Questing Parson

One Dollar A Day

It had been a good day for the parson. He rose early, dressed, whistled for Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, to rise from his bed and get started on the day. The squeak of the front door being opened roused Princess Penny, Charlie Brown's girl friend, from her snoring while reclining on the living room loveseat. Both canines began to prance in anticipation at the door as the parson donned his warm up jacket.

Down the street they went, the dogs sniffing out the trails of whatever creatures had wandered out of the forest the night before. Turning left they headed east toward the abandoned logging road that meandered up the foothill behind the parson's abode. Once at the dirt trail the parson began his trot up the hill and into the forest, trot being a descriptive word as the parson's seven plus decades of life encumbered a once-remembered run. At the top of the hill the parson followed the trail back down the foothill toward his house. Charlie Brown and Princess Penny were not in sight, but experience said they were nearby. Arriving at the house winded and sweaty the parson beheld both canines waiting on the porch, tails wagging.

The parson stripped down in preparation for the shower. He stepped on the scales. Ba-Da-Boom!! Two pounds less than this time last week! He showered and dressed as he sang the Doxology to the tune of Chim Chim Cher-ee. Next stop was the study. There he spent the day, staying on task, until next Sunday's bulletin was almost completed, the sermon almost done, and needed emails answered. He felt good.

The late afternoon and early evening were spent delivering meals to the homebound in the community. Charlie Brown and his sweetheart accompanied him as those they visited delighted in the wagging tails.

Back home, the parson settled down to some entertainment. Powering up the computer he brought up Hulu. A feature caught his eye. “Living On One Dollar” the title read. The parson clicked on it and became entertained, delighted, and disturbed.

The documentary traced the journey of four friends in their twenties headed to rural Pena Blanca, Guatemala, with only a video camera and fifty-six dollars where they lived for fifty-six days. How do 1.1 billion people in the world live on less than one dollar a day? The young friends found out. Their video documentary reveals the hardships, the smiles, the hospitality, the openness, the willingness and desire to learn, the dreams, and the disappointments of these children of God, who despite their poverty, welcome the stranger, share abundantly from their meager portions, and make one wonder how we let the world remain in this condition.

When the program ended, the parson wrote a blog, encouraging everyone to watch the documentary, “Living On One Dollar,” and then encouraging everyone to go to Kiva and help change this situation.

Lucius Didn't Vote

“The Voting Rights Act of 1964 is a landmark piece of national legislation in the United States that outlawed discriminatory voting practices that had been responsible for the widespread disenfranchisement of African Americans in the U.S.

“Echoing the language of the 15^th Amendment, the Act prohibits states from imposing any 'voting qualification or prerequisite to voting, or standard, practice, or procedure … to deny or abridge the right of any citizen of the United States to vote on account of race or color ….'” (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Voting_Rights_Act)

The Act is before the United States Supreme Court. Reading about the challenge to the Act and some remarks of certain Justices of the Supreme Court, I found my mind wandering back to Lucius.

Lucius was my friend for several years, those years between the eighth grade and the time I got my driver's license.

Lucius didn't live in my neighborhood. He lived in a neighborhood off the main road about a mile north of my neighborhood. The streets in my neighborhood were paved; the streets in Lucius' neighborhood were dirt. The lawns in my neigborhood were manicured and green with grass. The lawns at Lucius' neighborhood were dirt. My house was brick. Lucius house was a weatherd board frame structure that didn't seem big enough to accommodate Lucius and his siblings.

Lucius didn't ride my school bus. He rode another bus. Lucius didn't go to my school. Though we were the same age and lived only a mile from each other, Lucius went to another school on the other side of the county. I used to bring a lot of books home to do my homework. Lucius didn't bring any books home. Back then, naïve as I was, I thought that was because he was so smart.

Lucius' daddy shopped at the big department where my grandfather shopped. My grandfather used to take me there when he went shopping. And on occasion, Lucius and I would be there at the same time. We'd hang out together while my grandfather and his daddy would do their shopping. We'd hang out, that is, until one of us had to go the bathroom. We couldn't use the same bathroom. In fact, we couldn't drink from the same water fountain either. There was a law against it.

We were too young back then to talk much about politics. So, I don't recall ever asking Lucius who he'd vote for when Eisenhower was running for President. Looking back on it, I doubt Lucius would have been that interested. After all, no body in his family could vote.

Gracious, that was a lifetime ago. And that's the point, it was my lifetime ago. And while I'm a senior citizen to be sure, it wasn't that long ago.

