Questing Parson

Supplement to the Annual Report

Dear Church Superior:

RE: My Supplement to the Year-End Report for My Church

First, if you will permit a bit of self-pontificating, I'd like to point out that I, he who am retired and does not have to fear retribution, got my report in well ahead of schedule. In fact, after talking with the person you appointed to oversee the compilation of these reports, I turned my report in when over seventy percent of the other clergy, (Shall we classify them as “non-company” clergy?) had yet to submit their report.

Secondly, an observation: I have been a United Methodist pastor for forty-five years. For the first time in my experience the report asked for my church's “GCFA Church Number.” Okay, I have no idea what GCFA stands for much less what the number is. Luckily, being the experienced parson that I am, I called the person you appointed to oversee the efforts of the clergy to compile these useless statistics and asked him what my GCFA number was. He told me; I proceeded to input such. But I did proceed with the question of why my GCFA number (whatever it stands for) would be any different than the usual number assigned to my church. But I realize I could be just a grumpy old man.

Third, I regret that for the first time in ten years I was unable to report there were not “professions of faith” to report. I know that would endanger my advancement up the clergy ladder in normal circumstances, but, in my case, I'm retired. And, see below, there are more important things that professions of faith.

Fourth, please note that we have upgraded the value of our property from $400,000 to $1,500,000. I'd be grateful if this could be placed in my permanent personnel file, even though the upgrade was entirely the decision of our insurance company. Despite who may have initiated this upgrade, I was the pastor when it took place and therefore ….

Fifth, there are some data fields, as usual missing, from the annual report.

There is no line on which I can report that my little country church in 2010 contacted the Family Advocates of the schools in our county to ask them which children are considered indigent. The family advocates then sent out a letter to those children's parents informing them that on the Saturday before school started in 2011 my little church would supply their kids with new clothes, back packs, all grade and school appropriate school supplies, as well as a hair cut for the boys and a visit to a beauty parlor for the girls.

There was no line on which I could report that two of my church members made their way down, in a dugout canoe, the Amazon River and then hiked with heavy back packs fifteen miles into the jungle, in order to deliver needed medical supplies to an isolated village in the jungles of Peru, nor could I report on all the children those nurses from my little country church provided medical care.

Again, there was no line to report that every Monday night at my church the doors open to Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen where rich people and poor people sit down together to enjoy a meal together. There was no way to report how many of those poor, unemployed, people obtained jobs because they interacted with managers of industry while sharing a pot of soup.

There was no line on which to input data on the number of times members of my church took deserving rising high school seniors to visit colleges affiliated with our denomination in an effort to lift them above their present status and to see the possibilities for their future.

I'm not sure if you're aware, but in our county there are a considerable number of elderly who are semi-shut-in. It's really unfortunate that there was no line on which to report that teenagers from my church deliver weekly meals to many of those folks, and, in the delivery, sit down with those seniors and talk, and laugh, and share secrets and desires, and different generations find inspiration from each other.

Look, Church Superior, I don't want to prolong this lament of the deficiencies of the reporting system, but …..

There was no place to report the three houses, each brick with three bedrooms and located in middle class neighborhoods, that are our “transitional houses” whose operational expenses are provided through the bean suppers and the pancake breakfast events of this little church. In each of these houses resides a single mother with her children who were homeless before our church took them into this program. There was no place to report the works of the social worker hired to work with these women, assisting them to set goals, to become financially independent. There was no place to report that three families, after two years of effort, have graduated from our transitional program, that five, formerly homeless, teens are now in college. That those three families have moved out of our transitional houses and into their own abodes with hope for and skills to meet the future. Nor was there any line on which to report that as each family graduates to a new possibility another family moved into the houses,

I could go on. There's more this little country church does. But, well, you get the message. To be perfectly candid, I'm just a little tired of reporting only how much and how many. What I'd like to report to you is: This little country church of less than a hundred folks, members of a denomination whose mission statement is: “To make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world,” have decided to not pay attention to that statement and to, instead, BE DISCIPLES FOR THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE WORLD.

I remain your loyal servant,

The Parson

It Wasn't Charlie Brown

3:00 a.m. Friday Morning:

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hello, Parson. This is Jeff across the street. Look, I'd appreciate it if you would stop Charlie Brown from barking.” the phone screen indicated “Call Ended.”

