Questing Parson

"War Letters" from American Experience

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Birthrate by Religion

Reflections on My Church

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding Justice in the Criminal Justice System

Watch Fri., March 30, 2012 on PBS. See more from Need To Know.

Will We Ever Get There?

The parson drove home perplexed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Since 1830?” the parson asked.

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

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

“That's right.”

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

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

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

Ten steps forward and nine steps backward?

A Healthcare Promblem

Rick Santorum has given up his quest. That leaves only Mitt Romney and the rolly polly former Speaker from the congressional district to the west in the running. (Now, before you decide to send me an email about my description in the previous sentence of the body shape of Newt go Google a picture of him.) I realize I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm going to predict Governor Romney will get the nomination.

Pretty soon, President Obama and Governor Romney will be in a headlong marathon whose finish line in on a Tuesday in November. One of the big topics of debate, of course, will be health care. But neither will experience the health care frustration that is mine.

Here's the crux of that challenge: I'm entrusted with the responsibility of assisting my uncle to his many medical appointments. The interaction between my uncle and the doctor on these occasions usually go like this.

“Hello, how are things going?” the doctor will greet.

“Pretty good,” my uncle will reply, “for an old man.”

“Okay,” the doctor will respond. “Your blood pressure is good. You've lost a couple of pounds. I'm looking at the last lab tests and everything is progressing beautifully. This is good. Is there anything bothering you?”

“Well,” he'll say quickly, “there's this place on my arm.” He'll pull up his shirt sleeve and display his bicep, whereupon he'll point to what appears to be a large freckle. “Look at this. Do you think you should refer me to a specialist?”

“Let me see,” the doctor will say. And then he'll tell my uncle it's a natural by-product of aging. “We get spots like that as we grow older.” My uncle will state it looks “per-cancerous” to him. The doctor will offer to refer him to a dermatologist. My uncle will say he'd like that. It will be up to me to make the appointment.

I'm thinking back to my younger days. Old Doctor Massee, our family physician, didn't have benefit of the marvelous technological tools of today's medical practitioner. He used a stethoscope and probing fingers and knuckles to diagnosis. He kept us healthy despite his lack of modern equipment.

He had another unusual trait, however. He knew my name without having to glance down at my chart. Not only that, he knew my Little League batting average.

The modern doctor seldom uses his stethoscope; hardly ever probes with his fingers. He relies on his computer as he inputs the answers to his questions, and the lab work he regularly orders. And then he suggests a return visit in six months.

Now let me be clear. I did not attend medical school. I am not qualified to make a judgment upon the medical abilities of modern doctors. I scientifically do not know if this doctor or the one of my childhood is the better qualified.

There is one comparison I'm qualified to make. Back in the old days the waiting room experience, the probing fingers, and the discussion of how it might benefit me to choke up on the bat took about thirty minutes, forty tops.

I brought my uncle to his regularly scheduled appointment this morning. He was weighed and blood pressured at 11:30. It's now 1:10 and I'm still waiting for the doctor to walk in the door and say, “Hello, how are things going?”

A Bill Moyers' Moment ~ Howard Zinn on the Power of Ordinary People

Bill Moyers and Andrew Bacevich Discuss Changing Our Military Mindset

Strong Women, God Bless 'Em

I love women. Okay, there it is, right out in the open. I love women. Who can say when this love affair started? I honestly don't know.

Maybe it was Francis. Francis was that drop dead gorgeous babysitter my parents hired for my brother. Somehow they didn't think I was capable of taking care of my brother when I was twelve. He was five then. So, they hired Francis to babysit my brother. And I would watch Francis babysit my brother. And after she put my brother to bed I would watch Francis watching television. Did I mention Francis was drop dead gorgeous?

We moved from the town where Francis babysat my brother. When we moved I'd grown beyond my childish ways. Maybe the reason I love women has something to do with Kay. Kay lived up the street from me in the new town to which we moved. Kay was something else. Kay taught me the joys of swapping spit.

I'm going to detour from this history of my progression through the various stages of learning to appreciate women now. This blog carries a PG-13 rating. I'll just give you a quick snapshot. That snapshot acknowledges the obvious fact that the men and women of my generation are much better lovers than the generations that followed us. We were more practiced, more attentive, never in a hurry. We certainly should be. We spent ten years in foreplay.

It was the Women In the World Summit 2012, just recently ended, that prompted my journey back in time remembering, as Willie, said, “all the girls I've loved before.” Things have really changed since those days when Kay and I were coming of age. Women have truly come a long way.

I was fortunate to grow up in the family I did. In an age when women were perceived as mere appendages of their husbands, the women in my family actually ran the show. I don't think I realized that until I was in my thirties. I'm sure my late realization was a direct result of those women's unique ability to let the men in the family think they were in charge.

Mama, my grandmother, had a fourth grade education. When my grandfather died she carried on for thirty plus years, teaching us lessons we never learned in the universities we attended. My great aunt, Mama's sister, when her husband died kept the auto garage he owned, the largest in Atlanta, running with even more success than he enjoyed. Looking back on it I can't help but wonder how many city blocks of downtown Atlanta my aunt owned.

And then there was my mother. Mother's birthday was last week. I have to admit I didn't realize what day it was until I read the acknowledgment on my brother's Facebook page. (But, then again, Mother always did love him best.) [:-), brother]

My mother was a child of the 1920s, and I have no doubt that she and my Aunt Virginia danced until the dawn at the dance clubs of Atlanta. She was a beauty. She was confident. And she had this view of life, far ahead of her day, that gender should be no impediment to whatever one wanted to accomplish. Mother should have had daughters to offset the troubles my brother and I caused. Mother was to be respected. No, let me rephrase that: Mother demanded respect. My mother had no hesitation of engaging in a wrestling match, a real wrestling match, with any adolescent male ignorant enough to think she wouldn't whip his ass in front of his onlooking peers.

The Women in the World Summit, as I said, got me thinking about those genteel Southern ladies who shaped me. The women who are their children have excelled, one was in the first class of ordained women in the Church of England, and one a successful businesswoman. As for my brother and me, we were feminist long before someone trotted out the word.

It was a joy to see that parade of twenty-first century women speaking and being interviewed at the summit. It gives hope for the world. I can attest from personal experience that we're all better when we're nurtured and inspired by strong, liberated women.

I got a hint that the strong woman will continue in the next generation of our family the other day. I asked my granddaughter if her boyfriend was going to be at a family function. “That won't happen,” she told me. I asked her why. “Look,” she said, “I'm a fourteen year-old woman; harmones are raging in my body; I have enough dealing with my moods. I don't have the energy to deal with some male's moodiness.”

So here's the end of this rambling remembrance of strong women and my affirmation that we'll be better still as humans when women are finally treated as equals in every aspect of life.

Thanks Mother; thanks Mama; thanks Aunt Virginia. And watch out world, my granddaughters are headed your way!

 

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Watch live streaming video from womenintheworld at livestream.com

Things Are Looking Up

Onstage at TED2012, Peter Diamandis makes a case for optimism -- that we'll invent, innovate and create ways to solve the challenges that loom over us. "I’m not saying we don’t have our set of problems; we surely do. But ultimately, we knock them down.”