Questing Parson

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“Listen, Parson,” he said, with a bit of hostility in his voice, “I've heard people saying you're going around pushing the establishment of a Hispanic church in the area.”

“Well, I wouldn't call it pushing,” said the parson. “I think it's something we should consider since there are so many Hispanics here.”

“Well, there's plenty here, Parson. The reason there's so many here is the government refuses to protect our borders.”

“Oh, I was confused,” the parson responded. “I thought they were here to pursue the American dream.”

“I bet you did, Parson. I bet you did considering your damn liberal attitude about everything. It's beyond me how someone with your education and breeding could be so damn welcoming to a bunch of illegals.”

The parson smiled, “I'm a citizen of the Kingdom of God, my friend. And in that kingdom there's no such thing as an illegal.”

Koran 48: 4

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Children of One God

It seemed appropriate that, being the professional person he is, it would not be an indulgence but a necessity for the parson to stock up on some new fashionable attire. And so the day found him making the rounds of the clothing stores at the Prime Outlet Mall. A nice day it was to shop, the weather not blistering but teetering on the cusp between hot and warm. he made his way steadily from store to store collecting some shirts, slacks and a couple pair of shoes. The collection of new duds was sure to make him feel like somebody.

Shopping completed he stored the packages in the trunk.  He looked around. The Java Junction was open and they have some of the best sandwiches in town. Heading that way he calculated with each step a reason why, after the sandwich, he should treat himself to a double dip ice cream cone. The sandwich was ordered. Feast devoured, ice cream ordered, licked and consumed, it had been a good day.

Stepping outside the walk to the car had just begun when she called to him. His head turned; his eyes rested on her; the parson’s mind fought just a moment for recognition. And then he knew. She was the sister of a former student at an academy where the parson once served as chaplain.

They sat down on a bench and exchanged news. She was a striking woman, the granddaughter of immigrants who’d come here in search of a better life. Unlike many who migrated to this country, her family came not from poverty but a relatively middle class existence in their home country. They came because they believed in what this land stood for.

After the news had been shared and they’d laughed at shared remembrances, the parson asked, “How are things for you these days?”

She looked at him silently for a moment, as though searching for the meaning behind the words. Her eyes turned toward the ground. “It is strange, is it not, that people can be so different from what you thought. My family has been here all these years. My grandparents worked hard to provide for what their grandchildren enjoy today. My brother serves in the Army. We pay taxes. We vote. But lately things have changed.”

The parson felt the pain in her voice. He remembered back when she, along with her parents, visited her brother at the academy, the pride in his accomplishments. He recalled the day her brother decided to make a career of service in the United States Army.  She looked at the parson and continued.

“Why is it people want to paint things with such broad strokes. Why is it that the actions of a few can paint the larger group with such negative thoughts? How can the accomplishments of three generations be swept aside and people be condemned as less than deserving, looked on with suspicion, despised because they immigrated here to be part of this glorious land?”

They were quiet for a moment. The parson didn’t have an answer for her. She knew he didn’t have an answer. She changed the subject and they talked for a while about her being the staff doctor at a medical clinic for the poor.

After a while she had to leave. They stood. She took the parson’s hand, looked around to see if anyone was listening, and said quietly in the language of her ancestors, “Rabbina ma’aak.”

The parson smiled and replied, “Allaah ma’aaaki.” God go with you, too.

Art and Talk of Illegal Immigrants

The parson sat at his favorite restaurant in the whole wide world, The Radial Cafe, located in the Candler Park area, an inner city neighborhood of Atlanta. Years ago he’d been pastor of the parish in which the café rested. And, while he had scrupulously observed the United Methodist maxim to not return to the church he’d once served, being retired, he’d made an exception as regarded The Radial Café.

It was his affinity for the Red Flannel Hash that had prompted his suggestion that some of the participants in a meeting later in the day at Emory University meet for breakfast as the famous eatery. The parson and his fellow clergy gathered in one of the spacious booths, and soon the foods were spread before them. The parson carefully sliced the egg, over easy, atop the other ingredients of the hash so as to maximize the intermingling of the flavors. He dove in and enjoyed the feast while studying the work of a local artist displayed about the room as was the custom of The Radial. While doing so the words of the conversation among the booth’s other occupants assaulted his consciousness.

“I know what you are saying,” said Mark Watson. “But it is a problem in the community I live in. Illegal immigrants are taking jobs away from Americans who want to work.”

“Well, I tell you, it’s a problem for the people of my parish,” said Henry Rawlings. “You know, last Sunday the scripture was about the Good Samaritan. I was really shocked as I listened to various conversations as to how intense are the feelings against these folks.”

As the conversation continued the parson became intrigued by the art work on the wall just above their booth. “Man Lost In the World” proclaimed the title neatly inscribed on the card below the piece and above the artist’s name. As hard as he tried, he could not locate the “man” in the piece and had determined the “man” was genuinely “lost.” He then concentrated on the painting above the adjacent booth, titled “Confrontation of Colors.” This piece he immediately determined was appropriately named.

“The problem is,” said Alfred Mantine, “the immigration problem is causing a problem around our parish. I mean, I don’t know whether or not the immigrants, legal or illegal, are taking jobs away from the people in our area. But everybody seems to think they are.”

As the conversation continued, the parson remained silent while he concentrated on the two delights before him, the work of the local artist and the flavors of the Red Flannel Hash. Eventually, the booth occupiers noted his absence of comment.

“Parson,” said Mark, “what’s your take on this immigration thing?”

The parson drew his eyes away from the predominately blue piece that hung above the cash register which seemed to be an interweaving of navy blue upon Robin’s egg blue all of which were interspersed with an aqua blue.

“I’m sorry,” said the parson. “I confess I’m not sure what you asked.”

“I asked what you thought about the immigration problem.”

The parson pushed his now empty plate toward the center of the table, then downed the remaining decaf in the porcelain mug. Then he said, “Well, if you’re talking about the immigration problem, my take on it is that there will always be an immigration problem as long as there are third world countries south of our borders. And if you’re talking about the people who risk their lives to come across that river and desert to obtain a better life in this nation, I think we need to ask ourselves if we are first talking about illegal immigrants or poverty-stricken children of God.”

Radial Logo from website of The Radial Cafe; Red Flannel Hash graphic by subscription to Clip Art [dot] Com.