Questing Parson

A Little Sermon Humor

“So,” she said, as we sat on the sofa in her living room and as she grew bored with my selection of the program playing on the television, “I guess you'll be preaching tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, so I'll be preaching.”

“What are you preaching about?”

“I going to be preaching about the Apostle Paul. While he was in jail praying suddenly the doors of the jail flew open.”

“What are you going to say about that?”

“I'm going to be preaching about all the doors we open and close in our lives.”

“I don't think I understand that.”

“Okay, you come home from school or from shopping or from playing with your friends and you open the door to your house so you can come into a place where you are loved and where people take care of you. You go to school and you open the door to the school so you can enter a place where you can learn and prepare yourself to be an adult. Someday, you'll open a door to your office where you will earn money to be able to provide things for your family. And someday you'll open a door to the hospital where you'll give birth to your baby and my great-grandchild. But, here's the thing, you don't have to open those doors. You could close those doors. And if you close the doors you don't get what's on the other side. And sometimes we open doors and go into places where we shouldn't and we get into trouble. And sometimes we close doors that we should open and we don't get all the things God wants us to have.”

“I've got it,” she said. “It's important to open the right doors and to close the wrong doors.”

I looked down at her ten-year-old face amazed. If this child could get the point of the sermon so quickly surely the adults in my congregation would be thrilled. Oh my goodness, I hadn't anticipated what a really great sermon this was going to be.

“That's right,” I said. “That's exactly what I'm preaching. But I need a funny story to tell.”

“Let me think about it,” she said. She reached over and picked up the remote to the TV; pointed the remote at the screen to turn it off. Then she settled back into the cushions, folded her arms over her chest, closed her eyes and obviously went into deep thought. Suddenly she sat up.

“Here's the funny story: Once there was a man on the inside of a castle. And there was a man on the outside of the castle. They wanted to talk to each other. But they couldn't because the castle door was closed and locked. It was really important that they talk so the man inside the castle kept asking himself, 'What can I do so I can get out there and talk to my friend? Do you know what he did?”

“What did he do?”

“He ran around in circles as fast as he could until he got so tired he passed out. - Get it? He passed out.”

Okay, it wasn't a side-splitter, but in her honor I decided to use it. I began my sermon on doors with my granddaughters joke. I discovered my granddaughter's humor is much more developed than my congregation's.

Summer Adventures

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hello, this is your daughter.”

“I know. I have this amazing phone. It tells me who's calling before I answer. And please notice I answered even though I knew it was you.”

“Funny. Very funny. Look, we need to have a serious talk. I need your advice.”

Immediately I perked up. This child became independent around the age of seven. She's in her forties now. Imagine the thrill of having her ask for my advice. “Okay,” I said, “how can I help you?”

“We need to talk about your number two granddaughter. She's becoming a little presumptuous, and we need a united front in talking to her.”

“What do you mean, presumptuous?”

“Look, now let me get this completely out before you respond. Deal?”

“Deal.”

“We're really grateful you take them on your little adventures. We're even grateful that you took them to live in the Alaskan wilderness for two weeks last summer. We're even grateful, in a weird way, that they came home thinking they were completely self-sufficient, could conquer any problem, and suddenly thought there was no reason they couldn't be independent. We're really grateful for that. But we've encountered a problem.”

“What's the problem?”

“Okay, so, your number one granddaughter loves dancing. And because she suddenly thinks because she climbed the face of a glacier and survived with only a knife in the Alaskan wilderness she can confront any challenge. We love that you gave her that confidence. And we love that because of that she auditioned to attend a workshop and dance with the Rockettes in New York City. That's really wonderful. And we're grateful that you're taking her and spending the week with her there.”

“I get the feeling there's a 'but' coming.”

“There is. Remember, you took both of them to Alaska. You spent all that time with them both. Now, the younger one has the idea that because her older sister is going to New York City with you she automatically gets to, also.”

I started to interrupt her, but interrupting my daughter is one of life's greater challenges.

“The other day I heard her talking to a friend on the phone. Apparently her friend asked her if she wanted to go to some event this summer, and when the friend told her the date she said, 'I'm going to be in New York City that week.' When she got off the phone, I asked her how she planned to go to New York City. Her response was she was going with you and her sister. And on top of that she volunteered the information that while her sister was at her dancing she and you would be exploring the city.”

Again I tried to say something, but her vocal motions were in high gear.

