Questing Parson

New Year's Resolutions I Intend to Keep

Here are my New Year's Resolutions. I intend to keep each one of them.

I will not accept, if asked, an appointment as pastor of a church of more than 5000 members.

I will not run a marathon.

I will not tell my children my grandchildren are smarter than they.

I will preach less than one hour every sermon and more than three minutes.

I will not say to some find-a-reason-to-predict-the-end-time folks “I told you so,” at fifty-nine minutes after eleven on December 31st.

I will stop for several minutes every day to feel and listen to life all about me.

I will refrain from playing competitive soccer again.

When attending any high school reunion activities I will act my age.

I will see beauty in the ugliest people I encounter.

When visiting other churches while on vacation, I will not shake my head from side to side during the pastor's sermon just to confuse him or her.

I will not accept an invitation to sing with the Gaither Choir.

I will refrain from volunteering any information my bishop has not asked for.

For every theological or church book I read I will read one suspense mystery novel.

I will remember to say thank you.

When I get another letter from someone complaining that I used the word “Hell” in the pulpit, I will not write that person back, like I did this year, saying, “You can be damn sure it won't happen again.”

I will take a grandchild with me to pick out my next cell phone.

When being unjustly criticized I will remember how many years I have lived and just smile.

I will do everything possible to defy the actuary table.

When a poor homeless person says, “Parson, can I talk to you?” I not only will say “Sure” but I will also listen.

I will never say to a grieving person, “I know how you feel.”

When confronted by a theological position different than mine, I will not stick my fingers in my ears and run in circles while chanting, “Na, Na, Na, Na ….”

When in conversation with fundamentalist jerks I will remember I am a liberal jerk.

I will not become a televangelist.

I will climb no mountain whose ascent requires an oxygen mask.

Once a week, like Br'er Rabbit, I will go to my secret laughing place.

When perplexed at life I will ask a child for advice.

Despite my doubts, my reservations, my confusion, I will remember, always, I am a follower of my best understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ and I will act that way.

I will not take myself too seriously because I know there are a lot of others who do not.

I will laugh at myself.

I will live every day of my life.

Thank You, Mr. President

Welcome Home, Soldier! Thank you for your service!

Photo by Sgt. Ben Cossel, 196 MPAD

Paying Forward

The folks were gathered in the church Fellowship Hall. It was Sunday afternoon and one of those rare moments in the life of a church. There were no committee meetings. There were no discussions of failing financial resources. There were no complaints, as far as the parson knew, of the pastor's latest foible. People were laughing, glad to see each other even though they'd seen each other only three hours before. The finger foods were being devoured with favorable comments about certain member's gastronomic delights.

And then it happened. He stood. He said, “Can I say something to everyone, please.” Everyone stopped what they were doing. Everyone sat down. He wasn't a member of the church. In fact, it was the first time he'd set foot in the parson's church. But, intuitively, everyone knew they wanted to hear what he had to say.

He began the story. The story began two years before when he and his wife and their two teenage girls were living in an abandoned house because they were homeless. There was no electricity in that house. There was no running water. But it offered shelter from the rain. And then the family advocate in the school system had put them in contact with the social worker whose work was financed by the parson's church.

He talked of being accepted into the parson's church's transitional housing program, of moving into the church's parsonage. He told of the struggles to overcome bad habits, to learn how to budget, to make right decisions in anticipation of events not to come in years. He talked of him and his wife obtaining meaningful employment. He talked of the classes at the technical college. He talked of the daughter who was not present at the reception excelling in college. He talked of the daughter who was at the gathering making plans for her college education. He smiled broadly as he related their relationship with the social worker who was, according to him, part angel and part drill instructor. He talked of the new place he and his family were moving to this week, of how they'd been decorating it, furnishing it. When he finished there were no dry eyes in the room.

As the day wound down and the celebration came to a close, the parson walked outside with the younger daughter. “So,” the parson asked, “what are you planning to study when you go to college?”

“I'm going to get a degree in social work,” she said. “Then I'm going to do for some family what this church has done for mine.”

Some days, it's good to have an extra Sunday afternoon meeting.

An Aging Event

The parson headed home. He pondered how to describe the evening. It was different. It was different, to be sure. The folks he'd been with were different. They were so different than the last time he'd seen them.

The event was a birthday celebration. The place was a tavern down in the really big city where for sixty years politicians had gathered to discuss the future of the city, the county and the state. There were a couple dozen celebrants there. They'd responded to the invitation: “Let's meet at Manuel's Tavern to celebrate our birthday.” No one needed directions. The tavern was just a hop, skip and a jump from the high school they'd graduated from fifty-two years before.

