Questing Parson

Expecting Something From the Sermon

The parson made his way from the vestibule where he'd been greeting the departing worshipers. He'd been speaking at a special service at a nearby Church-on-the-Hill Overlooking the Calm Waters. As he reached the front porch and was headed down the steps tohis car on the street, a middle-aged couple approached him.

“We just wanted to say how much we were inspired by your message,” intoned the wife.

“Thank you so much,” said the parson. “And thank you for inviting me to your beautiful church.”

“Oh, the pleasure was all ours, Parson,” said the man. “We don't hear preaching like that too often.”

The pastoral hairs on the back of the parson's neck began to tingle. “Well, I'm at an advantage. I'm only preaching here this once, most likely. So, I can pull out a good, tested, semon and preach it without anyone knowing it's an old practiced one.”

“You're too modest, Parson,” said the man. “Listen, it was good to hear your sermon. We'd heard about you from Henry Watson. We expected it to be good and it was. Too bad we can't say that about our pastor.”

“It is too bad you can't say that about your pastor,” said the parson. “And now that you've been frank about your pastor I hope you'll allow me to be frank also.”

“Of course,” said the couple in unison.

“Listen, folks, what I'm about to say doesn't in anyway negate my gratitude for you saying you liked my sermon. I'm grateful for that. But, truth is, I knew you would like it. I've been preaching for over forty years. I have this file of tried and true sermons from which I can pull one when I'm preaching at another church. I probably first wrote the sermon you heard tonight in the 1960s. People liked it, so I went back to it time and time again, just like I did tonight. And every time I preached it I refined it. So, I can tell you without any hint of modesty, but truthfully, that I knew you'd like this sermon before I stepped into the pulpit.

“Now, your pastor is another matter. He has to prepare over a hundred sermons a year for you folks. And he has to prepare the sermon knowing that he's going to have to face you next Sunday, and at the board meeting on Tuesday or the Men's Club on Saturday morning or the women's group whenever they meet. He has to preach to you week after week after week without the luxury of pulling one out of the “really good sermon” file like I did. It's a daunting task, and it's especially difficult if you think you're not that good a preacher. So, my advice to you is to make your pastor a good preacher.”

“That's what seminary's for, isn't it, Parson?”

“Well, sometimes you're better at it than seminary. Tell you what, why don't you try an experiment. Do this, check the lectionary to see what the pastor's preaching on next Sunday. For instance, this Sunday the Gospel lesson is the Prodigal Son. Why don't you read it over a few times, and then next Sunday when you're greeting the pastor after the service tell him you really liked some aspect of the way he preaches on it. Give him a compliment that's specific, something like, 'You know, pastor, I never looked at the elder son in that way.' If enough of you do that you might be surprised.

“And if you do that two things will happen. First, you'll come to church truly expecting something from the sermon, and usually when you do that you actually get something. Secondly, your pastor will begin to look forward to preaching to you. It's a win-win. Why not try it.”

The couple stood silently as though trying to formulate an answer. They didn't get to answer. Andrew Todd, their pastor approached. “Thanks so much for tonight, Parson. It was really good to have you.”

“Thank's for the invitation, Andy,” said the parson. “It was a great night.” The parson nodded to the couple, “Nice to meet you folks.”

The parson began to walk toward his car with the pastor by his side. “I see you met the Howard's.”

“I did,” said the parson. “We were talking about how they are looking forward to your sermon next Sunday.”

“Are you serious?” asked Andy.

“I am,” said the parson. “They're expecting something special.”

Beyond the Five Stages

“Parson,” said Joel Thompson, a middle-aged pastor at a First Countyseat Church, “would you mind if I asked you some questions about losing Ms. Parson?”

The parson stopped putting the papers back in his briefcase. He'd been a participant in a study group with Joel. They'd sat across from each other during the session. Ms. Parson had died two years, one month and fourteen days ago. It was well past the time people mentioned Ms. Parson to him. The parson sat back down in his seat. He looked up at Joel. “Sure, Joel, go ahead.”

