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.”

It's Not the Age; It's the Age

The parson was at the bottom of the really big slide, the kind that's a tube. From inside the slide came a squeal. The squeal proceeded the appearance of a three-year-old grandson from inside the tube.

“Okay, let's go again,” shouted the grandson. “You can go with me this time.”

The parson turned to follow his scampering feet to the ladder which would take them to the platform where the bridge that led to the really big slide on the other side of the playground apparatus. A voice beckoned him.

“Parson, how are you?”

The parson turned to see Quincy Edwards, a lay leader in a nearby congregation. “Hello, Edward. I'm good. In fact if I felt any better the Baptist might call it a sin.”

Quincy sat on the bench next to the playground area and replied, “Funny, Parson. I'll have to remember that one. Look do you have a moment to answer a question?”

“Sure,” the parson replied, “what's up?”

“Do you know a preacher named Ronald Letterman?”

“I can't say that I do; why do you ask?”

“Because we just learned that he'll be out next pastor. Some of us are a bit concerned about it.”

“Have you met him?”

“No, we haven't.”

“Then what are you concerned about?”

“It's like this, Parson. We're told he's a little over sixty. This will probably be his last appointment before he retires.”

“That concerns you?”

“Well, yes, it does. Look, Parson, we suggested that the only way our church was going to grow was if we got a young pastor. We need someone young to bring some new life to the place.”

“Hey, are you coming?” came a cry from the ladder as the grandson began his ascent to the top of the slide once more. “Come on, we can go down together.”

The parson turned back to Quincy. “Look, Quincy, I don't think you have a worry.”

“Why not?”

The parson was halfway up the ladder when he answered, “Because, Quincy, the youngest pastor in Northwest Georgia is seventy.”

Lies I've Heard and Told

As I’ve passed through this life, it occurs to me everything I’ve been told as well as everything I’ve said was not necessarily the truth. For example:

Wait in this room. The doctor will be here in just a few minutes.

This is going to hurt me more than it does you.

This is not the end. We’ll always be friends.

That was an inspiring sermon.

What a beautiful anthem, choir.

Oh, yes! We’ll definitely keep in touch.

I’ll be brief with my last point.

I always try to finish my sermon by Wednesday.

No! That dress does not make you look fat.

She has a wonderful personality.

Someday, you’ll thank me for this.

Clinical Pastoral Education will be one of the most exciting experiences of your life.

Well, we’re going to get back in the habit of going to church right after the summer activities.

If you can’t pay today I’m not going to worry about it.

If you’ll sit on top of the churn the ice cream will freeze faster.

I’m not going to tell you again.

It’s easy to get there; you can’t miss it.

We’ll keep in touch.

I was just resting my eyes.

Your grandfather is going to be mad at you.

If you play with frogs you’ll get warts.

You’ll get over it.

I know exactly how you feel.

I’ll never forget you.

I’m not in it for the money.

The church we’d like to send you to is a perfect match for you.

What a surprise! I’m so glad to see you.

We’d love for you to come back and visit. Come anytime.

You haven’t changed a bit.

Oh, it was nothing. I was delighted to do it.

That color looks wonderful on you.

No! The solo was beautiful. Why would you think you were flat?

Don’t worry about them. Kids don’t bother me.

We don’t watch much television.

That casserole was simply delicious.

I didn’t mean to call so early.

It’s just like riding a bicycle.

Your mother’s coming over. That’s wonderful, darling.

You can’t fool me.

I wouldn’t think of it.

Your roots? I never noticed.

Nice people don’t lie.

My mama didn’t raise no fool.

As long as it gets me there, I don’t care what kind of car I drive.

The light was yellow, officer.

Oh, no! I don’t mind working late.

I did the best I could.

I’ve just gotten used to the snoring.

Any time is fine with me.

I don’t mind paying taxes. It’s my duty.

No one ever found happiness just sitting around and rocking.

There’s more than one way to skin a cat.

I’ll whip you within an inch of your life.

Your brother adores you.

God didn’t make any ugly people.

You shouldn’t hit your sister.

I don’t have the time.

