Questing Parson

Ups and Downs of Ministry

The parson was out walking late in the afternoon on Easter Sunday. He followed behind Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, and Princess Penny, Charlie Brown's girl friend, both of whom pulled the parson along as he held tightly to their leashes.

A car slowed as it passed the parson. The car pulled off the road in front of the trio. The parson watched intently as the driver's door opened. Scott Parrish, a new pastor jumped out.

“Parson, oh, my goodness, I'm glad to see you,” exclaimed Scott as he began to walk back toward the parson and the dogs. “Oh my goodness, look at these dogs. Gracious, their big ones.”

“This is Charlie Brown and his girlfriend Penny,” the parson introduced. Both Charlie Brown and Penny moved toward Scott and began to give him the sniff test. Apparently satisfied that he was a United Methodist, they ambled their way toward the bushes bordering the right-of-way. “What brings you to the neighborhood?” asked the parson.

“I was heading into town to pick up some things for Alice,” said Scott. “What with all the activities of Holy Week we completely ran out of a couple of things.”

“How are things going at the church?” the parson asked. He was familiar with Scott's church, his first pastorate. It was one of those steady churches. They paid their obligations to the denomination without complaint. They supported the pastor to the financial extent required. And, while a congenial congregation, they were evidence of the parson's theory that small churches are small because the choose to be small.

“Oh, gracious,” said Scott with some emotion, “I think we have turned a corner. I mean the church was packed this morning. We just had ever pew filled. I'm sure this is the beginning of something special. I'm just so excited with how things are going ….”

The parson interrupted despite his desire not to throw cold water on the new pastor's excitement. “Scott, it's Easter.”

“I know it's Easter, Parson. But even though it's Easter the attendance this morning is certainly indicative of our church's work over the last months paying off.”

“Scott,” the parson said, “this isn't Sweeps Week at the church.”

“What are you trying to say, Parson?” asked Scott.

“Look, Scott,” the parson continued, “you're doing a wonderful job at that church. But I think I need to warn you to that next Sunday you're going to have a let-down.” Scott started to sepak but the parson held up his hand. “The Sunday after Easter, Scott, is the lowest attended service in the church year. Next Sunday, will be a challenge.”

“You're serious?” asked Scott.

 “I am, Scott, I am. But look the number of people in the pews in no reflection on you. What is a reflection on you is the joyful spirit you're carrying out your ministry. That church is lucky to have you. So next Sunday, when you look out on all those pew backs, don't yo get discouraged. I'll be looking at pew backs, too. And I'll be remembering that when God called me to be a preacher, God didn't mention any specific numbers.”

Surviving Ministry

I was preaching at really big church on the other side of the valley last week. I met some folks from my past. They used to be members of my home church. They brought back some memories. That old home church isn't the country church it was when I was a member. It's now a mega church with umpteen services per Sunday, a staff of goodness knows how many.

The surprise is that church got as big as it did. I mean, I was the first preacher they produced, and folks had been worshiping there for 147 years before I was ordained. You'd think in almost a century and a half they'd have come up with better material.

As I remembered those days, my mind went back to the last day I was at the church before becoming the pastor of one myself. Back then we Methodists moved to new churches on the third Thursday of June. On the Tuesday before I left on Thursday, my pastor called me and requested I come by his office on Wednesday.

My pastor's name was Clyde Calloway. How should I describe Clyde? Clyde, in many ways, was a no nonsense fellow. And what one would call a “power in the church.” Clyde didn't get moved by the bishop unless Clyde wanted to be moved. Everyone who was an ordained United Methodist in Georgia knew who Clyde was. But he had a jovial side. He liked to laugh. He liked to tell jokes. He also knew the names of everyone in the church when he met them, knew where their grown children lived and how many grandchildren they had. He was a pastor the congregation liked, wanted to be around.

Since Clyde was my pastor and Clyde was a power in the church and since I was about to become a pastor, I answered Clyde's summon at the appointed time on the appointed day.

He directed me to a seat across the desk from him. We engaged in some chitchat for a few moments. He asked about my mother, my dad, and my little brother. He asked me if I was nervous. I told him I was. He then told me the people where I would be pastor would accept me. He told me to go there ready to accept them. He talked about “being out among the people,” visiting them, knowing the folks in the community. He talked of daily prayer, of living a disciplined life.

Then he said, “I really wanted you to come by because I've got two gifts I want to give you.” He stood, went back behind his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a box that was gift wrapped.

