Questing Parson

A Little Sermon Humor

“So,” she said, as we sat on the sofa in her living room and as she grew bored with my selection of the program playing on the television, “I guess you'll be preaching tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow is Sunday, so I'll be preaching.”

“What are you preaching about?”

“I going to be preaching about the Apostle Paul. While he was in jail praying suddenly the doors of the jail flew open.”

“What are you going to say about that?”

“I'm going to be preaching about all the doors we open and close in our lives.”

“I don't think I understand that.”

“Okay, you come home from school or from shopping or from playing with your friends and you open the door to your house so you can come into a place where you are loved and where people take care of you. You go to school and you open the door to the school so you can enter a place where you can learn and prepare yourself to be an adult. Someday, you'll open a door to your office where you will earn money to be able to provide things for your family. And someday you'll open a door to the hospital where you'll give birth to your baby and my great-grandchild. But, here's the thing, you don't have to open those doors. You could close those doors. And if you close the doors you don't get what's on the other side. And sometimes we open doors and go into places where we shouldn't and we get into trouble. And sometimes we close doors that we should open and we don't get all the things God wants us to have.”

“I've got it,” she said. “It's important to open the right doors and to close the wrong doors.”

I looked down at her ten-year-old face amazed. If this child could get the point of the sermon so quickly surely the adults in my congregation would be thrilled. Oh my goodness, I hadn't anticipated what a really great sermon this was going to be.

“That's right,” I said. “That's exactly what I'm preaching. But I need a funny story to tell.”

“Let me think about it,” she said. She reached over and picked up the remote to the TV; pointed the remote at the screen to turn it off. Then she settled back into the cushions, folded her arms over her chest, closed her eyes and obviously went into deep thought. Suddenly she sat up.

“Here's the funny story: Once there was a man on the inside of a castle. And there was a man on the outside of the castle. They wanted to talk to each other. But they couldn't because the castle door was closed and locked. It was really important that they talk so the man inside the castle kept asking himself, 'What can I do so I can get out there and talk to my friend? Do you know what he did?”

“What did he do?”

“He ran around in circles as fast as he could until he got so tired he passed out. - Get it? He passed out.”

Okay, it wasn't a side-splitter, but in her honor I decided to use it. I began my sermon on doors with my granddaughters joke. I discovered my granddaughter's humor is much more developed than my congregation's.

Garrison Keillor's Methodist Blues

The Plants Have Been Watered

7:30 a.m.

The parson arrived at the church. He headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of cappuccino, and, having completed that task, went to his study to make an attempt at organizing his day. On arriving at the study he realized he'd forgotten to bring the power cord to the laptop. Knowing there was another one in the media room he headed through the sanctuary to retrieve the cord from the room at the rear of the worship area.

Walking back to his study he noted the plants on the stands in the chancel were looking more than a little fatigued. He headed to the kitchen again, filled a pitcher with water and returned to the sanctuary where he watered the plants.

9:00 a.m.

The parson was at entering a meeting about a coming event in the community when he got a text from a member reading: “Parson, I was at the church and noticed the plants in the sanctuary were in real need of watering. I took care of it. Have a good day.” The parson did not give  much thought to the text and headed to his meeting.

11:00 a.m.

The parson was back at the church for a counseling session with someone. Following the session he left the church while the person who had sought the counseling remained to meet about a children's program at noon. About noon, the parson answered his cell phone. “Hi, Parson, it's me. Look I'm sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing but I thought I should tell you I watered the plants in the sanctuary.

The parson expressed his thanks, mentally filed this information somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and continued toward the hospital which was his next destination.

3:00 p.m.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Parson, this is Wanda. I came by to clean the church. Those plants in the sanctuary looked a bit down on their luck so I watered them. Look, I know that Rhonda Milford likes to take care of the plants. But, gracious, she needs to do a better job. I went ahead and watered them.

It was around 5:00 p.m. The parson was sitting on the sofa contemplating the various possibilities of gastronomic delights he could create for himself. Suddenly, out of nowhere the parson's brain brought to the forefront the many calls about the plants.

“Come on, Charlie Brown,” said the parson. “We need to go to the church.”

7:45 p.m.

