Questing Parson

A Day Off Is A Day Off

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Hey, Parson, it's Jim Oliver.”

“Hello, Jim, how are things with you?”

“Going good, Parson, going good!”
“Glad to hear it; how's Alice?”

“She's spunky as ever. Say, Parson, look, Harvey Nelson and I are down here at the church. We were working on that leaky faucet in the kitchen. We got to thinking about some things and thought we'd ask you to come down and talk with us a bit.”

“Can't do that today, Jim.”

“You can't?”

“No, I'm sorry. Maybe some other time.”

“You're doing something special today?”

“No, I'm not doing anything special.”

“Then why can't you come talk with us?”

“It's my day off, Jim.”

There was a moment of silence, then Jim continued. “Your day off. You have a specific day off. I didn't know pastors did that.”

“This one does. Been doing it for, gracious, let me think, about forty plus years.”

“This won't take long, Parson.”

“What is so important, Jim.”

“Well, we've been talking about that literature they've been using in the Sunday School.”

“That's something to take up with the Council on Ministry.”

“Okay, maybe, but we thought it might be more productive to talk to you about changing it before that.”

“Do you know who suggested that literature, Jim?”

“No, I don't.”

“Well, you bring it up at the Council on Ministry.”

“So, you're not going to talk to us today. So, let me ask you this: Suppose I called and told you Alice was in the hospital on you day off? I guess she wouldn't get to see you.”

“No, as a matter of fact, Jim, if you called me to tell me Alice was in the hospital I'd be there in a heartbeat day off or not.”

“But you won't come and talk to me and Harvey about the literature?”

“No, Jim, not today.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Jim, you're not in the hospital and it's my day off. But please tell Harvey I'm appreciative for you both fixing the leak.”

“How do you know we fixed it right?”

“I don't, Jim, but I'll check it tomorrow when it's not my day off.”

Will We Ever Get There?

The parson drove home perplexed.

Many months before this drive home and interesting thing had happened at the parson's church. It was about twenty-five minutes to a half-hour before the service began. Two women walked into the sanctuary. The parson was in a room at the rear and overheard their conversation as they walked down the aisle.

“Oh, Mildred, what a beautiful little church.”

“Thanks,” replied Mildred, an elderly matron of the church. The proceeded a few feet further down the aisle. And the parson overheard Mildred say to her friend, “And this, this is our lesbian pew.”

It wasn't said in a negative way. Indeed, the tone of Mildred's voice conveyed, “We've got a lesbians in our church and you don't.”

The Soup Suppers every Monday night, begun so many years ago by Ms. Parson, were a delight to the church. Florence, who wasn't homeless but remained only a stone's toss from it every month, was a fixture. The parson thought of how, after Florence's vehicle broke down, the church members began picking her up to bring her to the suppers where she could fill her tummy and usually bum some money for the coming week. Florence was a part of the fabric of the church now.

And the parson thought to the many times families of non-white races had come to the church and been greeted with full acceptance and joy at their presence, of the generally wonderful reception of the black preacher the parson invited.

The parson thought back to a few weeks ago when the church council has suggested the parson consider putting, “We are an inclusive church,” on the sign out front.

And then the parson thought of the little class he'd just finished teaching. He'd been trying to make a point about land displacement in the Holy Land, from the time of the Israelite occupation of the Canaanite land to the Jewish occupation of the land in recent history. Trying to make a point he asked one of the members of the church how long his farm had been in his family.

“Oh, gracious Parson,” the member had said, “over a hundred years.”

“Since 1830?” the parson asked.

“Well, that would be about right,” said the member.

“So your family took possession when the Cherokees were forced upon the Trail of Tears?”

“That's right.”

“Well, suppose,” the parson suggested, “the United Nations passed a resolution saying that our country had been wrong in that removal and you had to return you farm to the Cherokee nation?”

The parson waited for the reply, expecting some real agony from the member as he wrestled with the complexity of the situation. What the parson got instead was this:

'Well, I'd rather them get it that those blacks.”