I opened it and extracted a leather cover Bible. On the front cover was stamped in gold letters, “Reverend Guy Kent.” it was the first time I'd seen that adjective in front of my name. I thanked him profusely. He then said, “Wait, I said I had two gifts. He went back behind the desk and retrieved another gift wrapped box. This one was about six inches square and three feet long. I pulled off the paper, opened the box and pulled out a plumber's helper. On the handle someone had burned the name, “Reverend Guy Kent.”

I looked over at Clyde with a puzzled look. He said, “You know, you're a smart young man with a top notch education. You might be able to survive without that Bible.” 

Expecting Something From the Sermon

The parson made his way from the vestibule where he'd been greeting the departing worshipers. He'd been speaking at a special service at a nearby Church-on-the-Hill Overlooking the Calm Waters. As he reached the front porch and was headed down the steps tohis car on the street, a middle-aged couple approached him.

“We just wanted to say how much we were inspired by your message,” intoned the wife.

“Thank you so much,” said the parson. “And thank you for inviting me to your beautiful church.”

“Oh, the pleasure was all ours, Parson,” said the man. “We don't hear preaching like that too often.”

The pastoral hairs on the back of the parson's neck began to tingle. “Well, I'm at an advantage. I'm only preaching here this once, most likely. So, I can pull out a good, tested, semon and preach it without anyone knowing it's an old practiced one.”

“You're too modest, Parson,” said the man. “Listen, it was good to hear your sermon. We'd heard about you from Henry Watson. We expected it to be good and it was. Too bad we can't say that about our pastor.”

“It is too bad you can't say that about your pastor,” said the parson. “And now that you've been frank about your pastor I hope you'll allow me to be frank also.”

“Of course,” said the couple in unison.

“Listen, folks, what I'm about to say doesn't in anyway negate my gratitude for you saying you liked my sermon. I'm grateful for that. But, truth is, I knew you would like it. I've been preaching for over forty years. I have this file of tried and true sermons from which I can pull one when I'm preaching at another church. I probably first wrote the sermon you heard tonight in the 1960s. People liked it, so I went back to it time and time again, just like I did tonight. And every time I preached it I refined it. So, I can tell you without any hint of modesty, but truthfully, that I knew you'd like this sermon before I stepped into the pulpit.

“Now, your pastor is another matter. He has to prepare over a hundred sermons a year for you folks. And he has to prepare the sermon knowing that he's going to have to face you next Sunday, and at the board meeting on Tuesday or the Men's Club on Saturday morning or the women's group whenever they meet. He has to preach to you week after week after week without the luxury of pulling one out of the “really good sermon” file like I did. It's a daunting task, and it's especially difficult if you think you're not that good a preacher. So, my advice to you is to make your pastor a good preacher.”

“That's what seminary's for, isn't it, Parson?”

“Well, sometimes you're better at it than seminary. Tell you what, why don't you try an experiment. Do this, check the lectionary to see what the pastor's preaching on next Sunday. For instance, this Sunday the Gospel lesson is the Prodigal Son. Why don't you read it over a few times, and then next Sunday when you're greeting the pastor after the service tell him you really liked some aspect of the way he preaches on it. Give him a compliment that's specific, something like, 'You know, pastor, I never looked at the elder son in that way.' If enough of you do that you might be surprised.

“And if you do that two things will happen. First, you'll come to church truly expecting something from the sermon, and usually when you do that you actually get something. Secondly, your pastor will begin to look forward to preaching to you. It's a win-win. Why not try it.”

The couple stood silently as though trying to formulate an answer. They didn't get to answer. Andrew Todd, their pastor approached. “Thanks so much for tonight, Parson. It was really good to have you.”

“Thank's for the invitation, Andy,” said the parson. “It was a great night.” The parson nodded to the couple, “Nice to meet you folks.”

The parson began to walk toward his car with the pastor by his side. “I see you met the Howard's.”

“I did,” said the parson. “We were talking about how they are looking forward to your sermon next Sunday.”

“Are you serious?” asked Andy.

“I am,” said the parson. “They're expecting something special.”

Despite Myself

“So, how are things going with you,” the parson asked Howard Kemper, a pastor at a church near the parsons.

“I'm great,” the parson replied, “great to see you. How are things going?”

“I suppose they're going okay,” said Howard. “You know I'm going to be moving in June.”

“No, I didn't know that,” the parson repied while mentally saying, Forgive me, Father, for I have lied. What church are you moving to?”

“Well, I don't know where I'm moving to, but I'm ready for the move. I've done as much as can be done here. Some folks are not ready to get out of being set in their ways. It's a shame.”

