Questing Parson

Where Were You On Christmas Day?

“Well, hello to you, Parson. Hope your Christmas was as good as it could be.”

“It was, Frank; it was,” responded the parson to Frank Jerkins, a pastor at one of the larger churches a bit south of the parson. “Surprisingly, everything I got was something I really could use and everything fit.”

“That's good to hear, Parson. Good to hear. How was your attendance on Christmas Sunday?”

“It was better than average,” said the parson. “I don't know if it was just because of Christmas or whether the tornado that hit two days before, but folks seemed eager to be there on Christmas Sunday. How about your church?”

“Well, we didn't have church on Christmas Sunday, Parson. We got to thinking about it a few years back when Christmas fell on Sunday, and we decided that since Christmas was a family time we'd cancel services when Christmas fell on Sunday.”

The parson stared at Frank. Frank seemed to be waiting for the parson to speak. After a pregnant silence, the parson did speak. “You canceled your worship services because Christmas fell on Sunday and Christmas is a family time?”

“Yes, that's right. Folks seem to be real pleased with the decision.”

“You canceled your service because Christmas fell on Sunday and Christmas is family time?”

“Are you going to keep repeating that?” Frank asked.

“No, Frank, I'm not going to keep repeating it. I think I'm going over in that corner there and weep.”

“What's your problem, Parson?”

“I'm just curious, Frank, if Christmas is family time then what's your service, PG-13?”

“Oh, that's cute, Parson. You know good and well that when Christmas falls on Sunday the attendance is usually down and it's just impossible to compete with the distractions families face. And it is a time for the family to gather around the Christmas tree.”

The parson stared another silent moment. “Are you nuts?”

“No, Parson, I'm not nuts. I'm practical.”

“Well, I guess that makes me impractical, Frank. I was under the distinct impression that when Christmas fell on Sunday we had a really good opportunity to focus ourselves on the Child and celebrate Christmas as it should be.”

“There's no harm in canceling the services one Sunday, Parson.”

“Oh, but Frank, there is. You just gave a testimony to your people as to where your loyalties lie. You just said to your people that worship is not central, that the old lines of John, 'Prepare ye the way,' are irrelevant. And worse than that, Frank, if you want my opinion you just spit on your vows.”

“You know, Parson, to use one of your favorite expressions, sometimes you can be the north end of a southbound horse.”

The parson smiled, “You know what, Frank, I'm not going to deny that. But I'll tell you this: on Sunday, especially on Christmas Sunday, this southbound horse is going to make sure his ordained north end is behind his pulpit giving witness to who is Lord in his life.”

Frank walked away.

One God Series ~ Three Stories; Three Faiths ~ Part 3

What's Your Calling?

After watching think about visiting What's Your Calling

 

Letter To A Sanctimonious Idiot

Bryan Fischer
Columnist
and
Director of Issue Analysis for Government and Public Policy
American Family Association

Dear Mr. Fischer:

I normally reserve this space for stories that revolve around the life of the Questing Parson, a retired pastor who still serves a small little church out in the country. They are stories, I hope, that keep things on a positive side and provide a chuckle here and there. I don't often express opinions outside the persona of “The Parson.” But in your case I have decided to make an exception.

I make the exception because you, sir, are … hmmm, how shall I put it? You are an idiot. Now my Mama would be a bit upset that I just called you an idiot. She would have told me I had to respect you because you're an ordained minister. But my Mama never had to put up with the damnable swill that spews from your mind.

How dare you question the correctness of awarding the Medal of Honor to United States Army Staff Sgt. Salvatore Guinta. While, in your column “The feminization of the Medal of Honor”, you acknowledge that Sgt. Guinta “took a bullet in his protective vest as he pulled one soldier to safety, and then rescued the sergeant who was walking point and had been taken captive by two Taliban whom Sgt. Guinta shot to free his comrade-in-arms,” you then say, “We have feminized the Medal of Honor.”

