Questing Parson

Secular Preaching?

The parson was selecting some choice meats for the week's groceries. As was his custom he scoured the meats first, looking for values. Once the values were chosen he headed to the produce section where he'd round out his menu planning for the week. Produce was the challenge for the parson. Choice meats could be sliced up and frozen for several day's consumption. Fresh vegetables usually had to be purchased in quantities that did not lend themselves to freshness at week's end. It was the challenge for a widower living alone.

The parson had made his selections, had wandered up and down the aisles selecting the items needed to round out his week's menu, and was now browsing the beverage section in search of some Alice White Australian and Robertson South African wines. As he puzzled for another time over the reasoning behind the store's place of the various wines on the shelves, he heard a voice.

“Parson, what are you doing on this aisle?”

The parson turned to see Freddie Chambers, pastor of the Gird Thy Loins From Sin Lest You Fail to Obtain Celestial Glory Church of the Blessed Redeemed, looking at him with a puzzled look on his face.

“Ah, Freddie, I'm on this aisle because I'm looking for a nice red wine to compliment the pasta with asparagus sauce I'm planning to cook tonight.”

“You drink, Parson?” asked Freddie.

“Sometimes I do,” the parson replied. “Sometimes I use a funnel.”

Immediately the parson realized Freddie didn't get the joke. He decided to drop it but was now conflicted as to whether to direct his full attention to Freddie or to continue looking for the distinctive Alice White label. Freddie helped guide him out of his dilemma.

“Parson, you fascinate me. You know, here you are on the wine aisle of the church, and I know that a couple of days ago you were at one of the Rome Braves game. My nephew said he saw you there. I read your column in the newspaper and you mentioned that you spent time hiking at Cloudland Canyon State Park. I also know you're taking time off to go to Alaska. I don't understand how you can spend so much time in secular activities and still preach the gospel every Sunday.

The parson hesitated in his answer, not because he was at a loss for an answer but because his eyes had just zeroed in on the distinctive teardrop bottle of a Robertson wine.

“It's called preaching from life's experiences, Freddie.”

“Well, I prefer to spend my time in communion with the Lord in my study each day,” said Freddie.

“You're much more lucky than I,” the parson responded. “God seems to have chosen not to inhabit in my study.”

The Plants Have Been Watered

7:30 a.m.

The parson arrived at the church. He headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of cappuccino, and, having completed that task, went to his study to make an attempt at organizing his day. On arriving at the study he realized he'd forgotten to bring the power cord to the laptop. Knowing there was another one in the media room he headed through the sanctuary to retrieve the cord from the room at the rear of the worship area.

Walking back to his study he noted the plants on the stands in the chancel were looking more than a little fatigued. He headed to the kitchen again, filled a pitcher with water and returned to the sanctuary where he watered the plants.

9:00 a.m.

The parson was at entering a meeting about a coming event in the community when he got a text from a member reading: “Parson, I was at the church and noticed the plants in the sanctuary were in real need of watering. I took care of it. Have a good day.” The parson did not give  much thought to the text and headed to his meeting.

11:00 a.m.

The parson was back at the church for a counseling session with someone. Following the session he left the church while the person who had sought the counseling remained to meet about a children's program at noon. About noon, the parson answered his cell phone. “Hi, Parson, it's me. Look I'm sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing but I thought I should tell you I watered the plants in the sanctuary.

The parson expressed his thanks, mentally filed this information somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and continued toward the hospital which was his next destination.

3:00 p.m.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Parson, this is Wanda. I came by to clean the church. Those plants in the sanctuary looked a bit down on their luck so I watered them. Look, I know that Rhonda Milford likes to take care of the plants. But, gracious, she needs to do a better job. I went ahead and watered them.

It was around 5:00 p.m. The parson was sitting on the sofa contemplating the various possibilities of gastronomic delights he could create for himself. Suddenly, out of nowhere the parson's brain brought to the forefront the many calls about the plants.

“Come on, Charlie Brown,” said the parson. “We need to go to the church.”

7:45 p.m.

