Questing Parson

Interview With Serene Jones, First Woman President of Union Theological Seminary

This is an excerpted interview with Dr. Jones for PBS Religion and Ethics. Click on the link below the video window to access the extended interview.

Watch Serene Jones Extended Interview on PBS. See more from Religion & Ethics NewsWeekly.

Birthrate by Religion

Reflections on My Church

In Tampa, Florida, the multitude of delegates to the United Methodist General Conference (that body of elected delegates and bishops who determine the polity and doctrine of the church) began to gather in the morning hours. Some stopped to consume a full breakfast. Some made do with a doughnut and coffee. Some skipped breakfast all together and rushed to begin the day's business.

In a rural town in Virginia, nestled against the Blue Ridge Mountains, a young pastor, just now completing her first year of ministry after ordination, headed toward the local jail. The homeless woman who was her latest project had been arrested.

In the hallway outside the floor of the conference, a layperson from New York and an elder from North Carolina were in deep discussion of the proposal to limit the tenure of a bishop. The layperson sought clarification from the clergy on his views on the matter.

In South Georgia a middle-aged pastor stood on the bank of a river and in an absent-minded manner cast his fishing line into the water. Whether the fish were biting or not was not the point. The goal was the solitude, the quietness, the isolation where he could consider if he wanted to continue with what had become, for him, the disappointment of ministry.

In Tampa, when the delegates were called upon to vote on members of the University Senate, the church's accrediting body for schools, a delegate asked another who Jan Love was? The other replied she was the Dean of the Candler School of Theology. The delegate voted for her.

An Oregon pastor rose early, poured a cup of coffee, accessed the internet and clicked the live stream from the General Conference to watch the proceedings.

In Atlanta a seminary student at the Candler School of Theology headed down the stairs into the stacks in a desperate search for needed documentation for the paper due tomorrow. She had absolute no idea the Dean of her school had just been elected to the University Senate. Nor did she, at this point in heer career, care.

The Oregon pastor returned from pouring her second cup of coffee just in time to hear a delegate from North Georgia making some point to the presiding bishop. The entire recitation was not heard but it did not matter as the bishop ruled the person out of order.

At an Illinois hospital, a pastor jolted upright from his chair when a nurse walked into the room where he'd been keeping vigil with the oldest member of his congregation.

In Peru a missionary opened the doors of the newly established library and prepared for the onslaught of borrowers hungry for what was inside.

Two delegates at the conference became rather agitated in their discussion of whether or not elders of the church should be guaranteed appointments.

A lay pastor in Nebraska walked into work late again hoping his need to be with a couple in his church who had called him about their troubled marriage would be understood by a non-church-going supervisor.

Down in Florida the General Conference adjourned for lunch. In New Jersey a pastor was busy slapping sandwiches together at the shelter.

In Africa, a worn and tired pastor fell onto his bed, a cot, without undressing, utterly exhausted from a day with AIDS victims.

The Tampa delegates listened with rapt attention when the Reverend Lorenza Andrade-Smith was introduced. She shared part of her story of selling all her possessions and living in solidarity with the homeless in the streets of San Antonio.

In Ohio, a pastor and his Pastor-Parish Committee haggled over his compensation for the next year.

Delegates in Tampa ambled back to their hotels. Some stopped at a restaurant to swap stories and gossip. Others eagerly sought their rooms and a night's rest.

Across the globe United Methodists did what they do. In the morning the church will go back to work.

The Parson, A Smart Ass

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No, Howard, I don't.”

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

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

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

Will We Ever Get There?

The parson drove home perplexed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since 1830?” the parson asked.

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

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

“That's right.”

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

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

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

Ten steps forward and nine steps backward?

Life, Death, and Special People

The parson had known her close to twenty years. Long ago, when she was a single girl, working in the growing IT industry, she moved into a house seven doors from the parson's church. It was then she became a lurker.

She was a lurker but not in the lurk around the blog sense. She lurked around the parson's church. She might have attended a couple of times in the decade the parson served that parish, but, if she did, the parson couldn't remember it. Nevertheless, she was spiritual; she was a seeker; she was what the parson termed a “non-church going Christian.” She wasn't afraid to ask questions, hard questions about God and Jesus, and sometimes she asked unanswerable questions about the organized church.

