Questing Parson

A Mountaintop Experience

The parson, along with his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, decided to skip church. It was a weekday. Hardly anyone would notice. The sky was clear. The temperature was in the mid-seventies. The parson pulled on his hiking boots. Charlie Brown danced about knowing those shoes meant new smells, new adventures.

Up the road they headed, past Carter's Lake and on to Chatsworth, where they turned right to head toward the mountain peak. Up, up the car climbed. Finally, the entrance loomed ahead. The parson entered the park, slowed down and withdrew his yearly pass from the glove compartment. The pass was hung on the rear view mirror. At the gate they took a left to head toward the hiking trail that led around the side of the mountain.

Charlie Brown bounded from the car and then jumped in circles waiting for his leash to be affixed. Once it was the two headed down the wooded path. The wind was at their back, which allowed the two deer just fifty yards from the trail to graze without Charlie Brown becoming aware of their presence. Charlie Brown, was too busy, anyway, trying to pull the ancient parson into a pace that suited his mood.

After awhile, they stopped. The parson faced a choice: Go left and he'd be treated to one of the most beautiful overlooks in North Georgia. Go right and he'd have only a short, but steep, hike to The Wall. The parson pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the time, and decided there was no reason why both could not be done.

Turning left Charlie Brown and the parson sought the overlook. It was downhill all the way, with an occasion set of metal stairs along the steep parts. No one was on the observation platform with its magnificent view of the valley below. The parson leaned against the rail and marveled as he always did at the beauty of the place he lived. Charlie Brown stretched out in the sun and within three minutes was snoring.

The view having been appreciated the two turned and headed back the way they'd come, uphill. As they reached the intersection where they'd face the decision they continued uphill. Uphill they went in steady but not rapid pace. Finally they arrived at the wall.

The wall was a marvel to the parson. It stretched for 855 feet, and, if one pulled out a compass one would see that the wall was on a direct path from east to west. Long ago, about the time the Jews were exiled to Babylon, the Native Americans of the middle Woodland Era gathered here on this spot, up high above the valley, and built this wall. Today it was just a row of stones. Over the years people had stolen the stones or pulled down the wall itself in a search for artifacts. But from the vast number of the stones it was obvious the wall had been impressive.

The parson sat on a log to study the wall. Here they'd had church. Here, they'd paid homage to their deity. Here they had perhaps sung their equivalent of hymns, heard their version of sermons, offered their prayers and sought the favor and blessings of the gods. In his mind's eye, the parson could see them gathered. He wondered how they were arranged for the ceremonies, he pondered how long the worship lasted.

The parson rose from the log. Charlie Brown popped upright in anticipation of more walking. The one thing the parson knew was that sooner or later these people concluded their religious ceremony and headed back down into the valley. Now he did, too. And as he did, he wondered if the priests of that day had known the same joys, frustrations, and challenges. And he lamented that today's congregations did not, as had the ancients, made time in their seasons to climb the mountain and build an altar to be closer to their God.

Let's Hear It for the National Park Service

 

It was mid-morning when the parson and his granddaughter approached the entrance to Montpelier, the home of James Madison, the fourth President of the United States and signer of the Declaration of Independence.

They approached the entrance, stopped at the booth, and, before being greeted by any words of welcome were told, "That will be $32." There was no "Please." No welcome to James Madison's home, no "Good morning." The only words of greeting  were "$32."

The parson looked over at his granddaughter, Sara, who shrugged her shoulders. He handed the sentry the requested funds and the seemingly would be interlopers were allowed onto the grounds. There was no "Thank you." There were no directions. There only the words, "Go to the Visitors Center."

It was ten minutes after the hour of ten in the morning when the parson and his granddaughter entered the Visitors Center. They walked together to the counter where two women were standing. One took their tickets which they received from the centurion at the entry booth. She told them, "There's a presentation at 11:00. Until then you can look around the center. After the presentation there's a guided tour of the grounds. Here's your map. Here's your audio self tour device."

The parson looked at his granddaughter. She shrugged her shoulders. They took the maps and the device. They wandered around the center looking for the various things they could see while waiting for the tour. It took them fifteen minutes.

The parson approached the woman. "Excuse me. Am I right that we cannot do anything until 11:00?"

"That's correct," she said. "There's a presentation at 11:00 after which a guide will take you on a tour of the grounds and the house."

"The only way we can see things is to wait forty-five minutes for a tour?"

"Well, you're welcome to walk around the grounds but you cannot go into the house without a guide."

The parson looked at his granddaughter. She shrugged her shoulders.

"Well, we'll just walk around, if that's okay," said the parson figuring that he'd been trained by Uncle Sam and could read a map.

