Questing Parson

Defining Success

The parson was strolling down the sidewalk of a country town that had been restored to a turn-of-the-twentieth-century village. The transformation was apparently a success, All the businesses within the restoration area seemed to be thriving.

As the parson peered into the window of a store that was now a combination antique and sandwich shop he noticed a familiar figure inside. Heather Swathmoor, newly graduated from seminary and about to be ordained and appointed to her first parish, was sitting at a table with a Ruben sandwich and a book before her. The parson envied her and the anticipation that must be hers with this appointment. His mind wandered back to the really old days, when pastors of Heather's age were usually told they were being sent to “a wonderful opportunity.” The parson headed to the door.

Approaching Heather, he greeted, “Well, hello, Reverend Swathmoor.”

“Oh, Parson,” exclaimed Heather as she rose and hugged the parson. “How good to see you. Please sit down. What are you doing here?”

The parson took the table opposite Heather. “So, I hear you're getting a church.” The parson was aware of Heather's appointment, and he was aware of the church to which she was about to become pastor.

“I am; I'm so excited. I'll be there in three weeks. It's called Gregory's Chapel. It's in the Southeastern district. It's a country church. I know it has problems,” she continued, “but the district superintendent said there was a possibility I could make a name for myself there.”

The parson smiled. He indicated to the server who'd approached he only wanted a decaf coffee. “It sounds like a wonderful opportunity.”

“Well, that's the way I'm going to approach it,” she said. “I've done a lot of research to prepare going. The church was founded in 1842. It saw some real growth when the railroad came through the area just before the Civil War. For a while the town was really growing. It was a kind of hub of the cotton trade in that area. Around the 1950s they had their largest membership, but in the late 70s the membership stopped growing.”

The parson sipped the decaf and studied Heather as she talked. He tried to remember if he'd been this expectant when he headed out for his first church.

“The tragedy is, Parson, they have been losing about ten to fifteen percent of their membership every year for the last five or six years. I know it has to be disheartening to them. So I'm going to set a goal for myself to increase the current membership by fifteen percent next year. I think with hard work I can do.” it.”

Heather finally turned to her Ruben. The parson continued to study her. Placing her sandwich on her plate she took her napkin and wiped a smear of Thousand Island dressing from her lips.

“So, what do you think, Parson. It's possible to do that; don't you think?”

The parson leaned over the table and said softly to her, “Heather, let me make a sugges.tion to you. If you slow the decline to five percent, that will be a victory. And then you can move to other goals from there.”

Heather stared at him a moment. She finished the sandwich as she watched him. “Slow the decline and then work on increasing the membership.”

“That sounds like a plan to me,” the parson smiled.

Will We Ever Get There?

The parson drove home perplexed.

Many months before this drive home and interesting thing had happened at the parson's church. It was about twenty-five minutes to a half-hour before the service began. Two women walked into the sanctuary. The parson was in a room at the rear and overheard their conversation as they walked down the aisle.

“Oh, Mildred, what a beautiful little church.”

“Thanks,” replied Mildred, an elderly matron of the church. The proceeded a few feet further down the aisle. And the parson overheard Mildred say to her friend, “And this, this is our lesbian pew.”

It wasn't said in a negative way. Indeed, the tone of Mildred's voice conveyed, “We've got a lesbians in our church and you don't.”

The Soup Suppers every Monday night, begun so many years ago by Ms. Parson, were a delight to the church. Florence, who wasn't homeless but remained only a stone's toss from it every month, was a fixture. The parson thought of how, after Florence's vehicle broke down, the church members began picking her up to bring her to the suppers where she could fill her tummy and usually bum some money for the coming week. Florence was a part of the fabric of the church now.

And the parson thought to the many times families of non-white races had come to the church and been greeted with full acceptance and joy at their presence, of the generally wonderful reception of the black preacher the parson invited.

The parson thought back to a few weeks ago when the church council has suggested the parson consider putting, “We are an inclusive church,” on the sign out front.

