Questing Parson

My Hero

I was in your class for a while today, Ms. Massey. I would be remiss if I did not comment on what I saw.

It's interesting that you would make such an impact on me. We didn't even speak. In fact, the only communication was your motioning me and those with me into the class, and pointing to the child chairs upon which we were to sit. I was not long in that chair before I began to marvel at the choreography of learning and social adjustment going on before me.

I'm sorry I didn't quite catch on to that first exercise in which you were engaged with the kids. It was the one with the counting in rhythm with the music. Sorry, I do know how to count, but for some reason I couldn't tear my mind away from the drama before me to quite incorporate the activity into my amazement.

That was, as you know, my son sitting beside me, the son who is also a teacher, a high school teacher of advanced placement teens. I used to put him on the top of my list of educators I respect. Today, he may have fallen to that rung that is next to the top. You, Ms. Massey, are at the top. My son prepares one lesson plan that covers all the children in his classes of the same subject. It was apparent you prepare a plan for each individual child. And, more astounding, you're able to facilitate every child individually while engaging them as a whole in an activity.

I was really impressed when that child got a bit frustrated and you simply told her to press her hands together hard when she felt angry. She did and it was over. Wow. I may try that myself next time I'm in a church meeting.

There are not a lot of women, Ms. Massey, who are not above getting down on the floor on their belly to act out the motions of the worm of which the song was singing. There are not a lot of women in the world who can pull forth effort from kids of pre-school age with the ease and poise with which you do. And, most importantly, there are not a lot of people who can meet the challenges of those precious children with hope, determination, and constant reminders of their own dignity and sense of worth.

Why do you do it, Ms. Massey? What possessed you to depart from the world of the well behaved elementary child to enter into the challenge of teaching in the Special Needs Pre-K program? I doubt, in this world, you get any extra pay for it. And I know for sure the normal pay you receive is an insult to your education, your dedication and, especially, the love you have for those children.

I've become at my advance age, in many ways, Ms. Massey, a cynical old man. But today I became an old man pleased with the world and the people who occupy it. Sometimes, Ms. Massey, I'm a bit pleased with myself in that I've been able to do some good things for some people. But I will never hold a candle to you in what you do for those kids. I don't know if you're religious or not, Ms. Massey. I am, and I'm quite sure God is smiling down on you.

I'll put my head down on the pillow tonight and remember this day. All the things I encountered today, and all the things for many days in the past, will fade into insignificance compared to my encounter with you and those children whose lives will be forever made more whole because they gather around you every school day.

Well, that's it, Ms. Massey. Thank you for what you do. And thank you for doing it with such joy and grace. You are my hero. And if I had the power I'd have you declared a saint.

Let's Ask Ronald

It was the last day of the Annual Conference. The parson was tired. This year he’d commuted the long distance from his home, and the wears and tears of that were taking a toll on his aged body. With the determined gait on a senior citizen dedicated to disguising the aches and pains of age, he walked as briskly as possible toward the parking deck.

As he walked he could not help but reflect upon the church. All these years, all these conferences, all these bishops and superintendents, all the new initiatives, all the reforming programs, and, in many ways, the church was still where it was that day Bishop John Owen Smith laid his hand upon his head and spoke to words of ordination. “Gracious,” thought the parson, “that was way back in the last century.”

At an intersection he stopped to heed the pedestrian “don’t walk” signal. There were no cars evident. He could have walked against the light with no trouble. But being law-abiding provided a respite from his hike. His eye wandered to the opposite corner. Ronald Wilson stood there waiting, also, for the light to change.

The parson had known Ronald since he was ordained, two years after the parson. Ronald was one of those never seen servants of the Lord. As far as the parson knew, Ronald had never served on a big committee; Ronald had never, in fact, served a church with more than 200 members; Ronald had never written an article; never given a speech in support of or against any matter to come before the conference. Ronald was one of those folks who was sent from church to church to church at a more frequent rate than his peers. Ronald was not master of homiletic. Ronald’s sermons, while theologically sound and wonderfully crafted on paper, dissolved into boredom when he delivered them. After the first year among them congregations began to make noise to the church masters that a change in pastoral leadership might be of more benefit to their world.

