Questing Parson

Free Is What Flavor?

Regina Weston had called in sick. The parson, therefore, along with his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, showed up at the Soup Supper Monday around noon, leaving him five hours to get the evening’s dinner completed.

He’d just finished chopping the onions when Zelda Marion came by and pretty much demanded to talk about the lack of instruction in one of the Sunday School classes. The parson tried to be cordial, to listen to her in compassion, but in addition to the onions there were other preparations to be made. Finally, she left. The parson headed back to the kitchen, finished the preparations of the soup’s ingredients, placed them along with the proper amount of broth in the kettle and turned the eye on.

Jeffery Kempton arrived about that time. The parson sat down in the office to with him to hear his complaints of the lack of dedication among the young adults. While being polite, the parson couldn’t help but wonder how one generated enthusiasm with Jeffery, a young adult himself, complaining all the time. Finally, Jeffery left.

The parson headed back to the kitchen, placed a large sauce pan on the stove full of water, threw some tea bags in the water and waited for the boil. As he waited he pulled out the cornmeal and the other ingredients to make the cornbread. And that completed he began to open the large pan of peaches. Three inches around the edge the can opener broke.

“Come, Charlie Brown,” the parson called after lowering the heat on the pan with the water and tea bags. He rushed outside and across the highway to the store on the other side of the highway. There he purchased another can opener and he and Charlie Brown headed back to the kitchen and the preparations. The can now open he extracted the contents and began to create the peach cobbler.

A half hour before the scheduled opening Florence, the indigent woman who somehow endeared herself to the parson with her constant and creative attempts to extract money from his wallet, entered and called out, “Hey, Parson, I’m here and I’m starving.”

The parson did not need to answer. Charlie Brown, on hearing her voice, headed to greet her, knowing he was in for a full quarter hour of petting.

When the quarter till the hour point came, several of the volunteers arrived and relieved the parson of some of his anxiety at getting everything out in time. He took a moment and poured a glass of the tea, leaned back against a kitchen counter and relished his cool refreshment.

Ring. Ring. The phone called out.

The parson answered. The voice on the other end said, “Hi, are ya’ll having that soup thing tonight?”

“We are,” said the parson.

“Well, we’re calling to see if we might come.”

“Well, come on,” said the parson. “You’ll be welcome.”

“That may be,” said the voice, “but we need to know what kind of soup you’re having to decide if we’re coming.”

The day flashed through the parson’s mind. He replied, “It’s hot. It’s good. It’s ready. And it’s free.”

An Inconvenience?

The parson headed down the outlet mall walkway tagging along with a granddaughter. They’d already made their way through her list of stores and purchased each desperately needed item. Now it was time to return her to her parents where she could model the selections from her first clothes shopping trip without a parent. (It was almost like shopping alone for the parson tended to place few limits on her.) But before turning home there was a stop to be made at the ice cream parlor. The two needed a nutritious supper after such a strenuous day.

She was concentrating on her rainbow sherbet cone with the same intensity as the parson’s attention to his black cherry when Patricia McGibbon entered.

“Hello, Parson,” she said approaching their table.

“How are you, Patricia?” the parson asked. “I thought you were on vacation.”

“Well, I certainly thought I was. But I guess you might say we got tossed out.”

“Tossed out? What are you talking about, Patricia?”

“We were on the Outer Banks in North Carolina having a marvelous time. That place is simply divine. Then we get told to get out. That darn hurricane is 600 miles away and they want everyone to leave. Can you believe it?”

“Patricia, the authorities were trying to protect you.”

“I think they were being a little premature, Parson. And I don’t like to be imposed on like that.”

The parson paused to run his tongue with the precision that only age can grant around the line where the scoop meets the cone to eliminate the portion that had begun melting as a result of the interruption.

“I think, Patricia, that a lot of people were put out. Did you think about all the money those locals are going to lose because the tourists had to be evacuated?”