And then the parson thought of the little class he'd just finished teaching. He'd been trying to make a point about land displacement in the Holy Land, from the time of the Israelite occupation of the Canaanite land to the Jewish occupation of the land in recent history. Trying to make a point he asked one of the members of the church how long his farm had been in his family.

“Oh, gracious Parson,” the member had said, “over a hundred years.”

“Since 1830?” the parson asked.

“Well, that would be about right,” said the member.

“So your family took possession when the Cherokees were forced upon the Trail of Tears?”

“That's right.”

“Well, suppose,” the parson suggested, “the United Nations passed a resolution saying that our country had been wrong in that removal and you had to return you farm to the Cherokee nation?”

The parson waited for the reply, expecting some real agony from the member as he wrestled with the complexity of the situation. What the parson got instead was this:

'Well, I'd rather them get it that those blacks.”

Ten steps forward and nine steps backward?

This Is A Pop Test?

The parson had just popped the trunk of his hybrid and begun placing the groceries he'd just purchased inside.

“Hello, Parson, how are things with you?”

The parson turned to behold a young man whom he did not recognize.

“Things are well with me,” he said. “I'm sorry; do we know each other?”

“Ah, no, no we don't know each other. But I've heard of you. And I've heard of that church where you're the pastor. Friend of mine told me you folks have what you call an “inclusive” church.”

“We try to be inclusive,” said the parson.

“Inclusive. Well, what's that mean. Does that mean you let foreigners worship there?”

“Foreigners?”

“Yeah, foreigners. Them illegals. Are they welcome to worship there?”

“We don't ask for documentation at the door,” said the parson.

“Bet you don't. And I heard that homos are welcome there. That true, too?”

“The doors are open to everyone.”

“Yeah, well you realize you're only encouraging illegals and you're condoning a sin that is an abomination in the eyes of the Lord.”

“The doors are open to everyone.”

“I bet. So, you're telling me it's okay if I come to your church and worship with the low life?”

The parson stared at the man a moment. “The door is open to everyone,” he said.

“Right,” said the man. “Tell you what, I'll see you next Sunday.”

The parson finished placing his groceries in the trunk. He closed the lid and then slid in behind the wheel. He cranked the car, but before taking the car out of park he looked up and the cloudless sky and said, “This is a pop test, right?”

Those Other Kind of People

The parson sat at the far end of the fellowship hall, comparing iPhone Apps with two of the youth. The shared appreciation of the power of the cell phones had come months before when in the middle of the sermon the cell phones of every youth in the church began to vibrate. Those who were able sneakily checked their phones to read a text: “This is the Parson. Pay attention the next part of the sermon. It's really good.”

Now on this Soup Supper Monday, where the parson’s church provided a free meal to anyone who wanted it - rich or poor, he and the young people exchanged thoughts on technology and they educated the parson on how to utilize all the marvels of his device, a steady parade of people entered. 

For a long while only members of the church came to partake of the gastronomic delight the parson’s own hands had prepared. About thirty minutes after the doors had opened the team who delivered meals to the homebound and sick arrived and packed up meals in takeout containers and departed. Shortly after the parson felt two arms wrap around his neck from behind. 

“Hello, Peggy,” said the parson, without turning. He knew it was Peggy, not from her hug but from the smell of her unwashed body. 

“Hi, Peggy,” said the assembled young people in one form of another, as the parson turned his chair around.

“You look pretty,” said the parson, peering beneath the matted hair that probably had not been combed or brushed in a week into the innate beauty that was obviously there. 

“Thank you, Parson,” she said. “Guess what.”

“What?”

“I got an A on that report you helped me with. My teacher was really happy.”

“That makes me happy, too, Peggy,” said the parson. She leaned forward and hugged the parson’s neck. 

“Get something to eat,” said the parson. Peggy turned to do so as the parson called out to her brother already filling his bowl and plate. It was never a guess as to whether Peggy and her brother were hungry. “Hello, Ralph,” the parson greeted.

“Hi, Parson.”

