Questing Parson

A Reason For Going To the Meeting

The parson opened the door of the fellowship hall. Everyone who'd attended the meeting of the Administrative Board had left, rushing to their cars through the torrents of rain that were falling. Just as he was about to step out Jim Hardiman, a pastor from a nearby church came rushing through the rain toward the door. The parson suddenly remembered Jim and he had made an appointment for Jim to borrow a book and pick it up after the meeting at the parson's church this night.

“Holy Mackerel, Parson,” cried Jim as he entered the door. “This is a deluge.”

“It is that, Jim,” the parson responded. “I have to tell you Jim, I'm glad you're here a little early. I would have forgotten you were coming. The meeting let out a little early. Come on back to the study; I'll get the book for you.”

Back in the study the parson pulled his first edition copy of Cora Harris' book, Circuit Rider's Wife, from the shelf. It was a story of a preacher's wife in north Georgia at the beginning of the twentieth century. Cora Harris, whose cabin was just a few miles from the parson's church had been a gifted writer, the first female war correspondent for The Saturday Evening Post during World War I, and someone who'd captured the parson's interest long ago.

“I really appreciate this,” said Jim. “I'll be careful with it. I know it's rare.”

“Thank you for that,” said the parson. “I know you'll enjoy it.”

“Tell you the truth, Parson, I really didn't expect to meet you here tonight. With this weather I figured you might call off the meeting. And from the looks of the cars in the parking lot you couldn't have had more than seven or eight people at the meeting. Why didn't you call it off?”

The parson walked with Jim toward that fellowship hall door, where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, waited to dash to the car. As they walked, he replied, “You know, Jim, they pay me the same amount of money if all twenty-five or so are here or just seven.”

Discovering God's Secrets

She was eleven, maybe twelve. The parson was taking part in a seminar of preachers. She was reluctantly a part of the occasion also, as her aunt was a participant in the event. Being young, energetic and captive in a room full of young adults and middle-aged pastors was similar to being old, non-energetic, retired and coerced to attend. And so she and the parson, unknown to each other until this day, became cousins of circumstance and siblings of boredom.

There was a slight chill on the porch of the host church where they sat, but the sun was shining bright. Here aunt, after checking that she was okay and that the parson did not mind her niece's presence, promised to be back in a short while. She disappeared into the church to complete some duty.

The parson took a small Peppermint Pattie from the bag he was holding and offered one to her. She hesitated for a moment and then proclaimed, “Yes, thanks.” Carefully she unwrapped it. She bit down and obviously enjoyed the treat. Finished she looked about for a moment. “Here, you can put it in here,” the parson suggested. She deposited the wrapper in the bag he held out.

“So are you one of the pastors in there?” she asked.

“I am,” the parson acknowledged. “And how long have you been a pastor?”

She jerked her head around to look him directly in the eye. She smiled. “You're teasing me,” she said in a tone that reflected an appreciation for humor. “I'm not a pastor. My aunt is though.”

“Is she Methodist? Baptist?”

“She's a Presbyterian pastor. My older sister is going to be a priest,” she informed me.

“A priest?”

“Yes, an Episcopal priest.”

“Sounds like pastors run in your family.” She smiled but didn't respond. “You're the big holdout, I guess.”

“I guess I am. I'm going to be a scientist. I'm not sure what kind, but I know if I am a scientist I'll be able to learn about all the mysteries of the universe. Have you ever seen pictures of the universe?”

“I have, actually,” he said. “It's pretty impressive.”

“I know. And if I'm a scientist I can learn all about where the universe came from and where it's going. You know the universe is expanding, don't you?”

“I'v heard that,” the parson replied. “Discovering the secrets of the universe will take a lot of study and research.”

“I know.” She paused a few seconds and in a quiet voice that reflected wonder. “But I know it's going to be worth it. Just think. Here we are talking on the porch of this church. We are just little specks on another little speck in a creation that's so, so, so big. It's wonderful.”

“How about God? Do you think in your studies you'll discover God?”

“I don't think so,” she said. “You can't discover God. But there are all kinds of secrets that God has we can discover. I mean, like, the universe is expanding. Scientists discovered that. Who knows what we'll find next.”

Music began playing inside. The parson said. “I guess the program's starting again. I need to go inside.”

Her aunt turned the corner, “Come on, Honey; it's time to go in.”

“Bye,” said the parson, “I hope you discover lots of secrets.”

 

Is God Moving?

The parson was sorting the mail at the church office when Horace Owen Tolliver, II, affectionately known to the elders as 2Hot, called his name from inside the church.

“In here; in the office,” shouted the parson, recognizing the voice.

In just a few seconds, 2Hot walked into the study.

“Hey, Parson, are you going to at the Annual Conference?”

