
Obvious as it sounds, we still miss this one! How often will we try to take matters into our hands only to find that we've made a mess of the situation? How many times have we stepped back and said something to the effect, "If only I would have let God have the say in this!" It's easy to forget that we're not in control. We are, in the words of Jesus, the students who are on the learning curve. In turn, our goal should always be, to simply be more and more like Christ with each passing day.
But being like our teacher Jesus Christ comes with an important truth that all of us would do well to hear with great clarity. In the scope of our faith, if we are to grow into the likeness of our teacher, Jesus Christ, please know it comes with a price tag. To be sure, there is a price to pay when it comes to being like our master.
Jesus went to great lengths to explain this complex truth in this particular passage from Matthew. He said you will be threatened, mocked, and abused both verbally and physically. Others who do not understand will refer to you as evil, even though you labor in the vineyard of the Lord. In some cases, this devotion for the teacher will cause rifts in the family. Yeah! Welcome to the faith!
It's been my experience that we tend to avoid the texts that stir our hearts in the wrong direction. This is clearly one of those places where the word pins us down to find out what we're made of.
Before we the throw in the towel, please understand that Jesus, while sharing these difficult truths, also reminds us that regardless of what we're facing in life, He is with us.
This is evident in verse 28 when he says, "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are two sparrows not sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs on your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows."
All of this hoopla points us in the direction of a very important question that each of us must ask ourselves and be able to answer.
Are we trying to live a "painless" Christian faith? So often, we get our wires crossed when it comes to following Christ, believing that once we make that commitment, there should no longer be any troubles in our life. We think that somewhere out there, there is a "no cost/no pain" version of Christianity. Which, by the way, if you ever find it, let me know!
To be sure, our faith is about hope, love, peace, mercy, grace, and such. But it's a whole lot more than just that. There's also a spiritual warfare side to our faith that one must be prepared to endure once the decision is made to follow Christ.
Think about it this way: Soldiers don't enter into a war without the risk of suffering physical and emotional harm, and perhaps even death. Yet, they go marching on with courage and conviction. Why should we, as spiritual warriors, expect our conflict to be any different?
It calls to mind the words the apostle Paul so eloquently said: "For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm" (Ephesians 6:12-13).
If there's anything to be said about all of this in one word, it would be "conviction." We clearly live in a day where convictions for what you believe in are a valuable commodity. Let's clear the air about owning our convictions: Convictions aren't an absence of grace, mercy, peace, and love. It's actually a call to live deeper into those Christian attributes and characteristics. With that said, convictions also allow us to know whose side we're on when push comes to shove!
Why is it so important to know whose side we're on? Jesus takes liberty to answer that question in the same passage. The day will come when we will stand before our maker, and as Jesus notes, we'll have to give an account for whose side we were on. Note: "Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven" (vv. 32-33).
Please notice that Jesus' answer to the question of "whose side we're on," also informs us of the reward. Why do we labor in this world for the risen one? Why do we suffer for our convictions and beliefs as Christians in the world? The answer comes via the crown that is laid up for us in heaven. If we hold fast and stand true to the love of Christ, the day will come when, standing before our God, our life accounts will read, "paid in full."
You see, Jesus paid the price for all of us. In turn, he's opened up the gates of heaven for us. It's our turn to pick up our cross and march onward. As Jesus said, only when we lose our life in him will we find the real meaning of our life. Here's hoping you'll get lost in Christ so that you'll find your way home to heaven!
Bryan Meadows has served as pastor of The Huntsville United Methodist Church since 1998, following his graduation from The Methodist Theological School. He and his wife, Alice, are the parents of three children: Caleb, Josie, and Hannah. Bryan enjoys photography, playing guitar, and bird hunting with his dogs.
A Night without Stars
Keith Hewitt
Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17
The sky was overcast, a black dome that settled over the landscape, but it didn't matter much. Out in the middle of nowhere, with a road flat and straight enough to hypnotize a man to death, the car's headlights poked out just enough to illuminate the rolling patch of blacktop in front of the car. With no stars or moon, and no towns or houses in eyesight, it was easy enough to believe that his car traveled in a bubble, like being inside a gigantic black ping pong ball. Only the regular ticking of the odometer, metering off tenths of a mile traveled through the void, told him that he was actually moving, actually going somewhere.
