Questing Parson

Return On An Investment

The promise of fall was in the air. Down the driveway the parson bounded. There was really no reason to do so. But, the promise of spring was in the air. The sermon's completion could wait until tomorrow. The wild cat who inhabits the woods next to the house bounded across the yard, pausing on his path to stop directly in front of the parson with hunched-up back, tail pointed skyward. He jumped up and down twice. The parson stooped, holding out his wiggling fingers in the vain hope she'd allow him to pet her. She didn't. She jumped straight up once again and then bounded into the woods. She's stay there, he knew, until he called her as he placed the food in her plate in the evening. Then she'd come, but only as far as the bottom step until the parson disappeared into the house.

Another ten yards brought him to the mailbox. Inside there was an envelope. Miracle of miracles, inside there was one envelope, no advertisements, no announcements that now that he was mature enough to know better he could get a new credit card with a credit limit that would allow him to purchase a starter size house. It was just one plain envelope, with a handwritten address and return address, all by itself, lonely in the cold box on this chilly day.

He studied the return address. It was printed in block letters as was his name and address. He didn't recognize the sender's name. Puzzled, he opened the envelope and retrieved the contents. A piece of paper from inside the folded letter fluttered to the ground. He bent over and picked it up. It was a check. Now he was really puzzled.

The parson turned his attention to the letter. With the first line he remembered him: “You took the time to ask about me when we were stuck at the Flying J Truck Stop.

It was a month before. The parson's uncle uncle and he were leaving Denny's after lunch. As they walked to the car he noticed the man pacing back and forth. He moved to the trunk to place his uncle's walker in it. The man was still pacing back and forth. He walked around to the driver's door. The man was still pacing back and forth. On an impulse the parson walked over to him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Not really,” he said. “I'm kinda in a predicament.”

“What's the problem?”

He told the parson he'd driven down from Tennessee He was on his way to Emory University Hospital where his wife was scheduled for surgery the next day. Somehow he'd taken a wrong turn near Chattanooga. He'd headed toward Birmingham instead of Atlanta. Now he didn't have enough gas to get to Atlanta. And he'd apparently left his wallet at home.

The parson has been a preacher for over forty-five years. He's been had by the best of them. You'd think he would have learned his lesson. The parson directed him to pull his car over to the gas pump. He topped his gas off on his credit card and handed him two twenties. The man, at first, refused the money. The parson insisted he needed it because of his wife needing his support. And then he drew him a map showing the way to the hospital, the hospital parking lot and how to get to the admission's office.

The parson never told the man his name. But the envelope was addressed to him. The check was for more than two twenties and was payable to him. The man had gone to some trouble to repay the debt.

They're back home now. His wife is fine. He's relieved. The parson headed back up the drive; life seemed good, very good, for the both of them.

Love Of A Career

Saturday. The parson had taken his walk with Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, and now sat at a local eatery. A big day was ahead, gutters to clean, lawn to be trimmed, new floor to be laid in the soon-to-be grandchildren room. Busy days require nourishment.

Charlie Brown, upon seeing or smelling, the local establishment plopped himself down on the rear seat of the car with a grunt, an audible grunt that communicated his boredom. The parson checked that Charlie Brown's water container was full then headed inside.

He wasn't ten minutes into his brunch when Eddie Pepperell entered. On seeing the parson he approached the table. Eddie was the son in a family the parson had knows for decades. Eddie's father and the parson had spent many days hiking through the forest of Northwest Georgia.

“Parson,” said Eddie. “Do you mind if I join you?”

“Not at all,” said the parson. “Have a seat.”

Eddie pulled out a chair across the table from the parson. He pulled himself up to the table and said in a quiet voice, “Can I talk to you, I don't know, maybe, as a pastor for a minute.”

“Sure, Eddie,” the parson replied, “anything wrong?”

“Well, Parson, it's like this. I think things may go wrong. And I don't know what to do about it.”

“What's going wrong?” the parson asked.

“Me and Wanda,” said Eddie. “I'm worried that our marriage won't make it.”

“Tell me about it,” said the parson.

“Okay, well you know I went to work two years ago as a manufacture's representative. I've really worked hard to build a strong number of business for whom I can provide them with needed supplies, advice, and such. The business has grown where I'm making a comfortable living.....”

The parson interrupted. “Your dad told me you were more than comfortable.”

