Questing Parson

Anybody Seen Florence?

The parson arrived a half hour after the Soup Supper Monday had opened. He supper had started back during the economic crisis and was often filled with folks who couldn't afford the groceries. At the soup kitchen, which often included more than soup, everything was free.

Gradually, as the economy improved, those in desperate need of the meal dwindled in numbers. But Florence was always there. Florence was a complicated person. She couldn't manage the little money she got from Social Security, and, as a consequence, within two weeks of receiving her check she'd be in search of funds. Florence was smooth. She never said she wanted anyone to give her money directly. Rather, “Hey, that mechanic that looked at my van said I needed a new radiator. I've been saving my money. Anyway you guys could give me the thirty I short?” Or, “You know they say there's a cold front moving in. My heat is on the blink. But they have those little space heaters on sale across the street. I could get a good deal over there. I only need twenty-five. It sure would save me from freezing to death.”

Every Monday night it was always the same. One time, however, Florence had become so vocal the parson got distrubed. “Florence, do you see all these people who don't go to church here?” She looked around and acknowledged she did. “Don't be hitting them up for money, Florence. They're guests. Just dont' do it.”

She told the parson okay and added it wasn't a problem because she thought she had enough anyway.

Two days later the parson came upon one of the town's homeless. He was one of the five or six men who lived under the bridge over the railroad track on Highway Forty-One. “Frank,” said the parson, “that's a good looking coat you've got there.”

“Yeah, it is,” said Frank, “Florence went out and hit up some people at some church and bought all of us a new coat for the winter.”

As the parson entered the fellowship hall he immediately looked for Florence to find out how much she was in need of in order to get it over. Florence wasn't there?

“Where's Florence?” the parson asked.

“Haven't seen her tonight,” said one of the ladies who'd prepared the meal.

The parson sat at one of the tables and began to consume his. “Hey, Parson, where's Florence?” asked the next one into the Fellowship Hall. The next person entering asked the same. And the next.

The parson finished his meal, packed up a box of carryout containers, and headed out to deliver meals to the homebound. A little over an hour later he returned. He entered and scanned the Fellowship Hall. “Florence didn't come tonight?” he asked.

“Nope,” nobody has seen her,” replied one of the young people.

Again and again people asked about Florence. Finally, the “head cook” looked at her watch and said, “Okay, that's it. I'm going to go by her place and check on her.”

Twenty minutes later she returned. “She's not there. Her neighbor said she was taking a short vacation.” The parson couldn't help but compare Florence's fundraising abilities with his own and judged himself coming up short.

“Well, thank God she's okay,” said more than one.

The parson smiled to himself. “Funny,” he thought, “how much you can miss the most aggravating people once you've grown to love them.”T

The Problem With Those People

“Parson, can I talk with you for a minute?” the woman asked.

“Sure,” said the parson. “Have we met?”

“No, we haven't. I live across the street from one of those transitional houses that your church operates for homeless women.”

“Oh, I'm sorry we haven't met before,” said the parson. “Which house are you talking about?”

The woman let the parson know which house she was talking about.

“Yes, you're the one with the beautiful garden. I know your house.”

“Well, thank you,” she said. “I wonder if I might discuss the folks that are in the house now.”

“Discuss them? I”m not sure what you're asking.”

“Well, that woman has two children and one of them is always trying to talk to my kids.”

The woman paused as though she'd provided sufficient information. The parson waited a pregnant moment. “One of your neighbor's children is trying to talk to one of your children?”

“Yes.”

“And there's a problem with that?”

“I guess there is.”

“I'm not sure I understand.”

“Look, Parson, that kid is always coming over and asking if my child can come and play with him. He's always trying to make some kind of relationship with us.”

The parson stared at the woman. He sensed where this was going. He tried to stifle the anger he felt rising.

“We're good Christian people, Parson,” the woman continued. “And when your church puts those people in the house across the street from us it threatens our kids. We can't have our kids hanging around with those people.”

“Those people?” the parson asked. “Those people! Where do you get off calling them 'those people'? That boy was coming over to your house asking if you would be his friend. That boy was coming over to your house and pleading to you to treat him with the dignity of a child of God. You slammed the door in his face. You know what,” said the parson knowing this would probably get back to church superior and he'd have to attend another meeting, “the only problem with those people is you people.”

Reflections on My Church

In Tampa, Florida, the multitude of delegates to the United Methodist General Conference (that body of elected delegates and bishops who determine the polity and doctrine of the church) began to gather in the morning hours. Some stopped to consume a full breakfast. Some made do with a doughnut and coffee. Some skipped breakfast all together and rushed to begin the day's business.