Joel resumed his seat across the table from the parson. He said, “I realize this could still be painful for you. But I need to understand the grieving process better and with you having lost Ms. Parson and the wife before her, well, I thought you could help me.”

The parson listened. He didn't respond.

“Anyway, here's the deal. I have this lady in the church. She was, in years back, the backbone of the church. Her husband died suddenly three years ago. He was a really great person. I understand how she misses him. I understand the hole that must be in her life. But, somehow, I sense there's more. I just can't get a handle on it.

“Here's the thing, Parson. I watch you. I knew Ms. Parson. I know how much in love the two of you were. And, I guess, on your part, still are. But, well, here you are at this meeting. You were the speaker at that conference last month. I know there are projects in your church that have been started since Ms. Parson died. It seems to me you're moving on with your life. But this lady in my church. She just seems to be stuck where she is. She doesn't seem to want to, well, she just doesn't seem to want to live.”

The parson was silent. “I'm sorry, Parson,” said Joel. “I didn't mean to cause you further grief.”

The parson smiled. “No, Joel, it's not that you caused me further grief. It's just you reminded me of me. Let me tell you where this lady is. You know, when we take all those seminars and maybe seminary classes on grieving and learn about the five stages of grief – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance – we think that sums up the process. But there's another stage one has to go through once you get through the five stages. I suspect that's where the lady in your church is now.”

“What's that?” asked Joel.

“The hardest part isn't letting go,” said the parson. “The hardest part is starting over.”

Jesus' Best Friend

Please indulge me today. I want to pay tribute to a pastor I know. He's retiring this coming June. To tell you the truth, I don't think any of the other elders of the church will notice he's gone. But, truly, he will be missed.

Now, I'm going to speak the truth here, and, as such, we'll give this pastor a fictional name. Why don't we call him John, as in John Wesley.

John went to seminary the same time I did. He was younger than I. I'd taken a tour of the world at the expense of my Uncle Sam before entering the seminary. John and I were not friends. We just didn't run in the same circles.

I, at that age, tended to be clinging to physical exploits. I ran marathons, played on an amateur soccer team, all those macho things of one in a perpetual struggle to defy aging.

John was never seen running. John was never seen participating in competitive sports. I'm not sure what John did, but John appeared to be less than motivated to break a sweat.

I don't know what kind of student John was. He never said much in class; in fact, I don't recall him ever saying anything in class. But when our time there was done he marched across the stage and received his diploma.

John was sent to his first full-time appointment. He when with an eagerness that matched his permanent smile. His appointment was a three church circuit. He rode that circuit with the determination of an eighteenth century circuit rider. He lasted two years there. Eighteen months into that appointment the folks asked for a new pastor. They were not without reason. John, you see, couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag.

I remember talking to John just before he went to his new church. He was happy as a lark. The bishop, he told me, had given him this new opportunity and he and his wife couldn't wait to get there. And then he told me how lucky the pastor who was following him was, how great those congregations were.

It wasn't more than three years that the cycle repeated. Did I mention John couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag? Once again he was delighted at having a new opportunity for ministry. Once again he was happy for the lucky stiff who was following him. And not once did he complain.

That pattern went on throughout John's entire ministry. For about four decades he moved from one pastoral charge to another with amazing frequency. When he was moving to his last church he once again was delighted to be going there.

Folks weren't impressed with John's preaching. They weren't impressed with his passivity. And yet …

Whenever someone was in the hospital, John was there. Whenever someone's relative was jailed, John was there pleading with the Sheriff for some consideration. Whenever someone lost a loved one, John held their hand. And whenever someone was in pain, John cried with them; John cried real tears of empathy.

I happened to be present on two occasions when John was asked to open a meeting with prayer. You know, we pastors pray all the time, at lease publicly we do. But John, oh, wow, when John prayed it was something different. I think John and the Lord were well acquainted. I think, if anyone does, John knows God's middle name. They talk a lot.

John and I, over the years, knew who each other was. We spoke to each other at gatherings of the brothers and sisters. I like John. I think John likes me. But it was only occasionally, after seminary, our paths crossed.