The nothingness around him was a soundless echo of the emptiness inside him.
Is this it? he wondered, watching the blacktop slide beneath his car. Is this what it's going to be? A mote of light, drifting through the darkness? He hesitated, uncomfortable with where these thoughts led him -- he had been down this road, and it never ended well... on the brink of a chasm, a bottomless pit that called out to him with soft seduction. He gripped the wheel, tried not to think the thoughts...
An amber light winked at him from the dashboard, broke the moment. With a twitch of his head, to flick off the ideas that drifted, half-formed, around him, he lowered his eyes toward the out-of-place color that had suddenly appeared in his universe: a pale silhouette of a gas pump, nestled between gas gauge and odometer. Crap. A small, cold lump formed like dark magic in the base of his stomach. Should have paid more attention to that, I guess.
He tried not to think about the prospect of gliding to a stop on the lightless shoulder of an endless road, in the middle of nothing. It had been what -- hours? -- since he'd seen another car, and then only as a pair of blue-white lights going in the other direction.
The lump stirred.
He almost missed the spark of light, in the swirl of darkness that tugged at him. Up there, on the right -- he hesitated, not wanting to believe it, because he wanted to believe it so badly. He watched, with the odometer marking time, 'til he was sure that the light was crawling closer. Now, is it a gas station, or something else? he wondered. He watched the spark grow to a blob, and the blob transform itself into an island of pale yellow sodium vapor light with accents of fluorescent white; an unlit oil company's logo loomed on stilts, in the shadow. Relieved, he pulled off the road, felt the change in road surface through his tires as he guided his car toward the gas station, listened to the wheels thump with tuneless rhythm across asphalt patches on the ramp.
It was a small, four-pump outpost, and it looked deserted. The pump handles on the first island were bagged with yellow out-of-order plastic; he rolled up to the second island, turned off the engine and slid out, the backs of his thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, at first, before yielding with tiny squeaks as they were dragged out. The wind whispered behind him, chilling the dampness in the small of his back as he stood for a moment, suddenly glad to not be sitting anymore, to be outside the dark envelope that had been his night.
He looked around, conscious of the quiet -- just the gentle wind and the humming of the fluorescents overhead. He slammed the car door, just to punctuate the emptiness with something, and went to the pump, credit card in hand. Somebody had placed a strip of gray, thready duct tape across the card slot, and with a marker had printed "Reader Not Working" on it.
Experimentally, he took the nozzle out of its cradle, flipped up the handle, and pushed the button marked "Regular," was rewarded by a beep and the sight of the last transaction disappearing from the dusty LED readout, replaced by boxy zeros. Cool. He flipped open the panel above his back right wheel, unscrewed the gas cap, and stuck in the nozzle. There was a grate of metal on metal, and then the handle grew cold in his hand as he squeezed the grip and the gas started to flow.
He set the catch under the handle and let go, leaned back against the trunk of his car and folded his arms, watched the dollars tick off on the pump.
"Everything okay?"
The question jolted him from his trance, and he pushed himself off the car with a jerk, suddenly standing tall, arms at his side, hands raised slightly, not quite making fists against whoever was there. He looked around wildly, found the source of the voice standing behind him, almost behind the pump island -- a smallish man with skin like distressed leather and bleached, sun-dried hair that peeked out like an unruly child from beneath what looked like an old-time cavalry hat.
He was the kind of man who just seemed to come with the territory, like the Joshua trees and the things that burrowed in the sand, dressed in shorts, a loose khaki shirt with the sleeves cut off, and battered old boots laced to the ankle. "Everything okay?" he asked again.
Why do you care? "Yeah, everything's fine," he answered aloud.
"Okay. Just wanted to check -- I saw you standin' there, staring at the pump like you didn't know what it was, so I thought I'd check."
