Questing Parson

Reflections on My Church

In Tampa, Florida, the multitude of delegates to the United Methodist General Conference (that body of elected delegates and bishops who determine the polity and doctrine of the church) began to gather in the morning hours. Some stopped to consume a full breakfast. Some made do with a doughnut and coffee. Some skipped breakfast all together and rushed to begin the day's business.

In a rural town in Virginia, nestled against the Blue Ridge Mountains, a young pastor, just now completing her first year of ministry after ordination, headed toward the local jail. The homeless woman who was her latest project had been arrested.

In the hallway outside the floor of the conference, a layperson from New York and an elder from North Carolina were in deep discussion of the proposal to limit the tenure of a bishop. The layperson sought clarification from the clergy on his views on the matter.

In South Georgia a middle-aged pastor stood on the bank of a river and in an absent-minded manner cast his fishing line into the water. Whether the fish were biting or not was not the point. The goal was the solitude, the quietness, the isolation where he could consider if he wanted to continue with what had become, for him, the disappointment of ministry.

In Tampa, when the delegates were called upon to vote on members of the University Senate, the church's accrediting body for schools, a delegate asked another who Jan Love was? The other replied she was the Dean of the Candler School of Theology. The delegate voted for her.

An Oregon pastor rose early, poured a cup of coffee, accessed the internet and clicked the live stream from the General Conference to watch the proceedings.

In Atlanta a seminary student at the Candler School of Theology headed down the stairs into the stacks in a desperate search for needed documentation for the paper due tomorrow. She had absolute no idea the Dean of her school had just been elected to the University Senate. Nor did she, at this point in heer career, care.

The Oregon pastor returned from pouring her second cup of coffee just in time to hear a delegate from North Georgia making some point to the presiding bishop. The entire recitation was not heard but it did not matter as the bishop ruled the person out of order.

At an Illinois hospital, a pastor jolted upright from his chair when a nurse walked into the room where he'd been keeping vigil with the oldest member of his congregation.

In Peru a missionary opened the doors of the newly established library and prepared for the onslaught of borrowers hungry for what was inside.

Two delegates at the conference became rather agitated in their discussion of whether or not elders of the church should be guaranteed appointments.

A lay pastor in Nebraska walked into work late again hoping his need to be with a couple in his church who had called him about their troubled marriage would be understood by a non-church-going supervisor.

Down in Florida the General Conference adjourned for lunch. In New Jersey a pastor was busy slapping sandwiches together at the shelter.

In Africa, a worn and tired pastor fell onto his bed, a cot, without undressing, utterly exhausted from a day with AIDS victims.

The Tampa delegates listened with rapt attention when the Reverend Lorenza Andrade-Smith was introduced. She shared part of her story of selling all her possessions and living in solidarity with the homeless in the streets of San Antonio.

In Ohio, a pastor and his Pastor-Parish Committee haggled over his compensation for the next year.

Delegates in Tampa ambled back to their hotels. Some stopped at a restaurant to swap stories and gossip. Others eagerly sought their rooms and a night's rest.

Across the globe United Methodists did what they do. In the morning the church will go back to work.

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.

Ordered Priorities

The parson was sequestered at a table in the back corner of his favorite diner. Before him was a delight of cholesterol laden delight, two eggs sunny side up, three
slices of bacon cooked to a crispness the parson liked, a generous helping of grits over which butter was slowly melting, two sausage patties, a portion of apple sauce, two pieces of toast and a cinnamon bun. The snack was complimented by a porcelain mug filled with steaming decaf, the parson's reverence to his cardiologist's wishes.

Halfway through the gastronomic endeavor he was interrupted by Phil Peiffer, who approached his table. “Morning, Parson, looks like you're hungry.”

“Not so much now, Phil,” said the parson. “Pull up a seat.”

Phil did so whereupon the parson asked, “So how's Carolyn? I have seen her or your kids in, gracious, in have been a year.”

“So, so,” said Phil.

“So, so?” asked the parson. “How am I to translate that?”

“Well, we're at a bump in the marriage, I guess, Parson. She thinks I'm neglecting her and the children because I spend too much time at the church. It's not that I'm neglecting her, but, you know, Parson, the church is demanding of our time and we can't always control the way we have to use the time. But, frankly, Carolyn seems to be punishing me by always maintaining a stand off mood.”