Eddie studied the parson for a moment. “Okay, Parson, I'll admit I'm more than comfortable. I've been able to provide a great home for Wanda and the kids. And that's part of the problem. I don't think she appreciates what I've done. She's always complaining that I'm never at home and that when I am I bring work home with me. Look, I'm building the business still. Someday I can maybe bring the kids into it. Everything I do is to build my career in order to provide for them. But I'm just not appreciated.”

Eddie went on for a good while without the parson interrupting. It was a free flowing rant about him becoming successful and trying to remain successful, of him and his family needing him to establish a successful career. Then he concluded:

“So, Parson, I just don't know how to talk to Wanda about the importance of my career.”

The parson didn't say anything.

“Don't you have something to say? Some comment?”

“I do, Eddie, but I don't think you'll like it.”

Eddie stared. Then he said, “Try me.”

“Well, Eddie,” the parson said, “it's been my experience that no matter how much you are in love with your career, you career cannot love you back.”

The Tithe

The parson sat in the chancel. He'd just handed the collection plates to the ushers said the offertory prayer, and returned to his seat. He noticed the usher on his right side had collected offerings on pews almost all the way to the rear. The ushers on the left side were still on the second pew.

The parson watched more closely. The plate was on the lap of a ten-year-old. She had a pen and paper resting on it. She was writing on the paper. Suddenly she nodded her head up and down in the affirmative. She reached to her side and retrieved her small purse. She subtracted a five dollar bill and placed it in the plate. The plate was then passed on down the row and then got passed the the pew behind. Finally, it arrived in the rear with the other side. At that point everyone rose to sing the Doxology.

After the service the girl's mother approached the parson. “I'm sorry Helen delayed the offering,” she said.

“What happened?” asked the parson.

“Well, she did three or four things to earn money this week. And then when we got to church this morning her grandfather and an aunt gave her some money. She decided when school was out that she was going to tithe what she made. So when the plate came she was adding up how much money she had in her purse and at home and figuring up the ten percent.”

The parson smiled. On the way to his study he sung the Doxology one more time.

About That Report

Dear Church Superior:

Thank you so much for your most flattering correspondence of recent date in which you priased our little rural church for having paid 100% of our denominational askings and for having submitted our church's annual report in a timely fashion. We are deeply grateful that you singled us out as being an exemplary church. But once again, I fear, I am compelled to write this addendum to the required report.

About that report: On my part, the first section. that supposedly referred to the pastoral aspects of our church life, contained fifty-seven questions. And on the portions of the report my treasurer compiled and provided the input there occupied many more questions.

Once again this year, I point out that the first portion, mine, was centered on one question: How many? Now, as you were so generous in mentioning in your epistle, that figure for our little country church was positive. We're actually growing. We are delighted you noticed.

I would like to respectfully point out, once again, that the number of persons who joined our congregation during the preceeding year has nothing to do with the kind of church I serve.

There was no place for me to report that once a week our youth transport meals to the homebound and sick in our community, that this is a ministry they started and continue and are very possessive of. There was no place to tell you how those homebound folks anxiously await the appearance of those young people in their lives each week. Nor was there a place to inform you that when elderly spouses passed it was the youth who'd delivered those meals who sat with the surviving partner, holding their hand and crying mutual tears of sorrow. There was no line on which to report this.

You know, there wasn't a place to report the soup kitchen that is open each week, where the haves and the have nots come and sit down to share a meal together. It's a real live version of that liturgy we speak so frequently in the church, “The bread we break is a sharing in the body of Christ …. The cup over which we give thanks is a sharing in the blood of Christ.” But this time it's not a ritual spoken by rote in the sanctuary but a real live event in the lives of the divergent children of God. Too bad that little interaction couldn't find a slot in the report.

Are you aware that every indigent child in this county received from this little church the weekend before school started last year a book bag. In the book bag were grade appropriate supplies for the year as well as a new set of clothes. Please note, they were new clothes, not hand-me-downs, and they were individually selected for each child. And I must add, after receiving the above these kids, especially the girls, get a trip to to a hair stylist. For many of them it's the first time they've had new clothes or had someone other than mom cut their hair. Didn't find a place to report that either.

