Questing Parson

A Shared Calling

On a reasonably regular basis, the parson disappears. Well, he doesn't completely disappear, but it might as well be the case. On those scheduled times, a few sentences appear in the Sunday bulletin informing the congregation the pastor will be unavailable on a specific date and, in the case of an emergency, he can only be reached by contacting the Chairperson of the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee, who has the phone number of the place the parson's hiding. Charlie Brown, the parson's faithful canine companion, is dropped off at the vet's office where he spends the day. The parson then turns off his cell phone and heads toward the small church-related college twenty-five miles from the parson's church.

By mid-morning the parson was settled back in an armchair located in a corner of the library of the small church-related college tucked away in the foothills of the Blue Ridge mountains, book in hand, notebook and pen for notes resting on the chair's arm. The notebook already had scores of pages filled with notations. It was promising to be a good day of study and reflection.

“Excuse me,” she said in a hushed library tone, “you're the Parson, aren't you?”

The parson put the leaned forward, put the book on the coffee table, and said, “I am. Have we met?”

“Yes, we have,” she responded with enthusiasm. “My aunt is Geraldine Powers. I've visited your church with her two times.”

The parson now recognized having seen her at church, talking with her as she left, but for the life of him he couldn't place Geraldine Powers.

“Yes, I remember, how are you? I didn't know you were going to school here?”

“I enrolled in the fall. Since I decided to go into the ministry, I thought it would be better to go to a church school. Besides, I study a lot more here than I did at the university.”

“Well, I'm glad for you,” said the parson. “When did you decide to go into the ministry?”

She sat down in the chair which was ninety degrees to hers, then she leaned forward. “It was really a quiet thing. I mean, I didn't hear any voices or anything like that. I was just sitting in a chapel at a youth camp in Dahlonega, where I was on a weekend retreat. Something unusual happened. I just felt like I was in the presence of God and when I left that chapel I was headed for a life in the church.”

“Oh, my goodness,” the parson exclaimed. “I sat in that chapel when I was about your age, too. And here I am.”

“Cool,” she said. “Maybe we should form a 'Called at the Chapel' society.”

“Now, that sounds like a plan,” said the parson. “And from what I've learned over the years there would be a large membership.”

She smiled. She leaned back in her chair. “Can I ask you a serious question, Parson?”

“Sure,” said the parson.

“Why do you keep doing it?”

“Keep doing what?” the parson asked.

“Keep serving the church Sunday after Sunday, week Almost all of them after week?”

“Why do you ask that?” the parson asked.

She seemed to think about her response a moment, then replied, “I just keep getting these doubts. Here I am just six months after knowing I want to be a pastor and I'm having doubts.” She took a deep breath and said, “Look, Parson, since I've been here I've gone to lots of different churches every Sunday. And I've been talking to a lot of pastors. You know what? Almost all of them are frustrated. I just had no idea how many ministers were so upset with the church. Are you?”

The parson took a deep breath. He began to formulate an answer in his mind. But she gave him a reprieve.

“Oh, Parson, I know you're not upset like some people. I mean, goodness, look how long you've been a pastor. I guess that's why I wanted to talk to you. Why do you keep doing it?”

In a split second the parson's mind raced back over the last forty-seven years. In particular he raced back over the last six months. He looked at her. He envisioned her next decade, her ordination, her first church.

“Remember the chapel?” the parson asked.

“I do,” she said.

“That's why,” said the parson. “That's why. There's no other explanation. It's a crazy reason. It's not logical. But it's why I keep going. It's why I'm going to preach next Sunday and make the hospital visits next week. It's why when attendance is an insult I preach anyway; it's why when …. Well, it's why. That chapel in the mountains is why.”

She looked at him a minute. “Do you come here often?”

“I do,” said the parson. “At least once a month.”

“Can we talk again?”

“I'd like that,” said the parson. “I'd like that,” said the parson. “That would help me a lot.”

Life, Death, and Special People

The parson had known her close to twenty years. Long ago, when she was a single girl, working in the growing IT industry, she moved into a house seven doors from the parson's church. It was then she became a lurker.

She was a lurker but not in the lurk around the blog sense. She lurked around the parson's church. She might have attended a couple of times in the decade the parson served that parish, but, if she did, the parson couldn't remember it. Nevertheless, she was spiritual; she was a seeker; she was what the parson termed a “non-church going Christian.” She wasn't afraid to ask questions, hard questions about God and Jesus, and sometimes she asked unanswerable questions about the organized church.

