Questing Parson

Things Are Looking Up

Onstage at TED2012, Peter Diamandis makes a case for optimism -- that we'll invent, innovate and create ways to solve the challenges that loom over us. "I’m not saying we don’t have our set of problems; we surely do. But ultimately, we knock them down.”

The Right Choice

The parson and Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, were resting. The parson sat on a rock with his back against a larger one. Charlie Brown was sprawled on the ground beside him working on a chewy while the parson munched on an apple. Wadded up beside the parson was the bag that only a few moments ago had contained a sandwich and some dry dog food.

The parson finished the apple just about the time Charlie Brown looked up as if to say, “Anything else?” He stuffed the crumbled bag and the empty water bottle into the small back pack beside him. He stood at which Charlie Brown also rose with an audible moan. The parson threw the apple core over the edge of the canyon on along which rim the two had been hiking.

The parson hadn't moved fifty yards beyond his lunch site when he saw one of the younger pastors of his area hiking toward him. The parson called out a greeting and the pair stopped, seemingly grateful for the break in their trek.

“Parson, what in the world are you doing here?” asked Robert the young pastor. “Hello, Charlie Brown,” he greeted as he knelt down to pat Charlie and pull his ears. Charlie Brown promptly sat in eager anticipation of attention.

“Just trying to stay in shape,” the parson said. “It takes a bit more effort at my age. How are you doing, Carole?” the parson asked. Carole and Robert had been married a little over two years. She was a talented writer who'd published a few fiction books under a pseudonym. The parson was one of her biggest fans, and probably the biggest in the clergy ranks as Carole didn't reveal her true occupation to many in the ministry.

“Really good, Parson. Really good. It's nice to see you again.”

Before the parson could reply, Robert asked, “Do you come up here often? This is a bit from home.”

“Oh I try to hike in one of the state parks at least once a week, Robert. It keeps the batteries recharged.”

I really wish I could do that, Parson. I don't know how you get the time.”

“I don't get the time, Robert,” the parson replied. “I make the time.”

“Thank you, Parson,” said Carole. “Are you listening to him, Robert?”

The parson picked up on a tone that indicated this hike might have been a grudging concession by Robert.

“I suspect the Parson doesn't have the pressures I have, Carole,” said Robert. “No offense, Parson, but you are serving a smaller church since your retirement.”

“Serving your church takes more time than serving mine?” the parson asked.

“Ah, Parson, I didn't mean anything by that. I know you work hard. But this appointment I have just eats up every hour in the day.”

“How so?” asked the parson.

Carole had now moved away from the parson and Robert taking Charlie Brown with her. Charlie Brown seemed to prefer her scratching and ear pulling abilities much more than Robert.

“Look, Parson, there's not only the sermons to prepare, the sick to visit, other pastoral calls, but I have to make the bulletins every week. I have to prepare all the media for the praise songs. I lead the choir practice. There's just a never ending list.”

“Who did the bulletins before you got there?” the parson asked.

“Well, a woman named Ellen Hanson did. But she seemed really relieved when I took over that for her.”

“Who led the choir before you got there?”

“Okay, Parson, I see where this is going. Look, they found out I knew a little about music and let me do it.”

“Who's going to do the bulletins when you leave?”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Who's going to lead the choir when you leave?”

Robert started to say something. The parson held up his hand. “Listen, Robert, a very, very long time ago on the day I was leaving to go to my first church, my daddy gave me the best advice I've ever received. He said to me, 'Son, you will be a success if, when you leave that church, those people say: Look what we did.'”

The parson looked down at Carole. He made a sucking sound with his lips. Charlie Brown immediately came to his side.

“When's the next novel coming out?” the parson asked.

“June,” she said.

“Same heroine?”

“Same one. Look, Parson, don't buy one this time. Let me give you one with an inscription.”

“I'll treasure that, Carole,” the parson said as the two hugged.

During the hug Carole whispered in his ear, "Thank you."

Carole leaned over to say good-bye to Charlie Brown. As she did the parson grabbed Robert's arm, pulled him a step away and said in a quiet voice, “Listen to me, Robert. Whenever you have a choice of doing the damn bulletin or taking a nap with Carole, you take a nap.”