Ronald would move; he would move without any animosity in his heart, but with thanksgiving for the friends he’d made and the folks he’d been allowed to serve. Ronald would set up shop in the next church as though it were the first he’d ever served.

Ronald had his faults. But not one member of the congregation ever went to the hospital, locally or far away, when Ronald was not at their bedside. Not one teen broke up with the love of their life without Ronald recognizing the wound and trying to help heal the heart. Not one alcoholic was ignored, not one destitute not clothed, not one hungry not fed …..  The list went on.

The parson looked at Ronald standing there talking on his cell phone. He had a smile on his face. The parson had no doubt he was celebrating with whoever listened on the other end the wonderful opportunity to which he was being sent one last time.

The parson remembered years ago when he was in the hospital with tubes stuck into his body and a long gash from his sternum to his gut as the result of the exploratory surgery to save his life. When he woke Ronald was there. The parson remembered the operation on the carotid artery a year later. When he woke Ronald was there. The parson remembered when his wife died and he sat devastated in the hospital, Ronald was there. Ronald wasn’t especially the parson’s friend, but Ronald was there.

The light turned. Ronald walked up his side of the street. The parson walked up his side of the street.  The parson watched Ronald. Suddenly, with the experience of the aged, the parson came to the conclusion that, when he attended the next conference, and people asked how to save the church, how to make the church more relevant, how to empower the church to be more like Christ, he’d rise to the occasion, walk to the microphone, and say, “Bishop, as a point of personal privilege, I would like to suggest we ask Ronald about that.”

 

Here's To The Teachers

I write a weekly newspaper column in The Calhoun Times, Calhoun, Georgia. Today, I’m sharing that column here.

The school year is over in the county and will be over in the city at the end of the week. What a year it has been.

For a week or so the teachers will be doing those necessary things to finish out the year. The students will be sleeping in, complaining of chores, reveling in the freedom of summer vacation and showing no evidence of the boredom with summer that is to come.

Picture if you will, then, an almost empty school. Walk down the hallway with me. Hear the echo of our steps along the empty corridors, tapping out a cadence of solitary progression.  Look into the rooms as our progress continues along the empty passage. See the teacher in that room, compiling the report.  Look in this room where he’s reading an assignment written by a student as an end-of-the-term requirement and smiling at the improvement over the course of the year. Over there, in the lab, watch the teacher inventory the chemicals and pack them away for the summer break.  And there, see there, pay attention to the teacher looking out the window, staring toward the horizon. That’s the one who is thinking about calling it quits, getting out of the contract, and going to work for the father-in-law. Peer with me into the seemingly endless hallway of classrooms where lessons were taught, students challenged, tests given, and lives changed.

The school year is over. Deserved vacation has arrived. Some will head to the mountains, others to the beaches; some will stay home and attend to needed projects; others will take summer jobs to supplement their devalued effort.

All will look back on the year and marvel at the things that happened, and smile at the memory of laughter reverberating from a hundred shared moments of frivolity. All will leave this past academic year and step into the summer months having touched lives in thousands of ways that were often unseen and without a doubt underappreciated.

This past year a second grader with green snot dripping toward a puckered lip had his face wiped by a dedicated giver. A middle school child was pointed toward a course of discovery that will someday lead to new inventions and a better society. A high school girl was encouraged to step beyond the present day into a future ripe with opportunity. This past year countless teachers in countless ways embraced, encouraged, and empowered a new generation.

It takes a special person to be a teacher. It takes an even more special person to continue teaching year after year, class after class, matriculation after matriculation without receiving proper recognition, thanks, and certainly adequate compensation.

To the teachers who labored with such dedication this past year, please receive our thanks. Receive our thanks now which should have been given day-by-day as the past ten months progressed. Receive these, our belated thanks. And please accept our apology.

Accept our apology for standing silently by as our government treated you with distain. Accept our apology that we spoke not a word of protest as our governor forced you to take days off without pay and in doing so treated you as though your task is no more important that the most menial state position.  Accept our apology that we asked you to stand before that classroom without our support, without proper appreciation.

Accept our apology, and please show up next year, for without you our society is doomed.