It took a while for her to discover that right fellow. But he was the right fellow, the very right fellow. The parson married them at a wonderful celebration at a country retreat not far from where the parson would retire.

When the parson did retire, he didn't seem them as much. But there came that day when the call came, “We're pregnant!” There was rejoicing, anticipation, trepidation. And within months they brought their child to the country where the parson supplied the pulpit in his retirement to be baptized. There was lunch following the baptism accompanied with Ms. Parson rocking the baby in a rocker on the front porch of the restaurant, rocking him and rocking him and rocking him, cooing and smiling and, unknown to the parson then, creating a precious memory for him. A memory she too had and which she shared with the parson.

Two years later they were back. The second child was baptized. Lunch was shared again. Ms. Parson was happy to have another child to rock.

It wasn't long after the tragic call came. Her fellow, her knight in shining armor, had cancer. It was a horrible cancer. It was a devastating cancer. There was no cure. The parson and she shared flowing tears. The parson and she talked a lot about bad things happening to good people. But there was no adequate answer. “Why do these things happen?” she asked. The parson told her he didn't know.

There was hope. There was an experimental treatment he could volunteer for. He did. It wasn't the easiest treatment to be borne, but he endured it and he got better. He was better for a few years. And then it happened. Things when from bad to worse. The boys were now five and seven. Their daddy was dying.

The phone call came. The parson answered. She told the parson he was home now. Hospice had been called. The doctors said maybe it would be two weeks. She told the parson she thought it would be two days. The parson told her he'd be there the next day.

It was a beautiful spring day in the inner city of Atlanta. The youngest boy met the parson at the door. He wasn't in kindergarten that day. Her high school friend who was there to help her told the parson she'd let them know he was there. So the parson and the five-year-old played games on the floor. Then the hospice nurse came out. She talked a while. Then the oxygen technician came by. Then the contractor remodeling the basement came up. Then the ….

Finally, she came out. She told the parson they'd just given him some morphine and he was out of it. She and the parson went out on the deck, into the bright spring sun, the budding flowers, and the promise of new life. The dog accompanied them, assuring their conversations would punctuated by periodic tossing of the tennis balls which were quickly retrieved and dropped at their feet.

That conversation bounced from one thing to another, from talks of death, of her acceptance of what was coming, of the fact she'd already been grieving for years. They talked of funny things that had happened back when she lurked around the parson's parish. They talked about the children and the counseling they'd been put into to prepare them for what was coming. They laughed about children, and Christians, and the absurdity of it all, of the wedding when the parson danced a jig with her eighty-year-old grandmother.

Four hours later the parson left. He headed home, knowing he'd retrace his steps soon to return and talk some more, if she wanted; but to be there because he wanted. Navigating through the traffic the parson thought of how she was so typical of the new Christians. Church membership is secondary to faith. She is full of faith; she is well-acquainted with God. The parson remembered how when she and her fellow, having not seen the parson for a year or so, were there when Ms. Parson died, being pastors to their pastor.

She'll lose her fellow soon. The parson is experienced with what that will feel like. She'll go on, probably facing it much better than did the parson. And maybe that's the miracle of it all: even in the shadow of death life goes on.

Christine Chakoian - Impact of Digital Revolution on Contemporary Spirituality

 

The Reverend Christine Chakoian is Pastor of the First Presbyterian Church in Lake Forest, Illinois.

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Sometimes Ministry Comes Easy

The parking lot was empty. The mail was retrieved, sorted and placed in the appropriate places, but not until the parson turned the heat on in the office. Churches somehow seem much colder than other places on winter days. But there are only a few folks who know that. When the average Joe arrives on Sunday morning someone has turned the heat on hours before. An empty church on a week day when the weather is cold outside is differently cold. The temperature may be higher than outside,having never reached freezing because of thermostat controls, yet the chill is penetrating, especially in the sanctuary.

The parson sat down in the office. The heater was making progress in in battling the chill. He had things to read, calls to make, planning for future sermons. The heater had just turned the corner in its battle, allowing him to divest himself of the jacket, when there was a knock on the door.

Opening it he discovered a woman of middle age, well groomed, well dressed. She stood with her arms over an expensive leather jacket hugging her torso.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I was wondering if you would allow me to use your church for prayer.”

