Questing Parson

Immigrants Should Learn the Language

The parson was indulging in a sin. He'd given in to the temptation on his way to pick up his monthly allotment of pills to keep his blood pressure down, his gout in check, his cholesterol within acceptable limits, and all the other stuff the various assortment of pills did. As he passed his favorite local eating place, Satan, perched on the parson's shoulder, whispered in his ear, “Old and senile preachers do not live by prescriptions alone; they must, occasionally, consume grease.”

In no time at all, the parson sat in a booth to the rear of the establishment, with a 'T-Bone Steak serving as a platter for three Sunnyside-up eggs, bordered by a generous helping of grits embracing a puddle of butter on the right, and a heaping pile of hash browns on the left. He relished his departure from his healthy pattern, enjoying every bite.

The parson looked around to see if anyone was looking, once the plate was empty except for the steak bone. He took the two half pieces of buttered toast and sopped the remaining yoke and juices from the plate. He'd just finished when Shirley, his server, approached. “Parson,” she said, “that fellow over there ordered a T-bone, too. I could wrap his and your bones up and you'd have one each for Charlie Brown and Princess Penny.” The parson thanked her for her kindness and waited for her to return.

Kenneth Hodges Pilgrim, III approached before Shirley could return. Kenneth Hodges Pilgrim, III, know officially as Bishop Pilgrim by the community, because of the self-bestowed title when he organized his independent Church of the Gathered Saints of Redemption. Bishop Pilgrim sat down without invitation.

He began to tell the parson of all the troubles besetting the community, most of which were resultant of people being separated from the intended communion with the Lord. The parson listened closely, trying hard to learn from the discussion.

In a booth to their left, a group was about to leave. They rose and, as they did, two men reached into their pockets. They spoke in Spanish. One said to the other, “I'll get the tip.” The other replied, “No, no, you are our guest; we'll get the tip also.” This was followed by a quick exchange which included, “It was good to see you again;” “Give my regards to your wife;” “I hope it won't be so long before we see each other again,” and such.

They walked away. Kenneth Hodges Pilgrim, III leaned toward the parson and said, “You know, you'd think if they were going to invade the country they'd learn the language.”

The parson rose and placed a tip on the table. They walked toward the register where the parson paid for his meal. Then they headed outside. As the sun struck their faces, the parson spoke. “Tell me, Kenneth, how do you say I'm an bigot in Cherokee?”

One Dollar A Day

It had been a good day for the parson. He rose early, dressed, whistled for Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, to rise from his bed and get started on the day. The squeak of the front door being opened roused Princess Penny, Charlie Brown's girl friend, from her snoring while reclining on the living room loveseat. Both canines began to prance in anticipation at the door as the parson donned his warm up jacket.

Down the street they went, the dogs sniffing out the trails of whatever creatures had wandered out of the forest the night before. Turning left they headed east toward the abandoned logging road that meandered up the foothill behind the parson's abode. Once at the dirt trail the parson began his trot up the hill and into the forest, trot being a descriptive word as the parson's seven plus decades of life encumbered a once-remembered run. At the top of the hill the parson followed the trail back down the foothill toward his house. Charlie Brown and Princess Penny were not in sight, but experience said they were nearby. Arriving at the house winded and sweaty the parson beheld both canines waiting on the porch, tails wagging.

The parson stripped down in preparation for the shower. He stepped on the scales. Ba-Da-Boom!! Two pounds less than this time last week! He showered and dressed as he sang the Doxology to the tune of Chim Chim Cher-ee. Next stop was the study. There he spent the day, staying on task, until next Sunday's bulletin was almost completed, the sermon almost done, and needed emails answered. He felt good.

The late afternoon and early evening were spent delivering meals to the homebound in the community. Charlie Brown and his sweetheart accompanied him as those they visited delighted in the wagging tails.