“I tell you what I think, Parson. I think that if that storm turns out to sea or misses those islands they are going to hear from me about this intrusion!”

Patricia went to the counter to order whatever. The parson directed his granddaughter toward the door before the conversation could continue.

Outside as they walked away his granddaughter asked, “What was that about?”

The parson replied, “That was about her, Sweetheart. That was all about her.”

My Mailbox

Yes, thank you for asking, I planted it myself.

Passing the Compassion Along

“Hello, Hello, you guys here?” shouted Florence as she entered the outside door of the Fellowship Hall.

The serving at Soup Supper Monday wouldn’t start for another hour. But that only meant Florence had arrived at her usual time.

“That sure does smell good,” she called out as she usually did. “I can’t wait; I’m powerfully hungry today.”

The parson was attending the large kettles on the stove while the rest of the volunteers had run up the street for their weekly Weight Watchers Weigh-in. Thinking of them he glanced over at the cherry cobbler one of them had brought. That was a sign they thought they’d met their goal. The accomplishment was always rewarded with desert on the theory they had seven days to remedy the damage.

After adding a little garlic powder to the ingredients and adjusting the heat, the parson stepped into the dining area to greet Florence.

“So, how are things, Florence?” he asked.

“Pretty good since I got out of jail, Parson. Tell you what, that stint was really a blessing. Do you realize they had me locked up during the hottest part of the year. Just think, the county paid for me to avoid the heat in air conditioned comfort. I tell you, the Lord is good.”

“The Lord is good,” said the parson. “Glad you’re in good spirits.”

“I am in good spirits. And I want to thank you again for that twenty. It was just enough to get my vehicle running again. But, I’ve got a feeling the belt will be going soon. So I’m going to have to find some way to make a little money or maybe somebody could, next week, see clear to assist me with that.”

“Well, I hope you find someone to do that,” said the parson.

“I do, too,” said Florence. “Maybe you’ll ask the Lord to speak to the heart of the one he chooses to assist me.

“Maybe he will,” Florence, “but maybe you should pray you find some gainful means of employment and don’t have to depend on the Lord’s prying open the pocket of poor Parsons.”

“Oh, goodness gracious, Parson, did you think I was talking about you. I wasn’t talking about you. I’m just talking about the Lord speaking to somebody’s heart. I couldn’t know who the Lord chooses.”

The parson smiled and headed back into the kitchen. As he passed through the door he heard her voice, “Come here, Charlie Brown; I know you love me.”

The parson knew Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, would now spend the better part of the next hour sitting next to Florence to get petted.

The evening went as it usually did. All but one of the women returned from the weigh-in filled with joy and anticipating the cherry cobbler. The other could best be described as pouting, a condition the parson chose not to inquire about. People came and went. Two members of the youth group gathered up the takeout dinners which they delivered weekly to the homebound members of the community, placed them in carry boxes and headed out on their appointed rounds.

About thirty minutes before the evening ended, Florence stuck her head in the door of the kitchen. “Hey, can you guys spare about four of those takeouts?”

“Why do you want takeouts?” asked one of the women.

“Well, it was awfully good,” she said. “And I know three people who’d like to have something to eat tonight.”

“But you said you wanted four,” the woman pointed out.

“I do; I sure do,” said Florence. “I thought tonight’s was so good I might enjoy another helping tomorrow night.”

The woman dipped the soup and placed it in one of the carryout bags with some cornbread, some cherry cobbler and some potato salad. She repeated the procedure three more times and after placing them in one of the boxes took them to Florence.

“Thank you so much,” said Florence. “I know those hungry folks will appreciate it.”

The volunteer returned to the kitchen and announced, “I guess Florence has gotten supper for every night this week.”

Not long after Florence left, the parson headed toward the town to pick up some office supplies. He was passing over the bridge that spanned the river under the main highway when he saw Florence’s van off to the side. Then he saw Florence carefully picking her way down the embankment, box in hand, to deliver some soup to the residents of the tent community under the bridge.

