The parson was in the really big city attending a strategy meeting with another pastor. The meeting having been held near a parish where the parson once served, when it was over he headed to an old pizza establishment where the more hip people gathered together. The say was a bit chilly, but it was far from cold. The parson decided to make brave and headed to an outside table where he figured the sunlight would make the weather tolerable and he could watch the world go by.
The pizza had been devoured and the beverage two-thirds consumed when Glenda Robinson, a member of the parson’s former church, approached.
They exchanged pleasantries, inquired of mutual friends, and talked of remembered experiences from when the parson was her pastor. As they did so an order was placed for another slice of pizza and a drink for her and one for the parson. When it arrived and they began to eat, the parson asked Glenda about her son Richard.
“Richard,” she said as though relishing the name. “Remember when you baptized him? That was a special day.”
“It was,” said the parson, remembering Richard’s intelligent and intense inquiries about the faith. He was fourteen and full of promise.
“Richard finished college last May,” said Glenda. “He was at the top of his class. He double majored in history and psychology.”
“What’s he doing now?” asked the parson.
“He’s with Teach for America, teaching out in the MIssissippi Delta. It’s a good place for him since there’s so much Civil War history there. He really stays busy.”
“Is he married yet?”
“Oh, goodness, no. Don’t think Ed and I haven’t been dropping hints. I think he has two or three girl friends, but there’s no one special yet.”
“It sounds as though he’s having a fulfilling life.”
“Funny you’d say that, Parson. In so many ways he is. There’s not a selfish bone in that boy’s body. He’s always giving himself for others. When he talks about his school kids his face just lights up.”
“I’d love to see him again.”
“I’d love for you to see him again. You could remind him about that vow of supporting the church with his presence. It seems he hardly ever attends. He says he goes on Communion Sunday three or four times a year, but that’s it.”
The parson didn’t say anything. He studied Glenda’s face as he consumed the rest of his pizza. His memory fixed on Richard standing beside him as the youth communion assistant. He sensed where this was going.
“I can’t believe it, Parson. I mean when he was younger he was in church every Sunday. Three or four times a year, can you believe that?”
“Well, you said he goes occasionally on communion Sunday. I think that gives you a hint that there’s something special about the faith within him.”
Glenda leaned across the table. “Three or four times a year, Parson. How can you be a Christian and go to church three or four times a year?”
The parson smiled. “I don’t really know, Glenda. But, I’ve got to be honest with you in defense of Richard. One of my greatest fears is what I might not do the first Sunday I don’t have to preach. And if perfect church attendance were a prerequisite for deserving salvation, I’d have to be assigned to Hades to get a good crowd.”
“I’m being serious, Parson.”
“I’m being serious, too,” said the parson, reaching over and placing his hand on top of Glenda’s. “You and I both know Richard’s capabilities. He can be anything professionally he wants but he chose Teach For America.” Glenda started to say something, but the parson held up his hand. “Listen, Glenda, you hold on to this: He goes to church on the Sunday they are celebrating the Lord’s Supper. Some of the lines from that liturgy say: “Pour out your Holy Spirit on us gathered here, and on these gifts of bread and wine. Make them be for us the body and blood of Christ, that we may be for the world the body of Christ redeemed by his blood.”
Glenda’s eyes were becoming teary.
“He’s an answer to that prayer, Glenda.”
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