Here's where I get my assessment of your mental capacity” You point out that the Medal of Honor has been given in the latest conflicts for saving lives and for not killing people. And then you show your ass by stating: “When are we going to start awarding the Medal of Honor once again for soldiers who kill people and break things so our families can sleep safely at night?”

Let me get this straight. Taking enemy fire while dragging your fellow soldier to safety, chasing down two enemy thugs who are attempting to drag another soldier into captivity and then rescuing that soldier and dragging him back to safety all the while hearing the rounds whip around your space and knowing that at any minute your brains may be splattered all over the landscape is “feminine”?

I've read your biography, Reverend Fischer. You never served in the military did you? You've never known fear so penetrating your innards shake and your bowels contract, have you? You've never come face to face with the certainty of your immediate demise, have you? You've only pontificated from the safety of your closeted comfort and railed down judgment on anyone who does not share your disconnected view.

We have feminized the Medal of Honor by giving it to people who save lives rather than killing? Are you nuts? Have you read any of the scriptures on the right hand side of Malachi? There's a great story there about this fellow from Nazareth who taught that “Greater love has no one than to lay down one's life for another.” And that's what Sgt. Guinta practiced that day.

So go take a hike, you sanctimonious ____ (Well, there's a word I wanted to put there, but the memory of Mama washing my mouth out with soap prohibited it.) We both know if you were there that day with the smell of gun powder all around you, to say nothing of the smell of blood, to say nothing of the smell of fear, the panic, the confusion, the sound and the feel of projectiles flying all about you, would have placed you in such a panic that you would not have even attempted to match the feats of heroism for which Staff Sgt. Salvatore Guinta received the highest honor this nation can bestow. And praise God that he got that Medal for saving lives.

I fear you would just have stood there and pissed your pants.

And by the way, a lot of the members of my family have spilled blood on foreign soil in an attempt to save lives, including yours. So while Mama might have been mad about that sentence above, I'm also quite sure if she heard what you said and how you, by diminishing Sgt. Guinta's self-sacrificing exploits, diminished our loved ones who served, she would have slapped you silly.

I remain, one angry Parson,

The Reverend Guy Kent
Elder
The United Methodist Church
and
The Questing Parson

Luke 6: 30

The parson stood in line at the pharmacy, waiting to get a prescription for a member. He was fourth in line. The woman at the counter was asking for some sort of consultation about her medicine. The explanation took over five minutes but maybe a couple short of ten. The parson shifted his weight, the pain in his hip, the result of an old soccer injury according to the doctor, was above average today. The woman, finally satisfied with the explanations, paid and walked away.

The parson was not only three from the counter. It was a shorter distance to the counter and not as long a wait, but the distance was enough to put him in the middle of the aisle and the wait long enough to allow time for him to be confronted by Jim Rightside.

“Hey, Parson,” he said. “Up here getting some old age pills?”

“Something like that, Jim,” said the parson as he shifted his weight to the opposite to relocate the uncomfortable feeling in his hip.

Jim began talking to the parson about a number of things. This conversation took enough time the parson moved to second in the line. And then Jim got around to his usual subject.

“I've got to tell you, Parson, this coming election is going to be an important. The President has just passed to much legislation that's sole purpose is to lead this country down the slippery path of socialism. What do you think?”

“Well, I'm trying to remember my college political science classes, Jim. I don't remember anywhere in the Constitution where the President is given the power to pass legislation.”

Jim's brow wrinkled. He stared at the ceiling a minute. “Okay, okay, but that's a technicality. He's wants to socialize everything.”

During this the parson was able to move to the counter. He gave his member's name to the assistant and she retrieved it for him. “Hey, Parson,” she said, “did you know we've got a prescription ready for you?”

“No, I didn't,” said the parson. “What is it?”

“It's medicine for pain.”

“Oh, you bet, I want that,” said the parson.

He signed for the prescriptions, paid two separate bills, and turned to leave.

“Anyway, Parson,” said Jim, who had been waiting. “We need to stop this country from taking from one and giving to another. It's just not right. Don't you agree?”