"Right. Thanks. I'm fine," he lied. Just leave me alone.
"Okay." The man studied him for a few moments, then stepped back and looked up at the sky, eyes squinting past the fluorescent canopy above the island. His throat bobbed once or twice, as though he was about to say something, then he lowered his eyes, looked directly at the man filling his tank. "Mighty dark night," he ventured.
"Most of them are, aren't they?"
"Not like this." Pause. "I remember readin', once, that some scientists think there's a giant black hole at the center of the galaxy. A black hole, just sittin' there, feeding on stars, a giant empty space in the heart of the universe."
"I know the feeling," the driver said, and immediately regretted it. It's none of his business. I have a hole in my soul, an empty space where my life ought to be, but it's none of his business.
The man eyed him closely. "They said it's so massive, you can't get around it. So black, you can't see anything past it."
"Right," the driver said simply.
"They say eventually, it might swallow up the whole galaxy."
Like being eaten from the inside out, the driver thought. A void that grows, nothingness that begets more nothingness. He watched the numbers flicker without seeing them. Is that it? A void that swallows you up and pulls you down until the final void comes along -- the period at the end of your sentence. So why struggle?
"I think they got it wrong, though."
He blinked, turned his eyes to the old man. "What?"
"I think they got it wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there's nothing so dark that you can't see the other side. Might seem like it, but you just have to look hard enough to see your way through."
But you don't know, he thought. You don't know what it's like. "I don't know about that," he said. "Seems to me, some things you just can't find your way through. Life is like that."
"Sometimes you just need a little help seeing the way, is all."
"And sometimes it hurts too much to try," the driver said simply.
The old man looked at him sideways. "We still talkin' about black holes?"
"Kind of." The pump shut off with a thump. He pulled out the nozzle, racked it, and screwed the cap back on, turned it 'til it clicked. He wiped his hands, pulled out his wallet. "Sometimes the black holes aren't out there -- they're in here," he said tapping his chest softly. He found the credit card, held it out to the man.
The man held up a hand to turn it away. "This one's on me."
The driver's eyebrows arched. "You sure?"
The old man nodded. "I am. The same way I'm sure that there's nothing so dark that you can't see through it. It just depends on where that light's comin' from. Sometimes all the things we think should be bright enough, aren't. That's when you've got to open up your world and let in some light from the outside."
"Right." He slid the wallet back into his pocket and walked around to the door, paused for a moment after he'd popped it open. "Listen," he started, hesitated, one hand on the top of the door. "Listen, you're way out here in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. Doesn't it ever just overwhelm you -- don't you ever just get lonely?"
The old man smiled shyly and took off his hat, held it clasped in front of him, like a man standing in church. "You know, it's been a long time since I felt that way. One day I just knew I couldn't see things through on my own, and I had a choice of... well, I didn't like the choices I had, so I let in some light, instead -- I reached out to the Lord, and wouldn't you know, he reached back." The old man winked. "You can't ever be lonely when you've got the Lord with you. He takes that empty space and fills it."
The driver studied the old man. "Do you really think he cares?"
"I know he does. He cared enough to save my sorry old butt, so I'm guessin' he'll save anyone."
Somewhere in the void -- somewhere almost out of sight, hope stirred. "Maybe," the driver said softly. "Maybe."
"Maybe," the old man agreed. "You just got to let him in."
"Right." There was no sarcasm, this time. "Thanks for the gas, Mister. Thanks for -- you know," he said awkwardly, and slid behind the wheel.
"No problem," the old man called out.
As he closed the door, and turned the ignition, he heard the old man say, "Well, what do you know? They're back."
As he pulled out of the station, the stars shone down from the desert sky.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages. 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.