“I’ll be there first thing in the morning for the Clergy Executive Meeting, 2Hot,” said the parson.

“Where are you staying?”

“I’m staying at home,” said the parson.

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m going in the morning and then I’ll decide what sessions I’m going to attend,” the parson informed him. “If I think I need to stay for the whole thing, I’ll find a place, but I doubt that will be the case.” The parson’s retired status relieved him of the requirement to attend all sessions. “I’m just picking up a few things in the unlikely event I stay overnight.”

2Hot during this was moving about and taking an inventory of the parson’s office. He paused beside a side table and picked up a three ring binder with an attractive cover. It was the conference’s handbook.

“What do you think of the handbook this year?” 2Hot asked.

“What do you mean?” asked the parson.

“Well, did you read the reports?”

“I read the whole thing, 2Hot.”

“What did you think of it?”

“What did I think of 171 pages of reports?”

“Well, actually I was just talking about the handbook.”

The parson studied 2Hot for a minute. There was something he wasn’t connecting with.

“Is there something particular about the handbook I should notice?” asked the parson.

“Well, the cover, how did you like that?”

The parson took the handbook from 2Hot and examined the cover with an art piece depicting Jacob and the angels moving up and down the ladder.

“Are you talking about the art work?” asked the parson.

“Actually, Parson, I’m talking about the theme: “From Ordinary to Extraordinary; Wake Up and See Where God Is Moving”. I came up with that.”

“Well, congratulations,” said the parson. “I wasn’t aware that was your contribution.”

“Yeah, what do you think of it?”

“I guess you’re the one who motivated me to make the trip, 2Hot. ‘Wake Up and See Where God Is Moving,’ I’m going to the conference to plead that God not move away.”

Graphic: Cover Art 2010 Annual Conference Session, North Georgia Conference, United Methodist Church, Handbook.

About The Meeting

Dear Church Superior:

As you know I am not a big fan of church denominational meetings. Your knowledge of this, I know, is often refreshed by my not being present for gatherings you have ordained as a necessity. I must say that over the years I’ve come to appreciate your endeavors to encourage me to participate in these gatherings of the set apart. And I confess I have been, from time to time, somewhat amused at your consternation over the perks that come from my exalted status of being retired and somewhat, or at least I like to think, beyond the reach of severe reprimand.

Having stated my, let’s say age-induced, aversion to these meetings, I do want you to know that today’s meeting was an exception. It was really superb, beyond reproach. I do not recall any incidence of superfluous chatter during the course of the gathering; everyone stayed on task; the agenda was not an impediment but a roadmap toward a rapid and decisive conclusion to all the matters before the assembled. We need more meetings like the one we had today.

 I have to be honest with you, however. I almost missed the meeting. Had it not been for a conscientious layperson, who, in greeting me after the morning service, asked, “Where is the meeting this afternoon?” I would have hopped in my car and headed home to watch the NCAA Women’s Softball Championships without interruption.

In response to her inquiry I put forth one of my own: “What meeting?”

“The meeting for the pastors and delegates to the conference?”

“That’s today?”

“That’s what I have on my calendar.”

With the quickness of mind and nimbleness of feet of a man half my age, I quickly made my way to the computer and with the agility of a computer systems specialist I accessed the organization calendar. Imagine my consternation when I saw the meeting on the calendar. Imagine the reflection of loyalty to your request that I, at least, attend this particular meeting each year when I told that layperson I would meet her at the appointed place.

I went home to grab a quick bite to eat. Then I checked the Google Maps to determine the traveling time to the event. I thought it might please you to see me arrive early for once. And I did arrive early, but not as early as the lay delegate. She was waiting. She was the only one waiting. There was no one else at the meeting. I was confused. She was confused that I was confused.  

I am a man of the Twenty-first Century. I whipped out my iPhone and once again accessed the organizational calendar online. There it was. The meeting was scheduled for the time and place I stood. But wait; now I saw it! The meeting was also designated as being scheduled for one week from the time and at the same place I stood. Ah, ha! The meeting is listed two times.

I call your attention to the opening of this epistle. I stated the meeting went well. It did. Remembering an often forgotten but extremely important rule buried in the pages of our governing documents, the lay person and I proceeded. That rule is the one that states: “A quorum is those present and voting.”  In light of that I need to inform you the meeting on the calendar for next week is cancelled. The vote was unanimous.

A Date For the Reverend Ms?

The District Task Force on Reducing the Number of Required Meetings was meeting.  The parson having attended a smidgen over 7,000 meetings in the course of his career was participating with a degree of amusement. As such he didn’t say much. But he listened.

In the course of the listening the parson was drawn to a new pastor. He remembered her being ordained two years previous. He had been struck by the enormity of the event for her, evidenced by her almost uncontrollable sobbing when the bishop laid his hands on her head.