“Of course,” responded the parson, “did you want to use the sanctuary? It's cold in there. Maybe a Sunday school classroom that has a heater would be better.”

“If you don't mind, I'd prefer the sanctuary.”

“Sure, come on in.”

The parson escorted her to the doorway that led into the sanctuary, at the rear of the chancel. She entered and quietly made her way to the first pew. There she sat down, having seemingly dismissed my presence from her thoughts. She placed her elbows on her knees and leaned forward. Her lips silently moved. Feeling an intruder on a private moment the parson left.

Back in the office, he called a fellow pastor who’d asked him to speak at a function his church was hosting. The parson wanted more information before he answered. They talked for several minutes. Following this he composed several email responses to inquiries; he looked up the scriptures for next Sunday and jotted down some initial ideas for the sermon. He then noticed the time indicator on the computer. He'd been working for almost an hour and a half since she'd taken her place on the front pew.

He headed back to the sanctuary and quietly opened the door, expecting to see it empty, the pilgrim having exited through another door. She was still there. Her elbows no longer on her knees, she had one hand upon her forehead as she continued to pray. Again, there was not audible sound, but her lips were moving.

He returned to the office. Another hour passed. Again he peeked in the sanctuary. She was still there, kneeling now. Her lips no longer moved but her entire countenance reflected deep meaningful prayer.

The parson returned to the office. Now he played Free Cell on the computer as he awaited this woman with a spiritual life far more deeper than was his. In a half hour she knocked on the door.

“Thank you so much,” she said.

“No problem. Is there anything I can do for you.”

“You already have helped me greatly,” she replied.

She left in a car with out-of-state plates, plates indicating a 1500 mile journey. Sometimes ministry is easily provided.

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A Christmas Promise

The parson was trying to get back into the routine of living. He and Charlie Brown, his faithful cannine companion, had resumed their morning walks around the Quik Trip, America's best convenience store stop. Then they headed down the back roads, over the wooden bridge, past the hawk's nest and over to the church.

The parson gathered the sympathy cards and other mail from the box and headed inside to check the phone messages.

He plopped himself into the rocker that had not held his weary body in two weeks. Charlie Brown curled himself into a ball in the corner with a grunt. The parson began to open envelopes, sorting the cards from the other mail. He had not opened a dozen when the door banged open. Charlie Brown raised his head quickly, but spying the source of the noise tucked his head down again.

“Hi, Parson,” squealed Helen Morris, a energy-filled three-and-a-half year old. She bounded across the room and leaped into the parson's lap.

She'd barely settled on the parson's lap when her mother entered. “I'm sorry, Parson,” she said. “She saw your car and got excited that you're back.” Helen's mom then asked, “How are you coping.”

“I'm okay for where I am,” said the parson. “She's not bothering me. Let her stay a few minutes.”

“Are you sure? I'm just taking a quick inventory of the pantry.”

“I'm glad she's here,” said the parson.

Helen's mom left. The parson asked Helen about her day. She said it was a good day. The parson asked her about her brother. He learned he was fine and was off with her daddy. And then Helen brought it up.

“Mom told me that Ms. Parson is with Jesus.”

“She is,” said the parson. “She is.”

“Who's going to teach my Sunday school class?”

“I don't know, Helen. Who taught it last Sunday?”

 “Ms. Redding taught it. She was pretty good. We had fun, but Ms. Parson used to color with us.”

“She liked to color.”

The parson decided to change the subject. “So, Helen, did you ask Santa to bring you anything?”

She squirmed around to look the parson in the face. “I asked him to bring me three rainbows.”

The parson was surprised. “You asked Santa for a rainbow.”

“Yes, three rainbows.”

“Why do you want a rainbow?”

“'cause. A rainbow is a promise from God. That's what my Aunt Verna said.”

“A rainbow is a promise from God, Helen. I think that's a wonderful thing to ask for.”

“Thank you,” she said. “I hope I get it, but it's pretty big for a sleigh.”

The parson was about to attempt to explain how big Santa's sleigh really was when Helen's mother returned. Helen jumped off the parson's lap before her mother told her to. As her feet hit the floor she proclaimed, “Bye, Parson. I have to go.”

“Bye, Helen,” said the parson, smiling. “Have a good Christmas.”

“I will, Parson,” she said. She turned to leave with her mother but then turned back and came to the side of the parson's rocker. She cupped her hands to whisper a secret. The parson leaned down.

“I'm going to ask Santa to bring you a rainbow, too.”