“What do you mean?” asked the parson.

“Well, these folks have been unwilling to change. They just won't listen to reason. They are just stuck in their ways. We had a meeting last week and I told them their church would go under within ten years because they are not willing to change.”

A long moment passed in silence before Howard said, “What? You don't agree?”

“I'm just sorry you told them that, Howard?”

“Sorry? Why?”

“Because it's going to make you look silly when ten years roll around. Do you think you're the first pastor who's told them they'd be dead in ten years? I doubt it. Ten years from now you'll be pastor at some church. Hopefully, for you it'll be a bigger church and one that fits your needs. But these folks will still be having their worship service and will still be plugging along with their idea of what church is. They'll be fighting and fussing and treatening each other with going to another church. But they'll also be giving money to the poor in the community, feeding some hungry folks, and listening to sermons from some student or retired pastor who's sermons are as dull as yours.”

“You're pretty sure of yourself, Parson.”

“I am, Howard. I am.”

“Yeah, well how can you be so sure.”

“I can be sure, Howard, because, and I know this is hard to belive, every church I ever served, despite the fact I moved away is still there.”

Over Paid

“Parson, do you have a minute?” asked Will Watson, a pastor in his second appointment.

“Sure thing, Will,” the parson replied. “What's up?”

“I'm wondering if you could give me some advice on talking with my Pastor-Parish committee about my compensation.”

“What's the matter, Will?” the parson inquired. “You're not getting paid enough?”

“That's exactly the case, Parson.”

The parson sat down and invited Will to sit across the table from him. The parson did a quick calculation of what he estimated Will's compensation package to be.

“Why do you think you're not getting paid enough?”

“Well, Parson, I mean my function is to be the preacher, to bring the Word to the people. That's a demanding responsibility. But on top of that these folks want me to be active in community affairs, to visit everyone who goes to the hospital, to go to the nursing homes and such. Now, while I realize pastors do that, when the doing distracts from the real job, well, there should be further compensation.”

The parson stared in dismay. “Are you serious?”

“I'm as serious as can be. More responsibility should bring more compensation.”

“How much do you make, Will?” the parson asked. Will gave him the figure. “Do you have an evening service?” Will told him he didn't. “So,” said the parson as he pulled out his smartphone, “let's divide how many sermons into what you make.” The parson started to input the figures. He paused. “Are you out of the pulpit any during the year?” Will told the parson he missed two Sundays when he was on vacation. “So, let's divide that salary figure by fifty.”

The parson stared at the phone a moment. He then turned it off, placed it in his pocket and said to Will, “You're way overpaid, Will, since you don't know whom you're preaching to nor what you should be preaching.”

The End of An Era

Bishop Mack Stokes, Associate Dean of Candler School of Theology and Professor of Systematic Theology, when I was a student there, has died just short of his 101st birthday.

Upon his election to the Episcopacy, he was assigned to Mississippi. The strides he made there in support of integration, the merging of the white and black conferences of the church, the setting of a Christian example in the secular world, and demonstrating a Bishop can still be a pastor are legendary.

I remember the day when I challenged him in class by saying, "But Dr. Stokes, Dr. Mallard said ...."  He replied, "Dr. Mallard; I presume you mean Bill Mallard. That man is marvelous. He possesses an exceptional brain. Wonderful man. We are fortunate to have him on our faculty. He has some tremendous theories. Unfortunately, some of those theories lack the perfection of being true." 

We became a better church because of his leadership.

A Lesson in Giving

The church finance committee was discussing the fiscal problems of the congregation. The parson was listening.

The problem facing the committee was that the church was obviously not going to meet its budget asking for the year. All the bills had been paid, the parson had been paid, the denominational obligations had been met.

“I'm really concerned that we never seem to meet our budget,” said Franklin Lansing. “For the last ten years this committee had worked hard to make a realistic budget and for the last ten years we always fall thousands of dollars short.”

“Yes, but we've already said that we've met all our obligations,” countered Maynard Sinclair. “What's the point of worry. We're doing what needs to be done.”

“We're doing that only because of the parson's constant attention to finances,” remarked Harry Potter (Yes, that's his name.). “We owe him a debt that he keeps the spending down when the giving is down.”

“You're right,” said Margaret Conner, “we do owe the Parson some thanks. But the truth is we need more generous givers like William Miller. Without his generous weekly giving we'd be in a world of hurt.”

“What do you think, Parson?” asked Harriett Abbott.