The parson smiled, he reached out and put his hand on Jim's shoulder. He pulled him closer and whispered in his ear, “Repeat after me: Luke 6: 30.”

Jim whispered, “Luke 6: 30.”

The parson patted his shoulder. “See you later, Jim. See you later.”

A New Theology?

The parson was visiting at his old seminary, researching in the stacks for some material he had not been able to find on the internet. The smell of the old books assaulted his nostrils triggering memories of hours spent among these books a lifetime ago.

As he rounded a corner he came face-to-face with Deborah, a student pastor at a church he once served. They both expressed animated surprise at the encounter with unrestrained hugs. They had not seen each other for about three years. Deborah was pursuing her Ph.D. in religion with an intention of teaching.

They quickly made arrangements to meet for dinner at a familiar spot where, in her days as a student pastor at the parson’s church, the staff had often held staff meetings over a shared pizza and beverage. The parson had just found a table looking out the window toward the university when Deborah arrived late in the afternoon. They quickly settled down and began to catch up on each other’s life as well as sharing information on other folks they held in common.

Soon the pizza arrived. They began to devour it as they continued to exchange updates. “So, what’s the emphasis of your doctoral program?” the parson asked.

“I’m working on an analysis of the developing multi-cultural patterns on the theology of the mainline Protestant church,” she said, leaning forward with enthusiasm.

“Tell me something about it,” the parson said.

Deborah reached down and pulled a box from a shopping bag she was carrying. “Look at this, Parson,” she said. “I bought some shoes this afternoon.” She smiled and continued, “I’m not going to ask your opinion on the shoes,” she said,  “but look at the box.” She handed it across the table.

The parson examined the box in a perfunctory way.

“No, no,” said Deborah. “Look on the bottom.”

The parson held his hand on the top and turned the box over. There was printed two charts, a men’s and a woman’s shoe size chart. The interesting thing about the charts was the comparisons of sizes for different parts of the world. The countries were America, the United Kingdom, Mexico, Europe, and Japan. The parson looked to Deborah.

“Here’s the thing, Parson. Here we are sitting at a pizza place in the heart of the Southern United States.  I just bought these shoes at that store down there.” She pointed out the window to the store. “The very fact that I bought shoes with international sizing comparison charts on the box shows the impact that multi-culturalism is having on our world already. There’s a mixing of these cultures here right where we live. Now look at the list on the chart. There’s the United States where the dominant religion is Protestant; there’s the United Kingdom which is Anglican; there’s Mexico, Catholic; Europe which is – well who knows what Europe actually is; and there’s Japan with its traditional religion. Here they are on the back of a shoe box, in a pizza parlor across the street from this university. Something is happening in the world, Parson. And tomorrow or next week or maybe even next month it will impact the theology of the church. Our church is going to change, Parson. In two more generations we’ll not be able to recognize the way we describe our church today. . . .”

Deborah continued on with her analysis of the multi-cultural development of the United States and that development’s impact on theology through the consumption of the entire pizza and then through the downing of another mug of beverage. She was excited and on fire about her studies.

The sun had set and darkness had closed the door to the sky when the parson left to head for home.  As he drove, he reflected on Deborah’s thesis. He had a feeling she was right. And he was disappointed that he probably would not live long enough to see the new theology fully.

Ordination No Option

The parson sat on the sofa in the corner nook of the coffee shoppe. He took a moment to arrange the pillows behind his aged back to accommodate his five foot six frame on the furniture designed for five foot seventeen. Having adjusted to the maximum he took a sip of the rich java, and enjoyed the full body and rich flavor which belied its decaf makeup.

Two seminary students sat across from him, one working on his Master of Divinity the other working on her Ph.D. in a yet to be narrowed down field of American religious history. Both were drinking a mixture whose name the parson might once have recognized when he was learning ancient Greek.