In a rural town in Virginia, nestled against the Blue Ridge Mountains, a young pastor, just now completing her first year of ministry after ordination, headed toward the local jail. The homeless woman who was her latest project had been arrested.

In the hallway outside the floor of the conference, a layperson from New York and an elder from North Carolina were in deep discussion of the proposal to limit the tenure of a bishop. The layperson sought clarification from the clergy on his views on the matter.

In South Georgia a middle-aged pastor stood on the bank of a river and in an absent-minded manner cast his fishing line into the water. Whether the fish were biting or not was not the point. The goal was the solitude, the quietness, the isolation where he could consider if he wanted to continue with what had become, for him, the disappointment of ministry.

In Tampa, when the delegates were called upon to vote on members of the University Senate, the church's accrediting body for schools, a delegate asked another who Jan Love was? The other replied she was the Dean of the Candler School of Theology. The delegate voted for her.

An Oregon pastor rose early, poured a cup of coffee, accessed the internet and clicked the live stream from the General Conference to watch the proceedings.

In Atlanta a seminary student at the Candler School of Theology headed down the stairs into the stacks in a desperate search for needed documentation for the paper due tomorrow. She had absolute no idea the Dean of her school had just been elected to the University Senate. Nor did she, at this point in heer career, care.

The Oregon pastor returned from pouring her second cup of coffee just in time to hear a delegate from North Georgia making some point to the presiding bishop. The entire recitation was not heard but it did not matter as the bishop ruled the person out of order.

At an Illinois hospital, a pastor jolted upright from his chair when a nurse walked into the room where he'd been keeping vigil with the oldest member of his congregation.

In Peru a missionary opened the doors of the newly established library and prepared for the onslaught of borrowers hungry for what was inside.

Two delegates at the conference became rather agitated in their discussion of whether or not elders of the church should be guaranteed appointments.

A lay pastor in Nebraska walked into work late again hoping his need to be with a couple in his church who had called him about their troubled marriage would be understood by a non-church-going supervisor.

Down in Florida the General Conference adjourned for lunch. In New Jersey a pastor was busy slapping sandwiches together at the shelter.

In Africa, a worn and tired pastor fell onto his bed, a cot, without undressing, utterly exhausted from a day with AIDS victims.

The Tampa delegates listened with rapt attention when the Reverend Lorenza Andrade-Smith was introduced. She shared part of her story of selling all her possessions and living in solidarity with the homeless in the streets of San Antonio.

In Ohio, a pastor and his Pastor-Parish Committee haggled over his compensation for the next year.

Delegates in Tampa ambled back to their hotels. Some stopped at a restaurant to swap stories and gossip. Others eagerly sought their rooms and a night's rest.

Across the globe United Methodists did what they do. In the morning the church will go back to work.

Paying Forward

The folks were gathered in the church Fellowship Hall. It was Sunday afternoon and one of those rare moments in the life of a church. There were no committee meetings. There were no discussions of failing financial resources. There were no complaints, as far as the parson knew, of the pastor's latest foible. People were laughing, glad to see each other even though they'd seen each other only three hours before. The finger foods were being devoured with favorable comments about certain member's gastronomic delights.

And then it happened. He stood. He said, “Can I say something to everyone, please.” Everyone stopped what they were doing. Everyone sat down. He wasn't a member of the church. In fact, it was the first time he'd set foot in the parson's church. But, intuitively, everyone knew they wanted to hear what he had to say.

He began the story. The story began two years before when he and his wife and their two teenage girls were living in an abandoned house because they were homeless. There was no electricity in that house. There was no running water. But it offered shelter from the rain. And then the family advocate in the school system had put them in contact with the social worker whose work was financed by the parson's church.

He talked of being accepted into the parson's church's transitional housing program, of moving into the church's parsonage. He told of the struggles to overcome bad habits, to learn how to budget, to make right decisions in anticipation of events not to come in years. He talked of him and his wife obtaining meaningful employment. He talked of the classes at the technical college. He talked of the daughter who was not present at the reception excelling in college. He talked of the daughter who was at the gathering making plans for her college education. He smiled broadly as he related their relationship with the social worker who was, according to him, part angel and part drill instructor. He talked of the new place he and his family were moving to this week, of how they'd been decorating it, furnishing it. When he finished there were no dry eyes in the room.

As the day wound down and the celebration came to a close, the parson walked outside with the younger daughter. “So,” the parson asked, “what are you planning to study when you go to college?”

