Questing Parson

Maybe It's Worth It

The parson was leaving the restaurant with his uncle. Ten feet past the doors he heard a call.

“Parson, Parson, hold up a minute.”

The parson turned to see a gentleman, apparently in his fifties, also exiting the establishment, hailing him.

The gentleman extended his arm toward the parson. As the parson extended his to shake hands he noticed the lady following the gentleman. She seemed familiar. The parson shook the gentleman's hand.

“You don't remember me, do you?” the man said.

“I'm sorry,” said the parson, looking at the man and then the lady behind him, “you've got me at a disadvantage.”

“Don't sweat it,” said the man. “It's been a long time. In fact, the last time you saw me was, hmmm, let me think. I guess the last time you saw me was 1974. Yep, that was it. I know that was the year, because that's the year I decided to become a minister.”

The parson nodded. He was a bit confused. Obviously the gentleman had given him a pass on not remembering him. But the “I decided to become a minister” remark intrigued him.

“Back then,” said the gentleman, “I was at your church. I don't remember why I was there. Maybe it was some kind of area meeting or something. But, anyway, I was there. And after the event, whatever it was, was over, I approached you. I told you that I'd been asked to speak as a lay speaker at my church the next Sunday. I said I wanted to preach on the Parable of the Prodigal Son, but I didn't know exactly what to say.”

The parson was wracking his brain trying to place the described conversation. He couldn't.

“So, you said to me,” the gentleman continued, “'I love that parable. It's my favorite.' And then you told me why it was your favorite. Do you remember what you told me?”

The parson didn't remember what he told him. The parson didn't remember who the man was.

“You told me that it was your favorite parable because it's the only time in the scripture when God runs. You said that God was in a hurry that day. I loved that. And that next Sunday I preached on that. That was in June of 1974, Parson. In September of 1974 I entered the seminary.”

The parson talked with him for many minutes following. They exchanged stories of churches served, left, and new churches that followed. They talked about the changing church and the challenges of ministry.

When the conversation ended the gentleman said, “I hear you're a retired supply pastor now. I don't know if you're aware but I'm retiring in June. If you don't mind, Susan and I want to come to your church that next Sunday.”

The parson assured him he'd be honored. Soon they left. The parson tucked his uncle's walker into the truck. He turned to Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, sitting beside him at the rear of the car.

“You know, Charlie,” he said. “Maybe all this has been worth it.”

A Shared Calling

On a reasonably regular basis, the parson disappears. Well, he doesn't completely disappear, but it might as well be the case. On those scheduled times, a few sentences appear in the Sunday bulletin informing the congregation the pastor will be unavailable on a specific date and, in the case of an emergency, he can only be reached by contacting the Chairperson of the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee, who has the phone number of the place the parson's hiding. Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion, is dropped off at the vet's office where he spends the day. The parson then turns off his cell phone and heads toward the small church-related college twenty-five miles from the parson's church.

By mid-morning the parson was settled back in an armchair located in a corner of the library of the small church-related college tucked away in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains, book in hand, notebook and pen for notes resting on the chair's arm. The notebook already had scores of pages filled with notations. It was promising to be a good day of study and reflection.

“Excuse me,” she said in a hushed library tone, “you're the Parson, aren't you?”

The parson put the leaned forward, put the book on the coffee table, and said, “I am. Have we met?”

“Yes, we have,” she responded with enthusiasm. “My aunt is Geraldine Powers. I've visited your church with her two times.”

The parson now recognized having seen her at church, talking with her as she left, but for the life of him he couldn't place Geraldine Powers.

“Yes, I remember, how are you? I didn't know you were going to school here?”

“I enrolled in the fall. Since I decided to go into the ministry, I thought it would be better to go to a church school. Besides, I study a lot more here than I did at the university.”

“Well, I'm glad for you,” said the parson. “When did you decide to go into the ministry?”

She sat down in the chair which was ninety degrees to hers, then she leaned forward. “It was really a quiet thing. I mean, I didn't hear any voices or anything like that. I was just sitting in a chapel at a youth camp in Dahlonega, where I was on a weekend retreat. Something unusual happened. I just felt like I was in the presence of God and when I left that chapel I was headed for a life in the church.”

“Oh, my goodness,” the parson exclaimed. “I sat in that chapel when I was about your age, too. And here I am.”

