Questing Parson

Pray For the New Pastors

My good friend Gary DeMore, Pastor of Saint John’s United Methodist in Augusta, Georgia, reminded me it’s once again time to pray for the United Methodist pastors who in our area of the connection moved to a new church a couple of weeks ago.

We need to pray because this will be their second Sunday in the pulpit of that new church. And this will be the last time Reginald Q. Scoggins, III attends for a couple of years.

Reginald is known to all pastors, regardless of denomination. Reginald, who has been inactive for a while because the last pastor just didn’t cut it, always shows up at church for the new pastor. He’s there to give the new cleric a listen and, in theory, a chance.

Now, if you knew Reginald, and I’m sure some of you do, whatever name he goes by at your church, you’d know that Reginald is never one to judge. Reginald wants that new pastor to succeed; Reginald want’s that new pastor to be the one who sets the church afire with something vital and renewing. Reginald will be the first one into that new pastor’s corner and will defend that new pastor against any who might want to vilify his abilities. Reginald will do that as long as that new pastor preachers the unvarnished Gospel and preaches it with authority. Reginald was there last Sunday participating with vigor and good humor at that new pastor’s “Welcome Luncheon”.

This Sunday, being the new pastor’s second Sunday, has a very good chance of being remembered as the last time Reginald attended church during the new pastor's tenure. After this coming Sunday Reginald will go home and remain there for two or three years, for you can be certain that by the end of this coming Sunday’s service that new pastor will have failed the test. The new pastor will never have the slightest idea what was done to offend Reginald and drive him away from the flock. But that new pastor will be carrying the guilt of having run Reginald away from the kingdom until the end of this pastorate and maybe beyond. The new pastor will know the terrible burden of not having measured up.

The new pastor doesn’t know it; but I know it, and the members of the congregation know it, and you know it: Reginald is an idiot, a cantankerous sourpuss, a sorry excuse for a church member. In some churches a loving soul will be kind enough to tell the new pastor that Reginald is what Reginald is. Alas, the poor new pastor will refuse to put down the burden of having been the one to run Reginald away from his redemption.

Being a pastor is a tough job. And often the hardest part of it is breaking in a new congregation. The people who fill the pews of our churches are, however, for the most part, really decent folks who love the pastor more than the pastor deserves. But knowing that does little to erase the fear and trepidation that comes with a new pastorate.

We pastors who have done this a while anticipate the presence of Reginald those first couple of Sundays. And we know Reginald will be departing soon because somehow we always find a way to fail him.

So, I’m asking you to pray for those pastors who have recently assumed new appointments. Pray that they will remember that their ministry is to all the people and not just to the squeaky wheels. Pray they will remember ninety-nine percent of that congregation desperately wants them to succeed, and a smaller, but dedicated, percentage is praying daily for that.

Pray that they will so grow in grace while serving these new folks that they will not even feel it necessary to smile at Reginald when he shows up at the “Going Away Luncheon,” however long from now that day might be, for if there is one thing of which that new pastor can be sure it’s that Reginald will damn sure be there.

Degrees of Dedication & Denial

The parson sat in one of the waiting areas of the hospital. He’d provided a ride for a neighbor who was having some non-critical, elective, surgery. As he leaned back in the chair reading his Kindle, Robert Fallan came up. Robert was a member of a nearby church who’d also been a member of of a church near the parson’s first pastorate. They’d become friends and kept up with each other off and on over the years. Now they found themselves living in the same community in retirement.

“What are you doing here, Robert?” asked the parson.

Robert plopped himself into the chair opposite the parson. “Stopped in to see Gene Cooper. You know Gene, don’t you?”

“I don’t think so,” said the parson.

“He runs the liquor store down on Bates Avenue. I thought for sure he and you would be good friends.”

“Naw,” said the parson. “I’ve got a discount at The Party Store.”

Robert laughed aloud, loud enough to invite the turning of heads all over the room. He leaned forward in the chair and said, “Let me ask you a question, Parson.”

“Shoot,” said the parson, turning his Kindle off and closing its cover.

“Do you know that subdivision off Lower Pond Road named “Royal Estates?”