“Have you been fishing lately?” The parson knew Ralph often fished the ponds near his house. He also knew Ralph’s fishing was a necessary supplement to the family’s diet. 

“Yeah,” said Ralph, smiling, walking over to the parson. The youth pulled back a bit, for Ralph exuded the same aroma as his sister. “You know that pond across the highway from us? Well, I caught two catfish yesterday that were this big.” Ralph held up his hands to indicate the size. The parson knew his estimate was probably accurate as Ralph didn’t lie about fishing.

Peggy and Ralph and their mother headed to a table before the artificial fireplace with the gas logs. They sat down and began to consume their meal with the force of an industrial vacuum.  

The parson’s cell phone vibrated. He looked down to see a text from a youth across the table from him. The text read: “What’s wrong with that woman. Even if you are poor you can make your kids take a bath and brush their hair occasionally.”

The parson looked across the table at the mystified youth. He smiled, but before he could answer six more people came bounding in from the cold. Two of them lived on the fringe, dabbling consistently with drugs more often than not inebriated. And yet, those two, at the encouragement of Ms. Parson, had begun to gather others who lived under the bridge on Highway 41 and give them a ride to Soup Supper Monday. 

“Hey, what’s cooking, Parson?” chimed out Denver the leader of the under-the-bridge brigade.

“Soup.” said the parson.

“Okay,” said Denver, “but who made the soup this night?”

“I did,” said the parson.

Denver came over to the parson’s seat, “That’s good,” he whispered. “When that other lady makes the soup she doesn’t put as much meat in it as you do.”

“Eat your soup and be thankful no matter who made it,” said the parson.

“Amen,” proclaimed one of the other under-the-bridge citizens.

The under-the-bridge group were halfway down the line of crock pots with soup, platters of cornbread, brownies and slices of cake, when Peggy called to the parson.

“Bye, Parson.”

The parson looked up to see the two unkempt kids being literally dragged from the room, their bowls of soup and other food sitting half-consumed on the table. Their mother hissed to the parson in a stage whisper, “I can’t believe you let those kind of people in here.”

Bigotry Confronted

The parson found himself driving pass the farm of a member. To say this particular member was conservative would be an understatement. He held strong beliefs on the inerrant word of the scripture. He studied them fervently and then used the fruits of that study to bully others to his beliefs.

Several weeks before the parson had found himself talking with two members of the congregation who had passed his Sunday school classroom one Sunday morning. They had overheard him berating the gay lifestyle, loudly proclaiming the defilers would go to hell. The two who had heard him almost quit the church because of the hurt they felt in this attack on their twenty-two year committed relationship.

The parson wondered how he would ever get him to stop his firebrand attack on not only the gays but others in the church, including the parson, whose theology did not gee-haw with his.

The parson’s wondering was halted as he passed the tree-lined winding driveway that led to the man’s ranch style house on top of the hill in the center of his farmland. The man had been released from the hospital only two days previous. Headed up the driveway was the lesbian couple who had signed up at the church to provide the patient with a nourishing meal.

The parson smiled and drove on as he wished he could be the proverbial fly on the wall.

An Intentional Effort

The parson was enjoying the kickball game being played in the city park. It was difficult to tell who was winning. There were no uniforms and, though he was aware of his advancing age and a mind that tended to be losing it’s ability to stay focused, he was convinced some of the players were switching teams in the middle of the game.

The parson’s insightful diagnosis of the game and its participants was interrupted when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Hello, Parson,” said Roger Sullivan, a member of the Big Church On the HIll Overlooking The Sinners Below Assembly of the Blessed, and a friend of the parson. 

“Hello Roger,” the parson greeted. “How Betsy?”

“She’s doing good, Parson. She’ll be disappointed she didn’t come. She would love to see you. You know, since you started filling in at that church we don’t see as much of you as we used to.”

“It has been a long time,” the parson acknowledged.

“Well, thank the good Lord for email,” said Roger. “At least we live in an age when we can keep up with each other through the internet.”

The parson nodded.

“Speaking of which,” said Roger, “did you get that email I sent you yesterday.”