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StoryShare, June 22, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
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What's Up This Week
"Sin that Grace Abound?" by David O. Bales
"Teacher and Leader!" by Bryan Meadows
"A Night without Stars" by Keith Hewitt
What's Up This Week
In our ultra-independent society, it has become second nature for us to want to carve our own path -- to do things our way. Our lives belong to us, and we can do whatever we want with them. We know what's best for us. Yet, is that really true? Are we our own masters? How do we combine our desire for independence with our calling to follow Jesus, making him the Lord and master of our lives? David O. Bales illustrates our independent, do-it-our-way nature, combined with the grace of a loving God, in "Sin that Grace Abound?" Bryan Meadows also explores this notion of our servant-master relationship with God in "Teacher and Leader!" Sometimes, whether it's by our choices, the circumstances around us, or a combination of the two, the road we can find ourselves on can be very dark and lonely. Keith Hewitt relates the story of a man on a dark road and how he finds light in his darkness in "A Night without Stars."
* * * * * * * * *
Sin that Grace Abound?
By David O. Bales
Romans 6:1b-11
Rodney said, "I just can't believe it didn't work." All his fourteen-year-old mind could dwell on was the poor execution of the plan, not the consequences that they could hear their parents' muted voices deliberating outside their bedroom. Michael, twelve years old, looked like he'd cry again soon.
Michael said, "What do you think they'll do?"
"I don't know. But think of it this way," Rodney said, "it was a great plan. It worked almost perfectly. And the parade was on time!"
Their mother had refused on a weeknight to let them go out at 1:30 in the morning.
"Gosh, Mom," Rodney had said. "It's the 2000 Olympic Torch four blocks from our house. Everybody's going to be there."
"No discussion." At home she sounded the same as she sounded at school. "You have school tomorrow. If you went out at one, you'll find, as the TV says about every place so far, the procession will be at least two hours late and by that time you'll be awake for the rest of the night. You'll sleep in class tomorrow." Having one's mother as principal of one's school was at least a double disadvantage if not a downright disability.
"Dad?" Rodney had turned to his father for a desperate but futile second opinion. Their parents always agreed on what the boys could and couldn't do. Their father shook his head sadly.
So, since the 2000 Olympic Torch being carried near their house was a once in a lifetime chance, Rodney convinced Michael it was worth another chance -- of getting caught sneaking out. Besides, their upstairs bathroom window opened onto the gentle roof from which they could inch down onto the patio wall. If they set a patio chair beneath the spot before going to bed, even their final step down from the wall would be easy. As far as getting in and out of the window, they'd both seen their parents take out the screens for window washing. Easy enough.
All had gone well on their early morning sneak. Michael even took his camera and shot photos of the runner with the torch and the other runners and cars following. After the parade passed and the boys walked back toward their house, Rodney said, "You'll have to hide those pictures for nine years."
"Why?"
"Because by that time you'll be a legal adult and mom and dad can't ground you."
The way back had been smooth: Up the patio chair onto the wall, over the roof, into the bathroom window. When they stepped into the bathroom, however, the light went on. Their mother stood in her bathrobe, arms crossed. How were the boys to know that every night when their father got up to the bathroom he came upstairs to peek in on them? The front door slammed. "That's your Dad. He's been out looking for you."
The boys now sat together on Rodney's bed. Anxiety and dread caught up with them as deep fatigue. But no matter how heavy their eyes felt, their mother had told them to sit there until their parents returned with a verdict. The boys knew the routine. Their parents were deciding on the punishment and they wouldn't be back until they agreed exactly. When either parent mentioned a specific punishment, they did so in identical words. When it came to punishment, the parents sounded like robots -- their voices monotone, listing the reasons and announcing their decision.
Their parents entered the bedroom. Michael leaned into Rodney. Their mother, clearly tired, stood straight and spoke crisply in a voice like she was announcing on the school intercom, "Boys, you disobeyed us and put yourself in danger. We --"
"We were so scared," their father rushed over and hugged them. He started to cry.
Their mother stayed by the door, hesitated, cleared her throat, and said, "Ah, boys, because --"
But their father cried even louder and hugged the boys harder. The boys cried, too. "We didn't know what happened to you," their father said. "We thought somebody stole you."
"We..." their mother tried to continue, but she realized that the boys couldn't hear because their father held their heads next to him and his hands covered their ears.
However, they heard him say, "Let's not, Hon," and they were as shocked as their mother. The three males looked to the doorway where the boys' mother said, "We, ah --"
"No, let's not. Please," he said.