“I'm going to get a degree in social work,” she said. “Then I'm going to do for some family what this church has done for mine.”

Some days, it's good to have an extra Sunday afternoon meeting.

Folding Up the Argument

The parson was pulled up to a table in the Fellowship Hall. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, lay on the floor beside his chair snoring in a rhythmic cadence. The parson was folding brochures he'd printed to be inserted in Sunday's bulletins.

The gravel that filled the trench dug across the driveway years before crunched under the tires of a car. Charlie Brown woke. He sniffed the air. A moment later the outside door to the room opened. Charlie Brown sniffed the air again. He gave a low, barely audible, growl then laid his head back on the floor in search of his snoring pattern.

“Howdy, Parson,” called out Billy Bane, one of the members of the church. See you've got that damn dog with you again.”

The parson looked up and replied, “His name's not Damn Dog; it's Charlie Brown.”

“Yeah, right. What are you doing here, Parson?”

“I work here,” said the parson. “What are you doing here.”

“I saw your car and stopped to have a word with you about some of these things we're supporting.”

“Something tells me you want to have more than a word. And I bet the first two words are 'transitional housing.'”

“Well, that's as good a place to start as any.”

The parson resumed folding the brochures. Charlie Brown rediscovered his snoring pattern.

“Hey, are we going to talk about this?”

“I'm not,” said the parson, “we discussed this at the board meeting. You got outvoted. There's nothing to discuss, Billy. You spoke your piece. The folks on the board were polite enough to listen to every objection you raised. And they decided to continue that ministry.”

Billy stood staring at the parson for a minute.

“I might go to another church,” he said.

The parson smiled, “That's an option.” He paused a moment. “You're not going to another church, Billy. You don't gee haw with me but we both know you're not going to another church. Your Mama would ring your neck.” The parson pushed a couple dozen brochures toward Billy's side of the table. “Sit down. Help me fold these brochures. You want some coffee?”

Billy pulled up a chair. Charlie Brown raised his head then grunted at having lost the cadence again.

No Longer Tired

The parson was tired dead tired. “Funny,” he’d told Ms. Parson only a few days before, “I didn’t realize I was old until this year.”

“Maybe you just need a vacation,” she replied.

“Maybe,” he said, But the fatigue was there.

The day had been long. Death seems to never come to a pastor when his time is empty. Crisis intervention counseling is never critical when the pastor has nothing on his plate. And this past week the demands had piled upon events and the events upon one crisis after another.

The parson looked at Ms. Parson’s understanding and playful smile and smiled back. He then put his head upon the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and drifted.

A snort startled the parson to wakefulness. It was with astonishment he realized the snort had in actuality been his snore. He shook his head into consciousness.

Ms. Parson, smiled more. “Enjoy your nap?”

“I wasn’t taking a nap. I was resting my eyes.”

Ms. Parson said not a word. She continued to altar the uniform of the Georgia State Trooper that was spread across her lap.

The parson rose, headed to the kitchen, retrieved a beverage, returned to the sofa and turned his attention to Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson’s quest to become Chief of the LAPD.  As the show ended he realized she didn’t, but also realized he had not the foggiest why she did not.

In frustration, the parson picked up the notebook and placed it on his lap. He clicked on the Mozilla icon and headed to his email box.

The first email was from a former member. “Remember the Tuesday Teens?” he asked at the beginning of the epistle.

The parson did remember the Tuesday Teens. During his tenure as pastor of an inner city church, the social worker at a shelter for homeless women with children had approached him. The regulations of the shelter provided for no real follow up for children over the age of twelve whose mother had left the shelter. She asked if the parson’s church could develop some program.

The parson called on his Associate Pastor, Jan. She organized the group of children into what became known as the Tuesday Teens.  Every Tuesday when school was over they headed by the rapid rail system on tickets provided by the city to the parson’s church. There they engaged in self-esteem activities, in sharing their frustrations, in their struggle to keep their families together, and in a fellowship with Jan and the parson.

Of course, as is the case with such programs, the bishop in his wisdom decided Jan needed her own church and appointed her to a well-deserved status as senior pastor of another congregation. It was then the parson called upon his daughter to oversee the program. She commuted into the inner city every Tuesday to continue what Jan had started.

When the parson retired and moved, the program fell victim to differing pastoral priorities and vanished. Often over the years the parson had wondered about those kids.