Erin Swanson, was in her early thirties. All her life she had wanted to become an ordained minister. Every course she took in college was seen as a pathway to ordination. Seminary became a rite of passage for her. And on the day she heard her name called out to serve her first appointment, all of her struggles had come to fruition.

The parson watched her during the course of the meeting. Every time a date was suggested where the committee could gather for some purpose, she quickly consulted her iPhone calendar and then reported on her availability. Working out a schedule with the Energizer Bunny in the room became a challenge for the other participants. The entire meeting, for the parson, became a variety show staring Erin and her calendar. And during the lunch break the parson had overheard her conversation with another female pastor about the lack of a social life.

When the meeting had adjourned, with the promise that the Task Force on Reducing the  Number of Retired Meetings would meet again, the parson found an opportunity to speak to Erin outside the church.

“So how are things with you these days, Erin?” he asked.

“Wonderful, Parson,” she responded with a smile.

“When’s the last time you had a date?” the parson asked.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m an old man, Erin, with more years in this church than you have yet to live. So, indulge me. When’s the last time you had a date?”

She looked up toward the sky and replied in a soft voice, “I guess it was the last year of seminary.”

“Nobody has asked you out on a date in two years?”

“Well, Parson, it’s not that. It’s just that there is so much to do at the church. I really don’t have time for a romantic relationship right now.”

“Sure you do.”

“I don’t, Parson,” said Erin, looking toward the ground. “When I gave my life to Christ and answered the call to ministry, I had no idea how demanding the job is.”

“How demanding is it?”

“What? Parson, are you kidding me?”

“No, Erin, I’m not. Actually, I’m making fun of you.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell you what, Erin. My son has this friend who’s single. He’s a Christian businessman whose very successful. And I doubt very seriously he is intimidated by a female pastor, because his mother’s one. How about I set you up on a blind date; just to let you get away from the parish for one evening?”

Erin looked at the parson intently for a moment, “I don’t know, Parson. I don’t know if I have an evening I could spare for a date.”

“Okay, Erin,” replied the parson. “I won’t hound you about it. But if you change your mind just let me know.”

“I’ll do that,” she smiled. They both turned to walk to their respective cars.

Halfway to his car the parson turned and yelled out, “Erin, when was that church of yours founded?”

“1842,” she called back. “But it was a tabernacle then.”

“1842,” the parson echoed. “OMG,” he continued in a mocking tone while seeming to count on his fingers, “can you believe that church existed for a 166 years without you fretting over every detail of its life?”

Erin stopped in her tracks and stared at the parson. She seemed to be weighing things. She smiled and called out, “I’ll think about it, Parson. I’ll think about it. But you should tell him I’m an expensive date.”

Time At the End of A Tiring Day

A long way from home, the parson turned in that direction. A day visiting a member, now living out-of-town with a relative while recovering from a debilitating illness, followed a late night session in the emergency room where he was filling in for the chaplain. 

Thirty miles on the journey, the parson pulled into a convenience store. He purchased a Peppermint Patty and a bottle of V-8 juice, a strange combination to be sure, but the parson needed to make himself more alert. Twenty miles further the candy bar long gone and the V-8 consumed, the parson realized the attempt was futile.

 “Next Rest Area Fifty-Two Miles” read the sign, inviting the driver to take a break at this one. The parson exited into the area. Checking the sun he found a spot that would be in the shade fro a while. He pulled in, lowered the car windows a few inches, pulled out his iPhone and set the timer for forty-five minutes. He let the seat back, removed his shoes, and closed his eyes.

The sounding alarm was like the blast of the air horn of a semi. The parson jumped upright. He looked around to get his bearings, checked the time, slipped on his shoes and stepped out of the car. He walked around for three or four minutes before heading to the restroom where he splashed cold water on his face. Back in the car, he adjusted his seat, turned the key and began to pull out of his space.

Merging into the traffic, he set the cruise control, turned on the radio and headed home at a steady pace while listening to the happenings of the world on NPR. If he was lucky, he realized, he’d be able to get home in time to help Ms. Parson cook supper and to enjoy the rest of an evening with no appointments scheduled.

The iPhone rang. The parson pushed the button on the “No Hands” device.

“Hello.”

“Parson, Ben Watson here.”

“How are you Ben?”

“Not bad; not bad. Look I was wondering if you’d be available for a meeting of the Planning Committee tonight. I know this is the last minute but Roger, Helen, Jim and I are all able to be there. So, we thought maybe you’d agree to have the meeting tonight.”

“I”m sorry, Ben,” said the parson. “I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have something on my calendar.”

“That’s too bad. Would it be okay if we meet without you?”

