Questing Parson

Expanded Horizons

The parson and Gina sat on the church's front porch steps. Her mother had called to apologize she'd had car trouble and was running late.

“I don't know if I can handle all the pressure, Parson,” said Gina, an ninth grader who seemed, in the parson's mind, to be a great big bunch of potentiality.

“What kind of pressure is on you?”

“Well, grades for one thing. I didn't realize that high school would be so much harder than before. But it is. Mom says it's because I'm taking advanced placement classes.”

“I would think that would definitely make your classes harder,” the parson said with an inside smile.

“My Aunt Glenda said I ought to drop out of the advanced classes, but, you see, Parson, if I do that it will hurt my chances of getting into a good college. And I've got to get into a good college. I have to get out of this place.”

“You have to get out of this place?”

“I do. Everybody around here goes to a local college or the tech school. Then they marry their boyfriend. They have babies and the next thing you know their babies are going to a local school and the whole thing just starts over again. That's not going to happen to me.”

The parson didn't say anything. Gina didn't seem to need a comment.

“Look, Parson, I don't hate this place, but, you know what I mean. You've lived all over the place. I bet if you went to a nice restaurant you'd know what fork to use when. Do you know what I mean?”

The parson didn't say anything. He nodded.

“Do you remember when Ms. Parson took us on that trip to Mexico? I'll never forget when we stopped in New Orleans. Oh, my gosh! I don't know what the name of that restaurant was but the food was wonderful. And the people, all the different people. There were so many accents. You know what I noticed most of all? What I noticed most of all was the smells. Did you know different towns smell different? I didn't until then. So, anyway, while we were working on building that church building down in Mexico I told Ms. Parson I wanted to see more places and meet more people than my parents and grandparents have.”

“I remember that trip,” said the parson. “Seems to me you and Ms. Parson took an extra day getting home.”

“We did! We did! Do you know why? The reason we took an extra day … oh, you know why; she called you … anyway … she we stopped in Houston. We went shopping there and she took me to another really, really restaurant. Did you know they have streetcars going up and down the street right in the middle of the city? It was fantastic.”

Gina suddenly got quiet. She turned away from the parson. In a moment she looked back. “I'm sorry, Parson. I still miss her.”

The parson put his arm around her and hugged her close. “I do, too, Gina. I do, too.” Releasing his grip on her, he asked, “So, let's get back to the pressure. You're not the dumbest girl on the block, so I don't get the pressure about the classes.”

“Ah, it's not just the classes. Everybody wants me to play soccer. I love soccer; you know that. But, with all the classes, I don't know if I can take time away from my studies to play.”

“I think you should,” the parson said. “You know the competition of the game might give you some relief from the studies; and when you're relaxed you can study better; don't you think?”

“I never thought of it that way,” said Gina. “I'll think about it.”

The parson thought a moment, the said, “Excuse me just a minute, Gina.” He walked around the corner of the building and made a phone call. Returning to sit beside Gina again, he said, “You know, Gina, this summer I'm taking my daughter-in-law, Ms. Parson's daughter, to New York to the theater. I tell you what, if you make it through the year without a nervous breakdown, you can go with us.”

“New York City?”

“New York City.”

“Get out of here! Are you serious?”

“I'm serious. I just asked your mother. She said it's okay.”

“New York City! Oh, my gosh. When are we leaving?”

Supplement to the Annual Report

Dear Church Superior:

RE: My Supplement to the Year-End Report for My Church

First, if you will permit a bit of self-pontificating, I'd like to point out that I, he who am retired and does not have to fear retribution, got my report in well ahead of schedule. In fact, after talking with the person you appointed to oversee the compilation of these reports, I turned my report in when over seventy percent of the other clergy, (Shall we classify them as “non-company” clergy?) had yet to submit their report.

Secondly, an observation: I have been a United Methodist pastor for forty-five years. For the first time in my experience the report asked for my church's “GCFA Church Number.” Okay, I have no idea what GCFA stands for much less what the number is. Luckily, being the experienced parson that I am, I called the person you appointed to oversee the efforts of the clergy to compile these useless statistics and asked him what my GCFA number was. He told me; I proceeded to input such. But I did proceed with the question of why my GCFA number (whatever it stands for) would be any different than the usual number assigned to my church. But I realize I could be just a grumpy old man.

Third, I regret that for the first time in ten years I was unable to report there were not “professions of faith” to report. I know that would endanger my advancement up the clergy ladder in normal circumstances, but, in my case, I'm retired. And, see below, there are more important things that professions of faith.