“Cool,” she said. “Maybe we should form a 'Called at the Chapel' society.”

“Now, that sounds like a plan,” said the parson. “And from what I've learned over the years there would be a large membership.”

She smiled. She leaned back in her chair. “Can I ask you a serious question, Parson?”

“Sure,” said the parson.

“Why do you keep doing it?”

“Keep doing what?” the parson asked.

“Keep serving the church Sunday after Sunday, week Almost all of them after week?”

“Why do you ask that?” the parson asked.

She seemed to think about her response a moment, then replied, “I just keep getting these doubts. Here I am just six months after knowing I want to be a pastor and I'm having doubts.” She took a deep breath and said, “Look, Parson, since I've been here I've gone to lots of different churches every Sunday. And I've been talking to a lot of pastors. You know what? Almost all of them are frustrated. I just had no idea how many ministers were so upset with the church. Are you?”

The parson took a deep breath. He began to formulate an answer in his mind. But she gave him a reprieve.

“Oh, Parson, I know you're not upset like some people. I mean, goodness, look how long you've been a pastor. I guess that's why I wanted to talk to you. Why do you keep doing it?”

In a split second the parson's mind raced back over the last forty-seven years. In particular he raced back over the last six months. He looked at her. He envisioned her next decade, her ordination, her first church.

“Remember the chapel?” the parson asked.

“I do,” she said.

“That's why,” said the parson. “That's why. There's no other explanation. It's a crazy reason. It's not logical. But it's why I keep going. It's why I'm going to preach next Sunday and make the hospital visits next week. It's why when attendance is an insult I preach anyway; it's why when …. Well, it's why. That chapel in the mountains is why.”

She looked at him a minute. “Do you come here often?”

“I do,” said the parson. “At least once a month.”

“Can we talk again?”

“I'd like that,” said the parson. “I'd like that,” said the parson. “That would help me a lot.”

The Reverend C. J. Hawking ~ A Spiritual Journey

That Stubborn Parish

“Honest to goodness, Parson,” said Fred Snyder, a young pastor who'd done his seminary contextual education at the parson's parish, “I don't mean to sound like some kind of elitist, but I'm really getting tired of the people in my church.”

The parson smiled. He was familiar with Fred's church. It had only been in the last ten years they had moved from having seminary students as pastors to now having Fred, a fully ordained elder. But the arrival of the full-time pastor had not changed the mentality of a part-time appointment.

“No matter what I suggest they come up with some reason why we shouldn't do it. They don't have the money? It's going to involve too much work outside of the Sunday programs. The list goes on and on.”

“How's William Beavers doing?” the parson asked.

“William Beavers, well I suppose he's doing okay, but William Beavers is exactly the thing I'm talking about. I don't think that may has ever been outside the county he was born in. And his opinions and outlook reflect it. Sometimes I think he'd vote against the return of Christ if it meant he had to change his attitudes.”

The parson continued to smile.

“Sometimes I think it might be best for me to look for some other occupation. I just don't know how long I can put up with these people. And the district superintendent doesn't seem to be in a big hurry to move me to another church.”

The parson smiled.

“The other night we were having a finance committee meeting. I had to spent twenty minutes explaining why we support Africa University. 'Why in the world are we supporting that place,' one of my members asked, 'when we could be providing scholarships for good American kids.'”

The parson smiled.

“You don't seem to be taking me seriously, Parson. And I'm serious. I may just hang it up if I have to stay at these places much longer.”

“Fred,” said the parson, “I'm taking you serious. It's just that I've been there. I've served your church, too. It had a different name and it was in a different county, but it was the same church with the same members.”

“What's your point?” asked Fred.

“The point is Fred, I'm here. I'm here all these decades later and I'm a better person for having served those churches. They were stubborn, narrow minded people. But, in their own way, they loved the Lord as best they could. They endured a lot of geeen-behind-the-ears preachers like me. And despite all their shortcomings their church is still there making life a bit hectic for the new pastor. Everything you say about them is true, but there's more to say about them. And the best thing to say is that they have volunteered to be the whet stone on which you can hone your skills.

“So go back to your parish, Fred. Go back and keep growing. Someday they'll remember you fondly and invite you to preach at the Homecoming.”

Why Would You Want To Do This?