The parson finally rose from his knees in the chancel of the church. He took the soggy towel and placed it along with the dozen or so others in the bucket. Picking up the bucket he headed to the kitchen to ring them out and take them home to launder.

“Well, Charlie Brown,” the parson commented, as his faithful canine companion jumped in the backseat where the bucket of wet towels were on the floor, “those plants should look really fresh come Sunday morning.”

Lies I've Heard and Told

As I’ve passed through this life, it occurs to me everything I’ve been told as well as everything I’ve said was not necessarily the truth. For example:

Wait in this room. The doctor will be here in just a few minutes.

This is going to hurt me more than it does you.

This is not the end. We’ll always be friends.

That was an inspiring sermon.

What a beautiful anthem, choir.

Oh, yes! We’ll definitely keep in touch.

I’ll be brief with my last point.

I always try to finish my sermon by Wednesday.

No! That dress does not make you look fat.

She has a wonderful personality.

Someday, you’ll thank me for this.

Clinical Pastoral Education will be one of the most exciting experiences of your life.

Well, we’re going to get back in the habit of going to church right after the summer activities.

If you can’t pay today I’m not going to worry about it.

If you’ll sit on top of the churn the ice cream will freeze faster.

I’m not going to tell you again.

It’s easy to get there; you can’t miss it.

We’ll keep in touch.

I was just resting my eyes.

Your grandfather is going to be mad at you.

If you play with frogs you’ll get warts.

You’ll get over it.

I know exactly how you feel.

I’ll never forget you.

I’m not in it for the money.

The church we’d like to send you to is a perfect match for you.

What a surprise! I’m so glad to see you.

We’d love for you to come back and visit. Come anytime.

You haven’t changed a bit.

Oh, it was nothing. I was delighted to do it.

That color looks wonderful on you.

No! The solo was beautiful. Why would you think you were flat?

Don’t worry about them. Kids don’t bother me.

We don’t watch much television.

That casserole was simply delicious.

I didn’t mean to call so early.

It’s just like riding a bicycle.

Your mother’s coming over. That’s wonderful, darling.

You can’t fool me.

I wouldn’t think of it.

Your roots? I never noticed.

Nice people don’t lie.

My mama didn’t raise no fool.

As long as it gets me there, I don’t care what kind of car I drive.

The light was yellow, officer.

Oh, no! I don’t mind working late.

I did the best I could.

I’ve just gotten used to the snoring.

Any time is fine with me.

I don’t mind paying taxes. It’s my duty.

No one ever found happiness just sitting around and rocking.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

I’ll whip you within an inch of your life.

Your brother adores you.

God didn’t make any ugly people.

You shouldn’t hit your sister.

I don’t have the time.

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?”

Essential For A Purpose

It was June 23rd, 1965. It was the day before I was to leave to become pastor at my first parish. (You can do the math if you want to determine how long I've been trying to get this right.) The Reverend Clyde Calloway, pastor of my home church, had asked me to stop by his office that afternoon. I did.

Strange that I would think of Clyde now. Thinking of him was kindled by a memory of another pastor. That pastor was no where as accomplished or charming as Clyde. I'm sure someday he will be. But when I encountered him two years ago, he was four months into serving his first church. Let me describe him to you. He was naïve.

On that day I stopped by Clyde's office I was naïve also; I was really in the dark about what constituted being a pastor. But I didn't know it though. Back then, on that day before I left for my first church, I assumed I'd arrive there and do what pastor's do. I'd preach; I'd baptize babies; I'd marry endearing young couples who stared at each other in unbridled affection. I'd visit the sick; I'd visit the shut-in; I'd drop by the nursing home and pray with people by their hospital bedside.

That's what pastors do, right? Well, it is what pastors do. But it's not all that pastors do. Most pastors have to deal with things you'd never expect. And that brings me to why I mentioned that on June 23rd, 1965, I found myself in the office of Clyde Calloway.

Now understand that, even though I'd never served a church, even though I was unfamiliar with the inter workings of the denomination, I knew that Clyde Calloway was one powerful preacher. When Clyde spoke people listened. I was a reasonably intelligent young man. I was ready to hear any advice Clyde gave, to walk in any direction he pointed. I was willing to do that because, despite the fact I'd given my life to service, I was not without ambition.