The parson flicked the light on. He looked across the room where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, lay sleeping and snoring. Then he heard the neighbor's dog barking.

3:00 a.m. Saturday Morning:

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hello, Jeff, this is the parson. Just wanted to let you know Charlie Brown sleeps inside. It wasn't him.”

Conflict and It's Resolution by Cinthia Marcelle

Stick with it for a minute:

CRUZADA from cinthia marcelle on Vimeo.

Life In A Different Time

As the President of the United States delivered his State of the Union Address, the parson was settled on the sofa with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion curled up beside him. The parson listened intently but not so intently his mind did not wander.

The parson remembered the time when, as a pre-teen long before the word “re-cycle” was part of the American conversation, his daddy lectured him for not saving the Coke bottle to turn in for the deposit.

The parson remembered the day he got home from school late because he'd been kept in detention at school. His dad listened to his explanation. His dad agreed the teacher was wrong and the parson was right, but his dad punished him anyway because he'd not spoken respectfully in his protest to the teacher.

The parson remembered the night as the family gathered in the den to watch a movie on the black and white television. The movie was about a company of soldiers bogged down in the horrors of war in Italy. At a particular tragic scene in the drama the parson turned to see tears streaming down his dad's cheeks. He couldn't articulate it then but that night he understood the pathos of war and sacrifice.

The times were different then. Perhaps it was the result of being raised by a generation who had learned the hard way what sacrifice meant. Perhaps that generation born in the Great Depression and called upon to engage in the largest war the world has ever known were more determined than any other to make the world different for their children. Perhaps it simply was a period of greater civility, when the President of the United States was never referred to by his last name unless it was proceeded by his title. Perhaps is was a time more akin to that fictional tavern “Cheers” where everybody in the neighborhood knew your name. Most likely, it was all of that. But it was more.

It was a time when everyone was treated respectfully unless they'd proven beyond doubt they did not deserve respect. It was a time when one stood when one's elders walked into the room. It was a time when the neighbors would correct the wayward child whose parent's were unaware without fear of reprisal. It was a time when parents actually attended the PTA meeting, when grandparents lived with their children, when … well, the parson thought to himself, it was a time that when remembered birthed nostalgia.

The parson didn't watch the State of the Union address on the television. He watched it on his laptop. It's the same laptop he uses to write his blog, his sermons, to inform himself of the news of the day, to impersonally keep in touch with others. And it is the mechanism by which the parson isolates himself from interaction with people in the way he interacted in the days of his youth.

Charlie Brown, somehow knowing the speech was over, raised himself from his curled position. He stretched. He hopped off the porch. He went to the door and then looked back at the parson with a look of “Well ….” on his face.

The parson rose, opened the door to allow Charlie Brown to go outside to do what he had to do. The parson waited on the porch. He stared down the hill on which he lived toward the house of the neighbors across the street. Their light was on. The were up. Perhaps, they'd been watching the President's address also.

The parson stared and stared and as he stared he remembered again those days of his youth. And the parson made a vow. Tomorrow, he vowed, he would go down the the neighbor's house, knock on their door, and proclaim, “Hi, I'm the parson. I love across the street. What's your name?”

What's Missing From Women's Gymnastics?

I've been a little busy lately. That's not a complaint. It's an admission of fact. The busyness was not forced upon me. I chose it. Maybe it chose me. All I know is I wouldn't have missed it for the world.

The events that occupied my time lately centered around gymnastics, specifically women’s gymnastics. And more specific than that gymnastics events in which my granddaughter was a competitor.

A few weeks ago I made a pilgrimage to Memphis, Tennessee. That trip brought me to the BBQ and Blues Invitational Gymnastics Competition. Let me make three points about that event. Point one: Dizzy Dean said, “If it's true, it ain't bragging.” Point two: My granddaughter came in fourth overall in the competition. Point three: my granddaughter, no doubt because of the superiority of the genetics passed down from my side of the family, competes in an age division well above her own.

I watched her. I was astounded at her athletic ability. I could not comprehend that was my tiny granddaughter turning flips, dancing and prancing in perfect harmony with the music on the floor exercise. I wished I could be her as she flung herself in twists and turns from one uneven bar to the other. I held my breath as she flipped above the four inch wide balance beam and came to rest as though it were as wide and the landing path on an aircraft carrier. And I was amazed at how she propelled herself off that vault into the air twisting and turning before landing almost perfectly and tossing her hands upward to signify she'd completed it well.