Back home, the parson settled down to some entertainment. Powering up the computer he brought up Hulu. A feature caught his eye. “Living On One Dollar” the title read. The parson clicked on it and became entertained, delighted, and disturbed.

The documentary traced the journey of four friends in their twenties headed to rural Pena Blanca, Guatemala, with only a video camera and fifty-six dollars where they lived for fifty-six days. How do 1.1 billion people in the world live on less than one dollar a day? The young friends found out. Their video documentary reveals the hardships, the smiles, the hospitality, the openness, the willingness and desire to learn, the dreams, and the disappointments of these children of God, who despite their poverty, welcome the stranger, share abundantly from their meager portions, and make one wonder how we let the world remain in this condition.

When the program ended, the parson wrote a blog, encouraging everyone to watch the documentary, “Living On One Dollar,” and then encouraging everyone to go to Kiva and help change this situation.

Living In the Neighborhood

There's something special about Boston. It's streets shout of history. In one block you come across John Adams' grave; a few more over and there's a marker about Paul Revere. A few blocks more and you're at the docks where the original America Tea Party convened. In a talk to the grieving citizens last week, Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick made reference to America being invented there.

There's something special about Boston. It's not just the history. It's the sense that, despite the sky scrapers towering over the Old West Church where the phrase “No taxation without representation” was first uttered, and casting their shadows on the Park Street Church where William Lloyd Garrison gave his first anti-slavery speech, despite the little plaque in the circle of cobblestones at the intersection of Devonshire and State Streets, marking the site of the Boston Massacre, to walk these hallowed streets is to walk through a neighborhood.

There's something special about Boston. Boston's a big city, but the feeling one gets there is of being at home and among neighbors. No wonder just a hop and a skip across Boston Common you'll find a little restaurant nestled in the basement of a building with a familiar sign above the steps reading, Cheers. You've heard of that establishment, the place where everybody knows your name. It should be located in Boston, because Boston is a neighborhood, a place where you wish you knew the name of all these cousins of the Revolution.

Maybe it's because I've walked those streets, partaken of a little food and beverage at that basement restaurant, walked the planks of the USS Constitution moored in the harbor, and soaked up the spirit of that place, I was so horrified when the bombs went off on Massachusetts Patriot Day holiday. Somebody had dared to mess with the neighborhood.

We'll never know what really motivated those boys to turn upon their adopted country. We will never fully understand the rage that possesses a mind bent upon such cruel indiscriminate destruction. Indeed those who possess such a mind are incapable themselves, no doubt, of comprehending the fury within them. But what we do know is that whenever anyone comes into the neighborhood bent upon destruction all they can ever hope for is a moment of panic, a time of mourning, an agonizing wondering of why. But that's all they can hope to wreck upon us.

Boston you see is a neighborhood. America is a neighborhood. And it is not always a completely harmonious neighborhood. After all, that strange Mr. Snodgrass who never speaks lives down the street. And Ms. Sourface doesn't particularly like the kids playing in the street. But we live in a neighborhood. And in a neighborhood neighbors act differently than the purveyors of evil may suspect.

In a neighborhood doctors, who after running twenty-six and two-tenths miles, run two more miles to be at the emergency room when the casualties arrive. In a neighborhood the shocked take but a moment to recover from the shock and then jump the barriers into the carnage of blood and severed limbs. In a neighborhood neighbors rip off their shirts to use as tourniquets to save lives. In a neighborhood people shelter strangers from around the world dazed by the atrocity.

As long as we are inhabitants of the neighborhood the horrors such as we witnessed in Boston last week result only in bringing out the best in us. 

Paying With A Smile

Congrats to everyone, well, almost everyone. There are a gold bricks among us.

I don't know about you, but I get a sense of satisfaction every year about this time. It's just good to know you've done your part, contributed to the greater good, fulfilled your civic duty.

