Questing Parson

The Parson resume posting blogs on June 20th, after his Excellent Alaskan Adventure with his granddaughter.

Sally Bingham on Climate Change and Faith

Time To Take A Break

"So," said the eight-year-old granddaughter, "what are you doing? Are you writing one of those Parson stories?

"That's what I'm doing," said the parson.

"You've written a lot of those."

"I have."

"How many? A thousand?"

"Probably more than a thousand."

"That's a lot."

"It is."

"And you write sermons and do those church bulletins, don't you?"

"I do."

"Dad says you're retired but nobody would know it."

"Well, I try to stay busy. It keeps me from growing old too fast."

"It's too bad you're so busy."

"That sounds like you want to do something."

"I do."

"Okay, what do you want to do?"

"Well, I was thinking if you weren't so busy you and I could go to Alaska."

"You know," said the parson, "I don't have to write these parson stories every day."

"You don't?"

"Nope, I don't.

"What about the church stuff?"

"I probably can find somebody to preach for me, and I could get the bulletins done early."

"So, you think we could?"

"When do you get out of school?"

"Next week."

"Okay, tell your Dad and Mom we're going to Alaska for ten days the Monday after school's out."

"Really?"

"Really."

"You're serious?"

"I'm serious. But you have to give me a minute. I need to let the people that read these parson stories know why there are not going to be any new ones for a couple of weeks."

"Can I borrow your cell phone to ask my parents?"

==============================

The parson will be back on June 20th, with perhaps a few posts and pics and/or videos from Alaska in the meantime.

Boy or Girl

Ring. Ring.

The parson answered the phone and was delighted to hear his daughter's voice. “Hi, Sweetheart,” the parson said. “What's up?”

“I have a little girl here who wants to talk to you.”

“Okay,” the parson responded feeling a bit of expectation that his three-year-old granddaughter wanted to talk to him. “Put her on.”

“Hi,” said a sweet voice.

“Hi, yourself,” said the parson. “It sure is nice to talk to you.”

“I know,” she said. “You preach; don't you?”

“I do preach,” the parson answered.

“Okay, I told my Mom I wanted to talk to you because she won't talk to me serious. I need to ask you something about God.”

“I'll try my best to answer,” the parson said. “What about God?”

“Do you think God is a boy or a girl?”

This one caught the parson by surprise. Being the gender sensitive cleric he is he realized the answer to the question was important to her. He began talking as he searched for the right way to answer this for a three-year-old.

“Well, little girl, most of the time people talk about God like God is a boy. But there are other people who ….”

“I just want to know if you think God is a boy or a girl,” she interrupted.

The parson said, “I was trying to get to that. You see ….”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “You are answering this just like my Mom. I just want to know if you think God is a boy or a girl. All you guys have to say is 'yes' or 'no'. But you don't do that. I guess I just have to tell you. If you want to know, I have decided that God is a girl.”

The parson marveled at the firmness of her voice. And before he could reply, she continued.

“That's all. God is a girl. I have to go now. Bye.”

“Call ended” popped up on the parson's iPhone. He turned his eyes upward and whispered, “You smile just like my mother.”

Parson's Daughter's Book

Hey folks, my daughter has just published her first book, Paddling Through the Storms, the story of her triumphant journey through fifteen years of adversity, from becoming legally blind to the ravages of encephalitis, to finding blessings from God in these difficulties of her journey. It's available HERE at Amazon in paperback or eBook formats

Ordered Priorities

The parson was sequestered at a table in the back corner of his favorite diner. Before him was a delight of cholesterol laden delight, two eggs sunny side up, three
slices of bacon cooked to a crispness the parson liked, a generous helping of grits over which butter was slowly melting, two sausage patties, a portion of apple sauce, two pieces of toast and a cinnamon bun. The snack was complimented by a porcelain mug filled with steaming decaf, the parson's reverence to his cardiologist's wishes.

Halfway through the gastronomic endeavor he was interrupted by Phil Peiffer, who approached his table. “Morning, Parson, looks like you're hungry.”

“Not so much now, Phil,” said the parson. “Pull up a seat.”

Phil did so whereupon the parson asked, “So how's Carolyn? I have seen her or your kids in, gracious, in have been a year.”

“So, so,” said Phil.

“So, so?” asked the parson. “How am I to translate that?”

“Well, we're at a bump in the marriage, I guess, Parson. She thinks I'm neglecting her and the children because I spend too much time at the church. It's not that I'm neglecting her, but, you know, Parson, the church is demanding of our time and we can't always control the way we have to use the time. But, frankly, Carolyn seems to be punishing me by always maintaining a stand off mood.”

“I'm suppose to know how demanding your church is?” the parson asked.

“You know what I mean, Parson.”

“So, tell me, what's demanding so much time at the church?

“Well, we've got a new building program going; we're expanding our youth program; and we're looking into starting a ministry to the homeless.”

“Why does that demand so much of your time, Phil?”

“Parson, you know why.”