He was wrong. The map was somewhat inadequate. And where it was accurate all paths led to the front door of the house which could not be toured without a guide.

The parson and his granddaughter walked about a bit amazed at the lack of information available on the grounds. And the "Oh hum, let me read this into the mike" tone in the hand held audio self-guided tour device. After listening to the recordings at several stops the parson looked at his sixteen-year-old granddaughter who shrugged her shoulders. The parson directed her up a path that the compass on his iPhone told him was the way back to the Visitors Center.

Arriving there, he approach the counter where stood the previous "greeters?" to the center. He placed the audio device on the counter. He waited a moment. The three women there were talking to each other. The parson looked at his granddaughter. She shrugged her shoulders.

Walking back to the car, the parson could not but feel the Montpelier Foundation that is in charge of the site, whose mission statement reads: "Inspire continuing public engagement with American constitutional self-government by bringing to life the home and contributions of James and Dolley Madison", has failed in that mission. Or perhaps the mission is misstated.

The parson looked at his granddaughter and said, "I think the purpose of this place is to feather the coffers of the Montpelier Foundation." His granddaughter said, "Yeah."

The parson and his granddaughter hopped into the car. They headed out for Washington, D. C. for the night and then on to Independence Hall in Phildaphia where the National Park Service is in charge and where they they will not only be educated but welcomed.

My Favorite Baptist Preacher

Is Bill Moyers optimistic?
58 minutes but well worth it. Correct that! It's more than well worth it, it's a vital listen. 

Whose Anger?

The parson was discovered in that coffee establishment known to everyone by a member of a church located near his. Most days did not find the parson in Star Bucks. The parson's limit for a cup of coffee was $1.17. But today he'd made an exception in order to meet with the social worker of his church's transitional ministry. Her limit on a cup of coffee was somewhere beyond $3.

After the social worker departed the parson remained to complete some notes on his notebook and enter some meetings into his calendar. It was in the course of doing these tasks Eleanor Maddox found him in the surroundings so strange to him.

After purchasing a coffee she approached the parson and sat down at his invitation.

“Can I ask you a question, Parson?” she inquired.

“Sure,” said the parson.

“Do you think some of the small churches out in our part of the community should merge to form one stronger church?”

The parson closed his notebook, sipped what was left of his coffee, and sat back in his chair as he studied Eleanor. This was going to be an interesting conversation. “Yes,” he said, “I do.”

“Then why haven't you said anything about it?”

“Frankly, Eleanor, I didn't think anyone was ready to hear it.”

“Well, Frank Jeffery is ready.”

“He is?”

“He is. In fact he came over to our house the other night and said our church should merge with the folks that broke away from us a while back.”

“What was your reaction?”

“I told him I always wanted to do what was best for the church, but I also told him I'm still a little angry over those people pulling out of our congregation.”

Now the parson was really intrigued. “Help me out here, Eleanor. Let me tell you how I've understood the history of this. Correct me where I'm wrong.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, as I have understood it there once was just an open air tabernacle and a very small stone chapel. Now, lightning struck the tabernacle and it burned down. The chapel was really too small to accommodate a full church service, so it was necessary to either rebuild the tabernacle or build a bigger chapel or church. Am I right so far?”

“Yes, that's it.”

“And then some of the people decided that if a new church was going to be built then consideration should be given to moving the congregation to the main highway to allow a better chance for growth. But they were voted down. And after the vote they left the church and built the church that's now on the highway, a church that's two miles from your congregation.”

“That's what happened. You've got the story straight. So you can see why I'd feel some anger toward those people for pulling our of our church?”

“Actually, Eleanor, I can't.”

Eleanor had begun to take a sip of coffee, but she stopped her arm in mid-motion. “You can't? I don't understand.”

“Eleanor,” said the parson. “That fire and disagreement happened in 1941. I'm sorry for you to find this out, Eleanor, but I know how old you are. That means you were two-years-old when that happened. How could a two-year-old get angry about that? You couldn't, but your mother told you the story over and over. Right?”

She looked at the parson a second, took a swallow of her coffee, looked at her watch, and said, “Oh, my goodness, look what time it is. I really have to be going, Parson. But I'll tell you this; that forming a second church is something that's hard to get over.”

The parson watched her go. He packed his computer up and headed out. At his car he saw Eleanor sitting in her car at the traffic light about a block up. He thought to himself, “There's nothing more cumbersome than carrying the anger of a previous generation.”

Two Elections Lost

The parson exited the voting place his civic duty done for this election cycle. The wind blew the scent of the changing season toward him. The sun was slowly opening the door to the day.

