Who Are You?
Stories
Object:
Contents
"Who Are You?" by Keith Hewitt
"Who Do You Think You Are" by Sandra Herrmann
Who Are You?
by Keith Hewitt
Job 38:1-7 (34-41)
“Mister Bloomfield is not in.”
The receptionist said it automatically, as though she had been trained to answer that way to any stranger who found their way through the busy newsroom, to the office tucked away in one corner, next to the file room -- an antique left over from better days, when newspapers were important...the file room, not the receptionist. The file room contained issues of the News Democrat from 1884 through the Carter administration; the plan had always been to put them on microfiche...then microfilm...then floppy disks...and then they stopped making plans, because there was no money to undertake the project.
Instead, when someone doing research needed to look at the November 11, 1918 edition of the News Democrat, they went to the file room and asked the receptionist to retrieve the paper for them. Since almost no one saw the need to do such a thing, anymore, she had also been the receptionist for Barry Bloomfield for some eleven years. It was a perk the publisher offered, when he couldn’t give Bloomfield a raise, along with the private office that had once been the publisher’s executive washroom.
Some time in 2003, the plumbing had gone bad, and it made more sense to pull the fixtures out, slap up some drywall, and turn it into an office. The joke, after that, was that on hot summer days, if the humidity was just right, you could walk past Barry Bloomfield’s door and catch the unmistakable scent of urinal cakes. Like most such office lore, it wasn’t true.
Generally.
The visitor, standing before the receptionist with what appeared to be a salesman’s sample case in one hand, and his coat draped over the opposite arm, took a look around the crowded, noisy newsroom, then looked back at the receptionist and raised his voice. “I want to talk to Mister Bloomfield about my daughter’s pregnancy test.”
Her eyes widened, and she stood up quickly, went to the door and opened it, poked her head inside. Around him, the visitor was suddenly aware of eyes turned his way, and a distinct decrease in the plastic sound of keyboards rattling out news stories. He stared straight ahead, shifted the sample case to his other hand. A few moments later, the receptionist returned, glared at him and said, “Mister Bloomfield will see you, Mister Ross.”
Wilbur Ross nodded amiably, walked around her desk and to the office. She ushered him in, then closed the door firmly. The hustle and noise of the newsroom was muted, barely a background buzz as Ross stood, staring at the man standing behind the desk. He was just what Ross had pictured -- average height, pudgy, with hair that was a little too long, and a stringy mustache. He wore a rumpled blue shirt, with a necktie loosened around his neck; his sport coat was slung over the back of one of the guest chairs.
Bloomfield did not offer to let him sit in either guest chair, just stared at him with narrow, steely eyes and said, “Who is your daughter, sir? And what is the meaning of this? Tell me why I shouldn’t have you thrown out on your ear right now.”
“My name is Wilbur Ross, Mister Bloomfield -- and, truth be told, the only child I have is my restaurant. You know it. It’s L'accogliente Cucina.”
Bloomfield looked puzzled. “L'accogliente cucina? I’m afraid I -- “
Ross stared at him, speaking in a flat, emotionless voice. “’L'accogliente Cucina, located at the corner of Division Street and 75th, promises excellent Italian cuisine in a warm, friendly atmosphere. The only promise they kept was that it was warm -- a little too warm, as the air conditioning did not seem to be working, and no amount of ventilation was able to dispel the suspicious odors coming from the kitchen.’ Does that sound familiar?”
Bloomfield’s eyes closed, for a moment, as though he was searching his memory, and then he nodded slightly. “Yes, of course. About six weeks ago, my weekend food column. The exact words I can’t attest to -- there is some rewriting done in the editing process.”
“Oh, I can attest to them, Mister Bloomfield. They are burned into my mind. Along with every negative, nasty comment you had about your meal, and every snarky, petty comment you made about my staff. I came here to remind you that words have power, Mister Bloomfield. Especially negative ones. People read your complaints, and they start to believe them.”
“Look, if you have a complaint about my review, you want to talk to -- “
“I want to talk to you, Mister Bloomfield, because you’re the problem. I read every word you had to say...every mean spirited word, and as I read I started to wonder could I be that wrong? I’ve been in the business for almost twenty years, I’ve been a chef, and an executive chef, and a restaurant manager...and then an owner. And you even made me wonder, could I be wrong? Could you have gotten that bad a meal?”
“Apparently I did,” Bloomfield said frostily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me -- “
“No, you excuse me, Mister Bloomfield.” Ross suddenly lifted the case in his hand, set it down hard on Bloomfield’s desk. “I came here to say something, and I’m going to say it. Because, you see, after my reservations dropped off about thirty percent...and my receipts fell about the same...I started to do some research. And do you want to know what I found?”
