Weenie Roast

"If you're telling me the truth, you're gonna have to prove it," Gideon told the stranger. Be careful what you ask for.

It wasn’t exactly a barbecue. 

Not in the strictest sense of the word. It was more like the way his mother used to serve lamb chops. If they’re smokin’, they’re cookin’, if they’re ashes, we're done. Then, once the meal he handed over to the stranger had gone up in smoke, the guy suddenly disappeared, too.

Maybe I should’ve cooked that myself, Gideon thought, staring at the charred remains that once resembled food. He hadn’t even brought the fellow a match. The man just held out his staff to touch the meat and bread when poof! It all burst into flames. Incinerated.

“I wonder where I could get a stick like that,” he thought out loud. Brushing the still warm debris from off the rock, it occurred to him that men who could appear and disappear and perform magic tricks like this weren’t your normal, run of the mill tourists. There may have been something a little more supernatural about him. Then again, maybe Gideon was just overcome by gluten and wine fumes.

He was still scratching his head and wondering what to do next when suddenly the stranger was standing in front of him again.

“Hey, where’d you go?” Gideon asked, startled by the interruption. Eyeing him with suspicion, he pressed, “You got food poisoning, didn’t you? Well, next time you may want to tone down that stick just a little. First time with a new toy?”

The man smiled and shook his head. “I wasn’t hungry. I’m here to prove something to you.”

“That you’re a pyromaniac?”

“I’m here to offer you peace. And tell you you’re not going to die.”

Gideon put a hand to his forehead. “That’s good news. Guess I'm not coming down with a fever.”  He crossed his arms, eyeing the stranger. “I’m not going to die of what?” 

“Fear. You’re not going to die from fear.”

It wasn’t exactly the answer he’d expected. He didn’t think he agreed with it, either. Lots of people caved to fear. Hadn’t this guy ever heard news reports? Fishermen die of fear in sudden storm on lake. That one happened all the time. Or maybe they drowned. Either way, dead is dead, he thought.

Gideon eyed the visitor. “That’s it? Be at peace and stop being afraid? That’s the message? Okay, thanks. Very helpful,” he added, his voice tinged with sarcasm.

“There’s more,” the man said.

Of course, there was more. There was always more. He frowned but said nothing. And waited. For a second.

“Later tonight, get your father’s bull . . .”

“Are you out of our mind? I can't walk off with my father's favorite bull.”

“No, not that one. His second favorite. I want you to take your father’s second favorite bull, tie it to the altar your dad had built to honor the sun god, and pull it down.”

Gideon’s eyes were bulging. “You want me,” he began, breathless, “to use my father’s very own second favorite bull to destroy his favorite statue?”

“Exactly. And then chop down the other statue he erected right beside it when you’re finished with that. The one he built to the moon goddess.”

“Asherah?” Gideon asked, incredulous. “Do you have some kind of vendetta against me? I mean, the people of Midian really admire their lustful goddess of seduction.”

The stranger’s head tipped to the side and now it was his turn to cross his arms. “The goddess they carved from a tree?”

Well, he had a point.

“Let me ask you something,” the stranger posed. “If you’re convinced the people in your town are worshipping the true God, what are you doing hiding out here in a winepress?”

Which, Gideon had to admit, was another good point. He began to whine. Just a little.

“Why can’t God just send a windstorm and blow them over? It would be an act of nature that way instead of vandalism. Or he could just toss a few lightning bolts down and explode those phony chunks of wood and rock. Nobody has to get hurt—especially me. Wouldn’t that accomplish the same thing?”

The stranger was silent. Waiting. There were crickets. The buzz of mosquitos. And Gideon was positively certain he heard the loud splash of a drop of sweat as it rolled off the end of his nose and splatted on his sandaled toes. Still, the other man remained mute.

“I guess I see your point,” Gideon finally said, even though he didn’t. “I have to do it. Why do I have to do it?” he asked, trying to be honest even if he wasn’t fearless.

“I already told you. Because you are a mighty man of courage and the Lord is with you.”

That’s what I get for being an introvert and working alone, Gideon thought in self-reproach. If I’d just brought a couple of the guys here to help me, maybe God could have been with one of them instead.

The stranger chuckled, as if he could read his mind. “You’re not alone.”

“Yeah,” Gideon sighed. “You said that. So, just, borrow a bull, pull down some statues, and then what? Don’t you think somebody might wonder where all the noise is coming from?”

“Not a problem,” the man replied, brushing off his anxiety. “With all those fallen rocks, build an altar to the one true God right where the fake ones used to be. Then take the wood from the moon goddess statue, set it on fire, and sacrifice that bull there.”

Gideon was speechless. For a second. Then he exploded. “There is a problem!" he exclaimed. "Let me get this straight,” he said in such a tight, tiny voice even he wasn’t sure it belonged to him. “Take my father’s second favorite bull—without permission—and tie it to a stone statue of the sun god. Yank it down until it falls in a million pieces, use all that shrapnel to build an altar. Then, chop down the moon goddess statue and pile all her wooden parts on the altar, torch it. Finally, to put the icing on the cake, kill my father’s second favorite bull and sacrifice it on the repurposed pile of broken gods.”

“In the city square,” the stranger added. “Where no one can miss seeing it.”

Gideon’s shoulders sagged. His heart sank. His mouth went dry. When he was a kid, hadn’t his mother told him to never talk to strangers? He’d always wondered why. After all, until you met a stranger, you couldn’t make a friend out of them. But tonight, as the consequences of the strange plan overwhelmed him and kept his sandals frozen to the ground, he realized his mother had been right. Talking to strangers was a really bad idea. Even for a grown up.

“Holy smokes,” he groaned.













With gratitude to Sabrina McKenzie for the great photo seen above. The original picture can be viewed at: https://www.flickr.com/photos/94543618@N02/14046601866/in/photolist-npfvmN-fyb77P-582fQc-8wvfsP-828DzP-ot73eg-27KsDhY-7NpztU-4pZrmV-6zYAxV-pLfHge-iiWhF-9hURq7-9hRKUR-ai62hj-9hRKCX-9hRJNg-ai3mTP-9hRKqK-ai3DwH-ai37dX-ai3EDe-ai5Zof-ai6qwb-ai2NqR-ai6kVQ-9hUQcm-ai2YE4-ai6gE1-ai5ve7-8crQXo-aXY5TB-eU69F-kTZw5R-2YP17-xTqrqY-cGoimW-5EjQvm-7LL62c-cGoi7o-xear4B-6zVHu-ogig6d-8gghmb-cbUr39-6quqtR-bunFMU-4QDFhp-caHGN5-4fQFpW