Ten steps forward and nine steps backward?

They Don't Come For the Preaching

The parson was walking out of the courthouse. He'd been talking with the Chairman of the County Commission to get his support for an Emergency Shelter for Single Women with Children. The meeting had turned out as the parson expected. The Chairman had promised his unconditional support as soon as the parson raised the needed funds.

No more than ten feet outside the offices of the Commissioners, Fred Eberhardt called out to the parson.

“Hey, Parson, you down here paying taxes, too.

Fred was a unique person in the parson's denomination. He was young, really young. Fred was only twenty-six years of age. Not many that young completed college, seminary, and jumped through all the hoops of the Board of Ministry and were serving their first appointment. Fred was unique in another aspect, also. Fred's first appointment had been in the middle of the year. That is, Fred was appointed by the bishop to his first church on January 1st, whereas most appointments in that episcopal area were made effective on the third Thursday of June. As of the day before this Fred had led the worship service for the 15th time.

“Hello, Fred,” said the parson. “No, actually I'm here for a meeting. How are things going with you?”

Fred's eyes widened, his demeanor took on a burst of energy. “Great, Parson, really great. I mean things are really great. You know,” he said with an obvious tone of pride, “I think things are really turning a corner at the church.”

“That's good to hear, Fred,” the parson replied. “How was your Easter service?”

“It was terrific, Parson, absolutely terrific. Oh my goodness, we almost had to put chairs in the aisles. The place was packed. I think the word must be getting out about my preaching.”

The parson smiled, thought a minute and was about to reply when Fred's cell phone rang.

Fred looked down at the phone's screen and said, “Excuse me, Parson, I need to take this.”

The parson waited. When Fred completed his call he informed the parson with apologies he needed to leave to take care of a matter.

The parson watched him walk down the courthouse steps relieved he didn't have to explain to Fred that folks don't come to the Easter service because of the preaching. If they did, in Fred's case, they'd have been there in February. The parson said a prayer that Fred would be able to handle Sunday-after-Easter attendance phenomenon.

 

EmphaSIS on the Wrong SylLABlbe

The was paying his daily visit to the Fruit Stand, which wasn't a fruit stand. Customers bought vegetables at the Fruit Stand (but that's another blog). He'd just picked out a couple of large ripe tomatoes and was pondering which bundle of asparagus he'd use for tonight's spaghetti with asparagus sauce.

“Hello, Parson,” called out a not too familiar voice. The parson turned to see Jeff Godfren a pastor who as a seminary student had visited the parson's church, within walking distance of the campus from time to time.

“Hello to you, Jeff,” the parson replied, delighted to see him again. “How are things with you. I don't think I've seen you since your marriage.”

“That's your fault, Parson. I'm at Annual Conference every year. I hear you drop by for a couple of hours and are then on your way.”

The parson smiled. It was good to hear folks thought he actually dropped by.

“Well, retirement has it's plus side. What brings you to this area?”

“I'm up visiting Ronald Coleman. He talked me into taking a day off and playing a round of golf with him. I'm on my way home now.”

“Got time for a cup of coffee, coke?”

“Sure.”

The parson walked Jeff to the little coffee and ice cream shop a half block away. Each ordered a cup of decaf and then settled themselves into chairs at a sidewalk table. The parson asked about Jeff's bride, learning she was working on a doctorate in public administration. Eventually the conversation to Jeff's church.

“I tell you, Parson. I'm really proud of what's going on there. I've got a youth group started. And I organized a men's club. I remembered the way your church used to provide meals for the hungry so I got one of those started.”

Jeff continued for a good ten minutes describing the many projects going on at the church.

When he got a chance, the parson interjected, “You must be exhausted.”

“You know, Parson. I didn't realize how tired I was until Ronald asked me to play golf. Taking a day just to mess around was great. I feel like a new man, ready to get back and get back to work.”