Fourth, please note that we have upgraded the value of our property from $400,000 to $1,500,000. I'd be grateful if this could be placed in my permanent personnel file, even though the upgrade was entirely the decision of our insurance company. Despite who may have initiated this upgrade, I was the pastor when it took place and therefore ….

Fifth, there are some data fields, as usual missing, from the annual report.

There is no line on which I can report that my little country church in 2010 contacted the Family Advocates of the schools in our county to ask them which children are considered indigent. The family advocates then sent out a letter to those children's parents informing them that on the Saturday before school started in 2011 my little church would supply their kids with new clothes, back packs, all grade and school appropriate school supplies, as well as a hair cut for the boys and a visit to a beauty parlor for the girls.

There was no line on which I could report that two of my church members made their way down, in a dugout canoe, the Amazon River and then hiked with heavy back packs fifteen miles into the jungle, in order to deliver needed medical supplies to an isolated village in the jungles of Peru, nor could I report on all the children those nurses from my little country church provided medical care.

Again, there was no line to report that every Monday night at my church the doors open to Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen where rich people and poor people sit down together to enjoy a meal together. There was no way to report how many of those poor, unemployed, people obtained jobs because they interacted with managers of industry while sharing a pot of soup.

There was no line on which to input data on the number of times members of my church took deserving rising high school seniors to visit colleges affiliated with our denomination in an effort to lift them above their present status and to see the possibilities for their future.

I'm not sure if you're aware, but in our county there are a considerable number of elderly who are semi-shut-in. It's really unfortunate that there was no line on which to report that teenagers from my church deliver weekly meals to many of those folks, and, in the delivery, sit down with those seniors and talk, and laugh, and share secrets and desires, and different generations find inspiration from each other.

Look, Church Superior, I don't want to prolong this lament of the deficiencies of the reporting system, but …..

There was no place to report the three houses, each brick with three bedrooms and located in middle class neighborhoods, that are our “transitional houses” whose operational expenses are provided through the bean suppers and the pancake breakfast events of this little church. In each of these houses resides a single mother with her children who were homeless before our church took them into this program. There was no place to report the works of the social worker hired to work with these women, assisting them to set goals, to become financially independent. There was no place to report that three families, after two years of effort, have graduated from our transitional program, that five, formerly homeless, teens are now in college. That those three families have moved out of our transitional houses and into their own abodes with hope for and skills to meet the future. Nor was there any line on which to report that as each family graduates to a new possibility another family moved into the houses,

I could go on. There's more this little country church does. But, well, you get the message. To be perfectly candid, I'm just a little tired of reporting only how much and how many. What I'd like to report to you is: This little country church of less than a hundred folks, members of a denomination whose mission statement is: “To make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world,” have decided to not pay attention to that statement and to, instead, BE DISCIPLES FOR THE TRANSFORMATION OF THE WORLD.

I remain your loyal servant,

The Parson

In Loving Memory

"Ms. Parson"

Lynn Ellis Kent
October 3, 1949 ~ December 15, 2010

I'll be back Monday

A Toast to A Wonderful Lady

A few weeks before she entered the hospital, Ms. Parson was receiving many calls from well-wishers. After one such call, she turned on the sofa to look at me and said, through that mischieveous smile she sometimes showed, "The next time someone asks me if there's anything they can do for me, I'm going to tell them they can bring me a bottle of Crown Royal."

Dr. Gary DeMore made reference to that at her memorial service. After coming home from the service I found a large bottle of Crown Royal on the doorstep.

It's ony a few hours now from the first anniversary of her death. When that hour rolls around, I'm opening that bottle and I'll offer a toast to a wonderful lady.

Ms. Parson's Window

Today's Ms. Parson's birthday. Ah, how we miss her.

I thought to celebrate I'd share Ms. Parson's (Lynn's) window that members of the church installed in her memory.

The center square of the window is actually one of Ms. Parson's own stained glass creations. Doug Clark, a church member and fellow stained glass artist like Ms. Parson, used her piece and then created the many colorful pieces surrounding it. Larry Greeson, another church member and dear friend of Ms. Parson, installed the window at the rear of the sanctuary.

The interpretation of the piece depends on who you talk to. Some members say, the pieces of glass surrounding Ms. Parson represent all those who would come to her for advice, laughter, or love in her lifetime. Others say it's all those people she helped and loved embracing her, even in death.

Either way, she'd be (and surely is) overjoyed that her church remembers her in such a powerful and beautiful way.

