Questing Parson

Defining Success

The parson was strolling down the sidewalk of a country town that had been restored to a turn-of-the-twentieth-century village. The transformation was apparently a success, All the businesses within the restoration area seemed to be thriving.

As the parson peered into the window of a store that was now a combination antique and sandwich shop he noticed a familiar figure inside. Heather Swathmoor, newly graduated from seminary and about to be ordained and appointed to her first parish, was sitting at a table with a Ruben sandwich and a book before her. The parson envied her and the anticipation that must be hers with this appointment. His mind wandered back to the really old days, when pastors of Heather's age were usually told they were being sent to “a wonderful opportunity.” The parson headed to the door.

Approaching Heather, he greeted, “Well, hello, Reverend Swathmoor.”

“Oh, Parson,” exclaimed Heather as she rose and hugged the parson. “How good to see you. Please sit down. What are you doing here?”

The parson took the table opposite Heather. “So, I hear you're getting a church.” The parson was aware of Heather's appointment, and he was aware of the church to which she was about to become pastor.

“I am; I'm so excited. I'll be there in three weeks. It's called Gregory's Chapel. It's in the Southeastern district. It's a country church. I know it has problems,” she continued, “but the district superintendent said there was a possibility I could make a name for myself there.”

The parson smiled. He indicated to the server who'd approached he only wanted a decaf coffee. “It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”

“Well, that's the way I'm going to approach it,” she said. “I've done a lot of research to prepare going. The church was founded in 1842. It saw some real growth when the railroad came through the area just before the Civil War. For a while the town was really growing. It was a kind of hub of the cotton trade in that area. Around the 1950s they had their largest membership, but in the late 70s the membership stopped growing.”

The parson sipped the decaf and studied Heather as she talked. He tried to remember if he'd been this expectant when he headed out for his first church.

“The tragedy is, Parson, they have been losing about ten to fifteen percent of their membership every year for the last five or six years. I know it has to be disheartening to them. So I'm going to set a goal for myself to increase the current membership by fifteen percent next year. I think with hard work I can do.” it.”

Heather finally turned to her Ruben. The parson continued to study her. Placing her sandwich on her plate she took her napkin and wiped a smear of Thousand Island dressing from her lips.

“So, what do you think, Parson. It's possible to do that; don't you think?”

The parson leaned over the table and said softly to her, “Heather, let me make a sugges.tion to you. If you slow the decline to five percent, that will be a victory. And then you can move to other goals from there.”

Heather stared at him a moment. She finished the sandwich as she watched him. “Slow the decline and then work on increasing the membership.”

“That sounds like a plan to me,” the parson smiled.

A Key To Pastoral Success

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Parson, It's Bruce Watkins.”

“Bruce, how in the world are you? It's great to hear from you.” Bruce was fresh out of seminary. He attended the parson's church during his college years, and, then, spent a tour with the United States Marine Corps as an intelligence officer. Upon his discharge, eight years later, he entered seminary.

“I'm doing really well, Parson. Really well. Jane said to tell you hello.”

The parson, after smiling inwardly as he remembered Jane's natural beauty and genuine personality, remembered that day almost eighteen months before. It was one of those occasions when the parson as he led them through the ceremony had no doubt this marriage would last forever.

“You give her my love. What are her plans after you get to your appointment?”

“We really don't know yet, Parson. We're hoping she can find some meaningful work there.”

The parson again smiled to himself. Jane was an educational psychologist who was fluent in Spanish and Japanese. He didn't think she'd have a problem finding a job as Bruce moved into serving his first church in three weeks.

“I don't think Jane will ever lack for employment,” the parson offered.

“I don't either, Parson. Look, the reason I called was first to thank you. I know the district superintendent and maybe the bishop called and you gave me a good recommendation.”

“Don't discount the impression you made yourself, Bruce.”

“Look, Parson, the second thing is Andrew Jenkins mentioned that you were taking some grandchildren to Alaska and wouldn't be at conference.”

“That's right,” said the parson. “I'll think of you sitting in the gathering of the ordained as we bounce along in our raft through the rapids of the Nenana River.”

“I somehow don't think you're going to give us a thought, Parson. But, since you're going to Alaska, I won't be able to see you at conference. So, I wanted to call and see if you might have any advice for a novice pastor.”