“I did, Roger, I did.”

“Was that not the funniest thing you’ve ever read?”

The parson hesitated as he weighed his option in replying. He turned to face Roger fully. “You know, Roger, it wasn’t funny. It was racist; it was in poor taste; and it was certainly not something a Christian should be associated with.”

“Whoa, Parson,” said Roger, “I was just forwarding something that gave me a chuckle.”

“If that gave you a chuckle, Roger,” said the parson, “you need to head to the altar of your church next Sunday and fall on your knees in repentance.”

“Holy Smoke, Parson, don’t get so riled up. I was just trying to spread a little humor.”

“What you spread, Roger, was denigrating observations about a person of another race and ascribed attributions that you know were not true.”

“I was trying to be funny.”

“It wasn’t funny.”

Roger put his hands on his hip and stared at the parson for a long silent moment.

“You know, Parson,” he finally said, “I wasn’t trying to be un-Christian.”

“I know you weren’t trying to be un-Christian, Roger. The point is you were. You may have done it without any intent of malice, but you were.”

“Well, it’s not always easy to be Christian, you know.”

“I do know, Roger. I do know. And that’s why we who strive to be Christian have to recognize it is takes an all-day intentional effort.”

The parson watched Roger digesting what he had said. After a moment he added, “You’re my friend, Roger. Sit down with me and watch the kickball game. See that kid in the red shirt? If kickball were an Olympic game she’d be a sure shot for a medal.”

Kinds of People

The parson was wandering about the various tables strewn about the church property for the Community Yard Sale. It was an annual event at the church, allowing everyone who wanted to come to a highly visible place for a yard sale that was well publicized. He spoke to the sellers at the various tables and helped people load their discovered treasure into their vehicles.

In the area hosted by the parson’s church, he came across an item that brought back memories. It was an old World War II fold up cot. He parson remembered a similar cot his dad treasured. Funny, the parson could not remember his dad ever sleeping on the cot, but he remembered doing so himself on several occasions in the past. 

Suddenly, the parson had to have the cot. It could be used to sleep extra grandchildren. It could be set up on the screened back porch for naps in the wind. There had to be a hundred uses for it. What, wondered the parson, had happened to Dad’s old cot?

“How much?” he asked Sarah who was the keeper of the cigar cash box.

“It’s three dollars, Parson,” said Sarah, “but for you we’ll mark it up to five.”

“Sold,” said the parson. He handed Sarah a five dollar bill.

“I was kidding, Parson,” said Sarah.

“I know you were,” he replied. “But keep the change.”

The parson slung the cot over his shoulder and carried it to his car. He couldn’t wait to get it home, clean it up, and take a nap.

The rest of the morning and early afternoon, the parson did the things the parson usually did on such occasions. When the day wore down and the various sellers had left, he helped the church members haul their leftovers back to the church’s storage building. There they would wait until another yard sale brought them once again into the light of day.

Task completed, the parson headed toward the car in which trunk was stored the makings of a great nap.

“Parson,” called one of his members. He turned to greet her.

“Parson,” she repeated. “I just heard you bought that army cot.”

“I did,” said the parson. “I’m headed home to try it out.”

“Well, be careful. One of the center legs is busted. It needs to be replaced or mended. Honestly, Parson, if I knew you were going to buy it I would have had it fixed. But I thought that one of the people that usually buy things at these yard sales might buy it. I mean with those kind of people it doesn’t matter, but if I had known you were going to buy it. Look, why don’t you let me take it home and see if Jeff can fix it up for you.”

The parson couldn’t resist. “That’s okay, my kind of people don’t mind. We’re used to other kind of people.”

The parson headed home to fix the leg so he could take a nap like his kind of people.

A Jog and A Rant

The parson had just completed the course he followed every other day on his run. He prided himself on an obvious ability to maintain a physical regimen that belied his age. Now, daily run complete, he rested for a quick moment, just enough time to cool down, before heading inside the recreational center to take a shower. Before he could enjoy that moment, however, Walter Jensen walked up.

