The Song Of The Vineyard
Stories
Object:
Contents
"The Song of the Vineyard" by Keith Hewitt
"Loyalty to Christ" by John Fitzgerald
* * * * * * *
The Song of the Vineyard
by Keith Hewitt
Isaiah 5:1-7
"Do you know what it's like to have your heart broken?"
Jamison Lee looked up quickly at the question, managed to stumble over a hand-sized rock that had been turned up by the plow a couple of months earlier and left to lie in the space between the furrows. He recovered his balance with a quick half-step, stopped, and turned around when he realized his companion had stopped and was squatting down next to the row of corn on their right, peering at the brown, brittle leaves on one of the stalks. "Beg pardon? I don't think I heard your question?"
Elizabeth Keane didn't answer right away, instead leaned even closer to the particular stalk she was examining. After a moment or two she pulled off the leaf and stood up, smoothing her skirt with one hand, patting it down unconsciously while she held the leaf in the other. She held it out toward Jamison and repeated, "Do you know what it's like to have your heart broken?"
He hesitated -- in his mind, like tableaux illuminated by flashes of lightning, he saw his wife slip away to typhoid, imagined the moment his son was cut down during the War, saw and felt a dozen other moments in time where his heart had grown so heavy that it seemed it must drop out of his chest. Without expression -- he thought -- he said simply, "I believe I do."
Elizabeth looked up at him closely, then, with almost the same intensity she had given the leaf in her hand a few moments before and then she looked down, glanced away and said, "I believe it too." She paused, gathered the thoughts that swirled within her and looked back at him, extended the hand with the leaf. "Do you know what this is, Colonel?"
Jamison winced. "Please, Jamison. And, no, I don't know," he added, looking at the dried out leaf, where some kind of worm squirmed. It was the size of a maggot, but black and not quite the same shape, though he could not have said how it was different... it just was.
"It's the last straw," Elizabeth said, and suddenly crumpled the leaf, no doubt crushing the insect before she dropped it and ground it into the dirt with the heel of her shoe. She brushed the dirt from her hands and began to walk again, back toward the barn. Jamison fell in beside her.
"But what is it?" he asked, and looked again at the rows of corn on either side of them. They stood less than shoulder high, and here it was, August. When he looked closer, many of them -- but not all -- were brown or turning brown, and many had brittle leaves. "Some kind of pest?" he guessed.
"Some kind," she agreed, without looking back at him, and then they walked in silence until they got to the barn. She pushed the door open, stepped inside and said something soothing to the horse that had gone there to seek shade from the August sun; it snickered in return. Jamison noted that the pair of milk cows she'd had when they met the fall before weren't there, nor had he seen them grazing.
"Where are your cows?" he asked, when she came back out into the sun. She was carrying a five gallon tin can, a rake, and a hoe, with a blanket thrown over her shoulder.
"Bess and Morgana? Back there" she answered, with a toss of her head toward an empty space between the barn and the forest, fifty yards away. When he looked at her questioningly, she added, "They both came up sick last spring. Had to shoot 'em. Buried 'em back there."
She walked past him, back into the field, and continued talking even as he relieved her of the can she carried. It was about half full, and sloshed with each step as he fell in beside her. "It's what I meant about having your heart broken. Look, it was my husband's dream to make this farm work and then he went off and got himself killed in that damned war of yours."
"Not my war," Jamison said gently.
"Whatever. He got himself killed before we got a fair start at this, but I've been pouring my heart and soul into this farm ever since, because that was the plan. I cleared land, or hired it done, when I could. I put in crops, watched 'em grow -- sometimes got to harvest, other times just watched the weeds eat 'em, no matter what I did. I watched my livestock get sick and die. I saved up, and saved up, and finally bought some decent seed corn this year, so I could do it all right and make an honest-to-God farm out of this... this place." She struggled with the last word, could not come up with a sufficiently disgusted term -- not one she was ready to use in front of company.
"I understand," he said simply, and considered his own attempt to farm after returning from the War.
"I have given everything I have, everything I am, everything I hope to accomplish to this farm in the last five years. Five years of trying to raise a crop, of going hungry, of chipping ice out of the creek so I can have water in the winter... five years of nothing but this --" She swept her free hand toward the farm around her.