“Your laity aren't helping?”

“Well, yes they help, but they want to do it on their own schedule.”

The parson didn't say anything. By now he was working on the past few bites of sausage and was looking forward to sopping the plate with the half piece of toast he'd saved for the occasion. The server had discretely refilled his mug while Phil was talking.

“The do it on their own schedule?”

“Okay, here's an example. I called one of my lay people last night. I needed to him to bring me up-to-date on the building plans. He told me he needed to talk to me today because right then he was talking with his wife about what each of them had done that day and were making plans for the next day.”

“You find that a problem?” asked the parson as he devoured the last sopping and then reached for what was left in the mug.

“Of course, I do. I can't talk to him about the plans while he's at work. He needs to talk to me when he's home.”

The parson wiped his lips with his napkin. He smiled and nodded to the server to let him know he was finished. She brought his check and he handed her a bill and told her to keep the change.

“Phil,” said the parson as he rose from his seat, “I've got to go visit someone at the hospital. But I want you to think about something.”

“What's that, Parson.”

“I want you to think about what that layperson told you was the reason he couldn't talk to you last night. And then I want you to think about the fact that when he and his wife went to bed she probably wasn't in a stand off mood. That layperson, Phil, has his priorities in order.”

Jesus Causes Trouble

“So, Vincent,” asked the parson, “how was your visit with your grandparents?”

Vincent was three, going on twenty-eight. He'd been staying with his grandparents for a couple of weeks while his parents were out-of-town in search of business for their start-up company. His parents had taken his little sixteen month old brother with them. Vincent, no doubt, found that a plus. The parson knew he was always getting in trouble for bothering his brother.

“It was good, Parson,” said Vincent. “Guess what?”

“What?”

“I went to another church while I was there.”

“Well, that's a good thing,” the parson observed. “What did you learn at that church?”

“I learned about Jesus.”

“Great. What did you learn about Jesus?”

“I learned,” Vincent began with an over-dramatic sucking in of breath, “that there are two Jesus.”

“Two?”

“Yes. Two.”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” said the parson. “I didn't know there were two.”

“There are,” Vincent explained leaning back on the sofa in the parson's study. “There are two. One is the baby Jesus and one is the big Jesus.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” the parson said.

“Yep, and the big Jesus in mean. He always causes trouble.”

“The big Jesus causes trouble?”

“Yes, sir. He does. He always causes trouble because he keeps waking up the baby Jesus.”

A Farmville Church Sermon

A Stone’s Throw From Glory
Acts 7: 55-60
John 14: 1-14

Most scholars will tell you we don’t know a whole lot about Stephen. Here’s what we do know. Stephen is described by Luke as a man “full of grace and power.” We know he was arrested by the Jewish authorities who took exception to his preaching. They brought him before the council, and there he began to preach to them with a passion. That enflamed them to the point they drug him outside the city and stoned him to death. And thus, Stephen, became the first, according to Luke, Christian martyr.

While we do not have a lot of details about Stephen and his ministry, there’s enough information we can piece together what may have brought him to this place where he was martyred.

Picture the scene: It’s a few years after the resurrection and ascension of Jesus. That little band of followers of the Christ has expanded to the point they no longer can meet in private homes, or even the Upper Room. Now they’ve leased a Fellowship Hall where people come to get a free meal and maybe some needed clothes, and certainly some unconditional love.

Can you see the scene. Peter is the maître d’. And the waiters who serve the tables are former fishermen who laid down their nets to follow Christ. Picture a fisherman as a server in the Fellowship Hall. Dishes get broken. Orders get confused. It’s terrible confusion and soon nerves become frayed and tempers begin to boil toward the surface.

And back in the rear of the building where the apostles have established the gently used clothing shop there are other followers of Jesus who now are having to sort by size, to darn holes, to engage themselves in all kinds of activities that they never imagined when they entered into full-time Christian service.

A customer says to Peter, “Hey, I don’t want to complain because the food’s free, but it’s also burnt.” An apostle who’d been in the clothing shop shouts at Peter in Greek, “What is wrong with you? Don’t you send anyone else back here without knowing if we have their size.”

And that’s when Peter cried out, “That’s enough. Apostles are not cut out to run this place.” So they all get together and the elect seven folks to run the intricate details of the ministry, thereby freeing them to do what it is that apostles do. Steven and six other laypeople are put in charge. They roll up their sleeves ; they put on some aprons, and the place begins to have an air of organization and purpose.
Stephen, then, becomes the fellow who does the grunt work of the kingdom. The dishes get cleaned a lot quicker now. The clothes closet gets organized. Things began to flow in a steady way because a capable layman is in charge.

Has anyone in this room ever heard of John Sheeley? Anyone? Hmmm, I wish you had. John Sheeley was one of the most influential laypersons of the twentieth century. Maybe the reason you haven’t heard of him is he never wrote a book. Maybe you haven’t heard of him because he never occupied a prestigious pulpit. But I wish you could have known John Sheeley.

