Questing Parson

These Are the People Who Employ English Teachers

I've resisted for over two years. Now I'm posting a picture of the sign. You'd think with all the "educators" who go in and out of this facility each day someone would have noticed.

Living In the Neighborhood

There's something special about Boston. It's streets shout of history. In one block you come across John Adams' grave; a few more over and there's a marker about Paul Revere. A few blocks more and you're at the docks where the original America Tea Party convened. In a talk to the grieving citizens last week, Massachusetts Governor Deval Patrick made reference to America being invented there.

There's something special about Boston. It's not just the history. It's the sense that, despite the sky scrapers towering over the Old West Church where the phrase “No taxation without representation” was first uttered, and casting their shadows on the Park Street Church where William Lloyd Garrison gave his first anti-slavery speech, despite the little plaque in the circle of cobblestones at the intersection of Devonshire and State Streets, marking the site of the Boston Massacre, to walk these hallowed streets is to walk through a neighborhood.

There's something special about Boston. Boston's a big city, but the feeling one gets there is of being at home and among neighbors. No wonder just a hop and a skip across Boston Common you'll find a little restaurant nestled in the basement of a building with a familiar sign above the steps reading, Cheers. You've heard of that establishment, the place where everybody knows your name. It should be located in Boston, because Boston is a neighborhood, a place where you wish you knew the name of all these cousins of the Revolution.

Maybe it's because I've walked those streets, partaken of a little food and beverage at that basement restaurant, walked the planks of the USS Constitution moored in the harbor, and soaked up the spirit of that place, I was so horrified when the bombs went off on Massachusetts Patriot Day holiday. Somebody had dared to mess with the neighborhood.

We'll never know what really motivated those boys to turn upon their adopted country. We will never fully understand the rage that possesses a mind bent upon such cruel indiscriminate destruction. Indeed those who possess such a mind are incapable themselves, no doubt, of comprehending the fury within them. But what we do know is that whenever anyone comes into the neighborhood bent upon destruction all they can ever hope for is a moment of panic, a time of mourning, an agonizing wondering of why. But that's all they can hope to wreck upon us.

Boston you see is a neighborhood. America is a neighborhood. And it is not always a completely harmonious neighborhood. After all, that strange Mr. Snodgrass who never speaks lives down the street. And Ms. Sourface doesn't particularly like the kids playing in the street. But we live in a neighborhood. And in a neighborhood neighbors act differently than the purveyors of evil may suspect.

In a neighborhood doctors, who after running twenty-six and two-tenths miles, run two more miles to be at the emergency room when the casualties arrive. In a neighborhood the shocked take but a moment to recover from the shock and then jump the barriers into the carnage of blood and severed limbs. In a neighborhood neighbors rip off their shirts to use as tourniquets to save lives. In a neighborhood people shelter strangers from around the world dazed by the atrocity.

As long as we are inhabitants of the neighborhood the horrors such as we witnessed in Boston last week result only in bringing out the best in us. 

Paying With A Smile

Congrats to everyone, well, almost everyone. There are a gold bricks among us.

I don't know about you, but I get a sense of satisfaction every year about this time. It's just good to know you've done your part, contributed to the greater good, fulfilled your civic duty.

It's the one thing that binds us together, all of us. It's the one thing we all have in common. Most other things in life come to some but now all. Not everyone serves on juries, not everyone can be part of the military, not everyone is able to go to college, not every one gets married, and not everyone has children; gracious, not everyone has a good job, a supportive family. In fact is there anything in life that is universally shared?

Yes, there is. There is that one thing. Each of us share the privilege, the honor, the and, yes, the obligation of paying our taxes. And each of us has now done it for another year. There are some, I'm aware, who haven't shared yet. They're the ones that filed an extension, but that extension is a statement of the intention participating.

Oh, I admit, sometimes when I look at what I'm obligated to pay I realize that Warren Buffet's secretary and I have a lot in common. And sometimes when I look at my bank balance and compare that to the amount due on that tax form, I find my resolve tested that this exercise in citizenship is an honor and privilege. And there are those times, when I compare my percentage of income paid to the percentage of income paid by people who live in houses so big they have to email the kids to tell them dinner is ready, I get absolutely frustrated over the whole issue.