When the parson walked in he thought at first he had arrived at the wrong time. He walked through the establishment, from one end to the other. He didn't see any of his classmates. He noticed a few people at a table staring at him. Tentatively, he approached. One called his name, then another. The parson stared. Who were these people?

The last time he'd seen any of them was at the twenty-fifth reunion. A few wrinkles then were in evidence, a lack of muscle tone was noticeable. But now ….

Well, it's was difficult for the parson to get his mind around. Some of them actually looked like they were seventy. The parson praised the Lord his birthday wasn't until December.

Happy Birthday Kiva

It was just before Christmas a few years back when the Parson and Ms. Parson became international business investors. You'd think a lowly retired parson would not have the means for doing that, but Kiva Microfunds makes it possible.

Kiva was founded in 2005 by Matt Flannery and Jessica Jackley. Matt and Jessica, after being introduced to the principle of Microfinance, visited Africa. While there they talked with entrepreneurs about the problems they faced. Kiva was born in those interviews.

Over the years Ms. Parson and the parson would make loans to individuals all over the globe. The loans took the place of presents and were made in honor of their children. They discovered that over the years their ability to invest multiplied. As the recipients of their loans repaid their obligations, they could spend, the next year the same amount as the first year. But by reinvesting the repaid loans every year they doubled the number of people they helped get business started.

Over $233,493,400 in loans have been dispensed since as of August 12, 2011. A total of 614,671 persons have contributed to these loans. A total of 309,076 loans have been funded. The average loan size is $384.39, and the current repayment rate is 98.79%.

When the program began Kiva allowed the lenders to select directly the persons who received their funds. Today, because of the growth of the organization, loans are pre-distributed. But the stories of third world persons becoming independent through what the parson can afford to lend are heart warming.

So, Happy Birthday, Kiva. I'm proud to be a lender. From our investments in grocery stores in Peru and Mongolia to the pig farm in Cambodia to the bakery in Azerbaijan to all the others around the world, I've found a truly satisfying way to unite with God's children around the world. And in celebration of you reaching your sixth year, I've clicked on the button and made another loan.

The parson heartedly recommends Kiva to you, dear reader, check out Kiva. Empower people around the globe with a $25 loan. Make a loan that makes a difference.

Click on the icon to the right of this post or just click here.

Ms. Parson's Window

Today's Ms. Parson's birthday. Ah, how we miss her.

I thought to celebrate I'd share Ms. Parson's (Lynn's) window that members of the church installed in her memory.

The center square of the window is actually one of Ms. Parson's own stained glass creations. Doug Clark, a church member and fellow stained glass artist like Ms. Parson, used her piece and then created the many colorful pieces surrounding it. Larry Greeson, another church member and dear friend of Ms. Parson, installed the window at the rear of the sanctuary.

The interpretation of the piece depends on who you talk to. Some members say, the pieces of glass surrounding Ms. Parson represent all those who would come to her for advice, laughter, or love in her lifetime. Others say it's all those people she helped and loved embracing her, even in death.

Either way, she'd be (and surely is) overjoyed that her church remembers her in such a powerful and beautiful way.

 


 

A Reason For Marriage

They were, while not necessarily “leaders” in the community, considered influential among those who lived in their neighborhood. Each was successful in their chosen field of endeavor. Interestingly, they each headed their own company in the same industry. It was a testimony to their commitment to each other that when one was rewarded a contract at the expense of the other, they would both go out for an evening of celebration for the successful competitor.

The parson had long been drawn to them both for their professionalism, their unique circumstance in business affairs, their commitment to serve in the community where they lived, and their unique relations to his church which did not and never would encompass membership, and their obvious devotion one to the other.

Rhonda and Dave were not Christians. They had real problems with the organized church. They rejected much of what the church put forth. The parson often felt Paul would have been at home speaking to this couple and their acknowledgment of “an unknown god.” Over the years the parson recognized that, while they kept “religion” at a distance, they were passionately connected to the “greater good,” and while they did not desire to be a part of any organized religious body they were intrigued with the concept of “the first principle,” the “divine cause,” the “ultimate meaning,” and dozens of other descriptions of what the God might be. It was this aspect of their lives that, perhaps more than any other, attracted the parson to them. Many a night they'd sat on the porch drinking Robertson Wine from South Africa as they debated theology.

Now they sat in the parson's study. Rhonda and Dave were holding hands on the love seat. The parson was sitting in his rocker. “What's up?” the parson asked.

Rhonda actually blushed. Dave looked out the window. Rhonda cleared her throat. She responded, “Dave and I wanted to ask you if you would marry us.”

The parson stared at them, no doubt open-mouthed. He then reacted, “You want to get married?”

“Yes,” said Dave, “we do. And we'd be honored if you would be the one to tie the knot, so to speak.”