I wish I knew what happened to Lucius. I'd love to ask him about his opinion of the Voting Rights Act.

About the Tip and the Tithe

The parson was sharing a booth with Jefferson Stewart, affectionately known to the Southern brothers and sisters as “Jeb”, and Martha Allison, two pastors from a nearby county. They were enjoying a nice lunch as they discussed a joint project in the area.

The parson insisted on paying the tab as they prepared to end the get-together. He presented the server with his credit card and when she returned he began to write in a tip for her.

“Pardon me for being noisy, Parson,” said Jeb, “but that's twenty percent. That's a little high, don't you think?”

The parson looked up and replied, “It's a round number. It makes the math easier.”

“Well, obviously you didn't read the news story where some pastor wrote on a check at Applebee's that had an eighteen percent gratituty suggested, “I give God ten percent; why should I give you eighteen?”

“I saw that,” the parson replied.

“Well, don't you think you're being a bit generous?”

“You know, Jeb, I just have trouble thinking the Lord would appreciate me using the Lord's tithe as an excuse to abuse someone who makes less money than do I.”

Here We Go Again

She's sixteen now. Back when I was her pastor she was six. Even then she had a confidence that only a child for whom the future waits possesses. She was then, and is now, precocious, extremely intelligent, with a personality that quietly insist that one pay attention to her lest one miss out on what she may contribute.

My denomination has a rule. That rule says, “When you move, move.” That is to say we are not to try and keep relationships with former church members because they have a different pastor now. When she was six, she didn't care about the rules. She began writing me. Since she was six, I made an exception and I answered her letters. They have come almost weekly. Through her I have been able to keep up with who was doing what, who's sick, who died, who had left the church, who joined, and even, over the last three years, who was the latest young boy to deserve her attention.

Because of that correspondence I did get to be there at significant stages of her life. I was there when her mother fought her cancer. I was there when she sang the National Anthem at a sporting event. And this last week I was there when her new niece was baptized in a private ceremony where the local priest was gracious enough to include me in the liturgy.

After the ceremony, after everyone was picking up and cleaning up the parish hall, she and I found ourselves sitting on a bench outside the sanctuary.

“So, what's new in your life?” I asked.

“What's new? You saw what's new. I'm an aunt. I don't understand my sister. She's a junior in college. She could have waited a couple of years before getting pregnant. But, then again, I love that kid. And it's kind of neat to be an aunt.”

“Besides being an aunt, what's new. School? Boy friend? College plans? Catch me up on things.”

“Well, school's good. Boy friend is out of the question right now. I've decided I have enough adolescent mood swings all by myself. College? Well, maybe Duke or Emory, although I'm considering going ahead and applying to Yale. The worst they could say is 'no'. Right?”

“Right,” I said.

“How about your Mom and your Dad?”

“My Mom and my Dad. Oh, my goodness. I just hope things will change now that the election's over.”

“What do I mean? Just be glad you're not the pastor here any longer. I'd have called you over for some pastoral counseling so many times you wouldn't believe it. Mom was for Mitt Romney. Dad was for President Obama. You would think that after all the years they've been married they would have learned to talk nicely to each other. Oh, my goodness, you should have heard them.”

“Who were you for?”

“Oh, no, I spent the whole year not telling anyone that. If either of them knew what I thought … Well, there's no way I could win.”

“But the election's over. They should be okay now, right?”

“Okay now, are you kidding? Did you read the news stories that Senator Marco Rubio is speaking in Iowa this week? It's already started again.” She took a deep breath and said, “You know, I wish they'd quit running for office and run for America.”

My Favorite Baptist Preacher

Is Bill Moyers optimistic?
58 minutes but well worth it. Correct that! It's more than well worth it, it's a vital listen. 

Sorting Out the Scams

The parson opened his email to discover an “All Pastor Bulletin” in the form of a forwarded message from the area headquarters. Seems Church Superior had received an email from a pastor in the area who, in turn, had received an email from the pastor of another, more conservative denomination, who had encountered a “scam.”

The woman, who was the subject of the email, had approached the pastor after church on November 7^th. She'd asked for $30 to “get her car fixed.” The pastor told her he'd buy gas to put in her car. She left without his gas. And then, the email warned, the pastor who emailed the Church Superior received a call from another pastor who said he'd gotten a similar request. Obviously, the email warned the hundred or so pastor, there was a woman trying to scam pastors.

