On a train bound for nowhere.

The old man looked out across the room filled to capacity, took a deep breath and then with a very rich eastern European accent began to share a story from his youth. He comes from a family of orthodox Christian ministers. His great-grandfather, then grand-father, and then the family business (or church as it was) was handed down to his dad. But not him, he declared with a clear and bold voice that caught the attention of every listener. Not him, for he refused! He went on to passionately tell a story that explained to his audience what had stopped this family tradition.  How it could be traced back to one fateful summer of his early teens.

Church as usual that Sunday. Everyone greeted the other. Everyone looked quite fashionable. As usual everyone had on their best of manners and threads - church as usual. The choir beautifully sang a melody of old traditional hymns then gave way for his dad to deliver the message. God's word, as he so put. Mothers patted the behinds of their babies as they slept throughout the sermon. Men fanned the women that sat near them in the pew as there was little breeze blowing through the open windows of the church. As usual for the summer services it was getting uncomfortable long before his father began preaching of the dangers of Hell. Sermons coming from the pulpit of this beautiful building tucked away in the nestles of Belgium in the mid- 1940's always included the threat of damnation if repentance was ignored, just as it were a hundred years before. Just as it were this past week the old man speculated.

Suddenly the good pastor's sermon was interrupted by the screeching of brakes and the long whistle of what typically was a passing train on the nearby tracks. Only this day was different, the train didn't simply pass on by – it stopped. Though the engine was far down the tracks the freight cars sat directly outside the church's windows. From these cars, normally filled to the bream with lumber and dry goods heading into the bigger cities came the most awful sound this young boy had ever heard. At first it was like the sound of animals in distress, but then the words of a foreign language could be made out. Finally his dad gave up his attempt to preach as the church building was beginning to fill with the moans of agony and the desperate cries for help from women, children, and grown men. The sound was absolutely sickening to the soul the old man recalled.

This was the first train to pass through their village on the pathway to the Nazi concentration camps. Each filled with Jews of all ages, of all nationalities, of all social status. Crammed into the box cars like an over-stuffed sardine can, there was little room for the captives to move. The moans and cries from the thousands poured out over this small and peaceful valley like flood waters. They cried out to be released as they were innocent of any crime. They pleaded for water, food, for a hand of mercy to be stretched forth by the town folk. And as we were to later find out, thousands died within the confinement of the boxcars as those alive stood in desperation upon the dead bodies to reach higher with their voices to a seemingly uncaring world outside.

So many voices, so much noise, so overwhelming that the church sat silent as everyone gazed in horror and shock as to what was passing through their town. Many in the congregation looked to their leader to see his reaction. Would he give direction for them to do something so bold as to rush from the building and pry open doors of the rail car, allowing the prisoners to escape into the countryside? The good pastor stood frozen in the pulpit careful not to look up as to be caught by the eyes of someone in the pews. He closed his eyes tightly and began to silently pray, moving his lips as a demonstration to his followers to do likewise. The truth is, says the old man, no one could concentrate enough to pray as the wailing and screams were far too defying to overtake. This went on for what seemed like forever for this youth.

After awhile the train began to move, yet then the cries became louder and more desperate. Finally the sounds became distant and quietness returned. His dad could no longer preach about the torments of Hell, for he knew all to well the congregation had just witness what his words could not express. Instead he said a closing prayer and dismissed the stunned congregation. Little was spoken as the crowd disbursed. Absent this day was the hand shakes and polite conversation at the rear door. No talk of what was for dinner, or how fine a sermon it was. They merely filed forth, each family to itself, even the children were effected by what had happened as they showed no interest in playing in the church lot. Solemnly the members of the congregation walked home with their heads tilted to the ground.

Mid-week the church leaders gathered at the boy's home, yet this was unlike any meeting the youth had ease-dropped on from the stairwell. Their conversation was pitched with desperation and drama. The men demanded a game plan from his father for in the event the trained stopped again on Sunday. After many suggestions were tossed around they settled on a course of action and then went their separate ways with a reassurance at the door from the minister that everything was going to be okay.

Sunday service came again yet this week there was a spirit of tension and anticipation that had settled over the congregation long before the choir began to sing their songs of righteousness, and grace. The crowd sat down as the pastor rose to deliver. Eyes were caught continuously glancing out the windows for what was to come, and as expected the train's whistle began to blow in the distance. The heartbeat of many pounded harder with every second of anticipation. The screeching brakes and the whistle of arrival came blaring through the windows just as it did the week before.

With a well-crafted plan in place, the elders moved quickly to shut the windows and the choir in unison stood and began to sing in force, songs of exuberance. Yet, the cries and moans from the boxcar prison cells breached the windows, the walls and even the floors and roof of the church building. After the trains departure the pastor led his followers in a carefully crafted prayer for the safe keeping of the souls of the Nazi captives on “a train bound for nowhere.” He explained to his congregation that these people were in no real harm, that they were simply scared. He tried selling the propaganda that they were being taken to new living quarters where they would be fed and taken care of. Then he resumed to preach the gospel as he had always done before, yet the crowd's attention was far, far away – heading down the tracks with every rotation of the wheel beneath the boxcars.

