Questing Parson

Holy Moley, It's Holy Week!

As this blog is posted we're beginning another Holy Week. Well, most folks call it Holy Week; but, truth is, there are some years when, with all the extra worship services and demands, we pastor's secretly have another term for it. Nevertheless, it's Holy Week.

Back when I was a handsome young lad, and believe it or not there was such a time, Holy Week was the signal of the arrival of special things to come. Holy Week announced the coming of spring. The days get longer; the air gets warmer; and the time for planting has arrived. Mama always said the time to plant was Good Friday. It was the time to put the seed into the ground and await the coming of new life.

While we waited, Holy Week had also announced the coming of the time to spruce up, to scrub down the place, to paint the woodwork where needed, and to sit down at the kitchen table to plan out the vacation that would be ours in a few months.

Holy Week was a time to go shopping. Back in those days, in the last century, folks wore what was called their Sunday best to church. Way back then church wasn't a causal thing. It was time to “put on the clothes of righteousness” Mama said. One wore one's best to church every Sunday of the year. And one wore one's brand new best on Easter Sunday. We went shopping for new clothes and the ladies went shopping for their Easter Bonnet. Remember that old song, “In your Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it, you'll be the grandest lady in the Easter parade”? Funny, I remember all the Easter bonnets adorning my aunt's and cousins' heads; but I don't have a single memory of an Easter parade.

Holy Week was a time for all the children to gather in the kitchen. They say a watched pot will never boil, but it does if it's filled with Easter eggs. And then came the dying, the hand dying by everyone in the family. Pardon my waxing nostalgic, but those hand dyed hard boiled eggs beat today's plastic ones by a mile.

Back then, in that previous century, Holy Week brought the expectation in children of dyed little chicks and bunny rabbits. Holy Week brought the promise of my favorite Easter candy. It was a chocolate egg stuffed with this white icing permeated with all kinds of chopped fruit flavored flakes. It was only when I became an adult I discovered the innards of my favorite Easter egg was nothing more than the leftovers of the other candies. As such, I learned my most favorite candy was chocolate covered garbage.

The approach to the end of Holy Week sent us down to the church to pull those folding chairs out of the basement to accommodate the saints who sang their Halleujahs only on Easter and Christmas. Holy Week meant one of those chairs pulled out of the basement would be warmed by Uncle Ronald's posterior. It was the only Sunday of the year a chair or pew was warmed by such.

So here we are once again in slap dab in Holy Week. I'm remembering all those Holy Weeks past. In remembering I've got some idea of how this week may end. So, you'll have to excuse me now. I've got a sermon sizzling, and I'm cooking for a crowd.

It's Called Manners

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surviving Ministry

I was preaching at really big church on the other side of the valley last week. I met some folks from my past. They used to be members of my home church. They brought back some memories. That old home church isn't the country church it was when I was a member. It's now a mega church with umpteen services per Sunday, a staff of goodness knows how many.

The surprise is that church got as big as it did. I mean, I was the first preacher they produced, and folks had been worshiping there for 147 years before I was ordained. You'd think in almost a century and a half they'd have come up with better material.

As I remembered those days, my mind went back to the last day I was at the church before becoming the pastor of one myself. Back then we Methodists moved to new churches on the third Thursday of June. On the Tuesday before I left on Thursday, my pastor called me and requested I come by his office on Wednesday.

My pastor's name was Clyde Calloway. How should I describe Clyde? Clyde, in many ways, was a no nonsense fellow. And what one would call a “power in the church.” Clyde didn't get moved by the bishop unless Clyde wanted to be moved. Everyone who was an ordained United Methodist in Georgia knew who Clyde was. But he had a jovial side. He liked to laugh. He liked to tell jokes. He also knew the names of everyone in the church when he met them, knew where their grown children lived and how many grandchildren they had. He was a pastor the congregation liked, wanted to be around.

Since Clyde was my pastor and Clyde was a power in the church and since I was about to become a pastor, I answered Clyde's summon at the appointed time on the appointed day.

He directed me to a seat across the desk from him. We engaged in some chitchat for a few moments. He asked about my mother, my dad, and my little brother. He asked me if I was nervous. I told him I was. He then told me the people where I would be pastor would accept me. He told me to go there ready to accept them. He talked about “being out among the people,” visiting them, knowing the folks in the community. He talked of daily prayer, of living a disciplined life.

Then he said, “I really wanted you to come by because I've got two gifts I want to give you.” He stood, went back behind his desk, opened a drawer and pulled out a box that was gift wrapped.

I opened it and extracted a leather cover Bible. On the front cover was stamped in gold letters, “Reverend Guy Kent.” it was the first time I'd seen that adjective in front of my name. I thanked him profusely. He then said, “Wait, I said I had two gifts. He went back behind the desk and retrieved another gift wrapped box. This one was about six inches square and three feet long. I pulled off the paper, opened the box and pulled out a plumber's helper. On the handle someone had burned the name, “Reverend Guy Kent.”

I looked over at Clyde with a puzzled look. He said, “You know, you're a smart young man with a top notch education. You might be able to survive without that Bible.” 

