Questing Parson

Over Paid

“Parson, do you have a minute?” asked Will Watson, a pastor in his second appointment.

“Sure thing, Will,” the parson replied. “What's up?”

“I'm wondering if you could give me some advice on talking with my Pastor-Parish committee about my compensation.”

“What's the matter, Will?” the parson inquired. “You're not getting paid enough?”

“That's exactly the case, Parson.”

The parson sat down and invited Will to sit across the table from him. The parson did a quick calculation of what he estimated Will's compensation package to be.

“Why do you think you're not getting paid enough?”

“Well, Parson, I mean my function is to be the preacher, to bring the Word to the people. That's a demanding responsibility. But on top of that these folks want me to be active in community affairs, to visit everyone who goes to the hospital, to go to the nursing homes and such. Now, while I realize pastors do that, when the doing distracts from the real job, well, there should be further compensation.”

The parson stared in dismay. “Are you serious?”

“I'm as serious as can be. More responsibility should bring more compensation.”

“How much do you make, Will?” the parson asked. Will gave him the figure. “Do you have an evening service?” Will told him he didn't. “So,” said the parson as he pulled out his smartphone, “let's divide how many sermons into what you make.” The parson started to input the figures. He paused. “Are you out of the pulpit any during the year?” Will told the parson he missed two Sundays when he was on vacation. “So, let's divide that salary figure by fifty.”

The parson stared at the phone a moment. He then turned it off, placed it in his pocket and said to Will, “You're way overpaid, Will, since you don't know whom you're preaching to nor what you should be preaching.”

A Lesson in Giving

The church finance committee was discussing the fiscal problems of the congregation. The parson was listening.

The problem facing the committee was that the church was obviously not going to meet its budget asking for the year. All the bills had been paid, the parson had been paid, the denominational obligations had been met.

“I'm really concerned that we never seem to meet our budget,” said Franklin Lansing. “For the last ten years this committee had worked hard to make a realistic budget and for the last ten years we always fall thousands of dollars short.”

“Yes, but we've already said that we've met all our obligations,” countered Maynard Sinclair. “What's the point of worry. We're doing what needs to be done.”

“We're doing that only because of the parson's constant attention to finances,” remarked Harry Potter (Yes, that's his name.). “We owe him a debt that he keeps the spending down when the giving is down.”

“You're right,” said Margaret Conner, “we do owe the Parson some thanks. But the truth is we need more generous givers like William Miller. Without his generous weekly giving we'd be in a world of hurt.”

“What do you think, Parson?” asked Harriett Abbott.

“I think Margaret is right in a way,” said the parson. “We do need more generous givers. But we don't need givers like William Miller. We need givers like Bobby and Susan.”

“Bobby and Susan?” echoed Margaret. “Bobby and Susan. Who are you talking about?”

“I'm talking about the Simpson's kids,” said the parson. “Bobby and Susan, when we sent out the request for folks to bring an offering to help the victims of Hurricane Sandy answered the call. Bobby, who's in the fifth grade brought a jar of coins that totaled $18.53. Susan, the second grader, brought another jar with $22.40. Those totals represented the contents of their piggy banks,” the parson continued. “The emptied their banks.”

There was silence for a few moments. Finally Harriet spoke. “You're suggesting we empty our banks.”

“No, I'm not,” said the parson. “I'm just suggesting the people in this church should give with the faith of a child.”

Sharing the Joys of Ministry

“Ring, ring!”

“Hello.”

“That wasn't funny, Parson.”

“I'm sorry,” said the parson, “who is this?” The parson was smiling to himself. He knew who it was.

“That is Bart,” the voice intoned. “And you know good and well who it is.”

“Oh, Bart,” the parson said with a welcoming tone in his voice. “I didn't recognize your voice. Good to hear from you. What's up?”

“What's up? What's up? I suppose you wouldn't know anything about a woman named Florence trying to borrow money from me?”

“Florence? Florence? Wait a second. Is she about fifty, a little on the heavy side, drives a old blue Ford F-150, wearing some clothes that look like they may have last been laundered sometime around 1998? That Florence?”

“Funny, funny. Yeah, that Florence?”

“Yes, I know Florence.”

“And would you want to confess that you sent her down here to my church to ask me for twenty dollars?”

Florence had been at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen the night before. She needed forty dollars, she told the parson, to get the brakes fixed on her pickup truck. What Florence didn't know was that the parson knew Henry Snyder, a member of the church had given her twenty dollars toward that end about twenty minutes earlier. The parson, then, had agreed to give her twenty. Despite her protestations the parson refused to give her any additional money. Florence also didn't know that the parson knew her SSI check would arrive in two days.