The parson finally rose from his knees in the chancel of the church. He took the soggy towel and placed it along with the dozen or so others in the bucket. Picking up the bucket he headed to the kitchen to ring them out and take them home to launder.

“Well, Charlie Brown,” the parson commented, as his faithful canine companion jumped in the backseat where the bucket of wet towels were on the floor, “those plants should look really fresh come Sunday morning.”

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Open For Breakfast

It wasn't raining. It was, however, damp. The rain had falled the night before and clouds now obscured the sun's drying effort. It wasn't cold. It was, however, chilly. The parson wondered if he'd miscalculated in wearing only the sweater. Dawn had broken a few hours before. It was, however, still morning.

The church looked lonely in the morning damp. The parson pulled into the parking lot determined to get an early start on the day. A pickup camper was parked near the side yard. The parson noted the Ohio tags as he eased into his parking place. Exiting the car he opened the back passenger door to let Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, out; he pulled his cellphone from his pocket to answer a call. Talking to a pastor from a nearby church about a meeting in the afternoon he entered his study through its outside door.

The parson was in the room no more than half a minute when there was a timid knock on the door. He simaltaneously pulled the door open as he said goodbye to his friend. A man in his forties with a three day growth of beard on his face stood looking in.

“Ah, sir,” said the man, “we didn't mean no harm. We just got so tired we pulled in to sleep. We'll be on our way right now. There's no need to call the police. We apologize.”

The parson looked over the man's shoulder. A Sheriff's Deputy car was pulling into the parking lot. The parson looked down at the cellphone in his hand.

“Oh, no, no,” he said. “I didn't call the sheriff. It's okay for you to sleep here. Hold on just a minute.”

The parson stepped out of the door and walked past the man to his car. Charlie Brown followed him. The parson opened the trunk to the car and retrieved a package from it. He then handed the deputy the package.

“Thanks, Parson,” the deputy said. “We appreciate it.”

“No problem, Roger,” said the parson. “Give the Sheriff my regards.”

The deputy drove away. The parson turned back toward the study door and his visitor.

“Sorry about that,” said the man as Charlie Brown stepped forward sniffing to determine his denomination. “When we saw you get out of the car and then make a phone call and then saw the police car we just thought you'd called them.”

“Any reason you're worried about the police?” the parson asked.

“Ah, well, not really,” the man said. “I mean we ain't done nothing wrong, but we stopped at a church up north a piece and they called the police and threatened to charge us with trespassing.”

“You're welcome to stop here,” said the parson. He looked over the man's shoulder to the pickup camper. Two faces were peering through the window, a woman and a young girl. On impules the parson asked, “You had anything to eat lately?”

The man seemed to hesitate the said, “Well, we had a burger for lunch yesterday. We'll be okay.”

“Where are you headed?” the parson asked.

“Houston,” the man replied. “I got a cousin there who said I could get a job with his company.”

“That your wife and child?” the parson asked nodding toward the camper.

“Well, we ain't actually married, but we been living together for bout ten years.”

“How old is the girl?”

“She's four.”

“Get your wife and come in. We'll whip up something for breakfast.”

“That's not necessary, sir,” said the man.

“Actually, you have no idea how necessary it is,” said the parson. “Bring them in. It's got to be a little chilly in that camper.”

The parson turned and headed to the church fellowship hall. Peering into the frig he found some sausage and eggs and in the cabinets some pancake batter. He went to work. At the first sizzle of the sausage Charlie Brown sat himself down at the door in anticipation.

The man and woman came in. The parson offered the two some coffee and the young girl some orange juice. “Take a seat,” said the parson. “This will only take a few minutes.”

The parson was flipping the pancakes when the little girl asked, “Can I pet your dog?”

“You sure can,” said the parson. In a few minutes he heard the child say to her father, “I think he likes me.” The parson would never divulge Charlie Brown liked anybody who would pet him.

It was an hour-and-a-half later when the family left with full bellies, a Quik Trip gift card in their pocket and a map with directions to a church in Louisana that would let them sleep in their parking lot.

A little while later the parson and Charlie Brown prepared to exit the church theselves. The cellphone rang. It was the parson's best friend.

“Hello, Gary,” said the parson. He listened and then replied. “I'm doing really good, Gary, really good. I'm just now leaving the church. Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen was open for breakfast today.”

