Questing Parson

Go Figure

Late in the afternoon the parson pointed his vehicle toward his home. He left the banks of the Mississippi where Granddaughter Number Two had completed at the Blues and BBQ Gymnastics Invitational. There was a smugness about the parson's demeanor. His ten year old granddaughter had finished fourth in overall among a field of predominately fourteen year old competitors. The parson was convinced it was a genetic thing.

Imagine the pleasantness the parson experienced in his psyche. Imagine the feeling that nothing was to detract from his elation as he rode the began the 400 mile trip home. He turned on Prairie Home Companion and listened to Garrison Keillor's tales of Lake Woebegon. Everything was wonderful. The sermon had been written. The computer programming for the multi-media was ready. All that remained was for the parson to get home in time for a good night's sleep.

The cell phone rang. The parson's pianist was calling. She wasn't feeling well. She wasn't going to be able to be at church the next morning. The parson's granddaughter had just exceeded all expectations. She was proving her ability, establishing through her athletic ability she was a descendant of the parson. There was no problem. The parson began to hum the hymns he'd slip into the multi-media program to substitute for the pianist.

Sunday morning the parson arrived at church. When the time came to express at the beginning of worship joys and concerns, the parson modestly slipped in that his granddaughter was the recipient of his genetic gift. The parson was on top of the world. The parson was ready to preach the sermon about “Remember Your Baptism.” The parson was as ready as a granddaughter about to leap up onto the uneven bars.

It was during the first hymn the problem began. The video presentation of the screen, with the words and background music to the hymn suddenly encountered audio challenges. The music would play loudly for a moment and then fade into nothingness. It befell the parson to sing without benefit of accompaniment the words of the song loud enough for the congregants to follow.

During the Prayer of Confession the parson's lapel mike began cutting in and out. One moment his voice was blasting out over the congregation; the next moment it was silent and the parson had to strain to project his voice, which was fine until the mike cut back in to now amplify the parson's almost shouting voice.

At one point, the parson headed back to the media room in the midst of the service to show the young know—it-all's how to correct the situation. The parson's correction lasted for seven minutes and thirty-two seconds.

But the parson stumbled on, like a young gymnasts who just stutter-stepped at the most important transition of the floor routine.

The sermon was delivered as thought it was a normal service. And at this point it was a normal service. But then the last hymn appeared on the screen. The hymn appeared, but the accompanying music did not. And yet, the congregation kept singing.

The parson, following the service, stood a the door to the sanctuary. After he'd greeted everyone who had such comforting things to say about the comedy of errors, he walked back into the sanctuary. A member of the church suddenly reached out and hugged him, tightly.

“This was the most meaningful service I've ever encountered,” she sobbed to the parson.

Go figure.

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.”

A Mountaintop Experience

The parson, along with his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, decided to skip church. It was a weekday. Hardly anyone would notice. The sky was clear. The temperature was in the mid-seventies. The parson pulled on his hiking boots. Charlie Brown danced about knowing those shoes meant new smells, new adventures.

Up the road they headed, past Carter's Lake and on to Chatsworth, where they turned right to head toward the mountain peak. Up, up the car climbed. Finally, the entrance loomed ahead. The parson entered the park, slowed down and withdrew his yearly pass from the glove compartment. The pass was hung on the rear view mirror. At the gate they took a left to head toward the hiking trail that led around the side of the mountain.

Charlie Brown bounded from the car and then jumped in circles waiting for his leash to be affixed. Once it was the two headed down the wooded path. The wind was at their back, which allowed the two deer just fifty yards from the trail to graze without Charlie Brown becoming aware of their presence. Charlie Brown, was too busy, anyway, trying to pull the ancient parson into a pace that suited his mood.

After awhile, they stopped. The parson faced a choice: Go left and he'd be treated to one of the most beautiful overlooks in North Georgia. Go right and he'd have only a short, but steep, hike to The Wall. The parson pulled his cell phone from his pocket, checked the time, and decided there was no reason why both could not be done.

Turning left Charlie Brown and the parson sought the overlook. It was downhill all the way, with an occasion set of metal stairs along the steep parts. No one was on the observation platform with its magnificent view of the valley below. The parson leaned against the rail and marveled as he always did at the beauty of the place he lived. Charlie Brown stretched out in the sun and within three minutes was snoring.