On the whole, however, I'm reasonably pleased with this paying of taxes. I'm pleased, like most people, I have some selfish interests. I'm happy to pay taxes because I like that center line on the highway that keeps the idiot drivers on their side of the road. Fact is, I'm pleased to be driving on a paved road. I don't mind paying taxes because a bit of those federal and state taxes find their way into the local schools, assuring the future of those who come behind me. I honored to pay the taxes because I think those who protect our nation should have decent money and a lot more benefits.

There are a lot of reasons I pay the taxes with a smile on my face. The largest of these is it's the dues owed for the privilege of living in this nation. I don't mean I tap dance all the way to the post office to mail those checks, but I don't carry a grudge along with them inside my briefcase.

I must add I do have some concerns about those checks I gladly mailed. I'm pretty sure they will be deposited promptly. I'd like that government to know while I gladly pay the taxes I expect something in return. I expect my representatives to treat those dollars for what they are: My investment in my country.

As long as those Congresspersons and Senators and state legislators remember that it's my investment and not their expense account, I'll start now putting aside gladly what I expect to contribute next year. And I'll pay those taxes again next year with the same smile.

OMG - I'm Old

We buried Sara last Saturday. Sara had been part of my life since I can remember being part of life. I'd always thought of her as part of the family. She was always in my great-aunt's home. And my great-aunt lived next door to my grandmother where I lived. So Sara, I assumed, was but one of the clan.

Later I was to learn she wasn't actually blood family. She'd come to be part of my life because she was a boarder at my great-aunt's house. The nation was still suffering the consequences of the Great Depression. My aunt and uncle rented out rooms in order to help with the finances. The room rent included the use of the kitchen. As such I often saw Sara in the kitchen, and since that's where family hangs out, she was family to me.

Sara became attracted to my uncle, the brother of my aunt from whom she rented the room. Once she married him, she was family.

Sara outlived them all. She was ninety-three when she died. The last of that generation to go.

It was a good service. My cousin, Sally, an Anglician priest, and I did the service. I sat in the chancel listening to Sally as I waited my turn to speak. And then it hit me. Sara is dead. And with her death, oh my gracious, with her death my cousin Frank, Sally, and I are now the oldest survivors. Could this mean … do you suppose this could mean I'm old?

And then I thought of old Methuselah. That book I'm always reading says he lived nine hundred and sixty-nine years; and then he died. Think about that. The man lived a milleneuim and all they can tell us about him is he died. The fellow must have been a blight upon the environment. Think of all the hot dogs he consumed. Think of all the wine he drank. Think of all the air he polluted. Think of all the trash he produced. And since he lived in the times of multiple wives and there's no record of him having a job, think of all the wives who must have supported him.

It wasn't that way with Sara and the relatives of the family into which she married. They all lived only into their nineties. But they all left their mark upon this old world. Until the day they died they were a joy to be around.

All this got me thinking. I am one of the old ones in our clan now. And I'm continuing to get old at the steady, predictable, and plodding rate of one hour after another, twenty-four hours a day, every day, every year. I can't stop the course of becoming one of the ancient ones.

I've made up my mind to do it right. I'm going to grow older with grace as did those of my family I used to call old. I'm not going to be one of those that folks hate to visit. When I can't climb mountains any more, I'm going to sit and relish all the things near me I now have time to study. When that nurse brings the pill, I'm going to act as though she's dishing out ambrosia.

I'm old enough now to realize that I'm one of the old ones. Praise the Lord that I got here and, maybe, just maybe, I've got a good way to grow.

A Civics Lesson

Ups and Downs of Ministry

The parson was out walking late in the afternoon on Easter Sunday. He followed behind Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, and Princess Penny, Charlie Brown's girl friend, both of whom pulled the parson along as he held tightly to their leashes.

