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.”

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 Terribly Good Sermon

The parson was seated with four seminary students at Everybody's. For the unsophisticated, Everybody's was a unique emporium of pizza delight located across the street from the entrance gate of Emory University. The parson was delighted that today's seminary students still gravitated toward to Everybody's as had his generation.

While the students talked, the parson gazed out the window remembering his seminary days, when Everybody's waitress wore t-shirts, only t-shirts; when the war in Vietnam was being doggedly protested on the campus, when the school's policy stated that class attendance was not a perquisite for grades; and when, the parson and his best friend, a friend here unnamed because of his prominence as senior pastor at a really, really big church, spent a good many of their seminary days feasting upon the pizza at Everybody's, as well as sampling the various beverages offered in pitchers to accompany the entree. Ah, but the early 1970s were part of a previous century. The parson turned his attention back to the conversation of the seminary students.

“It was really a terrible sermon,” said one of the students, a seminarian from a state on the other side of the continent. “I'll never forget it.” She then went on to state the three points of the sermon, including an illustration the preacher gave for two of the points. “And then,” she said, “his conclusion was, get this, his conclusion was ….”

“Are you serious?” asked another student. “He actually preached that. What a terrible thing. I don't know how you could sit and listen to it.”

“That was a horrible sermon,” said a third student.

“What do you thing, Parson,” asked a fourth student.

“The parson deliberately chewed a moment on his pizza, holding up his hand to the students in a gesture of apology. Pizza consumed, he took a sip from his mug, then asked, “Did you say you heard this sermon when you were sixteen?”

“I did,” the original critic of the sermon replied.

“How old are you?” the parson asked.

“I'm twenty-eight,” she replied.

“So, you're telling me you heard a sermon twelve years ago and today you can repeat all three points, the illustrations for each, and the conclusion, and it was a terrible sermon?”

“It was,” she insisted.

“No,” said the parson. “It wasn't. It was a great sermon; it just didn't fit your theology. But any sermon you can remember for twelve years is a great sermon.”

The students were silent.

The parson asked, “How about another pitcher?”

Secular Preaching?

The parson was selecting some choice meats for the week's groceries. As was his custom he scoured the meats first, looking for values. Once the values were chosen he headed to the produce section where he'd round out his menu planning for the week. Produce was the challenge for the parson. Choice meats could be sliced up and frozen for several day's consumption. Fresh vegetables usually had to be purchased in quantities that did not lend themselves to freshness at week's end. It was the challenge for a widower living alone.

The parson had made his selections, had wandered up and down the aisles selecting the items needed to round out his week's menu, and was now browsing the beverage section in search of some Alice White Australian and Robertson South African wines. As he puzzled for another time over the reasoning behind the store's place of the various wines on the shelves, he heard a voice.

“Parson, what are you doing on this aisle?”

The parson turned to see Freddie Chambers, pastor of the Gird Thy Loins From Sin Lest You Fail to Obtain Celestial Glory Church of the Blessed Redeemed, looking at him with a puzzled look on his face.

“Ah, Freddie, I'm on this aisle because I'm looking for a nice red wine to compliment the pasta with asparagus sauce I'm planning to cook tonight.”

“You drink, Parson?” asked Freddie.

“Sometimes I do,” the parson replied. “Sometimes I use a funnel.”

Immediately the parson realized Freddie didn't get the joke. He decided to drop it but was now conflicted as to whether to direct his full attention to Freddie or to continue looking for the distinctive Alice White label. Freddie helped guide him out of his dilemma.

“Parson, you fascinate me. You know, here you are on the wine aisle of the church, and I know that a couple of days ago you were at one of the Rome Braves game. My nephew said he saw you there. I read your column in the newspaper and you mentioned that you spent time hiking at Cloudland Canyon State Park. I also know you're taking time off to go to Alaska. I don't understand how you can spend so much time in secular activities and still preach the gospel every Sunday.