Adjusting To Me

Let's begin with a confession. Maybe I just need to get it off my chest. Now, I'm not going to say I'm in love with her. But, there's no way I can deny that I'm totally and hopelessly intrigued by her. She has qualities that are by any stretch of the imagination are uncommon in not rare.

How can I explain her to you, so you, too, can appreciate her unusual qualities and thereby discover and maybe even understand my irresistible fascination with her? How can I facilitate your appreciation of her?

Let me begin my acknowledging that my relationship with her has extended over a period close to half a decade. I met her in the Office Depot. I walked down the aisle and there she was. I was immediately intrigued by her slim figure dressed so colorfully. It was obvious it was intended my eyes be drawn to her. I was hooked on her immediately.

She's been with me almost every day of my life since then. Sometimes it's just for a short while, maybe a few minutes. Or it can be for extended periods of time. Some of those periods have been for a week or two. Those times we have been together have taught me endless lessons on how essential she is to my living. The truth of the matter is she has become an integral part of my life. Sometimes I think I don't want to go anywhere in life without her.

What is it that makes me so dependable on this woman. I mean, truth be told she does have faults. She can't sing. And, fact is, she's not much of a conversationalist. She's one of those rare people who only speak when necessary, when communication is important. That can be good, you know. How many in this world do you know who limit their talking to the essential? But it can be aggregating. There are times when I talk and she just ignores me, seemingly without interest in whatever I am saying. Again, she limits our interchange to what she conceives as essential.

So, there's the description of her. I'm not sure it portrays accurately my fascination. But the fascination is there. I've found myself taking her on my travels. She was with me in Washington and Oregon. She's been with me on trips to California, Utah, Wyoming, Idaho, Montana, Nevada, New York, Maine, …. Gracious, I didn't realize how much a part of my life she is until I wrote that previous sentence.

Which I suppose cries for explanation of her endearing personality. That endearment is found in her unique ability to never criticize, to never correct, to be patient with me as I travel along the pathways of this life. Those of you who know me know I've made mistakes. I've gone in the wrong direction often, taken a wrong turn more times that I want to admit. Often I'm simply become lost, not
knowing where I am or how to escape my confusion. She's just refused to make me feel at ease by pointing out my mistakes. She just adapts by adjusting to me. She does that often.

The other day I was going to Dahlonega, Georgia. I took a wrong turn. She didn't cry out, “Where are you going?” She just adapted, changing her own plans to accommodate me. The only thing she said was, “Recalculating.”

I just love Ms. Garmon.

A Healthcare Promblem

Rick Santorum has given up his quest. That leaves only Mitt Romney and the rolly polly former Speaker from the congressional district to the west in the running. (Now, before you decide to send me an email about my description in the previous sentence of the body shape of Newt go Google a picture of him.) I realize I'm going out on a limb here, but I'm going to predict Governor Romney will get the nomination.

Pretty soon, President Obama and Governor Romney will be in a headlong marathon whose finish line in on a Tuesday in November. One of the big topics of debate, of course, will be health care. But neither will experience the health care frustration that is mine.

Here's the crux of that challenge: I'm entrusted with the responsibility of assisting my uncle to his many medical appointments. The interaction between my uncle and the doctor on these occasions usually go like this.

“Hello, how are things going?” the doctor will greet.

“Pretty good,” my uncle will reply, “for an old man.”

“Okay,” the doctor will respond. “Your blood pressure is good. You've lost a couple of pounds. I'm looking at the last lab tests and everything is progressing beautifully. This is good. Is there anything bothering you?”

“Well,” he'll say quickly, “there's this place on my arm.” He'll pull up his shirt sleeve and display his bicep, whereupon he'll point to what appears to be a large freckle. “Look at this. Do you think you should refer me to a specialist?”

“Let me see,” the doctor will say. And then he'll tell my uncle it's a natural by-product of aging. “We get spots like that as we grow older.” My uncle will state it looks “per-cancerous” to him. The doctor will offer to refer him to a dermatologist. My uncle will say he'd like that. It will be up to me to make the appointment.