I was hooked. I wasn't just hooked on my granddaughter. It didn't take athletic competition to accomplish that. I was hooked on the sport. I was hooked on the physical prowess of these young women. I was hooked on the thrill of it all.

It was no wonder, then, I found myself last week at the Atlanta Crown Invitational Gymnastic Competition. I got there early due to a meeting not lasting as long as I'd anticipated. My granddaughter wasn't scheduled to compete for a couple of hours. But I'd been captured by that competition so I went into the arena anyway.

Opening the door to the Gwinnett Convention Center I was assailed by the squeals and the chatter of girls, ages eight to eighteen. My mind processed the visuals of these young competitors texting away to their friends, whispering to each other about passing male teens, and wearing t-shirts proclaiming:

Push-ups make you pretty. - Gymnasts don't defy gravity; they defeat it. - Girls can't what? - Why walk when you can cartwheel? - You know you're a gymnasts when boys won't arm wrestle with you. - My boyfriend asked me to choose between him and gymnastics. I miss him. - If gymnastics were easy it would be called football.

Okay, yes! My granddaughter was competing. And she did well, really well. But despite that I walked out of that facility wondering if something were not askew. I watched my granddaughter and her teammates as well as the members of the other teams compete. They competed on vault, on floor exercise, on beam, and uneven bars.

Suddenly I realized men compete in floor, pommel horse, still rings, vault, parallel bars, and horizontal high bar, more and different events than the women.

Here's my question: Do you guys seriously think my granddaughter couldn't kick your you-know-what on those other events?

When They Come

The meeting adjourned. The parson tucked his notes away and headed out toward his car.

“Parson,” greeted Fred Abney, “how are you? You must have been sitting in the back. I didn't see you.”

“I was in the back,” Fred, the parson confessed. “Good to see you. How's things on your side of the district?”

“About the same as they've always been,” said Fred. “You know that church, Parson. They're never going to change.”

'I was thinking you might get some new members since they opened that new factory and the new elementary school.”

“I thought so, too, Parson. But it hasn't happened. We really need some families with children. That would be a God-send. But, well I don't know what we're going to do.”

“How many kids did you have at Sunday School this morning?” the parson asked.

“Not one, Parson. Not one.”

The parson shook his head. “That must be a real disappointment for the children's classes teachers.”

“Oh, I told you, Parson, we don't have any children coming. So, we don't have any teachers.”

“Fred,” the parson smiled, “have you ever given any thought to the possibility you haven't planned on any kids coming.”

The Case Against (Political) Liberal Dispair with Michelle Goldberg

A Farmville Church Sermon

Calling Me Where?
Mark 1: 14 ~ 20

 

I love the Gospel of Mark. Mark doesn't mess around with extemporaneous details. He gives us the Reader's Digest version. This morning we're only fourteen verses into his gospel and John the Baptizer is in jail and Jesus has begun to call his disciples.

After John was put in prison, Jesus went into Galilee, proclaiming the good news of God. “The time has come,” he said. “The kingdom of God has come near. Repent and believe the good news!”

As Jesus walked beside the Sea of Galilee, he saw Simon and his     brother Andrew casting a net into the lake, for they were fishermen. “Come, follow me,” Jesus said, “and I will send you out to fish for people.” At once they left their nets and followed him.

When he had gone a little farther, he saw James son of Zebedee and his brother John in a boat, preparing their nets. Without delay he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.

I've preached many sermons on these verses over the years, sermons about the kingdom being near, sermons about casting nets into the lake, sermons about following Jesus, sermons about dropping everything to follow Jesus, and sermons about poor Zebedee being left with the preparation of the nets because his sons have abandoned him to follow some itinerant preacher

This year, as I re-read these verses I suddenly realized how much I am like these disciples Jesus called. I realized how much you are like the disciples Jesus called. Oh, for sure you haven't been making your living fishing, but you and I have something significant in common with these fishermen Jesus called to follow him.

Here's what it is: “Without delay he called them, and they left their father Zebedee in the boat with the hired men and followed him.” And if you'll permit my critique of that day: They followed him but they had no idea what was in store for them.

Can you imagine that day. Can you imagine Jesus the Christ speaking to you, asking you to follow him. Oh, what a day that was. But what hit me about these called disciples was this: When those fishermen lay down their nets to follow Jesus, not one of them had any idea of what was in their future.

