Questing Parson

The Backbone of the Denominaton

Betty Thacher refilled the parson's decaf. She stared at the table, then said, “Okay, Parson, if you want some more eggs just ask.”

“What are you talking about?” asked the parson.

“I'm talking about that plate. Good gracious, Parson, you sopped that plate, I guess with the toast, so much it looks clean. I'd have been glad to bring you some more.”

“How do you know I didn't wash it?”

“Right,” she smiled, picking up the plate and swirling on her heel.

The parson looked back at his Kindle and his morning reading. He didn't get to read much.

“Well, well, look who's still kicking,” proclaimed the voice.

The parson looked up to see Frank Overtop, looking down at him. Frank was the senior pastor of the Church of the Set Aside As A Light to Those Below. The church was a congregation in the parson's denomination, but the parson had heard that one would be hard pressed to recognize that.

“Frank,” the parson responded. “What brings you to the neighborhood?”

“Just stopping to get a bite to eat, Parson. I'm headed up to a meeting in Nashville.”

“It's good to see you,” said the parson. “How's Ellen and the kids?”

“Everyone's doing great, Parson, just great. I won't tell you how great because you'd then start bragging about your grandchildren.”

“Dizzy Dean said if it's true it's not bragging, Frank.”

“Okay, point taken.”

Frank sat down at the parson's table. Betty approached, poured him some coffee and took his order.

The parson and Frank began to swap stories, catch up on each other's knowledge of mutual friends, and, as was always the case with the two of them, began to debate the needs and the realities of their denomination.

“You know as well as I do,” said Frank, “the larger churches are the driving force of this church. You've been the pastor of a large church; there's no way to deny it.”

“Oh, I can deny it, Frank. I can deny it with relish. Tell me Frank, how many members do you have?”

“We reported 2300 at the end of the last year.”

“Holy Moley, Frank, I've lived in towns with less population that that. So, now tell me, how much money did your church give to providing housing and rehabilitation programs for the homeless last year?”

“I don't know the answer to that off the cuff, Parson?”

“Okay, how much did you give to missions, national and international?”

Betty walked up and placed Frank's breakfast before him. She looked over at the parson with a wrinkled brow. “Everything okay here?” she asked.

“Of course, everything is okay, Betty.”

Betty leaned down, “Well, how was I to know. Your voice is getting a little loud, Parson.” She walked away.

Frank was smiling. The parson leaned over the table toward Frank. “Okay, Frank, I apologize if I was a bit insistent. Look, how about you do this. When you get back home, you email me the exact number of members you have and I'll email you the exact number of members I have. Then we'll exchange the amount of support each of our churches gave to any cause you pick that's common to churches of our denomination. We'll then divide the amount given by the number of members to discover what the per member contribution is. And when we do that we'll continue this discussion about which of our churches is the driving force of this denomination.”

Parent and Child

Can there be anything worse for a parent than to see a child in pain, physical pain, excruciating pain? The wrinkles of discomfort spread across the child's face reflective of the internal battle within the child's body. The parent stirs in the seat uncomfortably, ill-at-ease with the child beyond the parent's ability to comfort, to make better, to heal the ow-ie.

All children get hurt from time to time, get sick, find themselves in trouble. Often parents can make things right with a first aid kit, caress with a damp cloth a fevered brow, calm the raging waves of difficulty. Not all times is the parent able to accomplish this. There are times when the parent is helpless, times when the best that can be done is to sit in a waiting room until the surgeon comes out to give his report.

These are times of anguish, when the loving care must be put on hold, when parenting skills are useless, when the child's well-being, safety, healing is in hands of another.

Fortunately, such times are few and when they come the outcome is usually good. It is in the aftermath of the surgery, the time when the pain is severe, the body has not yet turned the corner to head toward healing that the parent can be what the parent was intended to be, a parent.

The child smiles at the parent's presence, grateful for a friendly face to fix upon through the haze of pain. The child welcomes the parent with words of gratitude for the parent's presence.

