Questing Parson

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.”

The Art of Judging

It's a long ride to Memphis, Tennessee. It's 394 miles to be exact, from my front door to the Memphis Convention Center. There are no shortcuts. It's up I-75 to Nashville where you need to hang a left toward Memphis. The trip takes six hours and thirty-three minutes, not counting rest stop breaks, gas station fill-ups, and such.

You might be wondering how I am in possession of this bit of travel trivia. The short answer is a couple of weeks ago I went to Memphis. Now, I don't just hop up every morning and decide to go to Memphis. No, sir. Not me. I have to have a legitimate, clear-cut, purposeful reason to travel five miles from my recliner, much less many hundreds of miles. On this particular weekend I did. In fact, nothing could have kept me away from Memphis that weekend.

You see, I'm a sports fan. Yes, I am. And unlike many who live in my neighborhood, my sporting experience is not limited to Georgia, Alabama, Georgia Tech, or Auburn football. Yes, I am a more sophisticated follower of athletic endeavor. I actually watch volleyball, men's and women's basketball, soccer, and to round out my purveyor of athletic experience, I also am a big fan of gymnastics. It was for this latter sport I pointed my hybrid toward Memphis.

Arriving at the facility early on Saturday morning, I secured a seat which would afford the best view of all the events, the beam, the floor exercise, the vault, the uneven bars. Sitting down in my seat next to the small fence separating the fans from the athletes, I studied the program, marking the sequence of the performances, trying to calculate the abilities of the various teams participating.

The uneven bars sought my attention first. I watched in studied concentration as the athletes began their practice and warm up. I took my camera out, zoomed in on the individual contestants, and concentrated on the event.

“Ah!! Come on,” I exclaimed at the end of the event. “How could the judge score that low?”

“You think it was low?” asked the man in the seat beside me.

“Yes,” I replied, “I'd think it was at least three-tenths of a point too low.

My attention now turned to the balance beam. Once again, as the contestants began their practice and warm ups, I studied my program in anticipation of the competition. The event then began. I watched closely. The zoom lens was not needed. The athletes were competing close enough that I could hear the sound of the friction between their feet and the beam.

After one particular athlete had completed her balance beam competition, I must have let out an audible sigh. “The score was too low?” asked the man beside me.

“I think so,” I informed him. “I'm not sure how much experience that judge in the center has. She's being a little too restrictive.”

The man nodded in approval.

The vault now demanded my attention. Same story. And then came the floor exercise. Same story. There's a reason these judges, I thought, are not going to the Olympics.

“Scores were too low?” asked the man after each.

I nodded.

“Tell me,” he said. “How do you know the scores were too low?”

“Easy,” I said. “They are always too low when my granddaughter is the one being judged.”

The Church and Hell and God

Sara Brown, a twelve-year-old who occasionally visited the parson's church with her aunt, came tearing through the church parking lot on her bike. Seeing the parson, she skidded to a stop.

“Hi, Parson,” she greeted.

“Hi, yourself, Sara,” said the parson. “What brings you to this side of town on a school day?”

“Mom had to take Granny to the hospital for some tests so Aunt Lillian picked me up at school. I'm staying at Aunt Lillian's tonight 'cause Mom's staying with Granny at the hospital.”

“What's wrong with your grandmother?”

“They're talking about replacing her knee. It's funny, Granny is all excited about it.”

“Well I'll say a prayer for her. I hope she does well.”

Sara studied the parson a minute then asked, “Parson, can I talk to you a minute.”

“Sure,” said the parson. The two made their way to a bench in garden beside the front entrance to the church. “What's on your mind?” asked the parson when they sat down.

“Okay,” said Sara, after taking a deep breath. “There's this boy in our class who's been telling those of us that don't go to church every Sunday that we're going to go to hell. So I told him that he was wrong. I told him that a lot of people who don't go to church are really good people and they believe in God and everything but they just didn't go to church.”

The parson started to say something, but Sara was on a tear. “He really made me mad. Here's the thing, Parson. I don't know if I would go to church every Sunday or not if I could get there. But right now I can't drive a car so the only way I could get to church if I wanted to would be …. Oh, I'm sorry, Parson. Look I really like it here when I come with Aunt Lillian, I mean, if I was going to go to church every Sunday, I'd come here. I didn't mean anything about you or this church.”

“That's no problem, Sara,” said the parson, as he silently confessed that he and Sara had a lot in common.

“So anyway, I couldn't go to church if I wanted to because my folks just don't do that. And my Mom and Dad are really good people. So I don't appreciate him saying those things about me and my parents.”

The parson waited.

After a moment, she said, “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Are people who don't go to church going to go to hell?”

“You know, Sara,” said the parson, “I think maybe that if that young man in your class is going to believe in that kind of God he should realize that a lot of people who do go to church may go to hell, too.”

Sara smiled. The parson continued.

“Let me tell you a story, Sara. My son doesn't go to church very much. In fact, he probably doesn't go unless he's visiting with me. One day I got on him about that. You know what he told me?”

“No what?”

“He told me that he really believed that you could worship God by hiking in the woods and appreciating God's creation. He told me he though you could learn about God by reading a book. He told me he thought you could be a follower of Jesus without being a church-going Christian.”

“So what did you tell him?” Sara asked.

“I didn't tell him anything, Sara. I just call him on Sunday every once in a while and ask him if he's hiking or reading a book.”

The parson leaned toward her and said, “The important thing Sara is that you're looking for God. And I hope the God you find is too big a God to be locked up inside a church.”