Clyde educated me that day. He brought me into reality. He told me he wanted to give me two presents. So we went into his office. He sat behind his desk and pointed me to the chair opposite. I sat. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a package that was gift wrapped with fancy paper and ribbon. At his direction I opened the package. From it I withdrew a leather bound Bible. On the bottom right of the cover, engraved in gold lettering, was my name. It was the first time I'd seen “Reverend” proceeding my identity.

I thanked him profusely. And we talked a bit more. Eventually, Clyde worked the conversation around to reminding me he had another present. When I acknowledged I remembered he said there were two gifts, he reached under his desk and brought out another gift wrapped package. It was a little over a couple of feet long and a five inch wide rectangular shape. I was curious. I opened the package.

Imagine my surprise at withdrawing a plumber's helper with my name burned into the handle, once again with the adjective “Reverend”. I looked at Clyde in confusion. He smiled, and said to me: “You're a smart young man with a good United Methodist education. You're going to discover that you might be able to get by without that Bible.”

When Spring Comes

As I write this the sun is shining brightly, yet the temperature is moderate. The wind and sun have partnered to make a perfect day. Previous rains nourished the grass pushing its green green color up in a close race with equally nourished weeds.

A male cardinal sits outside the window, perched on the wooden frame that holds the bird feeder. He's looking at me. The feeder's almost empty. My brother's a retired federal fish and wildlife enforcement officer. He tells me not to feed the birds in spring and summer. He's got a gun. I bow to his informed wisdom.

The rains have washed the yellow pollen coating from the red car. The air's clear of the allergy causing dust, having been cleansed also by the rains.

My neighbor is shooting hoops with his three children in the street. Another neighbor from the other end of the street just flew by on his skate board.

The young red tailed hawk who last year claimed dominion of the skies over my house just passed by, traveling the silent air currents. His new mate flies beside and a a bit behind. I wonder if she's pleased with her new digs. She sure seems pleased with him.

Spring has sprung in Georgia. The only thing standing between me and a glorious five months of delightful weather is Blackberry Winter. It only lasts a couple of days, a brief reminder to be grateful for what is to come. Knowing it's the harbinger of summer I'll welcome those few days of chill, embracing them for the promise they are.

The rain of which I spoke lasted two days. But the days prior were also clear and sunny, warm but not hot, a call to get up and get going. I did.

An amazing thing happened. The lawnmower cranked on the second pull on the rope. I was off. Back and forth across the lawn, leaving that neat trail of evenly trimmed grass, the mark of a true yard man, to form a pattern a well tended and truly cared for yard.

I paused at the end of the cutting. There was a bit of ache in the small of my back, a feeling, I hope, not uncommon to others my age. But it was only a bit of an ache. There was more to be done. The flower beds needed weeding.

Is it just me or have you also noticed that hoes gain weight with little use? Funny, I wasn't that conscious of the weight until I'd been at it a half hour. Is it just me or have you also noticed the length of flower beds also multiplies with disuse? The day was almost done by the time I got to the end of that bed.

The next day I awoke with a bit of an ache in the lower back. Well, it wasn't a bit; it was more than that. But with thirty minutes in a scalding shower it minimized. I set out on my appointed rounds to do the things that needed to be done. I returned home mid afternoon.

The vegetable bed needed tilling. Amazingly, the tiller cranked on the third pull. I bounced along behind it until I finished.

The next day it rained. It's the day after the rain and I'm looking out the window. I'm inside looking out the window because I'm so sore I just can't get up from this sofa.

The Devil Made Me Do It

The day began well for the parson. He rose before the sun, showered and shaved, popped his pills, all his pills have kept his heart ticking since the surgery, dressed and then called out to Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion. Together they bounded down the front steps and, with an agility that betrayed the parson's age, headed toward the car.

