Stories for Ears to Hear: A Reimagining of the Parables of Jesus

By The Choir’s Steve Hindalong and Tincan Caldwell

When asked a question like Who is my neighbor?, Jesus often answered with a story. He did this because humans often see themselves in stories better than they do in direct answers. For instance, the universal situation of rescuing someone who is in desperate need on the side of the road somewhere, far from home, resonates with people down through the ages.

In Stories for Ears to Hear, Tincan Caldwell puts a modern spin on the parables of Jesus in an attempt to help the reader imagine what the heart of these stories would look like today. In his famous challenge before telling a parable, Jesus would encourage those with ears to hear to listen to his tales of prodigal sons, lost coins, victimized travelers on the road, and elaborate parties with no guests. In telling these stories, Jesus brought the sensibilities of heaven to the very real dusty highways and hills of his homeland.

In reimagining these classic parables (the parable of the good Samaritan set against the backdrop of the 9/11 tragedy, the parable of the unmerciful servant moved to a struggling record store, the parable of the talents reimagined in the world of a network reality show), Caldwell challenges readers to re-examine how heaven wants to invade the everyday stuff of life, like roads, parties, wayward sons, and the foundations we build our lives upon.

That makes for a great story any day.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Aug 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781449799298

The Choir’s Steve Hindalong

Tincan Caldwell (or Alex Caldwell, as his driver’s license says) is a writer, reporter, freelance preacher, and stay-at-home dad who lives in Tilton, New Hampshire. He enjoys a hearty bowl of oatmeal, the band U2, the writings of John Steinbeck, the Boston Red Sox, and wearing a variety of nifty hats. He would like to thank his two pretty daughters, India and Ireland, and beautiful wife, Julie, for letting him make unusual career moves. Stories for Ears to Hear is his first book.

Book preview

Table of Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgments

Sons of Privilege, Towers of Strength

The Best Cup of Coffee on the Subcontinent

Dazzling Mr. Desouza

The Pigs of Ibiza

In Search of Bill the Tomato

Your Design Here

Those Grace Period Blues

Captain Amazing #1

Marco Polo, Miss Soto, and Me

Incident in Barracks 13-B

About the Author

He [Jesus] speaks in parables, and though we have approached these parables reverentially all these many years, and have heard them expounded as grave and reverent vehicles of holy truth, I suspect that many, if not all of them, were originally not grave at all, but were antic, comic, and often more than just a little shocking.

—Frederick Buechner

This book is dedicated to my fantastic English teachers, Ms. Jan Roberts, Mr. Bill, and Mrs. Ellen Katka, who are still teaching, and the late Mrs. Donna Moody. Thank you for opening up the power of story to show truth and for encouraging this (still) awkward kid that we are all created with gifts to share.

Foreword

An offering such as this—a collection of short stories—can be especially gratifying to impatient readers with minds prone to drift, like me. I became quickly drawn into each scenario, captivated by the characterizations and perplexing plots. It’s a fine thing to be willingly taken elsewhere now and again—to empathize with another soul’s dilemma—only to eventually realize that it is, after all, your own.

I found much cause for reflection between passages, as light shone amid the very shadows where I presently wander, where we all live each day.

Timeless tales well told enlighten listeners gradually. As Tincan Caldwell raises his lantern slowly, we find ourselves in curious settings, such as a hospital waiting room in Madrid, Spain, where we encounter intriguing individuals who are foreign yet familiar.

The manuscript I received in advance did not include the subtitle A Reimagining of the Parables, but in each story there would come a point, usually just past midway, where the light shone clearly and I would think something like, Ah, this is a new version of The Lost Son, from the gospel of Luke. I would visualize Jesus on a hillside, in a marketplace, or under an olive tree in Jerusalem—astounding, bewildering, and inspiring first-century Jews.

The parables of Jesus, as they are universally known, are eternally resonant because they will, for all time and in all times, be relevant to our lives. These stories are taut with provocative circumstances whereby the actions or inactions of persons may result in just reward or severe consequence. The focus is on human relationships, imploring listeners to consider their own responsibilities as fellow citizens of this world—or even as heirs to God’s heavenly kingdom. Perhaps above all others throughout literary history, these stories told by Jesus of Nazareth warrant retelling—and yes, reimagining—as Caldwell dares to do so adeptly here and now.