The trio shared news of various acquaintances. The students asked the parson if certain rumors about certain better-know pastors were true, and asked for the parson’s evaluation of the new bishop. The parson, in turn, asked them what they’d heard about the better-known pastor. Their revelations he added to his otherwise empty store house of gossip. As for the new bishop the parson pleaded ignorance, as the bishop’s as yet never extended invitation to dinner at his residence deprived the parson of adequate knowledge to make a determination.

James, the M.Div. student, fired up his notebook to share with the parson an article the new bishop had written. The parson promised to read it later in order to become better informed.

“So, are you’re finishing seminary this year?” he asked James.

“I am, Parson. Finally.”

“Have you started the process with the Board of Ministry?”

James closed his notebook, glanced over at Monique, the doctoral candidate, then back at the parson. He cleared his throat and said in a quiet voice. “Actually, Parson, I haven’t,” he said. “I don’t think I’m going to take the path toward ordination.”

“You’re not!” the parson stammered, forcing himself forward on the sofa. The statement had caught him completely by surprises. He’d known James for a decade and his whole life journey had been leading toward ordination. “Why not?”

James smiled at the parson a moment, then he asked, “You don’t know?”

“Know what?” The parson looked over at Monique whom he’d know just as long as he’d know James. She was smiling, obviously at the parson’s consternation.

“Parson,” said James, “I’m gay.”

The room seemed to shrink. The parson was completely surprised. He’d never considered this. He’d never had occasion to consider this. The parson sank back into the sofa. A thousand emotions surged through his body. He stared at young man he’d thought so long to be a rising star of the church. He did not know what to say. Sorrow wracked his being. The consequences raised their head and impaled his spirit.

It seemed a short eternity before the silence was broken.

“Parson, are you okay?” asked Monique.

“I guess so,” said the parson. “This is why you’re not going before the board?” he said to James.

“It is,” said James. “I’m not going to lie.”

“Are you going to another denomination?” asked the parson.

“No, Parson, I’m not going to do that. I’m sticking around and I intend to make a nuisance of myself.”

The parson smiled. James was a delegate to the Annual Conference. He might start attending more frequently.

“What about you, Monique,” the parson asked.

“I’m not going to be ordained either, Parson.”

“I know you’re not gay, Monique.”

“Right, Parson. But the more I’ve thought about it the more I’m uncomfortable with the thought of being ordained. I think it would be more than two-faced. I can’t reconcile the enormous amounts of money the church spends on itself while the world is hungry. I’m fed up with the hypocrisy. I could go on and on, Parson.”

The parson said nothing for a couple of minutes. James excused himself to get another cup of the concoction he and Monique were drinking. Monique leaned forward, “Aren’t you going to show off any grandkids pictures?”

The parson smiled at her winsome way. He pulled out his iPhone. Monique moved to sit beside him on the sofa as the parson began to flip through the pictures. James returned and sat on the arm of the sofa to view the show.

A while later James moved back to his seat. Monique remained on the sofa. James said, “Are you okay with what I told you, Parson?”

“No, James, I’m not. And I’m not okay with what Monique tells me. I’m disturbed that folks like you can’t find a home in the church. I’m just ....”

The conversation continued for another hour. At that point it moved to the restaurant two blocks down the street, and from there it continued at an Irish pub another block down.

It was almost midnight when the parson left for home, exhilarated from having been with two young people who’d skipped through is parish almost two decades ago and sad, so sad.

Graphic by subscription with Church Art Pro.

The Very Reverend Samuel Lloyd, Dean of the National Cathedral

Samuel Lloyd, "When God Throws a Brick" -PG5208 from 30goodminutes on Vimeo.

Some Soup; Some Talk

The youth in our church deliver a meal each Monday evening to the homebound in our church and community. We call it Soup Supper Monday, and often the meal is a bit more than soup.

One night, the kids entered a Senior Citizen community and by mistake delivered the meal to a man and woman not on their list. They just made a mistake. And when the man pointed this out to them, someone in the group said, “Maybe so, but God doesn’t make mistakes so this meal must be for you.”