“I think Margaret is right in a way,” said the parson. “We do need more generous givers. But we don't need givers like William Miller. We need givers like Bobby and Susan.”

“Bobby and Susan?” echoed Margaret. “Bobby and Susan. Who are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the Simpson's kids,” said the parson. “Bobby and Susan, when we sent out the request for folks to bring an offering to help the victims of Hurricane Sandy answered the call. Bobby, who's in the fifth grade brought a jar of coins that totaled $18.53. Susan, the second grader, brought another jar with $22.40. Those totals represented the contents of their piggy banks,” the parson continued. “The emptied their banks.”

There was silence for a few moments. Finally Harriet spoke. “You're suggesting we empty our banks.”

“No, I'm not,” said the parson. “I'm just suggesting the people in this church should give with the faith of a child.”

Those Unnecessary Meetings

The meeting was being held in the sanctuary of one of the area's country churches, a church about the size of the one the parson served. The meeting had been in process from an hour and forty minutes. The parson was fighting the ever more heavy of the weight of his eyelids. Finally, the church superior declared, “Well that's about it, folks. I appreciate you being here today. This went a little long, but it was necessary. Thanks again. Does anyone have any questions or need to add anything?”

Susan Elliott stood, “Yes, sir,” she said, “I think we need some clarification on ….”

The parson rolled his eyes, pulled out his iPad, powered it up and opened the device to the latest issue of Newsweek. As the iPad was coming to life the parson wondered to himself: Why don't they teach in church superior school that one should never ask, at the end of a meeting, does anyone want to say anything else?” If the question is asked, someone will have something to say.

Fifteen minutes later, after Susan had had her say and four others had said what they wanted to say about what Susan had to say, all of which had been covered in the church superior's previous remarks, the church superior closed the meeting with a prayer. The group rose to leave. The parson, also, rose; he paused as he contemplated whether Susan and her cohorts had talked long enough the parson would need to empty his bladder before heading home. He decided Susan and her cohorts had indeed talked that long. He proceeded up the center aisle and toward the facility, passing the church superior on his way and shaking his head in disbelief at the superior.

Exiting the bathroom, the parson headed toward his car. He was halfway there when Bobby Garner, a young and impressive pastor on the other side of the district approached. “Hello, Parson, how are you?”

“I'm going to survive, despite myself,” the parson responded. “More importantly how are those twins; they're, what, three now?”

“They are,” said Bobby, “and they're doing fine. Thanks for asking. Mine if I walk with you?”

“I'd appreciate the company, Bobby. You never know when I might fall.”

Bobby walked along with the parson. As they approached the parson's car he said, “Parson, why do you come to these meetings?”

“What do you mean, Bobby?”

“Parson, I know there's no way they can compel you to be at these meetings. And, excuse me for saying this, but I noticed your irritation at Susan Elliott's asking questions when the meeting was obviously over.”

“I apologize if you noticed that, Bobby,” the parson said. “That was disrespectful.”

“Some of us might think it was reality, Parson.”

“Either way, I'm sorry I was so obvious.”

“Still, Parson, why do you come to these meetings. You don't have to.”

The parson paused a moment and thought. Then he said, “I guess, Bobby, I come out of respect for my calling. Meetings are a part of every profession, I guess. And, as much as I dislike them, they're necessary. You're right, I don't have to attend. But I do out of respect to the church which grants me a pulpit from which I can preach, a church that has authorized me to carry out the functions of my ministry, a church that has supported me, allowed my kids to go through college, provided for me in my retirement and, … “ the parson paused. “And, besides, Bobby, what example would it set if I didn't show up after reaping the benefits of all these years of ministry.”

Bobby smiled, “I understand, but please, tell me for my sake, that you think some of these meeting are ridiculous.”

The parson also smiled, “Okay, Bobby, I admit some of these meetings are ridiculous. But, truth be told, no one has ever died of thirst or starvation during one of these unnecessary meetings.”

The Constant In the Equation

Lawrence Sanders, the associate pastor at a church of several thousand members, called out to the parson as he walked out of the denominational book store. “Parson, got a minute?”

“Sure, Lawrence,” the parson responded stopping his entrance into the store. “What's up?”

“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“I'd enjoy that,” the parson said. He turned in the direction Lawrence was pointing. A half block up the street was a coffee shop. They both headed there, ordered a cup of coffee. The parson decided to add a sandwich to his order. Then the two took a seat at a small table in the corner.

“So, how's Mary doing, and the little one, what's her name, Fran, right?”