“I’ve been past it a couple of times. But I’ve never driven through it.”

“Well, I doubt you’d have any reason to go there. Did you know most of the people who’ve bought houses in there are Muslims?”

“I didn’t,” said the parson. “Muslims? I did know there were Muslims living around here.”

“Well they sure do now.”

The parson wondered where their mosque was. He made a mental note to check this out.”

“You know what those Muslims do?”

“What do Muslims do, Robert?”

“They go for a month without eating anything while the sun’s up.”

“It’s called Ramadan,” said the parson.

“Call it what you will, Parson, nobody is going to be impressed with people who don’t eat in the daylight.”

“It’s called self-denial, Robert,” the parson instructed.

“It’s called ridiculous,” said Robert.

“Robert,” the parson asked, “what did you give up for Lent this year?”

“I gave up soft drinks. Wasn’t too bad a choice; I lost three pounds.”

“Wow!,” said the parson. “That will really impress people with your religion.”

The parson saw his neighbor coming across the room. He stood, excused himself as Robert sat wondering.

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Sanctuary Dancing

“Parson!” Fred Griffin called out as the parson was exiting the grocery store, several bags in each arm.

The parson turned and saw Fred also leaving the store with a carton of soft drinks under his arm. “Hello, Fred, how are things?”

“That depends, Parson. That depends.”

“Depends on what, Fred?” the parson asked, shifting the bags to give him more purchase.

“My grandson tells me you had a bunch of kids over at the church this morning teaching them the Bunny Hop.”

“I did, Fred; I did. And that Benjamin is a walking piece of rhythm. Did he get that from you?”

Fred stared at the parson. He shifted his place to allow a woman pushing a shopping cart between the two of them. As he did, the parson shifted the bags in his arms again.

“The point is, Parson, you had Benjamin and some of the other kids dancing in the sanctuary.”

The parson stepped to the side of the entry in which they were standing. He placed the bags against the wall and turned back to Fred. “They had to dance in the sanctuary, Fred; that’s where we needed to practice.”

“Practice for what?”

“Dancing in the sanctuary during the morning worship, Sunday.”

“There’s not going to be any dancing in the sanctuary during Sunday worship, Parson.”

“There is, Fred; there is. I’m going to dance. Your grandson, Benjamin, is going to dance; most of Benjamin’s church friends are going to dance. And Fred, you can join us if you want.”

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” hissed Fred.

The parson leaned down and picked up his groceries. He smiled at Fred and as he turned to leave said, “That’s too bad, Fred. That’s just a crying shame that you’ve gone to church this many years and never had the urge to dance.”

The parson began walking toward his car. Fred was a few paces behind him. The parson could not resist. With a firm grip on his bags he first stuck his right foot out, brought it back and then stuck the left foot out; after this he hopped backward once and then hopped forward three times.

He turned and looked back at Fred. “See ya, Sunday, Fred. Bring your dancing shoes.”

Why Were They Not Here?

The morning worship had concluded. The parson had bid farewell to and successfully resisted responding to the “Enjoyed your sermon.” comment with “And what pard did you enjoy the most?”

The double doors were being closed when Eleanor Lassader called out, “Hold on Parson. Don’t lock me in!”

The parson turned to behold Eleanor scurrying up the center aisle. “Oh, there’s no way I’d do that,” he said with a smile, while holding the door open for her.

As Eleanor started to pass through the door, she paused and said, “You know, Parson, the Whitney’s haven’t been here in several weeks.”

“I noticed that, Eleanor,” said the parson.

“Why haven’t they been here?” asked Eleanor.

The parson studied Eleanor as he contemplated the gift of a teaching moment. 

“I don’t know, Eleanor. Why haven’t they been there?”

“How in the world would I know, Parson?”

“I thought you lived on Hogg Mountain Road?”

“I do.”

“Don’t the Whitney’s live on that road, about a half mile east of your house?”

“They do.”

“Eleanor, you go home. And you call them. Tell them we missed them. If anyone’s sick you go visit. In fact, why don’t you just go visit. Then you give me a call.”