The Corner of LaVista and Oak Grove

Not long ago I found myself in Banner Elk, North Carolina. It's a ski resort and the home of Lees McRae College, a school affiliated with the Presbyterian USA church. I've got to tell you, I don't know how those kids study being surrounded as they are by all the natural beauty of that mountain getaway.

While there I stopped, as any person seeking to fully experience the local customs would, at the Mast General Store. They should have a sign out front reading, “If we don't have it you don't need it.” What a place. It's like stepping back a century. Oh my glory, did I say stepping back a century? It's like stepping back into my childhood and Cheek's Store up the street from my house.

I was familiar with the location of every item in Cheek's Store. I was familiar because at least four times a week my mother would make me walk to the store to pick up some kitchen supplies for her. I'll never forget the day she sent me to get some corn meal. Mr. Pounds, the owner and my Sunday School teacher, sold me the corn meal. I took it home, handed it to my mother. It wasn't ten minutes before she called me and told me to take it back to show him the worm crawling around in the bag. I did. He told me to take it home and tell my mother he didn't charge her for the worm. I did. My mother told me to watch my brother and headed to the store herself.

You know, near the corner of LaVista and Oak Grove Roads was a good place to grow up. Gracious, when you consider that the walk to Cheek's Store passed beside Mr. Davis' orchards of fruits tempting a young boy known for sneaking out of the house late at night, it was a lot like a Biblical garden.

Bob Middlebrooks had a garage across the street from Cheek's Store. Bob couldn't read or write. But if it was broken and it was an internal combustion engine or if it was a car whose body needed fixing Bob Middlebrooks could handle it. I'll never forget that day I told my little brother he could back the car out of the carport. He did a great job except for the fact the driver's door he was holding open met the support pole of the carport and was jammed so hard it wouldn't close.

My brother panicked. I didn't. I calmly drove the car, open door and all, up to Bob Middlebrooks. I told him, without telling a lie, “Mr. Middlebrooks, my dad needs to get this door fixed.” Pretty good choice of wording; don't you think? Bob Middlebrooks walked back into his garage. He returned with a rubber headed mallet. He placed the head between the door and the frame of the car. He then slammed the door as hard as he could, popping it back into place.

I nodded my head in amazement, wondering why I didn't think of that. “How much does my Daddy owe you?” I asked him. “Not one red cent,” he said. “But you owe me five dollars to keep my mouth shut.” It was the best five dollars I ever spent.

Well, sorry to wax so nostalgic, but the world lost a lot when it lost that little country store and neighborhood garage.

Go Figure

Late in the afternoon the parson pointed his vehicle toward his home. He left the banks of the Mississippi where Granddaughter Number Two had completed at the Blues and BBQ Gymnastics Invitational. There was a smugness about the parson's demeanor. His ten year old granddaughter had finished fourth in overall among a field of predominately fourteen year old competitors. The parson was convinced it was a genetic thing.

Imagine the pleasantness the parson experienced in his psyche. Imagine the feeling that nothing was to detract from his elation as he rode the began the 400 mile trip home. He turned on Prairie Home Companion and listened to Garrison Keillor's tales of Lake Woebegon. Everything was wonderful. The sermon had been written. The computer programming for the multi-media was ready. All that remained was for the parson to get home in time for a good night's sleep.

The cell phone rang. The parson's pianist was calling. She wasn't feeling well. She wasn't going to be able to be at church the next morning. The parson's granddaughter had just exceeded all expectations. She was proving her ability, establishing through her athletic ability she was a descendant of the parson. There was no problem. The parson began to hum the hymns he'd slip into the multi-media program to substitute for the pianist.

Sunday morning the parson arrived at church. When the time came to express at the beginning of worship joys and concerns, the parson modestly slipped in that his granddaughter was the recipient of his genetic gift. The parson was on top of the world. The parson was ready to preach the sermon about “Remember Your Baptism.” The parson was as ready as a granddaughter about to leap up onto the uneven bars.

It was during the first hymn the problem began. The video presentation of the screen, with the words and background music to the hymn suddenly encountered audio challenges. The music would play loudly for a moment and then fade into nothingness. It befell the parson to sing without benefit of accompaniment the words of the song loud enough for the congregants to follow.