“That would be fine, Ben.”

“Okay, thanks, Parson.”

“No problem, Ben. See you Sunday.”

As soon as Ben said Good-by, the parson hit the “End Call” button.

“Hi, Sweetheart,” said Ms. Parson as he walked in the door. “Ben Watson called and wanted you to be at a meeting tonight.”

“I heard about that,” said the parson, “but you’re the only thing on my calendar tonight.”

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Changing Proclamation

The pastors of the area were gathered in the parson’s church. The parson sat in the back, in the media room, wondering if this was a trick. Over the last half decade it had become a ritual for the denominational supervisor to ask the parson, “Are you coming to the meeting?” And the parson to reply, “Ahhh, no.” Perhaps the superintendent had finally given up and brought the meeting to the parson.

As he leaned back in his chair he heard the usual exhortations to support the denominational causes, the clarifications that had been clarified the last ten meetings on the procedures for moving to another church. There were the constant references to “this bishop,” referring to the “new” bishop. The gathered would then pay attention in anticipation of learning something about “this bishop’s means of handling things.” 

The parson watched everyone sit up in the pew when “this bishop’s” executive assistant  stood before them. Gracious person he was he first paid homage to the parson’s literary skills as evidenced in the parson’s new book. 

“There’s one thing about the Parson’s book I particularly like,” he said. “What I particularly like is the Parson’s book is printed on paper. You can feel it; you can smell it. It’s ink on paper and there’s something real about ink on paper. And that’s what I want to talk to you about today. I want to talk to you about ink on paper in the form of our area denominational newspaper. Do you subscribe to this paper?”

From that take-off point the bishop’s assistant then went on to uphold the beleaguered periodical. He held up a copy. He showed the benefits of holding these paper pages in his hand; he described the sound of the pages turning and the ability to fold it in different ways. And then he exhorted the brothers and sisters to not let the onset of modern technological devices  divert the pleasure derived from the feel of the paper on the flesh of the fingers, the real, tangible, newspaper, the miracle of the word written on paper.

The parson took in the pleadings of the bishop’s assistant with interest, marveling at his considerable ability to make things seem so real. The parson had some knowledge of the plights of the particular printed media and was impressed with the bishop’s executive assistant’s affinity to the printed word.

There was a break between the morning and the afternoon sessions at which the parson’s church, through the considerable talents of the women’s society, provided lunch for the clergy. The parson sat with the bishop’s executive assistant and delighted in reminding him of skipped seminary classes and other minor past sins. 

The bishop’s executive assistant was scheduled to be the worship speaker in the afternoon session. At the appointed time in that service he walked to the pulpit. He pulled out his iPhone tapped the screen several times and said to the gathered, “For my text today I would like to read from the Gospel of Luke, the 13th chapter, beginning with the first verse. Would you stand in reverence to this holy Word. And then this old fashioned, lover of the smell of ink upon the printed page, read the lesson from his iPhone.

When's The Meeting?

 The parson had stopped by Ms. Parson’s office to deliver her cell phone which she’d inadvertently left on the breakfast table. As he departed, winding his way to his car through the State Police cruisers toward his car where Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion eagerly waited, his cell phone rang.

“Hello!”

“Hello, Parson, this is Fred.”

“Hello, Fred, what’s up.”

“I don’t know, Parson. The doors at your church are locked.”

The parson wasn’t prepared for this. Fred was a preacher in the next county. 

“Ah, Fred, how would you know if the doors of my church are locked?”

“Parson, I’m standing on the front porch of the church. The doors are locked.”

“We usually lock the doors, Fred.”

“What about the meeting?”

“What meeting?”

“The regional pastors meeting.”

“That’s Thursday, Fred.”

“No, it’s today. They changed it from Thursday to today.”

“Actually, Fred, they changed it from today to Thursday about two months ago.”

“Parson, I don’t won’t to argue with you, but the meeting’s today.”

“Fred, the meeting’s Thursday.”

“Parson, I’m not the only one here. There are four other pastors on the porch with me.”

“How many pastors are supposed to be at the meeting, Fred?”

“I don’t know, maybe a hundred.”

“And five are there, Fred. What does that tell you.”

“Look, Parson, I’ve asked around. The meeting is today.”

“What time is the meeting, Fred?”

“The meeting’s at 10:00, Parson.”

“What time is it, Fred.”

“According to my cell phone it’s 10:05.”

“Does that tell you anything, Fred?”

“Parson, the meeting’s today.”

“Fred, is the Bishop there?”

“No.”

“Is the Superintendent there?”

“No.”

“Am I there?”

“Funny, Parson, of course not.”

“And I’m the one who has the keys to the church. And I’m not coming, Fred. Say, “good-bye”, Fred.”

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