The parson smiled. He remembered the best advice he'd ever received. “I do, Bruce. I do. You know, the best advice I ever got was when I was backing the car out of the driveway of my parent's house to head for my first appointment. My dad was retrieving the mail from the mailbox. He came over, leaned down, and said to me: “You'll be a success if, when you leave that church, the people say, 'Look what we did!'”

There Goes Job Security

The parson decided to join some of the area pastors for coffee after the meeting broke up. One of the brothers had a connection with the manager and a section of the coffee emporium was reserved for the ordained. The parson took the rocking chair that split the difference between the two love seats and two arm chairs.

After several minutes of discussing the latest gossip of who was going to be moved where and why at the coming annual conference, the talk began to drift toward the proceedings taking place by the General Conference, the denomination's biggest deliberative body, the one that determined polity and doctrine down in Tampa, Florida.

“Hey, that proposal to limit the terms of bishops was really interesting,” said Ed Taylor, the pastor of the Church-Over-the-Hill-but-Bigger-Than-First-County-Seat.

“It sure was,” replied Tom Joiner, pastor of The Church of Lovely Solitude Beside the River of Gentle Flowing Waters. “You know, it didn't meet the two-thirds requirement, but the bishops must have gotten a wake-up call when it got a majority.”

“Well, I think the most crucial thing before the conference is the matter of our attitude toward gays,” said Sally Crenshaw, pastor of the We Know We're the Bottom of the Barrel So We're Glad to Have a Woman Pastor. “If we don't begin to act like Christians we'll be the laughing stock of the Christian community.”

The parson sipped his coffee, waiting for someone to bring up the issue that was on everyone's mind. Finally, Fred Harvey, a seminary student doing a project at the First County Church On the Other Side of the Mountain. “Don't you think the really significant issue is the removal of guaranteed appointments for elders?”

A silence draped itself around the group. The parson rocked and sipped.

“Well, frankly, I think it's a really good thing,” said Tina Robertson, a fresh out of seminary student. “Everyone needs to be held accountable.”

“That's true,” replied Monty Harrelson, who was serving his fourteenth appointment in thirty years, “but you have to be aware this opens up the gate for some vindictive district superintendent to hound a person out of the ministry.”

The conversation on the elimination of the guaranteed appointment continued for another forty minutes. The parson, fascinated with the conversation decided to go against his better judgment and pay almost three dollars for another fifty cent cup of coffee. He sipped and observed and listened.

Finally the as the afternoon tiptoed up toward evening, the group began to break-up. The parson rose, stretched his aged muscles, and headed toward the vet's office to pick up Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion. As he walked to the car the parson thought to himself: I hope I live long enough to see how this filters down.

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.

They Don't Come For the Preaching

The parson was walking out of the courthouse. He'd been talking with the Chairman of the County Commission to get his support for an Emergency Shelter for Single Women with Children. The meeting had turned out as the parson expected. The Chairman had promised his unconditional support as soon as the parson raised the needed funds.

No more than ten feet outside the offices of the Commissioners, Fred Eberhardt called out to the parson.

“Hey, Parson, you down here paying taxes, too.

Fred was a unique person in the parson's denomination. He was young, really young. Fred was only twenty-six years of age. Not many that young completed college, seminary, and jumped through all the hoops of the Board of Ministry and were serving their first appointment. Fred was unique in another aspect, also. Fred's first appointment had been in the middle of the year. That is, Fred was appointed by the bishop to his first church on January 1st, whereas most appointments in that episcopal area were made effective on the third Thursday of June. As of the day before this Fred had led the worship service for the 15th time.

“Hello, Fred,” said the parson. “No, actually I'm here for a meeting. How are things going with you?”

Fred's eyes widened, his demeanor took on a burst of energy. “Great, Parson, really great. I mean things are really great. You know,” he said with an obvious tone of pride, “I think things are really turning a corner at the church.”

“That's good to hear, Fred,” the parson replied. “How was your Easter service?”

“It was terrific, Parson, absolutely terrific. Oh my goodness, we almost had to put chairs in the aisles. The place was packed. I think the word must be getting out about my preaching.”

The parson smiled, thought a minute and was about to reply when Fred's cell phone rang.

Fred looked down at the phone's screen and said, “Excuse me, Parson, I need to take this.”

