Questing Parson

Where Are the Women

Sunday night the parson cacooned himself within the covers early. As was his custom on Sunday nights, no alarm was set to rouse him in the morning. On Monday mornings the parson crawled out of bed when the warmth of the covers no longer protected him from the day.

This night he fell asleep quickly. It had been a good day. The people had received his sermon gladly. A couple had talked to him of joining the church. And the Sunday evening Bible study had gone exceptionally well.

That Bible study the parson had resisted for years. Finally, he gave in on the condition that it be an actual Bible study. And so for the last two-and-a-half years almost every Sunday night had involved a study of the Bible. At first there had been some resistance to the parson's methodology. He had begun at Genesis 1: 1 and was proceeding through the books of the Bible, talking of the events that had shaped it, who wrote it, why they wrote it, pointing out the contradictions.

The “Bible-is-the-literal-word-of-God”-folks challenged him on the third week of the Bible. “But,” said their leader of that group, “the Book of Revelation says ….” The parson cut him off. “Look,” said the parson, “when it comes to Revelation, I will bow to your considerable knowledge. With regards to Revelation, you have read it much more than have I. In fact, I try not to read it. It involves some vision of terrible things that are going to happen in the future. I'm a follower of Christ. I concentrate on the wonderful things that are happening now. But, I don't want to ignore your point. As you're aware, we started with Genesis and we're going book by book through the Bible. We should get to Revelation in about, well, let's see, ah, about five years. So, please, hold that thought until then.”

They never came back. And so it was on Sunday night the parson and the Bible study participants looked critically at the differences in the stories told by the Deuteronomist storytellers and the Chronicler. The study had ended with the group focusing on the fact that the Chronicler left out anything that might reflect badly on David as an ideal king, especially leaving out the women. But the study ended with the observation that the Chronicler made a slip.

In 2 Chronicles 35: 25, he talks about “all the singing men and singing women” who mourn Josiah's death. So, concluded the parson and his group, the women did have a part to play after all. And supposing this was a Temple activity, the women had a more active part than the Chronicler's version led his hearers to believe.

Monday morning arrived. The parson rose. He switched his iPad on and began to surf the web for the news. After acquainting himself with what was happening, he looked for stories about March madness. There it was on almost every newspaper and magazine available on the device. There were the men's brackets, the rankings, the dark horses, all in the NCAA Men's tournament. The parson spent twenty minutes looking for the brackets, the rankings, the favorites, the dark horses of the NCAA Women's Tournament. He couldn't find any reference. It was as if Women's Collegiate Athletics did not exist.

Amazing, six hundred years before Jesus the storytellers left the women out, and still today few would admit they, also, occupied the court.

Beyond the Headlines

One was standing; one was sitting, leaning back on a large backpack. Beside the reclining one were two dogs, both brown in color, well groomed and, as the lack of a leash indicated, obedient. They were at the top of the southbound exit of I-75 at Highway 53. The one standing held a neatly printed with majic marker sign that indicated their need of food. The driver of the car in front of me stuck his hand out the window. It held some bills. The one with the sign nodded his appreciation as he also spoke obvious words of gratitude. The light turned green. The traffic moved. I hoped the fellow had given him a twenty.

Down the expressway, on the same day, speeding along, I noticed her. She was standing near the fence that marked the border between the interstate right-of-way and the pasture. Her little girl stood beside her. They both watched intently at the man, whose pickup truck was parked a bit in front of their minivan. He was on his knees, twisting with effort to remove the lugs holding the flattened tire. They were seen only for a moment as I whizzed by, but it was long enough to note they were hispanic and he was not.

He pulled into the church parking lot, got out of his car, introduced himself and said, “I live up in Ellijay. Wow, that tornado really made a mess of things. I thought I'd bring a truckload of good clothes down so you can give them to anyone who needs them.”

He's in his late seventies. While a non-assuming man, he is large of stature. His caloused hands witness to long hours of physical toil; the tan face speaks of a life outside. The confidence spewed forth in his demeanor, his giat, his mere presence shout success. It's late afternoon as he approaches the white frame house located in the western corner of the county. He knocks. The doors is opened by a smile that possesses a fourteen-year-old boy. Inside, the mother greets him and then disappears into another room. He and the fourteen-year-old sit down at the kitchen table. The math book is placed to the side. The boy slides a graded test paper from the pages of the book. They both smile. And then after a high five they get to the task of learning how to balance algebraic equations. It's a weekly occurrence. It's a boy who won't drop out; it may be a life saved.