She blinked, then blinked again and slightly shook her head as she did when trying to get the water from her ears after swimming.
"You boys go to sleep, now," their father said. He hugged them and motioned to their mother who walked over to them with slow, stiff steps, looking confused. She hugged them, too. When their parents were gone, Rodney let out a long sigh and smiled to his brother.
Michael reached over next to his bed and grabbed his camera, "You know, the map in the newspaper showed that the torch parade is going in a big circle. We could find a place tonight to see them again."
David O. Bales has been a Presbyterian pastor for 30 years. Currently the pastor of Bethany Presbyterian Church in Ontario, Oregon, he is also a freelance writer and editor for Stephen Ministries and Tebunah Ministries. His sermons and articles have appeared in Lectionary Homiletics, Preaching Great Texts, and Interpretation, and he is the author of Gospel Subplots: Story Sermons of God's Grace (CSS). Bales is a graduate of the University of Portland and San Francisco Theological Seminary.
"Teacher and Leader!"
Bryan Meadows
Matthew 10:24-39
Back in the day, when yours truly was still in college, I had the opportunity to take a class in tennis. I knew the professor from some other classes I had, and I enjoyed his style of teaching. So how much different could his teaching style be on the tennis court as opposed to the classroom?
Everything seemed to be going well until mid-way through the course he decided to scrimmage me in a tennis match. I knew this was a joke because per his own admission, he had been a professional tennis player. I figured he was going to use me as a mop to clean up the court.
Much to my surprise, he was taking it easy on me. As a matter of fact, I was keeping it close. I scored points on him. He was affirming my introductory skill level. I began to wonder if I might not be a tennis prodigy. With sweat dripping off my chin and my heart pounding, I kept up the pressure on my instructor. And I asked the all important question: Could I really beat this guy?
It was his serve. He tossed up the ball, struck it hard and I watched as the ball sailed over the net toward the back court where I stood. According to my position and my observation, I thought the ball hit the back foul line. So, as instructed, I called it as I saw it: "FOUL!"
My tennis professor -- the professional tennis player -- took exception to the call. From his vantage point, it appeared that the ball was in play. However, with my growing confidence in this game, and knowing that I had this former pro on the ropes, there could hardly be any doubt to whether my call was wrong. I called, and it was final. And there's where this game took an abrupt turn.
My professor -- the former tennis pro -- began his second serve. In an effort to properly describe what happened next, let me ask you this question: Have you ever stood 60 feet away from a tennis ball and had it shot at you at over 100 miles per hour? I didn't bother trying to return it. I felt fortunate to simply get out of the way of the little yellow rocket that was intended to do me bodily harm! In that moment, I realized this monumental truth: This student (me) was not above his teacher (the former professional!).
Looking back, thinking about that episode in my life, it reminds me of the words Jesus spoke: "A disciple is not above the teacher, nor a slave above the master; It is enough for the disciple to be like the teacher and the slave like the master...."
These days, as I find myself locked up in the unfair game of life, I frequently ask the question: What would my teacher Jesus have me to do in these particular situations?
As followers of Christ, it's important that all of us be reminded of our place in this relationship with God. The answer to this is really simple: We are students to the risen Christ. We are neither supposed to be more than our teacher, nor shall we ever come to the place where we surpass our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.
Obvious as it sounds, we still miss this one! How often will we try to take matters into our hands only to find that we've made a mess of the situation? How many times have we stepped back and said something to the effect, "If only I would have let God have the say in this!" It's easy to forget that we're not in control. We are, in the words of Jesus, the students who are on the learning curve. In turn, our goal should always be, to simply be more and more like Christ with each passing day.
But being like our teacher Jesus Christ comes with an important truth that all of us would do well to hear with great clarity. In the scope of our faith, if we are to grow into the likeness of our teacher, Jesus Christ, please know it comes with a price tag. To be sure, there is a price to pay when it comes to being like our master.
