Questing Parson

Join the Conversation

At 3:00 p.m. EDT, today, Diana Butler Bass and New York Times columnist Ross Douthat will participate in a conversation about the “Future of Faith.” The conversation is hosted by Yale Divinity School.

Dr. Bass' book, Christianity After Religion, addresses the fact of religion, and particularly Christianity being reshaped by today's changing world. She also suggests that religious life has been greatly influenced by the Franciscan revolution, the Protestant Reformation, the Wesleyan revival and the three Great Awakenings of North America, and that we may be at the dawn of a new awakening. (See Dr. Bass' blog on Huggington Post)

You can watch the conversation live on Livestream.

It's Called Manners

This epistle needs a qualification. That qualification is that the event mentioned in the following paragraphs did not occur here where I live. The event took place many, many miles from my abode. As a consequence no one in my community needs to get in an uproar. I'm not talking about you. Well, maybe ….

Having said the above and before I get to the below, I readily admit I am a fossil. I am the product of an age that does not exist anymore. Thanks to the advances of medical science in the latter part of the twentieth century, there are more and more of us around. We are readily identifiable. For instance, we hold the doors open for ladies. None of us are unaware that ladies are capable of opening doors, but, nevertheless, we hold doors open for ladies because they are ladies. We can also be identified by our propensity to remove our hats when entering a building. I have not the foggiest idea why we do this, but we do it. Gentleman, Mama told me, don't wear hats inside. It's called manners.

Other quaint mannerisms identify us. We always say, “Yes, Ma'am,” and “Yes, Sir.” It's manners. We never put our elbows on the table during a meal. We pull out the chair for women who are joining us at the table. There are certain events at which we think it proper to wear a proper coat, and, occasionally, a tie. Like I said, I'm a fossil. I was raised on manners.

I insist there are certain vestiages of the age in which I was raised society would be well-served to hold onto. That brings me to my recent outing.

It was a talent show for students at a middle school. It was a really big middle school. One grade probably outnumbers the entire population of a local middle school in my home county. That means, if you're going to be fair to all the students, the talent show is going to take hours.

Here begins my remarks on a quality that seems to have been lost somewhere in the abyss that exists between my generation and the one raising my grandchildren. To wit:

When the school provides a designated space for recording videos, one does not stand up when one is on the second row from the front to record, thereby blocking the view of several hundred. It's called manners. Be it known I don't drive eighty-five miles one way to hear two long sets of a hard rock band composed of teachers at a middle school student talent show. It's called manners. When one's own child is a performer in the talent show and one's own child has just completed their talent, has taken their bow, and the next child has just begun their rendition of the latest pop song, one does not begin to exit from the middle of the aisle, exclaiming loudly as one foot after another is stepped upon, “Excuse me. Excuse me.” It's called manners.

During the performance of any middle school child. one, who is chronologically an adult, does not answer one's cell phone and loudly discuss the latest acquisition of the company while my granddaughter is singing. It's called manners.

And finally, when one answers his cell phone while my granddaughter is singing, I do not confront him face-to-face. I talk about him behind his back, as is the case with this blog. It's called manners.

In the Room with David Blankenhorn and Jonathan Rauch, as Part of Krista Tippett's Civil Conversations Series on "On Being" from American Public Media

Stretching the Truth

I am not sure when this revelation of truth came to me. Perhaps it was in a dream; perhaps in a sudden revelation as I gazed upon the eternal vastness of the night sky; perhaps it was following some esoteric moment of revelation. Who knows; whatever the source the truth came tumbling down like the avalanche of incessant truth that here and there intrudes upon our collective consciousness. Whatever the source it came to me; it came to me in a flash of light; it came to me with the quickened process of revelation. I cannot deny it and neither can you.

I speak, of course, of that commonality which you and I, dear reader, possess. That strand of humanity that binds us together as brothers and sisters in the ever-evolving process of development as humankind., I speak, well, you know, dear reader of which I speak. I speak of our shared ability, our shared propensity for hedging the truth. Take note of that phrase, please: “Hedging the truth.” It is a synonym for lying. And we both(Don't even attempt to deny it.) are complicit in the deception. You and I, both, are consummate liars.