A car slowed as it passed the parson. The car pulled off the road in front of the trio. The parson watched intently as the driver's door opened. Scott Parrish, a new pastor jumped out.

“Parson, oh, my goodness, I'm glad to see you,” exclaimed Scott as he began to walk back toward the parson and the dogs. “Oh my goodness, look at these dogs. Gracious, their big ones.”

“This is Charlie Brown and his girlfriend Penny,” the parson introduced. Both Charlie Brown and Penny moved toward Scott and began to give him the sniff test. Apparently satisfied that he was a United Methodist, they ambled their way toward the bushes bordering the right-of-way. “What brings you to the neighborhood?” asked the parson.

“I was heading into town to pick up some things for Alice,” said Scott. “What with all the activities of Holy Week we completely ran out of a couple of things.”

“How are things going at the church?” the parson asked. He was familiar with Scott's church, his first pastorate. It was one of those steady churches. They paid their obligations to the denomination without complaint. They supported the pastor to the financial extent required. And, while a congenial congregation, they were evidence of the parson's theory that small churches are small because the choose to be small.

“Oh, gracious,” said Scott with some emotion, “I think we have turned a corner. I mean the church was packed this morning. We just had ever pew filled. I'm sure this is the beginning of something special. I'm just so excited with how things are going ….”

The parson interrupted despite his desire not to throw cold water on the new pastor's excitement. “Scott, it's Easter.”

“I know it's Easter, Parson. But even though it's Easter the attendance this morning is certainly indicative of our church's work over the last months paying off.”

“Scott,” the parson said, “this isn't Sweeps Week at the church.”

“What are you trying to say, Parson?” asked Scott.

“Look, Scott,” the parson continued, “you're doing a wonderful job at that church. But I think I need to warn you to that next Sunday you're going to have a let-down.” Scott started to sepak but the parson held up his hand. “The Sunday after Easter, Scott, is the lowest attended service in the church year. Next Sunday, will be a challenge.”

“You're serious?” asked Scott.

 “I am, Scott, I am. But look the number of people in the pews in no reflection on you. What is a reflection on you is the joyful spirit you're carrying out your ministry. That church is lucky to have you. So next Sunday, when you look out on all those pew backs, don't yo get discouraged. I'll be looking at pew backs, too. And I'll be remembering that when God called me to be a preacher, God didn't mention any specific numbers.”

Have I Told You About My Granddaughter?

 

 

 

 

 

This is my fifteen-year-old granddaughter. I don't want to brag, so click on the picture. 

Nine months ago she was hiking with me through the Aslaskan Wilderness. And now ....

Here's the Thing ...

It's Holy Week, and I have so much do do I can't see straight. So, don't expect me to post anything until the disciples have locked themselves awäy in thät room.

Holy Moley, It's Holy Week!

As this blog is posted we're beginning another Holy Week. Well, most folks call it Holy Week; but, truth is, there are some years when, with all the extra worship services and demands, we pastor's secretly have another term for it. Nevertheless, it's Holy Week.

Back when I was a handsome young lad, and believe it or not there was such a time, Holy Week was the signal of the arrival of special things to come. Holy Week announced the coming of spring. The days get longer; the air gets warmer; and the time for planting has arrived. Mama always said the time to plant was Good Friday. It was the time to put the seed into the ground and await the coming of new life.

While we waited, Holy Week had also announced the coming of the time to spruce up, to scrub down the place, to paint the woodwork where needed, and to sit down at the kitchen table to plan out the vacation that would be ours in a few months.

Holy Week was a time to go shopping. Back in those days, in the last century, folks wore what was called their Sunday best to church. Way back then church wasn't a causal thing. It was time to “put on the clothes of righteousness” Mama said. One wore one's best to church every Sunday of the year. And one wore one's brand new best on Easter Sunday. We went shopping for new clothes and the ladies went shopping for their Easter Bonnet. Remember that old song, “In your Easter bonnet with all the frills upon it, you'll be the grandest lady in the Easter parade”? Funny, I remember all the Easter bonnets adorning my aunt's and cousins' heads; but I don't have a single memory of an Easter parade.