I kept looking for a place on the report to mention that this little church bears the expense for maintaining a transitional house for a single mom with children, a program that not only houses but provides a professional social worker to work with the family to develop survival skills in surviving and not falling back into homelessness, that these women are given an education, and that, so far, we're running a success rate over 90%. Oh, we are also the impetus and partial supporter of two additional transitional houses. Golly gee, wouldn't it be something if we could have reported that.

I didn't find a place to report the missionary in Peru for which this church is the largest single supporter. I didn't find a line to inform you of the hundreds of people a year we provide direct assistance to. There was no line on which to mention this little church provides vet clinics twice a year where families below the poverty line can bring their pets for their shots and such at a ridiculously reduced price. There was no section to mention the internet cafe we provide for indigent children to come and do their homework or for the unemployed to submit employment applications online. Didn't get to mention the members of our church who packed a backpack, rolled up their sleeves, and hauled their ass down to Haiti right after the earthquake.

I can think of a couple dozen other vital ministries of this congregation that have no place to be reported. But allow me to mention just one more.

There was no place on that report to tell you how, when this country parson's wife died, these peope gathered their pastor more firmly into their hearts, they wrapped their love and concern around him, they held him to their congregational brest and nursed him on his way to healing. And now almost two months from that tragic event they continue to hold him and care for him and nudge him along the path to wholeness. Too bad there's no place to report that because I'm not the only one they have done this for.

Now, please know that I am most grateful for you placing the spotlight on us as being the church we are, according to what was reported on that six page, single spaced, report. But also realize Ms. Parson is no longer here to temper my responses via this writing. So you'll understand my bluntness when I say that ridiculous report my treasurer and I fill out each year, you know – the one that only asks how many and how much, the one you're proud of because we got a passel of new members and increased the value of our property, doesn't tell you shit about the powerful ministry of this church. And that's tragic.

Maybe next year?

About Reality

The committee was discussing the challenges before the church. Various work area chairpersons were championing their area's projects for the new year. A large percentage of the members were continuing to push expansion of the church's ministries. The representatives of the finance committee and governing board were trying to rein things in.

“Look,” said Leroy Simpson, the chair of the finance committee, “we appreciate all the progress the church has made over the last few years but there are limits to what we can do.”

“I agree;” chimed in Agnes Dollar, “perhaps we all should keep in mind that the country is not out of the recession yet. We have some people in the church who are still unemployed.”

Bill Render leaned into the group, “Hard times are no reason to reduce the ministries of the church. It's times like these that the ministries are most needed.”

“That may be true,” said Leroy, “but if you notice we are barely meeting the budget each week. We should thank our lucky stars that we're just in the black. But any more expenditures for these projects, especially the thousands you guys want to spend on mission projects will certanily put us in the red.”

The room was silent for a pregnant moment. Obviously the folks who were charged with carrying out the ministries were a bit taken back

Agnes broke the silence. “Look, we all know what's coming next. The Parson is going to suggest we have bean suppers or a pancake breakfast each month of something to raise the money.”

The parson started to respond but Leroy held up his hand. “Parson,” he said, “I really respect you and I'm really grateful for all the things the church has been able to do since you came. But we're money poor here. There's a limit. And while you've gotten us to do more than we had in the past, it's time we pull things in a bit. You just have to live with the reality.”

All eyes turned toward the parson. He smiled. He leaned forward. In a low but clear voice he said directly to Leroy, “But we have to be true to our calling.”

“True to our calling? What's that?” asked Leroy.

“Our calling,” said the parson, “is to rise above reality.”

Our Daily Bread

“So, Parson, what's up with that advertisement on your sign?” asked Roger Bennet, a lay pastor who lived a little north of the parson's church. “I just drove by there and saw it. You folks must have some kind of supper every month.”

“I don't know about every month, Roger,” said the parson. “But we're never adverse to giving you a reason to contribute.”

“Contribute. Right. If I contribute to anything it would have to be my church. We never seem to have enough money to pay out the year. I guess we ought to have those lunches and suppers like you guys to to pay the bills.”

“Roger, we don't have those things to pay the bills. Those things fund what we do beyond our normal giving.”

Roger sat down across the table from the parson and leaned forward. “Seriously, Parson, what's up with the greens and peas and stuff.”