“Then I asked her what made her think that just because her sister was going she would get to go too. She informed me that you and her sister were a team and always went somewhere together in the summer. I asked her if you'd asked her to go. She said, 'Not yet.' Look, Dad, she assumes that you're taking her. I need you to intervene with me.”

“Intervene? What would I intervene about?”

“About her unrealistic expectations.”

“They're not unrealistic.”

“What?”

“I'll call and invite her tonight.”

Have I Told You About My Granddaughter?

 

 

 

 

 

This is my fifteen-year-old granddaughter. I don't want to brag, so click on the picture. 

Nine months ago she was hiking with me through the Aslaskan Wilderness. And now ....

It's Called Manners

This epistle needs a qualification. That qualification is that the event mentioned in the following paragraphs did not occur here where I live. The event took place many, many miles from my abode. As a consequence no one in my community needs to get in an uproar. I'm not talking about you. Well, maybe ….

Having said the above and before I get to the below, I readily admit I am a fossil. I am the product of an age that does not exist anymore. Thanks to the advances of medical science in the latter part of the twentieth century, there are more and more of us around. We are readily identifiable. For instance, we hold the doors open for ladies. None of us are unaware that ladies are capable of opening doors, but, nevertheless, we hold doors open for ladies because they are ladies. We can also be identified by our propensity to remove our hats when entering a building. I have not the foggiest idea why we do this, but we do it. Gentleman, Mama told me, don't wear hats inside. It's called manners.

Other quaint mannerisms identify us. We always say, “Yes, Ma'am,” and “Yes, Sir.” It's manners. We never put our elbows on the table during a meal. We pull out the chair for women who are joining us at the table. There are certain events at which we think it proper to wear a proper coat, and, occasionally, a tie. Like I said, I'm a fossil. I was raised on manners.

I insist there are certain vestiages of the age in which I was raised society would be well-served to hold onto. That brings me to my recent outing.

It was a talent show for students at a middle school. It was a really big middle school. One grade probably outnumbers the entire population of a local middle school in my home county. That means, if you're going to be fair to all the students, the talent show is going to take hours.

Here begins my remarks on a quality that seems to have been lost somewhere in the abyss that exists between my generation and the one raising my grandchildren. To wit:

When the school provides a designated space for recording videos, one does not stand up when one is on the second row from the front to record, thereby blocking the view of several hundred. It's called manners. Be it known I don't drive eighty-five miles one way to hear two long sets of a hard rock band composed of teachers at a middle school student talent show. It's called manners. When one's own child is a performer in the talent show and one's own child has just completed their talent, has taken their bow, and the next child has just begun their rendition of the latest pop song, one does not begin to exit from the middle of the aisle, exclaiming loudly as one foot after another is stepped upon, “Excuse me. Excuse me.” It's called manners.

During the performance of any middle school child. one, who is chronologically an adult, does not answer one's cell phone and loudly discuss the latest acquisition of the company while my granddaughter is singing. It's called manners.

And finally, when one answers his cell phone while my granddaughter is singing, I do not confront him face-to-face. I talk about him behind his back, as is the case with this blog. It's called manners.

OMG - I'm On Her Mother's Side

Ring. Ring.

“Hello.”

“Hi, it's me.”

“Hello, me.”

“Funny, you always say that when I call. Do you say that to everyone?”

“You're the only one I know named 'Me'.”

“Funny, again. Look I need to talk seriously with you about something important.”

“No problem. What's up.”

“My Mom. I need you to talk to her. She's getting a little, well, I don't want to sound disrespectful, so, let me see. Okay, it's like this. Sometimes she draws these arbitrary lines. I mean nobody knows the line is there until they have crossed it. My sisters and I can be going merrily along with our lives, the day is bright and happy; all is right with the world; and suddenly, I mean OMG, she announces that we stepped over the line. 'What line?' we ask, and for the first time since creation she points to the line....”

“Do you have a moment for me to ask a question?”

“Sure.”

“Does this line have a name?”

“Oh, for sure, this line has a name. I mean it's like the line has a large label with red letters. The name of the line is 'Stupid.'”

“What's the purpose of this 'Stupid' line?”

“Okay, so here's the deal. The line is the boundary standing between my house and my dance studio where I'm supposed to be in forty minutes. You know, don't you, that I don't just take dance lessons there; I am, also, the assistant teacher for the little kids. Well, the teaching pays for the big majority of my dance lessons. Remember how you told me you were so proud of me for being independent? Well, I am independent. I pay my way. I'm a fifteen year old who contributes to my own welfare. I need to go to the dance studio.”

