Questing Parson

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.”

 

Bishop Willimon ~ We Have A Slight Difference Of Opinion

Let’s get the disclaimers out of the way before I begin this writing:

First, I’m a William Willimon groupie. It’s kind of strange to say that since I’m a good bit older than this  United Methodist Bishop with the prolific pen and penetrating mind. Nevertheless, since hearing him preach while he was Dean of the Duke University Chapel, I’ve read many, if not most, of his writings and have followed his career with interest. (Granted the last six years I’ve been following him to derive the answer to the question: Why would anyone give up being Dean of the Chapel at Duke University to become a bishop?)

Second, I am about to take issue with Bishop Willimon’s assessment of what makes an effective pastor. But, according to Bishop Willimon’s calculations, I am an effective pastor. This will be explained below.

Now, with the above being said, let me respond to a United Methodist News Service Commentary by Bishop William Willimon titled “Effective Clergy By the Numbers.”

In his opening two paragraphs, the Bishop states:

                How do we Methodists define effective clergy?
                We do it with one word: growth. Effective clergy
                know how to grow the church in its membership,
                witness and mission.

                 In North Alabama, we now have a “Conference
                 Dashboard” that every church logs in Monday
                morning and reports its numbers for that Sunday’s
                attendance, baptisms, professions of faith, offering
               and participation in mission.

Let’s give it up for the Bishop as regards the latter part of that statement. The North Alabama churches report their participation in mission (I assume for the preceding week.). That’s definitely a step in the right direction. I’ve been filling out United Methodist Annual Conference reports for four decades and so far the only thing I’ve been asked is how much and how many (The other parts of the North Alabama Conference reports). Here lies my bone of contention:

The Bishop, after giving a nod of the head toward a church’s involvement in mission, then uses his entire commentary to make his case for judging on numbers based on Wesleyan tradition. The Bishop says, “The push back we have received in this endeavor (judging clergy effectiveness by counting how many) has surprised me. In nearly every group of clergy in which I’ve discussed our work, there is always someone to repeat at least one of these mindless mantras. ‘It’s all about numbers, is it?’ ‘You can’t measure clergy effectiveness, can you?’ ‘So it’s come to this: putting the butts in the pews.’ Yada, yada, yada.”

With all due respect, Bishop, at this point in your commentary you have, I fear, denigrated the work of the little country church for which I have been privileged to serve as a retired supply pastor for the last six years. That, unintended relegation of my congregation to an unimportant status, results from the fact that, as noted above, once you gave a passing nod to “participation in mission” your commentary chronicles the history of “counting how many” as a true Wesleyan tradition and in the course of that you relate several incidents in which this is historically true. I note, however, in passing, that all of your references come from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, a time of tremendous church growth in the Western world, and you make no allowance for the complexities of growing a church in a world where the church’s reputation and influence is not nineteenth century, or even twentieth century, for that matter.

Here’s the crux of the matter, Bishop:

By your contentions, I am an effective pastor. This little congregation has grown in the past six year. This current year would no doubt bring a “high five” from you as the percentage of growth is significant with the majority of them being by profession of faith. Dizzy Dean said, Bishop, “If it’s true it ain’t bragging.” So, it ain’t bragging when I say the percentage of growth here in this little valley is going to make some other pastors look, by your judgment, really, really ineffective.

My problem with your thesis, Bishop, is that these numbers don’t matter in the overall scheme of here in our little corner of the world. What matters is this: This church provides some really impressive ministries. Most of the ministries our church does on its own, but sometimes we partner with that big and rich First Church down the road, but always on a fifty-fifty basis.

 Every year when school starts every child in this county, certified as “in need” by the school system family advocates, receives a new book bag. The book bag is filled with enough grade appropriate school supplies for the first semester. The bag also contains new clothes selected specifically for that child. {Picture, if you will, Bishop, an eight-year-old girl standing on the front porch of the church and exclaiming with tears in her eyes, “Oh, look, Mommy, these are new!”] Each of those children also get checked for and treated, when necessary, for lice. And they get a free trip to the barber or the hair salon.

Every New Year’s Day this little church provides a meal of turnip greens and black-eyed peas and cornbread and lots of fellowship for any who want to come, but particularly the senior citizens of the community. Have you ever considered that New Years Day is a lonely holiday for many. The family doesn’t come; there are no presents. There’s just an empty house. But that’s not true in this community because of this little ministry.

This congregation, when the school board cut funding, stepped in and provided needed supplies for the school nurse at the school with the county’s most impoverished pupils. This congregation also provides all the family advocates of the school system with undies to be distributed to elementary students who need such.

