Questing Parson

Practice Makes Perfect

The parson was hanging out with his friend, Dr. Gary, pastor of Saint John's United Methodist in Augusta, Georgia, the oldest still worshiping congregation in Georgia. Gary and the parson had been friends in seminary. That friendship was cemented when the two discovered a phrase in the school's catalog that read, “Class attendance is not a perquisite for a passing grade.” The two had taken that literally and adjourned to the pizza establishment across the street.

Gary was on his way to speak at a church in Tennessee. He'd stopped to visit his old friend along the way. Now the two sat on a bank overlooking some soccer fields not far from the parson's abode. Below them a game between two girl's U-14 teams was in progress. The parson watched intently as he and Gary talked. Two of the girls below attended his church.

The parson and his guest had enough time to catch up on their individual activities since last seeing each other as well as share plans for coming years. And then the game was over. The girls the parson had come to see were victorious. He and Gary waited to greet them.

“Hi, Parson,” shouted Susan, who played sweeper on the team. “Thanks for coming.”

“It was fun,” said the parson. “This is my friend, Gary. He was really impressed with your team.”

“Thank you,” Susan said to Gary.

“You're a good player,” Gary replied.

Rhonda, Susan's best friend and a midfielder on the team now ran up.

“Hi, Parson,' said Rhonda. “Hi, I'm Rhonda,” she said to Gary.

“I'm Gary, I'm glad to meet you,” Gary replied.

“Did you ask him?” Rhonda said to Susan.

“Not yet,” said Susan.

“Ask me what?” the parson asked.

“Okay,” said Susan, “you used to coach soccer in college, right?”

“I did,” the parson admitted.

“So, if Rhonda and I wanted to get a soccer scholarship for college, what will we have to do?” 

“Make good grades,” said the parson.

Susan smiled, “I know that, Parson. I'm talking about a soccer scholarship.”

“I am, too.” said the parson.

“Okay, okay. You sound like Mom. But what else?”

“You have to master the basics,” the parson said.

“Like what?” asked Rhonda.

“Well,” the parson asked. “How many times can you juggle the ball without missing.”

“Maybe twenty,” said Susan.

“Yeah, twenty or sometimes thirty,” Rhonda said.

“Keep practicing until you can do it a couple hundred times,” the parson replied.

“But, Parson,” Rhonda protested. “You don't ever have to juggle the ball that much in a game.”

“You're right,” the parson said, “but if you can juggle it two hundred times in practice you'll always be able to do it one time in the game.”

The parson and Gary rose from their seats, brushed the grass off their butts and headed to the car. Halfway there, Gary commented. “I don't know squat about soccer. But I know a good sermon illustration when I hear it.”

 

Preaching Preparation

The lectionary study group had stretched their attention span to the max in their examination of the Ahab, Jezebel and Naboth story. The lapse in attention partially resulted from the knowledge that outside, under the arbor of the campground where they were gathered, was a large wash bucket filled with ice and watermelon.

When all pretense of intellectual discussion was over, the group adjourned to the shade of the arbor. The parson reached into the tub and extracted a watermelon, placed it on a table set up earlier, and retrieved a large butcher knife resting on a stack of napkins. With the practiced agility of one who had cut scores of melons per season, he plunged the knife into the fruit and ripped through the skin to the accompaniment of that unique sound that proclaimed all was ripe within the rind.

With quick dispatch, the parson divided the melon into equal slices and proceeded to hand each of the gathered a slice into which he had inserted a kitchen knife.

Joel Patrick, a seminary student from Ohio and newly appointed to a two-point circuit, seemed to stare at his slice.

The parson noticed his hesitation and asked, “What’s holding you up, Joel?”

“We don’t have a fork,” he informed.

“Let me show you something,” said the parson reaching for Joel’s plate.

Taking his plate the parson set it on the table and with a practiced hand used Joel’s kitchen knife to separate the fruit from the rind. He then with a five downward slices divided it into six pieces. He handed the plate back to Joel.

“Watch this,” said the parson.

