Silent In The Churches: A Sermon On 1 Corinthians 14:34-36 -- By: Brandon Waite

Journal: Priscilla Papers
Volume: PP 30:3 (Summer 2016)
Article: Silent In The Churches: A Sermon On 1 Corinthians 14:34-36
Author: Brandon Waite


Silent In The Churches:
A Sermon On 1 Corinthians 14:34-36

Brandon Waite

Before we get too far into this sermon, I need to say one thing: my brother had it coming. So none of this is my fault. Well, not entirely my fault. It might be his fault. Or my parents’ fault, even, for the whole thing started because they had the audacity to sell their house. The one we had was fine. I had my own space there, away from my brothers—a nice reading spot, a shelf full of books, and plenty of room for my favorite pastime: minding my own business.

Honestly, we didn’t need to move anywhere. I was just fine where we were, thank you very much. But for some reason, they didn’t see it that way. And before I knew it, my room was gone, for the house had sold long before our new place was move-in ready. We did the only thing we could while we waited for the builders to finish their work: we moved in with my grandparents.

Now that part is not so bad by itself. We have always enjoyed our time with Gram and Papa, so moving in with them meant more of what we loved most about going to visit: fried chicken, fewer rules, and (to be perfectly honest), more spoiling.

But those things came at a price: I had to share a room—and a bed—with my brother. Not my youngest brother, the one who looks like me. That one’s harmless. This was the other brother. The middle brother. The bane of my young existence: Ryan Michael Waite.

Things are good with us now, but at the time, Ryan seemed to roll out of bed each morning with a headful of fresh ways to torture me. From hiding my things, to pinching my arms, to putting his hands just inches from my face, taunting over and over, “Not touching you. Not touching you. Not touching you.”

He had made it his life goal to push me to the brink of insanity, smile as I teetered on the edge, and laugh maniacally those times I fell headlong into the abyss. And I did fall from time to time.

I could tell mom, of course—after all, she was (theoretically) on the side of the righteous, which would work in my favor—but the problem with telling on Ryan is that I would run the risk of being punished myself, for surely, Mom reasoned, I must have had some part to play in whatever madness Ryan had impressed upon me that day. He would not just torture me for no reason. I mean, what sort of person would do such a thing? What sort of person, indeed! So, as we lay begrudgingly close in our bed one night, it was that possibility of punishment for both of us that kept me from pummeling him when he started poking me in the side, over, and over, and over—an impish little grin creeping across his face with increasing malevolence as my ribs endured thrust after thrust of his bony finge...

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