I'm thinking back to my younger days. Old Doctor Massee, our family physician, didn't have benefit of the marvelous technological tools of today's medical practitioner. He used a stethoscope and probing fingers and knuckles to diagnosis. He kept us healthy despite his lack of modern equipment.

He had another unusual trait, however. He knew my name without having to glance down at my chart. Not only that, he knew my Little League batting average.

The modern doctor seldom uses his stethoscope; hardly ever probes with his fingers. He relies on his computer as he inputs the answers to his questions, and the lab work he regularly orders. And then he suggests a return visit in six months.

Now let me be clear. I did not attend medical school. I am not qualified to make a judgment upon the medical abilities of modern doctors. I scientifically do not know if this doctor or the one of my childhood is the better qualified.

There is one comparison I'm qualified to make. Back in the old days the waiting room experience, the probing fingers, and the discussion of how it might benefit me to choke up on the bat took about thirty minutes, forty tops.

I brought my uncle to his regularly scheduled appointment this morning. He was weighed and blood pressured at 11:30. It's now 1:10 and I'm still waiting for the doctor to walk in the door and say, “Hello, how are things going?”

Essential For A Purpose

It was June 23rd, 1965. It was the day before I was to leave to become pastor at my first parish. (You can do the math if you want to determine how long I've been trying to get this right.) The Reverend Clyde Calloway, pastor of my home church, had asked me to stop by his office that afternoon. I did.

Strange that I would think of Clyde now. Thinking of him was kindled by a memory of another pastor. That pastor was no where as accomplished or charming as Clyde. I'm sure someday he will be. But when I encountered him two years ago, he was four months into serving his first church. Let me describe him to you. He was naïve.

On that day I stopped by Clyde's office I was naïve also; I was really in the dark about what constituted being a pastor. But I didn't know it though. Back then, on that day before I left for my first church, I assumed I'd arrive there and do what pastor's do. I'd preach; I'd baptize babies; I'd marry endearing young couples who stared at each other in unbridled affection. I'd visit the sick; I'd visit the shut-in; I'd drop by the nursing home and pray with people by their hospital bedside.

That's what pastors do, right? Well, it is what pastors do. But it's not all that pastors do. Most pastors have to deal with things you'd never expect. And that brings me to why I mentioned that on June 23rd, 1965, I found myself in the office of Clyde Calloway.

Now understand that, even though I'd never served a church, even though I was unfamiliar with the inter workings of the denomination, I knew that Clyde Calloway was one powerful preacher. When Clyde spoke people listened. I was a reasonably intelligent young man. I was ready to hear any advice Clyde gave, to walk in any direction he pointed. I was willing to do that because, despite the fact I'd given my life to service, I was not without ambition.

Clyde educated me that day. He brought me into reality. He told me he wanted to give me two presents. So we went into his office. He sat behind his desk and pointed me to the chair opposite. I sat. He reached into a drawer and withdrew a package that was gift wrapped with fancy paper and ribbon. At his direction I opened the package. From it I withdrew a leather bound Bible. On the bottom right of the cover, engraved in gold lettering, was my name. It was the first time I'd seen “Reverend” proceeding my identity.

I thanked him profusely. And we talked a bit more. Eventually, Clyde worked the conversation around to reminding me he had another present. When I acknowledged I remembered he said there were two gifts, he reached under his desk and brought out another gift wrapped package. It was a little over a couple of feet long and a five inch wide rectangular shape. I was curious. I opened the package.

Imagine my surprise at withdrawing a plumber's helper with my name burned into the handle, once again with the adjective “Reverend”. I looked at Clyde in confusion. He smiled, and said to me: “You're a smart young man with a good United Methodist education. You're going to discover that you might be able to get by without that Bible.”

Easter Sunday Pointers For Non-Regular Attenders

This coming Sunday is Easter. I announce that for the benefit of those who limit the contribution of their presence at church to only once or twice a year. There are a couple of pointers I'd like to give you.