He then repeated on his slice the same movement of the knife. Then, after placing the knife to the side, picked up a piece with his fingers and directed the wet sweetness to his mouth.

“Use your fingers, Joel. You’re standing in a camp meeting arbor in the middle of the South.”

“I’ve never eaten it this way, Parson.”

The parson smiled. “Try it.”

Joel picked up a piece with his left hand. He then began to pick out the seeds with his right.

“Joel,” said the parson, “one more lesson. Watch.”

The parson took a piece and directed it to his mouth. He bit off a large chunk and crushed it against his pallet with his tongue. After rolling it about his mouth to savor the flavor and to separate the seed from the fruit, he then in one fluid force of air expelled the seeds through his lips to land outside the arbor.

“Try it,” the parson suggested.

Joel picked up a piece, carried it to his mouth, repeated the chewing movement, and then he expelled seeds with a noisy blow of wind. He did well with the exception of the two on his chin and the one on the front of his shirt. Joel looked at the parson and smiled a self-depreciating smile.

The parson smiled in appreciation, patted Joel on the back, and said, “Let me tell you a secret, Joel. Learn how to eat watermelon this way and to spit those seeds before the first dinner-on-the-grounds and those folks will be convinced you can preach a lot better than you can.

Pictured is the Arbor at Pine Log Campground, Rydal, Georgia

The Fruits of Their Labor

Only a half dozen acres were left of the once large farm. Over the years the descendants of the one who actually farmed had sold off the land, acre by acre, tract by tract, as financial needs or lavish yearnings demanded. The parson now walked the remaining parcel checking on the status of things for the owner.

Overgrown and empty were the adjectives. Shrubs had not been trimmed in years; paint was flaking on once proud dwellings. Only a whisper of more prosperous and joyous times remained.

Survey completed the parson was headed to his car when he saw it. Reaching from beneath the overgrown hedge, the uniquely shaped leaf stretched toward the sun in a desperate attempt to survive in a hostile world. How had it gotten here? Was it a shoot from a root of a once proud but now gone tree? Whatever its origin, it reminded the parson of other times and other places.

 He was a wee boy when he first became aware of the massive fig tree growing behind his grandfather’s workshop. Originally, it was one tree, but when he became aware of its presence in the yard it was two, one having grown from the roots of the first. The parson’s grandfather treasured that tree. Mostly, he treasured the fruits that came from that tree. 

It became the parson’s assigned task to keep the fruits the tree bore safe from the fig destroying jay birds. His was the task of sitting on the stool beside the open window that looked out into the tangles limbs of that massive tree/shrub for hours. Across his young lap rested the .22 rifle. At the approach of any winged villain intent on attacking one of those purple orbs of sweetness he slowly raised his rifle, took aim, and fired.

The jay birds and other winged creatures were unable to wreck their havoc upon those fruits as long as the parson was on duty. Actually, he could never recall having actually shot a bird, but that rifle made a lot of noise.

When his Mama died all the cousins headed for house to divvy up the objects of memory. The parson, however, went straight to the back yard, to a spot behind his grandfather’s old workshop. The tree, now ancient, stood proud with its limbs spread over a whole corner of the yard. The parson’s horticulturist wife dug in the ground and cut a root from the tangle.

She nursed that root in some secret concoction in the parson’s workshop for months. And on the appointed day they planted it. The first year it seemed but a twig, always in danger of being trampled. In two years it was chest high. In four years it began bushing out, conquering territory. And the fifth year of its transplant there was produced three purple fruits. The parson picked one, one day, and sat down on the front porch of their cabin. In a slow motion born of anticipation he moved the fruit toward his mouth. He bit. The sweet juices trickled down his chin creating a joyful memory of childhood days enjoying the fruits of his protection. On a following day the other two figs became the highlight of breakfast.

The parson’s wife died a few months later. When later he married Ms. Parson, he sold the cabin, and with it the fig tree. His was not the ability to nurse it through another transplant. 

The weather is changing now. As the parson drove home he began to wonder if that tree still thrives. He wondered if those folks who bought the house would allow him one slow, dripping, sweet bite.

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