They were at the end of the row, now, and she stopped, dropped the tools she had been carrying, reached out to Jamison. He hesitated, unsure about what to do -- then realized she was asking for the can; he handed it to her. "And now," she continued, unscrewing the cap from the spout, "this year, when it seems like everything might finally pay off -- when I might actually have a farm -- those blackworms show up and take it all."
"They haven't exactly taken it all, yet," he said reasonably, looking around at the field.
"Yet is the operative word. They've taken enough. It's just a matter of time."
He was studying her closely, now, gauging her -- she was not angry, exactly, but more just fed up, tired of the battle.
"So what are you going to do?"
"I can't sell the farm -- you know what's going on, right now, nobody can get what their farm is worth. But I can't go on like this, either." She started to upend the can, hesitated and raised her head, lifted her face toward the sky and seemed to be sniffing the air for a moment. "Which way would you say the wind is coming from?"
"West, southwest, I think."
"Good. Then this shouldn't reach the house." She turned the can upside down, began emptying kerosene out onto the corn.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm doing what needs to be done. This farm has broken my heart for the last time. It's time to start over. I'm going to burn this field to the ground, let it lie for the rest of the year... and then start over next year, like it's a brand new day -- a new world."
"Are you sure you want to do that?" Jamison asked, looking around. "Those worms haven't gotten everywhere yet. You've got good corn too."
"But not enough," she pronounced, emptying the can. "I can't justify pouring my heart into something that's never going to pay off the way I need it to. It's just that time, Colonel -- time for a fresh start." She dropped the can, wiped her hands on her dress, and turned to him. "Got a match?"
"Jamison," he said automatically, and reached into his pocket, found a box of matches and pulled it out -- then hesitated. "But what if your fresh start doesn't work out, either? Aren't you taking a risk?"
"Yep," she answered, holding out her hand. "But if you're going to dream, you've got to risk. And you've got to have a little faith. Things'll work out -- once I start over."
Silence flowed between them for a few moments, and when he was sure she knew what she was doing he handed her the matches. As she struck a match and began moving from row to row, lighting the field ablaze, he wondered if he had done the right thing in helping her, handing her the match. He watched her face, saw the flames dancing in her clear blue eyes, and was surprised to see the sadness there, as her work of years began to burn.
But if he looked closely, there was also a look of hope and new beginnings... and that was good enough for him.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
Loyalty to Christ
by John Fitzgerald
Luke 12:49-56
Let me ask you a question. What do you think about when your mind is not engaged with daily tasks? I mean those brief moments when there is time to contemplate something more than immediate issues. Here are some suggestions of the kind of things I am talking about: Do you think about your spouse, children, or grandchildren? Is your concentration upon doing well in a chosen profession? Are your thoughts revolving around matters of health or personal attraction?
To be honest, some of my inner thoughts do conjure up images of being a successful athlete, great preacher, and excellent musician. There is no harm done in small doses of fantasy. But there is a problem when these images occupy space that could be devoted to God.
Keith Miller writes about this matter in his book, The Taste of New Wine. Miller explains, "Each of our interior thoughts is like a rubber ball on a string tied to the center of your mind. You throw it out and get busy with the work of this day. But when you are alone, back it comes again and again to sit in the middle of the stage of your attention. I am asking you to consider this because whatever you focus this hottest intensity of your mind is very likely what you worship instead of Jesus Christ!"
The traditional viewpoint is that sin and evil deny us a close fellowship with God. Without a doubt, sin does block us from a strong union with the Holy Spirit. Yet even the good things of this world can keep us from a vital walk with Christ. For instance, a strong love of family is important. Thinking about family when alone should be encouraged. However, it is wrong to place love of family above love for God. As pastor in a local church, I have seen occasions where active Christians have left the church because family took priority over their relationship with God.
Our scripture reading from Luke 12 is a difficult one because the Lord suggests that Christian faith can divide a family. This is not exactly the message we expect from the God's word. Our first instinct is that faith brings families together. The church has played a vital role in maintaining family unity. Certainly in this day and age the family needs help from many directions. Yet our loyalty to family can outweigh a commitment to Christ.