The parson headed out of the parking lot, turned left, headed south toward the Quik Trip to purchase his daily cup of cappuccino. That done he pondered his choices, not of which he allowed to be heading to the church to work on Sunday's sermon. Instead, he headed north, meandering up the back roads. An hour or so later he found himself pulling into New Echota, the old capital of the Cherokee nation.

The parson wandered around the site, looking into the buildings, mostly reconstructed but located on the exact spot they'd been built. The roads of the town were still visible. He passed the Cherokee Supreme Court, the office of “The Phoenix”, the Cherokee newspaper, the tavern, and tucked back in the forest the rather opulent home of the missionaries who served there and from whose backyard the Cherokees began the infamous “Trail of Tears.”

Mid morning found the parson heading home. Enough items on the “Honey Do” list were completed to earn him bed and board for a couple more days; Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, took him for a walk around the neighborhood and accompanied him on a visit to the hospital. All in all, it was an uneventful day, except for the voting and the visit to the Cherokee capital.

After supper the parson settled down to write and post his contribution to the Homiletical Hot Tub at Good Preacher [dot] Com. He had no interest in other clergy duties and so he clicked on the television. PBS was running a program on the life of Sacajawea, the Native American woman who either accompanied or guided, depending on one's historical point-of-view, Lewis and Clark across the land President Jefferson purchased from the French.

It struck the parson as interesting he'd wandered around the Cherokee town in the morning and now was ending his day with the story of this amazing woman. Near the end of the program he was also reminded of his voting that morning. Sacajawea was, arguably, the first woman to vote in America. When Lewis and Clark were about to settle in for their second winter they debated where to make their camp. Sacajawea voted for a place where a particular vegetable was plentiful.

Before turning in for the night, the parson watched the election returns. He ended the day knowing he and Sacajawea had something in common. They both knew what it was like to be outvoted.

Remembering Past Sins

The parson was wasting a little time in the library of the seminary before heading home. He’d just come up from the stacks when Bill Harwell, a retired pastor who was supplying a rural congregation not far from where the parson served.

“Hello, Parson,” greeted Bill; “you still hanging around trying to finish that paper for Dr. Hollifield?”

The parson grinned at the memory of the paper he’d totally forgotten until the weekend before it was due on Monday. He had bluffed his way through the paper, but had received a lot of kidding from his friends, especially Bill, for forgetting it.

“Actually, Bill, I was downstairs researching an article I’m writing, and the deadline is two months away.”

“Well, I guess we do improve with age,” laughed Bill.

They both moved toward the exit to the library and paused on the front porch to catch up on the latest gossip. The conversation continued for a few minutes and then Bill asked:

“Did a woman named Janice Whittlemeir contact you a few months ago?”

“She did,” said the parson; “she’s been attending the church. I’m hoping she’ll join soon.”

“That would be a change,” said Bill. “She’s from the community where my church is. When she said she was moving to your area I suggested she check you out.”

“I appreciate that,” said the parson. “Actually, I’m baptizing her baby in a couple of weeks.”

Bill seemed taken aback. “She’s having her baby baptized?”

“She is.”

“Boy, I’m wondering how she’s going to answer the questions that are in the ritual. That woman has a really, well let’s just say, checkered past.”

“You think her checkered past would be a detriment to taking vows for her child at the baptism?”

“Well it sure opens things up for questions.”

The parson smiled. He grabbed Bill’s arm and pulled him down the steps and up a rise where he could look down at the village across the street.

The parson pointed, “Remember that place?” His finger was zeroed in on a pizza establishment where, in the parson’s younger days in the wild 60s, he and Bill and a couple of friends would often drink lunch that was served to them in pitchers served by waitresses wearing t-shirts, just t-shirts.”

Bill smiled and quietly responded, “Yeah, those were the days.”

“And when we knelt down at the altar for our ordination, Bill, there were a lot of folks who knew about our time across the street. I’m thinking they were probably murmuring to themselves, “Wonder how those guys are going to answer the questions.”

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This Old House

The parson inserted the key in the lock and turned the key. It resisted, but working it a bit overcame the resistance. He twisted the knob and pushed. The door swung open with ease.

Musty was the smell, the stuffed up smell of several years of uncirculated air. Dim was the light. Pulled-open curtains allowed the sun’s rays to dance about illuminating living room corners and awakening the eeriness of an abode long unoccupied. Dust rested easily upon scattered pieces of furniture, sofa abandoned by end tables, rocker alone in a corner, china cabinet empty and askew. 

The hall was more than dim. Footsteps echoed into each accentuating emptiness that needed to be filled. Blinds opened throughout the rooms again invited light to penetrate the dreariness. None of the bedrooms contained furniture. 