“I'm suppose to know how demanding your church is?” the parson asked.

“You know what I mean, Parson.”

“So, tell me, what's demanding so much time at the church?

“Well, we've got a new building program going; we're expanding our youth program; and we're looking into starting a ministry to the homeless.”

“Why does that demand so much of your time, Phil?”

“Parson, you know why.”

“Your laity aren't helping?”

“Well, yes they help, but they want to do it on their own schedule.”

The parson didn't say anything. By now he was working on the past few bites of sausage and was looking forward to sopping the plate with the half piece of toast he'd saved for the occasion. The server had discretely refilled his mug while Phil was talking.

“The do it on their own schedule?”

“Okay, here's an example. I called one of my lay people last night. I needed to him to bring me up-to-date on the building plans. He told me he needed to talk to me today because right then he was talking with his wife about what each of them had done that day and were making plans for the next day.”

“You find that a problem?” asked the parson as he devoured the last sopping and then reached for what was left in the mug.

“Of course, I do. I can't talk to him about the plans while he's at work. He needs to talk to me when he's home.”

The parson wiped his lips with his napkin. He smiled and nodded to the server to let him know he was finished. She brought his check and he handed her a bill and told her to keep the change.

“Phil,” said the parson as he rose from his seat, “I've got to go visit someone at the hospital. But I want you to think about something.”

“What's that, Parson.”

“I want you to think about what that layperson told you was the reason he couldn't talk to you last night. And then I want you to think about the fact that when he and his wife went to bed she probably wasn't in a stand off mood. That layperson, Phil, has his priorities in order.”

Enough Is Enough

The parson sat back listening to Jeff Autry, a lay person who served as an area representative to the church governing body. Robert Everest, a fellow pastor from down the road and Steve Underwood, a pastor visiting from out-of-town were there. Jeff was upset.

“Parson, sometimes it seems like there's no purpose to it. I go to every meeting I'm able to attend. Now, I grant you I don't get to all of them. But even when I go it seems the whole organization is going in a different direction that it ought to.”

“I'm not following you, Jeff,” the parson said.

Jeff gave a bit of a huff, and then said, “Well, pardon me for saying so, Parson, but it's really easy to understand. I get the feeling that because I have to miss a few meetings I'm sort of a bastard child. Look, I've got some good ideas and I'm tired of people not listening.”

“No one lets you talk, Jeff?”

“Oh, they'll let me talk, but that's all I'm doing is talking. When the get to the vote I might as well have not said a thing. I'm tired of it.”

There was silence. The other two pastors were waiting for the parson to respond. The parson had no intention of responding. After an interminal pregnant silence, Jeff spoke again.

“You don't have anything to say?”

“Nope.”

“Look, I might as well quit.”

The parson was silent. The other two pastors figeted in their seats.

“I said, 'I might as well quit.'”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Quit.”

“Well, hell, I will. You can inform them that I'm withdrawing my participation in their discussions.”

“I will.”

“I guess I might as well leave, then.”

“See you around,” said the parson.

Jeff left. The other two were still quiet. The parson picked up his phone and called his superior in the church. “Morning,” he said. “Look Jeff Autry was just in my office. He wanted me to let you know he's resigning from that committee he's on.” The parson listened to the response. “No, he said he wanted to quit and I told him I'd tell you.” The parson listened some more. “Okay, have a good day. See you next week.”

The parson turned to his guests. “Anybody want more coffee?”

“Parson,” said Robert, “I can't believe you just let that guy quit.”

“Believe it,” said the parson. “I've known him for twenty-two years. I think his middle initial is 'B', and that would be 'B' for bitching. I'm tired of it. He's always threatening to resign from some committee or another so folks will beg him to come back. I'm an old man and I've had to deal with his kind for forty years. Today I decided I wouldn't do it anymore.”

“I don't think I could get away with that,” said Steve.

“You're not as charming as I,” said the parson.