Ten minutes later the parson and Charlie Brown were making their daily trek around the outskirts of the Quik Trip, America's Premiere Convenience (and in this case truck stop) Store. After their circumnavigation of the facility, Charlie Brown jumped onto the backseat of the car and assumed his waiting position while the parson headed inside to purchase his daily dose of cappuccino. In a few moments the parson jumped back in the car and the two headed back to the house.

Once there the computer was retrieved from the study. They headed toward the church. There the parson began working with focused attention on the matters at hand. He made notes on how he wanted to approach Sunday's sermon. He made phone calls to several members and answered a phone call from someone who wanted to interest him in joining an effort to make Christians of the Jews. The parson responded that as soon as he and his members learned to act like Christians he'd give the fellow a return call.

Two-thirds through the morning, the couple showed up for their scheduled counseling session. It was a breakthrough time. Both of them came to a better understanding of the issues that were stumbling blocks to their relationship. They left with a new commitment and a promise they'd keep coming back for a while.

When the left the parson and Charlie Brown headed back to the house. Once there the parson did not deviate from his dogged pursuit of accomplishing the goals for the day. He worked tirelessly and without distraction on the bulletin for the Sunday morning service. It was almost completed around 2:00. The parson was feeling good. He'd been so focused he'd forgotten lunch. But he didn't want to break. This was a good day. Things were happening.

And then it happened. The Devil appeared. The Devil at 2:23 in the afternoon arrived at the parson's house. He drove up in a United Parcel Service truck. He approached the parson's door in a UPS person's uniform. He handed the parson a package. The parson signed the little device the Devil held out. The Devil turned and walked away. Wait, was he chuckling?

The parson returned inside. He opened the package. It was the parson's new Kindle Fire. The chuckle of the Devil in the UPS uniform echoed in the parson's mind.

He sat. He unpacked the device. He plugged it in and let it charge while he set upon a quest to discover the way to utilize all it's functions without having to call any of his grandchildren. He browsed the various magazines available. He looked through the library. He explored the “Cloud” feature where he could store music. The device was so easy to use. Without realizing how competent he was with his new found technical toy, the parson was soon listening to Brandi Carlile serenade him through the earphones with her composition “Dreams.” And the parson was caught up in the dream. Before he knew it he had downloaded Robert Price's The Incredible Shrinking Son of Man, How Reliable Is the Christian Tradition.

Charlie Brown interrupted the parson's reading with a bark at the front door. The parson rose and let Charlie Brown outside. As he started to close the door it seemed like he could hear once again the chuckle of the Devil dressed in a UPS uniform. He ignored it, plopped himself on the sofa and began reading once again as the earphones now eased his day with the sound of Linda Ronstadt's For Sentimental Reasons album. The parson continued reading until Charlie Brown barked again.

He rose and opened the door for Charlie Brown. There it was again: that distinctive sound of the Devil in the UPS uniform chuckling. The parson looked over at the clock. “Oh, my goodness, Charlie Brown,” he said. “It's suppertime. Where did the time go.” Again that devilish chuckle sounded in his head. “Come on, I'll get you something to eat.” The parson fed Charlie Brown and then fed his Charlie Brown's three wild feline friends who wandered out of the woods every day about this time and who, occasionally, could be seen cuddled against Charlie Brown's tummy as he napped in the afternoon sun.

The parson then fixed some food for himself and ate it as he skimmed through the Kindle Fire's User Guide. He'd grown tired of that exercise about the time he finished eating. The dishes were stacked in the sink. He filled the sink with water and decided to wait a while to wash them. He wanted to check out the video feature.

The parson noted there were some free videos because he was an Amazon Prime Member. He looked through the video library. Interesting. Suddenly the voice of the Devil in the UPS uniform entered the parson's abode. He whispered in the parson's ear. “You really ought to check to see in the quality of those videos is as good as advertised.” That sounded reasonable.

The parson noted that one of the free movies was “The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.” He'd seen the movie twice already. Even though it was one of his favorite movies in a while he noticed that it was over two hours long. He had to write a column for the local newspaper and a blog. “You spent a lot of money on this device,” said the voice. “You should check these videos out.”

