Questing Parson

Resoultions

New Year's Resolutions I Intend to Keep

Here are my New Year's Resolutions. I intend to keep each one of them.

I will not accept, if asked, an appointment as pastor of a church of more than 5000 members.

I will not run a marathon.

I will not tell my children my grandchildren are smarter than they.

I will preach less than one hour every sermon and more than three minutes.

I will not say to some find-a-reason-to-predict-the-end-time folks “I told you so,” at fifty-nine minutes after eleven on December 31st.

I will stop for several minutes every day to feel and listen to life all about me.

I will refrain from playing competitive soccer again.

When attending any high school reunion activities I will act my age.

I will see beauty in the ugliest people I encounter.

When visiting other churches while on vacation, I will not shake my head from side to side during the pastor's sermon just to confuse him or her.

I will not accept an invitation to sing with the Gaither Choir.

I will refrain from volunteering any information my bishop has not asked for.

For every theological or church book I read I will read one suspense mystery novel.

I will remember to say thank you.

When I get another letter from someone complaining that I used the word “Hell” in the pulpit, I will not write that person back, like I did this year, saying, “You can be damn sure it won't happen again.”

I will take a grandchild with me to pick out my next cell phone.

When being unjustly criticized I will remember how many years I have lived and just smile.

I will do everything possible to defy the actuary table.

When a poor homeless person says, “Parson, can I talk to you?” I not only will say “Sure” but I will also listen.

I will never say to a grieving person, “I know how you feel.”

When confronted by a theological position different than mine, I will not stick my fingers in my ears and run in circles while chanting, “Na, Na, Na, Na ….”

When in conversation with fundamentalist jerks I will remember I am a liberal jerk.

I will not become a televangelist.

I will climb no mountain whose ascent requires an oxygen mask.

Once a week, like Br'er Rabbit, I will go to my secret laughing place.

When perplexed at life I will ask a child for advice.

Despite my doubts, my reservations, my confusion, I will remember, always, I am a follower of my best understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and I will act that way.

I will not take myself too seriously because I know there are a lot of others who do not.

I will laugh at myself.

I will live every day of my life.

Where Were You On Christmas Day?

“Well, hello to you, Parson. Hope your Christmas was as good as it could be.”

“It was, Frank; it was,” responded the parson to Frank Jerkins, a pastor at one of the larger churches a bit south of the parson. “Surprisingly, everything I got was something I really could use and everything fit.”

“That's good to hear, Parson. Good to hear. How was your attendance on Christmas Sunday?”

“It was better than average,” said the parson. “I don't know if it was just because of Christmas or whether the tornado that hit two days before, but folks seemed eager to be there on Christmas Sunday. How about your church?”

“Well, we didn't have church on Christmas Sunday, Parson. We got to thinking about it a few years back when Christmas fell on Sunday, and we decided that since Christmas was a family time we'd cancel services when Christmas fell on Sunday.”

The parson stared at Frank. Frank seemed to be waiting for the parson to speak. After a pregnant silence, the parson did speak. “You canceled your worship services because Christmas fell on Sunday and Christmas is a family time?”

“Yes, that's right. Folks seem to be real pleased with the decision.”

“You canceled your service because Christmas fell on Sunday and Christmas is family time?”

“Are you going to keep repeating that?” Frank asked.

“No, Frank, I'm not going to keep repeating it. I think I'm going over in that corner there and weep.”

“What's your problem, Parson?”

“I'm just curious, Frank, if Christmas is family time then what's your service, PG-13?”

“Oh, that's cute, Parson. You know good and well that when Christmas falls on Sunday the attendance is usually down and it's just impossible to compete with the distractions families face. And it is a time for the family to gather around the Christmas tree.”

The parson stared another silent moment. “Are you nuts?”

“No, Parson, I'm not nuts. I'm practical.”

“Well, I guess that makes me impractical, Frank. I was under the distinct impression that when Christmas fell on Sunday we had a really good opportunity to focus ourselves on the Child and celebrate Christmas as it should be.”

“There's no harm in canceling the services one Sunday, Parson.”