The medication begins to work its magic. The child's speech becomes slurred, the head begins to move slowly toward the chest and then snap back suddenly as the child fights to remain coherent. The battle is futile. The drug wins. The child sleeps. The parent picks up the iPad and resumes reading the new Gresham novel.

Despite the fascinating plot, the parent begins to fill his head nod. Soon, the parent gives up the fight, the tension of the surgery and its tiring aftermath wins. The parent slides down in the chair in a struggle for comfort and dozes, then sleeps.

The moan awakens. The parent rises, walks toward the child noticing tension on the child's face. The pain is returning. The parent looks at his watch. Two more hours before any more of the addictive narcotic. In the kitchen the parent fills the plastic bag with crushed ice cubes. Returning, the parent places the ice pack upon the leg, wrapped from the surgery on the ruptured Achilles tendon. The child moans again. The parent resumes his seat and continues reading the novel.

An hour passes. The child moans. The parent rises. “You okay?” he asks.

“I think the pain killer is wearing off. It's starting to hurt.”

The parent checks his watch, nods, heads to the kitchen for water. He provides the child with a pill and filled glass. The child expresses his thanks. The parent, hearing something, turns, walks to the window and looks out. He then begins picking up this and that, returning dishes to the kitchen, stacking papers and books on the table next to the child.

The child looks up. “You're leaving?”

“I am.”

“But, I mean who's going to take care of things?”

“Look, I love you,” I said, “but you're thirty-eight years old and your wife just drove into the driveway.”

Depends on Your Point-of-View

It had been a while since I had seen him. Back in the last century he'd been a member of a church not too far from my parish. We'd encountered each other at denominational events. It wasn't a friendship that developed; but, because of the number of times we'd bumped up against each other at various meetings, we knew each other well.

Our chance encounter on the streets of Atlanta brought back many memories. He invited me to sit down with him at a coffee emporium across the road. We settled into chairs at a small table in the corner. When I say “small” I mean SMALL. The table would have difficulty supporting one laptop computer and an iPhone, though the sign on the door advertised their high speed wi-fi.

Catching up on mutual friends was the first order of business. I remembered how the last time we'd met we shared a desire that we “need to keep up with each other.” That had been five or six years previous. We had not kept up. But now we updated each other. Fred Cashion had died. Margaret Thompson was in a nursing home. Each of us had increased the number of grandchildren by two.

As often happens, gaps began to appear in the conversation as each of us tried to recall events of interest to the other. In one of those gaps, he burst forth, “Did you know Barbara quit attending Peaceful Valley Church of the Harmonious Followers of the Savior?”

“No,” I quickly replied, somewhat shocked. “I can't believe that. Why did she leave.”

“Got her feelings hurt,” he replied. “Disgusting, if you ask me. I can't believe someone would leave a church just because another member hurt your feelings. It kinda insults the purpose of the existence of a church; don't you think?”

I didn't reply for a second. I mulled over a vague memory. Finally, I said, “Weren't you a member of the Church by the River of Everlasting Joy one time?”

“I was,” he replied.

“When did you leave?”

“Oh, we left about twenty or twenty-five years ago. Haven't been back since.”

Again, I paused before replying. “You didn't move? Still live in the same place?”

“That's right, same house,” he said.

“Seems I remember you were really active in that church. Did you have some run in with a preacher or something?” I asked.
“Well, it's kind of complicated. I don't think you ever met my Uncle Franklin. He was a charter member of the church. He and William Foster actually dug the original foundation. I'm not sure but my family legends say he and three others made some pretty good financial contributions to the church. Well, some of my cousins and I thought it'd be appropriate to put a statue of him in a garden the church was constructing.”

“You wanted to erect a statue of your uncle?”

“We did. But there ain't no statue there, I have to tell you. The board at the church took it up and they just rejected the idea of erecting statues to former members outright.”

“That's when you left?”

“It was.”

“You left because your feelings were hurt?”

“Feelings hurt? No, of course not, I would never leave the church over hurt feelings. I left because of the principle of the thing.”