The sternness of this biblical passage is softened when we consider its context. It is helpful to remember that Luke composed his gospel in first century AD. The church at this point is very much in its infancy. A Christian in this time period risked life and limb for proclaiming allegiance to the new faith.
The church of 21st century America is far removed from the days of threats to bodily harm for believers. It is hard for us to imagine the danger involved in New Testament times for professing Jesus as Lord. It is easy to see why some members of a family in this era would refuse in bearing public testimony for Christ. Loyalty to Christ often implied physical harm and naturally caused division within families concerning religious practice.
Only in third world countries today is there any risk involved in being a Christian. I am a product of the comfortable, cozy church that is present in our nation. It remains difficult for me to understand the experience of third world Christians in our age and followers of Jesus in first-century Roman days. Many years ago a Christian from Kenya opened my eyes to the whole world of miracles and wonder-working power from God that took place in his home land despite occasional unrest. My friend's description of what the Lord Jesus did in Kenya sounded completely foreign to these American ears.
The church is growing by leaps and bounds in Kenya and other under developed lands. Largely this is because the seed of persecution bears great fruit. In the United States, Christian religion is declining. The lack of growth may have something to do with that being a disciple of the Lord in this country requires little sacrifice.
The entire challenge of Luke 12 boils down to a question of inner mind and to whom we are loyal. Are we willing to give up some of our conveniences in America for the sake of Cross bearing? Do family obligations restrict or encourage our walk with God? The truth is, Jesus demands our primary love and loyalty.
John Fitzgerald lives in Leesburg, Ohio, with his wife Carolyn and has served as pastor at the Leesburg Friends Meeting for the past 27 years. Cornfield Cathedral (Fairway Press, 2013) is the second book authored by Pastor Fitzgerald. John has earned a Master's of Ministry Degree from the Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, Indiana.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 18, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
"The Song of the Vineyard" by Keith Hewitt
"Loyalty to Christ" by John Fitzgerald
* * * * * * *
The Song of the Vineyard
by Keith Hewitt
Isaiah 5:1-7
"Do you know what it's like to have your heart broken?"
Jamison Lee looked up quickly at the question, managed to stumble over a hand-sized rock that had been turned up by the plow a couple of months earlier and left to lie in the space between the furrows. He recovered his balance with a quick half-step, stopped, and turned around when he realized his companion had stopped and was squatting down next to the row of corn on their right, peering at the brown, brittle leaves on one of the stalks. "Beg pardon? I don't think I heard your question?"
Elizabeth Keane didn't answer right away, instead leaned even closer to the particular stalk she was examining. After a moment or two she pulled off the leaf and stood up, smoothing her skirt with one hand, patting it down unconsciously while she held the leaf in the other. She held it out toward Jamison and repeated, "Do you know what it's like to have your heart broken?"
He hesitated -- in his mind, like tableaux illuminated by flashes of lightning, he saw his wife slip away to typhoid, imagined the moment his son was cut down during the War, saw and felt a dozen other moments in time where his heart had grown so heavy that it seemed it must drop out of his chest. Without expression -- he thought -- he said simply, "I believe I do."
Elizabeth looked up at him closely, then, with almost the same intensity she had given the leaf in her hand a few moments before and then she looked down, glanced away and said, "I believe it too." She paused, gathered the thoughts that swirled within her and looked back at him, extended the hand with the leaf. "Do you know what this is, Colonel?"
Jamison winced. "Please, Jamison. And, no, I don't know," he added, looking at the dried out leaf, where some kind of worm squirmed. It was the size of a maggot, but black and not quite the same shape, though he could not have said how it was different... it just was.
"It's the last straw," Elizabeth said, and suddenly crumpled the leaf, no doubt crushing the insect before she dropped it and ground it into the dirt with the heel of her shoe. She brushed the dirt from her hands and began to walk again, back toward the barn. Jamison fell in beside her.
"But what is it?" he asked, and looked again at the rows of corn on either side of them. They stood less than shoulder high, and here it was, August. When he looked closer, many of them -- but not all -- were brown or turning brown, and many had brittle leaves. "Some kind of pest?" he guessed.