“Parson, I don’t ....”

The parson held his finger to his lips. “I’m really depending on you, Eleanor. Thanks a lot,” said the parson as he eased Eleanor out the door.

Walking back into the sanctuary the parson wondered if the Whitney’s would share the picture’s of their trip to Alaska with Eleanor.

Celebrating the Fourth

I got a big kick out of the Fourth of July again this year. It’s my favorite holiday. You get a day off. Everyone is in a festive mood. There’s excitement and anticipation. There’s activities for the adults and the kids. There’s cholesterol laden food, and smiles, and greetings, and happy faces everywhere. But wait, there’s more!

The celebration is one where nothing of substance is expected. You don’t have to buy presents. You don’t have to go over to Grandma’s house. Folks coming to your house is completely optional. The Fourth of July holiday can be a group activity or an individual observance. 

Having reached the maturity of my years, having kids and grandkids that live miles away, I’m in a place where the quiet serene celebration engendered by sitting at home is a gift from my Maker. So I did.

From my house I can see the fireworks on the other side of town, so I don’t miss that. And I’ve got this great TV. Georgia Public Broadcasting televised the Independence Day Concert at the U. S. Capitol. Aretha Franklin sang; Barry Manilow performed; the cast of The Jersey Boys sang Frankie Valli’s hits; the Muppets from Sesame Street were there; and (be still my heart) Natasha Bedingfield sang. The National Symphony provided their rendition of patriotic marches, and there were fireworks dancing about the Washington Monument. It was a joyful celebration.  

Earlier in the day we took a ride along the back roads of Northwest Georgia. A red-tailed hawk surfed the unseen waves of air above Pine Log Creek; rabbits scurried across our paths under the canopy of an oak covered byway; and a fawn watched us, trembling and frozen in fear as we stopped to marvel at her beauty. Slowly I lowered the window; more slowly I reached for the camera; even more slowly I brought it up, focused, and prepared to take her image home with me. It was not to be. In an instant she was gone, blended into the foliage of the forest.

On we traveled across that tiny, tiny section of America we are fortunate enough to  occupy, over wooden, one-lane bridges, spanning bubbling brooks of pristine water, up foothills into mountain majesty, down into valleys teeming with crop reaching for abundant harvest. It was the Fourth of July and we celebrated what, for us, is America.

Those roads had been traveled before. That hawk had been soared above us before; and, while that fawn was new born, her cousins had scampered before our car on previous days. We’d traveled those narrow isolated pathways on many a Saturday before. Yet, on the Fourth of July there’s deeper meaning that on previous days taken for granted. “This land is my land; this land is your land ....” We are Americans; we are blessed by this land.

Down from the mountain heights, down the winding road, across the valley, beside the rivers, we wandered home. It was only until eight houses before ours we saw the real celebration of freedom.

Festooned with American flags the house stood out in stark contrast to ours. There was a visible display that was a proclamation: “I’m proud to be an American.” The people who live in our house, unadorned with flags or other manifestations of patriotism, are American by accident of birth. In the flag decorated house, where English is spoken with a heavy Hispanic accent, being American is a choice. 

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Continued Prayers Requested

Cheri Witt, wife of the pastor of Wesley Chapel United Methodist Church, in Calhoun, Georgia, died Friday afternoon.

In my previous post, I asked for your prayers for this family. Cheri was thirty-seven. Her husband, Andy, had been appointed as pastor of the church only nine days before. There are three children, ages 10, 7, and 3. A scholarship fund for their children has been established via the Acworth United Methodist Church, Acworth, Georgia.

Please pray for Andy, the children, her parents and others in the family. Also, pray for the members of Wesley Chapel United Methodist who are devastated at this tragic loss.

Thanks.

Please Pray

They are a young couple with three children, 10, 7, and 3. He became the pastor of the parish that adjoins mine ten days ago.

On Wednesday night following Vacation Bible School, she suffered cardiac arrest and is hospitalized. Apparently her brain was deprived of oxygen too long. Doctors say there is very little chance she will make it. And he may be faced with that most horrible of decisions today.