The following week a revised plan was in place, the windows were again closed and as the cries and moans reached the church the choir was ordered to sing louder, then louder, and even louder in a futile attempt to drive back the flood of anguish as if they were merely piling high sand bags. The next week the crowd was sparse as no one wanted to bear witness to the tragedy being laid at the doorsteps of the church. They stayed far away from the cries of the suffering.

As the summer went on and the transporting of the Jews continued the congregation of the church which had stood for hundreds of years resolved themselves to stay at home on Sundays and conduct their own in-home service. Yet, there were a hand full that were bold enough to take buckets of water and food items to the train cars filled with the skeleton- shaped bodies. The smells, the horrors, the sickening sights they shared with the others in their community only made others less willing to get involved.

With tears in his eyes, the old man stood before the silenced crowd and began to explain the similarities of today's church and the one of his youth that unforgettable summer. He talked of how we too isolate ourself from the world to a point that when agony and pain is dropped off at our feet we are stunned, we are appalled, we are frozen. He spoke about the measures churches today go to avoid the harsh reality of the suffering outside it's doors. How we in our own way rush to close the windows and strike up the choir to drown out the cries and moans of the captive of an unjust world. He closed with a stern reminder as to a sad reality about his dad, and how he never once considered it a viable option to risk everything to free the boxcar prisoners, or even have his followers prepare water and food to somehow squeeze through the side railing.

It's been awhile! Many subjects to write about have crossed my mind of late, but I've been waiting to sense the nudging of the Holy Spirit to confirm it's what I'm suppose to write. Nudging hasn't been there, nothing has been written. Yesterday I was stuck at a train crossing in very small town they call Trafford, Alabama. One traffic light and a grocery store is about all there is tell about it. As I sat there focused only on trying to read the graffiti spray-painted on the sides of the rail cars I got nudged, and began to cry. My mind's imagination captured the sight of thousands upon thousands of faces with skin barely stretching across bone staring back at me. I could almost hear their cries and smell their stench. I was shaken-ed.

So here I am today sharing a story with you that isn't mine, but one that can't be shared often, or loud enough. I looked elsewhere across the cyberspace network this morning hoping to find the original version, but it was to no avail. I couldn't find where the story has been told, yet I know it has. If you know the origin and the author please share with it me, and I will be sure to pass the information along to everyone. I heard it back in the summer from a pastor, one that grew up in the Middle East in a Muslin family. It's a story, a lesson I'll never forget. 

 

The idea of going outside the walls of the church building to make a difference to those being carried away to their death chambers was as foreign that summer long ago as it is today in many churches, and cities of our fair land. So-called outreach programs that are no more effective in bringing help, and hope to the suffering than the singing of hymns by the finest of choirs fill the agenda calendars of many of today's proudest churches. I know, as I've been a part of far too many of these. So many well-meaning church goers find themselves stow-a-ways, not prisoners on a train bound for nowhere.

Over the past few months I've been hit head on by the needs of the suffering in my community. A real hazard about starting up a ministry is you may not like what you see behind the carefully crafted curtains of society. So many people in desperate need of jobs, food, friendship, electricity, and firewood. So many are hurting and suffering hidden away from the main streets of our town and what do they receive - an invitation to come visit us at our church on Sunday, and the promise that God will meet them there. Come to us on the first Saturday of each month and we'll hand you a sack of can goods and a smile. Come to us, come to us for we are the church of today, so unlike the church of yesterday.

I wish I had time today to tell you of the individual stories from the lives I've interacted with over the past year, for there are many that will simply break your heart. Lives torn apart by the loss of loved ones, the loss of jobs, homes, family, self-dignity, hope, and the loss of a will to live. Lives that are identical in condition to so many that are within walking distance from your church and mine. Over the next few weeks I plan on sharing their stories, their pain, their needs with all of you. I'll do this in hope that on Christmas morning when we're all sitting around the family dinner table filled to the bream with food and shreds of gift wrapping scattered throughout the house from the many, many presents opened, we will be reminded once again as to why the Christ child came. Why we celebrate Christmas.

Christmas – a time of joy, a time of peace, a time of feel-good. That is if you're one of the fortunate ones sitting within the walls of a closely guarded church building isolated from the hungry, the thirsty, the cold, the pain stricken. This may not be a very comfortable Christmas story, but it most certainly is a Christ-purposed story. So for those that truly hunger to be more Christ-like this holiday season, I encourage you to read on next week, and for those that don't have the stomach, or don't want to be bothered by such grotesque conversations at a time set aside for joy, then I wish you a heart-felt Happy New Years. Regardless, if you read on or not I plead with you to climb on-board a train bound for a closer encounter with Christ this Christmas season. With great love,  doug