The parson waited. When Fred completed his call he informed the parson with apologies he needed to leave to take care of a matter.

The parson watched him walk down the courthouse steps relieved he didn't have to explain to Fred that folks don't come to the Easter service because of the preaching. If they did, in Fred's case, they'd have been there in February. The parson said a prayer that Fred would be able to handle Sunday-after-Easter attendance phenomenon.

 

Holy Week Rolls Around Every Year

The parson was doing a little shopping in the kitchen store at the outlet mall. New grater and cheese slicer in hand he approached to checkout counter. He'd just completed his purchase when he heard a voice over his shoulder.

“What's up, Parson? Planning to hone your culinary skills?”

The parson turned to find Sam Abbott smiling brightly. Sam was a new pastor, having been ordained only ten months ago. He served, admirably the parson thought, a small church with tremendous potential about twenty miles south of the parson's parish.

“Sam,” the parson returned delighted to see him. “What brings you out into the country?”

“Culinary arts, Parson. Just like you. But in my case my wife is the artist. She sent me to pick up some things for her.”

“Well, it's good to see you,” the parson responded as he thanked the clerk, took his bag and stepped back for Sam to check his merchandise out.

Sam completed his time with the cashier and he and the parson walked outside. No sooner had they gotten beyond the door than Same piped in, “Parson, I just have to ask you: How in the world do you handle it?”

“Handle what?” the parson asked.

“Holy Week, Holy Week. I've got to tell you, Parson, I had no idea. I have to prepare five sermons this week. Five sermons. Oh, great look at you with your all knowing smile. You've got a well of sermons to draw from. I'm just starting. Every sermon is a new one for me. I have to start from scratch. So, have a little mercy on me, would you?”

The parson smiled even bigger. “Sam, I'm not smiling because I have a sermon already for the Holy Week services. I'm smiling because ….” The parson paused a moment. “Look, Sam, here's the thing. I went to my first church in June of 1965. On April 3rd of 1966 I was standing right where you are now. It was Holy Week and I had enough trouble preparing one sermon a week. So I'm certainly understanding of where you are now.”

“Maybe so, but you're still smiling.”

“I'm smiling, Sam, because on Easter Sunday of 1966 I knew that during Holy Week of 2012 I'd have to preach a sermon on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, at least. You'd think that in all those years I'd have learned something from that experience. But the truth is, Sam, I haven't got a clue what I'm going to preach on Thursday. So, while you're fretting tonight over your sermon you say a prayer for the old parson up the road who's rowing the same boat you are.”

Trouble In the Parish

The parson sat at the end of the table. He and several pastors from the area had gathered around a picnic table on the terrace outside the hospital cafeteria. Each was there to discuss a joint effort to combat some poverty issues in the county. Having closed the meeting they now were trading war stories about their various parishes.

Johnathan Colbolt, a pastor from the other side of the county, was on a tear about the membership of his church declining because of the presence of one particular member.

“She just has a negative attitude,” said Johnathan.

“What's she done specifically?” asked Ed Crider.

“Look, guys,” said Johnathan, apparently unaware that two of the gathered clergy were not “guys”, “it's not anything specific. It's just the woman's general attitude.”

Robert Shelton chimed in, “Sounds like you just don't like her.”

“Oh, good grief,” Johnathan protested. “Liking her has nothing to do with it. She just doesn't understand how a church is supposed to operate. We're losing members because of her. I mean in the last year we've had fifteen people start attending other churches. I know it's because of her attitude.”

“What do you think, Parson?” asked Shirley Watson.

“Johnathan,” the parson asked, “how long has she been a member of the church?”

“I suppose twenty-five years or so,” said Johnathan. “She's been attending there all her life. Her family goes there. I guess she probably joined when she was a teenager.”

“How long have you been pastor there?” asked the parson.

“Two years, why?”

“Just wondering,” said the parson.

EmphaSIS on the Wrong SylLABlbe

The was paying his daily visit to the Fruit Stand, which wasn't a fruit stand. Customers bought vegetables at the Fruit Stand (but that's another blog). He'd just picked out a couple of large ripe tomatoes and was pondering which bundle of asparagus he'd use for tonight's spaghetti with asparagus sauce.