Nevertheless, when Ms. Parson died, John was there. John drove halfway across the state to just sit in a pew and share my sorrow. He hugged me after the service and whispered in my ear, “I will pray for you twice a day for the next year.” John didn't say “I'll pray for you.” John told me he'd do it twice a day and for how long. It may well have been John's prayers that got me through it.

Did I mention John couldn't preach his way out of a wet paper bag? He couldn't. It's not bragging when I say I can preach circles around John. But John has one up on me. John and Jesus are best friends.

A Key To Pastoral Success

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Parson, It's Bruce Watkins.”

“Bruce, how in the world are you? It's great to hear from you.” Bruce was fresh out of seminary. He attended the parson's church during his college years, and, then, spent a tour with the United States Marine Corps as an intelligence officer. Upon his discharge, eight years later, he entered seminary.

“I'm doing really well, Parson. Really well. Jane said to tell you hello.”

The parson, after smiling inwardly as he remembered Jane's natural beauty and genuine personality, remembered that day almost eighteen months before. It was one of those occasions when the parson as he led them through the ceremony had no doubt this marriage would last forever.

“You give her my love. What are her plans after you get to your appointment?”

“We really don't know yet, Parson. We're hoping she can find some meaningful work there.”

The parson again smiled to himself. Jane was an educational psychologist who was fluent in Spanish and Japanese. He didn't think she'd have a problem finding a job as Bruce moved into serving his first church in three weeks.

“I don't think Jane will ever lack for employment,” the parson offered.

“I don't either, Parson. Look, the reason I called was first to thank you. I know the district superintendent and maybe the bishop called and you gave me a good recommendation.”

“Don't discount the impression you made yourself, Bruce.”

“Look, Parson, the second thing is Andrew Jenkins mentioned that you were taking some grandchildren to Alaska and wouldn't be at conference.”

“That's right,” said the parson. “I'll think of you sitting in the gathering of the ordained as we bounce along in our raft through the rapids of the Nenana River.”

“I somehow don't think you're going to give us a thought, Parson. But, since you're going to Alaska, I won't be able to see you at conference. So, I wanted to call and see if you might have any advice for a novice pastor.”

The parson smiled. He remembered the best advice he'd ever received. “I do, Bruce. I do. You know, the best advice I ever got was when I was backing the car out of the driveway of my parent's house to head for my first appointment. My dad was retrieving the mail from the mailbox. He came over, leaned down, and said to me: “You'll be a success if, when you leave that church, the people say, 'Look what we did!'”

It's Not the Age; It's the Age

The parson was at the bottom of the really big slide, the kind that's a tube. From inside the slide came a squeal. The squeal proceeded the appearance of a three-year-old grandson from inside the tube.

“Okay, let's go again,” shouted the grandson. “You can go with me this time.”

The parson turned to follow his scampering feet to the ladder which would take them to the platform where the bridge that led to the really big slide on the other side of the playground apparatus. A voice beckoned him.

“Parson, how are you?”

The parson turned to see Quincy Edwards, a lay leader in a nearby congregation. “Hello, Edward. I'm good. In fact if I felt any better the Baptist might call it a sin.”

Quincy sat on the bench next to the playground area and replied, “Funny, Parson. I'll have to remember that one. Look do you have a moment to answer a question?”

“Sure,” the parson replied, “what's up?”

“Do you know a preacher named Ronald Letterman?”

“I can't say that I do; why do you ask?”

“Because we just learned that he'll be out next pastor. Some of us are a bit concerned about it.”

“Have you met him?”

“No, we haven't.”

“Then what are you concerned about?”

“It's like this, Parson. We're told he's a little over sixty. This will probably be his last appointment before he retires.”

“That concerns you?”

“Well, yes, it does. Look, Parson, we suggested that the only way our church was going to grow was if we got a young pastor. We need someone young to bring some new life to the place.”

“Hey, are you coming?” came a cry from the ladder as the grandson began his ascent to the top of the slide once more. “Come on, we can go down together.”

The parson turned back to Quincy. “Look, Quincy, I don't think you have a worry.”

“Why not?”