“Okay, I'm going to venture a guess on this. The line between you and the dance studio is a boundary that is prohibiting you from getting to the dance studio in time to take lessons and teach.”

“You got it.”

“And would you have interest in sharing with me why your Mother drew this stupid line that separates you from your home and your livelihood?”

“I skipped school today.”

“You skipped school today?”

“I did it right here in front of her. I mean she knew I was skipping school. It's not like I didn't go to school without her knowledge. And I seem to have heard you used to let your kids, one of whom is my mother, skip school sometimes because they made all A's. I make all A's, too.”

“Why did you skip school?

“I had a science paper due I hadn't finished.”

“You skipped school to work on your science paper. I've got that. What's the problem about the dance studio?”

“She won't let me go. She says that if I skipped school I have to skip all the other activities for the day; that I can't do what she calls 'the fun stuff' when I didn't do the what she calls 'the grunt stuff.'

“Your mother's right.”

“Oh, great! You've crossed over to the dark side. Where can a mature woman get justice around here?”

“Do me a favor.”

“What?”

“Don't you ever tell your mother I took her side.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Christmas At My Daughter's House

It's the day after Christmas. That means you should have completed, or at least made a dent, in picking up the discarded wrappings, finding a place to put all the new stuff found under the tree, and after two hours of trying to understand the new technological gadget, you read the directions. Funny, how we adults need to read the directions. It's totally a waste of time. Why read directions to technology devices when you can ask an eight-year-old?

Well, as I said above, you should have all this Christmas cleanup, if not completed, under control. Me, I'm just getting started with messing up. You see, somewhere along the way, several years back, my daughter decided our side of the family would get together on the day following Christmas. If memory serves me right it was the year she also decided to assume the role of my mother. (But that's another story.)

So, now on the day following Christmas we gather at my daughter's house, me, my two sons, their wives, their children. And, to tell the truth, it seems more like a party. Wait. Did I say party? Hold on. My daughter was born the day after Christmas. She grew up complaining that she never had a real party on her birthday. And now we have a party at her house on the day after Christmas. My goodness, did I raise a smart kid or what?

So, as you read this epistle I'll be celebrating Christmas and/or my daughter's birthday at her house. It will be a grand time. The grandchildren will be running here and there. They'll jump over sofas and bounce off bookcases. The ornaments on the Christmas tree will shake in time with the cadence of their little feet. After a while my daughter will come in and with a firm, if not loud, voice proclaim, “You kids stop that right now.” They will stare at her with a look of consternation on their face and reply, with fingers pointed in my direction, “He said we could.” My daughter will look my way with the proverbial daggers flying out of her eyes. I'll look at her with the practiced innocence of the one her kids refer to as the “fun grandparent.”

Following a wonderful meal, we'll gather chairs around the tree and the present opening will begin. I'l sit back and relish the entertainment of my children trying to get their kids to be courteous. “Now, let's take turns. You just wait until your cousin opens her present and then it will be your turn.” I think it's a hoot watching my children try to get their seven kids to “take turns” at a Christmas and/or birthday party. The most fun I get, however, is when each of those kids comes upon the present with the tag indicating its from me. As each “takes his or her turn” they pause before opening it to look at me. The eyebrows raise in a question. I nod. They smile knowing it's the thing their parents said they couldn't have.

This year my greatest pleasure will come from what I give my kids. The daughter gets two AAs. The oldest son gets four AAAs. And the youngest gets a 9 volt. With each battery is a note reading, “Toys not included.”

Evil Came Too Close to My Grandsons

Yesterday was my birthday. (And, by the way, thanks for all the birthday greetings.) There is absolutely no reason to discuss on this blog how many of those birth celebrations I've experienced. But this birthday was special. It was special because just before the worship service, I stood in front of the chancel, talking to a parishioner, when a familiar voice called my name. Down the center aisle a two-and-a-half year old grandson propelled himself as he screamed my name. He was followed by his brother who did not run but walked in a more dignified and demure manner, a pace that reflected his more mature four-and-a-half years.

I don't think I have ever been as glad to see them. The very sight of them made my heart skip a beat. Their presence on this Sunday morning churned up the depth of my love for them, reminded me of how precious they are, how innocent they are, and, in this world in which we live, how fragile they are as they attempt to navigate through the good and the bad of this world. Seeing them brought to the surface the tension that is part of our modern life.

Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, is but a short drive down the road from where those two grandsons live. They skipped down the aisle of my church just two days after twenty children, only two years older than the four-and-a-half year old, were gunned down by a deranged killer. The Governor of Connecticut made the comment that Evil had come to visit that New England village that day. And Evil visited too close, way too close, to where my grand kids live. They are too young to become acquainted with the horrors of this world. And, yet, there it was: Evil wrecking havoc in my grandchildren's neighborhood.

I preached my sermon; the worship ended, and those two grandchildren, my daughter-in-love, and Uncle Edward headed to a local restaurant. It was a good lunch, with lots of laughter and teasing. We colored the pictures on the table mats at the restaurant. And, because I was there, it was okay to have a lunch of pancakes and scrambled eggs, both smothered in maple syrup, and a chocolate fudge sundae.

I watched those kids having fun with me. I watched their glimpses toward their mother whenever they realized I was offering a departure from normal behavior. And, as I watched, I thought of a teacher sheltering children in a closet as gunshots reverberated down the hallway. I remember the news reports that she made a concerted effort to have each child look into her eyes as she said, “I love you. I love you.” She was sure they were going to die and she wanted them to die knowing they were loved.

So, I told my grandsons I love them. It's all I can do. In a short while they will return to that place where they live, down the road where Evil walked and spread Evil's destruction. I can tell them I love them. And I tell them that because I am convinced that love can overcome evil.

I can react to the shootings in a childish way by demanding there be more guns. Or I can react with a childlike faith, the childlike quality seen in my grandchildren, a faith that recognizes the goodness of this world and holds fast to the belief that in the end Evil will be defeated by Love.

My Wilderness Guides

It goes without saying. One should, if one desires to derive the most, engage the services of a competent guide when exploring unfamiliar wilderness. I desired to derive the most, and, consequently, I took advantage of a local guide service while exploring a portion of the western Connecticut wilderness the week of Thanksgiving. Luck was with me as two brothers, both familiar with the area I was to explore agreed to lead me through the forest.

Now I know some of us Southern folks, when thinking of those New England places, don't imagine forests populated by mighty trees with streams tumbling over rocks downward into quiet deepness through the fertile valleys. It's difficult to realize that just a hop, skip, and a jump, or more precisely a two hour car ride, from New York City there could be a postcard like rural, picturesque setting. Even in our most imagined historical scenes of colonial American farms with the rock walls bordering the pastures, we don't get the feel that today, in this 21^st Century, there remains in that place a wilderness to explore.

The Housatonic River is majestic as it flows south to southwest through western Connecticut. In the wilderness that borders its banks in various places the rock outcroppings are spectacular. The occasional erratic rock, one that doesn't belong where it is but was carried there by a glacier, gives hint to the massive forces of nature that carved these valleys eons ago. The trails through these gifts of nature are not all that difficult, but it takes a guide to enrich the journey with commentary.

And so, last week Sam and his brother, Owen, led me up the mountains and down into the valleys, through the rock formations, beside the flowing waters of the river and around the occasional hint of a previous human occupation. Both were familiar with the area, having walked these trails previously. Both were at home in the wilderness, and both, apparently, were delighted to have me sharing this experience with them.

Owen seemed to be more concerned for my well-being, in that, I, obviously, was a senior citizen. Often he'd move ahead of his brother and me, scouting out the trail that all was clear ahead. On more than one occasion he advised me of some difficult terrain and suggested alternative routes that would avoid them. He seemed at home in the forest as though pumped by the fresh air, the chilling breeze and the raw smell of nature.

Sam, seemed particularly intent on pointing out the various characteristics of acorns that were evident along the trail. At one point we reached a rock out cropping overlooking the Housatonic River. The view was spectacular. Down below a lone soul paddled his kayak up the river. History says we were sitting at the spot where the Native American daughter of a chief and her lover leaped to their death. Sam, undisturbed by the sacred spot, took time to point out the various aspects of an acorn.

Suddenly, he stood up and proclaimed. “I've got to pee.” He dropped his pants and proceeded to do so, oblivious of any others who might pass by on the trail. At that point Owen spoke up without any concern at his brother's dropped pants, and exclaimed, “Hey, Daddy Guy, come see this.”

I pulled up Sam's pants and with his two-year-old hand gripping my finger followed the older guide up the trail.

Thankful for Mysteries Solved

The season for counting our blessings has arrived. It's good this time of year rolls around. Truth is, we don't count those blessings and we don't give thanks for them without this annual time set apart. The shame of it is we have more to be thankful for in these present days than any time before.