During the Prayer of Confession the parson's lapel mike began cutting in and out. One moment his voice was blasting out over the congregation; the next moment it was silent and the parson had to strain to project his voice, which was fine until the mike cut back in to now amplify the parson's almost shouting voice.

At one point, the parson headed back to the media room in the midst of the service to show the young know—it-all's how to correct the situation. The parson's correction lasted for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.

But the parson stumbled on, like a young gymnasts who just stutter-stepped at the most important transition of the floor routine.

The sermon was delivered as thought it was a normal service. And at this point it was a normal service. But then the last hymn appeared on the screen. The hymn appeared, but the accompanying music did not. And yet, the congregation kept singing.

The parson, following the service, stood a the door to the sanctuary. After he'd greeted everyone who had such comforting things to say about the comedy of errors, he walked back into the sanctuary. A member of the church suddenly reached out and hugged him, tightly.

“This was the most meaningful service I've ever encountered,” she sobbed to the parson.

Go figure.

What Happened to the Refrigerator?

The parson sat in a small room off the kitchen, which in turn is off the fellowship hall where dozens of folks were gathered for the Sunday morning breakfast the parson whips up before Sunday school each week. He was going over his sermon in preparation for the worship service in an hour.

He paused. He heard voices through the crack in the door.

“Look at this,” said the first voice. “Who did this?”

“Did what?” said the second voice.

“The refrigerator. Someone's gone through the refrigerator. Almost everything that was in here has been thrown out. Who would do such a thing?”

“Maybe someone gave it to some hungry person,” the second voice suggested.

“I don't think so,” said the first voice.

“How would you know?”

“Well, whoever did this obviously cleaned the thing after they got rid of what was in here. I don't think someone handing out stuff to a hungry person would clean the refrigerator out. I mean, it looks like they washed it down.”

“Well, that was nice of them.”

“Nice of them? Listen,” the first voice insisted. “There were things in here that shouldn't have been thrown away. Look, that bottle of pickled okra I gave the church back when, let's see, it was the last homecoming, oh, yes, two years ago. That bottle is gone. Those pickled okra had to have still be good. Look at this refrigerator. I can't believe it.”

“Well, it looks a lot better,” the second voice volunteered.

“It looks like a lot of waste took place here,” the first voice corrected. “You know what, I bet it was one of those new people. I don't think any of the older members would have done this.”

The voices faded away. The parson looked toward the corner of the room where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, was curled up. “Makes you wonder, Charlie Brown. Are we still considered new people?”

 

Sorry, Parson, I'm Leaving

The parson entered the Ruby Tuesday's Restaurant. Ed Myers had invited him to come and have lunch with him. Ed had been attending the parson's church for almost a year. The parson was looking forward to seeing him and a bit puzzled as to the purpose of the invitation.

“Hi, Sharon,” said the parson to the hostess as he entered, “how are you today?”

“I”m doing good, Parson,” she responded. “Thanks for the letter of recommendation. I think it helped me get accepted.” The parson denied the letter had any influence and expressed his delight Sharon had decided to follow his advice and apply for college. “Are you looking for Mr. Myers?” she asked.

“I am,” the parson responded.

“He back here on the far side of the bar,” said Sharon as she motioned the parosn to follow.

“Hey, Parson,” Ed called out as the parson approached, “have a seat. Good to see you.”

The parson tood a seat opposite Ed in the booth. “Thanks, Ed. Good to see you, too.”

The two talked a few moments about various things in the community, including whether the new head coach at the local high school would survive the current disastrous season.

The server came and took their orders. Both order the Mini Burgers with the Salad Bar. It was only seconds after she left the booth they both headed to graze at the bar. Back at the table they both tore into the salads as though it was the first meal in a while. The server brought the mini burgers and they munched on them.

It was not until they had devoured almost the entire meal that Ed spoke. “Parson, I wanted to ask you to lunch to discuss a difficult thing with you.”

“What's that?” asked the parson curious.”

“Well, you know, I've been going to your church pretty much every Sunday for a year.”

“I do, Ed. I'm grateful.”

“Well, I really want to thank you for never pushing me about joining.”

The parson did not reply.