For months the kids delivered the meal. And as time progressed they realized the man was in bad health. They brought the meals and sat and talked to the man.

The phone rang at the church recently. It was the woman. She called to let us know her husband had died. She said we didn’t need to bring the meals to them any longer. But she wanted the kids to know how much their visits had meant to her husband.

The young people ignored her. They carry the meal to her every Monday, and while she eats they sit and talk with her.

The Pretty Purple Dress

Elise Parrot came bounding into the fellowship hall propelled by the inexhaustible unseen energy source that was unique to her. She skidded to a stop in front of the parson’s seat, wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged like a long lost daughter.

“Guess what,” she said.

“What?” responded the parson.

“No really, you have to guess.”

“Okay, tomorrow it’s going to rain orange jello.”

“You’re silly, Parson. No, my brother is staying with my aunt for two weeks. I don’t have to put up with all his stuff. It’s wonderful.”

The parson smiled, “Who’s the luckiest, you or your brother.”

She stepped back and placed her hands on her hips. “I’m the lucky one and you know it. Jackson is hyper and you know that, too.”

“I guess you’re right,” he said. “And tonight you’re really, really, really lucky.”

Elise’s mother and grown sister walked in about that time. Her mother warned her not to be bothering the parson. The parson assured her she was not.

“How come I’m really, really, really lucky?” she asked.

“Go in the kitchen and ask Ms. Parson.”

Elise disappeared with the speed of a raccoon with Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, fast on his heel. In a few minutes she came back out.

“Ms. Parson told me to sit beside you and be quiet.”

It was amazing. She sat beside the parson and was quiet.

Ms. Parson came into the room with a package in her hand. She placed it on the table beside Elise and the parson. “This is for you,” said Ms. Parson. “There’s a lady in the church who especially likes you. She’s kind of a secret friend. She wanted me to give this to you.” Elise looked puzzled. Her face was a question. “Go on,” said Ms. Parson, “open the package.

Elise looked over toward her mother and received a nod of approval. She tore into the package. The intake of breath was audible as she extracted three new dresses. (It was obvious the dresses did not come from the outlet mall and that the anonymous donor had taken care to select just the right dress to match Elise’s personality and enhance her hidden beauty.) She spread the dresses individually beside each other on the table and stood transfixed.

After a couple of minutes of pregnant silence, Ms. Parson suggested. “Why don’t you take the dresses to the bathroom  and get your sister to help you try them on to make sure they fit.”

“Can I?” asked Elise.

Ms. Parson hugged her. “Sure you can.”

Elise and her big sister scurried to the bathroom. The parson surveyed the room and beheld with joy the adult smiles.

Elise and her sister called to Ms. Parson. She disappeared and in a few minutes she returned with Elise, her sister, three dresses and the news that everything fit perfectly.

Everyone gathered about the tables and began to consume the soup that was the meal for the evening and which the teenagers were delivering to the home bound in the community. As the evening wore on people wandered to different parts of the church and Elise, Ms. Parson and the parson were left in the fellowship hall.

Quietly, Elise moved to the table behind the parson and Ms. Parson. She spread her three dresses out and stood in contemplation.

“Do you like them?” asked Ms. Parson.

“Oh, yes, I do,” she said. “Will you tell whoever gave me these how much I like them?”

“I’ll tell her, Elise.”

“Ms. Parson,” she said in a quiet voice. “You know what’s the best thing about these dresses?”

“What’s that, Elise?”

“Well, you know that pretty purple dress I wear to church? Don’t tell my Mom I told you, but that’s really the only dress I have.” She paused and then said, “Do you know my friend, Betsy?”

“I don’t think I know her,” said Ms. Parson.

“Well, anyway, Betsy doesn’t even have one dress. And the best thing about me getting these three dresses is that I can give Betsy my pretty purple one.”

Overhearing, the parson whispered, “A little child shall lead us.”

Graphic by subscription with Clip Art [dot] Com