She's stands at the kitchen counter snapping green beans which are then placed in the pot. The potatos are then prepared, the chicken then baked. And when it's all complete it's placed in a picnic basket which is carried to the car. She drives a good fifteen minutes acorss the county on her weekly trek. The basket of goodies are delivered to the widower. He's almost ninety. He lives alone, having out lived his wife and most of his immediate family. There are grandchildren but they live far away. He's grateful for her visits.

None of these things appeared in the paper. They didn't appear in the paper because they're not news. They're not news because they are normal events that happen every day. It is precisely because these are the normal things that happen in our days we as a people will always overcome adversity. Our story is not in headlines but the ordinary.

Thoughts On the Inauguration

So, today is the Inaguration of Barack Obama's second term as the 44^th President of the United States.

That brings up a trivia question. Which Presidents have taken the oath of office four times? Franklin Roosevelt and Barack Obama. Roosevelt because he was elected four times; Obama because the first time the Chief Justice rearranged the order of the oath and they redid it a couple of days later, and, the Constitution stipulates the oath be administered on the 20^th of Januray which fell on a Sunday this year and, therefore, will be repeated today.

To the point of today's ceremony. I'm remembering Lucius, whom I've written about in blogs years ago. Lucius was my friend in the eighth and ninth grades. I met Lucius often after school. I got off my bus and waited for him to arrive on his bus. We'd share a coke behind Cheek's Store and then we'd head to an open field to practice baseball. Lucius never went into the store to get a coke. I got it for him. Lucius didn't ride my bus. We rode separate buses. Lucius didn't go to my school. Lucius, you see, was black. I was, and am, white.

When we were in the eighth grade. My grandfather took me to the big Sears store. Lucius Dad took him to the same store on the same day. We encountred each other and started sharing stories as his dad and my grandfather shopped. While we were talking, I leaned over and took a drink of water from the water fountain. A man grabbed me in a violent manner and proclaimed, “What the hell do you think you're doing?”

I didn't repond. I didn't have to. My grandfather hit him in the back of his head so hard he fell to the ground. “Keep your hands off that boy,” he exclaimed.

“But he was drinking from the Colored Fountain,” the man justified.

My grandfather then told the man in no uncertain terms what would happen if the man ever touched me again. The man left. And then my grandfather admonished Lucius' father that if Lucius and I were to be friends we needed to be more careful.

It's a long way from that segregated day to this Inaguration Day. But it's only the distance of an old parson's lifetime.

And so, today, as Barach Hussein Obama once again takes the Oath of Office for the President of the United States, I'll remember how far we've come. And as I hear the inuendos of my church membres and certain elements of my community reacting to this event, I'll realize how far we have to go.

Ah, Lucius, who would have ever imagined we'd live in such a time?

 

 

The Problem With Those People

“Parson, can I talk with you for a minute?” the woman asked.

“Sure,” said the parson. “Have we met?”

“No, we haven't. I live across the street from one of those transitional houses that your church operates for homeless women.”

“Oh, I'm sorry we haven't met before,” said the parson. “Which house are you talking about?”

The woman let the parson know which house she was talking about.

“Yes, you're the one with the beautiful garden. I know your house.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “I wonder if I might discuss the folks that are in the house now.”

“Discuss them? I”m not sure what you're asking.”

“Well, that woman has two children and one of them is always trying to talk to my kids.”

The woman paused as though she'd provided sufficient information. The parson waited a pregnant moment. “One of your neighbor's children is trying to talk to one of your children?”

“Yes.”

“And there's a problem with that?”

“I guess there is.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“Look, Parson, that kid is always coming over and asking if my child can come and play with him. He's always trying to make some kind of relationship with us.”

The parson stared at the woman. He sensed where this was going. He tried to stifle the anger he felt rising.

“We're good Christian people, Parson,” the woman continued. “And when your church puts those people in the house across the street from us it threatens our kids. We can't have our kids hanging around with those people.”

“Those people?” the parson asked. “Those people! Where do you get off calling them 'those people'? That boy was coming over to your house asking if you would be his friend. That boy was coming over to your house and pleading to you to treat him with the dignity of a child of God. You slammed the door in his face. You know what,” said the parson knowing this would probably get back to church superior and he'd have to attend another meeting, “the only problem with those people is you people.”

Briefly, Let Me State

So, here's the deal. I've made a pact with myself to resume posting daily. Then I got slammed with pastoral stuff. It's late. I haven't posted. I've been sampling the wine someone gave me as a gift.