Your prayers will be cherished.

Good Meal; Good Advice

The meeting adjourned and the parson made his way toward the parking lot. Randy Whitmore, the pastor of a nearby church and a rising star in the denomination, walked with him. As they approached their cars the parson invited Randy to join him for lunch. Agreeing to ride together in the parson’s car and then return Randy to his, they departed.

Ten minutes into the ride, Randy spoke, “I didn’t know there were any restaurants on in this part of town, Parson.”

“Well, you should get out more often,” the parson responded.

In another five minutes the parson pulled into an unpaved parking lot in front of a small commercial garage. 

“Where in the world are we?” asked Randy.

“We’re at the best BBQ place in this part of the state,” said the parson. 

They pair got out of the car and the parson motioned for Randy to follow. He headed around the side of the garage. Behind the structure they came upon a shelter, a roof resting on posts, six to a side, and with screened wire covering all sides. A rickety screened door was hinged to a frame of 2x4s. Inside the screen the floor was covered with sawdust and wood chips.

“Parson,” called out a voice from inside the enclosure, “como esta?”

“Bien,” the parson responded.

He motioned Randy to follow and stepped inside the shelter and moved across to a table constructed of 2x10s resting on saw horses. The two sat down and immediately a rotund woman in her fifties brought a pitcher of tea and sat it on the table. She turned immediately and walked away.

“I didn’t know you spoke Spanish,” said Randy.

“Just a little,” said the parson.

“What’s a little?” Randy asked.

“I just exhausted one quarter of my vocabulary,” the parson smiled.

“I don’t think this place has a business license,” said Randy.

“It doesn’t need one, Randy; it’s just a place where friends gather to eat.”

No sooner had he spoken than the woman returned with with a plate of BBQ, cold slaw and mashed potatoes.

“How do you find these places?” asked Randy.

“You just have to look for them,” the parson said. “By the way, how’s Jane and the kids doing?”

“To tell you the truth, Parson,” Randy said, “things are a little touchy with Jane right now.”

“What’s the problem?” asked the parson as he wiped some sauce from his lips with the back of his hand.

“We’d been planning to go to go on a vacation next month. We’ve got reservations at Disney World. But things have really gotten busy at the church and I don’t think I can take the time off.”

The parson looked intently at Randy and said, “Eat up.”

No words were spoken as they finished the meal. The parson sopped the sauce from his plate with a piece of loaf bread. No sooner had he done so than the woman appeared beside him. She held out a jalapeno. The parson took it and without taking his eyes from her bit the entire pepper from its stem, chewed it slowly and swallowed.

The woman watched him swallow and let forth with a belly laugh and slapped the parson on the back. The parson reached into his pocket and retrieved a twenty which he handed to her. He then motioned for Randy to follow and rapidly left the shelter. Randy scurried along behind the parson as they headed to the car. On arrival the parson opened the back door of the driver’s side, reached into a grocery bag, and tore a piece of bread from its package. He stuffed the entire piece of bread into his mouth and chewed slowly.

He motioned for Randy to get into the car. As they drove out the parson continued to chew. Five or six blocks down the road the parson spit the wet wad of bread into his hand and tossed it out the window.

“Holy Moley,” said the parson, “that pepper was hot as hell.”   

“Did I just witness some secret ritual?”

“Something like that,” said the parson. He looked over at Randy and asked, “When was that church of yours founded?”

“1837,” said Randy.

The parson did the calculations in his head. “One hundred seventy-two years. Wow! That church somehow survived for one hundred and seventy-two years without you. How did they do that?”

The parson pulled his car into the parking lot beside Randy’s. As Randy opened his door the parson spoke, “Go home, Randy, call the chairperson of your Pastor-Parish Committee. You tell her you and Jane and the kids are heading to Disney World. I’ll bet you a juicy jalapeno the church will be there when you get back.”

Waiting For Inclusion

The parson and his faithful canine, Charlie Brown, were emerging from the depths of the canyon, where once he and the famous evangelist, Mark Winter, had hiked, and where that said evangelist had refrained from endangering the life of the sacred deer. (But that’s another story.)