Yes, indeed, the parson remembered the Tuesday Teens. The email continued:

“So, Parson, you may or may not know that I was laid off,” said the man who had driven those teens home in the church van every Tuesday. “And when I found myself unemployed I decided to go to school and get another advanced degree. Well imagine my surprise when I felt a tap on my shoulder the other day and turned to see David standing there with his big smile. We had a good visit and are going to see each other often at the school.

“David sends his regards. He also wants you to know that his brother, Jim, is doing really well. He graduated from a technical school and has started his own company that, despite the economy, is doing pretty good. And Peter, his other brother, is living further south and has a Masters degree.

“Thought you’d want to know, Parson, the Tuesday Teens have left the problems of their former environment and created a much better one in which each lives.

“By the way, Parson, we’re working of a date, real soon, when the Tuesday Teens will come to see you.”

“The parson powered off the notebook. He sat it on the coffee table.

“You really are tired,” Ms. Parson repeated.

The parson remembered the day he conducted the funeral for the brother of those three who was the victim of a gang shootout. He remembered his pleading they not retaliate, the prayers for them and finally with them. He forced down the lump in his throat and replied, “Not anymore. Not anymore.”

Those Other Kind of People

The parson sat at the far end of the fellowship hall, comparing iPhone Apps with two of the youth. The shared appreciation of the power of the cell phones had come months before when in the middle of the sermon the cell phones of every youth in the church began to vibrate. Those who were able sneakily checked their phones to read a text: “This is the Parson. Pay attention the next part of the sermon. It's really good.”

Now on this Soup Supper Monday, where the parson’s church provided a free meal to anyone who wanted it - rich or poor, he and the young people exchanged thoughts on technology and they educated the parson on how to utilize all the marvels of his device, a steady parade of people entered. 

For a long while only members of the church came to partake of the gastronomic delight the parson’s own hands had prepared. About thirty minutes after the doors had opened the team who delivered meals to the homebound and sick arrived and packed up meals in takeout containers and departed. Shortly after the parson felt two arms wrap around his neck from behind. 

“Hello, Peggy,” said the parson, without turning. He knew it was Peggy, not from her hug but from the smell of her unwashed body. 

“Hi, Peggy,” said the assembled young people in one form of another, as the parson turned his chair around.

“You look pretty,” said the parson, peering beneath the matted hair that probably had not been combed or brushed in a week into the innate beauty that was obviously there. 

“Thank you, Parson,” she said. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I got an A on that report you helped me with. My teacher was really happy.”

“That makes me happy, too, Peggy,” said the parson. She leaned forward and hugged the parson’s neck. 

“Get something to eat,” said the parson. Peggy turned to do so as the parson called out to her brother already filling his bowl and plate. It was never a guess as to whether Peggy and her brother were hungry. “Hello, Ralph,” the parson greeted.

“Hi, Parson.”

“Have you been fishing lately?” The parson knew Ralph often fished the ponds near his house. He also knew Ralph’s fishing was a necessary supplement to the family’s diet. 

“Yeah,” said Ralph, smiling, walking over to the parson. The youth pulled back a bit, for Ralph exuded the same aroma as his sister. “You know that pond across the highway from us? Well, I caught two catfish yesterday that were this big.” Ralph held up his hands to indicate the size. The parson knew his estimate was probably accurate as Ralph didn’t lie about fishing.

Peggy and Ralph and their mother headed to a table before the artificial fireplace with the gas logs. They sat down and began to consume their meal with the force of an industrial vacuum.  

The parson’s cell phone vibrated. He looked down to see a text from a youth across the table from him. The text read: “What’s wrong with that woman. Even if you are poor you can make your kids take a bath and brush their hair occasionally.”

The parson looked across the table at the mystified youth. He smiled, but before he could answer six more people came bounding in from the cold. Two of them lived on the fringe, dabbling consistently with drugs more often than not inebriated. And yet, those two, at the encouragement of Ms. Parson, had begun to gather others who lived under the bridge on Highway 41 and give them a ride to Soup Supper Monday. 

“Hey, what’s cooking, Parson?” chimed out Denver the leader of the under-the-bridge brigade.

“Soup.” said the parson.

“Okay,” said Denver, “but who made the soup this night?”

“I did,” said the parson.

Denver came over to the parson’s seat, “That’s good,” he whispered. “When that other lady makes the soup she doesn’t put as much meat in it as you do.”

“Eat your soup and be thankful no matter who made it,” said the parson.

“Amen,” proclaimed one of the other under-the-bridge citizens.