Mysteries At My House

The older I get the more intrigued I become with things that I somehow just missed along life's pathway. They aren't big things. They are not consequential things. There's nothing earthshaking about my having missed these mysteries, these fascinations, these objects of my senior contemplation. Nevertheless, I seem to be wondering about them more frequently. Maybe it's just a process of aging that one begins to notice what one overlooked before.

I realize that there may be some who think that, because of my age and especially because of my widower status which gives me more time to contemplate things never contemplated before, I may be becoming a bit – well I hate to use the word “senile” but – senile. I beg to differ. Personally, I think I am becoming more attuned with life, more aware of life's challenges, more appreciative of life's gifts, and certainly less occupied and therefore availed of the time needed to discover these fascinations.

You wonder of what I speak, do you not? Well, here are a few examples.

Dog hair has a life and a path of its own. Look, I don't profess to be the world's greatest housekeeper. But I do keep my clothes washed; I do a fairly good job of picking up after myself. And everyday I vacuum and/or run a dust mop over the floors. Here's what I've discovered. No matter how careful I am in this endeavor, after I've put up the vacuum cleaner or put the dust mop away, behind the next interior door I close or open there well be hiding there at least two clumps of dog hair. How does that dog hair know I'm after it?

Another fascination is those softball shaped and sized light bulbs over the master bath sink and the teardrop shaped ones over the table. There are four of them in the bathroom and six over the table. A little while back I placed new bulbs in each of those sockets. Four brand new bulbs, purchased on the same day, screwed in on the same day in the bathroom and likewise six over the table, and yet they do not all burn out at the same time. Assuming all those bulbs went through the same quality control in the manufacturing, don't you think, they should all burn out within twenty-four hours of each other. Not so. And how does it happen that no matter how often I buy those replacement bulbs every other one burns out when there are no replacements in the cabinet?

There's also the ceiling fan. Now the bulbs in the ceiling fan work fine. They're those seven year types. And the ceiling fan itself works fine. What fascinates me about the ceiling fan is the amount of dust accumulating on top of the blades. Have you ever noticed how much dust is on top of those blades? If you haven't, don't. You have to stand on a chair to notice. Which begs the question: Should anyone bother dusting the top of the ceiling fan blades anyway? I mean, if someone visits my home and stands on a chair to look at the top of my ceiling fan blades they can just head back home.

Aw, the mysteries of living that one can notice when one gets old enough and has the time. Maybe it's the time on my hands. Maybe it's mature perception. Maybe I need to get out more.

Confidence Building

Answering the phone, a familiar voice echoed in my ear.

“Hi, it's me. Just thought I'd call and talk a while. I haven't seen you for a month. So, how are you?

“I'm good,” I said, “I'm really good. How about you?”

“I'm really good, too,” she said. “You know we really ought to talk more. We don't get to see each other enough so we ought to call more often.”

“You're right,” I said, “I couldn't agree more. Let's plan on it.”

“We will. So how are things going. Have you done anything fun lately?”

“Not too exciting. I've been hiking in the forest at least once a week. That's good exercise. Since we got back from Alaska I decided I needed to keep in shape. That hike up the glacier almost killed me.”

“That really was fun,” she affirmed. “I keep telling all my friends about it. They can't believe all the stuff we did. I took that picture of us going through those rapids up at Denali to school. They couldn't believe we did all that.”

“Well, we did it, but you and your sister just about wore me out.”

“I don't think so. You're in pretty good shape for a grandfather. You should be proud of being able to do all the stuff you do.”

“Well, I am,” I said. “I guess I'm a little proud of being able to tag along with you guys.”

“You know what's the best thing that's come out of all these adventures you've taken us on?”

“What's that?”

“The best thing that's happened is the confidence you've given us. Do you remember that my little sister was afraid of heights before we started climbing that mountain. I've got that picture of her standing on the edge of that rock overhang. It's hard to believe that's her. And you gave me the same confidence. I really owe you for that. You know, I've started doing a lot more things. I mean, I've started taking chances I'd never have done before. And I owe it all to you. You changed my life. You helped me get where I can take chances and, you know, do things I'd never have thought about doing before. I don't think I've every told you how much that means to me.”

“Well, it means a lot that you'd say that. I'm glad you're taking risks.”

“I am, and guess what?”

“What?”

“I've decided to enter the My High School Queen contest. I would never have done that before without you building my confidence.”

“Well, I'm glad to hear that. And win or lose you're my Princess.”

“I know. And, well, I need to ask you something important about the contest.””

“What's that?”

“I need sponsors. I need people to donate some money to sponsor me. It can be ten or twenty dollars or whatever, and they'll put your name in the program. Can you help? I mean, I wouldn't be in this contest if it weren't for you.”

We talked a little more. I agreed. She hung up. Life is funny. My granddaughter is growing up. She's a young woman now, fifteen and going on twenty. It's interesting. A few years back she'd have just called and said, “Would you mind giving me twenty dollars?”