Bloomfield licked his lips, said simply, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time.” It was a command, sharp as the crack of a whip, crackling from Ross to Bloomfield. He said nothing, and sat down.
“I’ll show you what I found,” Ross said, and opened the top of the case. Working quickly, he pulled out bottles and boxes, storage containers, and arrayed them on Bloomfield’s desk. When he was done, he passed a hand over them, looked at Bloomfield. “Tell me, what could you make with these?”
Bloomfield stared at the supplies, thinking rapidly, then just shook his head. “I don’t have to play this game, Mister Ross. I think you have to leave.”
“Mister Bloomfield, my business is on the slide, because of you, and I don’t have much to lose. So tell me -- Mister Expert in Italian Cuisine...what would you make with this? What could you make with this?”
Bloomfield froze, halfway to reaching the phone. “I really don’t see your point.”
“No? What temperature does chicken need to be, before it’s safe to eat? How long do fettuccine noodles need to boil in order to be served al dente? Come on, Mister Bloomfield, these are simple questions...don’t you know the answers? How do you make pizza dough? What goes into Italian wedding soup? You’re the expert, right? Tell me. There are at least half a dozen dishes you could make, sauces you could prepare, with what I’ve laid out here. Can you name any?”
“Look, Mister Ross, I can understand that you’re upset. But, clearly, I don’t have to know how -- “
“If you don’t know how, then how could you ever know enough to judge? You and your kind, Mister Bloomfield -- you enshrine your own personal tastes as though God handed them down to you on Mount Sinai, and you feel qualified to judge the food that’s prepared for you...without the first idea of the knowledge and the expertise that goes into doing it. And the bad part is, if you phrase it cleverly enough -- if you can be cruel with sufficient wit -- people will listen, and never ask themselves...’Gee, does he know what he’s talking about?’”
“I think you may be a little over sensitive, Mister Ross. But, perhaps, I was a little too harsh.”
Ross closed the case, lifted it off the desk. “Look, Mister Bloomfield, you’re entitled to say whether or not something tastes good to you. But don’t presume to judge that just because you don’t like how it tastes, it was badly prepared...because you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He waved a hand over the things he’d left on the desk. “Do me a favor -- come talk to me when you’ve figured out what to do with these, and then I’ll be happy to serve you a meal. But until then -- keep your opinions to yourself. Or go back to writing poetry reviews -- I understand that’s what you did back in Madison, before you came here.”
With that, he turned and walked to the door. When he had touched the knob, Bloomfield called to him. “Mister Ross?”
Ross hesitated, turned. “Yes?”
“I used to be a pretty good poet, you know. That’s how I got into reviewing it.”
Ross smiled, then, a flash of expression. “I know. I read some of it when I was researching you. To be honest, I didn’t much like it -- but you won’t find me criticizing it, because I know enough to know I don’t know much about it. And that’s the difference between us, isn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
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.
* * *
Who Do You Think You Are
by Sandra Herrmann
Mark 10:35-45
I love the TV show “Who Do You Think You Are?” I’m always interested in the background of the people being featured, but I’m even more interested in their reactions to what they learn about their ancestors. Some are proud of the people they come from, some are appalled at the circumstances of their progenitors, and some are ashamed, even to the point of asking the show not to say onscreen what they have learned, or to leave out unfortunate realities, such as dealing in slaves. Some of the famous people they’ve had on have found that their lifework echoes that of some ancestor or other; others are proud of the fact that they are nothing like their forefathers and mothers. But most of them come away believing something different about themselves after all the research.
Most of us want to know that our lives count for something ? that we’ve been good parents, or had an influence on other people who improved their lot in life. Some of us have higher aspirations than others, like the middle-aged woman who told me she had always wanted to make the world a better place. Some want to have power over others, or enough money to impress people. Others “only want to be happy!” and wonder why that’s so hard.
In the case of James and John, they lived in a society that expected that if they worked for a man who was able to build a business or a farm based in part on their labor, they were entitled to benefit from that. They had only a flimsy idea of the kingdom Jesus talked about, and no idea what their work would be like, though. Like most of us, they had hopes for the rewards and less regard for the suffering they might have to go through to get that reward.
I remember a young lady in one of my congregations sitting in the lounge outside the sanctuary one Sunday, complaining to a friend about her job. As I stood there, she spoke with a good deal of anger about the unfairness of her boss, who had written her up for not showing up for work. I asked her what had happened that she didn’t get to work that day,
“I had a cold!” Her tone told me she expected me to sympathize. “What was I supposed to do?”