Afternoon found the parson in the parlor of a nearby church to discuss the community Thanksgiving service. At the meeting's end, Ron Elderbee, the pastor of Growing Despite Ourselves Church of the Laid Back, asked the parson, “Did you get the email about the woman asking for gas?”

“I did,” responded the parson.

“I think that woman may be the one who came by my church the Wednesday before.”

“You do?”

“Yes, but she only asked me for $25.”

The parson didn't respond.

“How do you handle these situations, Parson? I mean how do you sort out the real ones from the ones who just want to scam you?”

“I don't,” said the parson. “That's above my pay grade.”

“Above your pay grade? What are you talking about?”

“If I have it, Ron, I just tend to give them the money and let the Lord sort them out.”

Passing the Compassion Along

“Hello, Hello, you guys here?” shouted Florence as she entered the outside door of the Fellowship Hall.

The serving at Soup Supper Monday wouldn’t start for another hour. But that only meant Florence had arrived at her usual time.

“That sure does smell good,” she called out as she usually did. “I can’t wait; I’m powerfully hungry today.”

The parson was attending the large kettles on the stove while the rest of the volunteers had run up the street for their weekly Weight Watchers Weigh-in. Thinking of them he glanced over at the cherry cobbler one of them had brought. That was a sign they thought they’d met their goal. The accomplishment was always rewarded with desert on the theory they had seven days to remedy the damage.

After adding a little garlic powder to the ingredients and adjusting the heat, the parson stepped into the dining area to greet Florence.

“So, how are things, Florence?” he asked.

“Pretty good since I got out of jail, Parson. Tell you what, that stint was really a blessing. Do you realize they had me locked up during the hottest part of the year. Just think, the county paid for me to avoid the heat in air conditioned comfort. I tell you, the Lord is good.”

“The Lord is good,” said the parson. “Glad you’re in good spirits.”

“I am in good spirits. And I want to thank you again for that twenty. It was just enough to get my vehicle running again. But, I’ve got a feeling the belt will be going soon. So I’m going to have to find some way to make a little money or maybe somebody could, next week, see clear to assist me with that.”

“Well, I hope you find someone to do that,” said the parson.

“I do, too,” said Florence. “Maybe you’ll ask the Lord to speak to the heart of the one he chooses to assist me.

“Maybe he will,” Florence, “but maybe you should pray you find some gainful means of employment and don’t have to depend on the Lord’s prying open the pocket of poor Parsons.”

“Oh, goodness gracious, Parson, did you think I was talking about you. I wasn’t talking about you. I’m just talking about the Lord speaking to somebody’s heart. I couldn’t know who the Lord chooses.”

The parson smiled and headed back into the kitchen. As he passed through the door he heard her voice, “Come here, Charlie Brown; I know you love me.”

The parson knew Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, would now spend the better part of the next hour sitting next to Florence to get petted.

The evening went as it usually did. All but one of the women returned from the weigh-in filled with joy and anticipating the cherry cobbler. The other could best be described as pouting, a condition the parson chose not to inquire about. People came and went. Two members of the youth group gathered up the takeout dinners which they delivered weekly to the homebound members of the community, placed them in carry boxes and headed out on their appointed rounds.

About thirty minutes before the evening ended, Florence stuck her head in the door of the kitchen. “Hey, can you guys spare about four of those takeouts?”

“Why do you want takeouts?” asked one of the women.

“Well, it was awfully good,” she said. “And I know three people who’d like to have something to eat tonight.”

“But you said you wanted four,” the woman pointed out.

“I do; I sure do,” said Florence. “I thought tonight’s was so good I might enjoy another helping tomorrow night.”

The woman dipped the soup and placed it in one of the carryout bags with some cornbread, some cherry cobbler and some potato salad. She repeated the procedure three more times and after placing them in one of the boxes took them to Florence.

“Thank you so much,” said Florence. “I know those hungry folks will appreciate it.”

The volunteer returned to the kitchen and announced, “I guess Florence has gotten supper for every night this week.”

Not long after Florence left, the parson headed toward the town to pick up some office supplies. He was passing over the bridge that spanned the river under the main highway when he saw Florence’s van off to the side. Then he saw Florence carefully picking her way down the embankment, box in hand, to deliver some soup to the residents of the tent community under the bridge.

Woman On A Mission

The parson arrived at the church kitchen in preparation for Soup Supper Monday. The weekly event had started to provide meals for those who needed such in the worst part of the recession. Now it had grown to include providing a meal to home bound, sick, and/or lonely folks throughout the area. The youth of the church delivered the meals each week, a project whose clients had grown to a much larger number than those served at the church.