Jesus went to great lengths to explain this complex truth in this particular passage from Matthew. He said you will be threatened, mocked, and abused both verbally and physically. Others who do not understand will refer to you as evil, even though you labor in the vineyard of the Lord. In some cases, this devotion for the teacher will cause rifts in the family. Yeah! Welcome to the faith!
It's been my experience that we tend to avoid the texts that stir our hearts in the wrong direction. This is clearly one of those places where the word pins us down to find out what we're made of.
Before we the throw in the towel, please understand that Jesus, while sharing these difficult truths, also reminds us that regardless of what we're facing in life, He is with us.
This is evident in verse 28 when he says, "Do not fear those who kill the body but cannot kill the soul; rather fear him who can destroy both soul and body in hell. Are two sparrows not sold for a penny? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father. And even the hairs on your head are all counted. So do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows."
All of this hoopla points us in the direction of a very important question that each of us must ask ourselves and be able to answer.
Are we trying to live a "painless" Christian faith? So often, we get our wires crossed when it comes to following Christ, believing that once we make that commitment, there should no longer be any troubles in our life. We think that somewhere out there, there is a "no cost/no pain" version of Christianity. Which, by the way, if you ever find it, let me know!
To be sure, our faith is about hope, love, peace, mercy, grace, and such. But it's a whole lot more than just that. There's also a spiritual warfare side to our faith that one must be prepared to endure once the decision is made to follow Christ.
Think about it this way: Soldiers don't enter into a war without the risk of suffering physical and emotional harm, and perhaps even death. Yet, they go marching on with courage and conviction. Why should we, as spiritual warriors, expect our conflict to be any different?
It calls to mind the words the apostle Paul so eloquently said: "For our struggle is not against enemies of blood and flesh, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the cosmic powers of this present darkness, against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly places. Therefore take up the whole armor of God, so that you may be able to withstand on that evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm" (Ephesians 6:12-13).
If there's anything to be said about all of this in one word, it would be "conviction." We clearly live in a day where convictions for what you believe in are a valuable commodity. Let's clear the air about owning our convictions: Convictions aren't an absence of grace, mercy, peace, and love. It's actually a call to live deeper into those Christian attributes and characteristics. With that said, convictions also allow us to know whose side we're on when push comes to shove!
Why is it so important to know whose side we're on? Jesus takes liberty to answer that question in the same passage. The day will come when we will stand before our maker, and as Jesus notes, we'll have to give an account for whose side we were on. Note: "Everyone therefore who acknowledges me before others, I also will acknowledge before my Father in heaven; but whoever denies me before others, I also will deny before my Father in heaven" (vv. 32-33).
Please notice that Jesus' answer to the question of "whose side we're on," also informs us of the reward. Why do we labor in this world for the risen one? Why do we suffer for our convictions and beliefs as Christians in the world? The answer comes via the crown that is laid up for us in heaven. If we hold fast and stand true to the love of Christ, the day will come when, standing before our God, our life accounts will read, "paid in full."
You see, Jesus paid the price for all of us. In turn, he's opened up the gates of heaven for us. It's our turn to pick up our cross and march onward. As Jesus said, only when we lose our life in him will we find the real meaning of our life. Here's hoping you'll get lost in Christ so that you'll find your way home to heaven!
Bryan Meadows has served as pastor of The Huntsville United Methodist Church since 1998, following his graduation from The Methodist Theological School. He and his wife, Alice, are the parents of three children: Caleb, Josie, and Hannah. Bryan enjoys photography, playing guitar, and bird hunting with his dogs.
A Night without Stars
Keith Hewitt
Psalm 86:1-10, 16-17
The sky was overcast, a black dome that settled over the landscape, but it didn't matter much. Out in the middle of nowhere, with a road flat and straight enough to hypnotize a man to death, the car's headlights poked out just enough to illuminate the rolling patch of blacktop in front of the car. With no stars or moon, and no towns or houses in eyesight, it was easy enough to believe that his car traveled in a bubble, like being inside a gigantic black ping pong ball. Only the regular ticking of the odometer, metering off tenths of a mile traveled through the void, told him that he was actually moving, actually going somewhere.