You see, John Sheeley was the fellow who every Sunday, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday, sweated bullets in trying to teach a Sunday School class to young teenagers. He studied the Word with a passion. He had a heart filled with love for all God’s children. And he led this inadequate preacher into the ministry.

The church will never be any stronger than the laity that make up its membership. The church will never witness to God’s presence in our world unless that witness comes from the laity.

Look around you, my friends. Don’t look up here at the pulpit. Look around you. Those people sitting all about you are what is the church. And you, you are the church. Think about it: the church will never be any more strong that are you; the church will never touch lives for Jesus except for those you touch; the church will never be evangelistic, mission-minded, the body of Christ on earth until you are.

When I was at my first church, I made did something, I don’t remember what it was, that upset some people. They had a meeting to talk about it. In that meeting sat Ms. Boyd. She was eighty-eight at the time. Her daughter was a leading scientist in cancer research; her son was the president of Georgia Tech, and she had been the teacher of almost everyone in the room at one time or the other. The chairperson of the group turned at one point to Ms. Boyd and said, “Ms. Boyd, you haven’t expressed your opinion.” She replied, “Well, I tell you, I don’t care what a Methodist preacher does. I don’t get upset about it. He’s not here long enough to make it worthwhile.”

And I wasn’t there long enough to make it worthwhile. But they were there. They stayed long after I left. And what they were left with was themselves, the laity of the church, the Stephens of their day.
So here’s the tricky part of the sermon. Here’s where I ask you, “When was the last time you made such a witness for Jesus the Christ that people got mad at you?”

Stephen could not be restrained in proclaiming Jesus. It got him killed. In today’s gospel lesson Jesus says, “Very truly I tell you, whoever believes in me will do the works I have been doing, and they will do even greater things than these, because I am going to the Father. And I will do whatever you ask in my name, so that the Father may be glorified in the Son. You may ask me for anything in my name, and I will do it.”

Will you do something for me this week? Will you think about Stephen, a layperson just like you. Will you remember how he witnessed and preached to others about Jesus to the point that they stoned him. And will you pray and think about you, yes you,  making a witness here, right here in our community. And do you think it possible that your witness may bring you, too, within a stone’s throw
from glory.

Amen.

What Happened?

Hello -

Hello -

Are we still here?

My Hero

I was in your class for a while today, Ms. Massey. I would be remiss if I did not comment on what I saw.

It's interesting that you would make such an impact on me. We didn't even speak. In fact, the only communication was your motioning me and those with me into the class, and pointing to the child chairs upon which we were to sit. I was not long in that chair before I began to marvel at the choreography of learning and social adjustment going on before me.

I'm sorry I didn't quite catch on to that first exercise in which you were engaged with the kids. It was the one with the counting in rhythm with the music. Sorry, I do know how to count, but for some reason I couldn't tear my mind away from the drama before me to quite incorporate the activity into my amazement.

That was, as you know, my son sitting beside me, the son who is also a teacher, a high school teacher of advanced placement teens. I used to put him on the top of my list of educators I respect. Today, he may have fallen to that rung that is next to the top. You, Ms. Massey, are at the top. My son prepares one lesson plan that covers all the children in his classes of the same subject. It was apparent you prepare a plan for each individual child. And, more astounding, you're able to facilitate every child individually while engaging them as a whole in an activity.

I was really impressed when that child got a bit frustrated and you simply told her to press her hands together hard when she felt angry. She did and it was over. Wow. I may try that myself next time I'm in a church meeting.

There are not a lot of women, Ms. Massey, who are not above getting down on the floor on their belly to act out the motions of the worm of which the song was singing. There are not a lot of women in the world who can pull forth effort from kids of pre-school age with the ease and poise with which you do. And, most importantly, there are not a lot of people who can meet the challenges of those precious children with hope, determination, and constant reminders of their own dignity and sense of worth.

Why do you do it, Ms. Massey? What possessed you to depart from the world of the well behaved elementary child to enter into the challenge of teaching in the Special Needs Pre-K program? I doubt, in this world, you get any extra pay for it. And I know for sure the normal pay you receive is an insult to your education, your dedication and, especially, the love you have for those children.

I've become at my advance age, in many ways, Ms. Massey, a cynical old man. But today I became an old man pleased with the world and the people who occupy it. Sometimes, Ms. Massey, I'm a bit pleased with myself in that I've been able to do some good things for some people. But I will never hold a candle to you in what you do for those kids. I don't know if you're religious or not, Ms. Massey. I am, and I'm quite sure God is smiling down on you.

I'll put my head down on the pillow tonight and remember this day. All the things I encountered today, and all the things for many days in the past, will fade into insignificance compared to my encounter with you and those children whose lives will be forever made more whole because they gather around you every school day.

Well, that's it, Ms. Massey. Thank you for what you do. And thank you for doing it with such joy and grace. You are my hero. And if I had the power I'd have you declared a saint.