“Oh, but Frank, there is. You just gave a testimony to your people as to where your loyalties lie. You just said to your people that worship is not central, that the old lines of John, 'Prepare ye the way,' are irrelevant. And worse than that, Frank, if you want my opinion you just spit on your vows.”

“You know, Parson, to use one of your favorite expressions, sometimes you can be the north end of a southbound horse.”

The parson smiled, “You know what, Frank, I'm not going to deny that. But I'll tell you this: on Sunday, especially on Christmas Sunday, this southbound horse is going to make sure his ordained north end is behind his pulpit giving witness to who is Lord in his life.”

Frank walked away.

Many Thanks to So Many of You

I wanted to express my thanks to all of you who took the time to send emails, cards, and other messages to comfort me on the anniversary of Ms. Parson's death. You'll never know how much it meant and continues to mean to me.

Grace and peace, 

Guy

Have A Blessed Christmas

I'll be back Decemeber 28th.

Feel Good Mystery

“Don't you look pretty today,” the parson said to Audrey, a ten-year-old he'd bumped into at the store. “That's a really nice dress.”

“Thanks, Parson,” she replied. “I got this dress for Christmas.”

Audrey's Mom smiled at the conversation and moved over to a section across the aisle.

“Well, we have to go to this fancy dress up thing. I don't know it is, but Mom and Dad said I have to go, and because it's dress up they gave me this dress early. Kinda funny, huh? I get an early Christmas present because I have to go to a Christmas party.”

“Pretty funny,” the parson responded.

“So, how's your brother.? He's not with you?”

“Nope, he's with Dad. They're getting haircuts.”

“Well, I hope you have fun at that fancy dress up thing. I bet you'll have the prettiest dress there.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “Parson, can I ask you something?”

The parson leaned forward. “Sure.”

“All this stuff, you know, presents, dresses, parties, going to everybody's house, all that stuff. That's not about Christmas, is it?”

The parson smiled, “No, Audrey, that's not about Christmas; it's about people.”

“And people trying to make themselves feel good, right?”

“Right!” the parson said, grateful for a fresh insight.

“Know what I figured out?”

“What?”

“Parties and presents don't make you feel good.”

“I think you're right,” said the parson. “What does make you feel good?”

“Well, I'm not sure, but I think it's different for adults and children.”

The parson started to respond but Audrey's mother walked up.

“Hi, Parson, hope she wasn't bothering you.”

“Not at all,” the parson said. “We were just talking about some of life's strange mysteries.”

A Farmville Church Sermon

The Absurdity of It
Luke 1: 26~38

Advent 4 (B)

 

In his book, When God Came Down, Max Lucado tells of a professor who is about halfway through his lecture when a young man in the auditorium stood and started asking him questions.

“Are you telling us that God Almighty really became Mary’s little boy?”

“Yes,” said the professor.

“Are you really asking us to buy into a religion based on a young girl’s dream of divine pregnancy?”

“Yes.”

“Are you insinuating that the life of Jesus then actually affects us now?”

“Yes.!”

The young man stood silent for a few moments and then he replied, “How absurd,” and he sat down. (1)

How absurd. It is absurd, isn’t it? It’s absolutely absurd that this God, this Almighty God, the Creator of all that is, would choose to interact with humans in this way. The young college student was right. It’s absurd.

The story of the Annunciation as we read it in Luke and Matthew is just hard to process. We’re asked to believe that the Omnipotent became an embryo, that the Infinite became an infant, that the Almighty became a tiny child nursing at his mother’s breast. It’s more than our little minds can comprehend. (2)

The absurdity of it all is encapsulated in Luke’s story of Gabriel’s encounter with Mary. “Behold, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus.”

Imagine that. Call his name “Jesus.” Jesus. That’s the equivalent of naming your child John in these days. It was a common, often used, name. Name him Jesus. Granted, Matthew’s version adds a bit: “You shall name him Jesus, for he shall save his people from their sins.”