It's the one thing that binds us together, all of us. It's the one thing we all have in common. Most other things in life come to some but now all. Not everyone serves on juries, not everyone can be part of the military, not everyone is able to go to college, not every one gets married, and not everyone has children; gracious, not everyone has a good job, a supportive family. In fact is there anything in life that is universally shared?

Yes, there is. There is that one thing. Each of us share the privilege, the honor, the and, yes, the obligation of paying our taxes. And each of us has now done it for another year. There are some, I'm aware, who haven't shared yet. They're the ones that filed an extension, but that extension is a statement of the intention participating.

Oh, I admit, sometimes when I look at what I'm obligated to pay I realize that Warren Buffet's secretary and I have a lot in common. And sometimes when I look at my bank balance and compare that to the amount due on that tax form, I find my resolve tested that this exercise in citizenship is an honor and privilege. And there are those times, when I compare my percentage of income paid to the percentage of income paid by people who live in houses so big they have to email the kids to tell them dinner is ready, I get absolutely frustrated over the whole issue.

On the whole, however, I'm reasonably pleased with this paying of taxes. I'm pleased, like most people, I have some selfish interests. I'm happy to pay taxes because I like that center line on the highway that keeps the idiot drivers on their side of the road. Fact is, I'm pleased to be driving on a paved road. I don't mind paying taxes because a bit of those federal and state taxes find their way into the local schools, assuring the future of those who come behind me. I honored to pay the taxes because I think those who protect our nation should have decent money and a lot more benefits.

There are a lot of reasons I pay the taxes with a smile on my face. The largest of these is it's the dues owed for the privilege of living in this nation. I don't mean I tap dance all the way to the post office to mail those checks, but I don't carry a grudge along with them inside my briefcase.

I must add I do have some concerns about those checks I gladly mailed. I'm pretty sure they will be deposited promptly. I'd like that government to know while I gladly pay the taxes I expect something in return. I expect my representatives to treat those dollars for what they are: My investment in my country.

As long as those Congresspersons and Senators and state legislators remember that it's my investment and not their expense account, I'll start now putting aside gladly what I expect to contribute next year. And I'll pay those taxes again next year with the same smile.

A Civics Lesson

Lucius Didn't Vote

“The Voting Rights Act of 1964 is a landmark piece of national legislation in the United States that outlawed discriminatory voting practices that had been responsible for the widespread disenfranchisement of African Americans in the U.S.

“Echoing the language of the 15^th Amendment, the Act prohibits states from imposing any 'voting qualification or prerequisite to voting, or standard, practice, or procedure … to deny or abridge the right of any citizen of the United States to vote on account of race or color ….'” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voting_Rights_Act)

The Act is before the United States Supreme Court. Reading about the challenge to the Act and some remarks of certain Justices of the Supreme Court, I found my mind wandering back to Lucius.

Lucius was my friend for several years, those years between the eighth grade and the time I got my driver's license.

Lucius didn't live in my neighborhood. He lived in a neighborhood off the main road about a mile north of my neighborhood. The streets in my neighborhood were paved; the streets in Lucius' neighborhood were dirt. The lawns in my neigborhood were manicured and green with grass. The lawns at Lucius' neighborhood were dirt. My house was brick. Lucius house was a weatherd board frame structure that didn't seem big enough to accommodate Lucius and his siblings.

Lucius didn't ride my school bus. He rode another bus. Lucius didn't go to my school. Though we were the same age and lived only a mile from each other, Lucius went to another school on the other side of the county. I used to bring a lot of books home to do my homework. Lucius didn't bring any books home. Back then, naïve as I was, I thought that was because he was so smart.

Lucius' daddy shopped at the big department where my grandfather shopped. My grandfather used to take me there when he went shopping. And on occasion, Lucius and I would be there at the same time. We'd hang out together while my grandfather and his daddy would do their shopping. We'd hang out, that is, until one of us had to go the bathroom. We couldn't use the same bathroom. In fact, we couldn't drink from the same water fountain either. There was a law against it.