Jeff drained the balance of his coffee, sighed, and said, “Parson, I've worked my ass off at that church. And I tell you I've worked so hard I have no doubt that when I leave the whole thing will fall apart.”

The parson leaned across the table, placed his hand on the back of Jeff's and said in a quiet voice, “Jeff, we need to talk. That's not something to brag about.”

After the Storm

It was a horrific week. Nature can be devastating in her power. Storms never distinguish between the good the bad, the deserving and those not. The force of nature knows not the difference in young or old, able or lame. The storms of last week reminded us of how fragile is our hold upon this earth. Suddenly we came face to face with what is important and what is not important.

Where once a house, the realization of the dreams of a lifetime, stood there is now but a pile of twisted debris scattered about a once sturdy foundation. The pickup truck is in the neighbor's yard, up-side-down. Aged hardwoods are snapped like twigs. How did that washing machine get six doors down the street and still be sitting upright? Whose Teddy Bear is in that tree? Was that the school?

There is something terrifying about tornadoes. The sound like the roaring of a freight train, the furious ferocity of the funnel dipping down to reap havoc and to destroy with impunity, the strange discoloration of the air, the certain knowledge that nothing on this earth can deter it, alter its course, or defend against it.

After the funnel has lifted, the wind has stilled, after the rain has subsisted, after individuals crawl from beneath rubble, or out of storm shelters, or basements that a few moments ago were covered with houses, the psychological assault begins. To be solvent one hour and destitute the next, to have a stocked pantry this minute and not knowing from where the next meal will come, to have memories recorded in pictures and documents today and no record of existence tomorrow can debilitate the soul. Suddenly, seemingly in the twinkling of an eye, to have life redefined and a future uncertain is a massive stomach punch to the psyche.

The destruction will impact for years to come. With luck the lives of victims can reach normal by the time the replacement of fallen trees have matured, and six-year-olds graduate and head to college.

Tornadoes come with a suddenness and leave quickly. That they do not hang around is but a small blessing considering the desolate landscape they leave behind. But there is a bigger blessings.

In their wake of destruction comes the noblest efforts of humans.

Bottled water is precious when the sun beats down upon the scarred land and the dust of twisted waste clogs the throat. The water came from untold numbers of people who seeking some way to help bought the carton and headed to where it is needed.

A shoulder is essential as tears flow and sobs shake the victim volunteer.

A helpful hand is indispensable when rubble must be sorted through and the crushed remains of what was stacked to be hauled off and discarded like well-laid plans for the future.

A cell phone call from an old friend not contacted for a decade with the inquiry, “Are you okay?” ties the one lost to hope for what may come.

“Let me help with that,” is a song sung in four part harmony by armies of volunteers flocking to unknown needs with unselfish impulse to aid.

“I don't know how to thank you for this,” is the lament of the one who just discovered such tragedies do not isolate but braid your life within the strands of human care and devotion.

Tornadoes are horrific but no match for the human spirit.

Free Is What Flavor?

Regina Weston had called in sick. The parson, therefore, along with his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, showed up at the Soup Supper Monday around noon, leaving him five hours to get the evening’s dinner completed.

He’d just finished chopping the onions when Zelda Marion came by and pretty much demanded to talk about the lack of instruction in one of the Sunday School classes. The parson tried to be cordial, to listen to her in compassion, but in addition to the onions there were other preparations to be made. Finally, she left. The parson headed back to the kitchen, finished the preparations of the soup’s ingredients, placed them along with the proper amount of broth in the kettle and turned the eye on.

Jeffery Kempton arrived about that time. The parson sat down in the office to with him to hear his complaints of the lack of dedication among the young adults. While being polite, the parson couldn’t help but wonder how one generated enthusiasm with Jeffery, a young adult himself, complaining all the time. Finally, Jeffery left.