Holy Week was a time for all the children to gather in the kitchen. They say a watched pot will never boil, but it does if it's filled with Easter eggs. And then came the dying, the hand dying by everyone in the family. Pardon my waxing nostalgic, but those hand dyed hard boiled eggs beat today's plastic ones by a mile.

Back then, in that previous century, Holy Week brought the expectation in children of dyed little chicks and bunny rabbits. Holy Week brought the promise of my favorite Easter candy. It was a chocolate egg stuffed with this white icing permeated with all kinds of chopped fruit flavored flakes. It was only when I became an adult I discovered the innards of my favorite Easter egg was nothing more than the leftovers of the other candies. As such, I learned my most favorite candy was chocolate covered garbage.

The approach to the end of Holy Week sent us down to the church to pull those folding chairs out of the basement to accommodate the saints who sang their Halleujahs only on Easter and Christmas. Holy Week meant one of those chairs pulled out of the basement would be warmed by Uncle Ronald's posterior. It was the only Sunday of the year a chair or pew was warmed by such.

So here we are once again in slap dab in Holy Week. I'm remembering all those Holy Weeks past. In remembering I've got some idea of how this week may end. So, you'll have to excuse me now. I've got a sermon sizzling, and I'm cooking for a crowd.

Where Are the Women

Sunday night the parson cacooned himself within the covers early. As was his custom on Sunday nights, no alarm was set to rouse him in the morning. On Monday mornings the parson crawled out of bed when the warmth of the covers no longer protected him from the day.

This night he fell asleep quickly. It had been a good day. The people had received his sermon gladly. A couple had talked to him of joining the church. And the Sunday evening Bible study had gone exceptionally well.

That Bible study the parson had resisted for years. Finally, he gave in on the condition that it be an actual Bible study. And so for the last two-and-a-half years almost every Sunday night had involved a study of the Bible. At first there had been some resistance to the parson's methodology. He had begun at Genesis 1: 1 and was proceeding through the books of the Bible, talking of the events that had shaped it, who wrote it, why they wrote it, pointing out the contradictions.

The “Bible-is-the-literal-word-of-God”-folks challenged him on the third week of the Bible. “But,” said their leader of that group, “the Book of Revelation says ….” The parson cut him off. “Look,” said the parson, “when it comes to Revelation, I will bow to your considerable knowledge. With regards to Revelation, you have read it much more than have I. In fact, I try not to read it. It involves some vision of terrible things that are going to happen in the future. I'm a follower of Christ. I concentrate on the wonderful things that are happening now. But, I don't want to ignore your point. As you're aware, we started with Genesis and we're going book by book through the Bible. We should get to Revelation in about, well, let's see, ah, about five years. So, please, hold that thought until then.”

They never came back. And so it was on Sunday night the parson and the Bible study participants looked critically at the differences in the stories told by the Deuteronomist storytellers and the Chronicler. The study had ended with the group focusing on the fact that the Chronicler left out anything that might reflect badly on David as an ideal king, especially leaving out the women. But the study ended with the observation that the Chronicler made a slip.

In 2 Chronicles 35: 25, he talks about “all the singing men and singing women” who mourn Josiah's death. So, concluded the parson and his group, the women did have a part to play after all. And supposing this was a Temple activity, the women had a more active part than the Chronicler's version led his hearers to believe.

Monday morning arrived. The parson rose. He switched his iPad on and began to surf the web for the news. After acquainting himself with what was happening, he looked for stories about March madness. There it was on almost every newspaper and magazine available on the device. There were the men's brackets, the rankings, the dark horses, all in the NCAA Men's tournament. The parson spent twenty minutes looking for the brackets, the rankings, the favorites, the dark horses of the NCAA Women's Tournament. He couldn't find any reference. It was as if Women's Collegiate Athletics did not exist.

Amazing, six hundred years before Jesus the storytellers left the women out, and still today few would admit they, also, occupied the court.