The under-the-bridge group were halfway down the line of crock pots with soup, platters of cornbread, brownies and slices of cake, when Peggy called to the parson.

“Bye, Parson.”

The parson looked up to see the two unkempt kids being literally dragged from the room, their bowls of soup and other food sitting half-consumed on the table. Their mother hissed to the parson in a stage whisper, “I can’t believe you let those kind of people in here.”

Seasons of Life

The first hints of fall drifted over the landscape. The wind, not yet cold, was chilled enough to put a bounce in the steps of even the most sedate. The air smelled clean, freshly washed by the steady rains of the previous two weeks. Nature was painting the trees with the first bright colors that was prelude to the falling leaves. Here and there, in stubbornness a flower bloomed in defiance of the inevitability of the changing season.

The inhabitants of the unseen abodes were the first to note the coming change. Even the slightest differentiation in the temperature attuned them to a need for change. Adjustments were made in apparel. short sleeves were exchanged for long, BVDs were purchased or taken out of storage bags. 

The season was changing. The warmth of summer was being traded for the chill of winter and the cycle of earth continued. They now became part of the cycle in their preparations and their desires.

Applications are filed, the need for income increases as the air growing more chilled reminds of frigid days coming. A part time job would be satisfactory. Enough income to burrow into a small hovel for a few hundred a month, maybe with a hot plate, enough money to provide some pork and beans and bread with peanut butter and jelly for desert. It seemed little to ask, but so much to gain.

They sat there at the tables, slurping up the soup, some bowl of which were garnished with crumbled cornbread and munching on the BBQ sandwiches, grateful for a moment to enjoy a meal, a free meal.

“I did,” he said. “I got a job. Twenty hours a week the man said. It’s just minimum wage, but I think I can make it. Old Rodney, you know him, comes by our sitting place all the time; I think he shops at that grocery store, he knows somebody who has a little trailer I might get for a few bucks a week. Don’t know how’s I can afford any electricity just yet, but, you know, maybe if I do good that twenty hours can be more. Anyway, I could live in that trailer without electricity. The shower would be cold, but I’ve had cold showers before. You know what I mean?”

“You think they need any more help?” asked one of the table partners. “I’m thinking I’m going to have to find something other than that truck I sleep in.”

“I can’t say,” he told her. “But you could put in an application. Just might happen for you.”

“I may do that?” she said. “Thanks for the tip.”

The lady came by the table and asked, “Do you want any desert?”

“Desert? You guys give us desert?”

“We do.”

“Oh, my goodness, yes. What is it?”

“It’s peach cobbler.”

“My goodness, thank you Jesus. Thank you so much.”

The lady walked away to spoon up several bowls of the cobbler. She returned to the table in a few moments and placed a bowl in front of each?

“Would you look at this,” he said. “This has ice cream on top.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said the lady, “I should have asked if you wanted any.”

“You didn’t have to ask me,” he said.

“Me either,” said the other one.

The lady moved to the other side of the room and placed a bowl in front of the well-dressed woman. She needed a job, too.

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Not Enough At Our Church?

The parson had brought the message at a Men’s Fellowship Breakfast at the First Church of the Gathered Brethren of the Sanctified Sinners and was heading toward his own church at the morning worship service. Mitchell Turner, one of his members who had accompanied him was in the passenger seat.

They crested a small rise and as the road curved steadily to the left the KJV Bible Preached Congregation of the Word Protected and Never Revised appeared on the left of the road and seemingly dead ahead. The parson slowed to take in the sight before him. One car was in the church parking lot. The pastor was walking from the car to the front door. And waiting on the porch was a familiar figure.

Before the parson could completely assess the situation Mitchell spoke up. “Hey, ain’t that that young fellow who was at our church last week? Guess he’s up here begging from them. I guess he just makes the rounds of the county churches.”

The parson watched the scene in front of the church. He knew the young man’s history. The drug use had started in high school; it continued into college where he was dismissed. Back home he couldn’t hold a job. His upper middle class and respected in the community had kicked him out. Now the boy lived under one of two bridges over the interstate. He drifted between the parson’s town and one ten miles south.

As they rounded the curve, and the church, pastor and drug abused young man faded from the parson’s sight, Mitchell turned in his seat to peer out the rear window. “Hmmm,” he said, “I guess he didn’t get enough at our church.”

The parson looked over at Mitchell and replied, “And that, Mitchell, is the shame of it.”

What's Wrong With This Picture?

In the background is Independence Hall

where the Declaration of Independence

and the United States Constitution were

conceived and signed.

On the bench are two homeless men.