“No, Bart, I will not confess that I sent her down to your church to ask for twenty dollars. But I did mention to her that I'd seen her truck down your way on several occasions. I asked her if she visited any other churches in that area to accumulate money for fixing her brakes, paying her rent, getting her pet cat fixed, or any other reoccurring events that require financial assistance. And she told me she went to a lot of churches. I asked her, since she lives a little piece form your church, if she ever visited you. She said she didn't. She said she didn't visit you because you were only there on Sunday.”

“Funny, funny, Parson,” said Bart. “According to her you said she should tell me to park my ass in the church office at 8:00 a.m. Every day.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you there, Parson?”

“I am, Bart.”

“Do you have anything to say?”

“Well, it appears your original accusation was incorrect. I didn't tell her to ask you for twenty dollars.”

“But you did make the remark about parking my ass in my office at 8:00 a.m.?”

“Well, to be honest, I may have said something like that.”

“And why is it so important to you what my office hours are.”

“It's important to me, Bart, because we're a connectional church, and, as such, you should be sharing in this ministry to Florence.”

“Good-bye, Parson.”

“Good-bye, Bart. By the way, are you calling from your office?”

Click.

Return On An Investment

The promise of fall was in the air. Down the driveway the parson bounded. There was really no reason to do so. But, the promise of spring was in the air. The sermon's completion could wait until tomorrow. The wild cat who inhabits the woods next to the house bounded across the yard, pausing on his path to stop directly in front of the parson with hunched-up back, tail pointed skyward. He jumped up and down twice. The parson stooped, holding out his wiggling fingers in the vain hope she'd allow him to pet her. She didn't. She jumped straight up once again and then bounded into the woods. She's stay there, he knew, until he called her as he placed the food in her plate in the evening. Then she'd come, but only as far as the bottom step until the parson disappeared into the house.

Another ten yards brought him to the mailbox. Inside there was an envelope. Miracle of miracles, inside there was one envelope, no advertisements, no announcements that now that he was mature enough to know better he could get a new credit card with a credit limit that would allow him to purchase a starter size house. It was just one plain envelope, with a handwritten address and return address, all by itself, lonely in the cold box on this chilly day.

He studied the return address. It was printed in block letters as was his name and address. He didn't recognize the sender's name. Puzzled, he opened the envelope and retrieved the contents. A piece of paper from inside the folded letter fluttered to the ground. He bent over and picked it up. It was a check. Now he was really puzzled.

The parson turned his attention to the letter. With the first line he remembered him: “You took the time to ask about me when we were stuck at the Flying J Truck Stop.

It was a month before. The parson's uncle uncle and he were leaving Denny's after lunch. As they walked to the car he noticed the man pacing back and forth. He moved to the trunk to place his uncle's walker in it. The man was still pacing back and forth. He walked around to the driver's door. The man was still pacing back and forth. On an impulse the parson walked over to him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” he said. “I'm kinda in a predicament.”

“What's the problem?”

He told the parson he'd driven down from Tennessee He was on his way to Emory University Hospital where his wife was scheduled for surgery the next day. Somehow he'd taken a wrong turn near Chattanooga. He'd headed toward Birmingham instead of Atlanta. Now he didn't have enough gas to get to Atlanta. And he'd apparently left his wallet at home.

The parson has been a preacher for over forty-five years. He's been had by the best of them. You'd think he would have learned his lesson. The parson directed him to pull his car over to the gas pump. He topped his gas off on his credit card and handed him two twenties. The man, at first, refused the money. The parson insisted he needed it because of his wife needing his support. And then he drew him a map showing the way to the hospital, the hospital parking lot and how to get to the admission's office.

The parson never told the man his name. But the envelope was addressed to him. The check was for more than two twenties and was payable to him. The man had gone to some trouble to repay the debt.

They're back home now. His wife is fine. He's relieved. The parson headed back up the drive; life seemed good, very good, for the both of them.

It's A Moral Issue

“Hey, Parson,” greeted Vivian Mullins, as the parson stood at the meat counter trying to decide on the evening's culinary delight. “Surprised to see you here. I expected you'd be up in Washington, D. C. with all those liberal preachers pushing Congress to see things your way.”

“What are you talking about, Vivian?” the parson asked.

“Well, my nephew showed me where you were one of those pastors that signed that letter to Congress trying to get them to change the budget and such.”

“I did sign that letter, Vivian.”

“Don't you think you've overstepped your bounds?”