The parson hesitated in his answer, not because he was at a loss for an answer but because his eyes had just zeroed in on the distinctive teardrop bottle of a Robertson wine.

“It's called preaching from life's experiences, Freddie.”

“Well, I prefer to spend my time in communion with the Lord in my study each day,” said Freddie.

“You're much more lucky than I,” the parson responded. “God seems to have chosen not to inhabit in my study.”

Maybe It's Worth It

The parson was leaving the restaurant with his uncle. Ten feet past the doors he heard a call.

“Parson, Parson, hold up a minute.”

The parson turned to see a gentleman, apparently in his fifties, also exiting the establishment, hailing him.

The gentleman extended his arm toward the parson. As the parson extended his to shake hands he noticed the lady following the gentleman. She seemed familiar. The parson shook the gentleman's hand.

“You don't remember me, do you?” the man said.

“I'm sorry,” said the parson, looking at the man and then the lady behind him, “you've got me at a disadvantage.”

“Don't sweat it,” said the man. “It's been a long time. In fact, the last time you saw me was, hmmm, let me think. I guess the last time you saw me was 1974. Yep, that was it. I know that was the year, because that's the year I decided to become a minister.”

The parson nodded. He was a bit confused. Obviously the gentleman had given him a pass on not remembering him. But the “I decided to become a minister” remark intrigued him.

“Back then,” said the gentleman, “I was at your church. I don't remember why I was there. Maybe it was some kind of area meeting or something. But, anyway, I was there. And after the event, whatever it was, was over, I approached you. I told you that I'd been asked to speak as a lay speaker at my church the next Sunday. I said I wanted to preach on the Parable of the Prodigal Son, but I didn't know exactly what to say.”

The parson was wracking his brain trying to place the described conversation. He couldn't.

“So, you said to me,” the gentleman continued, “'I love that parable. It's my favorite.' And then you told me why it was your favorite. Do you remember what you told me?”

The parson didn't remember what he told him. The parson didn't remember who the man was.

“You told me that it was your favorite parable because it's the only time in the scripture when God runs. You said that God was in a hurry that day. I loved that. And that next Sunday I preached on that. That was in June of 1974, Parson. In September of 1974 I entered the seminary.”

The parson talked with him for many minutes following. They exchanged stories of churches served, left, and new churches that followed. They talked about the changing church and the challenges of ministry.

When the conversation ended the gentleman said, “I hear you're a retired supply pastor now. I don't know if you're aware but I'm retiring in June. If you don't mind, Susan and I want to come to your church that next Sunday.”

The parson assured him he'd be honored. Soon they left. The parson tucked his uncle's walker into the truck. He turned to Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, sitting beside him at the rear of the car.

“You know, Charlie,” he said. “Maybe all this has been worth it.”

They Don't Come For the Preaching

The parson was walking out of the courthouse. He'd been talking with the Chairman of the County Commission to get his support for an Emergency Shelter for Single Women with Children. The meeting had turned out as the parson expected. The Chairman had promised his unconditional support as soon as the parson raised the needed funds.

No more than ten feet outside the offices of the Commissioners, Fred Eberhardt called out to the parson.

“Hey, Parson, you down here paying taxes, too.

Fred was a unique person in the parson's denomination. He was young, really young. Fred was only twenty-six years of age. Not many that young completed college, seminary, and jumped through all the hoops of the Board of Ministry and were serving their first appointment. Fred was unique in another aspect, also. Fred's first appointment had been in the middle of the year. That is, Fred was appointed by the bishop to his first church on January 1st, whereas most appointments in that episcopal area were made effective on the third Thursday of June. As of the day before this Fred had led the worship service for the 15th time.

“Hello, Fred,” said the parson. “No, actually I'm here for a meeting. How are things going with you?”

Fred's eyes widened, his demeanor took on a burst of energy. “Great, Parson, really great. I mean things are really great. You know,” he said with an obvious tone of pride, “I think things are really turning a corner at the church.”

“That's good to hear, Fred,” the parson replied. “How was your Easter service?”