It took a while for her to discover that right fellow. But he was the right fellow, the very right fellow. The parson married them at a wonderful celebration at a country retreat not far from where the parson would retire.

When the parson did retire, he didn't seem them as much. But there came that day when the call came, “We're pregnant!” There was rejoicing, anticipation, trepidation. And within months they brought their child to the country where the parson supplied the pulpit in his retirement to be baptized. There was lunch following the baptism accompanied with Ms. Parson rocking the baby in a rocker on the front porch of the restaurant, rocking him and rocking him and rocking him, cooing and smiling and, unknown to the parson then, creating a precious memory for him. A memory she too had and which she shared with the parson.

Two years later they were back. The second child was baptized. Lunch was shared again. Ms. Parson was happy to have another child to rock.

It wasn't long after the tragic call came. Her fellow, her knight in shining armor, had cancer. It was a horrible cancer. It was a devastating cancer. There was no cure. The parson and she shared flowing tears. The parson and she talked a lot about bad things happening to good people. But there was no adequate answer. “Why do these things happen?” she asked. The parson told her he didn't know.

There was hope. There was an experimental treatment he could volunteer for. He did. It wasn't the easiest treatment to be borne, but he endured it and he got better. He was better for a few years. And then it happened. Things when from bad to worse. The boys were now five and seven. Their daddy was dying.

The phone call came. The parson answered. She told the parson he was home now. Hospice had been called. The doctors said maybe it would be two weeks. She told the parson she thought it would be two days. The parson told her he'd be there the next day.

It was a beautiful spring day in the inner city of Atlanta. The youngest boy met the parson at the door. He wasn't in kindergarten that day. Her high school friend who was there to help her told the parson she'd let them know he was there. So the parson and the five-year-old played games on the floor. Then the hospice nurse came out. She talked a while. Then the oxygen technician came by. Then the contractor remodeling the basement came up. Then the ….

Finally, she came out. She told the parson they'd just given him some morphine and he was out of it. She and the parson went out on the deck, into the bright spring sun, the budding flowers, and the promise of new life. The dog accompanied them, assuring their conversations would punctuated by periodic tossing of the tennis balls which were quickly retrieved and dropped at their feet.

That conversation bounced from one thing to another, from talks of death, of her acceptance of what was coming, of the fact she'd already been grieving for years. They talked of funny things that had happened back when she lurked around the parson's parish. They talked about the children and the counseling they'd been put into to prepare them for what was coming. They laughed about children, and Christians, and the absurdity of it all, of the wedding when the parson danced a jig with her eighty-year-old grandmother.

Four hours later the parson left. He headed home, knowing he'd retrace his steps soon to return and talk some more, if she wanted; but to be there because he wanted. Navigating through the traffic the parson thought of how she was so typical of the new Christians. Church membership is secondary to faith. She is full of faith; she is well-acquainted with God. The parson remembered how when she and her fellow, having not seen the parson for a year or so, were there when Ms. Parson died, being pastors to their pastor.

She'll lose her fellow soon. The parson is experienced with what that will feel like. She'll go on, probably facing it much better than did the parson. And maybe that's the miracle of it all: even in the shadow of death life goes on.

Just Passing Through

The service had ended. The parson had followed the acolytes down the aisle to the church entry. Now he was greeting folks as they left. As was usually the case there were the ones who hurried out and then there was the lull while the others exchanged pleasantries in the sanctuary.

During that lull the visitor came out. “Morning,” said the parson, “it was nice to have you with us.”

“Thank you,” said the visitor. “Nice service. The sermon was challenging.”

“Well, thank you,” the parson said. “Tell me your name.”

“Robert,” he said. “Robert Shelton.”

“Do you live in the community?”

“No sir, I don't. Actually, I'm on my way to Nashville. I just got an impulse to stop and attend a church service. I kinda liked the look of this little rock chapel, so I stopped here.”

“It was good to have you with us. Did you fill out a visitor's card?”

“No, sir, I didn't. This most likely will be the only time I'm here. I am glad I came. Nice church.”

“Do you live in Nashville?”

“No, actually I'm from New York. I'm doing a bit of business travel.”

“Where do you go to church in New York?”

“I don't go to church, Parson. Excuse me, they do call you 'parson', don't they?”

“They do,” the parson replied. “It goes back to the military.”

“Ah, well, like I said, nice church. Thanks for the sermon. I'll be chewing on it a while.”