Talk About Your Pastor

The parson walked out of the courthouse. He'd performed a marriage on Saturday and was personally delivering the signed license in order to have an excuse to visit his favorite diner. He stood on the curb watching the traffic. After a couple of minutes a strange person, one who slowed to a stop in order for him to cross the street beneath the “Yield to Pedestrians” sign, motioned for the parson to cross. He did so after giving the driver a wave of appreciation.

As he reached the other side of the street, Ralph Wexler hailed him. “Hey, Parson, what brings you down to the center of local politics?”

The parson smiled. “Just complying with the legal process,” Ralph,” the parson replied.

“Mind if I walk with you a piece, Parson?” asked Ralph.

“Not at all,” said the Parson. “Tell me, how's Beth?”

“She's doing well, Parson. Got to admit she spends more time with the grandchildren than she does me. But I guess she's got a better chance of staying young with them.”

The parson smiled. Ralph wasn't known for humor.

“Look, Parson,” said Ralph, “do you know Jeffery Sanders, the new pastor down at Valley of the Redemptive Waters Church?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, Ralph. Why do you ask?”

“Well, he's just not a real fit, Parson. I know they're stuck with him for another eight months, but if you ever get a chance how 'bout putting a bug in the right ears that he really needs to go. I know the powers that be think this young man is a humdinger, but he's got a long way to go to demonstrate that to the folks at Redemptive Waters.”

“I have to tell you Ralph ….”the parson began, but was interrupted.

“I don't know what seminary that fellow went to, Parson, but it's obvious they don't have a preaching class there. He's got a plenty to learn ….”

“Ralph! Ralph!,” the parson now interrupted him. “I thought you were a member at First Church of the Set Apart and Dignified Saints of the Interpreted Word.”

“I am, Parson. I am.”

“You're not a member of Redemptive Waters?”

“No, of course not.”

The parson and Ralph had reached the entry to the parson's favorite diner. The parson moved to enter and as he did so he said, “Ralph, go talk about your own preacher!”

 

 

The Problem With the Worship

It was halfway through the sermon the parson noticed her. She was sitting in the back pew on the far side from the pulpit. She noticed the parson’s recognition and a slight smile curled her lips. 

At the end of the service she held back, shaking hands and making small talk with members who were excited to have a visitor present. When almost everyone had departed she came to greet him. They hugged. It had been several years since last they’d seen each other.

Cameron had popped in and out of the parson’s life through the years. She was a graduate student in anthropology while the parson was in seminary. Their friendship began at a shared table at the pizza joint down the hill from the school. In the parish where the parson served before retirement, she’d been the director of an important non-profit that brought hope to a lot of hopeless people. 

Ms. Parson approached and the two of them hugged. They caught up on whatever it was they needed to catch up on while the parson hung up his robe, made sure the doors were locked, and returned to the announcement they were headed out to eat.

They were seated at the restaurant when the parson asked, “So Cameron what brought you over this way today.”

“Well, I’ve kind of fallen out of the church going habit recently. And I thought I’d just pop over hear and reacquaint myself with worship.”

“I thought you were on the board and the missions committee at your church.”

“I am; well, I mean I was; actually, I guess I am but I’m just not attending anymore.”

The parson, having finished the meal, stacked his plates as he thought.

“Cameron, what’s happened?”

“I don’t know, Parson,” she said. “It’s just the way things are going now. The pastor we have now just doesn’t make the right decisions about worship.”

“Your pastor is exceptional,” the parson said. “We’re lucky to have him in our area.”

“He may be exceptional in some ways, Parson, but he’s made some changes over the years that I just don’t like.”

“What did he change?”

“One thing he did was let youth and children read the scriptures. I understand what he’s trying to do, but building the youth program via the morning worship doesn’t appeal to me. A lot of times you can’t even understand what the kids are saying.”

The parson started to day something, but Cameron continued, “And we now have those screens on the wall. He even illustrated a sermon right before I stopped going by using a scene from a popular movie. Movies in the sermon. I think that’s a bit much.”

The parson signed the credit card slip the server had brought him while Cameron went on. He placed the pen back in the holder, his card in his wallet, and leaned across the table toward Cameron.

“Cameron, I love you to death so let me say this as plain as possible. Next Sunday park your ass back on the pew you used to sit on and while the service is going on try to remember the worship is not about you.”