The parson was halfway up the ladder when he answered, “Because, Quincy, the youngest pastor in Northwest Georgia is seventy.”

Holy Week Rolls Around Every Year

The parson was doing a little shopping in the kitchen store at the outlet mall. New grater and cheese slicer in hand he approached to checkout counter. He'd just completed his purchase when he heard a voice over his shoulder.

“What's up, Parson? Planning to hone your culinary skills?”

The parson turned to find Sam Abbott smiling brightly. Sam was a new pastor, having been ordained only ten months ago. He served, admirably the parson thought, a small church with tremendous potential about twenty miles south of the parson's parish.

“Sam,” the parson returned delighted to see him. “What brings you out into the country?”

“Culinary arts, Parson. Just like you. But in my case my wife is the artist. She sent me to pick up some things for her.”

“Well, it's good to see you,” the parson responded as he thanked the clerk, took his bag and stepped back for Sam to check his merchandise out.

Sam completed his time with the cashier and he and the parson walked outside. No sooner had they gotten beyond the door than Same piped in, “Parson, I just have to ask you: How in the world do you handle it?”

“Handle what?” the parson asked.

“Holy Week, Holy Week. I've got to tell you, Parson, I had no idea. I have to prepare five sermons this week. Five sermons. Oh, great look at you with your all knowing smile. You've got a well of sermons to draw from. I'm just starting. Every sermon is a new one for me. I have to start from scratch. So, have a little mercy on me, would you?”

The parson smiled even bigger. “Sam, I'm not smiling because I have a sermon already for the Holy Week services. I'm smiling because ….” The parson paused a moment. “Look, Sam, here's the thing. I went to my first church in June of 1965. On April 3rd of 1966 I was standing right where you are now. It was Holy Week and I had enough trouble preparing one sermon a week. So I'm certainly understanding of where you are now.”

“Maybe so, but you're still smiling.”

“I'm smiling, Sam, because on Easter Sunday of 1966 I knew that during Holy Week of 2012 I'd have to preach a sermon on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, at least. You'd think that in all those years I'd have learned something from that experience. But the truth is, Sam, I haven't got a clue what I'm going to preach on Thursday. So, while you're fretting tonight over your sermon you say a prayer for the old parson up the road who's rowing the same boat you are.”

A Lack of Excitement

The parson found himself in a trendy coffee shoppe. It wasn't a place he usually hung out. The parson felt convinced he knew the value of a cup of coffee and paying this much for one was a slap in the face of that knowledge. But, the parson had also convinced himself that in his eternal striving to be relevant, in tune with the younger generations, modern, and frankly hip (Oh gracious, is the use of the word 'hip' probably is an indicator he's not 'hip'?).

So he'd settled himself down in a comfortable chair along with the other half dozen pastors from his area. They were reflective of a broad spectrum of theology, age, and approach.

“So,” Ron Parham began, “what do you guys think of this Vital Congregations push by the bishops?

“I don't really know,” responded Elliot Trent. “It looks good on the surface, but don't you think it's just another way to generate the input of numbers?”

“That's the whole problem,” Sally Williams replied. “We are so obsessed on numbers. The parson calls it 'how much and how many'. That's all they want reported.

'You call it that, Parson?” asked Ron.

'I'm guilty,” the parson confessed.

“You know, I then to think none of us should get too excited about any new programs that come down. I hate to sound like a pessimist but the church is just stuck where it is. Don't you agree, Parson.”

“I think you might be right,” the parson said. “We do, too often, seem to be stuck.”

Jeff Bates, the youngest of the folks in the conversation, asked, “Why is that, Parson. Why is it so hard to get excited about this?”

The parson thought a moment then replied, “You know, Jeff, maybe it's because it's just difficult to get excited about an institution. And that's what we are now, an institution. But there was a time, long ago, when we were not an institution but a movement.”

Preachers Come; Preachers Go; But Pastors ....

Alex Kindred, a pastor about three-quarters and hour ride from the parson's parish, knocked on the church study door.

“Come on in,” called the parson.

The door opened; Alex stepped in. “Afternoon, Parson. How are things?”