“Hello, Parson,” called out a not too familiar voice. The parson turned to see Jeff Godfren a pastor who as a seminary student had visited the parson's church, within walking distance of the campus from time to time.

“Hello to you, Jeff,” the parson replied, delighted to see him again. “How are things with you. I don't think I've seen you since your marriage.”

“That's your fault, Parson. I'm at Annual Conference every year. I hear you drop by for a couple of hours and are then on your way.”

The parson smiled. It was good to hear folks thought he actually dropped by.

“Well, retirement has it's plus side. What brings you to this area?”

“I'm up visiting Ronald Coleman. He talked me into taking a day off and playing a round of golf with him. I'm on my way home now.”

“Got time for a cup of coffee, coke?”

“Sure.”

The parson walked Jeff to the little coffee and ice cream shop a half block away. Each ordered a cup of decaf and then settled themselves into chairs at a sidewalk table. The parson asked about Jeff's bride, learning she was working on a doctorate in public administration. Eventually the conversation to Jeff's church.

“I tell you, Parson. I'm really proud of what's going on there. I've got a youth group started. And I organized a men's club. I remembered the way your church used to provide meals for the hungry so I got one of those started.”

Jeff continued for a good ten minutes describing the many projects going on at the church.

When he got a chance, the parson interjected, “You must be exhausted.”

“You know, Parson. I didn't realize how tired I was until Ronald asked me to play golf. Taking a day just to mess around was great. I feel like a new man, ready to get back and get back to work.”

Jeff drained the balance of his coffee, sighed, and said, “Parson, I've worked my ass off at that church. And I tell you I've worked so hard I have no doubt that when I leave the whole thing will fall apart.”

The parson leaned across the table, placed his hand on the back of Jeff's and said in a quiet voice, “Jeff, we need to talk. That's not something to brag about.”

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.”

Sharing the Joys of Ministry

“Ring, ring!”

“Hello.”

“That wasn't funny, Parson.”

“I'm sorry,” said the parson, “who is this?” The parson was smiling to himself. He knew who it was.

“That is Bart,” the voice intoned. “And you know good and well who it is.”

“Oh, Bart,” the parson said with a welcoming tone in his voice. “I didn't recognize your voice. Good to hear from you. What's up?”

“What's up? What's up? I suppose you wouldn't know anything about a woman named Florence trying to borrow money from me?”

“Florence? Florence? Wait a second. Is she about fifty, a little on the heavy side, drives a old blue Ford F-150, wearing some clothes that look like they may have last been laundered sometime around 1998? That Florence?”

“Funny, funny. Yeah, that Florence?”

“Yes, I know Florence.”

“And would you want to confess that you sent her down here to my church to ask me for twenty dollars?”

Florence had been at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen the night before. She needed forty dollars, she told the parson, to get the brakes fixed on her pickup truck. What Florence didn't know was that the parson knew Henry Snyder, a member of the church had given her twenty dollars toward that end about twenty minutes earlier. The parson, then, had agreed to give her twenty. Despite her protestations the parson refused to give her any additional money. Florence also didn't know that the parson knew her SSI check would arrive in two days.

“No, Bart, I will not confess that I sent her down to your church to ask for twenty dollars. But I did mention to her that I'd seen her truck down your way on several occasions. I asked her if she visited any other churches in that area to accumulate money for fixing her brakes, paying her rent, getting her pet cat fixed, or any other reoccurring events that require financial assistance. And she told me she went to a lot of churches. I asked her, since she lives a little piece form your church, if she ever visited you. She said she didn't. She said she didn't visit you because you were only there on Sunday.”

“Funny, funny, Parson,” said Bart. “According to her you said she should tell me to park my ass in the church office at 8:00 a.m. Every day.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you there, Parson?”

“I am, Bart.”

“Do you have anything to say?”

“Well, it appears your original accusation was incorrect. I didn't tell her to ask you for twenty dollars.”

“But you did make the remark about parking my ass in my office at 8:00 a.m.?”

“Well, to be honest, I may have said something like that.”

“And why is it so important to you what my office hours are.”

“It's important to me, Bart, because we're a connectional church, and, as such, you should be sharing in this ministry to Florence.”

“Good-bye, Parson.”

“Good-bye, Bart. By the way, are you calling from your office?”

Click.