“So I feel a little guilty about what I have to tell you.” Ed looked down at his plate, took his fork and began pushing the dribbling that remained about the plate. “So, anyway, I've decided that I'd rather worship at the Cathedral of the Dancing Redeemed down the expressway a couple of exits. Look, I don't mean to say anything negative about your church, but there's just something about the free spirit of their worship that attracts me. I don't know what it is, but I just feel like I can feel the Lord more fully when I'm there.”

“And you're telling me this, because???” asked the parson.

“Well, I respect you. I admire your church and all the things you guys do in the community. And, listen, I still intend to contribute to some of those community things, but, well, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but, well down at the Cathedral I'm just, well, I just feel the resence o the Lord more fully.”

“Ed,” said the parson, “you don't need to apologize about his. I'm delighted you have found a place where you feel at home. Join that church; be as much a part of it as you're able.”

“But, Parson, I thought you'd be upset if I moved to another church.”

“Well, I'll miss you, Ed. I'll miss you a lot. But I'll be happy for your decision.”

Ed motioned the server over to the table. She took the bills he handed her and told him she'd be back with the change. He told her to keep it. Then Ed look straight at the parson.

“We can still have lunch together sometimes? You can still talk to me as a pastor?”

“I can, Ed. I can. Just call me anytime. And rejoice in your new church.

LIke A MIghty Turtle Moves the Church of God

The parson sat at a table in the same eating establishment he frequented when in seminary. It was located directly across the street from the school's entrance. The place had changed a great deal since his seminary days. Back then the menu included pizza and beer. Today it was a lot more diverse.

With the parson was a middle-aged pastor, Ron, from a church about halfway between the parson's home and the seminary. The others sharing the table were Shirley, a third year student from West Virginia, and Harold, who had graduated the previous year and decided to stay around for a doctorate.

“There are a lot of young pastors, Parson, who are talking about leaving. Everyone is impatient with the reluctance of the church to engage more powerfully in social issues,” said Shirley.

“What do you mean?” asked the parson.

“Well, look at the mess this country's in, Parson. I heard you talking in the student center the other day. You were insisting that the budget issues the President and members of Congress are stalemated on is not just a financial issue but a moral one. It's good to hear people in your generation saying these things, but the church, as an institution, seems loudly silent on it.”

“You're part of the church,” the parson said. “I think I just heard you sounding off on it.”

“Parson,” said Harold, as the parson noticed him place his hand on Shirley's thigh in an I'll take care of this, honey protective gesture. The parson smiled at his slowness in noting the two were now more than just fellow students. “It's like this, Parson. There are a few voices out there making waves. You're one of them. But the church isn't responding to the issues of the day. The homosexuality issue is one of them. When is the church going to quit this double standard of saying gays are people who are welcomed as members of the church but they are not welcome to answer the call to ministry. I mean, come on.”

“I understand what you're saying,” said the parson. “And there are a lot of folks who are concerned about it.”

“They're concerned,” said Shirley. “But we're right where we were four years ago. Where's the progress.”

The parson studied the faces of the two. He looked over at Ron, who looked back with a This is your battle; I'm neutral. Keep me out of it look on his smiling face. Seeing he was getting no help there, the parson said, “Let me see if I can put this in perspective for you.

“When I arrived at my first church, it was June of 1965. Here's what confronted me. A large portion of the church immediately became upset because I was reading from the Communist backed National Council of Churches backed Revised Standard Version of the Bible. A equally large portion of the church was concerned that the Methodist Church was merging with that weird group up north called the United Brethren. And an even larger group became visibly offended that I hung out with the Roman Catholic priest. [Just so you know, we weren't discussing theology. His parish house was the only place in that county I could get a cold beer.] And the entire church became troubled when I sided with those outside agitators who came to integrate the various institutions of the county. I even got some interesting calls from the local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan.

“Today, I read from The Message, and my congregation loves it. Today there's not a member of my church who can vividly recall a time when we were not “United Methodists” much less remember the Methodist Episcopal Church South. Today, in my congregation there are children of mixed marriages. There are same sex couples being active in the community and the life of the church. Today in my church the Social Gospel is preached every day.