The parson had agreed to meet Alex at his church. He had promised to gather up some materials which Alex could use at a study he was doing for the church.

“Here's what I've got for you, “ the parson said. “Some of this stuff probably has a more recent version, but you should be able to get some ideas here.” The parson pushed the material across the coffee table toward Alex. “Got time for a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” said Alex. “I'd love to.”

The two headed back into the church kitchen where the parson's coffee pot was always ready. He poured them two cups and provided Alex with the fixings. The parson watched as Alex mixed a mighty portion of cream and sugar into the liquid. He wondered what you called the drink after Alex was concocted. In the parson's mind it certainly wasn't coffee.

Back in the study, Alex spoke first. “I've got to tell you, Parson. I'm really developing mixed feelings about my church. You know, I think the people there like my preaching, but I'm not sure they are going to ask the superintendent to send me back. It's just mystifying. I don't get it.”

The parson sat back in his rocking chair and rocked a few times back and forth as he studied Alex. Finally, he said, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions, Alex?”

“No, Parson, I wish you would. I'm a little frustrated. Maybe you can help.”

“How many members do you have at the church?”

“Well, the official records say we have 223, but you know how that goes. I guess we have maybe 150 or 175 that you could really call members. The others haven't set foot in the church in years.”

The parson rocked again. “Who's the most active lay person in the church?'

“Well, let me think. I guess I'd have to say Sandra Wallace. She's the Chairperson of the Staff-Pastor-Parish Committee. And she takes part in almost everything that happens there.”

The parson rocked a couple of times. He sipped his coffee and then placed it on the coffee table. He looked up and said, “You say her name is Sandra Wallace?”

“Yes.”

“How many siblings does she have?”

“What? How many siblings does she have?”

“Yes, any brothers? Any sisters?”

Alex looked at the parson. He fidgeted in his seat a couple of times. “Well, she's got a sister I know about. I know that because I met her at the Community Thanksgiving Service.”

“Any other siblings?”

“Well, I don't know.”

The parson rocked again. Then he asked, “How long have you been there?”

“I'm halfway through my third year.”

“What's Sandra's sister's name?”

“What's her sister's name? Ah, ah, I can't recall.”

“Who's the oldest member of your congregation?”

“Who's the oldest member? The oldest member? Well, that would be either, well, let's see. That would be, ah, okay, it's either Edna Harkins, or Helen Edwards, or, ah, okay, Edna, Helen, and ah, Fanny Gleason. Yep, it has to be one of them.”

“Which one?”

“Well, I don't know which one, Parson.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Well, it's not exactly something you ask someone after church, you know; hello, Ms. Edwards, how old are you?”

“Do the children of any of those women go to the church.”

“Yes, they do. Well, Fanny Gleason's son only comes once in a blue moon?”

“You ever ask one of the children, 'How old is your mom?'”

“No, I haven't.”

“Who's the lay leader?”

“Fred Coggins.”

“Fred have any children?”

“He's got a son who lives in Dallas, Texas,” Alex responded as he leaned back in his chair with satisfaction at having an answer to one of the questions.

“What's his son's name?”

The look of satisfaction now drained from Alex's face. “I don't know his son's name.”

The parson reached for his coffee cup. He again took a sip. He didn't say anything but waited for Alex to speak.

“Why are you asking these kind of questions.”

“Those are the crucial questions, Alex. Everybody knows you can preach. I'll tell you right now, you're one of the best preachers I've heard. But the fact of the matter is preachers come and go. And whomever follows you, Alex, will have some degree of command of the pulpit. It's a required course in seminary.

“What's hard to come by, Alex, are pastors. I don't mean to be hard on you, but I'm guessing someone whose priority is being a pastor could have answered all those questions. And because that someone could answer those kind of questions those people wouldn't want that preacher to ever leave.”

The parson finished his coffee, placed the cup on the table and said, “It's just a theory, Alex. I could be wrong. But think about it.”

ESSAY - The Moving Line

Michelle Goldberg is a contemporary writer. She is the author of Kingdom Coming, The Rise of Christian Nationalism. That is a book that should be required reading for every student of religion and theology in our contemporary world. She is not a Senior Writer for Newsweek and The Daily Beast.