The parson smiled and said, “About five years ago, Roger, we were trying to figure out how we could send some of our members on a medical mission trip to Peru. So, we thought about having a New Year's Day Lunch. We cooked up a bucket of greens and a bucket of black-eyed peas, shoved about six dozen sweet potatoes in the oven, hustled up some pies and cobblers from members as well as some good old cornbread. Then we invited people to come and eat with us and make a donation. They came, Roger. They came.

“Turns out,” the parson continued, “that New Year's Day is the one holiday when the family doesn't get together. We were surprised when senior citizens from all over the area showed up. We ran out of food. So, ever since we've had our New Year's Day lunch to raise money for missions.”

“And you don't use the money to pay the day-to-day church expenses?”

“We don't, Roger. The church bills and the denominational askings are paid out of the collection plate. But all the other ministries we finance separately.”

“You get enough money in the plate to pay all the regular church expense?”

The parson sat observing his friend a moment. He then said, “Here's how it works, Roger. We make a commitment to be a church in mission. Then each Sunday we all pray together, 'Give us this day our daily bread.” We ask God to give us the bread we need, Roger. And that's what God does. God gives us the bread we need and not one slice more.”

Finding the Money

Some of the brothers and sisters of the cloth were gathered at the local restaurant which provided a smorgasbord of gastronomic breakfast delights in a buffet format. The parson watched with dismay as the younger consumed inordinate amounts of butter on biscuits, sausage, bacon, eggs and coffee. The parson, for his part, ate a conservative portion of assorted fruits, fiber loaded cereal a glass of orange juice and decaf coffee. It was good to demonstrate the consuming of healthy foods to these younger colleagues as well as to his cardiologist who sat two tables away.

The conversation had gone from the current bishop and discovering his agenda to an evaluation of the immediate supervisor to Wally Swanson who had decided to leave the church to the new churches being started in the area. And now the topic was money.

“Linda and I have been tithing since my second year in seminary,” said Jake Collins, Senior Pastor of the First Church of the Sacred Valley. “We've found it to be a blessing.”

Roger Hanford gave forth with a sound that sounded like a low pitched snort. “That's really easy for you to say, Jake. You've never served a church that caused you to live on a tight budget. You don't have children. That eliminates a big expense in living. You're not in a position to testify about tithing. It's been easy for you.”

Before Jake could respond, Scott Gilmer, who was ordained only the last June and was now serving a two point circuit in the mountains, responded. “I have to tell you, Miriam and I are trying to tithe, but it's a real challenge. You know I'm on minimum salary so we have to live on the lean side. Now there's a baby coming in May. I have to admit there are months we have to put aside the tithing.”

“I know what you mean,” said Oscar Pennington, a pastor in his fifties who was serving an appointment outside the local church, “I really think it's a good idea for those who can; but there are times when it can get in the way of productive living.”

The conversation went on for a good twenty minutes. In that time the parson had listened carefully to every word. He had watched his cardiologist depart. He had made his way to the buffet bar and picked up a biscuit covered with gravy and topped by a slab of sausage.

Oscar Pennington turned toward the parson. “Parson, how about you. You're retired. You're on a fixed income. What's your take?”

“Well,” said the parson as he sliced up the biscuit and sausage, “I've found over the years that I always seem to have money for what I really want to do.”

How Long the Madness?

The parson was in the back corner of his favorite diner, reading his morning paper on the Kindle and sipping a decaf, when Stanley Kausman entered. He saw the parson and headed his way.

“Morning, Parson,” he said. “Where were you last night?”

“I was taking a nap with my wife if you have to know.”

“Oh, funny, Parson. The meeting. You were not at the meeting.”

“There was a meeting last night? When did they announce that?”

“Right! You didn’t know a thing about a meeting.”

The parson sipped his coffee. Stanley sat across from him.

“How was the meeting?”

“The meeting was crap,” said Stanley. “It was boring as hell. And then, on top of that, they handed out the denominational asking for next year. That was far from boring. It was infuriating.”

“What’s the rub, Stan?”

“Oh, let’s see. My church is being asked to meet a raise what we pay to capital funding, not for our church mind you, but for the conference, a mere 63%. And I suppose because we are such dedicated folks who have trimmed staff hours to meet our responsibilities we are being asked to increase what we give to the conference administration a small amount of 51%. I tell you parson I looked at those figures and decided these folks just didn’t know how to manage their budget, but then I saw that they are asking us to increase our giving to that retreat that’s been bleeding money since it was started by 41%.”