“You want a church wedding?”

“Well, no, not really,” said Rhonda. “We were thinking of a ceremony in our backyard with a few close friends and neighbors. I mean, I know, your presence would naturally make it a religious ceremony, and that's fine with us. But we're not thinking about getting married in the church proper.”

The parson smiled. He kept staring. There was a long pregnant silence. The parson was at a loss for words.

Dave broke the silence. “So, will you do it?”

“Can I ask you a question?” the parson inquired.

“Sure,” said Dave. Rhonda nodded her head.

“Look, you guys have lived together in a committed relationship for seventeen years. You have made it clear to me you don't think the formality of a marriage ceremony is necessary to a happy and fulfilled life. And certainly your life together has given evidence that you're right. So why in the world, after all these years, would you want to now get married?”

Now the silence was initiated by Rhonda and Dave. After a few moments Rhonda spoke. “Okay, here's the thing. You've met my daughter Harriet. And you know about her getting married last year. So, Harriet and Mike are pregnant. The baby's due in about three months. Dave and I have talked about it. We've decided that we need to get married now because, well, we shouldn't be living together out of wedlock because of needing to set an example for the grandchild.”

The parson smiled. The parson rocked in the rocker a short while. The parson's smile got larger. He'd heard less compelling reasons for getting married in this very study.

“Okay,” said the parson, “what's the date we're going to tie this knot?”

Among the Redeemed

The parson was enjoying himself. Away from his parish, he'd spent the last few days enjoying the performances of some of the country's best dance companies at The American Dance Festival in Durham, North Carolina. Now he stood in a private room of a local bar and restaurant across the plaza from the performing arts center. The dancers of the company were talking about their performances, laughing at a couple of slips the audience had no idea occurred and debating the order of the various pieces. One in particular felt one piece needed to be separated from another because of the physical demands of each.

The parson listened fascinated with this world of which he was but an onlooker. The agility and poise, the polish and presence of these world renowned dancers captivated him. He listened intently to everything they were saying, with only an occasional break to sample the vast assortment of food on the tables.

His captivation was interrupted by a woman in her fifties. “So,” she said, “I'm told you're the father of one of the dance directors and you're a pastor.”

“I am,” said the parson.

He told the woman his name and asked her's. She told him, and then she began her assault.

“Don't you think it a bit weird to be hanging out in a place like this with all the booze flowing and being a pastor?”

“No,” said the parson. “I don't.”

“Why not?”

“I like to be around interesting people.”

“Isn't that amusing,” she said. “You don't find your church people amusing?”

“Not tonight,” said the parson. “They're most likely all in bed. So, you folks are all I have to hang out with.”

“You don't mind hanging out with the unredeemed?”

“Is that what I'm doing?”

She stared at him a minute then replied. “Well, look around you.”

The parson looked around. “What am I suppose to be seeing?”

“You're seeing the sinners; that's what you're seeing. You do notice everyone is drinking?”

“That's your definition of sin? Drinking?”

“Well, you damn well know that all these people aren't going to be in church Sunday.”

“That's your definition of sin? Not going to church?”

“Well, what's your definition?”

“Anything that separates you from your relationship with God.”

“You think I have a relationship with God?”

“I don't know. Do you?”

“We're talking about the people in this room not being religious. We're not talking about my relationship with God.”

“Sure we are.”

“No we're not.”

“Look,” said the parson. “You walked across a room filled with people who are celebrities, who are accomplished in their art. Everyone of them is much more interesting than I. And you brought up sin; you brought up the church. I was just enjoying my drink and the company I'm in. Matter of fact, I confess to you I was enjoying not being around church folks. But, if you want to talk about your relationship with God, we can do that.”

She stared at him in a stern manner. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away.

Bless Me, Reader, For I Have Sinned

I had not intended to stop there. The store was eighty miles away. But heading toward home from a funeral I saw it. Why not stop and pick up the few items on my list?

It was a large store with more than the usual fare for a grocery establishment. There were delicacies all about. I took my time working my way down the list as I explored the aisles and wishing such a place existed in my valley. I came to the end of Aisle 17 and turned up Aisle 18. It was the wine and beer aisle.

Bear with me now for some background.

During the summer of my twelfth year we moved. The place to which we moved was a dream come true. There were woods and streams all about. Over the hill behind my house there was a large pond where in a couple of years my new friends and I would build a raft upon which we wasted many an afternoon.

The backyard was overgrown with wild shrubs and saplings scattered among the large, very large, pines and hardwoods. My assigned chore was the clearing of this area. Being the good child I was I set about the task with my usual good humor. It was in the clearing of the yard I discovered the vines. They fascinated me. I cleared the area around them and then erected a chicken wire frame upon which the vines could take hold.