We were too young back then to talk much about politics. So, I don't recall ever asking Lucius who he'd vote for when Eisenhower was running for President. Looking back on it, I doubt Lucius would have been that interested. After all, no body in his family could vote.

Gracious, that was a lifetime ago. And that's the point, it was my lifetime ago. And while I'm a senior citizen to be sure, it wasn't that long ago.

I wish I knew what happened to Lucius. I'd love to ask him about his opinion of the Voting Rights Act.

Presidents Day

It's Presdents Day. Other than it's a holiday for government workers and you can't do any business at the bank, it's not all that big a deal. But, then again, the day is to honor our Presidents, so it ought to get a bit of our attention.

I'm not in the mood to test myself right now, but there was a time when I could recite the names of all the Presidents in order, their dates of office, and their political party. I had this college professor who didn't think one should have a liberal arts degree without such knowledge.

You can learn lots of interesting things about our forty-four Presidents by surfing the web. Did you know that George W. Bush has the most autographed baseballs of all the Presidents? Yep, he has 250 of them. Did you know his Dad, President forty-one, crashed four planes in World War II.

Of the first five Presidents, three of them died on July 4^th. And Calvin Coolidge was the onlyPresident born on July 4^th. President Grant is the only President known to have gotten a speeding ticket. He was fined $20 because his horse and carriage were going too fast. James Madison was only five foot four inches and weighed less than 100 pounds while President Taft weighed 332 pounds.

President Martin van Buren was the first President born an American citizen. And Andrew Jackson was the first President to ride a train. One has to wonder how John Tyler found time to be President. The man sired fifteen kids. President Zachary Taylor never voted in a Presidential election.

President Herbert Hoover and his wife spoke Chinese to each other when they didn't want others to know what they were saying. Thomas Jefferson's gravestone does not mention he was President. John Adams was the defense attorney for the British soldiers who participated in the Boston Massacre. President Harding lost a set of White House china. He bet it while gambling. Harry Truman read every book in his hometown library.

President Lyndon Johnson was once an automobile mechanic. Gerald Ford hosted his daughter's high school prom at the White House. President Jimmy Carter was the first President born in a hospital. James Garfield could write with both hands at the same time in two different languages. Rutherford B. Hayes was the first President to use a telephone. His phone number was One.

It's amazing that this country has elected forty-four Presidents and that each of them has quietly relinquished power to the next one. It's also amazing that the ones who served more than four years did so. Who would want the job after the stress of the first four years.

I'm old enough to remember sitting by the radio, the large console radio, listening to Franklin Roosevelt's fireside chats. And I've survived into a age when through the power of the internet a President can personally contact virtually every person in the country. Twelve Presidents have served in my lifetime; that's almost a third of all the Presidents. Some of the Presidents were great; some thought they were great but turned out to be otherwise. Some got my vote; some didn't. Some fooled us all by rising above expectations. Some were less than expected.

From Washington to Obama the parade of Presidents has made this nation what it is. And so, deservedly each of us should say, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

Coordinating the Relief Effort

The parson's phone rang. He quickly pulled the dish towel from his belt, wiped his hands, and answered.

“Parson,” came the voice of a nearby pastor in the parson's denomination. “You holding up okay?”

The day before the area of Northwest Georgia in which the parson lived had been hit by a devastating tornado. The storm had wrecked havoc to the area around the parson's church. The nearby public school campus, hosting an elementary, a middle, and a high school, had been missed by the tornado's funnel by only fifty yards. Miraculously, no one in the parson's county had died, but the destruction was massive.

“I'm doing good,” the parson replied. “How about you?”

“I'm a bit frustrated, to tell you the truth,” said the pastor.

“Frustrated about what?” the parson asked.

“The lack of response.”

“The lack of response; what are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about our denomination. I haven't seen one single representative of our denomination in the area assessing the damage and preparing to move in to assist.”