She was one of the most intriguing people the parson had ever encountered in his ministry. The child of two accomplished parents, one a surgeon the other a noted scholar in early Native American culture and college professor, she had always demonstrated an exceptional intelligence. The parson had been intrigued not so much by her innate intellectual attributes but her ability to utilize these in a proletarian manner that attracted others to engage her in conversation.

She'd been a member of one of the parson's previous churches. Back then she was an awkward preteen, unsure of her natural abilities and totally unaware of her budding beauty. In addition she possessed an athletic ability that would assure the financing of her college education. Her main sport was soccer. That, in and of itself, assured the parson's focus on this child of unusual ability.

Today she and the parson sat in the Java Junction, the coffee and sandwich place at the Outlet Mall near the parson's house. She, her Mom, and her sister, a sibling nine years her junior, now sixteen years old, had come for a shopping trip in celebration of her sister's birthday. She'd come along on the trip in order to spend some time talking with the parson. Important decisions faced her.

The parson studied her intently as she stirred her coffee with the wooden stick. The stirring was a distraction for her. There was not sugar or cream to stir. She seemed nervous, unconsciously delaying the conversation. The parson found this amusing as he remembered a day, when she was a senior in high school. She'd sucked the parson into a discussion of the implied differences in group ethics between Richard and Reinhold Niebuhr. The parson remembered vividly that day and his feeling he was in a battle of wits and he was unarmed.

“So, Parson,” she said and then sucked in a breath and audibly exhaled, “I'm thinking about going into the pastorate.”

The parson was a bit taken aback. He'd always thought of her as eventually becoming a professor of religion, philosophy, ethics, or such. He had never pictured her as a pastor. The thought was immediately appealing. The church, he knew, needed, desperately, people with her intellect and her humility, her assurance and her humility.

“What do you think?”

“Why in the world would you want to become a parish pastor?”

She jerked her head up. “What? Why?” She paused. Then she said, “I didn't expect you to say that. Why would I want to … I mean, you're been one all these years. Why are you asking me why?”

The parson smiled. It's a legitimate question. “Why would you want to be a parish minister?

“I just think I could be good at it. I mean, well, look, Parson, I've got my Masters degree. I'm enrolled in the PhD. Program. I know I could get my doctorate and maybe teach in a university, but I, well, I don't know. I think I have some talents I could bring to the church.”

The parson didn't say anything. She stirred her coffee some more. There was silence. After a long moment she looked up, “So, don't you have anything to day?”

“I do,” said the parson. “Why would you want to be a parish minister?”

She stared at him. Her azure eyes were fixed and unblinking. “Why would I want to be a parish minister? I just told you. Look, I'm above average in intelligence. I have a good manner with people. I know I can be supportive of the church members when they face a crisis. I'm good with kids and youth. And frankly, Parson, I can preach. Okay, I know you've never heard me preach. But in college I was really active in the Wesley Foundation. I led worship plenty of Sundays. And I preached on some of those Sundays.”

The parson smiled. He knew it would abbreviate her, but he asked, “Why would you want to be a parish minister?”

She stared at him. Actually, she glared at him. She, then, leaned across the table and in a forced whisper said, “Damn, Parson, why the shit to you keep asking that question?”

The parson didn't respond for a moment. The he said in an equally forced whisper, “Damn, Kathy, why the shit would you want to be a parish minister?”

“Because,” she shot back, “there's nothing else I could do and still be happy.”

“That,” said the parson, “sounds like a calling. Now I know why you want to be a parish minister. And I'll be praying every day I live long enough to see you ordained.”

She smiled a faint smile. A tear trickled down her left cheek. “You know, I just have to do this,” she said.

“I know. I know.”

Holy Union - With A Different Twist

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Questions of Faith

“Hello, Janet,” the parson greeted as he walked into the coffee / sandwich / ice cream shoppe at the mall.

“Hi, Parson,” Janet responded. “Are you getting some ice cream, too?”

“That I am,” said the parson. “What flavor do you recommend.”

“I like that new banana stuff,” said Janet. “But my sister said the lime mint is good.”

The parson walked to the counter and placed his order with the attendant. After receiving his order he turned back to Janet. “Can I join you?”

“Sure,” said Janet. “What flavor did you get?”

“Black cherry,” said the parson.