“What did your boss say to that?”
“He snorted at me!” she replied, clearly indignant.
The other girl nodded sagely. “Yeah, what do they expect? It’s a long ride on the bus. I’m sure everybody on the bus wants my cold.” Her tone indicated the same sort of indignation at how poorly they’d been treated. “What’re you supposed to do?”
“I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do,” I said. But then I waited. They didn’t really want to hear what I had to say, I knew this in advance. I’d only tell them if they asked me to go on.
The girls looked at each other. They must have had a clue, picked up my tone of voice. Did they want to hear this?
“O.K. Tell us.”
“This is an easy one. They expect you to get to work. Every day. On time. They expect that if you’re really seriously ill you will call in so they can judge by your voice if this is for real. If you’re able to get to work at all, they expect you to do so. If they can see when you get there that you’re really sick, they’ll send you home and you can probably get two or three days sick pay. But I can tell you now, you’re barely out of high school, you have no particular qualifications for any other job, so you’d best do as they expect. If you don’t, you’ll drift from one job to another and never get ahead. Everybody starts at the bottom in the job market, and you have to prove that you’re a good worker. That’s what they expect. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
Did I mention that they wouldn’t like what I had to say? I was right. They didn’t like it.
“That’s ridiculous! If you’re sick, you shouldn’t have to go to work!!”
I could see some of our older church members shaking their head. They raised their eyebrows at me and went on in to worship.
About a month later, the girl who had been complaining was at it again. I caught just one line of what she was saying: “So now I have to look for a new job. What was I supposed to do?”
Her friend was agreeing with her again. They shook their heads at the unfairness of it all as they went into the sanctuary to worship. I sighed, and followed them in.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
*****************************************
StoryShare, October 18, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.
"Who Are You?" by Keith Hewitt
"Who Do You Think You Are" by Sandra Herrmann
Who Are You?
by Keith Hewitt
Job 38:1-7 (34-41)
“Mister Bloomfield is not in.”
The receptionist said it automatically, as though she had been trained to answer that way to any stranger who found their way through the busy newsroom, to the office tucked away in one corner, next to the file room -- an antique left over from better days, when newspapers were important...the file room, not the receptionist. The file room contained issues of the News Democrat from 1884 through the Carter administration; the plan had always been to put them on microfiche...then microfilm...then floppy disks...and then they stopped making plans, because there was no money to undertake the project.
Instead, when someone doing research needed to look at the November 11, 1918 edition of the News Democrat, they went to the file room and asked the receptionist to retrieve the paper for them. Since almost no one saw the need to do such a thing, anymore, she had also been the receptionist for Barry Bloomfield for some eleven years. It was a perk the publisher offered, when he couldn’t give Bloomfield a raise, along with the private office that had once been the publisher’s executive washroom.
Some time in 2003, the plumbing had gone bad, and it made more sense to pull the fixtures out, slap up some drywall, and turn it into an office. The joke, after that, was that on hot summer days, if the humidity was just right, you could walk past Barry Bloomfield’s door and catch the unmistakable scent of urinal cakes. Like most such office lore, it wasn’t true.
Generally.
The visitor, standing before the receptionist with what appeared to be a salesman’s sample case in one hand, and his coat draped over the opposite arm, took a look around the crowded, noisy newsroom, then looked back at the receptionist and raised his voice. “I want to talk to Mister Bloomfield about my daughter’s pregnancy test.”
Her eyes widened, and she stood up quickly, went to the door and opened it, poked her head inside. Around him, the visitor was suddenly aware of eyes turned his way, and a distinct decrease in the plastic sound of keyboards rattling out news stories. He stared straight ahead, shifted the sample case to his other hand. A few moments later, the receptionist returned, glared at him and said, “Mister Bloomfield will see you, Mister Ross.”
Wilbur Ross nodded amiably, walked around her desk and to the office. She ushered him in, then closed the door firmly. The hustle and noise of the newsroom was muted, barely a background buzz as Ross stood, staring at the man standing behind the desk. He was just what Ross had pictured -- average height, pudgy, with hair that was a little too long, and a stringy mustache. He wore a rumpled blue shirt, with a necktie loosened around his neck; his sport coat was slung over the back of one of the guest chairs.
Bloomfield did not offer to let him sit in either guest chair, just stared at him with narrow, steely eyes and said, “Who is your daughter, sir? And what is the meaning of this? Tell me why I shouldn’t have you thrown out on your ear right now.”