The parson watched Noomi Rapace portray Lisbeth Salander in her struggle from victim to protagonist. He enjoyed every minute of it as for the third time he followed the plot to the same conclusion as was there the two other times he'd seen the movie and the time he read the book. When the movie was concluded, the parson had decided he liked his Kindle Fire.

He looked up at the clock. It was 11:30. Oh gracious, he had to get to work. And then that voice whispered again, “How do you know “The Girl Who Played With Fire” is as good a quality as the other one.

The parson decided there was no reason he had to write a blog every day.

The Best Thing About the Fair

Funny thing about the smoke from the grill. You know what I'm talking about. No matter which way the wind blows, the smoke heads straight for your face. So it was the other night at the Northwest Georgia Regional Fair.

The parson had been trusted with the responsibility to cook to their maximum deliciousness the hamburgers to be served. It was a sacred trust. He had accepted it with confidence. All those years standing beside his dad as the smoke danced about their heads and the patties sizzled below would not be wasted. To his competent hand was now entrusted the awesome responsibility. The parson was the hamburger chef.

The grill was large, really large. More than a dozen hamburgers could be cooked at a time. Thus was necessitated the ability to ignite just the right amount of charcoal. Too little and those waiting the opportunity to sample the beef find their order too rare, too unappetizing. Too much and the flattened meat becomes similar in appearance to an aged hockey puck. And so it was with great care that over an hour earlier the parson, with the confidence of Gordon Ramsay, ignited the pile of charcoal, waited for the heat to spread so that each individual one glowed. And then the said burger patties had been placed one beside the other in neat symmetry to cooked into perfection.

Patience is a virtue, they say, and it's never more so than when waiting that precise moment when the burgers need be flipped. Patience is best exercised when seated with one's eyes off the prize. Consequently, the parson placed himself in one of the chairs near the grill, took a long sip of his drink, and watched the colored lights dance about the Ferris wheel across the way.

“Excuse me,” she said, “would you mind if I sat here a minute.”

“Not at all,” the parson said, as he motioned her toward the seat opposite his. And then he watched her move herself onto that seat, while noting she was of exceptional beauty. Once she was seated, the parson told her his name.

She nodded and smiled. “I'm Frieda. I know who you are. My Mom told me and she said it was okay if I sat here while she takes my little brother on some of the kiddie rides.”

“Well, welcome to you, Frieda,” the parson responded. “Can I get you something to drink.”

“That would be nice,” she said with a seeming grown-up assurance.

“Coke? Sprite? Dr. Pepper? Tea?”

“Dr. Pepper, please,” she said as she stood in front of the seat and pushed her hand into her jeans pocket. “How much does it cost?”

“Oh, this is my treat,” said the parson. She thanked him and sat back down.

Returning, the handed her the drink and sat beside her. He noted she'd been watching the lights dance about the wheel as had he. “Have you ridden it?” he asked.

She said she had. And so he asked, “Is it or some other ride your favorite thing about the fair?”

“No, sir,” she said. “Actually, I've ridden all the rides here, except the kiddie ones, of course. And, I really think sitting here is my favorite thing at the fair.”

“Well, sitting here might not be as exciting as some of the rides.”

“I know,” she said. “But watching people is more entertaining. Just look at that man over there.”

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Searching For Home

Across the state the parson traveled. Two appointments, many miles apart, demanded his attention. Hours also separated the designated times, and, so, the parson indulged himself in detouring down memory lane.

On the way to the first matter of the day he detoured through an inner city neighborhood of the big city. On a particular street he slowed to a snail's pace to better observe two houses, side by side. In one, he'd lived with his grandmother and grandfather for the first years of his life. Next door his cousins had lived. The two houses combined to build a wonderful refuge of laughter and learning, play and maturing in an environment of love. The driveways of the houses were side by side, with one being a couple feet higher in elevation. Between the two were steps to advance from one to the other. The parson remembered the day the steps had been poured. He remembered the feel of the cold concrete as his grandfather and uncle pressed his and his cousin's feet into the substance. It was all he could do to not stop and walk up the drive to observe once again the inscriptions of happy childhood.