Up above I mentioned we cooperated on that “Back-to-School Project” on a fifty-fifty basis with that big old First Church. We also cooperate with them to provide for two transitional houses for women with children in this county. This support includes the costs of social workers and other needed services from the homeless arm of the conference.

The congregation recently brought high speed internet service into the church in preparation for the Internet Café that will be in place when school begins next August . Turns out there are a significant number of children in the schools a mile up the road from us who have no internet access at home. Now they can do their school work needing internet access at the church. Additionally, adults can apply for jobs online.

And then there’s the Soup Supper Monday, every Monday for the last three years. It started to provide a free meal for the many, many unemployed folks in this county when the economy was so bad. Now it includes the youth of the church delivering more meals to homebound and sick people than we serve at the church.

Have I mentioned this little congregation of 120 on the books, but about 80 in fact, is the largest single financial supporter of the work of a missionary in Peru?

The point is, Bishop, each of these ministries (and those listed here are not all) that touch the lives of so many of God’s needful children are tremendously more important than the numbers I report. You see, Bishop, the growth that’s started in this little congregation is not the result of me being effective. I am effective, Bishop, because these people are in mission, are putting others before themselves, are seeking to serve Christ in the corner of the world where they have been planted.

It’s a struggle, Bishop. This is a poor county. These are not rich people. We have a lot of yard sales and a whole lot of bean suppers. But the Lord provides a way. (If you’re interested I can sell you a $5 raffle ticket for $250 in free food at a really fancy restaurant up the road.)  I have a feeling the Lord’s provided the means because this congregation didn’t wait until they got an “effective pastor” to add numbers. They just started being in mission. That’s what made their pastor effective. It’s not about me, Bishop. It’s about a church that has an open door, an open heart, and an open mind.

I do understand the point of your commentary, Bishop Willimon. But I think sometimes we get the emphasis on the wrong syl-LAB-le

Okay, Bishop Willimon, you’re still my hero, and when your next book comes out I’ll most likely read it, if I have enough time while serving this church. You know, you might think about this as a theme for a book: The mission statement of our church is: “The mission of the Church is to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world.” Maybe the best way to “effectively” carry out that mission is: “To be a disciple of Jesus Christ.”

The Third Degree

Ring! Ring!

“Hello.”

“Parson, this is George Ripley.”

“Hey, George, how are you?

“I’m kinda tuckered out, Parson, to tell you the truth.”

“You’re not sick are you, George?”

“No, Parson, I’m not sick. I guess you forgot. I told you I’d cut the grass over at that lady’s house for you. I should have checked before I volunteered. Did you know that yard is three acres? Well I cut all three acres with a push mower today.”

“Oh, George, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know you were doing that today. And I sure didn’t know you were planning to do it with a push mower. I thought you had a riding mower.”

“I do, but it’s messed up. So I went ahead and cut it with the push mower.”

“I can’t thank you enough for that.”

“Well, don’t worry, Parson. It’s not going to happen again.”

“I don’t blame you, George, three acres is too much for someone your age to cut with a push mower.”

“I beg your pardon. The day I’m too old to cut three acres of grass will be the day they put me in the home.”

“Sorry, about that George. If the grass is no problem, why is it not going to happen again?”

“That woman who lives there, that’s why. Look, I’m finished with the grass and I’m sitting on the tailgate of the truck drinking a bottle of water before I go home. So, the woman who lives there comes driving up the driveway. She pulls up next to me and starts asking me what I’m doing there. Can you imagine that; she asks me what I’m doing there. Didn’t she see the mowed grass when she drove up? What am I doing there? Then I tell her I’m from the church and I’ve just cut the grass. So, she says, if you’re from the church tell me the name of the pastor. So I tell her you’re the pastor. Then she asks me where you live. She grilled me, Parson. She gave me the third degree. I’d just cut her whole yard and she gives me the third degree.”

The parson checked his watch as George carried on. He interrupted. “George, how long have you been home?”

“How long have I been home? I just got home. I got home and called you first thing.”

“George, take the phone with you and go to the bathroom.”

“What?”

“Humor me, George. Do it.”

There was a pause. “Okay, Parson, I’m in the bathroom.”

“George,” said the parson. “That woman has two young girls living in that house with her. Now, look in the mirror and tell me if you can figure out why she questioned you.”

The parson waited. After a moment he heard George laughing. Then came the voice, “Okay, Parson, I get it. I do look a bit worn for the wear. Okay, I’ll get the riding mower fixed and maybe next time I won't look so bad she has to give me the third degree."

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A Mother's Tribute

Backing out of the garage, she then pointed her car toward the highway infused with holiday traffic. Just about everyone she knew was headed to the lake, the mountains, the cousin’s house, to all those places where folks go to participate in the frivolity of the Memorial Day weekend.