The parson headed back to the kitchen, placed a large sauce pan on the stove full of water, threw some tea bags in the water and waited for the boil. As he waited he pulled out the cornmeal and the other ingredients to make the cornbread. And that completed he began to open the large pan of peaches. Three inches around the edge the can opener broke.

“Come, Charlie Brown,” the parson called after lowering the heat on the pan with the water and tea bags. He rushed outside and across the highway to the store on the other side of the highway. There he purchased another can opener and he and Charlie Brown headed back to the kitchen and the preparations. The can now open he extracted the contents and began to create the peach cobbler.

A half hour before the scheduled opening Florence, the indigent woman who somehow endeared herself to the parson with her constant and creative attempts to extract money from his wallet, entered and called out, “Hey, Parson, I’m here and I’m starving.”

The parson did not need to answer. Charlie Brown, on hearing her voice, headed to greet her, knowing he was in for a full quarter hour of petting.

When the quarter till the hour point came, several of the volunteers arrived and relieved the parson of some of his anxiety at getting everything out in time. He took a moment and poured a glass of the tea, leaned back against a kitchen counter and relished his cool refreshment.

Ring. Ring. The phone called out.

The parson answered. The voice on the other end said, “Hi, are ya’ll having that soup thing tonight?”

“We are,” said the parson.

“Well, we’re calling to see if we might come.”

“Well, come on,” said the parson. “You’ll be welcome.”

“That may be,” said the voice, “but we need to know what kind of soup you’re having to decide if we’re coming.”

The day flashed through the parson’s mind. He replied, “It’s hot. It’s good. It’s ready. And it’s free.”

An Inconvenience?

The parson headed down the outlet mall walkway tagging along with a granddaughter. They’d already made their way through her list of stores and purchased each desperately needed item. Now it was time to return her to her parents where she could model the selections from her first clothes shopping trip without a parent. (It was almost like shopping alone for the parson tended to place few limits on her.) But before turning home there was a stop to be made at the ice cream parlor. The two needed a nutritious supper after such a strenuous day.

She was concentrating on her rainbow sherbet cone with the same intensity as the parson’s attention to his black cherry when Patricia McGibbon entered.

“Hello, Parson,” she said approaching their table.

“How are you, Patricia?” the parson asked. “I thought you were on vacation.”

“Well, I certainly thought I was. But I guess you might say we got tossed out.”

“Tossed out? What are you talking about, Patricia?”

“We were on the Outer Banks in North Carolina having a marvelous time. That place is simply divine. Then we get told to get out. That darn hurricane is 600 miles away and they want everyone to leave. Can you believe it?”

“Patricia, the authorities were trying to protect you.”

“I think they were being a little premature, Parson. And I don’t like to be imposed on like that.”

The parson paused to run his tongue with the precision that only age can grant around the line where the scoop meets the cone to eliminate the portion that had begun melting as a result of the interruption.

“I think, Patricia, that a lot of people were put out. Did you think about all the money those locals are going to lose because the tourists had to be evacuated?”

“I tell you what I think, Parson. I think that if that storm turns out to sea or misses those islands they are going to hear from me about this intrusion!”

Patricia went to the counter to order whatever. The parson directed his granddaughter toward the door before the conversation could continue.

Outside as they walked away his granddaughter asked, “What was that about?”

The parson replied, “That was about her, Sweetheart. That was all about her.”

Alone On A Bench

The parson sat on the bench in the park listening to the band’s rendition of “Stranger In the Night.” The crowd was decent but not enough to crowd the little park. The head of the day was giving way to the cool of night but the weight of Georgia humidity remained. The parson felt for the band members whose foreheads sparkled from the beads of sweat.

Vera Huddlemann approached. “Parson, I didn’t expect to see you out tonight. Where’s Ms. Parson?”

“Ms. Parson is creating some stained glass artistic masterpiece, Vera. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was shopping at the Little Ones Boutique and heard the music so I decided to come on over. I don’t usually come out to these things.” Vera sat down on the bench beside the parson. “The band seems to be quite good.”