 


 

Thank God For A Real Church

The parson and his granddaughter returned from their journey. They'd visited Washington, D. C., Philadelphia and New York.

Years earlier the parson and Ms. Parson sat in their living room and talked of taking Sara, someday, to New York City. July 27th would have been the eighth wedding anniversary of the parson and Ms. Parson. The parson decided to give his departed wife an anniversary gift by taking Sara to New York City.

On the night of the anniversary the parson took Sara to the Joyce Theater to see a performance of the Pilobolus Dance Theater. Following the evening at the theater, the parson's son, a director of the dance company, invited Sara to attend a party with him, a party at which movie stars were in attendance. Following their evening there Sara was texting her friends madly while the parson smiled at the knowledge Ms. Parson was looking down in approval.

It was a good way to celebrate the day, to turn it into a time of celebration instead of mourning. Sara had provided the parson his escape from the agony of the day.

When Sara and the parson returned home, the parson checked his mailbox. He'd previously asked his postal carrier to hold the mail while he was away. As such, checking the mailbox was more habit than anything else. But in the mailbox was one envelope.

There was no stamp on the envelope. It had not been mailed. It had been personally placed there. The envelope contained a card. The card proclaimed a message.

The message let the parson know that the congregation he served remembered the anniversary, too. It was signed by almost every active member of the church; most of them had written notes to express their knowledge of the importance of the day to the parson. They expressed love for their pastor and prayers God would be with him on this day.

The parson walked up the hill that is his driveway from that mailbox. He walked up with tears flowing down his cheek. The tears were not for Ms. Parson, for his time with Sara in New York had been redemptive. The tears were tears of gratitude that, unlike so many pastors, the parson served a real church.

Lesson in Forgiveness

It was a different night at Ms. Parson's Soup Kitchen. For one thing there was no soup. Those who had shouldered responsibility to keeping the kitchen running after her death nodded to the high nineties temperatures and settled on sandwiches, cold slaw, and other cold cut fixings. On such a warm summer afternoon and evening not as many folks stopped by. But it was a good time, a time when the real servants of the church could sit and talk with each other, to catch up on concerns and, to be honest, to gossip just a bit.

Florence was there. Florence always came to the Soup Kitchen. It was her haven away from the world, a place where she was treated with respect, and where she could usually depend on one of the folks to slip her a ten or twenty. This night Florence let it be known she needed some cat food and milk. The parson asked her exactly what she wanted. She reached in her pocket and produced a list, obviously prepared in advance in the sure knowledge one of the church members, if not the parson, would eventually give in.

The parson headed out of the Fellowship Hall, list in hand, and crossed the street to the store where he did Florence's shopping. Returning to the church, the parson started down the center aisle of the sanctuary to cut through the chancel and back to the Fellowship Hall. Something seemed wrong.

The parson stopped. He looked around. At first he didn't see it, but after a few turns to survey the sanctuary he saw the glass. The door to the room behind the sanctuary was open. The shattered stained glass lay all across the carpet. The large rock was just under the circular table in the room.

Someone had stood outside the church and hurled the large rock through the protective storm window with such a force it then went through the stained glass behind it.

The parson went to the Fellowship Hall, gave Florence her milk and cat food, and then asked two of the trustees to join him. He showed them the damage. “Who would do such a thing?” was the question. “How bad is this?” was another. Soon it was determined that Ms. Parson's old supply of stain glass would provide the needed amount and color. And one of the church members knew how to install the glass. In another ten minutes the floor had been cleaned up. In another twenty a police report had been filed. And within an hour a temporary fix had been put in place.

That night, on his way home, the parson shook his head in consternation at the act of rage or pure vandalism or both. And then he smiled. Not one member of his church had expressed condemnation for the culprit, but all of them had expressed concern that such a thing was done. And several promised to put the person on their prayer list.

Satisfaction settled in on the parson. It's always good to serve a church where the folks practice what's preached.

Love From Beyond

I'd been working in the yard all day. It wasn't the smartest thing I'd done recently as the temperature was around ninety degrees. But despite my exhausted feeling and my aching muscles the day had been, it seemed, re-creational.

I was just about to head to the shower when there was a knock on the door. Opening it, I found a man in his mid-thirties standing there.

“Are you the Reverend Kent?”

“I am,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“Well, sir,” he said and then told me his name and the company he represented. “We've processed your pre-application form for supplemental insurance, and I'd like an opportunity to go over it with you.”