Nevertheless, Florence was always there. Florence was there long before any other recipients of the meal arrived. She usually showed up shortly after the first cook arrived. As usual on this particular day Florence appeared at the kitchen door to inquire what was on the menu.

“Tonight we’re having Nacho Cheese Soup, Florence,” said the parson.

“What kind of cheese are you using?”

“We’re using some Velveeta cheese tonight.”

“I see,” said Florence, “did you check the expiration date on that cheese?”

“I did not, Florence. We bought it this morning. If you’re worried about it, the package is in that trash can.”

Florence ambled into the kitchen with a body language that seemed to ask why this matter wasn’t resolved before her arrival. She poked around the trash and finally retrieved the wrapping from the cheese. After careful inspection she announced, “Okay, that will be okay. In fact that’s fresh enough I could take what’s leftover off your hands.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Florence,” said the parson.

“You buy that ground beef today?”

“I did.”

“Did you check to see how fresh it was?”

“No, I didn’t. Tell you what, we’re not going to start serving for an hour. I could give you a little to taste, and if you don’t get sick before then we’ll know it’s okay.”

“Ha, ha, Parson, you’re funny. I guess I’ll trust you. You haven’t made me sick yet.”

Florence went back into the fellowship hall.The parson continued cooking but noticed as he glanced through the pass through window she was settled in, seated at one of the tables with her feet propped up on another chair reading a newspaper. Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, had his head resting on her thigh as she scratched absent minded-ly. 

The parson continued with his cooking. In a half hour, Virginia Hopper came in to help.

“Florence is in the fellowship hall waiting,” she informed the parson.

“I know,” said the parson. “She’s already approved the menu.”

“I wonder how much money she’ll get out of us tonight,” said Virginia. “When you told us God sent her as an object lesson, I thought you were nuts. Fact is, I still do.”

The parson had once explained to the volunteers Florence hit up ever week that she was a professional beggar and she was really good at her profession. He suggested if the followers of the Lord would get as good at their job as Florence was at hers the world would be a better place.

Everyone was surprised this Monday, however. Florence did not ask for a penny. She did suggest to the parson and several other folks that a special collection on Sunday morning to help her purchase a new transmission for her van would be appropriate.

The parson was scrubbing a pot when Florence came back into the kitchen. The youth had returned from distributing the carryout meals. The fellowship hall was full of laughter and slurping sounds as the kids devoured their soup while updating their Facebook age on the church’s wi-fi.

“Have a good week, Florence,” said the parson. “See you next Monday.”

“You could see me Sunday, Parson, if you’d have that special offering for my transmission.”

“Let me think about it,” said the parson.

“Okay,” she said, but I do need one of those carryout meals.”

“You didn’t get enough to eat?”

“No, I got plenty. Ms. Parson sure knows how to make pineapple upside down cake.”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” said the parson. “Why do you want a carryout page?”

“Well, my landlord is an alcoholic, you know. He kind of lives from one SSI check to the next, and his ain’t as big as mine. So, anyway, he’s really sick. Don’t know what’s wrong with him. So I thought maybe some of that soup …. What did you call it?”

“Nacho Cheese.”

“Yeah, that’s it. Nacho Cheese. So I could take some of that home with me and he could have a good meal. It probably would help him.”

“Okay, Florence,” said the parson. “Hang on a minute.”

He turned around to behold Virginia holding two takeout plates for Florence.

“I appreciate this,” said Florence.

“I appreciate you helping others,” said the parson.

“Well, that’s what we Christians do, Parson. That’s what we Christians do.”

The parson watched her walk from the kitchen and through the fellowship hall. She stopped at the door, put her plates on a table, and reached down to scratch Charlie Brown behind both his ears.

“I’ll see ya next Monday, Charlie Brown,” she said. She picked up her plates and headed out on her Christian mission.

Graphic by subscription with Clip Art [dot] Com

Thoughts on Compassion from Sister Joan Chittister

Conversation with Joan Chittister - PG5312 from 30goodminutes on Vimeo.

Jamaica Died

Jamaica died. Funny, that seems such a trifle thing to say, but it is true. Jamaica died. My friend, the Rev. Paul Turner, called to tell me the news. Jamaica died.

This did not make the evening news. There are not going to be scores of people at his funeral. But he will be missed; he will be missed because Jamaica was one of a kind, an original, unique, never to be forgotten by those who really knew him.