As the details of each modern narrative unfold before us, we may see something of ourselves in the characters—the good guys and the bad guys. This is because in true life, the lines that separate light from dark, and virtue from evil, are likely to be blurred. It is imperative that our ears hear stories such as these, because when a gifted storyteller leads us to the conclusion of an insightful tale—holding his lantern high—we may understand our world better and see ourselves more clearly within it.

In contemplation of The Pigs of Ibiza, for example, it is apparent to me that I am a contemptuous, self-seeking brother. I am a cold-hearted marauder, complicit in cruelty. I am a wounded, compassionate father. I am a foolish, sorry, badly beaten son. My name is Steven Hindalong. My father is Paul Hindalong of Montebello, California. I would like to go home.

Steven Hindalong

Drummer and lyricist, The Choir

Acknowledgments

No piece of creative work is done without the help of others somewhere along the journey. This collection of stories represents my inner mind’s working for the last few years, and for helping to birth it, I thank the following people:

To my beautiful wife, Julie, and my two lovely daughters, India and Ireland, I say, Thank you for your endless belief in me these last few years. Thank you for laughing at the funny parts, asking me to tell you the plot points while you were going to bed, and for your patience and the mind-blowing love you show me every day.

To my mother, I say, "Thank you for saving every story I wrote as a child, illustrating them for me, and attempting to answer every question I had about The Hobbit. You have encouraged me along the writing path more than you could ever understand."

To my father, I say, Thank you for reading everything I ever wrote from the comfort of your easy chair in the evenings, and for telling me, ‘I think you need to get this stuff out there, son. People need to read this.’ May your reading light always be lit and your glasses within easy reach.

To the saints at Oasis Christian Church, I say, Thank you for letting this odd ball be a part of what the Father is doing in our little corner of the world. To encourage the participation and gift of every member of the congregation is the highest calling of a local body, and you have excelled in this. May the next ten years be full of grace for us all.

And to the Father and creator of all things, I say, "Thank you for continued amazing grace, salvation through your Son (whose story changed my life), and for filling my life with uncountable good gifts. Your grace is enough for me."

Sons of Privilege, Towers of Strength

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There was no way for the man to know this, but the large piece of metal that he was trapped under had recently belonged to the jet engine of a commercial airliner.

As he lay there in the prone position, his face pressed against the asphalt of the street and his arms spread out like a scarecrow, he could see the world in front of him in the same way that you would view a photograph turned sideways. He could vaguely make out feet and legs moving around him, and somewhere in the distance, he could hear the shrill noise of sirens. There was also the steady rainfall of paper all around him.

He watched as one piece of paper slowly made its way into his field of vision with its lazy, side-to-side downward motion, until it settled neatly onto his face, nestling perfectly just over his eyebrows and under his chin.

Panicking because his limited visual scope had just become completely obstructed, the man puffed out his cheeks and attempted to blow the piece of paper away from his face. But the heavy piece of metal debris pressing in on his torso prevented him from taking a necessary deep breath. What came out was more of a weak whistle than anything else. The bright morning sunlight on his face allowed for the viewing of shadowy shapes through the piece of paper, but despite this, his sensory deprivation was now almost complete.

He had started out this morning a few minutes late, his time exiting his home extended by his young daughter’s inability to find her school library book to return that day. He knew that it was under her bed, where they always put it after reading at bedtime. But he was determined to have her find it and retrieve it this time, because he wanted her to start to become responsible for her library loans.

When she came downstairs almost in tears from not being able to find it, he relented and helped her search her room for the book. It was not under the bed. And after thoroughly taking apart of her room, his wife found the book in his daughter’s backpack—the very place that his daughter had thoughtfully placed it earlier that morning and then forgotten about it. As he fought traffic and rushed to make train connections to avoid being late to work, he had no way of knowing that those lost ten minutes had saved his life.