Now, the truth is I had been on Ms. Parson's insurance before her death. And forty-five days after her death my coverage was dropped. I, indeed, was in need of some supplemental insurance. But I told him, “I didn't send you any pre-application form.”

“Yes, sir,” he said, “I have it right here.”

He handed it to me. The application was dated the day before Ms. Parson entered the hospital. And it was in her handwriting. She had experienced a premonition, we learned, she wouldn't survive the surgery. And, seemingly, she arranged even after death to take care of me.

I scheduled a time for the agent to come back. But I'm not sure he understood why I wouldn't give him the application back.

Watch Out Church, Here She Comes

Her name was Elizabeth. She'd been a member of the parson's church back in a previous century. Back then, during her high school years, she was called Hat Trick by her friends. It was a reference to her ability to score three goals in the majority of soccer games she played. That ability had paid her way through college where she'd remained impressive on the pitch.

Offers to play professionally came. She was once invited to try out for the National Team. She turned all the offers down. College was finished. It was time to get serious about life. She applied to graduate school.

During her college years she and the parson kept in touch frequently. But as the parson left the church of her parents and headed to other parishes and she became deeper immersed in her studies, the contact became less frequent. The parson had been the celebrant at the Service of Resurrection for her maternal aunt. They'd agreed to meet after the service to catch up on things.

An upscale tavern like restaurant was the designated place. She and the parson were seated in a small booth opposite the bar. The server approached and asked what they would have to drink. Elizabeth looked the parson in the eye, and then turned to the server.

“What local wines do you have?”

The server said they didn't have in local wines, but they had a nice selection of wines from the Chateau Elan Winery which was about ninety miles east of their location. After some discussion Elizabeth informed the server she'd like a bottle of “Spring Blossom.”

“And for you, sir,” the server questioned the parson.

Elizabeth did not give the parson a chance to answer. “He'll have a large mug of your seasonal Samuel Adams,” she said.

The server promised a quick return just prior to Elizabeth's explanation.

“I'm not in high school anymore, Parson. I've developed a pretty good pallet for wine. And did you think that all those times I was at your house debating theology with you and Ms. Parson I didn't notice the most abundant product in your frig?”

The parson quickly changed the subject. “So what are you up to now?”

“I've almost completed my doctoral. I'm trying to get my thesis completed and defended.”

The parson interrupted, “What's your doctorate in?”

“I guess you'd best call it religious archeology,” she said. “I've been on a good many digs in Israel. Maybe you might call my doctorate emphasis, “Discovering the genesis of God.”

“Oh my, that must have been interesting. Who have you been studying with?”

She gave him a rundown of the professors who'd taken her under their wing. A couple of the names were familiar to the parson. He expressed his admiration.

About that time the server brought the drinks and then took their orders. Each of them ordered something that included the salad bar. There, as they were making the selection, a discussion of her family began. It continued back to the booth and until the time the server returned to deliver their entree. Elizabeth then talked about Ms. Parson and how she wished she'd learned the art of stained glass from her.

“Thanks for sending me one of her works, Parson. It's hanging in window of my living room. I think about her every day.”

They shared stories of Ms. Parson as they devoured their meal. At the end of it the parson, asked, “So, what are you going to do now that you're almost finished with your doctorate?”

Elizabeth smiled. “You ready for this?”

“Ready for what?”

“I'm heading to seminary.”

“What?”

“Don't get excited, Parson. I'm not becoming a pastor. That's a job for people like you who can put up with my mother. I'm going to seminary in order to better use my doctorate.”

“How are you going to use your doctorate?”

“I'm going to relate the discoveries of recent decades to what you guys are preaching now. I'm going to challenge you to get serious, to stop treating myths that reveal truth as what they are and not the dictated word of God. I'm going to be a catalyst for the church to get serious about ministry in the 21^st century. I'm going to ask you questions you have no answer to and will cause you to rethink your faith. Maybe I have a calling, Parson. Maybe my calling is to make the church professionals uncomfortable.”

There was a moment's silence. The Elizabeth smiled her winning smile and asked, So, what do you think?”

The parson raised his second mug of Sam Adams and said, “I'll drink to that, Elizabeth. I'll drink to that.”

The Memory Bear

When Ms. Parson was not taking the parson down paths yet traveled or working in her soup kitchen, or creating in her stain glass studio, she worked at the Georgia State Patrol, Specialized Collision Reconstruction Team, and from January to April 15 at H & R Block. 

Her niece, Kathy, had memory bears made from her Georgia State Patrol shirt and trooper pants and her H& R Block shirt. Here she is:

Thanks, Kathy.