“How's that?”

“You should stick to preaching and not get involved in such things as that letter.”

“I wouldn't think you'd be one to tell others to stick to preaching, Vivian. You're involved in politics a bit, aren't you?”

“Well, I'm on the committee to make sure candidates are pro-life.”

“There you are, Vivian. You're involved in it.”

“Yes, but I'm involved because it's a moral issue.”

“The budget is a moral issue, Vivian. It's a moral issue when the haves dump on the havenots to put more food on the table of the haves.”

Vivian started to say something. The parson held up his hand.

“I'm not going to discuss it with you right now, Vivian. Just look it up in your Bible. You'll see I'm right.”

Vivian moved to the produce section.

Morality and Our Financial Choices

A Gift Corrupted

Ralph Petersen pulled into the parking lot as the parson was changing the sign in front of his church to advertise a fund raiser of a neighboring congregation.

“Hey, Parson,” Ralph called from his car, “what's up; you run out of those clever sayings?”

“Could be, Ralph,” said the parson. “And it could be we're just in a mood to help some other folks.”

The parson had stepped from his step ladder and walked toward Ralph's car.

“Don't see much point in helping another congregation,” said Ralph. “In the long term it won't gain you anything.”

“What do you mean, 'gain me anything'?” asked the parson.

“Well, I'll give you an example. A few years back I made a contribution to the building fund of that church you're pushing on your sign. You know I'm not rich, but I do okay and the gift was well above average, I'm sure. Now remember I'm not a member of that church. But I knew they were trying to get a new building. I thought it would be good for the community so I made a contribution.”

“That's nice to hear, Ralph,” said the parson. “I'm sure they appreciated it.”

“That's where you're wrong,” said Ralph. “They didn't appreciate it one bit. The next year my niece was planning to get married and she wanted to have the ceremony there. It is a postcard looking church, if you know what I mean. So, she asked the pastor. He talked to her and there was some conflict about her plans. He said something about the rules of the church wouldn't permit what she wanted to do. So, my niece tells me. I called the pastor and talked to him. He wouldn't relent. I tactfully reminded him of my contribution. She still wasn't allowed to have the ceremony there. You see, helping another congregation won't gain you anything.”

The parson leaned forward and said to Ralph in a quiet voice, “Ralph, Ralph,” said the parson, “you took a gift and turned it into a bribe. Think about it, Ralph.”

Ralph glared at the parson a moment. He then said, “You've got some weird ideas, Parson.” Then he drove off.

 

Charlie Brown's Benefactor

The parson was running late. He rushed in the back door of the fellowship hall, wound his way among the tables on his way toward the kitchen, followed by Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion.

She was sitting at the table adjacent to the kitchen door, just a few feet from the spot where the soup, cornbread, desserts, and other edibles would soon be laid out. She was a regular at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen.

“Hello, Florence,” the parson greeted. “I haven't seen you for a few weeks.”

“Well, Parson, I could tell you some stories, stories about having to buy a new set of front tires for my van, about how desperately I need some assistance in purchasing a camping stove. And on top of that ...”

The parson held up his hand. “Florence, you're going have to tell me your tales of woe in a few minutes. Right now I've got to help the folks back here in the kitchen.” The parson walked through the door. Charlie Brown did not follow. He headed toward Florence knowing she'd pet him as long as he wanted.

The parson busied himself in the kitchen, stirring, chopping, serving up portions for the youth deliveries to the home bound. When it came time to put the soup on the serving tables in the fellowship hall he sat down to talk with Florence again.

“So, Parson,” she said. “I'm thinking about moving onto a half acre of land over near Ben Talbart's farm. I could get a good camper for a few hundred dollars. Then you guys might be able to share with me some of your cooking pots and pans and things, and I could live there. It would cut down on my expenses considerably. Did I tell you I had to buy two tires?”

“You told me,” the parson responded.

“Okay, well, look they have this real nice long sleeve pull over shirt over at the Dollar General store. So, I told them I didn't have any money but to put it aside and I'd be back tonight because I was sure you guys would want to help me out.”

“How much?”

“Six dollars.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Oh, and, well, Parson, I'm slap out of gas for my van. If you guys could maybe get me a few gallons that would be a big help.”

“I'll think about it,” said the parson.

He returned to his chores, and, in the midst of them, he took time to partake of some soup himself and spend some time with the youth pursuing Facebook pages.

When the parson was in the kitchen washing some pots and pans, one of the youth came in and whispered in his ear. Finishing his chores the parson returned to the fellowship hall. Florence was waiting.