In the current issue of Newsweek and yesterday's edition of The Daily Beast, she presents an article titled, “Let There Be Newt, How the religious right is learning to love the adulterous, thrice-married former speaker.”

While there are a number of reasons her article should be read by anyone concerned about the future of this country. I was struck by, or perhaps it would be more proper to say, convicted of, the ease with which supposed rigid religious dogmas or views can be altered, if not completely changed, by the expediency of the moment.

At the beginning of her Newsweek / Daily Beast article Ms. Goldberg states, “Like many evangelicals in Iowa, Steve Deace, an influential conservative radio host, is wrestling with the possibility that Newt Ginrich may be the most viable standard bearer for family values voters in the next election.”

Now, I live in Georgia. I was serving a parish in Newt Ginrich's district when he first was elected to Congress. While my political views have been usually is strong opposition to the Speaker's, I have been fascinated with his ability to manipulate. (I do not mean that in a negative sense. All of us try to manipulate things to our own self-interest. Newt Ginrich is just better at it than most.)

It was Newt Ginrich who first recognized the possibilities of C-Span having cameras in the Chamber of the House of Representatives. He also realized the cameras were trained on the person speaking. And for quite a while Newt arranged for various representatives from his party to speak on partisan issues. It was all for the benefit of the cameras. There was no one else in the chamber. But the camera didn't show that. It looked good for the folks back home, their representative was making a lot of speeches. He must be a rising star.

Speaker Ginrich also noted the value of using cameras, ostensibly for educational purposes, to further a partisan agenda by showing the speaker lecturing to a group of college students, at an actual college, but which lectures were not to educate but indoctrinate, using public airways and cable franchises.

For all of his power, influence and reach, however, the former Speaker of the House, was never embraced by the religious right element. There were those terrible stories of him presenting the divorce papers to his first wife at her bedside as she was being treated for cancer. There were the stories of his being involved in an affair with the woman who would become his current wife while insisting President Bill Clinton be impeached for sexual misconduct.

Newt Ginrich's moral, or lack of moral, baggage made him unacceptable to much of the religious right. But now, as Ms. Goldberg's article points out, those who before would have condemned his behavior as unacceptable are finding reasons to forgive and elevate him if he is the one who can best promote their agenda.

In the Newsweek / Daily Beast article Ms. Goldberg speaks of Steve Deace, comparing New Ginrich to King David. After all, King David did have that sordid affair with Bathsheba, and he had her husband killed, and there's that long, long, list of his indiscretions. But, as the evangelicals in Iowa are now pointing out, God did use King David.

Tony Perkins, the head of the Family Research Council, a religious and political right institution, is quoted by Ms. Goldberg as saying: “Under normal circumstances, Ginrich would have some real problems with the social-conservative community. But these aren't normal circumstances.”

Now having put forth more than one page above about the former Speaker of the House, let me state: This is not a writing about Newt Ginrich. But it is a writing that marvels at the ease with which religious folks can redefine their ethical positions. Maybe Tony Perkins would call it circumstantial ethics.

With just a few opinion polls and debate performances pushing Newt Ginrich to the top of the pack in Iowa, the conservative Christian bloc, now seeing him as electable, is saying, “Well, you know, old Newt, I mean I know he was a sinner, but he has repented of his sins and, you know, God loves the prodigal who comes home.” Newt the forgiven sinner easily becomes Newt the standard bearer of God blessed American virtue.

What bothers me most about what I recognize happening with the Christian right and their changing attitude toward New Ginrich is I am reminded of me.

There's an old story I often tell my like-minded liberal friends when I want to get a laugh. It concerned a true incident. Back in 1965, when I was serving my first church, there were racial demonstrations going on in that rural Georgia county. Some of the big names of the Southern Christian Leadership Conference had come down to organize marches, demonstrations, and to generally make life difficult for the local sheriff and those who were resistant to the inevitable march of change. One day, I was at a meeting of local clergy where the general theme of the conversation centered around “Now, we need to be careful during these times that we don't do anything that might hurt our relationship with our people.” I was quiet during the meeting.