Woman On A Mission

The parson arrived at the church kitchen in preparation for Soup Supper Monday. The weekly event had started to provide meals for those who needed such in the worst part of the recession. Now it had grown to include providing a meal to home bound, sick, and/or lonely folks throughout the area. The youth of the church delivered the meals each week, a project whose clients had grown to a much larger number than those served at the church.

Nevertheless, Florence was always there. Florence was there long before any other recipients of the meal arrived. She usually showed up shortly after the first cook arrived. As usual on this particular day Florence appeared at the kitchen door to inquire what was on the menu.

“Tonight we’re having Nacho Cheese Soup, Florence,” said the parson.

“What kind of cheese are you using?”

“We’re using some Velveeta cheese tonight.”

“I see,” said Florence, “did you check the expiration date on that cheese?”

“I did not, Florence. We bought it this morning. If you’re worried about it, the package is in that trash can.”

Florence ambled into the kitchen with a body language that seemed to ask why this matter wasn’t resolved before her arrival. She poked around the trash and finally retrieved the wrapping from the cheese. After careful inspection she announced, “Okay, that will be okay. In fact that’s fresh enough I could take what’s leftover off your hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Florence,” said the parson.

“You buy that ground beef today?”

“I did.”

“Did you check to see how fresh it was?”

“No, I didn’t. Tell you what, we’re not going to start serving for an hour. I could give you a little to taste, and if you don’t get sick before then we’ll know it’s okay.”

“Ha, ha, Parson, you’re funny. I guess I’ll trust you. You haven’t made me sick yet.”

Florence went back into the fellowship hall.The parson continued cooking but noticed as he glanced through the pass through window she was settled in, seated at one of the tables with her feet propped up on another chair reading a newspaper. Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, had his head resting on her thigh as she scratched absent minded-ly. 

The parson continued with his cooking. In a half hour, Virginia Hopper came in to help.

“Florence is in the fellowship hall waiting,” she informed the parson.

“I know,” said the parson. “She’s already approved the menu.”

“I wonder how much money she’ll get out of us tonight,” said Virginia. “When you told us God sent her as an object lesson, I thought you were nuts. Fact is, I still do.”

The parson had once explained to the volunteers Florence hit up ever week that she was a professional beggar and she was really good at her profession. He suggested if the followers of the Lord would get as good at their job as Florence was at hers the world would be a better place.

Everyone was surprised this Monday, however. Florence did not ask for a penny. She did suggest to the parson and several other folks that a special collection on Sunday morning to help her purchase a new transmission for her van would be appropriate.

The parson was scrubbing a pot when Florence came back into the kitchen. The youth had returned from distributing the carryout meals. The fellowship hall was full of laughter and slurping sounds as the kids devoured their soup while updating their Facebook age on the church’s wi-fi.

“Have a good week, Florence,” said the parson. “See you next Monday.”

“You could see me Sunday, Parson, if you’d have that special offering for my transmission.”

“Let me think about it,” said the parson.

“Okay,” she said, but I do need one of those carryout meals.”

“You didn’t get enough to eat?”

“No, I got plenty. Ms. Parson sure knows how to make pineapple upside down cake.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” said the parson. “Why do you want a carryout page?”

“Well, my landlord is an alcoholic, you know. He kind of lives from one SSI check to the next, and his ain’t as big as mine. So, anyway, he’s really sick. Don’t know what’s wrong with him. So I thought maybe some of that soup …. What did you call it?”

“Nacho Cheese.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Nacho Cheese. So I could take some of that home with me and he could have a good meal. It probably would help him.”

“Okay, Florence,” said the parson. “Hang on a minute.”

He turned around to behold Virginia holding two takeout plates for Florence.

“I appreciate this,” said Florence.

“I appreciate you helping others,” said the parson.

“Well, that’s what we Christians do, Parson. That’s what we Christians do.”

The parson watched her walk from the kitchen and through the fellowship hall. She stopped at the door, put her plates on a table, and reached down to scratch Charlie Brown behind both his ears.

“I’ll see ya next Monday, Charlie Brown,” she said. She picked up her plates and headed out on her Christian mission.

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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.”