“Hello, Parson,” chirped Walter, “aren’t you a bit old to be looking that frazzled?”

The parson took the tail of his shirt and wiped the sweat from his face. “How are you, Walter?”

“Good, Parson; couldn’t be better?”

“And Allison?” the parson inquired about Walter’s wife.

“She’s spending a week down at the beach with her daughter, Helen. You remember Helen, don’t you?”

“I do, Walter. Give Allison my love.”

“I’ll do that.”

Walter then sat down on a bench across from the parson. The parson said nothing. He was thinking about the shower and was not thrilled with Walter having plopped himself into his afternoon.

“What do you think about that crap in Vermont?” Walter asked.

“What crap in Vermont?” the parson asked.

“The law they passed saying gays can get married.”

“Actually, Walter, until you walked up I hadn’t thought about it in ... mhhh, let’s see ... maybe twenty hours.”

“It’s a serious problem, Parson.”

“What’s a serious problem, Walter?”

“People of the same sex getting married. It’s going to ruin marriage.”

“Whose marriage is it going to ruin?”

“Everybody’s.”

“Not mine.”

“It will, Parson We have to stop this, somehow.”

The parson stood. He used his shirt to once again wipe his face. 

“Look, Walter,” said the parson. “I can see where you’re planning to go with this. And I’m all prepared to tell you how years ago you thought blacks and whites shouldn’t get married. But Henry over at your church is black, and Shirley, his wife, if I’m not mistaken is white. Years ago Walter you wouldn’t have let Henry join your church and if Shirley had married him you’d have kicked her out.  I’m also prepared to point out to you that I personally know there are two couples in your congregation who live together and are not married and have children. Years ago you would have wanted them kicked out of your church. And you know what, Walter, in both those cases years ago you would have used the Bible to justify your judgmental attitude.”

The parson paused a moment, ran his hand through what hair he had left, and leaned forward. “So Walter don’t you even try to start quoting scripture with me about same sex unions. If you did we’d get into a Bible quoting contest and you’d lose, Walter. You’d lose, Walter, and I’d enjoy throwing the scripture back in your face. But more than that Walter, I’m tired of this bogus issue. When your congregation starts spending ten percent of your total offerings on helping the poor, on clothing the naked and feeding the hungry let me know. Until then, Walter, don’t talk to me about what’s Christian and not Christian about any kind of marriage. Until then, Walter, you’re not qualified to host the discussion.

“Now, excuse me, Walter. When you walked up I was almost cooled off. But not I’ve got myself all heated up again. I’m going to go take a shower and cool off. After that I’ll probably feel terrible for jerking you up up like this. But right now it feels pretty good.

”Now go home, Walter. Go home and call Allison. Call her and tell her you love her and you miss her. Do that, Walter, because the greatest threat to your marriage is not some gay couple in Vermont. The greatest threat to your marriage is the way you ignore your wife.”

The parson turned and headed toward the shower.

Patrol Car and Blessings

She walked slowly but with determination toward town. A mist fell in the chilly night with a seemingly out-of-place smell of spring. Her wook short jacket smelled of that musty wet wool aroma. Her feet were heavy with the weight of the mud clinging to her soles in an effort to such away her strength.

At the intersection of the interstate exit ramp and the state highway she leaned a moment against a utility pole. Just a moment she reasoned, just a moment to catch her breath before encountering her journey’s end on the other side of the bridge. The blue light startled her. The whoop, whoop of the siren made her jump a second time. The loud speaker in the patrol car blasted forth. “No lottering. Move on.”

She crossed in front of the patrol car which was exiting the ramp. Her feet were heavier than when she stopped at the pole. She looked back over her shoulder. The patrol car was still there. She walked on. 

At the other side of the bridge she looked back again. The patrol car was about ten yards behind following in the cold misty darkness. She walked on, crossing the entrance ramp on the other side of the bridge. Still the patrol car followed. She walked on. She was tired.

