Questing Parson

The Direction of Anger

“I have to tell you, Parson,” proclaimed Alex Poole, “this church is driving me up a wall.”

Alex, the parson knew to be, was one who seemed to be moved from one appointment to another at least every three years. The parson also knew he was a more than adequate preacher; he was above average in pastoral care skills. But he seemed to always be at odds with the congregation to which he was assigned to serve.

“What's this church doing?” the parson asked.

“Well, that's just the point, Parson. They're not doing anything. Absolutely nothing. And it's driving me up the wall.”

“You've only been there six months, Alex, maybe you should give them a little more time to grow on you.”

“Grow on me. Grow on me. That's a rich one, Parson. Grow on me. You're a riot.”

“Look, Alex, I didn't mean to get your all riled up.”

“I”m sure you didn't, Parson, but the fact of the matter is the people in the church have a very limited vision. They don't look beyond tomorrow to the future. They only are concerned about the next service and when they get to that service they're mostly concerned that the service is over within one hour. Grow on me. I don't think I want that kind of stuff to grow on me.”

The parson thought a moment. Then he said, “Alex, mind if I tell you a personal story?”

“Why not?”

“Back when I was in high school, somebody started calling my parents and complaining about things my friends and I were doing in the neighborhood. Turns out this person had called the parents of my friend Charlie and another friend Jack. The complainer told out parents that we were making too much noise on Saturday nights when we played ball out in the streets. He also said that we should respect personal property and not use his yard as a short cut when going from one place to another. He suggested to our parents that we were disrespectful of our elders and had no consideration for others.

“My parents lit into me about it. They said Charlie, Jack, and I should have been more considerate of others. All thre of us were punished. I got two weeks restriction. Charlie and Jack got punishment just as unfair.”

“So why are you telling me this?” asked Alex.

“Hang on, Alex,” the parson suggested. “there's more.”

“When the three of us were off restriction we got together to discuss who could it have been that got us in trouble. Jack said his dad said something about it being a Mr. Anderson. Ah, yes, we all knew Mr. Anderson. He rode the bus from work. He got off the bus and walked a block down the road and then walked up Orchard Court. He lived on Orchard Court.

“Charlie told us he knew where Mr. Anderson lived. We decided to get back at him. So one night we headed over to Mr. Anderson's house with about fifty rolls of toilet paper. We started tossing those rolls into the trees. In no time at all we walked down his driveway and pause at the street to look back at the yard. We did. And afterward we turned to walk home. It was then we noticed the mailbox. It read Johnson, not Anderson.

“I have to tell you, Alex, my dad was more than a little upset. I don't remember how long the restriction was, but it seemed like forever.”

Alex stared at the parson a good full minute before he responded. “And, knowing you, there's a moral to this story.”

“Of course, there is, Alex. Anger misdirected only hurts the angry.

The Concentration Battle

Fred Anders hailed the parson from across the parking lot at the outlet mall. “Parson, imagine seeing you here.”

The parson waited as Fred walked through the traffic. He extended his hand in a warm greeting. Fred had been a student pastor at a previous church of the parson. The parson had wondered what happened to Fred. The student had been a little indecisive as to his future. One day he'd want to be a local pastor and the next a professor and the next a social worker.

“Well, I live here now, Fred,” the parson said. “Just down the road a bit. If you have a minute, let's duck into that coffee place and catch up on things.”

In a few moments they were seated at a table. Fred was drinking some weird concoction he'd ordered, the name of which the parson would never be able to repeat. The parson had his regular low fat French vanilla cappuccino. Fred immediately began telling the parson about his activities over the last few years. He'd worked in social work. He'd actually been a professor. Now, he was in his first church in a neighboring state as a pastor.

“Well, I hope you're enjoying your work there, Fred. I'm glad you're serving a church.”

“Thanks, Parson, I appreciate that. Tell me, what do you think is the most important thing about being a pastor.”
.
The parson thought a moment; he considered Fred; he considered the kind of church Fred was appointed to. “I have to tell you, Fred, one of the hardest things for me when I started out was staying on task. There's so many things that can conflict with your work today. It's a job where you're not often accountable. I mean, you can work on a sermon for hours or you can lift one from the internet and go fishing. You can go visit a home bound member, hold her hand, look in her eyes, or you can call her on the phone while you're actually occupied with something else. Maybe, the hardest thing is concentration or staying on task.”