The view having been appreciated the two turned and headed back the way they'd come, uphill. As they reached the intersection where they'd face the decision they continued uphill. Uphill they went in steady but not rapid pace. Finally they arrived at the wall.

The wall was a marvel to the parson. It stretched for 855 feet, and, if one pulled out a compass one would see that the wall was on a direct path from east to west. Long ago, about the time the Jews were exiled to Babylon, the Native Americans of the middle Woodland Era gathered here on this spot, up high above the valley, and built this wall. Today it was just a row of stones. Over the years people had stolen the stones or pulled down the wall itself in a search for artifacts. But from the vast number of the stones it was obvious the wall had been impressive.

The parson sat on a log to study the wall. Here they'd had church. Here, they'd paid homage to their deity. Here they had perhaps sung their equivalent of hymns, heard their version of sermons, offered their prayers and sought the favor and blessings of the gods. In his mind's eye, the parson could see them gathered. He wondered how they were arranged for the ceremonies, he pondered how long the worship lasted.

The parson rose from the log. Charlie Brown popped upright in anticipation of more walking. The one thing the parson knew was that sooner or later these people concluded their religious ceremony and headed back down into the valley. Now he did, too. And as he did, he wondered if the priests of that day had known the same joys, frustrations, and challenges. And he lamented that today's congregations did not, as had the ancients, made time in their seasons to climb the mountain and build an altar to be closer to their God.

The Sermon Didn't Connect

The parson had never seen him before. He seemed to bear a resemblance to someone the parson knew, but who just wouldn't come to mind. The man had come into the church maybe five minutes before the service began, just as the parson had stepped from the media room where he'd just given his weekly admonition to the youth running the multi-media to pay attention.

“Good morning,” said the parson. “Welcome to our church.” The parson gave the man his name and attempted to make him feel at home. He directed him to a couple in the congregation of the same age as the visitor.

The service went well. The visitor seemed to be singing the hymns and praise song with relish. He was obviously following the scripture on the screen. He nodded his approval of the parson's point in the sermon for the younger ones.

The parson's sermon went well, he thought. He deviated from the text briefly at the end. There were even one or two “Amens.” It wasn't a sermon that would be held up as a positive example in a homiletics class in seminary. But it was adequate.

As the parson greeted folks after the service the visitor exited. The parson extended his hand. “Great to have us with you. I hope you filled out a Visitor's Card.”

“I did,” said the man. “But don't bother following up on it. I won't be back. The message was not grounded in the Word.” The man pointed to the Bible the parson hadn't noticed before, a well-worn King James Version. “I'm serious. I won't be back.”

The parson looked the man in the eye and responded, “Okay.” As the man descended the steps, the parson didn't speak out loud but he thought, “Praise the Lord.”

Making My Week

The parson was sitting in the room at the back of the sanctuary when they walked in. He was in the process of encouraging the teens who were coordinating the multi-media for the worship for the first time. They were in their late forties, maybe early fifties. Each was well dressed. They settled themselves into a pew in the almost empty sanctuary and made a few comments to each other.

The parson, having noticed they did not have a Visitors Packet which he had so laboriously prepared, he rose and headed to the vestibule. The “Greeter” was not greeting this morning. He was out-of-town.  No one had been invited to take his place. The parson retrieved one of the packets and returned to the sanctuary. Introducing himself to the couple he presented them with the packet and expressed his appreciation for their presence.

Soon the worship began, and the newly assigned teens changed the slides and videos with precision. The music was uplifting; congregants had smiles on their faces and apparent joy in their hearts. And the visiting couple – oh, that blessed visiting couple – knew how to listen. They not only laughed appropriately at the right points in the sermon, but they seemed to be following the homily with interest and understanding, nodding occasionally and making connection with the parson in his efforts.

When the service was over the parson greeted them again as they left. He repeated their names to them, letting them know he was aware of their visit. Conversation determined they were not “passing through” but were newly moved to the community. His heart leapt with anticipation as they expressed they were “looking for a church home.”

When the worshipers had departed, the parson removed his robe and headed to the office. On his way one of the ushers for the day presented him with the Visitors Information Card from the packet. It had been filled out completely.