Stretching the Truth

I am not sure when this revelation of truth came to me. Perhaps it was in a dream; perhaps in a sudden revelation as I gazed upon the eternal vastness of the night sky; perhaps it was following some esoteric moment of revelation. Who knows; whatever the source the truth came tumbling down like the avalanche of incessant truth that here and there intrudes upon our collective consciousness. Whatever the source it came to me; it came to me in a flash of light; it came to me with the quickened process of revelation. I cannot deny it and neither can you.

I speak, of course, of that commonality which you and I, dear reader, possess. That strand of humanity that binds us together as brothers and sisters in the ever-evolving process of development as humankind., I speak, well, you know, dear reader of which I speak. I speak of our shared ability, our shared propensity for hedging the truth. Take note of that phrase, please: “Hedging the truth.” It is a synonym for lying. And we both(Don't even attempt to deny it.) are complicit in the deception. You and I, both, are consummate liars.

Herewith I present my evidence of your, and my, guilt:

Ring! Ring!

The phone echoes in the recesses of your mind. It takes a moment for you to ascertain what is happening. With a determined effort you pry open the lids of your eyes. The glow of the clock registers in an eerie glow, penetrating the darkness of your bedroom, six in the morning. You answer the phone.

“Hello.”

“Hi, this is your friend. Did I wake you?”

Now, dear reader, I need go no further. Everyone in your acquaintance knows that the sound of that phone waked you. But what do you say?

“No, I've been up for a while. What's up?”

That's a lie, my friend. You lied. You had not been up. Why didn't you just tell your friend to stop calling as such ungodly hours?

I know. You're going to tell me it's just a “little white lie.” True enough; I'll grant you that. Nevertheless, I feel I must ask you as I ask myself, why do we feel this compulsive need to tell folks they have not inconvenienced us when they have?

Here's another example.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello.”

“Hi, this if Francis. Hey, look, I know it's an inconvenience, but do you think you could give Cousin Franklin a ride to the doctor next Thursday. It would be a really big favor.”

Now at this point several things run through your mind. The first thing is how much of a grouch Cousin Franklin is. The second thing is that Francis' kids are all grown and have left home. The third thing is Francis doesn't have a job and sits at home all day long. But you don't mention those things; do you? You don't suggest that Francis get up from watching General Hospital and take Franklin to the doctor herself. You say, “Well, I suppose I could.”

Thanks for being a Samaritan; but you lied.

You can probably think of a hundred more times you stretched the truth. But I know the most consistent stretching of the truth you practice. It's on Sunday morning. You know when. You walk out of the church and say with a straight face, “I really enjoyed the sermon, Pastor.”

Forgive Me, I Have Sinned, Again

I should have outgrown it. I thought I'd outgrown it. After seven decades you'd think I would have outgrown it. You'd have thought I would have learned to resist the impulse toward this unexplained behavior.

I can't remember when it started. Maybe it was with my little brother. I used to delight in pulling pranks on him. It was obviously that delight that led me to expand the activity beyond my brother. It was in my high school years my delight in this began to reach for new challenges. I think the statute of limitations has run out so I will fess up. It was I who talked the offensive line of my high school football team to carry Mr. Snyder's VW Bug up the steps and sit it outside his
classroom door on the third floor.

Maybe it was that VW Bug prank that led to my desire to top it with a better one. I did top it, you know. There's a new generation of park police watching over the Washington Monument so I'll reveal my secret. It was me. On our high school senior trip I was the one who figured out how to fly a five by eight foot Confederate flag out the observation window at the top of the monument and to get it down without getting caught. Everyone thought that cool. Unfortunately, it got back to my Dad. He didn't share their appreciation.

Now, as for the rumors about the cow being placed in the Dean's office at my college, I will neither confirm nor deny that. I have a grandchild considering that institution of learning.

You may wonder why I'm recalling all this. You may wonder why the words of my Dad, “When are you going to grow up?”, are suddenly again echoing in my mind. Well, as I said above, you'd think I would have outgrown it.

But … last week I took two grandchildren to Tybee Island. I thought they'd enjoy the surf before school started.

We spread out our towels, rubbed on some sunscreen and started to enjoy the day. That's when I noticed him. He was yelling at a couple about twenty yards from where he was sprawled under his umbrella. “Hey, can't you people control your noisy kids. You're not the only ones on this beach.” I ignored it although I thought it rude and plunged with my grandkids into the Atlantic.

A little later he was yelling about someone shaking out their towel and the sand blowing near him. And then he was lecturing some high school girls on how indecent was their swim attire. The man was an obnoxious pig.

Even later I noticed him dozing on his towel in his self-constructed shade. I told my grandchildren to sit where they were. I removed a large bag of potato chips from our carry bag. Walking thirty yards behind the reclining gentleman I reached into the bag and removed some chips. I held them in my hand over my head. The sea gulls arrived hovering about me waiting a chance to snatch them from my hand. I moved closer to the man. I crumbled the chips up. I scattered them about his area, and across his area. I told my grandkids we had to go. When I looked back I couldn't see the man but I could see the hundred gulls surrounding him.

When will I ever grow up?

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.