Preaching Grace in a Culture of Revenge

The Reverend Jill Moffett Howard, Pastor of Morgantown United Methodist Church in Morgantown, Indiana, has a truly penetrating and relevant article in the latest issue of The Circuit Rider, a publication for United Methodist pastors.

It deserves a reading:  Click Here

The Visitor

“The woman, sitting on the back pew on your right,” said Lois Weimer, “do you know who she was?”

“I do,” said the parson. “Her name is Vivian. She moved into our neighborhood about two weeks ago.”

“I must say,” Lois replied, “she really seemed glad to be hear. She even thanked me for all the work our church does with the homeless. And you know what, Parson, more people should dress up for church like she and her daughters were. People today are so casual about worship; it was nice to see someone take worship seriously.”

“I'm glad you felt so positive about her,” the parson said. “I hope you invited her back to worship.”

“I did,” said Lois, I did.”

“That's great, Lois. Thanks for that.”

“You're welcome, Pastor. But I have to tell you, I think you should pay her a visit. Do you happen to know where she lives?”

“I know where she lives,” said the parson.

“Well, don't you forget about dropping by and seeing her this week. You need to invite her back, too.”

“I'll do that, Lois.”

Lois then left through the side door of the sanctuary. The parson headed to his study to remove and hang up his robe. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion followed. Ready for the rest of the day, the parson stepped out the outside door of his study and headed to his car. Halfway to his home, the parson passed one of the three transitional houses his church operated. Vivian, the church's visitor, was out in the yard weeding the garden. It was hard to believe two months ago she was homeless.

Forgive Me, I Have Sinned, Again

I should have outgrown it. I thought I'd outgrown it. After seven decades you'd think I would have outgrown it. You'd have thought I would have learned to resist the impulse toward this unexplained behavior.

I can't remember when it started. Maybe it was with my little brother. I used to delight in pulling pranks on him. It was obviously that delight that led me to expand the activity beyond my brother. It was in my high school years my delight in this began to reach for new challenges. I think the statute of limitations has run out so I will fess up. It was I who talked the offensive line of my high school football team to carry Mr. Snyder's VW Bug up the steps and sit it outside his
classroom door on the third floor.

Maybe it was that VW Bug prank that led to my desire to top it with a better one. I did top it, you know. There's a new generation of park police watching over the Washington Monument so I'll reveal my secret. It was me. On our high school senior trip I was the one who figured out how to fly a five by eight foot Confederate flag out the observation window at the top of the monument and to get it down without getting caught. Everyone thought that cool. Unfortunately, it got back to my Dad. He didn't share their appreciation.

Now, as for the rumors about the cow being placed in the Dean's office at my college, I will neither confirm nor deny that. I have a grandchild considering that institution of learning.

You may wonder why I'm recalling all this. You may wonder why the words of my Dad, “When are you going to grow up?”, are suddenly again echoing in my mind. Well, as I said above, you'd think I would have outgrown it.

But … last week I took two grandchildren to Tybee Island. I thought they'd enjoy the surf before school started.

We spread out our towels, rubbed on some sunscreen and started to enjoy the day. That's when I noticed him. He was yelling at a couple about twenty yards from where he was sprawled under his umbrella. “Hey, can't you people control your noisy kids. You're not the only ones on this beach.” I ignored it although I thought it rude and plunged with my grandkids into the Atlantic.

A little later he was yelling about someone shaking out their towel and the sand blowing near him. And then he was lecturing some high school girls on how indecent was their swim attire. The man was an obnoxious pig.

Even later I noticed him dozing on his towel in his self-constructed shade. I told my grandchildren to sit where they were. I removed a large bag of potato chips from our carry bag. Walking thirty yards behind the reclining gentleman I reached into the bag and removed some chips. I held them in my hand over my head. The sea gulls arrived hovering about me waiting a chance to snatch them from my hand. I moved closer to the man. I crumbled the chips up. I scattered them about his area, and across his area. I told my grandkids we had to go. When I looked back I couldn't see the man but I could see the hundred gulls surrounding him.

When will I ever grow up?