On the screen appears a clip from the movie Forest Gump. In this scene Lt. Dan berates Forest for saving him and not letting him fulfill his destiny of dying in battle.

Each of us faces the same dilemma as did Lt. Dan. Maybe not in such a dramatic fashion, but all of us entered into our adult life with some dream of what our destiny would be. Listen, please don't take this the wrong way, but back in the eleventh grade when I answered that call to follow Jesus, I had all kinds of ideas of where this would take me. But in all my visions, in all my dreams, in all my understandings of what it meant to be a follower of Jesus, not once did I have a vision of this church, of this pulpit, of you being the ones who would hear me preach. Sometimes our vision of our destiny gets blown up like Lt. Dan's legs and life leads us where we had no idea we would go.

We, like those fishermen Jesus called, have no idea of what is ahead. And sometimes too often what is ahead is much like what has been behind.

Richard Cardinal Cushing, the Archbishop of Boston, once preached: If all the sleeping folks will wake up, and all the lukewarm folks will fire up, and all the disgruntled folks will sweeten up, and all the discouraged folks will cheer up, and all the depressed folks will look up, and all the estranged folks will make up, and all the gossiping folks will shut up, and all the dry bones will shake up, and all the true soldiers will stand up, and all the church members will pray up, and if the Savior of all will be lifted up . . . Then we can have the greatest revival this world has ever known.

Powerful, powerful words. Truthful words. Words to move people. Words to challenge and to encourage, to surely bring about revival.

I've always wondered on the Sunday following the Cardinal's preaching of those words, how many people were at Mass? I've always wondered if the Cardinal felt some disappointment that everything was the same that next Sunday. I've always wondered if the Cardinal ever questioned his calling when nothing changed.

On the screen appears another scene from the Forest Gump movie in which Lt. Dan scoffs at the notion he will ever be able to walk in heaven with Jesus as some preachers have told him.

“I'm going to heaven, Lt. Dan,” says Forest.

Lt. Dan replies, “Oh … well, before you go why don't you go down to the corner and get us another bottle of Ripple?”

Isn't that the way our religious life is sometimes. We hear the call; we acknowledge the presence of Jesus in our lives, but, wait a minute and life intrudes. We have to go down to the corner and make sure life goes on as usual.
Those disciples of Jesus didn't know what lay ahead for them. And one of the things they did not envision was that life would be much the same, despite the fact they were following Jesus.

It would be the same because somebody still had to prepare the night fire. Someone had to gather up the makings for the evening meal. Someone had to take care of the torn garments, the logistics of getting from this place to that. Life, the everyday life of being human, went on despite the fact they were following Jesus. And it happens that way for us.

Next Sunday the women of this church and many surrounding churches will be gathering here for the Annual Women's Retreat. They'll hear the inspiring music and the challenging words of the Reverend Beth Quick. And if it's anything like previous years a good many folks are going to feel closer to their God. But then someone will have to clean the kitchen, take the garbage out, straighten up the place in preparation for the next event.

I think there's a lesson in that for each of us. Too often we pray for Jesus to come into our lives and change our lives. And by that we mean to make us what we are not. Maybe we should stop looking to change our lives into something our life is not and, instead, invite Jesus into the life we already have.

The second thing about those disciples is they had no idea of how different their thinking would become. They were Jews. And as Jews they looked forward to the coming of the Messiah. As Jews, they had clear understandings of what that Messiah would be like. He would liberate the nation of Israel from the oppression of the conquerors. He would re-establish the Kingdom of David.

And look what they got. The got a servant Messiah. They got a Messiah willing to go to the cross for the sins of all God's children. They got not a liberator but the expiation of their sins on the cross of Calvary. And they got their own lives sacrificed upon the altar of a suffering servant. It wasn't what they planned on. It wasn't what they envisioned. The had no idea what was in store for them in the commonality of their shared lives.

Earlier I said when I answered God's call I had no idea I'd be standing in the pulpit preaching to you. And I'm fully aware when you joined the church you had no idea you'd be listening to this old parson preaching to you today. I won't bore you with the details of my fantasy of what answering that call would be. And you don't have to bore me with the vision of what you thought this church would look like in the Twenty-first Century.