Fred was nodding his head in agreement, but the parson realized that Fred was looking through the window at two young ladies walking down the sidewalk. The parson stopped talking.

In a moment Fred spoke, “Oh, sorry, Parson. My mind wandered away. What were you saying?”

The parson smiled, “I was telling you a story Fred, a story about a circuit rider from long ago. He was riding his horse down a country road when he saw a farmer out working in the fields. The circuit rider called out to the farmer, 'Hello, it's a beautiful day, isn't it?'

“The farmer looked up and said, 'It may be a beautiful day for you. All you have to do is ride that horse and think about God. Me? I have to slave away in this field. It's ain't no easy task like the one you have.'

“The circuit rider replied, 'Actually, my friend, it's a lot harder than you might think to ride this horse and just think about God.'

“'I doubt that said the farmer.'

“'Tell you what,' the circuit rider replied, 'I'll give you this horse if you can think about God and nothing else for one minute beginning right now.'

“The farmer stared at the circuit rider and in less than thirty seconds said, 'Does that include the saddle?'”

Fred looked at the parson. He said, “I'm sorry, Parson, I don't get it.”

We Were Deprived

“So,” said the four-and-a-half year-old granddaughter, as we sat side by side on the sofa watching the flat screen TV on which the cartoon figures darted about in high definition playful animation, “what was your favorite program when you were my age?”

“Actually, when I was your age we didn't have a television,” I replied with a smile.

She turned from the television and looked at me as small wrinkles of concern accented her forehead. “Oh, I'm sorry; I didn't know your family was so poor.”

“Oh, no, honey,” I assured her. “It wasn't that we were poor; now we weren't rich but we weren't poor. It's just that when I was your age people didn't have television.”

Now the small wrinkles of concern deepened into crevasses of consternation. “People didn't have television?” She shifted on the sofa to face me, the cartoon figures now less important that when she'd invited me to watch her favorite show. “Why didn't people have television?”

“Well, television wasn't available for people in their homes back then. A scientist had invented it, but they didn't know how to make it so it could be sold for people to have it in their homes.”

The lines on her forehead doubled. She moved to her knees, wrapped her arms around my neck and hugged me tightly. Quietly she said into my ear, “I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay,” I said as I patted her back. “There were a lot of things we didn't have back then.”

She moved back to a kneeling position while her left hand remained on my right shoulder and the wrinkles remained on her forehead. There was concern in her voice as she said, “What else didn't you have?”

I thought a second then reached into my pocket and took out my smart phone. “We didn't have cell phones.”

There was a full thirty seconds of silence. It was obvious she was trying to process this electrifying piece of information. “How did you talk to people who were not in your house?”

“Oh, we had phones but they weren't like this. They were connected to a wire that came out of the wall of the house. And that wire went to a wire outside. You know those poles that go down your street?” She nodded. “Well, they call those telephone poles because one of those wires on the pole connected everybody together. So when you talked on the phone in the house your voice when through the wire to the house of the people you were calling.”

Removing her hand from my shoulder and folded her arms across her chest. “Are you teasing me?” I shook my head. She stared at the floor. The program on the television was changing. Now two different cartoon figures were having a conversation on the screen. “You talked on a phone that was hooked to the wall by a wire?”

“That's right.”

“So, how did you talk to people when you were outside or maybe in the car or maybe at the ballgame?”

“We didn't. The phone was in the house.”

She turned back to the television. For five minutes I was irrelevant. Then she turned to me and said, “Computers?”

“We didn't have computers.”

Patting my leg affectionately, she whispered, “Bless your heart.”

In the Room with David Blankenhorn and Jonathan Rauch, as Part of Krista Tippett's Civil Conversations Series on "On Being" from American Public Media

Daniel Pawlus and Sherre Hirsch in conversation with Tony Campolo - from 30 Good Minutes

Those Unnecessary Meetings

The meeting was being held in the sanctuary of one of the area's country churches, a church about the size of the one the parson served. The meeting had been in process from an hour and forty minutes. The parson was fighting the ever more heavy of the weight of his eyelids. Finally, the church superior declared, “Well that's about it, folks. I appreciate you being here today. This went a little long, but it was necessary. Thanks again. Does anyone have any questions or need to add anything?”