Reaching the canyon’s rim, the parson encountered Jim Wages, a fellow pastor who had recently been assigned to his first pastoral appointment. 

“Hello, Parson,” Jim greeted. “I sure didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m here almost every Monday,” said the parson. “I hike to the bottom of the canyon every chance I get.”

“I’ve never been here before,” said Jim. “How far down is it?”

The parson smiled to himself as he looked over the rim toward the stream cascading over two waterfalls over a thousand feet below. “Not too far,” said the parson, “you’ll enjoy the hike.”

The parson took a moment to suggest certain trails that were more scenic. He pointed across the canyon to the western rim and described some of the views that were available there. Wishing Jim a good hike, he turned to leave.

“Parson, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Last week one of the members of the church was taken to the hospital. It was an emergency, a cardiac problem. Well, I’m a little concerned that I didn’t find out about this for two days. And I know a couple of the members of the church called bunches of people to tell them about it. But no one told me. I’m wondering if I ....”

The parson held up his hand. “Jim, how long have you been appointed pastor of that church?”

“Three weeks.”

“You weren’t being slighted, Jim. They just didn’t think of you as part of their little group. Don’t take it as a slight. Did you go as soon as you heard?”

“I did.”

“Did you tell the patient you came as soon as you heard?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then you did the best you could.”

Jim seemed satisfied. He started to thank the parson and then said, “How long does it take until you’re included in their group?”

“Jim,” the parson said, “last week one of my members was taken to the hospital also. Same thing happened in my church that happened in yours. Everybody got called except the pastor. Go figure.”

“Thank you,” said Jim. “It was good to see you.”

“Same here,” said the parson. “Be careful around the falls. The rocks are slippery.’

“I will,” said Jim. “Thanks for the talk.”

The parson and Charlie Brown headed to their car. Jim turned to begin the descent. Suddenly he turned and called to the parson.

“Parson, how long have you been at that church?”

“Six years, Jim. Six years. I’m hoping this year will be the one.”

Loving the Unmet.

It drove the parson crazy. It shouldn’t have, but it did. The sign was located at an intersection about a half mile from the church and three-quarters a mile from the parsonage. It was a denominational sign to direct travelers to the church whose name was painted on it. 

Almost every day the parson passed the intersection where the sign beckoned folks to occupy a pew at the Chapel Beside the Bubbling Brook of Delightful Joy. Or did it? For the last year the sign had apparently loosened itself in the ground. As the wind blew it would twist the sign about. The prevailing wind was such as to point the sign’s directional arrow away from the church. For a year the sign had rotated itself. The parson often wondered if any spiritual seeking pilgrim had been directed by the twisting wind to destinations of unholy repose.

In the parson’s mind the problem with the sign was not with the sign itself. The problem was not with the wind that reversed the sign's intent. The problem was the pastor who passed the sign every day when he left the parsonage. For a year the directionally challenged church sign had twisted and confused. But maybe the parson was the only one who noticed.

The pastor of the church retired. He moved away. A young man with a lovely wife and two kids had moved in. On the evening of the young pastor’s first Sunday, the parson drove by the intersection where stood the twisting sign. The arrow was now pointing firmly toward the church. The sign had been stabilized.

The next day the parson found himself at his favorite diner. He sipped his coffee as he read The New York Times on his Kindle. Gary Francis, a pastor from a nearby county approached.

“Morning, Parson, how are things around here?”

“Good morning to you, Gary. What brings you to these parts?”

“I’ve got a member who’s mother is having surgery at the hospital. I told her I’d come and sit a bit with her.”

“Sit here a bit; have a cup of coffee and tell me how the family's doing,” the parson suggested.

Gary pulled out a chair opposite the table from the parson. Alice, the server, responding to the parson’s gesture brought a mug and filled it.

“I passed by the Chapel Beside the Bubbling Brook of Delightful Joy on my way here,” said Gary. “What do you think of the new fellow the bishop sent there.”

“I absolutely love him,” said the parson.

“Oh, what’s he like.”

“I don’t know,” said the parson. “I haven’t met him, yet.”