A old well-indented recliner kept watch over the family room staring longingly toward the fireplace and the cable hanging from the wall as though searching for a TV, waiting for an occupant. Under the picture window a buffet table upheld three stacks of books, one of which consisted of fourteen Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. the other two an assortment of novels. Magazines piled a dozen high framed the stacks, consisting of issues of Time, Newsweek, TV Digest, and one copy of Atlantic. 

Cabinets in the kitchen sheltered delicate china cups and saucers, abandoned to wonder why they were not packed with the rest. A cast iron skillet rested above the long ago extinguished gas flame, an old, old skillet the avenue to a thousand previous meals. 

It was a stately house the parson inventoried, not built but constructed with craftsmanship. A kitchen cabinet contained doors six feet tall that folded out and then unfolded once and then once again with shelves on each extended door extensive enough to host a season of food. The refrigerator space betrayed the house’s age by the absence of an ice maker pipe.

A door at the end of the breakfast area whispered. The parson opened it to discover steps leading down into almost darkness. With the agileness of a senior citizen he descended into the shadows. Seemingly out-of-place blinds obscured the light’s insistence on penetrating the basement dimness. Once opened the space, bordered by concrete walls, revealed a collection.

A hospital bed sat forlornly in the center of the space, an old institutional bed with crank mechanisms for raising and lowering the foot and head. It seemed so incongruous resting in the exact center of the basement with nothing near as though it was somehow contagious and the rest of the room wished to remain apart.

A bird house rested on an old workbench. Old, old fading green paint was half covered with a more recent coating of brown whose container sat beside with paint-stiffened brush resting on top. Beside it rested the remains of a bird’s nest, apparently having been removed from the house with delicate care. Above the workbench, from a rafter, hung an ancient crosscut timber saw and on the wall behind a set of screwdrivers, arranged in precise order. The surface of the workbench was potted with marks from hammer blows, chisel chips, and other hints of a master of tools. Inside the drawer of the workbench were deposited a set of planes dating from the 1930s. 

The parson headed back up the steps and through the house closing blinds as he went. His promise of “looking in on Uncle Howard’s house” made to a friend complete, the parson pulled to and again locked the door on a lifetime of memory.

What Once Was

 From 1000 to 1550 CE a Native Americans of what has come to be known as the Mississippian Culture occupied an area of almost sixty acres along the banks of the Etowah River. A vibrant town existed among the mounds, some of which are visible today. 

The parson often took time away from his parish to wander about the mounds and the civilization that thrived until DeSoto and his company brought the diseases that would decimate the population. The place long ago caught the fascination of the parson. It had become his secret place of contemplation and relaxation.

 The parson had settled himself on the bank of the river. He looked out at the remains of the ancient fish trap built by these people. The “V” shaped rock wall once directed fish to the opening at the apex where a large woven basket was anchored to catch the evening’s meal. As the parson sat, his back against a tree, his gaze and mind went to the surrounding fields across the river. They were pretty much cleared now but when the Etowahs walked this ground there would have been massive hardwoods. He watched the river flow imagining how crystal clear it must have been back then.

“What brings you to these parts?” broke the parson’s contemplation. He turned to see Randy Harriman, one of the newer pastors in the area. 

“Oh, I hang out here a lot,” the parson responded, his mind going back to the archeological excavations where he’d volunteered to be the wheel barrow operator.

“This place is great,” said Randy. “It’s the first time I’ve been here.”

The parson wondered what could have taken Randy so long. He’d been pastor of a church not ten miles from the mounds for three years. The parson began his recitation of the history of the Native Americans who had populated this area, describing everything from the borrowing pit where the dirt for the mounds was taken to the fish trap to the carvings found when the excavations of the bottom of the main mound took place. He told Randy of another town much like this one thirty miles or so up the road, nearer to the mountains that now rested at the bottom of the man-made Carter’s Lake. He told him of the village located a few miles downstream that had recently been excavated. By the time the parson stopped talking Randy had no excuse for not being educated into the Mississippian Culture.

“When did you first come here, parson?”

“I came the first week I retired,” the parson responded.

“You come here a lot?”

“I do. I come here at least twice a month.”

“How come?”

“I really don’t know,” the parson responded. “I’m just fascinated with these people and the idea that such a lively and intricate society existed here long before the Cherokees and long before the appearance of the Europeans. What happened to them is a shame.”

“It must have been,” said Randy.

Randy turned from the parson and walked to the edge of the river. He picked up a couple of stones and threw them so they jumped across the water’s surface. He seemed to be studying the fish trap for several long moments. Then he turned and walked back to the parson.

“We can never get it back, can we?”

“No, Randy, we can’t” the parson lamented.

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