Jesus. Ah, the absurdity of it. Jesus. You shall call his name Jesus. It may be absurd, but it’s the most profound expression of God the world has ever known.
We have this picture of Christmas in our minds. Every year we recreate the Christmas story. We put the table up in the yard of the church, we pull on the shepherd’s robes, some wise men costumes, and we make sure Mary is dressed in a different color than all the others so she will stand out. Sometimes, if the right member of the congregation has had a baby at the right time the manger actually has a baby portraying the infant God.

We decorate the sanctuary, decorate the trees, make sure the paraments are the proper color, the poinsettias are in place, we sing the Christmas hymns, and over the course of the Advent season read the scriptures pertaining to the season.
We do this with the familiarity of a people who have done this so many times we’re just numb to it. It’s routine; it’s everyday; it’s commonplace.

And there is the mystery of it. What we do is so familiar to us we barely take notice of it anymore. There’s no thunder in the heavens when Christmas rolls around. There’s no sound of angel trumpets when the Advent season begins.

There’s just this tree, these poinsettias, these pieces of cloth covering the altar table and the pulpit. It’s Christmas. It’s Christmas again.

Do you feel the ho hum of it? It’s Christmas. And I bet you’re wondering how long I’m going to preach. It’s Christmas, but there are things to do at home. It’s Christmas.  Aunt Sarah wants to know if everyone can come to her house Thursday night. It’s Christmas. Oh, my goodness it’s Christmas. And, truth be told, Christmas has become ordinary for us. Christmas has become just a repeat of what happened last year. It’s Christmas. There are only seven more shopping days.

Christmas is ordinary. And that’s it, folks. That’s the message. God has come. God has come to be born of a teenage girl, to suckle at her breast, to squirm when God’s diaper was wet, to cry when God was in need of comfort. Imagine it: God learning to walk, God stumping God’s toe, God worried about what folks might thing, God with a pimple of God’s face, God shoveling the manure away from the door, God with chores, God with the sniffles, God attending synagogue, God being …  God being … well, God being just like you, God just like me.

The young college student’s questions in Max Lucado’s story was right. It’s absurd. Think of it. Think of the absurdity of it. God here. God among us. God one of us. God working down at the carpet mill. God shopping at the Dollar General. God trying to make ends meet. God in our world. God experiencing human wants and human fears and human hope and human love. It’s absurd. But it is the message of Christmas. God is here.

You shall call his name Jesus, just a plain ordinary name for a fellow human. God here, today. God singing the hymns with us. God praying the prayers with us. God being human while God is being God.

God waiting for the sermon to end. God belting out the closing hymn. God walking out the door. God shaking the hand of the preacher (I don’t want to contemplate what comment God would make.) God getting into the car. And God heading out for lunch over at your house.

Yes, over at your house. At your table. In the shadow of your Christmas tree, interacting with your family, and who know, maybe after consuming a large second portion of that gastronomic creation for which you’re so famous leaning back and trying to stifle a burp. God at your house. Can you picture it? I know it’s absurd, but it’s the message of Christmas: As absurd as it may seem, God is with us, right here, right now.

---

1. Max Lucado, When God Came Down,” Sisters, Oregon: Multnomah, 1999.

2. This train of thought suggested by Dr. Howard Olds in his sermon, “How Can This Be?”, esermons.com.

In Loving Memory

"Ms. Parson"

Lynn Ellis Kent
October 3, 1949 ~ December 15, 2010

I'll be back Monday

A Toast to A Wonderful Lady

A few weeks before she entered the hospital, Ms. Parson was receiving many calls from well-wishers. After one such call, she turned on the sofa to look at me and said, through that mischieveous smile she sometimes showed, "The next time someone asks me if there's anything they can do for me, I'm going to tell them they can bring me a bottle of Crown Royal."

Dr. Gary DeMore made reference to that at her memorial service. After coming home from the service I found a large bottle of Crown Royal on the doorstep.

It's ony a few hours now from the first anniversary of her death. When that hour rolls around, I'm opening that bottle and I'll offer a toast to a wonderful lady.

Thank You, Mr. President

Welcome Home, Soldier! Thank you for your service!

Photo by Sgt. Ben Cossel, 196 MPAD