"Some kind," she agreed, without looking back at him, and then they walked in silence until they got to the barn. She pushed the door open, stepped inside and said something soothing to the horse that had gone there to seek shade from the August sun; it snickered in return. Jamison noted that the pair of milk cows she'd had when they met the fall before weren't there, nor had he seen them grazing.
"Where are your cows?" he asked, when she came back out into the sun. She was carrying a five gallon tin can, a rake, and a hoe, with a blanket thrown over her shoulder.
"Bess and Morgana? Back there" she answered, with a toss of her head toward an empty space between the barn and the forest, fifty yards away. When he looked at her questioningly, she added, "They both came up sick last spring. Had to shoot 'em. Buried 'em back there."
She walked past him, back into the field, and continued talking even as he relieved her of the can she carried. It was about half full, and sloshed with each step as he fell in beside her. "It's what I meant about having your heart broken. Look, it was my husband's dream to make this farm work and then he went off and got himself killed in that damned war of yours."
"Not my war," Jamison said gently.
"Whatever. He got himself killed before we got a fair start at this, but I've been pouring my heart and soul into this farm ever since, because that was the plan. I cleared land, or hired it done, when I could. I put in crops, watched 'em grow -- sometimes got to harvest, other times just watched the weeds eat 'em, no matter what I did. I watched my livestock get sick and die. I saved up, and saved up, and finally bought some decent seed corn this year, so I could do it all right and make an honest-to-God farm out of this... this place." She struggled with the last word, could not come up with a sufficiently disgusted term -- not one she was ready to use in front of company.
"I understand," he said simply, and considered his own attempt to farm after returning from the War.
"I have given everything I have, everything I am, everything I hope to accomplish to this farm in the last five years. Five years of trying to raise a crop, of going hungry, of chipping ice out of the creek so I can have water in the winter... five years of nothing but this --" She swept her free hand toward the farm around her.
They were at the end of the row, now, and she stopped, dropped the tools she had been carrying, reached out to Jamison. He hesitated, unsure about what to do -- then realized she was asking for the can; he handed it to her. "And now," she continued, unscrewing the cap from the spout, "this year, when it seems like everything might finally pay off -- when I might actually have a farm -- those blackworms show up and take it all."
"They haven't exactly taken it all, yet," he said reasonably, looking around at the field.
"Yet is the operative word. They've taken enough. It's just a matter of time."
He was studying her closely, now, gauging her -- she was not angry, exactly, but more just fed up, tired of the battle.
"So what are you going to do?"
"I can't sell the farm -- you know what's going on, right now, nobody can get what their farm is worth. But I can't go on like this, either." She started to upend the can, hesitated and raised her head, lifted her face toward the sky and seemed to be sniffing the air for a moment. "Which way would you say the wind is coming from?"
"West, southwest, I think."
"Good. Then this shouldn't reach the house." She turned the can upside down, began emptying kerosene out onto the corn.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm doing what needs to be done. This farm has broken my heart for the last time. It's time to start over. I'm going to burn this field to the ground, let it lie for the rest of the year... and then start over next year, like it's a brand new day -- a new world."
"Are you sure you want to do that?" Jamison asked, looking around. "Those worms haven't gotten everywhere yet. You've got good corn too."
"But not enough," she pronounced, emptying the can. "I can't justify pouring my heart into something that's never going to pay off the way I need it to. It's just that time, Colonel -- time for a fresh start." She dropped the can, wiped her hands on her dress, and turned to him. "Got a match?"
"Jamison," he said automatically, and reached into his pocket, found a box of matches and pulled it out -- then hesitated. "But what if your fresh start doesn't work out, either? Aren't you taking a risk?"
"Yep," she answered, holding out her hand. "But if you're going to dream, you've got to risk. And you've got to have a little faith. Things'll work out -- once I start over."
Silence flowed between them for a few moments, and when he was sure she knew what she was doing he handed her the matches. As she struck a match and began moving from row to row, lighting the field ablaze, he wondered if he had done the right thing in helping her, handing her the match. He watched her face, saw the flames dancing in her clear blue eyes, and was surprised to see the sadness there, as her work of years began to burn.