I had planned to make some theolgoical observation about the election. I'm too tired, or too ... well, you know ...  so let me sum up my feelings in this way:

Donald Trump is the north end of a south bound horse.

Protecting a Boundary

The parson was preparing the church yard for the weekend's Cow-A-Bunga-Bingo fundraiser. As he wound in the 300' measuring tape he was using to mark off the boundaries of the 1300 squares on which the cow would be loosed, a car pulled into the church parking lot.

The parson peered at the car and was surprised to see Jack Sinclair emerge. Jack was a layperson at a nearby church of the parson's denomination. The parson knew him as one who was always unhappy with some aspect of the church's life. He couldn't help but wonder if that was the purpose of Jack's entry into the church parking lot.

“Parson,” shouted Jack as he approached. “Tell me how this thing works; I bought a ticket.”

“Well, Jack,” the parson replied. “Saturday at 11:00 we're putting a cow out here on these squares I'm marking off. And if the cow makes a deposit in the square that corresponds to your ticket you will the prize.”

“Sounds interesting,” said Jack.

The parson decided not to delay it. “So, Jack, how are things at your church. Do you like the new pastor.”

“He'll do,” said Jack. “He'll do, but it's a challenge to have an unmarried young fellow, just starting out, as pastor. That boy's got a lot of learning to do.”

“Well, I've got a few years on him, and I'm still learning.”

“Yeah. He'll probably be okay. I did have to straighten him out about the parsonage, however.”

“Straighten him out; what do you mean?”

“Oh, I was passed by the parsonage the other day and decided to check on things. That kid had stacked all his books on the sofa in the den. I mean he must have had a hundred books on that sofa. I left him a note to get them off and stack them on the floor and suggested he ought to buy a bookcase.”

“Let me get this straight, Jack. You went into his house when he wasn't home without his permission?”

“It's not exactly his house, Parson. It's the church parsonage.”

“It's his house, Jack.”

“We differ on that a bit, Parson. Look, don't get your butt on your shoulder. I was going to ask you to talk to him about being a little more respectful.”

“Oh, I'll be glad to talk to him, Jack. In fact, I'll talk to him just as soon as I call one of my members to meet me and your pastor at the parsonage.”

“You're taking one of your members.”

“Yeah, Jack, I am. I taking my lay leader. He's a locksmith.”

Sermon Under A Pecan Tree

It took longer than it would most folks. I always travel, as much as possible, on roads limited to two lanes. Expressways, with their six and eight lanes, and ten lanes, are mostly home to billboards and crazy drivers. Two lane corridors meander through mountains, follow rivers down the valley, and are decorated by homes, nicely cared for homes, as well as the occasional cabin and even double wides often accented by immaculately cared for yards.

Oh I realize there are some eyesores along the way, but they pale in comparison to what borders the multiple lane corridors of excessive speed. The two lane roads are the way to travel. I'm convinced of that.

As such, I'd left the day before the event in which I'd been invited to speak. It was something I looked forward to. After all, when one's invited back to a place where one has preached before, one cannot help but be somewhat flattered. It's something you'd like to tell your skeptical cousins about. Maybe I was just eager to get there; maybe I wanted time to meander those back roads. Whichever, I got there the night before, checked into a comfortable inn, enjoyed a delicious dinner, watched a little TV, and turned in early.

I was scheduled to speak first at a luncheon and that evening at the closing service. I spoke. Folks had some nice things to say. I felt good.

I skipped the afternoon business session and found myself sipping on a Sprite as I sat on a garden bench under the shade of a pecan tree. The Sprite was about gone when she approached.

“I know you,” she said.

“You do?” I replied. “How do you know me?”

“You baptized me when I was a baby.”

“You remember that?”

“Well, no, but my Mom told me you did.”

“Who's your Mom?” I asked.

She told me. I remembered her. Gracious, I'm getting old; I not only had baptized this child; I had also baptized her mother.

“So, your Mom still goes to church here?”

“No, sir,” she said. “We don't go to church now. She just came to this thing because you were preaching.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“No.”

“Why don't you folks go to church?”

She sat down on the bench beside me. “I think we don't go because we got really busy. You know, I have ball games and Mom and Dad have a lot of things to do. You know what I think?”

“What do you think?”

“I think the church needs to stop being so church. I mean, the church is songs and prayers and sermons by people like you. And I know my Mom likes you, but, well, you know all those people in there.” She pointed to the Family Life Center where everyone was gathered. “After you preach tonight everyone will go home and do what they always do. Now what I think is this: the church ought to make a difference. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do know what you mean,” I confessed. “Do you know how we can fix it?”