“Black cherry? Why'd you pick that?”

“Well,” said the parson. “I've got gout and I heard black cherries are good for gout. So if the black cherries are encased in ice cream they must be extra good for you.”

Janet stated at him a moment and then said, “You know, that's irrational justification for getting the flavor you want.”

“you're a smart girl,” said the parson.

“That I am, Parson. That I am.”

They talked a little while as the parson licked his double dip cone of black cherry, discussing her friends, her parents, and her activities in the church.

“Have you thought anymore about it?” the parson asked after a while.

“I have, but I'm still not sure. Deciding to become a pastor is kind of hard to do, you know?”

“I know,” said the parson. “I really do know.”

The parson licked his cone a bit more. Janet concentrated on writing in a three-ring binder.

“What are you doing?” asked the parson.

“Just finishing up my homework. Mom's shopping with my sister over at Vanity Fair.”

Janet paused, then added. “Actually, I shouldn't have done this. The Republican debates are on tonight so that's what my parents will be watching. I should have saved my homework for then.”

The parson smiled. He didn't make any comment. It was maybe five minutes before Janet spoke again.

“Parson,” she asked, “do you ever have any regrets about answering your call?”

“I do,” said the parson. “Almost everyday I wonder about it.”

“So, even if I'm ordained, I'll have my doubts?”

“I hope you do,” said the parson.

“You hope I have doubts?”

“I do,” the parson said as he devoured the last of the sugar cone and the last black cherry that had dropped to the bottom. “I hope you have doubts, because the doubts lead you to the questions that lead you to a deeper faith.”

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Monday Sermon Prep

It was Monday. The parson and Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, were walking early in the day. Their exercise took them around a local pond that centered itself in a local park. They'd just made a turn in the almost circular pant when the parson stopped and said to Charlie Brown, “Sit.” Charlie sat. Thirty yards in front Mom and Pop Canadian Geese waked across the path followed by four chicks in their fluffy baby feathers. Charlie Brown cocked his head from side to side as the progressed their way to the water.

The walk continued for another two laps around the mile-and-a-half trek. The last lap was interrupted by Byron Jefferies, who was sitting in a garden gazebo, having apparently placed himself there during since the parson and Charlie Brown last passed.

“Morning, Parson,” hailed Byron, “working up a sweat this morning I see.”

“Morning to you,” said the parson. He bent down and released Charlie Brown from this leash whereupon Charlie Brown bounded toward the water and leaped in. The parson made his way to the gazebo. He noticed Byron had his Kindle with him and had apparently been reading. “I didn't know you came here to get some exercise,” the parson noted.

“Oh, no, not to exercise,” said Byron. “But I did think I'd slip over here and do some reading.”

The parson and Byron talked for a few moments about events in their respective lives. Byron expressed his satisfaction the bishop had sent him back to his church for another year. The parson, knowing a few of Byron's members, was aware of the possibility Byron would not come back. He also knew the church's experience with the previous pastor predisposed the people to be patient with Byron.

At one point in the conversation, Byron asked, “Parson, do you enjoy preaching?”

“I guess I do,” said the parson. “Some Sundays I enjoy it more than others.”

“I have to tell you, Parson,” said Byron. “I thought preaching would be most rewarding thing about being a pastor. But it often seems to me to be a labor. How do you get past that?”

The parson talked with Byron a bit. Gradually, he got a sense of where Byron was with his preaching. Finally, he asked, “Do you know what the scriptures are for next Sunday?”

“No, I don't,” said Byron. “I suppose you, on Monday morning are going to tell me that you know what they are.”

“Actually, Byron, I do.”

“Next thing you know you'll tell me you already know what you're going to preach on.”

“I can't tell you that,” said the parson. “But I can tell you that I think I'm going to center the theme around welcoming the holy into our worship and our community.”

“How did you come up with that already?”

“I've read the scriptures for next Sunday, Byron.”

“You seem to be making a big deal out of the fact that I don't know what next Sunday's scriptures are.”

“I”m not making a big deal out of it, Byron. But you might consider that my knowing what they are on Monday and your not knowing is the difference in walking into that pulpit in answer to a call and walking into that pulpit as a job.”