“My name is Wilbur Ross, Mister Bloomfield -- and, truth be told, the only child I have is my restaurant. You know it. It’s L'accogliente Cucina.”
Bloomfield looked puzzled. “L'accogliente cucina? I’m afraid I -- “
Ross stared at him, speaking in a flat, emotionless voice. “’L'accogliente Cucina, located at the corner of Division Street and 75th, promises excellent Italian cuisine in a warm, friendly atmosphere. The only promise they kept was that it was warm -- a little too warm, as the air conditioning did not seem to be working, and no amount of ventilation was able to dispel the suspicious odors coming from the kitchen.’ Does that sound familiar?”
Bloomfield’s eyes closed, for a moment, as though he was searching his memory, and then he nodded slightly. “Yes, of course. About six weeks ago, my weekend food column. The exact words I can’t attest to -- there is some rewriting done in the editing process.”
“Oh, I can attest to them, Mister Bloomfield. They are burned into my mind. Along with every negative, nasty comment you had about your meal, and every snarky, petty comment you made about my staff. I came here to remind you that words have power, Mister Bloomfield. Especially negative ones. People read your complaints, and they start to believe them.”
“Look, if you have a complaint about my review, you want to talk to -- “
“I want to talk to you, Mister Bloomfield, because you’re the problem. I read every word you had to say...every mean spirited word, and as I read I started to wonder could I be that wrong? I’ve been in the business for almost twenty years, I’ve been a chef, and an executive chef, and a restaurant manager...and then an owner. And you even made me wonder, could I be wrong? Could you have gotten that bad a meal?”
“Apparently I did,” Bloomfield said frostily. “Now, if you’ll excuse me -- “
“No, you excuse me, Mister Bloomfield.” Ross suddenly lifted the case in his hand, set it down hard on Bloomfield’s desk. “I came here to say something, and I’m going to say it. Because, you see, after my reservations dropped off about thirty percent...and my receipts fell about the same...I started to do some research. And do you want to know what I found?”
Bloomfield licked his lips, said simply, “I don’t have time for this.”
“Make time.” It was a command, sharp as the crack of a whip, crackling from Ross to Bloomfield. He said nothing, and sat down.
“I’ll show you what I found,” Ross said, and opened the top of the case. Working quickly, he pulled out bottles and boxes, storage containers, and arrayed them on Bloomfield’s desk. When he was done, he passed a hand over them, looked at Bloomfield. “Tell me, what could you make with these?”
Bloomfield stared at the supplies, thinking rapidly, then just shook his head. “I don’t have to play this game, Mister Ross. I think you have to leave.”
“Mister Bloomfield, my business is on the slide, because of you, and I don’t have much to lose. So tell me -- Mister Expert in Italian Cuisine...what would you make with this? What could you make with this?”
Bloomfield froze, halfway to reaching the phone. “I really don’t see your point.”
“No? What temperature does chicken need to be, before it’s safe to eat? How long do fettuccine noodles need to boil in order to be served al dente? Come on, Mister Bloomfield, these are simple questions...don’t you know the answers? How do you make pizza dough? What goes into Italian wedding soup? You’re the expert, right? Tell me. There are at least half a dozen dishes you could make, sauces you could prepare, with what I’ve laid out here. Can you name any?”
“Look, Mister Ross, I can understand that you’re upset. But, clearly, I don’t have to know how -- “
“If you don’t know how, then how could you ever know enough to judge? You and your kind, Mister Bloomfield -- you enshrine your own personal tastes as though God handed them down to you on Mount Sinai, and you feel qualified to judge the food that’s prepared for you...without the first idea of the knowledge and the expertise that goes into doing it. And the bad part is, if you phrase it cleverly enough -- if you can be cruel with sufficient wit -- people will listen, and never ask themselves...’Gee, does he know what he’s talking about?’”
“I think you may be a little over sensitive, Mister Ross. But, perhaps, I was a little too harsh.”
Ross closed the case, lifted it off the desk. “Look, Mister Bloomfield, you’re entitled to say whether or not something tastes good to you. But don’t presume to judge that just because you don’t like how it tastes, it was badly prepared...because you don’t know what you’re talking about.” He waved a hand over the things he’d left on the desk. “Do me a favor -- come talk to me when you’ve figured out what to do with these, and then I’ll be happy to serve you a meal. But until then -- keep your opinions to yourself. Or go back to writing poetry reviews -- I understand that’s what you did back in Madison, before you came here.”