But if he looked closely, there was also a look of hope and new beginnings... and that was good enough for him.
Keith Hewitt is the author of three volumes of NaTiVity Dramas: Nontraditional Christmas Plays for All Ages (CSS). He is a local pastor, former youth leader and Sunday school teacher, and occasional speaker at Christian events. He is currently serving as the pastor at Parkview UMC in Turtle Lake, Wisconsin. Keith is married to a teacher, and they have two children and assorted dogs and cats.
Loyalty to Christ
by John Fitzgerald
Luke 12:49-56
Let me ask you a question. What do you think about when your mind is not engaged with daily tasks? I mean those brief moments when there is time to contemplate something more than immediate issues. Here are some suggestions of the kind of things I am talking about: Do you think about your spouse, children, or grandchildren? Is your concentration upon doing well in a chosen profession? Are your thoughts revolving around matters of health or personal attraction?
To be honest, some of my inner thoughts do conjure up images of being a successful athlete, great preacher, and excellent musician. There is no harm done in small doses of fantasy. But there is a problem when these images occupy space that could be devoted to God.
Keith Miller writes about this matter in his book, The Taste of New Wine. Miller explains, "Each of our interior thoughts is like a rubber ball on a string tied to the center of your mind. You throw it out and get busy with the work of this day. But when you are alone, back it comes again and again to sit in the middle of the stage of your attention. I am asking you to consider this because whatever you focus this hottest intensity of your mind is very likely what you worship instead of Jesus Christ!"
The traditional viewpoint is that sin and evil deny us a close fellowship with God. Without a doubt, sin does block us from a strong union with the Holy Spirit. Yet even the good things of this world can keep us from a vital walk with Christ. For instance, a strong love of family is important. Thinking about family when alone should be encouraged. However, it is wrong to place love of family above love for God. As pastor in a local church, I have seen occasions where active Christians have left the church because family took priority over their relationship with God.
Our scripture reading from Luke 12 is a difficult one because the Lord suggests that Christian faith can divide a family. This is not exactly the message we expect from the God's word. Our first instinct is that faith brings families together. The church has played a vital role in maintaining family unity. Certainly in this day and age the family needs help from many directions. Yet our loyalty to family can outweigh a commitment to Christ.
The sternness of this biblical passage is softened when we consider its context. It is helpful to remember that Luke composed his gospel in first century AD. The church at this point is very much in its infancy. A Christian in this time period risked life and limb for proclaiming allegiance to the new faith.
The church of 21st century America is far removed from the days of threats to bodily harm for believers. It is hard for us to imagine the danger involved in New Testament times for professing Jesus as Lord. It is easy to see why some members of a family in this era would refuse in bearing public testimony for Christ. Loyalty to Christ often implied physical harm and naturally caused division within families concerning religious practice.
Only in third world countries today is there any risk involved in being a Christian. I am a product of the comfortable, cozy church that is present in our nation. It remains difficult for me to understand the experience of third world Christians in our age and followers of Jesus in first-century Roman days. Many years ago a Christian from Kenya opened my eyes to the whole world of miracles and wonder-working power from God that took place in his home land despite occasional unrest. My friend's description of what the Lord Jesus did in Kenya sounded completely foreign to these American ears.
The church is growing by leaps and bounds in Kenya and other under developed lands. Largely this is because the seed of persecution bears great fruit. In the United States, Christian religion is declining. The lack of growth may have something to do with that being a disciple of the Lord in this country requires little sacrifice.
The entire challenge of Luke 12 boils down to a question of inner mind and to whom we are loyal. Are we willing to give up some of our conveniences in America for the sake of Cross bearing? Do family obligations restrict or encourage our walk with God? The truth is, Jesus demands our primary love and loyalty.
John Fitzgerald lives in Leesburg, Ohio, with his wife Carolyn and has served as pastor at the Leesburg Friends Meeting for the past 27 years. Cornfield Cathedral (Fairway Press, 2013) is the second book authored by Pastor Fitzgerald. John has earned a Master's of Ministry Degree from the Earlham School of Religion in Richmond, Indiana.
*****************************************
StoryShare, August 18, 2013, issue.
Copyright 2013 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.