Hunger arousing aroma of steaks, simmering on a grill and delivered to her on the wind blowing across the neighborhood, reminded her of other days, those days when she too associated the day with cookouts, skiing on the lake, camping in the mountains, or attending a Braves game in Atlanta. Memories of such times were suppressed as she took a right onto the highway. Traditional Memorial Day activities now dimmed under the cloak of her present activity, an activity that rested somewhere among ritual, ceremony, need, and obsession. With uncompromising regularity she made this pilgrimage, undeterred any form of inclement weather. It was what she did.

Driving along her journey she remembered, with a Mother’s guilt, the lack of resources that led him to join the Army Reserve to finance his education. He’d completed three years when the activation notice came. He never complained. He just went, with a smile on his face and a kiss on her cheek she still felt to this day, into harm’s way. 

His emails to her were jovial, never conveying any worry or hint of danger. Yet, she knew. She knew the general area in which she served. She could read newspapers and watch the TV news. She could put the pieces together. So she worried.

She drove with precision in an almost mechanical way as thousands of memories lasting only a moment played upon the screen of her mind in time with the advancing odometer. 

The car she stopped in the same place she always stopped. Staring for a moment she breathed deeply in preparation for her rite. Exiting the car she placed her feet upon the newly trimmed grass and headed up the slight slope toward her destination. Rank upon rank of the white crosses, standing in perfect formation, stretched before her and behind her and to each side with a uniformity that defied individuality. Yet, she progressed without confusion among the silent sentential to that one particular cross.

 Arriving she stood silently, looking down at the name upon the marker, the name she’s given him, the name of her grandfather, the name he carried with him from birth to this lonely, desolate, yet wonderfully attended place. In a moment she knelt there; the crack in her heart encouraged a tear to cascade down her left cheek.

She placed the single rose on the ground above his place of repose. He’d received full military honors when they placed him here. She’d jumped in shock at the sound of the rifles and fallen into herself with the notes of Taps. The soldier with the gold band across his cap gave her the flag they’d taken from his casket and folded with such tight precision. For long moments she remembered that day and how they had rendered the honors. And yet, the rose, now lying in quiet testimony above his remains was the honor that would continue until her deat.

A wind was blowing when she rose to leave. A wind was blowing from the East. She stood quietly again. “I love you, son,” she said with a mother’s comforting voice. She turned toward home where life laboriously moved on.

Spreading the Joy

Flo Jordan was one of those unique characters every church needs. When the doors opened she was there. When cleaning needed attentions she donned her old clothes and got it done. Flow even washed the stained glass windows of the sanctuary once a year. 

 More than her physical labor at the church, her spirituality was most appreciated. Everyone knew on Tuesday and Thursday precisely at noon Flo was at the church altar with a list. On the list were all the prayer requests mentioned during the concerns times the previous Sunday. Also on the list were people of the community she knew to be in need or whom she felt a need to pray for. Each name on the list would be uplifted in her petitions for several minutes. There was barely a person in the church who did not receive a birthday or anniversary card on the appropriate date. Nor were there any who had not received a letter of encouragement or praise from Flo.

Flo was a widow; her husband had been killed in a tragic accident twenty-five years earlier. While not wealthy, his insurance had allowed Flo to live not extravagantly but comfortably without having to hold down a job. She took this as a gift from God that had to be used in Christian service. And Flo distributed the benefit of her gift every day. 

The parson sat on the sofa of Flo’s family room. She’d been dismissed from the hospital earlier that morning, after some fairly serious surgery.

“Now, Flo,” said the parson, “Janet Patterson has organized some of the folks in her Sunday School class. They’re going to be bringing you dinner every night for the next two weeks along with a light lunch for the next day that you can just warm up.”

“That’s not necessary, Parson,” countered Flo. “I’ve stocked up on some frozen dinners until I get back on my feet. So they don’t have to go to that trouble.”

“They want to go to that trouble, Flo.”

“I don’t think it will be necessary, Parson. But please let everyone know how much I appreciate them thinking about me.”

The parson sat back on the sofa a moment. He rubbed his brow, thinking. Then he replied, “Flo, do you remember that day I walked in on your Tuesday prayers and we talked in the kitchen afterwards?”

“I do, Parson,” said Flo. “That was quite a day.”

“Do you remember when I asked you why you did so much for others and not yourself you replied it was your Christian joy to do for others?”

“I remember that, Parson.”

“Why, Flo,” the parson asked, “would you deny that joy to others?”

Flo turned and looked out the window. When she turned back her eyes were a little watery. She smiled at the parson. “Do you know what they’re bringing tonight?”

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