Ah, those disciples were surprised. They never had any idea of how common their lives would remain, of all the mundane things they'd have to do along the path of ministry for those three years. And they had no idea that following that prophet of Nazareth would cause them to reconsider what it meant to wait for the coming of the Messiah.

So here we are, you and I. We're both followers of Jesus. And tomorrow we're both going to have to mop the floors, go to work, cook breakfast, listen to demanding kids and be who we are. But tomorrow, if we are truly followers of Jesus, tomorrow we'll find out he's much more than we thought. And he not only calls us but leads us into a new understanding.

And if you follow Jesus, you, I mean you, plain old you just as you are, will be surprised at what's in your future.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen. 

Stuck In My Position

The parson was once again absconded in the corner of his favorite diner. Shirley, the server, tried to make sure he enjoyed his cholesterol laden breakfast in peace. She'd done a good job, but not even Shirley could protect against the pervasive personality of Brother Robert R. Rollins, “Triple-R” to the privileged, pastor of the Bound For Glory In a Luxury Vehicle Tabernacle of the Truly Blessed.

Brother Robert slid into the booth across from the parson. The parson, in deference to the manners his Mama had taught him, put away his Kindle Fire and took the plugs from his ears. Some, observing him, might have thought him to be reading some theological article, but, in truth, the parson had been watching the Swedish movie of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.”

“Morning, Parson. How's things with the liberal wing of the Christian community?”

“Are you still here, Robert?” the parson asked. “I guess that means the Rapture hasn't occurred yet.”

“Very funny, Parson,” said Robert. “Listen, I didn't interrupt you to argue theology with you. I wanted to talk with you about the coming election. I thought it might be good to find some common ground.”

The parson gave Robert his undivided attention. “You wanted to talk me about the election?”

“I do. Listen, Parson, some of the pastors in the area are talking about starting a campaign in the area. We're hoping to get Christian folks to be Christians in the voting booth, if you get what I mean.”

“I don't get what you mean, Robert.”

Robert leaned forward, “Okay, Parson, I think even you would agree there are certain basic fundamental Christian principles that ought to take priority in guiding a person how to vote.”

The parson didn't say anything.

“So, we're thinking about starting a campaign around the slogan 'How would Jesus vote?'”

The parson didn't say anything.

“So, what do you think?” asked Robert after a moment.

“I think I'm pretty sure how Jesus would vote, Robert. I'm more concerned with how you're going to vote.”

“What's that suppose to mean?” asked Robert.

“It means we're both stuck in our positions and I wish I could get beyond it,” the parson replied.

Robert left. Lisbeth Salander resumed her pursuit of her enemies.

Showing Up

The coffee maker in the church kitchen had just finished its last gurgle prior to the pot filling as the parson walked back into the room. He shivered at the chill. The valley in which the parson lived was enveloped in cold this morning. As soon as the coffee was poured the parson darted back to the warmth of his study with its heater.

The parson has barely sipped half the cup of coffee and browsed through the first three articles of an online newspaper, when there was a knock on the door. He rose and opened it to find Jeremiah Collins, a young pastor from the other side of the county.

“Morning, Jeremiah,” the parson greeted. “What brings you out this early? Come on in.”

“Morning, Parson,” responded Jeremiah. “I hope you don't mind but I just wanted to stop in.”

“No, not at all. Glad to see you. Can I get you some coffee?”

“No, thanks, Parson. Thanks anyway, but I just finished breakfast.”

“Have a seat,” the parson said as he pointed toward the sofa. The parson settled himself into his rocker. He reached over and retrieved his coffee cup nad downed the remaining liquid.

The parson and Jeremiah exchanged pleasantries, inquiries about each other's parish, news of mutual clergy friends and such for about twenty minutes.

“Listen, Parson,” Jeremiah finally said with a tone that indicated the direction of the conversation was about to change. “Every morning I drive my daughter to school. And almost every morning I see your car here at the church. I'm just curious. Why are you here this early in the morning? This isn't a big church; you're retired. I don't get it. I don't know anyone else who kinda clocks in like you do.”

The parson smiled, rocked back and forth a few times, and then replied, “You know, Jeremiah. I got in the habit of this many, many years ago.”

Jeremiah interrupted, “But what's the point.”

“The point is, Jeremiah,” said the parson, “way back in the last century I discovered about seventy-five percent of ministry is simply showing up.”