After a while one of the more prominent pastors in the community, a pastor of a big Southern Baptist church, said to me: “Well, Brother Kent, you haven't said anything. What's your take on this?”

I replied, “You know, I understand what you're saying about not harming your relationship with your people, but I have to tell you, this is a group of almost two dozen Christian clergymen, and not one person has said anything about setting a Christian example.”

“There you go,” yelled the prominent pastor. “All you Methodists do is talk about integration, integration, integration, and now one of you would let your daughter marry a black person.” (Now, it should be noted he used another word other than “black.”).

I looked at him a moment and then replied, “That may be true, but I wouldn't let her marry a Baptist either.”

(Here note my apology to my Baptist friends. But I was young then and I was mad.)

That story can elicit a laugh, as I say. But the truth of the matter is that prominent pastor had my number. Because I left that meeting and I went back to my church and I wrote my sermon and I delivered that sermon the next Sunday and nothing in that sermon said anything that would harm my influence with my people.

There have been countless of times in my ministry when I've chosen not to notice, when I've chosen to not say to a lay person, “Stop it! That's a sin and you should be ashamed.” There have been a number of times when I've not said to a church superior, “There's no way I'm going to be part of that.”

I suppose in my present position I'm more prone to speak up and draw the line in the sand. I can do that now because I'm retired and I'm serving that church because I want to. But even now there are times when I don't point to the moral line drawn in the sand and say “Don't cross this line.” Truth is, I'm more prone to moving the line to suit my own particular circumstance.

So, where does this leave us? It leaves me in the exact position as my those on the opposite side of the spectrum from me. We're both experts at moving the moral line to suit our purposes.

Am I wrong in thinking that in that kingdom Jesus talked about we'll all know where the immovable line is drawn?

That Stubborn Parish

“Honest to goodness, Parson,” said Fred Snyder, a young pastor who'd done his seminary contextual education at the parson's parish, “I don't mean to sound like some kind of elitist, but I'm really getting tired of the people in my church.”

The parson smiled. He was familiar with Fred's church. It had only been in the last ten years they had moved from having seminary students as pastors to now having Fred, a fully ordained elder. But the arrival of the full-time pastor had not changed the mentality of a part-time appointment.

“No matter what I suggest they come up with some reason why we shouldn't do it. They don't have the money? It's going to involve too much work outside of the Sunday programs. The list goes on and on.”

“How's William Beavers doing?” the parson asked.

“William Beavers, well I suppose he's doing okay, but William Beavers is exactly the thing I'm talking about. I don't think that may has ever been outside the county he was born in. And his opinions and outlook reflect it. Sometimes I think he'd vote against the return of Christ if it meant he had to change his attitudes.”

The parson continued to smile.

“Sometimes I think it might be best for me to look for some other occupation. I just don't know how long I can put up with these people. And the district superintendent doesn't seem to be in a big hurry to move me to another church.”

The parson smiled.

“The other night we were having a finance committee meeting. I had to spent twenty minutes explaining why we support Africa University. 'Why in the world are we supporting that place,' one of my members asked, 'when we could be providing scholarships for good American kids.'”

The parson smiled.

“You don't seem to be taking me seriously, Parson. And I'm serious. I may just hang it up if I have to stay at these places much longer.”

“Fred,” said the parson, “I'm taking you serious. It's just that I've been there. I've served your church, too. It had a different name and it was in a different county, but it was the same church with the same members.”

“What's your point?” asked Fred.

“The point is Fred, I'm here. I'm here all these decades later and I'm a better person for having served those churches. They were stubborn, narrow minded people. But, in their own way, they loved the Lord as best they could. They endured a lot of geeen-behind-the-ears preachers like me. And despite all their shortcomings their church is still there making life a bit hectic for the new pastor. Everything you say about them is true, but there's more to say about them. And the best thing to say is that they have volunteered to be the whet stone on which you can hone your skills.

“So go back to your parish, Fred. Go back and keep growing. Someday they'll remember you fondly and invite you to preach at the Homecoming.”