The Measure of Time

The meeting between the parson and the hospital chaplain had not lasted long. Both had come prepared; both had a busy schedule; both kept on task, and the meeting accomplished its goal in record time. The parson headed across the central lobby on his way to the church where he had to prepare for a talk to a men’s group in the evening.

He was two-thirds across the area when a voice called out, “Parson, Parson.” 

Turning toward the sound the parson saw Agnes Howard. She and her family had been members of a church he served twenty years ago.

“Hello, Agnes,” the parson greeted as he hugged her. He remembered her wedding and how she insisted it be a thoroughly religious occasion. Holding her at arm’s length the parson proclaimed, “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh, Parson, you shouldn’t be telling lies. Three kids have made sure I’ve changed a little.”

“Well, from where I’m standing it was all for the better,” the parson smiled. “What brings you to this hospital?”

“Daddy’s here,” she said. “He was on his way to visit Aunt Helen and started having chest pains. He pulled into the rest area on the interstate and called 911. They are making sure he has stabilized before sending him back to his own doctors. These folks have really been good to him. You don’t suppose you could go back and see him? I know it would mean so much to him.”

The parson agreed he’d go back and visit Curtis. He headed down the familiar hallway with Agnes at his side.

In the hospital room, Curtis Howard seemed delighted to see the parson. For several minutes they talked about old times and caught each other up on their histories. Then the parson asked how things were going at the church.

“I guess they’re going okay,” said Curtis. “We seem to be surviving despite that young whipper-snapper the bishop sent out way last summer.”

“What’s the problem with your pastor?”

“He thinks he’s so busy, that’s what. He’s always on the run, can’t seem to sit still for more than five minutes.”

“What do you mean, Curtis?” the parson asked.

“He was here this morning. The man didn’t even sit down. He talked to me for maybe five minutes, maybe ten, and then he had a prayer and left. The Reverend Mr. Busy is what he is.”

“Curtis,” the parson asked, “how often has he been up to visit you.”

“Well, he’s been here all three days I’ve been here. But if you add all them up you don’t have one good visit.”

“Curtis, it’s at least eighty-five miles one way to visit you.”

“That’s about right.”

“So, between two and three hours out of his day to visit you is not enough?”

“He was only here ten or fifteen minutes, Parson. “

The parson threw in the towel. He said, “Let me have a prayer with you, Curtis. I’m really busy today and have to get going.”

Credit Where Credit Is Due

The parson was headed out of church following the morning worship. Halfway to his car Horace Mann stopped him.

“Parson, do you have a minute?”

The parson stopped. “Sure, Horace. What’s up?”

“I don’t mean to be picky here, Parson, but is there any reason why my name is not on the back of the bulletin this morning?”

“What do you mean, Horace?” the parson asked.

Horace held out a bulletin. “Right here,” he said as he pointed to the section where the various worship leaders and others were listed, pastor, pianist, song leader, custodian, etc. Horace’s index finger was firmly in the middle of the box where the names were listed.

“I don’t see my name here.”

The parson took the bulletin from Horace a bit puzzled at what the problem was. He examined it carefully. Suddenly he realized the omission. The church had begun using a different template for their worship bulletins. As such, the list of those who assisted had to be retyped. Horace’s name had apparently been inadvertently left off. He ran the multi-media aspects of the worship.

“I see what you mean, Horace.” The parson explained about using a different format and that it was a regrettable error. The parson apologized.

“Well, I just want to be sure people are aware I’m the one who’s the Media Coordinator.”

“I think everyone knows it, Horace. And we’re really grateful for what you do. I’ll make sure your name is in the bulletin next week.”

“I hope so, Parson, but that doesn’t help about this week. We had a house full of visitors and none of them are going to know I’m in charge of the media.”

“Horace, you’re making too much out of this.”

“I’m not, Parson. It’s important I be recognized for what I do.”

“And you want to be sure everyone knows you were the Media Coordinator today?”

“I do. Credit should be given where credit is due.”

“I’ll take care of it, Horace.”

The parson headed back to the office. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, trailed behind. Horace got in his car and left. About fifteen minutes later the parson left the church confident everyone would know Horace was in charge of the media.