First, don't feel awkward. The point is not that you attend once or twice a year. The point is that you attend once or twice a year. You understand what I mean? Let me clarify. We ordained types are usually paranoid to some degree. I mean, the more empty pews there are the more we wonder if it's us that keeps the crowd away. This leads to an abnormal hunger for acceptance. And the best way to feel accepted is to look out from the pulpit and see multitudes. And the fact of the matter is we don't experience that acceptance except for those one or two times a year you come. Thus, put your awkwardness aside. You're on a mission. You're healing our paranoia.

Second, don't sit in the back. I know you think that because your presence is such a rarity sitting there will make you stand out less. It won't. You see, the back is the preferred pew of the regular attenders. If you plop down on the pew occupied by those regular folks they will notice you're not one of them. You'll stick out.

Third, don't sit in the front. People will think you've elevated yourself to some saintly status. They'll wonder who you think you are seemingly so eager to hear the Word.

My suggestion would be to sit two-thirds the way down and a bit to the outside of center. You'll look like someone who's comfortable being in the sanctuary; you'll not stand out if you sing well, and you'll not stand out if you can't carry a tune. Additionally, that position should put you far enough away from others they will have no idea how much or how little you put into the plate.

The final think I want to talk with you about is that delicate interchange that cannot be avoided. It's the give and take between the pastor and the infrequent pew sitter. It's one thing you have in common with the regulars. Somewhere, before you escape that building, you're probably going to have to encounter and experience, however brief, a dialog with the minister.

Here are some pointers. As you're in that line waiting to shake the pastor's hand on your way out of the building, notice him or her carefully. See how the pastor's eyes keep looking your way while talking to the elderly woman with the blue hair? The pastor's trying to remember if you are someone supposed to be recognized. Here's your chance to seize control of the situation. When you come up grasp the hand firmly, make eye-to-eye contact and say, “Hi, Pastor, (insert your name here), that sermon was a delight. I'm glad I came back today.” That pastor will be eating out of your hand. And on the way home the spouse will be told what you said.

If you want to be revolutionary, you could say this to the pastor: “Please preach that sermon again next week.” The last time that was said is recorded in Acts 13: 42. The worshipers at Antioch said it to the Apostle Paul. I don't think anyone exiting the church have said that since. For sure, certainly not to me.

Sharing the Joys of Ministry

“Ring, ring!”

“Hello.”

“That wasn't funny, Parson.”

“I'm sorry,” said the parson, “who is this?” The parson was smiling to himself. He knew who it was.

“That is Bart,” the voice intoned. “And you know good and well who it is.”

“Oh, Bart,” the parson said with a welcoming tone in his voice. “I didn't recognize your voice. Good to hear from you. What's up?”

“What's up? What's up? I suppose you wouldn't know anything about a woman named Florence trying to borrow money from me?”

“Florence? Florence? Wait a second. Is she about fifty, a little on the heavy side, drives a old blue Ford F-150, wearing some clothes that look like they may have last been laundered sometime around 1998? That Florence?”

“Funny, funny. Yeah, that Florence?”

“Yes, I know Florence.”

“And would you want to confess that you sent her down here to my church to ask me for twenty dollars?”

Florence had been at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen the night before. She needed forty dollars, she told the parson, to get the brakes fixed on her pickup truck. What Florence didn't know was that the parson knew Henry Snyder, a member of the church had given her twenty dollars toward that end about twenty minutes earlier. The parson, then, had agreed to give her twenty. Despite her protestations the parson refused to give her any additional money. Florence also didn't know that the parson knew her SSI check would arrive in two days.

“No, Bart, I will not confess that I sent her down to your church to ask for twenty dollars. But I did mention to her that I'd seen her truck down your way on several occasions. I asked her if she visited any other churches in that area to accumulate money for fixing her brakes, paying her rent, getting her pet cat fixed, or any other reoccurring events that require financial assistance. And she told me she went to a lot of churches. I asked her, since she lives a little piece form your church, if she ever visited you. She said she didn't. She said she didn't visit you because you were only there on Sunday.”

“Funny, funny, Parson,” said Bart. “According to her you said she should tell me to park my ass in the church office at 8:00 a.m. Every day.”

There was a long pause.

“Are you there, Parson?”

“I am, Bart.”