The One That Got Away

The parson was squatting on the bank of the stream that meandered through the woods not far from his church. He couldn't sit; the ground was too wet from recent rains. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, was sniffing out an inventory of critters that lived in a half mile radius. The parson had just reeled in his lure and now cast it out again.

Charlie Brown appeared. He came and sat beside the parson, facing away from the screen. Charlie made a moan, not a growl but more just an acknowledgment something was afoot. The parson turned to look over his shoulder in the direction Charlie Brown was looking. Jeff Allen came into sight on the trail that divided the bamboo growth.

“Hello, Parson,” called Jeff. “I saw your car parked up on the road. I remembered you told me you sometimes hung out in these woods, so I thought I'd see if I could find the attraction.”

“Good to see you, Jeff,” said the parson as he raised himself from his squat and made another cast into the stream.”

“I didn't know there would be fish in this stream,” said Jeff.

“Apparently, there aren't today,” the parson acknowledged.

The parson reeled the line in again. He leaned the rod against a tree and then sat upon the trunk of a fallen one. He reached behind the trunk and pulled up a cooler. He removed a couple of apples, some cheese, and two bottles of beverage.

“Want a snack?” asked the parson.

“Ah, no thanks, Parson,” said Jeff. The parson promptly returned one of the apples and one of the beverages to the cooler. He returned the cooler to the ground and retrieving a knife from his pocket sliced the apple and cheese. He then made mini sandwiches out of the apple slices and cheese. After the top was twisted from the bottle he was prepared for his treat.

“How are things going at the church?” the parson asked.

“The seem to stay the same, Parson. They seem to stay the same. No matter what I do, or what I don't do, the church remains the same size and the same people do all the work while the others fuss about it.”

“You sound discouraged,” said the parson.

“That's not a strong enough word, Parson. Look, I'm going to stay this next conference year, but if something doesn't happen at the church I'm going to find some other avenue of service.”

The parson took his last bite of his apple/cheese mini sandwiches then drained the bottle. Without replying yet, he replaced the empty bottle in the cooler. He then retrieved his rod and walked back to the edge of the stream where he cast once more into the water.

“Jeff,” said the parson, “I've come to the conclusion, over the four decades I've been a pastor, that small churches are small because they choose to me.”

The parson stopped talking and snatched the rod up to hook whatever was playing with his lure. He began to reel the fish in. He got it to the edge of the stream and started to pull it upward to the top of the bank when, with a mighty flip, the fish tore itself from the hook and splashed back into the water.

“Damn,” said the parson. “I almost got him that time.”

The parson decided that was a signal to hang it up for the day. There was church work to be done. He hooked the lure to the reel and tightened the line until it was taunt. He picked up the cooler and sat it next to the rod and reel now leading against the tree.

“Jeff,” said the parson. “Listen, don't ever judge your ministry on whether or not you grow a church. Like I say, some churches just don't grow. You judge your ministry on whether you answered your call and kept your vows. If you have you should think twice about quitting because there aren't a lot of you around.”

God Never In a Hurry

“Listen, Parson,” she said with a wrinkled forehead and deep consternation reflected in her features, “I've prayed about this and prayed about this, but I haven't gotten an answer to my prayers. I'm about as frustrated as anyone could be.”

She was a sophomore in college. She'd always been active in her church. Years ago, as a teenager, she'd told the parson, when he was the pastor of her church, she knew she personally wanted to go into fulltime Christian service. But she didn't think God had called her to it. Now, in her second year of college, she'd driven across the state to talk to him of her frustration.”

“Look, Parson, I have to declare my major next semester. If I'm going to go to seminary I need to start taking courses that will help me there. But as much as I pray I'm still waiting for that assurance that God is calling me.”

The parson let her talk, asking questions here and there to let her get it all out. After they'd talked for over an hour, the parson took her to the local Java establishment. The conversation there strayed to her parents and then to people in the church where she'd grown up. The parson enjoyed being able to catch up on the people who'd been so much a part of his life for so long.

When they'd finished their coffee and were leaving she grabbed the parson's arm on the walkway, pulling him to a stop.

“Parson, you still haven't said anything about my not having heard the call of God.”

The parson smiled at this young woman, so intent on hearing God's voice leading her into a vocation she already knew would be her's.

“Sweetheart,” he said, “one of the most frustrating things about God is that God is so, so slow. But one of the more joyful things about God is that God is always on time.”