Let's Start Over

The parson sat at the table with the Nominations Committee members, working on a new organizational structure for the church and deciding who would be best fitted to fill each position.

“How about the Worship Coordinator?” the parson asked.

“Well, I think we ought to consider Edna Harrington for that position,” said Rhonda Flemming.

“I was going to suggest Edna for Evangelism,” intoned Gilbert Collins, “and to put Henry Forest down to coordinate worship.”

“I have to agree that Edna would be good for Evangelism, Gilbert,” said Harriett Smithers. “But, well I don’t want to throw a monkey wrench into things but Doris Matthers would love to be the Coordinator of Worship.”

The parson buried his face in his hands a moment.

“Parson, are you okay?” asked Rhonda.

“How old is Edna Harrington?” the parson asked.

The people around the table looked at each other. Finally, Gilbert said, “Well, she’s my aunt’s age, so she’s seventy-eight.”

“Exactly,” said the parson, “and how old do you think Doris Matthers is?”

“Oh, Doris is eighty-two,” said Albert Williams who had been quiet until now.

“What do you suppose is the average age of people who have joined the church this past year?” the parson asked.

The table immersed itself in debate. Eventually the members decided the average age of the new members was somewhere in the mid-forties.

“The church is attracting people in their mid-forties and you folks want the church to be run by people with one foot in the grave. Do you think there’s a message there? So, why don’t we just start this meeting over from the start? Albert, will  you begin the meeting with prayer?”

How Long the Madness?

The parson was in the back corner of his favorite diner, reading his morning paper on the Kindle and sipping a decaf, when Stanley Kausman entered. He saw the parson and headed his way.

“Morning, Parson,” he said. “Where were you last night?”

“I was taking a nap with my wife if you have to know.”

“Oh, funny, Parson. The meeting. You were not at the meeting.”

“There was a meeting last night? When did they announce that?”

“Right! You didn’t know a thing about a meeting.”

The parson sipped his coffee. Stanley sat across from him.

“How was the meeting?”

“The meeting was crap,” said Stanley. “It was boring as hell. And then, on top of that, they handed out the denominational asking for next year. That was far from boring. It was infuriating.”

“What’s the rub, Stan?”

“Oh, let’s see. My church is being asked to meet a raise what we pay to capital funding, not for our church mind you, but for the conference, a mere 63%. And I suppose because we are such dedicated folks who have trimmed staff hours to meet our responsibilities we are being asked to increase what we give to the conference administration a small amount of 51%. I tell you parson I looked at those figures and decided these folks just didn’t know how to manage their budget, but then I saw that they are asking us to increase our giving to that retreat that’s been bleeding money since it was started by 41%.”

Stan rubbed his head with both hands in frustration.

“It’s insane, Parson. When did this kind of thinking start?”

The parson smiled and said, “It started forty-five years ago last June when I arrived at my first church.”

Am I Just Being Cynical?

So, in the interest of full disclosure, let me begin by saying I’m one of those weird parsons who believes God did not dictate the last verse of the last chapter of the Book of Revelation and then close the book and for the last, give or take, two thousand years has had nothing else to say. I fully believe that God intends for us to explore the amazing mysteries of God’s universe and use them for the benefit of God’s creation. As such, I’m just slap dab in favor of scientific research that enables humankind to evolve into the creation God intended.

With that background, it was with interest I read the following opening sentences on The Huffington Post, titled “Obama Administration Stem Cell Regulations Temporarily Blocked” by Pete Yost:

WASHINGTON – A federal judge Monday temporarily blocked government rules expanding stem cell research, a blow to the Obama administration that could stall potentially lifesaving research.

The nonprofit Nightlight Christian Adoptions contends that the government’s new guidelines will decrease the number of human embryos available for adoption and implantation.