They were Muscadine vines. As I, along with my friends Luther, Charlie and Jack, also newly moved into the area, explored we found more muscadine vines near the pond, lots and lots of them, acres of them. It wasn't long before we had mastered the art of placing a muscadine between the front teeth, clamping down in a steady but slow increase of pressure until the innards of the fruit exploded into the mouth, the sweet, sugary, gummy part bringing pleasure to the pallet. In time one masters the art of separating the seeds from the pulp and spitting them without losing any of the sweetness. We also learned how to avoid the sourness of the peel.

It was in my fifteenth year that I and my friends, Luther, Charlie and Jack, learned a new word. It was called fermentation. Jack's house possessed a basement into which his parents never ventured. There in the dark coolness the newly filled bottles were kept. We filled lots of bottles. It was an exercise in patience for teenage boys to squish enough muscadines to produce that much juice. We did it. There was no internet then, no Facebook, no DVDs, nothing to distract from what adventures we did have.

Perhaps the real mark of our unique abilities was the secret was never divulged. The fruit of our labor was ours. We never shared.

Memories of those days came back as I walked down Aisle 18. There on the second shelf from the bottom, about a third of the way down the aisle, I saw it. “Chateau Elan Muscadine, Georgia Muscadine Wine.” The Chateau Elan Winery is located about twenty miles from the site of our teen years vines. Hmmm.

The bottles sat on the kitchen shelf for two weeks. Every time I walked into the kitchen they whispered, “Remember?”

Last night, I resisted no more. With the expectation of a teen in a dark, cool basement where no parent ventured, I removed the cork. The unique pungent aroma of muscadine transported me back to those vines of my youth. I poured the fermented liquid into a wine glass.

In the living room I activated my Heather Masse station on Pandora. Turned the light on the end table on and the overhead light off. With the finesse of a connoisseur I held the glass beneath my nose savoring the scents that took me back to long ago. With a slow, deliberate, motion I brought the nectar of my youth to my lips and partook of memories. OMG, this was even better than days imbibing in Jack's basement.

Bless me, Reader, for I have sinned. I overslept this morning and the bottle is empty.

Technological Limits

I write a newspaper column for the local paper, The Calhoun Times, the following will be published Wednesday.

Let’s start this column with an acknowledgment that I am a modern man. By that I mean I am up-to-date; I can be intrigued by the lyrics of rap music; I am beginning to be comfortable with the informal dress of this new age. But what makes me more up-to-date than many of my generation is the fact I am comfortable with this technological age.

I have an iPhone. And, more importantly, I know how to use it. On that iPhone I have a wide variety of apps that range from a dictionary to a GPS device that gives me directions in any town in the world to one that allows me to point the phone at the stars to provide me with the name of every celestial orb I am viewing.

I have a Kindle. I can push a button and download in a matter of seconds the current edition of almost every major newspaper in the world or magazine or website. I can also download books in the same amount of time. And through these downloads I can read these writings at a third of the cost I’d otherwise pay. The next time you see me you’ll now know there walks before you a man with a library a thousand times the size of the famed Library of Alexander in his pocket.

I have a website where more people than I could have previously imagined read these epistles of mine. But not only do they read what I write they can, also, view me on videos. Can you imagine it? Technology has moved me beyond the boundaries of Gordon County into a larger world.

I am a modern man; I am in tune with the times; I have embraced this age in which we live. Someone should write a song about me.

Speaking of songs: I have a granddaughter who will be celebrating a birthday on Friday. She’ll be ten. She’s certainly in tune with the times. When I got that iPhone I never read the directions. She and her sister taught me all I needed to know. They’d never used an iPhone before; they just intuitively knew.

Being the savvy technological senior citizen that I am, having granddaughters who are as technologically savvy as they are, obviously I wanted purchase a birthday present suitable for the times in which we live.

Now, for those of my generation who are reading this: Have you heard of iTunes? It’s another wonder of this age. A technologically inclined person of this Twenty-first Century can actually go online to the iTunes site and purchase music. That music is downloaded into a little device called an iPod. This iPod can house many hundreds of songs. It can be placed in the pocket and from it a small wire can run to earphones where one’s personal musical preferences can be enjoyed whenever desired.

I told my daughter I’d be mailing an iTunes gift card for granddaughter. “You don’t have to do that,” she said. “You can get the password off the back and email it to her.”

I’ve drawn the line on my technological development. Birthday presents were meant for packages to be opened whereupon there can be the proper gasp of surprise. I’ll read books on my Kindle; I’ll keep in touch by my iPhone; I’ll email this column to the paper. But my granddaughter’s birthday present will be in a package with a bow.