Stan rubbed his head with both hands in frustration.

“It’s insane, Parson. When did this kind of thinking start?”

The parson smiled and said, “It started forty-five years ago last June when I arrived at my first church.”

Impressive Fundraiser

The parson’s old friend Buddy “Roll Out” Hathaway had invited him to speak at a community meeting. The parson had readily accepted, mostly as an excuse to travel halfway across the state to visit with his former high school classmate. Now, the morning after the speech, the parson was walking to his car from Roll Out’s office at the school where he was a part time teacher and part time administrator.

Roll Out had convinced the parson to talk a longcut through the campus in order to show him the new athletic field.

“Look at that,” said Roll Out, “this new artificial turf makes this school the envy of every sports program in the area.”

“It looks impressive,” said the parson. “How did you get the board to approve this expenditure.”

“Oh gracious, Parson,” said Roll Out, “the board didn’t put a dime toward this. We raised this through private donations from businesses in the community and through some fundraisers by the football and soccer boosters. No, sir, this was done with a dime of school money.”

“That’s really impressive,” said the parson. “What did this cost?”

Roll Out broke the numbers down for the parson, the turf, the installation, the markings so it could be used for both soccer and football.

“Have you ever seen a high school athletic field any better than this?” asked Roll Out.

“I truly have not,” said the parson. “Let me ask you something, Roll Out. How many furlough days, without pay, were the teachers required to take last year because of the economy?”

“Let’s see,” said Roll Out as he closed his eyes and mentally calculated. “I think it was six.”

“How many will they have to take this year?”

“Oh, this year it’s ten. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just thinking how it the booster clubs and all these local businesses had a fund raiser to supplement your teachers. How many furlough days do you think this field would have covered? You know, Roll Out, doing that would really have been impressive.”

Moving the Scammer to Another Parish

The parson made his way down the interstate, heading for the Quik Trip, America’s best gas and convenience store. About two miles from the exit he passed a RV camper of the vintage variety. It was from the early 1980s, the kind where a pickup was modified to accommodate the camper. It was towing an economy sedan from about the same year.

The parson quickly moved ahead and exited. He pulled into the Quik Trip and headed for the cappuccino dispensers. He no sooner had his cup filled than Eugene Jones entered the store. The two had agreed to meet here and ride to a meeting together. The parson waited for Eugene to get a cup of refreshment for himself and headed toward the cashier. Halfway there his attention was captured by someone walking in. The parson stared, knowing the man looked familiar. Then it hit him; he was the fellow driving the old camper.

The parson paid and he and Eugene departed to head toward their meeting. In the car, the parson asked, “Eugene, I need to run by the post office to mail some letters before we go.”

Eugene nodded as the parson pointed his car back toward the interstate. He crossed over on the bridge and headed toward the post office about a mile ahead. He made a quick trip around the parking lot and dropped the letters into the outside receptacle. Now the car was pointed back toward the interstate again. One hundred yards before the interstate, the parson saw the camper again.

It was parked in the parking lot of a defunct business, with the nose pointed toward the highway. The man stood outside beside the front left fender next to a hand painted sign which leaned against the wheel and read, “Stranded. Will work for food and/or gas.”

The parson pulled in, got out of the car and approached the man. Eugene followed.

“What happened?” the parson asked.

“Oh, thanks for stopping,” he said. “I’m heading home in Florida and I realized I have lost my wallet. I guess I lost it at my last stop up in Tennessee. So, I’m stranded here. This is a little embarrassing. Look do you know anywhere I could get some work for some gas and food?”

The parson was taking in the Quik Trip cup and sausage biscuit wrapping on the fender as the man spoke.

“Tell you what, partner,” said the parson. “I’ve got a Quik Trip gift card here. You know where the Quik Trip is?”

“Ah, I think so. Isn’t it on the other side of the expressway?”

“Right,” said the parson. “I’ll let you have it. You can get some gas and food there.”

“Thanks much,” said the man as he took the card from the parson.

Back in the car, Eugene let go on the parson. “Parson, are you out of your mind. You saw that guy come into the QT. There’s no way he had time to make that sign before we got to him here. He had that sign already made.”

“I know,” said the parson. “But I know a little about these scammers. He will move on now to a better another place. And, if he’s even a little bit down on his luck, I think there was just enough money on that card to get him to your county.”

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