“Right. Fran's three now and growing every day. Mary's planning to start teaching again when Fran turns four. But I think she's really enjoying the time at home.”

“Well, you're lucky to have a good appointment so you can afford that,” the parson commented.

“Funny, you said that, Parson,” replied Lawrence. “I kinda wanted to talk to you about the church.”

“Don't tell me there's trouble in River City,” the parson said.

“Oh, no, there's no trouble to speak of, but I guess you'd say there's a bit of some unrest.”

The parson chewed his sandwich a moment as he reflected on what he knew about the church where Lawrence served. “Define 'unrest.'”

“Okay, look, this a bit awkward. You know Jim, don't you?”

“Yes, I do,” the parson replied. Lawrence was speaking of the senior pastor where Lawrence was the associate. The parson had served on several committees over the years with the senior pastor. He was by no means a dynamo in the pulpit, but he was solid and a faithful pastor.

“Well, I keep getting people making hints that Jim should give me a more active role in the church. They think he's kind of stuck in his ways and we're not going to attract younger folks as long as Jim is, well, what he is.”

“You talk to these people, Lawrence?”

“Well, Parson, there's hardly a way I can avoid it.”

“There is a way you can avoid it, Lawrence. You can say 'I'm not going to engage in any conversation that cast dispersions on the senior pastor'.”

“Parson, I don't think that church will continue to grow unless some changes occur.”

The parson finished his sandwich, drank the rest of his coffee, looked intently at Lawrence for a moment, and then said. “Lawrence, do you want me to spell this out clearly for you?”

“I do.”

“Okay, Lawrence, let's say those people who are talking to you about Jim are right. Let's say Jim is the most dull pastor the United Methodist Church has ever produced. And let's say those people go to the district superintendent and/or the bishop. Let's suppose they convince the authorities that be Jim has to go and next June it happens, Jim leaves. Now, if all that happens there is one constant that will not change, Lawrence.”

The parson paused to let Lawrence ask. Finally, he did. “What constant?”

“The constant, Lawrence,” the parson smiled, “is that even if Jim moves when the new pastor is announced you'll still be the associate.”

Sermon Under A Pecan Tree

It took longer than it would most folks. I always travel, as much as possible, on roads limited to two lanes. Expressways, with their six and eight lanes, and ten lanes, are mostly home to billboards and crazy drivers. Two lane corridors meander through mountains, follow rivers down the valley, and are decorated by homes, nicely cared for homes, as well as the occasional cabin and even double wides often accented by immaculately cared for yards.

Oh I realize there are some eyesores along the way, but they pale in comparison to what borders the multiple lane corridors of excessive speed. The two lane roads are the way to travel. I'm convinced of that.

As such, I'd left the day before the event in which I'd been invited to speak. It was something I looked forward to. After all, when one's invited back to a place where one has preached before, one cannot help but be somewhat flattered. It's something you'd like to tell your skeptical cousins about. Maybe I was just eager to get there; maybe I wanted time to meander those back roads. Whichever, I got there the night before, checked into a comfortable inn, enjoyed a delicious dinner, watched a little TV, and turned in early.

I was scheduled to speak first at a luncheon and that evening at the closing service. I spoke. Folks had some nice things to say. I felt good.

I skipped the afternoon business session and found myself sipping on a Sprite as I sat on a garden bench under the shade of a pecan tree. The Sprite was about gone when she approached.

“I know you,” she said.

“You do?” I replied. “How do you know me?”

“You baptized me when I was a baby.”

“You remember that?”

“Well, no, but my Mom told me you did.”

“Who's your Mom?” I asked.

She told me. I remembered her. Gracious, I'm getting old; I not only had baptized this child; I had also baptized her mother.

“So, your Mom still goes to church here?”

“No, sir,” she said. “We don't go to church now. She just came to this thing because you were preaching.”

“Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

“No.”

“Why don't you folks go to church?”

She sat down on the bench beside me. “I think we don't go because we got really busy. You know, I have ball games and Mom and Dad have a lot of things to do. You know what I think?”

“What do you think?”

“I think the church needs to stop being so church. I mean, the church is songs and prayers and sermons by people like you. And I know my Mom likes you, but, well, you know all those people in there.” She pointed to the Family Life Center where everyone was gathered. “After you preach tonight everyone will go home and do what they always do. Now what I think is this: the church ought to make a difference. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do know what you mean,” I confessed. “Do you know how we can fix it?”

“No, sir, I don't. But the same old stuff isn't working. People are too busy for this same old stuff.”

I drove home that night a more humble than when I arrived.