The nothingness around him was a soundless echo of the emptiness inside him.
Is this it? he wondered, watching the blacktop slide beneath his car. Is this what it's going to be? A mote of light, drifting through the darkness? He hesitated, uncomfortable with where these thoughts led him -- he had been down this road, and it never ended well... on the brink of a chasm, a bottomless pit that called out to him with soft seduction. He gripped the wheel, tried not to think the thoughts...
An amber light winked at him from the dashboard, broke the moment. With a twitch of his head, to flick off the ideas that drifted, half-formed, around him, he lowered his eyes toward the out-of-place color that had suddenly appeared in his universe: a pale silhouette of a gas pump, nestled between gas gauge and odometer. Crap. A small, cold lump formed like dark magic in the base of his stomach. Should have paid more attention to that, I guess.
He tried not to think about the prospect of gliding to a stop on the lightless shoulder of an endless road, in the middle of nothing. It had been what -- hours? -- since he'd seen another car, and then only as a pair of blue-white lights going in the other direction.
The lump stirred.
He almost missed the spark of light, in the swirl of darkness that tugged at him. Up there, on the right -- he hesitated, not wanting to believe it, because he wanted to believe it so badly. He watched, with the odometer marking time, 'til he was sure that the light was crawling closer. Now, is it a gas station, or something else? he wondered. He watched the spark grow to a blob, and the blob transform itself into an island of pale yellow sodium vapor light with accents of fluorescent white; an unlit oil company's logo loomed on stilts, in the shadow. Relieved, he pulled off the road, felt the change in road surface through his tires as he guided his car toward the gas station, listened to the wheels thump with tuneless rhythm across asphalt patches on the ramp.
It was a small, four-pump outpost, and it looked deserted. The pump handles on the first island were bagged with yellow out-of-order plastic; he rolled up to the second island, turned off the engine and slid out, the backs of his thighs sticking to the vinyl seat, at first, before yielding with tiny squeaks as they were dragged out. The wind whispered behind him, chilling the dampness in the small of his back as he stood for a moment, suddenly glad to not be sitting anymore, to be outside the dark envelope that had been his night.
He looked around, conscious of the quiet -- just the gentle wind and the humming of the fluorescents overhead. He slammed the car door, just to punctuate the emptiness with something, and went to the pump, credit card in hand. Somebody had placed a strip of gray, thready duct tape across the card slot, and with a marker had printed "Reader Not Working" on it.
Experimentally, he took the nozzle out of its cradle, flipped up the handle, and pushed the button marked "Regular," was rewarded by a beep and the sight of the last transaction disappearing from the dusty LED readout, replaced by boxy zeros. Cool. He flipped open the panel above his back right wheel, unscrewed the gas cap, and stuck in the nozzle. There was a grate of metal on metal, and then the handle grew cold in his hand as he squeezed the grip and the gas started to flow.
He set the catch under the handle and let go, leaned back against the trunk of his car and folded his arms, watched the dollars tick off on the pump.
"Everything okay?"
The question jolted him from his trance, and he pushed himself off the car with a jerk, suddenly standing tall, arms at his side, hands raised slightly, not quite making fists against whoever was there. He looked around wildly, found the source of the voice standing behind him, almost behind the pump island -- a smallish man with skin like distressed leather and bleached, sun-dried hair that peeked out like an unruly child from beneath what looked like an old-time cavalry hat.
He was the kind of man who just seemed to come with the territory, like the Joshua trees and the things that burrowed in the sand, dressed in shorts, a loose khaki shirt with the sleeves cut off, and battered old boots laced to the ankle. "Everything okay?" he asked again.
Why do you care? "Yeah, everything's fine," he answered aloud.
"Okay. Just wanted to check -- I saw you standin' there, staring at the pump like you didn't know what it was, so I thought I'd check."
"Right. Thanks. I'm fine," he lied. Just leave me alone.