But he moved on, slowly toward the first appointment and past the church in which he grew up. When he joined the church it had been only two years off a two point circuit where two churches shared a pastor. Now the various buildings sprawled out across fifteen acres. A professional lawn service company was cutting the grass in the cemetery where the parson had once performed that task. the parson smiled at the realization he should have been remembering that here he preached his first sermon. Instead, his mind fixed on the memory that here he'd kissed Carole Memory.

His first meeting was at the Church of the Chosen Suburb. There he met with several pastors, most of whom were young enough to be his children, to discuss plans for an upcoming initiative to seek more support for a homeless ministry. The meeting over, the parson headed across the state to his second gathering.
He checked his watch to make sure he had time. Then he made another detour toward the place he'd lived before he and Ms. Parson had married. He and his, then, wife had found a delightful cabin in the woods in the shape of a barn. The entire second floor was one bedroom suite. The detour brought sadness. The once beautiful water garden the parson spent years building was grown over with weeds; the gutters were overflowing with leaves; there were signs of mold on the side of the cabin. The parson moved away, remembering a younger time when he'd spend hours per day renovating that place. Only the car in the drive evidenced the place was not abandoned.

One more detour on the way to the second appointment took the parson past a church he'd served for only six months. He'd filled in until the regular time for appointing pastors rolled around. As the parson slowed he noted that nothing had changed. Nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing had changed. Even the wording on the sign in front of the church was the same, the same as it had been two decades ago when he left.

The second meeting of the day was boring, boring, boring, The parson turned toward home with a vow to quit going to meetings. The parson decided to wash it away with another detour. This time the destination was to a church he'd served in his second year of ministry.

The parson passed through the county seat town and turned left on the highway leading north from it. He watched for the turnoff carefully. Everything seemed different. Finally, he decided on a particular road and headed down it. Miles and miles down the road he traveled. There was one more turn he needed take; it was to the right. It was to the right, wasn't it? The parson pulled over to the side of the road to think a minute. He headed back to the town, drove out on the highway again watching intently for the right road. He couldn't find it. Around and around the area he drove. Each incorrect brought back memories. Here, in this parish, his first child had been born. Here, at this church he sought, he'd experienced one of the more joyful ministries of his career. But the church had disappeared.

Finally, the parson stopped at a convenience store. He got a cup of cappuccino and, as he paid, asked the attendant about the church. “Oh, yeah,” said the attendant, “that church ain't there anymore. They closed it five or six years ago. Frank Brown bought the land and put that little strip mall on it. Yeah, that church ain't there anymore.”

The parson thanked the man, got back in his car, and pulled his seat belt on and spoke to his Garmon. “Voice Command.” Then he said, “Home.” The Garmon told him to turn right. He did.

About halfway there the parson thought to himself, “The only home you can go to is the one you experience in the now.”

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One Brief Shining Moment

It happened. It actually happened.

The parson, sitting in the passenger seat as his sixteen-year-old granddaughter drove the vehicle up Interstate 81 through rural Virginia, could not believe his eyes.

It was an unusual stretch of highway, as that part of Virginia is characterized by hills but this particular portion of the road was reasonably level. One could see far, far up the divided highway at the point where the flashing sign warned: Road work one mile ahead; right lane closed; merge left.

The traffic slowed but did not stop as is usually the case. As far as the eye could see, well before the cones forced the consolidation, vehicles were smoothly merging a mile ahead of the point of necessity. And the traffic flowed without interruption.

It was a parable of the cooperation of the human spirit. It was a proclamation that it is possible for all of us to live together, to respect each other, to invite each other into the fellowship of community. No tempers had flared. No horn had blared. It was a dance of mutuality.

There before the parson stretched that mile long single line of drivers, all of whom had left enough space for another to unite in the procession. It was inspiring. It was inspirational. It was a miracle.

And then the smart ass in the gigantic SUV went flying up the right hand lane until he reached the beginning of the cones whereupon he forced his way into a space not big enough for a VW. The mile long rank of cars were forced to stop. Traffic came to a standstill as he gave triumph to his sense of self-importance.

But, for a few moments, for a precious few moments, it looked like it was possible to live together in harmony.