“What exactly do you want them to do?” the parson asked. He didn't mention that a representative of the denomination's disaster relief team had called within an hour of the tornado touching down.

“Well, I would think they'd get up here an coordinate the relief effort. How are we to know what to do unless they get up here and direct things?”

The parson didn't say anything.

“You know, Parson, I'm seriously thinking about getting in my car and riding down to the headquarters and ask them when they're going to tell us how they want this relief coordinated.”

The parson didn't respond.

“I was wondering if you'd like to go with me. Some of those folks know you. They might listen to you.”

“Actually, I'm not able to go right now,” the parson explained. “I'm a little tied up.”

“With all due respect, Parson. What are you doing that's more important than getting someone to coordinate this relief effort?”

“Well,” the parson said as he adjusted the apron tied about his waist, “I'm at my church. We're preparing lunch for the relief workers and volunteers.”

What I Saw Last Friday

The following is my newspaper column that will be published on Wednesday, February 6th.

It seemed like a good day to me. It was overcast; it was a bit chilly, maybe not too chilly for most folks but I'm a senior citizen who takes blood thinners; it was chilly. I rose early and took my two cannines for a walk around the Quik Trip down in Adairsville. Once they were worn out, did I mention I'm in exceptional shape for a senior citizen, I directed them back into the car. And then I headed inside to purchase my daily cappucino fix.

After a quick detour to the Adairsville Post Office to mail a letter (Why does a letter mailed in Adairsville arrive at its destination one day sooner than when mailed in Calhoun?), I headed to the pharmacy to pick up a prescription. On the way to the grocery store I mentally planned my gourmet delicacy for the evening. And then it was back home again.

The faithful cannine companions followed me inside and each headed to his perspective sleeping place. Prescription and groceries put away, I pulled out the vacuum cleaner, plugged it in, hit the own switch. In a display of unity both dogs jumped up, turned, and headed to the door. I paused the machine and let them out. In no time at all the place was back to reasonable order and cleanliness.

Out on the front porch a glance showed it was still overcast; it was still somewhat chilly, but not as much as earlier. With the exception of the sun's absence it was a turning into a nice day. And then it happened.

My smart phone rang. I answered to hear a warning from the Storm Warning System. The description did not sound good. I walked back to the porch. I looked south toward the area the warning indicated. I saw nothing. But it was there. And then it happened again.

My phone rang. “Dad, are you okay?” I told her I was. I asked her why she was calling. “A tornado just went through Adairsville; they said it's headed your way.” I told her I was okay. I headed back inside and checked the news. And then I heard it, “Farmville,” and “Sonoraville.”

I whistled up the dogs, opened the back door of the car; they jumped in. Toward Farmville I headed. I couldn't get there. The traffic was backed up for miles. I took a detour. It didn't help. The traffic was backed up for miles. The phone rang. A church member who'd been across the street from the Sonoraville schools when the tornado went by gave me a report. There was nothing I could do that day. I headed home.

Friday I headed back toward the destruction. I was able to drive through the most damaged areas. The power of a tornado is indescriable to someone who's never seen one. Down in Adairsville amid all the damaged buildings and vehicles one of those two foot diameter steel poles that holds a billboard was bent like a twig. Down Highway 53 near Plainview Road houses were gone.

It was depressing. It was until I saw something. Everywhere I looked people were helping. Cutting limbs, combing through debris, preparing food, giving comfort. Asking, over and over, if there was anything they could do. There was. And they did it, willingly, gladly.

Despite the terrible destructive power of a tornado the one thing it cannot destroy is humans being truly human.

Yesterday's Tornado

Here's a picture, taken by one of my church members, of the tornado that came through our parish yesterday. In this picture it is passing just behind a campus of elementary, middle, and high school, where thousands of kids were hunkered down. This picture is about 3/4 mile from the church.

Amazingly, there were no deaths in our county (one in the county that borders us to the south). Thank the Lord it missed the schools.