"Okay." The man studied him for a few moments, then stepped back and looked up at the sky, eyes squinting past the fluorescent canopy above the island. His throat bobbed once or twice, as though he was about to say something, then he lowered his eyes, looked directly at the man filling his tank. "Mighty dark night," he ventured.
"Most of them are, aren't they?"
"Not like this." Pause. "I remember readin', once, that some scientists think there's a giant black hole at the center of the galaxy. A black hole, just sittin' there, feeding on stars, a giant empty space in the heart of the universe."
"I know the feeling," the driver said, and immediately regretted it. It's none of his business. I have a hole in my soul, an empty space where my life ought to be, but it's none of his business.
The man eyed him closely. "They said it's so massive, you can't get around it. So black, you can't see anything past it."
"Right," the driver said simply.
"They say eventually, it might swallow up the whole galaxy."
Like being eaten from the inside out, the driver thought. A void that grows, nothingness that begets more nothingness. He watched the numbers flicker without seeing them. Is that it? A void that swallows you up and pulls you down until the final void comes along -- the period at the end of your sentence. So why struggle?
"I think they got it wrong, though."
He blinked, turned his eyes to the old man. "What?"
"I think they got it wrong."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean there's nothing so dark that you can't see the other side. Might seem like it, but you just have to look hard enough to see your way through."
But you don't know, he thought. You don't know what it's like. "I don't know about that," he said. "Seems to me, some things you just can't find your way through. Life is like that."
"Sometimes you just need a little help seeing the way, is all."
"And sometimes it hurts too much to try," the driver said simply.
The old man looked at him sideways. "We still talkin' about black holes?"
"Kind of." The pump shut off with a thump. He pulled out the nozzle, racked it, and screwed the cap back on, turned it 'til it clicked. He wiped his hands, pulled out his wallet. "Sometimes the black holes aren't out there -- they're in here," he said tapping his chest softly. He found the credit card, held it out to the man.
The man held up a hand to turn it away. "This one's on me."
The driver's eyebrows arched. "You sure?"
The old man nodded. "I am. The same way I'm sure that there's nothing so dark that you can't see through it. It just depends on where that light's comin' from. Sometimes all the things we think should be bright enough, aren't. That's when you've got to open up your world and let in some light from the outside."
"Right." He slid the wallet back into his pocket and walked around to the door, paused for a moment after he'd popped it open. "Listen," he started, hesitated, one hand on the top of the door. "Listen, you're way out here in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. Doesn't it ever just overwhelm you -- don't you ever just get lonely?"
The old man smiled shyly and took off his hat, held it clasped in front of him, like a man standing in church. "You know, it's been a long time since I felt that way. One day I just knew I couldn't see things through on my own, and I had a choice of... well, I didn't like the choices I had, so I let in some light, instead -- I reached out to the Lord, and wouldn't you know, he reached back." The old man winked. "You can't ever be lonely when you've got the Lord with you. He takes that empty space and fills it."
The driver studied the old man. "Do you really think he cares?"
"I know he does. He cared enough to save my sorry old butt, so I'm guessin' he'll save anyone."
Somewhere in the void -- somewhere almost out of sight, hope stirred. "Maybe," the driver said softly. "Maybe."
"Maybe," the old man agreed. "You just got to let him in."
"Right." There was no sarcasm, this time. "Thanks for the gas, Mister. Thanks for -- you know," he said awkwardly, and slid behind the wheel.
"No problem," the old man called out.
As he closed the door, and turned the ignition, he heard the old man say, "Well, what do you know? They're back."
As he pulled out of the station, the stars shone down from the desert sky.
Keith Hewitt is the author of NaTiVity Dramas: Four Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages. 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.
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StoryShare, June 22, 2008, issue.
Copyright 2008 by CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Lima, Ohio.
All rights reserved. Subscribers to the StoryShare service may print and use this material as it was intended in sermons, in worship and classroom settings, in brief devotions, in radio spots, and as newsletter fillers. No additional permission is required from the publisher for such use by subscribers only. Inquiries should be addressed to permissions@csspub.com or to Permissions, CSS Publishing Company, Inc., 517 South Main Street, Lima, Ohio 45804.