For some reason I felt compelled to go to the Nightlight Christian Adoptions website. Once there I quickly found this statement:  “In general, the cost of an agency adoption through Nightlight will be approximately $18,000.”

Are there any dots here crying out to be connected? Or am I just a cynical old parson?

A New Theology?

The parson was visiting at his old seminary, researching in the stacks for some material he had not been able to find on the internet. The smell of the old books assaulted his nostrils triggering memories of hours spent among these books a lifetime ago.

As he rounded a corner he came face-to-face with Deborah, a student pastor at a church he once served. They both expressed animated surprise at the encounter with unrestrained hugs. They had not seen each other for about three years. Deborah was pursuing her Ph.D. in religion with an intention of teaching.

They quickly made arrangements to meet for dinner at a familiar spot where, in her days as a student pastor at the parson’s church, the staff had often held staff meetings over a shared pizza and beverage. The parson had just found a table looking out the window toward the university when Deborah arrived late in the afternoon. They quickly settled down and began to catch up on each other’s life as well as sharing information on other folks they held in common.

Soon the pizza arrived. They began to devour it as they continued to exchange updates. “So, what’s the emphasis of your doctoral program?” the parson asked.

“I’m working on an analysis of the developing multi-cultural patterns on the theology of the mainline Protestant church,” she said, leaning forward with enthusiasm.

“Tell me something about it,” the parson said.

Deborah reached down and pulled a box from a shopping bag she was carrying. “Look at this, Parson,” she said. “I bought some shoes this afternoon.” She smiled and continued, “I’m not going to ask your opinion on the shoes,” she said,  “but look at the box.” She handed it across the table.

The parson examined the box in a perfunctory way.

“No, no,” said Deborah. “Look on the bottom.”

The parson held his hand on the top and turned the box over. There was printed two charts, a men’s and a woman’s shoe size chart. The interesting thing about the charts was the comparisons of sizes for different parts of the world. The countries were America, the United Kingdom, Mexico, Europe, and Japan. The parson looked to Deborah.

“Here’s the thing, Parson. Here we are sitting at a pizza place in the heart of the Southern United States.  I just bought these shoes at that store down there.” She pointed out the window to the store. “The very fact that I bought shoes with international sizing comparison charts on the box shows the impact that multi-culturalism is having on our world already. There’s a mixing of these cultures here right where we live. Now look at the list on the chart. There’s the United States where the dominant religion is Protestant; there’s the United Kingdom which is Anglican; there’s Mexico, Catholic; Europe which is – well who knows what Europe actually is; and there’s Japan with its traditional religion. Here they are on the back of a shoe box, in a pizza parlor across the street from this university. Something is happening in the world, Parson. And tomorrow or next week or maybe even next month it will impact the theology of the church. Our church is going to change, Parson. In two more generations we’ll not be able to recognize the way we describe our church today. . . .”

Deborah continued on with her analysis of the multi-cultural development of the United States and that development’s impact on theology through the consumption of the entire pizza and then through the downing of another mug of beverage. She was excited and on fire about her studies.

The sun had set and darkness had closed the door to the sky when the parson left to head for home.  As he drove, he reflected on Deborah’s thesis. He had a feeling she was right. And he was disappointed that he probably would not live long enough to see the new theology fully.

Three Stories; Three Faiths; One God [continued from yesterday] - Conversation with Christine Chakoian

Sherre Hirsch and Eboo Patel in conversation with Christine Chakoian, who says, "I think about the hospitality of treating the other as friend, of assuming the best in someone rather than assuming the worst. Welcoming the differences is a way not only to get to know this surprise, but also somehow to get to know ones' self simply knowing the other."

Conversation with Christine Chakoian - PG5321 from 30goodminutes on Vimeo.

Hey, Ref! Blow the Whistle and We'll Get This Massacre Started!

 
 Grandchild Number #4 (in birth order) - Three years old.