“So, you going to be able to help me?”

“Let's see, Florence. You need gas and you need six dollars for the shirt. So which one do you want?”

“Well, I want them both, Parson.”

“You know we don't feed Charlie Brown from the table.”

“I know that?”

“So, Florence, did Charlie Brown send out for that dozen sausage paddies or did someone feed him?”

“Okay, I fed him. And it was eighteen. Look, that dog is big. He needs a lot of nourishment. I didn't want to throw them away even if they were out-of-date.”

“He gets plenty of nourishment, Florence. He sure doesn't need eighteen sausage paddies. And I don't need to be gotten up at all hours of the night to walk Charlie Brown.”

“You ain't going to buy me any gas, are you?”

“No, Florence, I'm not. Here's six dollars for the shirt.”

“Thanks,” said Florence. She stood to leave and tucked the bills into the back pocket of her jeans. As she moved toward the door she paused to pet Charlie Brown once more. “Sorry, Charlie Brown, the only one who really loves you has to go home now.”

 

Finding the Money

Some of the brothers and sisters of the cloth were gathered at the local restaurant which provided a smorgasbord of gastronomic breakfast delights in a buffet format. The parson watched with dismay as the younger consumed inordinate amounts of butter on biscuits, sausage, bacon, eggs and coffee. The parson, for his part, ate a conservative portion of assorted fruits, fiber loaded cereal a glass of orange juice and decaf coffee. It was good to demonstrate the consuming of healthy foods to these younger colleagues as well as to his cardiologist who sat two tables away.

The conversation had gone from the current bishop and discovering his agenda to an evaluation of the immediate supervisor to Wally Swanson who had decided to leave the church to the new churches being started in the area. And now the topic was money.

“Linda and I have been tithing since my second year in seminary,” said Jake Collins, Senior Pastor of the First Church of the Sacred Valley. “We've found it to be a blessing.”

Roger Hanford gave forth with a sound that sounded like a low pitched snort. “That's really easy for you to say, Jake. You've never served a church that caused you to live on a tight budget. You don't have children. That eliminates a big expense in living. You're not in a position to testify about tithing. It's been easy for you.”

Before Jake could respond, Scott Gilmer, who was ordained only the last June and was now serving a two point circuit in the mountains, responded. “I have to tell you, Miriam and I are trying to tithe, but it's a real challenge. You know I'm on minimum salary so we have to live on the lean side. Now there's a baby coming in May. I have to admit there are months we have to put aside the tithing.”

“I know what you mean,” said Oscar Pennington, a pastor in his fifties who was serving an appointment outside the local church, “I really think it's a good idea for those who can; but there are times when it can get in the way of productive living.”

The conversation went on for a good twenty minutes. In that time the parson had listened carefully to every word. He had watched his cardiologist depart. He had made his way to the buffet bar and picked up a biscuit covered with gravy and topped by a slab of sausage.

Oscar Pennington turned toward the parson. “Parson, how about you. You're retired. You're on a fixed income. What's your take?”

“Well,” said the parson as he sliced up the biscuit and sausage, “I've found over the years that I always seem to have money for what I really want to do.”

How Long the Madness?

The parson was in the back corner of his favorite diner, reading his morning paper on the Kindle and sipping a decaf, when Stanley Kausman entered. He saw the parson and headed his way.

“Morning, Parson,” he said. “Where were you last night?”

“I was taking a nap with my wife if you have to know.”

“Oh, funny, Parson. The meeting. You were not at the meeting.”

“There was a meeting last night? When did they announce that?”

“Right! You didn’t know a thing about a meeting.”

The parson sipped his coffee. Stanley sat across from him.

“How was the meeting?”

“The meeting was crap,” said Stanley. “It was boring as hell. And then, on top of that, they handed out the denominational asking for next year. That was far from boring. It was infuriating.”

“What’s the rub, Stan?”

“Oh, let’s see. My church is being asked to meet a raise what we pay to capital funding, not for our church mind you, but for the conference, a mere 63%. And I suppose because we are such dedicated folks who have trimmed staff hours to meet our responsibilities we are being asked to increase what we give to the conference administration a small amount of 51%. I tell you parson I looked at those figures and decided these folks just didn’t know how to manage their budget, but then I saw that they are asking us to increase our giving to that retreat that’s been bleeding money since it was started by 41%.”

Stan rubbed his head with both hands in frustration.

“It’s insane, Parson. When did this kind of thinking start?”

The parson smiled and said, “It started forty-five years ago last June when I arrived at my first church.”