“Again, thank you,” said parson. “Tell me, why'd you decide to attend a church service this morning?”

The man looked at the ground a moment, then looked up and said, “I don't have the slightest idea.”

He then nodded and gave a slight bow and bounced down the steps to his car parked in one of the visitor's spots. The parson watched him get in, pull out of the parking lot and turn west toward the interstate.

A Brief Reflection on Church and State

One can't get away from the news of the First Amendment controversy over women's health coverage in reproductive areas. So, here's my take on it:

I'd planned to write an essay on this down the road. I hesitate to write this short reaction to the week's news. Somewhere down the road I might still assemble my words in a more coherent and in-depth manner. But the issue has me stirred so I write now.

First, once again I have been proved to be of far greater intelligence certain members of the United States House of Representatives. As a consequence I will not here be speaking about reproductive health issues without having a large volume of women's writings from which I can quote. I really don't know much about the dynamics of giving birth. I've been in the room when it happen several times, but it remains a mystery to me.

Now, having disqualified myself on the giving birth or not giving birth choices of women, let me speak to something of which I know.

Does it strike anyone as a bit convoluted that the very politicians who are yelling the loudest that the federal government is threatening the separation of church and state are the very ones who seem to be advocating a Christian theocracy?
The first amendment addresses the problem of establishing a state religion. Hmm, would that be a theocracy?

It would do the Christians sounding off about this separation of church and state a bit of good to realize the separation of church and state is an illusion. It is an illusion because the federal government already gives the church preferential treatment over other organizations. For instance:

My church collects a bit of money each Sunday, and occasionally we get some via mail. We do not pay one cent of tax on the money we take in. Special treatment by the government?

Because I am a retired ordained pastor the federal government allows me to designate an obscene percentage of my salary as “housing allowance” which is exempt from income tax. Special treatment by the government?

There is a flip side to this. Whenever I perform a marriage the couple bring me a license issued by the state. When I sign that document following the ceremony I am acting as an agent of the state. If we had real separation of church and state, the couple would get married at the courthouse and then come to the church for their union to be blessed.

Okay, that's enough. You get the point. I'm not going to turn this into a rant. Grandkids are on the way and I don't have much time. I just wanted to tell all the protectors of the church to knock it off. If you really want to separate the church and state stop passing laws that make the church more special than other groups. And here's some information for you. If you ever get your theocratic way I'm moving to Canada.

Stuck In My Position

The parson was once again absconded in the corner of his favorite diner. Shirley, the server, tried to make sure he enjoyed his cholesterol laden breakfast in peace. She'd done a good job, but not even Shirley could protect against the pervasive personality of Brother Robert R. Rollins, “Triple-R” to the privileged, pastor of the Bound For Glory In a Luxury Vehicle Tabernacle of the Truly Blessed.

Brother Robert slid into the booth across from the parson. The parson, in deference to the manners his Mama had taught him, put away his Kindle Fire and took the plugs from his ears. Some, observing him, might have thought him to be reading some theological article, but, in truth, the parson had been watching the Swedish movie of “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.”

“Morning, Parson. How's things with the liberal wing of the Christian community?”

“Are you still here, Robert?” the parson asked. “I guess that means the Rapture hasn't occurred yet.”

“Very funny, Parson,” said Robert. “Listen, I didn't interrupt you to argue theology with you. I wanted to talk with you about the coming election. I thought it might be good to find some common ground.”

The parson gave Robert his undivided attention. “You wanted to talk me about the election?”

“I do. Listen, Parson, some of the pastors in the area are talking about starting a campaign in the area. We're hoping to get Christian folks to be Christians in the voting booth, if you get what I mean.”

“I don't get what you mean, Robert.”

Robert leaned forward, “Okay, Parson, I think even you would agree there are certain basic fundamental Christian principles that ought to take priority in guiding a person how to vote.”

The parson didn't say anything.

“So, we're thinking about starting a campaign around the slogan 'How would Jesus vote?'”

The parson didn't say anything.

“So, what do you think?” asked Robert after a moment.

“I think I'm pretty sure how Jesus would vote, Robert. I'm more concerned with how you're going to vote.”

“What's that suppose to mean?” asked Robert.

“It means we're both stuck in our positions and I wish I could get beyond it,” the parson replied.

Robert left. Lisbeth Salander resumed her pursuit of her enemies.

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.