With relief she saw the patrol speed past, its lights flashing as the officer responded to some call. Quickly, she turned back to retrace her steps. She walked fast now lest he return. At the entrance ramp she turned to look again. No patrol car was in sight. She walked as fast as she could across the slick grass forming the triangle on the ramp, highway, and interstate. Quickly she darted beneath the bridge. There in the dark where the concrete covered bank met the bottom of the bridge she pulled a sleeping bag from the girders. 

She spread the sleeping bag. She released the backpack from her shoulders, sat it beside the sleeping bag and pulled a brown paper sack from it. She reached in and removed a wax paper covered club sandwich she’d gotten at the church down the road.

She stood and extracted a can drink from the girder and then she sat again. The wax paper was removed from the sandwich and placed on the ground as a table cloth. The tab on the can was pulled.

She bowed her head and added her voice to the echoing of the passing cars, “For these gifts I am about to recieve I give you thanks, O Lord. Amen.”

On the highway above a patrol car moved slowly. 

Empty Stomach Salvation

The parson was in the kitchen scrubbing a pot in which about ten gallons of soup had been cooked. It was Monday at the parson’s church and Monday knew that there it was called Soup Supper Mondays. The church cooked up vats of soup, cornbread, cobblers, and other goodies every Monday. From 4:30 until 7:00 people came to eat. There was no charge. If you wanted to come and share fellowship with God’s children the soup and cornbread was ready, if you wanted to come because you were homeless and didn’t feel like scavenging in the dumpster, if you had to make choices between buying groceries or paying for the child’s medicine the food is placed on the table every Monday and the food is for you.

Fred Chandler, one of the local “Biblical scholars” brought the parson a few more pots from the serving area.

“Thanks, Fred,” said the parson. “Look, Fred, I’m really grateful you came and pitched in this evening. You were a big help.”

“Well, I’m glad to help where I can, but I have to tell you, Parson, this is a big waste of time.”

“A waste of time?” the parson asked. “Where in the world would you get that idea, Fred?”

“Just look at this, Parson. We’ve cooked up all this food, and I have to say this was some good tasting soup, we’ve brought folks here to put this together, and here come all these people to eat the soup. You may have noticed, Parson, these aren’t folks we see in church on Sunday morning. And I doubt if some of these people ever darken the door of a church.”

“That’s probably true,” the parson conceded. “What’s your point?”

“My point is, Parson, we have done nothing this evening to tell these people about the love of God and to give them a chance to give their lives to Christ.”

“You’re wrong there, Fred,” the parson countered. “We did a heck of a lot tonight to tell these people about the love of God and to find Christ in their lives.”

“We did not,” Fred insisted. “We didn’t present one testimony; we didn’t ask anyone in here to pray the sinner’s prayer, and for goodness’ sake, Parson, when I started putting out those tracts about God’s plan of salvation, you made me pick them back up. I tell you, Parson, if we don’t start acting like Christ and bringing these people to salvation, I’m not going to support this anymore and I’m going to get other people to oppose it with me.”

The parson used the excuse of drying his hands to quietly take a deep breath, to compose himself, to remind himself he was the Parson. Finally, he turned to Fred and said, “Fred, come on back to my study, please.”

Once the two had entered the parson’s study the door was closed. The parson took another deep breath.

“Sit down, Fred,” the parson said, pointing to a chair beside a table. The parson stepped over to his desk and removed a Bible. He placed the Bible in front of Fred. “Now, Fred, here’s what I want you to do. I want you to take a little while to go through Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.” The parson reached over to his desk a second time and picked up a legal pad and a pen. “While you go through the gospels I want you to write down on this pad every time that Jesus fed someone or healed someone and a condition of that feeding or healing be giving their lives to him.  Just find it, Fred; find me one time when Jesus made salvation a condition of filling an empty stomach. If you need more time, Fred, just take my Bible and the pad and pen home with you. You’ve got until next Monday to find one of those times. If you do then you can distribute your salvation tracts. If you don’t then you get to scrub the pots next Monday.”

The parson turned and headed back to the kitchen.

Graphic by Clip Art [dot] Com