Susan Elliott stood, “Yes, sir,” she said, “I think we need some clarification on ….”

The parson rolled his eyes, pulled out his iPad, powered it up and opened the device to the latest issue of Newsweek. As the iPad was coming to life the parson wondered to himself: Why don't they teach in church superior school that one should never ask, at the end of a meeting, does anyone want to say anything else?” If the question is asked, someone will have something to say.

Fifteen minutes later, after Susan had had her say and four others had said what they wanted to say about what Susan had to say, all of which had been covered in the church superior's previous remarks, the church superior closed the meeting with a prayer. The group rose to leave. The parson, also, rose; he paused as he contemplated whether Susan and her cohorts had talked long enough the parson would need to empty his bladder before heading home. He decided Susan and her cohorts had indeed talked that long. He proceeded up the center aisle and toward the facility, passing the church superior on his way and shaking his head in disbelief at the superior.

Exiting the bathroom, the parson headed toward his car. He was halfway there when Bobby Garner, a young and impressive pastor on the other side of the district approached. “Hello, Parson, how are you?”

“I'm going to survive, despite myself,” the parson responded. “More importantly how are those twins; they're, what, three now?”

“They are,” said Bobby, “and they're doing fine. Thanks for asking. Mine if I walk with you?”

“I'd appreciate the company, Bobby. You never know when I might fall.”

Bobby walked along with the parson. As they approached the parson's car he said, “Parson, why do you come to these meetings?”

“What do you mean, Bobby?”

“Parson, I know there's no way they can compel you to be at these meetings. And, excuse me for saying this, but I noticed your irritation at Susan Elliott's asking questions when the meeting was obviously over.”

“I apologize if you noticed that, Bobby,” the parson said. “That was disrespectful.”

“Some of us might think it was reality, Parson.”

“Either way, I'm sorry I was so obvious.”

“Still, Parson, why do you come to these meetings. You don't have to.”

The parson paused a moment and thought. Then he said, “I guess, Bobby, I come out of respect for my calling. Meetings are a part of every profession, I guess. And, as much as I dislike them, they're necessary. You're right, I don't have to attend. But I do out of respect to the church which grants me a pulpit from which I can preach, a church that has authorized me to carry out the functions of my ministry, a church that has supported me, allowed my kids to go through college, provided for me in my retirement and, … “ the parson paused. “And, besides, Bobby, what example would it set if I didn't show up after reaping the benefits of all these years of ministry.”

Bobby smiled, “I understand, but please, tell me for my sake, that you think some of these meeting are ridiculous.”

The parson also smiled, “Okay, Bobby, I admit some of these meetings are ridiculous. But, truth be told, no one has ever died of thirst or starvation during one of these unnecessary meetings.”

Jesus' Best Friend

Please indulge me today. I want to pay tribute to a pastor I know. He's retiring this coming June. To tell you the truth, I don't think any of the other elders of the church will notice he's gone. But, truly, he will be missed.

Now, I'm going to speak the truth here, and, as such, we'll give this pastor a fictional name. Why don't we call him John, as in John Wesley.

John went to seminary the same time I did. He was younger than I. I'd taken a tour of the world at the expense of my Uncle Sam before entering the seminary. John and I were not friends. We just didn't run in the same circles.

I, at that age, tended to be clinging to physical exploits. I ran marathons, played on an amateur soccer team, all those macho things of one in a perpetual struggle to defy aging.

John was never seen running. John was never seen participating in competitive sports. I'm not sure what John did, but John appeared to be less than motivated to break a sweat.

I don't know what kind of student John was. He never said much in class; in fact, I don't recall him ever saying anything in class. But when our time there was done he marched across the stage and received his diploma.

John was sent to his first full-time appointment. He when with an eagerness that matched his permanent smile. His appointment was a three church circuit. He rode that circuit with the determination of an eighteenth century circuit rider. He lasted two years there. Eighteen months into that appointment the folks asked for a new pastor. They were not without reason. John, you see, couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag.