“They are, Vera,” said the parson. “I’m particularly fond of the trumpet player. Jim Lester told me they’re going to play “Stardust” in a few. I’m hanging around for that.”

The band played two more pieces as Vera and the parson sat listening, nodding occasionally to the people who walked by. After that Vera turned to face the parson.

“Parson, I drove past the church today and noticed Cynthia Ryder’s car was there.”

“Was it?”

“It was. I was just wondering what she might have been doing at the church.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” the parson suggested.

“I thought I’d ask you, Parson, since your car was there, too.”

“Was it?”

“It was. So I suppose you’d know what Cynthia was doing there.”

“That’s possible, Vera.”

“Well, Parson, I mean, do you think it’s proper for you and Cynthia to be at the church together?”

“Vera, did it ever occur to you Cynthia parked her car at the church to car pool with someone?”

“Is that why her car was there?”

“I’d ask Cynthia about that Vera, if you have to know.”

“Well, I’m asking you, Parson.”

“Before I answer that, Vera, can I ask you a personal question?”

“I guess so.”

“Was there some reason you decided to come sit with me on this bench when Ms. Parson’s not around?”

It was but a few minutes after that the considerably talented trumpet player pealed forth the smooth notes of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” and the parson sat back, alone, on the bench, eyes closed, to enjoy the classic.

Same Program Bigger Church

The river was smooth, so smooth the parson would not have been aware of the current had not the canoe drifted in a slow but steady pace downstream. The parson worked his line back and forth to drop the fly near the shoreline. His fishing partner, Sid Meredith, did the same. The partner accompanied his casts with barely audible expletives when the cast brought no results. The parson smiled, knowing the time of the day was wrong to get any real action. The purpose, for the parson, was the quiet time on the river.

After a few hours on the river the parson reeled in his line, took out his oar and began to paddle the craft toward a spot where the bank was but a few inches above the waterline and bordered a low flat field freshly turned in preparation for planting. It was a familiar spot. The circular stones with the charred remains in the center gave evidence of previous visits. The parson stepped from the canoe and was followed by Sid. After pulling the craft onto land, the parson retrieved a cooler and set it down beside the log of a fallen tree.

Opening the cooler the parson removed two plastic containers of trail mix and two twelve ounce bottles of George Killian’s Irish Red whose glass was beaded with the cold from being buried in the ice. He handed one of each to Sid then settled himself on the ground.

“What are you going to do if someone comes by and sees us drinking this?” asked Sid.

“Well, I’m not going to offer them one, that’s for sure,” said the parson. “I only brought four. Sit down and relax, Sid.”

Sid settled himself on the ground opposite the parson, and began to nibble on the trail mix and wash it down with the cold beverage.

“What’s happening at your church these days?” the parson asked.

Sid had recently become the pastor of a suburban church. It certainly wasn’t a prestigious pulpit but was a solid congregation committed to missions and accepting of all kinds of pastors.

“We’re doing pretty good, I guess,” said Sid. “I’ve talked the council into adopting my Gather Them In Program. We’re going to implement it in September, right after school starts. I’m hoping the program really catches on.”

The parson sipped the brew a moment while searching his memory. Finally, he said, “Sid, isn’t that what you did at Church of the Village Off the Beaten Path?”

“It is. Remember I developed the program at Really Small Country Church and Campground before I went there.” The parson nodded and Sid seemed pleased the parson remembered.

After downing another handful of mix and draining the bottle, the parson began to gather up the remains and place them back in the cooler. He looked around to police the area, took Sid’s remains from him and placed them also in the cooler. After returning the cooler to the canoe, he turned and stared at Sid.

“Sid, down at Really Small Country Church and Campground did your program gather anyone in?”

“Actually, it didn’t, Parson,” said Sid. “But you have to remember the program was only developed the last year I was there so it didn’t get a good implementation.”

“What about Church of the Village Off the Beaten Path?”