Gracious how the world has changed in the last twenty-five years. My daddy would never believe it.

The other night I was traveling down the highway, just enjoying the journey, not in too much of a hurry to get to my destination. But I was hungry. I didn't really know where I was; I mean I knew I was between here and there and would soon arrive at there if I remained on this particular highway. But I didn't know where I was in terms of relieving the hunger pangs now wrestling in my stomach. No problem in this day and age.

I pulled out my smart phone, held the menu button down then said aloud, “Food.” Within a few seconds the phone spoke to me, “I found fifteen restaurants; thirteen of them are fairly close to you.” Glancing down at the phone, I touched the name of one of those restaurants. A map to the establishment appeared on the screen. So in this season I'm giving thanks I can always know how to get where I need to be.

Speaking of that phone, I called my grandson in Connecticut the other evening. He's a few months short of being five. After speaking to my son for a few moments he then called the grandchild, informing him I was on the phone. The grandson took the phone, looked at the screen and said, “He must have hung up.” Most of the time when I talk with him and his brother we do it via a video call. When he didn't see my face he assumed I wasn't there any longer. I'm giving thanks today that my grandchildren, even when we live a thousand miles apart, still know what I look like.

I'm thankful today the rising generation is not wasting their lives away on video games. They may be playing them non-stop, but they're not wasting their lives. Ever heard of Adrien Treville? He, a university professor, was frustrated at the slow place of solving some of the mysteries of AIDS and HIV. The university computers had been working on the problem for years with no positive results. He put the problem online in a video game format. Within days 300,000 kids were working on the mystery. It has something to do with the way protein molecules are folded. One of the top players was a ninth grader named Michael Tate. He and other players solved the molecule mystery within three weeks. Look at the power of this technology, not just a few scientists working on the problem but hundreds of thousands of kids.

I'm thankful for this age where, wearable, external robotic skeletons are making it possible for paraplegics to walk, where we are finding ways to control machines with our minds, and where I can watch, live, my grand kids in another city or state perform in their dance recital.

And I'm so very thankful it will be the ethics and values my generation teaches that will allow them to use this new technology for the common good and the betterment of all humankind.

Letter To A Granddaughter On Election Day

Dear Ansley,

I wanted to write and let you know about something I just did, something that was really important. I voted. Yes, I voted once again. I've been making a habit of doing that since 1960. Every two years beginning that year I've marched myself off to the polling place and cast my vote for the candidates I thought would best serve the interests of our country. The last seven times I voted I also cast a ballot for the candidate that I thought would best secure your future. Yesterday was significant. It's significant because the next time there's an election for the President of the United States, you, too, can vote to secure your future.

That's why I'm writing. I've never asked much of you over the years of your young life. In fact, your mother says all I do is give things to you and your sisters. It's time for you to give me a little payback. You can do that by taking out your smart phone right now. Click on your calendar. Go to August, 4, 2015. Make a notation on that day that reads: Register to Vote! On that day you will be old enough to register to vote in the next presidential election. And vote in that election you should do.

Voting is important, Ansley. By exercising your right to vote you can have an influence on the path of this nation in our relationship with other nations, in the manner this country provides for the unfortunate as well as the fortunate. By exercising your right to vote you determine who represents your interest in the halls of Congress, at the state capitol, and in the county commission meetings. By exercising your right to vote you have something to say about the war making powers of the country, the speed limit on the roads, whether or not the pot holes on those roads get patched. By exercising your right to vote you determine the quality of education your children, my grandchildren, receive. In short, sweetheart, by exercising your right to vote you will be making your mark upon the future your children will possess.

So, you will be doing me a great favor if you will mark your calendar now to register to vote in 2015. Getting you to promise to vote is the best thing I can ever give your children.

I do have to warn you, however, that voting can sometimes be frustrating. Sometimes the person you vote for does not get elected. Sometimes the other candidate gets elected. Don't let that discourage you. Even if the other candidate gets elected, that candidate will know you're watching every move and you'll be back at the polls the next time around. In that way voting is a brake on the excesses of that other candidate.

And, should your candidate win, do not gloat. For the winner is also the representative of those other voters. That's the beauty of our system. Once the candidate is elected that candidate becomes the representative of us all.

As I write this, I don't know whether my presidential candidate won or lost. I won't know that for a few more hours. But I do know: Whomever is elected will be my President as well as the President of the others. And giving allegiance to the one elected is the American way – one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.