There it was. With a crisp check mark the couple had placed on the card made the parson’s week, maybe, with a little answered prayer, his month. There was no mistaking it. They had checked the box that proclaimed, “I’d like to know more about this church.”

The parson retired that evening with anticipation of waking to a productive week.

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I Knew You Would Be Here

It was that time in the service when the parson gathered the young folks at the front of the altar for their special time. At the parson’s church it was an eclectic group that gathered. They ranged in age from four to twenty. As the years had passed during the parson’s tenure the “children” had grown to teens and then college students. Yet, still they sat in the place for what used to be called the “Children’s Sermon.”

On this particular Sunday they had all laughed when one of the parson’s object lessons became a lesson in how not to handle that particular object. Still, the slipup provided an entry into the moral of the story. And then the parson asked everyone to bow for prayer.

When the “Amen” was pronounced, the Song Leader stood to announce the hymn. He didn’t get to.

“Excuse me,” called a voice from the vestibule. A woman started walking down the aisle.

It was Miriam Peabody. She was not a member of the parson’s church. The parson doubted she belonged to any particular congregation. But she was active in the community and always championing one cause or the other. Two weeks ago her group had asked the church to be allowed to use a diner the church had at the regional fairgrounds. They’d agreed and the parson provided her a key.

She walked down the aisle, stopping about halfway to greet Henry Stoddard, who seemed a bit perplexed at her presence. She then continued up to the altar, around the altar and up to the parson now standing near the pulpit.

“I figured I’d find you hear this morning, Parson, what with you folks having church and all. I wanted to personally thank you,” she said as she extended her hand, “for letting us use your diner during the Relay for Life. It was a big help having a place for people to have refreshments. We really appreciate it.” She turned to look out over the congregation, waved to them and continued, “Thanks to all of you.” Then she turned back to the parson and said, “Anyway knowing you’d be here I knew this would be a perfect time to return the key.” She handed the parson the key, and said, “Once again, thanks so much.”

The parson and the Song Leader and every person in the sanctuary watched her head back down the aisle, out the door and into the vestibule.

The Song Leader finally regained composure and signaled the musicians to begin. They did. As the intro to the hymn was played, the parson thought to himself: “When I prayed for something to happen that was not printed in the bulletin I should have been more specific.”

The Problem With the Worship

It was halfway through the sermon the parson noticed her. She was sitting in the back pew on the far side from the pulpit. She noticed the parson’s recognition and a slight smile curled her lips. 

At the end of the service she held back, shaking hands and making small talk with members who were excited to have a visitor present. When almost everyone had departed she came to greet him. They hugged. It had been several years since last they’d seen each other.

Cameron had popped in and out of the parson’s life through the years. She was a graduate student in anthropology while the parson was in seminary. Their friendship began at a shared table at the pizza joint down the hill from the school. In the parish where the parson served before retirement, she’d been the director of an important non-profit that brought hope to a lot of hopeless people. 

Ms. Parson approached and the two of them hugged. They caught up on whatever it was they needed to catch up on while the parson hung up his robe, made sure the doors were locked, and returned to the announcement they were headed out to eat.

They were seated at the restaurant when the parson asked, “So Cameron what brought you over this way today.”

“Well, I’ve kind of fallen out of the church going habit recently. And I thought I’d just pop over hear and reacquaint myself with worship.”

“I thought you were on the board and the missions committee at your church.”

“I am; well, I mean I was; actually, I guess I am but I’m just not attending anymore.”

The parson, having finished the meal, stacked his plates as he thought.

“Cameron, what’s happened?”

“I don’t know, Parson,” she said. “It’s just the way things are going now. The pastor we have now just doesn’t make the right decisions about worship.”

“Your pastor is exceptional,” the parson said. “We’re lucky to have him in our area.”

“He may be exceptional in some ways, Parson, but he’s made some changes over the years that I just don’t like.”

“What did he change?”

“One thing he did was let youth and children read the scriptures. I understand what he’s trying to do, but building the youth program via the morning worship doesn’t appeal to me. A lot of times you can’t even understand what the kids are saying.”

The parson started to day something, but Cameron continued, “And we now have those screens on the wall. He even illustrated a sermon right before I stopped going by using a scene from a popular movie. Movies in the sermon. I think that’s a bit much.”

The parson signed the credit card slip the server had brought him while Cameron went on. He placed the pen back in the holder, his card in his wallet, and leaned across the table toward Cameron.