“Well, that’s a long story. You know that it’s one thing for a church to vote for a program but it’s quite another for them to fully buy into it so that there’s a confidence of accomplishment.”

“No one was gathered in?”

“Well, no.”

“And you’re trying the program at the new church?”

“I am.”

The parson motioned for Sid to step into the canoe, and, after he did, he pushed the craft back into the river, hopped in and settled down to drift further down the river. Fifteen minutes later as he flipped his line toward a small eddy, he said to Sid: “Did I ever tell you the story of Leroy and Larry?”

“I don’t think so,” said Sid.

The parson felt a tug on the line. He paused, getting ready, so far there’d been no bites today. After the initial tug nothing more happened. He pulled the line in again and tried once more. His cast missed. The canoe had drifted beyond range of the spot.

“Leroy and Larry decided to go into business, Sid. They decided there would be a big demand for watermelons in the big city. So they made a pact with a local farmer. They bought watermelons from him for a dollar each. Every morning they loaded those watermelons into the bed of their pickup and drove to the big city where they parked on a corner and waited their customers. Every day they sold out in a couple of hours, charging their customers a dollar per watermelon.

“After doing this for two weeks Leroy and Larry totaled up their sales. They realized they weren’t making any money. They pondered and pondered. Finally, Larry informed Leroy he’d figured it out. Leroy asked him what the solution was. ‘Simple,’ said Larry, ‘all we need to do is get a bigger truck.’”

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I Have Problems

My calling requires me to be in a variety of locations.  Over the years in the process of going to these places I’ve encountered a number of people, far more that I would be able to count. It occurs to me, that no matter how well meaning people may be, no matter how helpful they desire to be, occasionally folks do things they shouldn’t or they say things that are totally inappropriate, or do things they’d not have done had they thought things through just a bit.

Here’s a for instance. I was sitting in the emergency room of a metropolitan Atlanta hospital emergency room. The family member back in the treatment cubicle was in a serious condition. At the present it was not fatal, but it could easily become so without proper care. Naturally, the family of the loved one sitting there with me was concerned, very concerned. Now I don’t usually steal. I don’t usually destroy things that are not my own. In this case I made an exception. On all the end tables and centerpiece table in the waiting room were brochures advertising a local business establishment. I picked them all up. I threw them in the trash.

 Just call me old fashioned. I have a problem with the appropriateness of flyers in the emergency room advertising the services of a nearby funeral home.

At a meeting the other day a female acquaintance’s demeanor visibly brightened when another lady remarked that she appeared to have lost weight. She immediately exclaimed the virtues of the diet she was on, recommending the program to anyone. The second lady immediately replied as she twirled around in a circle, her pleated skirt lifting with the motion, “I know, I’m on it, too. I have been for almost eight months now.” The acquaintance in a reassuring tone responded, “Oh, I didn’t know you were too. I hope I can do as well as you.” A third woman now entered the conversation. She immediately began to downplay the accomplishments of the other two’s weight loss endeavors.  “Oh, you poor dears,” she said. “I have a cousin who went on that diet. She lost weight just like you girls for a while and then she started putting the weight on again. I hate to disappoint you, but both of you have a big disappointment ahead.” 

Call me prejudicial. I have a problem with people who have not seen their feet from a standing position in several years giving dieting advice to others.

There are other things that drive me up the wall. There’s the person who sits in the pew on Sunday, a person with extensive musical training and a concert performance voice, who minored in voice in college, and yet never volunteers to sing in the choir while critiquing their anthem each Sunday.

Call me cranky. I have a problem with folks who put their talents under a basket and then criticize those who don’t.

Or take the fellow who was shoveling down the meatloaf at the table next to mine where I’d stopped for lunch. In the course of my lunch I overheard his evaluation of Barack Obama, his congressman, one of his senators and the governor. None of them, in his opinion were doing any good. His table companion asked what precinct he voted in.

I have a problem with people who don’t vote.

There are others I have problems with. But I've got to get to work.