“Do you have anything to say?”

“Well, it appears your original accusation was incorrect. I didn't tell her to ask you for twenty dollars.”

“But you did make the remark about parking my ass in my office at 8:00 a.m.?”

“Well, to be honest, I may have said something like that.”

“And why is it so important to you what my office hours are.”

“It's important to me, Bart, because we're a connectional church, and, as such, you should be sharing in this ministry to Florence.”

“Good-bye, Parson.”

“Good-bye, Bart. By the way, are you calling from your office?”

Click.

Something To Wash the Sandwich Down

The parson was headed out the door of the local establishment. He'd been replenishing his supplies. Charlie Brown was patiently waiting in the back seat of the car. The parson opened the trunk and placed the package inside.

As he closed the trunk the parson noticed Mike Houston, pastor of the Congregation of the Righteous Followers of the Striving to Be Redeemed Brethren of the Everlasting Sanctified Fellowship, pulling up to the side parking area of the store. The parson moved toward his driver's door, started to open it and, as he did so, noticed out of the corner of his eye that Mike has made a 180 degree turn and was headed across the street toward a sandwich shop. The parson also noted the sandwich shop was not open. It wouldn't be open for another half hour. And then he watched Mike, after pulling on the door, walk around the sandwich shop to whatever was in that field out behind it.

The parson smiled. He went back to the trunk. He removed one of the items from his shopping. He pulled out a card and wrote on the back of it, “Here's something to wash that sandwich down.” He carried both the card and item across the lot and placed them in the driver's seat of Mike's car.

Only Custom Made Equipment for the Parson's Grandchildren

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Well, hello, yourself. How in the world are you doing?” I immediately recognized the voice. It belonged to one of the other grandparents, you know the type of grandparent of which I speak. It was the mother of my child’s spouse. She means well but in playing the role of really great grandparent some have it and some have less than it.

“I’m really doing well. How about you?”

“I’m doing good. You know it was such a treat to have the kids come visit from Connecticut. Gracious, I don’t know about you, but I don’t seem to realize how much I miss them until they are ready to go back. And those children, those precious grandkids, aren’t they absolutely wonderful?

“They are that. And that younger one sure got your looks.”

“My, my, aren’t you the complimentary one. And I know you’re being gracious, but thanks for making an old woman feel good.”

“It’s my pleasure,” I said.

At this point I was getting a little anxious as to what this phone call was about. Look, it may not be the best feature of our society, but the truth is the daughter’s mother doesn’t make phone calls to the husband’s father just for the purpose of swapping platitudes. And yet, like my son, I am a Southern gentleman. I let the conversation continue.

“Could you believe the way the younger one has grown?” she asked.

I informed her that I couldn’t believe it either. And then just to trump her I said, “Well, I think the older one is certainly proving himself to be smarter than his parents.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” she responded.

There was a pause in the conversation. I definitely got the impression she was mulling over what to say next. I waited. As I’ve intimated above the conversations between the two of us have been sparse during the ten years of our children’s marriage. They were usually confined to coordination of who would pick up or take to the airport whom.

“The grandchildren really seemed to have had a great time at your house.” she said.

“I thought they did, too,” I responded. “They were nonstop the whole time they were here.”

“I know. It wasn’t ten minutes after you dropped them off at our house than they were sound asleep in the den. They really got worn out. You really keep them active.”

“I enjoy the time with them,” I said, wondering where this conversation was going.

There was a pause. Then she spoke again. “You know, the kids said you have the best slide they’ve ever been on.”

“Did they? That’s nice to know. They did seem to have a good time playing on it.”

“Do you mind my asking where you bought it?” she asked. Then she added, “I’d like to get one for our house.”

Now in this life some secrets need not be shared. “Actually, I can’t,” I said. “It was custom made for them.”

“You had a slide custom made for your grandchildren?”

“I did.”

There was another long pause before she said, “Well, I just wanted to thank you for dropping them off.”

I told her it was no problem. She hung up. I was grateful for the call. It reminded me to go out in the front yard and retrieve the cardboard box the kids had been using to slide down the bank that is my front yard.