He was an attraction around the neighborhood of the inner-city church where I was pastor. When Jamaica walked down the streets everyone knew it was Jamaica walking down the streets. Jamaica’s attire could not be missed. On any given Wednesday, or Thursday or Friday, for that matter, you might see Jamaica strolling along singing some tune at the top of his voice for an audience of himself. It was possible to ignore the singing, but one could not ignore the way he was dressed.

Jamaica was way ahead of his time in fashion taste. He may have been centuries ahead. Or, come to think of it, he could have been centuries behind. Who knows? What he was, without a doubt, was one of a kind.

As Jamaica walked down that sidewalk singing his song, he might be sporting a turquoise print skirt worn over navy blue sweatpants. Both of these would stand in stark contrast to the black and white plaid vest worn over a tuxedo shirt with blue button studs. And the top might be tastefully adorned with a pith helmet of faded khaki color.

Jamaica resided on this earth in the parish I served, but Jamaica lived on a separate plain. Jamaica was not inhabited by the normal mores that constrain the average person. Indeed, Jamaica was beyond average. His clothing was but the beginning.

On a frequent but irregular basis Jamaica would attend our church services. As is the custom of fashion plates like Jamaica he always made a late entrance. That entrance would have him parading down the aisle toward the front pews immediately after the first hymn, but after everyone was seated in order to afford them a view of his latest expression of eccentric fashion. He had been known to stop before entering his selected pew to raise his hand in recognition of the pastor and call out to me, “I’m here, Pastor, and I’m yearning to hear the Word.”

My church was a teaching parish. Seminary students assisted with the service. One of my greatest delights was the first time Jamaica showed up in the tenure of one of these students. As the parishioners and visitors and Jamaica filed out, shaking hands and proclaiming how they “enjoyed” my sermon, when Jamaica came by, I’d introduce him to the rookie student and then say, “Jamaica, this is a seminary student. Could you tell her about the Book of Romans?”

He would. Having the student trapped by the subtle way I’d worked her into a corner so she couldn’t escape, he would, in fact, recite the Book of Romans to her.

Jamaica was a star student in high school long ago. He excelled in athletics and academics. And then the accident happened. He struck his head. Brain damage resulted. Jamaica was never the same. A young black kid from a poor black family got limited medical care. Jamaica descended into a world that only he inhabited.  

I could never enter Jamaica’s world. But occasionally, in those rare moments of lucidity, he entered mine. There was the day we sat in the window of Zesto’s devouring the fried chicken, onion rings, and blueberry milk shakes and talked of the recent City Council elections. He explained to me the prejudices and misdirected efforts of the occupants of the local police precinct. And on one of those occasions he even discussed what he classified as the “shallow theology” that had informed my sermon on the previous Sunday.

I’m remembering the last time we ate together in that window. He was dressed in creased blue jeans, with a floral skirt of some summer weight pleated material that would rise and fall with the movement of his walking. These were accented by the oxford blue button down shirt with the black and white striped tie, all of which stood in stark contrast to the bright red straw Easter style bonnet upon his head with white feathery object sticking out the right side. I don’t remember what we talked about that night. But I do remember when we left. I turned toward my car; he turned in the opposite direction and began to skip down the sidewalk singing, “Oh what a beautiful morning …” which sounded incongruous coming from him in the late hours of the night.

My last memory of Jamaica is the day I did a video interview with the Reverend Paul Turner about his faith journey into his ministry to the GLBTQ community. We’d finished the interview in the parlor of the Epworth United Methodist Church, the church of the parish I’d served so long ago and where Jamaica had felt welcomed. During the last twenty minutes or so of the interview Jamaica had his face up against the window with his palms plastered to his cheeks to give him a clear view.

Afterward, I took Paul outside to meet Jamaica. We talked for a while. We shared some good stories. Jamaica told me he loved me. He needed a ride to someplace. I asked Paul if he could take him. As they walked toward the car I called out, “Hey, Jamaica, tell Pastor Paul about the Book of Romans.” The last words I heard Jamaica say were directed at Paul:

 ^“Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God— the gospel he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son, who as to his human nature was a descendant of David, and who through the Spirit of holiness was declared with power to be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord. Through him and for his name's sake, we received grace and apostleship to call people from among all the Gentiles to the obedience that comes from faith ….”  His voice faded as he and Paul drove off.

Jamaica died. He was my friend. I loved him. I will miss him.