With that, he turned and walked to the door. When he had touched the knob, Bloomfield called to him. “Mister Ross?”
Ross hesitated, turned. “Yes?”
“I used to be a pretty good poet, you know. That’s how I got into reviewing it.”
Ross smiled, then, a flash of expression. “I know. I read some of it when I was researching you. To be honest, I didn’t much like it -- but you won’t find me criticizing it, because I know enough to know I don’t know much about it. And that’s the difference between us, isn’t it?”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
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.
* * *
Who Do You Think You Are
by Sandra Herrmann
Mark 10:35-45
I love the TV show “Who Do You Think You Are?” I’m always interested in the background of the people being featured, but I’m even more interested in their reactions to what they learn about their ancestors. Some are proud of the people they come from, some are appalled at the circumstances of their progenitors, and some are ashamed, even to the point of asking the show not to say onscreen what they have learned, or to leave out unfortunate realities, such as dealing in slaves. Some of the famous people they’ve had on have found that their lifework echoes that of some ancestor or other; others are proud of the fact that they are nothing like their forefathers and mothers. But most of them come away believing something different about themselves after all the research.
Most of us want to know that our lives count for something ? that we’ve been good parents, or had an influence on other people who improved their lot in life. Some of us have higher aspirations than others, like the middle-aged woman who told me she had always wanted to make the world a better place. Some want to have power over others, or enough money to impress people. Others “only want to be happy!” and wonder why that’s so hard.
In the case of James and John, they lived in a society that expected that if they worked for a man who was able to build a business or a farm based in part on their labor, they were entitled to benefit from that. They had only a flimsy idea of the kingdom Jesus talked about, and no idea what their work would be like, though. Like most of us, they had hopes for the rewards and less regard for the suffering they might have to go through to get that reward.
I remember a young lady in one of my congregations sitting in the lounge outside the sanctuary one Sunday, complaining to a friend about her job. As I stood there, she spoke with a good deal of anger about the unfairness of her boss, who had written her up for not showing up for work. I asked her what had happened that she didn’t get to work that day,
“I had a cold!” Her tone told me she expected me to sympathize. “What was I supposed to do?”
“What did your boss say to that?”
“He snorted at me!” she replied, clearly indignant.
The other girl nodded sagely. “Yeah, what do they expect? It’s a long ride on the bus. I’m sure everybody on the bus wants my cold.” Her tone indicated the same sort of indignation at how poorly they’d been treated. “What’re you supposed to do?”
“I’ll tell you what you’re supposed to do,” I said. But then I waited. They didn’t really want to hear what I had to say, I knew this in advance. I’d only tell them if they asked me to go on.
The girls looked at each other. They must have had a clue, picked up my tone of voice. Did they want to hear this?
“O.K. Tell us.”
“This is an easy one. They expect you to get to work. Every day. On time. They expect that if you’re really seriously ill you will call in so they can judge by your voice if this is for real. If you’re able to get to work at all, they expect you to do so. If they can see when you get there that you’re really sick, they’ll send you home and you can probably get two or three days sick pay. But I can tell you now, you’re barely out of high school, you have no particular qualifications for any other job, so you’d best do as they expect. If you don’t, you’ll drift from one job to another and never get ahead. Everybody starts at the bottom in the job market, and you have to prove that you’re a good worker. That’s what they expect. That’s what you’re supposed to do.”
Did I mention that they wouldn’t like what I had to say? I was right. They didn’t like it.
“That’s ridiculous! If you’re sick, you shouldn’t have to go to work!!”
I could see some of our older church members shaking their head. They raised their eyebrows at me and went on in to worship.
About a month later, the girl who had been complaining was at it again. I caught just one line of what she was saying: “So now I have to look for a new job. What was I supposed to do?”
Her friend was agreeing with her again. They shook their heads at the unfairness of it all as they went into the sanctuary to worship. I sighed, and followed them in.
Sandra Herrmann is pastor of Memorial United Methodist Church in Greenfield, Wisconsin. In 1980, she was in the first class ordained by Bishop Marjorie Matthews (the first female United Methodist bishop). Herrmann is the author of Ambassadors of Hope (CSS); her articles and sermons have also appeared in Emphasis and The Circuit Rider, and her poetry has been published in Alive Now and So's Your Old Lady. She has trained lay speakers and led workshops and Bible studies throughout Wisconsin, Iowa, and Indiana. Sandra's favorite pastime is reading with her two dogs piled on her.
*****************************************
StoryShare, October 18, 2015, issue.
Copyright 2015 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.