I remember talking to John just before he went to his new church. He was happy as a lark. The bishop, he told me, had given him this new opportunity and he and his wife couldn't wait to get there. And then he told me how lucky the pastor who was following him was, how great those congregations were.

It wasn't more than three years that the cycle repeated. Did I mention John couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag? Once again he was delighted at having a new opportunity for ministry. Once again he was happy for the lucky stiff who was following him. And not once did he complain.

That pattern went on throughout John's entire ministry. For about four decades he moved from one pastoral charge to another with amazing frequency. When he was moving to his last church he once again was delighted to be going there.

Folks weren't impressed with John's preaching. They weren't impressed with his passivity. And yet …

Whenever someone was in the hospital, John was there. Whenever someone's relative was jailed, John was there pleading with the Sheriff for some consideration. Whenever someone lost a loved one, John held their hand. And whenever someone was in pain, John cried with them; John cried real tears of empathy.

I happened to be present on two occasions when John was asked to open a meeting with prayer. You know, we pastors pray all the time, at lease publicly we do. But John, oh, wow, when John prayed it was something different. I think John and the Lord were well acquainted. I think, if anyone does, John knows God's middle name. They talk a lot.

John and I, over the years, knew who each other was. We spoke to each other at gatherings of the brothers and sisters. I like John. I think John likes me. But it was only occasionally, after seminary, our paths crossed.

Nevertheless, when Ms. Parson died, John was there. John drove halfway across the state to just sit in a pew and share my sorrow. He hugged me after the service and whispered in my ear, “I will pray for you twice a day for the next year.” John didn't say “I'll pray for you.” John told me he'd do it twice a day and for how long. It may well have been John's prayers that got me through it.

Did I mention John couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag? He couldn't. It's not bragging when I say I can preach circles around John. But John has one up on me. John and Jesus are best friends.

"R" Rated Literature

It was one of those meetings the parson didn't really want to attend. He knew he, along with a couple of others, would be the wayward cousins in the group. It was a meeting of the regional ministerial association. The parson was considered to be somewhat beyond the religious left horizon by many of the participants.

Truth be told, the parson didn't duck the designation.

Meeting over, it happened. The parson got stuck in a group that began a discussion the parson would have rather not been part of. He kept quiet and listened, determined not to make a comment.

“I tell you, Fred,” said Herman Sylvester, pastor of the Spirit-Filled Church of the Triumphant Procession of the Doubly Redeemed, “I'm really proud of that publishing company for standing up for principle. It's refreshing.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Fred Abbott, pastor of the Pentecostal Brethren of the Gifts of the Spirit.

Herman quickly began to educate. “I'm talking about Rachel Held Evans' last book.”

“What's the name of the book?” asked Fred.

“I don't know the name of the book,” said Herman. “That's not important.”

The parson couldn't resist. “The name of the Book is: A Year of Biblical Womanhood: How A Liberated Woman Found Herself On Her Roof, Covering Her Head, and Calling Her Husband 'Master.'”

“Well, glory be,” said Sam Peterson, “the parson reads evangelical books.”

“I do from time to time,” the parson replied.

“So, what's the issue with the book?” asked Fred.

Herman continued his education. “The issue with the book, Fred, is the way she was going to include the term ...” Herman looked about the room as if to determine if it were safe to continue. “... Well, she used a term to describe a woman's female parts.”

The parson smiled. He waited. The silence was deafening. Finally Paul Prentiss, pastor of the Redeemed Church of the Holy Sanctified Baptized in the Holy Spirit, asked, “What term was it?”

Again Herman looked around. He lowered his voice. “The term was 'vagina'.”

“What?” asked Fred.

“'Vagina.' I said the word was 'vagina'. She wanted the church publishing company to print a book with the word 'vagina' in it. Thank goodness the publishers informed her that no matter how popular her books were they were not going to publish a blatant reference to sex as is that.”

Heads nodded. Murmurs of agreement bounced around the group.