“Now, I'm telling you this to tell you the church is changing. It's not changing very fast to your way of thinking. That's because a year in your life is but one thirtieth. But a year in my life is one seventieth of my life, so change is coming at twice the speed for you as for me.

“I had a associate of Billy Graham tell me once, “God is so slow, but God is always on time. All these things you think are stuck in the now will come to fruition before you know it. It's like the old saying, “God ain't through with us yet.”

“So, you're saying that we'll all be performing same sex unions?”

“I might not without having to surrender my credentials,” the parson said. “But before you've got enough experience to be pastor of First County Seat Church I bet you will.”

A Change Not Now Needed

I've been a widower for almost nine months now (for the second time). I've been a pastor for forty-six years now. I tell you this: Until you have lost a spouse you have no idea what grief is. I think back on all the times I tried to be a pastor throughout those years to the grieving widows and widowers. I look back and I realize how pathetic were my well-intentioned efforts. No one can prepare you for the devastation of mourning. And no one can comfort you adequately.

But, sad as the cliché may be, life does go on. There comes a day when you wake up and realize that your spouse is dead and you are not. And as much as being the surviving spouse just sucks, you are the survivor and you are living. Life, then, must be acknowledged. Life then must be claimed. Life must, by its very definition, go on.

I embraced the fact I must go on. I embraced it right after taking my eight-year-old granddaughter on our Excellent Alaskan Adventure, of which I written on these pages. Having that child hug me with her unbridled love, having that child's enthusiasm for the future infect me, I decided to live every day I am alive.

With that decision I've begun to rearrange my life. And so, despite my aged back that cries out in protest every inch of the change, I have begun to move on. The carpet needs to come up in the two rooms that still possess them. There's laminated hardwood floors to be installed. Lynn's not here anymore; there's no reason her sewing room cannot be turned into the grandchildren's room. And the kitchen, oh, the kitchen, just an acknowledgment of the century I live in demands some modifications to the kitchen.

I've measured. I've drawn up plans. I've made a priority list of changes. I've shopped and found a trundle bunk bed at a reasonable price, allowing me to have three grandchildren overnight at once. I've drawn up plans for the kitchen renovation, including the new ceramic tile floors. And, to tell you the truth, the present living room furniture is on the schedule of change; I only said I liked it because Lynn did. I'm well on my way to living beyond the grief and embracing the yet-to-be-discovered blessings of life.

Part of the renovations are centered on my little study. I plan to spend a lot of time there writing little essays as this. I need it to be conducive to stimulating my creative spirit. It's going to be a homey office, if you will. So, I'm making changes. One of those is putting some cabinet/bookcases in what is now the closet, thereby allowing more “living space” in the work area. And part of the placement of the cabinet/bookcases in the closet involved removing the shelving. It's that wire-like shelf so prevalent in modern homes. It was in removing that shelf I discovered there's one change I do not have to make.

There's a brace for that shelf, running from the front of the shelf to the wall, giving it support. When I removed that brace, I discovered it's perfect for scratching the back. It's long enough to reach all areas; the angle of the edge provides the perfect tension. It's wonderful.

Who would have thought. With the discovery of that unique back scratching device, I don't need to get married again.

Back In the Old Days

 

It was an unusual Sunday. Not only was it Easter, but the parson felt somewhat comfortable in his sermon preparation and was not absconded in a corner of the church trying to master the homily. Instead he was in the church kitchen, drinking some coffee and sharing Easter stories with some a couple of laity.

Through the pass through window to the fellowship hall, a low buzz continually filtered in punctuated by an occasional outburst of laughter or raised voices vying for attention in the scriptural debate. Off to the side of the kitchen was another pass through to a room where an older adult class was meeting.

Suddenly, in the middle of the parson's discussion with the two laypersons, a door to from the fellowship hall burst open. One of the church members stomped into the kitchen and over to the door to the older adult Sunday school room. At the door, which she'd partially opened, she turned to glare back at the parson and proclaimed: “There's absolutely too much noise in this church these days.”

She then disappeared into the Sunday school room. One of the laypersons turned to the parson and asked, “What was that about?”

“Ah, don't worry about it,” said the parson. “She remembers the days when there wasn't enough people here to make any noise.”

 

Conversation with Jacqui Lewis