“No, sir, I don't. But the same old stuff isn't working. People are too busy for this same old stuff.”

I drove home that night a more humble than when I arrived.

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.”

The Parson, A Smart Ass

The Reverend Dr. Howard P. Scoggins, the fundamentalist preacher at the Church of the Blessed Children of the Everlasting God of the Prosperous and Redeemed, confronted the parson in the parking lot of the local office supply store.

“Well, hello, Parson. Funny I should encounter you today. We were just talking about your church this morning.”

“And who would we be?” the parson asked.
The parson recognized his response as being somewhat combative. But he'd had a lot of problems with Howard since the day he'd thrown two members of Howard's church out of his office when they asked him to sign a petition to prohibit a lesbian couple from being foster parents.

“'We' would be some of the more prominent pastors in the community, Parson.”

“I'm going out on a limb here, Howard,” said the parson. “But I'm going to guess that 'prominent pastor' is defined by those who read from the King James Version.”

“Funny, Parson, funny. You can make fun of the pastors who hold fast to the fundamental principles of our Christian faith if you want, but that doesn't change the fact that you're engaged in supporting a lifestyle that is contrary to the teachings of God.”

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

“I'm talking about that transitional housing program your church supports.”

“Well, Howard,” said the parson, “we don't just support it, but we actually founded it.”

“There you are. You sound like you're proud of supporting the lifestyle of the drug infested, God-denying, reprobates of society.”

“Actually, Howard, I am proud of every single mother with children who has gone through our program. Everyone of them has become a success in the world.”

“Yeah, so you say. I say you're coddling sin. You're saying that the church will reward their unprincipled behavior.”

The parson opened his car door. He looked at Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, in the back seat who was obviously sensing the tension between the parson and Howard. For a split-second the parson thought about letting Charlie Brown out of the car. Instead he decided to break off the conversation.

“Look, Howard, I have to go,” the parson said. He moved behind the steering wheel.

“So, you don't want to have a discussion about this stuff your church is doing?”

“No, Howard, I don't.”

“Why won't you defend yourself?” asked Howard.

“Because, Howard,” said the parson, “Mama told be it wasn't fair to get into a battle of wits with an unarmed person.”

The parson started his car, drove away, and as he merged into the traffic said to Charlie Brown. “I shouldn't have said that, Charlie. But sometimes I can't help being a smart ass.”

Will We Ever Get There?

The parson drove home perplexed.

Many months before this drive home and interesting thing had happened at the parson's church. It was about twenty-five minutes to a half-hour before the service began. Two women walked into the sanctuary. The parson was in a room at the rear and overheard their conversation as they walked down the aisle.

“Oh, Mildred, what a beautiful little church.”

“Thanks,” replied Mildred, an elderly matron of the church. The proceeded a few feet further down the aisle. And the parson overheard Mildred say to her friend, “And this, this is our lesbian pew.”

It wasn't said in a negative way. Indeed, the tone of Mildred's voice conveyed, “We've got a lesbians in our church and you don't.”

The Soup Suppers every Monday night, begun so many years ago by Ms. Parson, were a delight to the church. Florence, who wasn't homeless but remained only a stone's toss from it every month, was a fixture. The parson thought of how, after Florence's vehicle broke down, the church members began picking her up to bring her to the suppers where she could fill her tummy and usually bum some money for the coming week. Florence was a part of the fabric of the church now.

And the parson thought to the many times families of non-white races had come to the church and been greeted with full acceptance and joy at their presence, of the generally wonderful reception of the black preacher the parson invited.

The parson thought back to a few weeks ago when the church council has suggested the parson consider putting, “We are an inclusive church,” on the sign out front.

And then the parson thought of the little class he'd just finished teaching. He'd been trying to make a point about land displacement in the Holy Land, from the time of the Israelite occupation of the Canaanite land to the Jewish occupation of the land in recent history. Trying to make a point he asked one of the members of the church how long his farm had been in his family.

“Oh, gracious Parson,” the member had said, “over a hundred years.”

“Since 1830?” the parson asked.

“Well, that would be about right,” said the member.

“So your family took possession when the Cherokees were forced upon the Trail of Tears?”

“That's right.”

“Well, suppose,” the parson suggested, “the United Nations passed a resolution saying that our country had been wrong in that removal and you had to return you farm to the Cherokee nation?”

The parson waited for the reply, expecting some real agony from the member as he wrestled with the complexity of the situation. What the parson got instead was this:

'Well, I'd rather them get it that those blacks.”

Ten steps forward and nine steps backward?