Well, had saved his life so far.

As he lay there, he absentmindedly thought about the baseball game tickets that he had in his pocket. They had been a gift to the folks in his division from his boss for the completion of a recent deal. The whole group was planning on attending the game tonight after work, and he had been looking forward to it for almost a month. The game had playoff implications, and he had brought along a few dollars from the family’s fun account that was located in the piggybank near the front door of his house. He wanted to buy a T-shirt for his daughter to wear to team jersey day at her school.

His mind snapped back to the present and his predicament. He tried to take stock of what was happening to him. He took three shallow breaths and tried to clear his mind for just a second. The breaths hurt incredibly, and he wondered if maybe he had broken a few ribs. Back in high school, he had broken a rib playing soccer, and he remembered how difficult it had been to breathe. This felt like that, but a thousand times worse. His necktie was also draped across his face in what would have been an odd, gravity-defying position if he had been standing upright. The tie across his face had already been making his breathing more difficult when the piece of paper had arrived. If he could have moved his arms for just one second, he would have brushed the tie and paper away from his face. But his outstretched arms were pinned down like he was a butterfly in a collection somewhere.

Breathing and vision, he thought—two things you don’t really notice until they are gone.

Whatever was on top of him was heavy, but not so heavy as to crush him. So maybe he could get out from under this thing if he attempted to move just the right way. He tested his fingers and his toes and found to his relief that he could wiggle them, though not without causing sharp pains to his chest area. He also found that when he went to wiggle the fingers of his left hand, they were still curled around the handle of his briefcase.

When he had heard the initial explosion and the screaming, he did what comes natural to human beings. He ducked down behind a parked car, and that saved him. The flying chunks of debris ricocheted around once they had hit the street, and though he had not seen it, the piece of engine that was pinning him down should have killed him outright. But by the time it had made its way over to where he was crouched down, it had lost most of its killing momentum. It simply knocked him off his feet and against the side of the car before it came to its final resting place.

Well, that had saved him. So far.

Others near him had not been so fortunate. In the first few seconds after he had come to, he heard a woman screaming in pain, and then she went silent. He had tried calling out to her, but his breath would just not come. He could produce no sound louder than a choked whisper.

The strange thought came upon him to test all his senses. He sniffed weakly and came up with the scent of the street directly beneath him and the increasingly strong smell of gasoline. He could feel the rough pavement under his face, and his fingers brushed small stone-sized debris all around his hands. His sight was still obscured by the piece of paper, but a breeze had shifted the paper slightly and partially uncovered one eye. Through this limited tunnel of vision, he could see down the boulevard a few feet. The most immediate thing in his vision was a pair of feet in high-heeled shoes. They were attached to a pair of legs, but he could not turn his head to see the rest of the figure lying just a few feet from him. He guessed that these shoes belonged to the woman he had heard screaming.

There was also the strong taste of blood in his mouth. He thought back to his days as a teenage lifeguard at a summer camp and wondered if the blood he tasted was from a mouth injury or some sort of internal, crushing injury. One sort of bleeding, he thought, was infinitely better than the other.

As for sounds, there was still the distant wailing sirens and not much else. Sirens were a constant in the city, and most people gave them no more thought than they gave a rotating ceiling fan in the office or the hum of conversation in a restaurant. But as he listened intently, he heard the distinct sound of boots clomping on the pavement near him. And not just boots but a collection of boots stomping in a rough formation.

He could identify this sound because for ten weeks of boot camp the sound rhythmic clomping boots had been his constant companion. The sound had signaled that his training squad was moving somewhere, out to train on the PT field, marching on thirty-mile treks across the desert plain, in formation in front of the general for graduation exercises. The sound was woven into his memory in a way that he had not realized until that moment.

And then the boots were upon him, passing just through his field of vision. As they passed, their collective momentum caused a slight movement of air that moved the paper from his face completely. This sudden restoration of vision (and the slight blinding caused by the sunshine hitting his face directly) gave the paper’s movement a religious overtone, and that was enough to cause him to call out with a