Herewith I present my evidence of your, and my, guilt:

Ring! Ring!

The phone echoes in the recesses of your mind. It takes a moment for you to ascertain what is happening. With a determined effort you pry open the lids of your eyes. The glow of the clock registers in an eerie glow, penetrating the darkness of your bedroom, six in the morning. You answer the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hi, this is your friend. Did I wake you?”

Now, dear reader, I need go no further. Everyone in your acquaintance knows that the sound of that phone waked you. But what do you say?

“No, I've been up for a while. What's up?”

That's a lie, my friend. You lied. You had not been up. Why didn't you just tell your friend to stop calling as such ungodly hours?

I know. You're going to tell me it's just a “little white lie.” True enough; I'll grant you that. Nevertheless, I feel I must ask you as I ask myself, why do we feel this compulsive need to tell folks they have not inconvenienced us when they have?

Here's another example.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello.”

“Hi, this if Francis. Hey, look, I know it's an inconvenience, but do you think you could give Cousin Franklin a ride to the doctor next Thursday. It would be a really big favor.”

Now at this point several things run through your mind. The first thing is how much of a grouch Cousin Franklin is. The second thing is that Francis' kids are all grown and have left home. The third thing is Francis doesn't have a job and sits at home all day long. But you don't mention those things; do you? You don't suggest that Francis get up from watching General Hospital and take Franklin to the doctor herself. You say, “Well, I suppose I could.”

Thanks for being a Samaritan; but you lied.

You can probably think of a hundred more times you stretched the truth. But I know the most consistent stretching of the truth you practice. It's on Sunday morning. You know when. You walk out of the church and say with a straight face, “I really enjoyed the sermon, Pastor.”

Birthrate by Religion

The Corner of LaVista and Oak Grove

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It Couldn't Be Said Better

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LIke A MIghty Turtle Moves the Church of God

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” asked the parson.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What A World We Live In

I started writing this in the customer lounge of a car dealership. It's oil change time on the trusted hybrid. What a world we live in.

I drove that hybrid over here and got some really exceptional mileage. And beyond the fact the mileage was terrific, there's the added benefit that I don't pollute as much as some of you. I read an article a few years back which stated you can put your nose up the tailpipe of my hybrid and take a deep breath and you would breath cleaner air than in most metropolitan areas. What a world we live in!

Arriving I pulled out my laptop computer, opened it, clicked on the control panel and clicked the right buttons to tell my computer to search for a wireless internet connection. Bingo. With one more click I was connected. I checked my email, answered a couple of them, deleted several more, and downloaded some needed information from others, placing the information in the designated files so I could deal with it later. Then I watched some news clips from the internet server news service. When I started my ministry down in rural Wilkes County, Georgia, we had one of those crank telephones that connected to the central operator, and then we told her who to connect us with so we could have a conversation, a conversation that might be monitored by any number of people on the same line. Now I can bring the whole world to my lap via this notebook size machine. What a world we live in!

Speaking of the phone. Now my phone is in my pants pocket. I no longer need to be home to get a call. You can reach me anywhere I am. You have to have my phone number. And since it's so easy to reach me no matter where I am you'll understand why I probably will not be giving you my phone number. And even those who do have my number may not get to talk to me. That's because this new phone I carry in my pocket also tells me who's calling before I answer the call. Which may explain to some of those who have my number why there was no answer when the called. What a world we live in!

The phone does a lot more than allow me to talk to folks. It also is a camera, a video recorder, a dictionary, a copy of the Bible, internet access device, GPS instrument that provides me a map on how to get from here to there virtually anywhere in the world, a weather forecast service, a stock exchange monitor, and other. I'm not sure about some of the other uses it has. My grandchildren haven't taught me how to use them. What a world we live in!

I decided to read the paper. I took another device from my pocket, called a Kindle. I flipped it on and there was the Atlanta Journal / Constitution's current edition. They don't deliver the AJC to our fair town anymore, but I get it electronically. And I can read countless other papers, magazines, and books. All of them are in the Kindle I carry in my pocket. What a world we live in.

When I returned home I noticed the new neighbor's car was in the carport. They moved in last week. I don't know their name. What a world we live in.