“It was terrific, Parson, absolutely terrific. Oh my goodness, we almost had to put chairs in the aisles. The place was packed. I think the word must be getting out about my preaching.”

The parson smiled, thought a minute and was about to reply when Fred's cell phone rang.

Fred looked down at the phone's screen and said, “Excuse me, Parson, I need to take this.”

The parson waited. When Fred completed his call he informed the parson with apologies he needed to leave to take care of a matter.

The parson watched him walk down the courthouse steps relieved he didn't have to explain to Fred that folks don't come to the Easter service because of the preaching. If they did, in Fred's case, they'd have been there in February. The parson said a prayer that Fred would be able to handle Sunday-after-Easter attendance phenomenon.

 

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.”

Four Young Preachers' Hope for the Future

Day1 host Peter Wallace asked a few young preachers about their hopes for the future at the 2012 Festival of Young Preachers. Openness and inclusivity clearly dominate the thinking of these young minds.

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.”

Searching For The Right Church

The parson was perusing an antique bookcase at the indoor flea market. How old it was he didn't know. It wasn't in mint condition because the back had been replaced, but it appeared to the parson it had been repaired long ago from the look of the replaced wood. But he liked the look. He liked the glass doors with their ancient latch, and, somehow, he was intrigued with the way the doors had to be lifted a bit in order for them to close properly. Most of all, the parson liked the dimensions. It was perfect for the living room wall left bare from the parson's redecorating.

The parson approached the counter near the front door. He asked the woman there about the piece. He learned it was on consignment. He asked the price and was surprised to learn it was well within his budget. The parson asked if he could pay for the piece and pick it up the next day when he would have access to a pickup truck.

The deal was struck. The parson tendered his plastic. He folded the receipt and prepared to leave, with a feeling of being a thief creeping over him as he was convinced the bookcase was worth much more. Halfway to the door the woman said, “You're the Parson, aren't you?”

The parson turned. “Yes, I am,” he said. He looked intently at the woman fearful that he'd once again failed to recognize someone who'd attended his church.

“I thought so,” she said. “I recognize you from you picture in the paper. Do you mind if I ask your advice?”

“Not at all,” the parson replied. “I'm not sure what it's worth, but ask away.”

“I wanted to ask you about how to know what church to go to.”

“Do you go to church now?” asked the parson.

“Well, I do, but I haven't been going all that long, maybe about three or four months.”

“Where have you been going?”

“I've attended, let's see,” she looked upward and held out her lift hand and extended her fingers in apparent sequence with her mental count. “Five. I've attended five churches.”

“What denomination?” the parson asked.

“Oh, several.”

“And you can't settle on one?”

“That's it. That's exactly it. I can't settle on a church.”

“Do you know what the problem is?”

“I do, kinda,” she said. “Here's the thing. I like the energy at some of the churches. I love the way they all seem to get into it, you know. I mean, saying 'Amen' and stuff like that, kinda moving with the music. And I like the music especially at those kind of churches. I mean, I don't dislike the music at the other churches, but when they have those praise bands and stuff, it just seems to liven things up a bit.”

“Sound's like you're at home in a church like that.”

“Not exactly, and that's my problem, you see.”

“No,” said the parson, “I don't see.”

“Well, it's like this: There's these lively churches and there's the churches that ain't so lively. They kinda worship like everybody has worshiped for a hundred years I guess. And then, like I said, there's the churches where things are lively. So, here's the problem. At the lively churches they tend to preach against things. At the not so lively churches they preach don't preach against things they preach for things. You know what I mean, one is against abortion and voting for democrats and such. The others are for things like living your life to the fullest and finding God in our everyday life.”

There was a pause. She seemed to be waiting for the parson to say something, but he didn't know what to say.

“So, here's the thing, Parson. I'm looking for a church where they preach for things and not against but where they are more spirited about their worship and don't just sit on their butts.”

The parson smiled. “You know, I hate to tell you this, but I can't help you. I can't help you because I'm looking for that church, too.”