Then there was silence for a moment. Afterward the parson rose to leave. Herman challenged him. “So, Parson, would you agree it was a bold thing for that publishing house to refuse to publish a book with that kind of reference in it?”

“Oh, I'm not qualified to comment on that, Herman,” said the parson. “I'm just worried about you folks.”

“What do you mean?” asked Sam.

“Well,” the parson remarked, “if your publishing company won't print books with references to sexual parts and/or acts in it, where are you folks going to buy your Bibles?”

The Constant In the Equation

Lawrence Sanders, the associate pastor at a church of several thousand members, called out to the parson as he walked out of the denominational book store. “Parson, got a minute?”

“Sure, Lawrence,” the parson responded stopping his entrance into the store. “What's up?”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“I'd enjoy that,” the parson said. He turned in the direction Lawrence was pointing. A half block up the street was a coffee shop. They both headed there, ordered a cup of coffee. The parson decided to add a sandwich to his order. Then the two took a seat at a small table in the corner.

“So, how's Mary doing, and the little one, what's her name, Fran, right?”

“Right. Fran's three now and growing every day. Mary's planning to start teaching again when Fran turns four. But I think she's really enjoying the time at home.”

“Well, you're lucky to have a good appointment so you can afford that,” the parson commented.

“Funny, you said that, Parson,” replied Lawrence. “I kinda wanted to talk to you about the church.”

“Don't tell me there's trouble in River City,” the parson said.

“Oh, no, there's no trouble to speak of, but I guess you'd say there's a bit of some unrest.”

The parson chewed his sandwich a moment as he reflected on what he knew about the church where Lawrence served. “Define 'unrest.'”

“Okay, look, this a bit awkward. You know Jim, don't you?”

“Yes, I do,” the parson replied. Lawrence was speaking of the senior pastor where Lawrence was the associate. The parson had served on several committees over the years with the senior pastor. He was by no means a dynamo in the pulpit, but he was solid and a faithful pastor.

“Well, I keep getting people making hints that Jim should give me a more active role in the church. They think he's kind of stuck in his ways and we're not going to attract younger folks as long as Jim is, well, what he is.”

“You talk to these people, Lawrence?”

“Well, Parson, there's hardly a way I can avoid it.”

“There is a way you can avoid it, Lawrence. You can say 'I'm not going to engage in any conversation that cast dispersions on the senior pastor'.”

“Parson, I don't think that church will continue to grow unless some changes occur.”

The parson finished his sandwich, drank the rest of his coffee, looked intently at Lawrence for a moment, and then said. “Lawrence, do you want me to spell this out clearly for you?”

“I do.”

“Okay, Lawrence, let's say those people who are talking to you about Jim are right. Let's say Jim is the most dull pastor the United Methodist Church has ever produced. And let's say those people go to the district superintendent and/or the bishop. Let's suppose they convince the authorities that be Jim has to go and next June it happens, Jim leaves. Now, if all that happens there is one constant that will not change, Lawrence.”

The parson paused to let Lawrence ask. Finally, he did. “What constant?”

“The constant, Lawrence,” the parson smiled, “is that even if Jim moves when the new pastor is announced you'll still be the associate.”

Manners In Church

Sunday afternoon found the parson walking through a local park. He and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, along with Ms. Penny, Charlie Brown's girlfriend, were getting a bit of exercise.

“Hi, Parson,” called a young lady from the opposite side of the planter.

The parson turned to look. “Well, hello, Louise. It's good to see you again.”

Louise, a ten-year-old, whose family had been visiting recently at the parson's church, came bounding around the planter. She put her arms around Charlie Brown's neck. Ms. Penny, moved in closer anticipating the affection might be extended to strangers. “Hello, Charlie Brown,” Louise said. She stood up straight. “I didn't know you had two dogs, Parson.”

“I do, now,” the parson replied. “This is Ms. Penny; she's Charlie Brown's girlfriend.”

“Why doesn't she come to church with Charlie Brown?” asked Louise.

“Well, Ms. Penny doesn't have the same manners Charlie Brown does,” said the parson. “I'm not sure she would act right at church.”

“Well, that doesn't keep some of the adults from coming,” said Louise. “Talk about bad manners, did you hear Mr. Franklin snoring during your sermon?”