“Cameron, I love you to death so let me say this as plain as possible. Next Sunday park your ass back on the pew you used to sit on and while the service is going on try to remember the worship is not about you.”

The Mystery of the Place

 The sun lost its struggle to break through the clouds and prepared to dip below the horizon. And yet the effort painted the clouds with a strange orange hue. 

The parson pulled his car into the left hand lane close to the curb as he stopped beside the mailbox. Lowering the window he reached out to retrieve the day’s mail. Charlie Brown, his faithful canine companion, roused himself on the back seat and awaited the next stop. 

Parking the car, the parson stepped out, opened the rear door and headed inside. Quickly he sorted the mail, checked for messages, made a couple of notes on things to do, and then quickly prepared to leave again.

On impulse the parson sat himself down, leaned his head back, closed his eyes, exhaled deeply and expelled his breath as he felt his fatigue. He looked around, taking in the details for the thousandth time. Outside the sun slipped down beneath the horizon and the light began to fail. Where the parson sat fading light enveloped in an aura of peace.

The took in the space again. There was something about it, a quietness, a stillness, and a mystery. The parson breathed deeply as though to inhale the essence of the room. He rose from his seat and moved to the door.

Outside Charlie Brown sat beside the car in anticipation of another ride. The parson opened the read door. Charlie Brown jumped in and with an audible grunt lowered himself to lay upon the seat. The parson moved behind the wheel. He cranked the car and reached for the gear shift.

He stopped and stared at the door from which he’d just exited. He remembered the sermons preached inside, the congregation that surprised him with their accomplishments and frustrated him to distraction with the limits of their faith. He thought of the frustrations the weekly appearance in that room brought him, the sermons needing more than he’d delivered, the people barely listening, the complaints that Aunt Mandy’s favorite hymn had not been sung in months. The room was symbolic of all that confronted a pastor.

The parson marveled at the mystery of sanctuaries and the hold they had always had on his life, from the chapel at the youth camp in his high school years, to the balcony pew of his home church in his teenage years, to the front pews in the years of his discovery, and distinctive mystery of each sanctuary whose walls had absorbed his words. 

The parson had left his fatigue inside. Now he drove away with a lighter demeanor, marveling at the healing power of sanctuaries, especially empty ones.

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Children and Not-So-Children

On the parson’s first Sunday at his church five or six children came forward for the Children’s Sermon. That was a good number for such a small congregation. But the numbers grew. Today when that part of the service arrives a few dozen are taking part in the sermon.

It would be wonderful to report this increase in numbers is the result of a marvelous evangelistic effort led by the parson. It’s not. Basically, the growing participants in the event are there by a simple accumulation of folks who won’t leave the “Children’s Sermon” pew. The growth as been such that the first three pews in the church are reserved for these participants.

Sunday a couple dozen were participating in what is now listed in the bulletin as the “Not-For-Adults Time.” The parson was playing the “Who Am I?” game with them. He’d found this at Sermons 4 Kids [dot] Com. The participants were given up to four clues to determine who was being described. Amazingly, the younger children were able to identify each on in order with a maximum of two clues. 

At one point the parson gave a clue: I was not first; I was second. A fifty-four year old woman sitting behind the participants shouted, “It’s Eve!”  Immediately five participants stood from the front pew, placed hands on hips as they turned to face the woman, and then gave her looks that proclaimed she was not supposed to participate in the Children’s Sermon now called Not-For-Adults Time.

The five who stood were made up of one high school junior, two high school seniors and two first year college students. At the parson’s church, you see, age is not a matter of years but of heart.

That Really Neat Church In North Carolina

An Open Letter to the Folks at the Ursinus United Church of Christ

Dear Folks -

I was that stranger with the two granddaughters who slipped into the back of your sanctuary last Sunday. I wanted to let you know what a joy it was to worship with you. 

Being a United Methodist pastor, I admit I did drive into the parking lot of the local United Methodist Church before coming to your worship. There was one factor that led me away from my own kind. I pulled into that Methodist parking lot at 10:45. I then noticed the sign proclaiming their service started at 10:30. Being an experienced pastor I knew all the Methodists, unlike your group, would be sitting in the back pew. Therefore, walking in late would necessitate parading down the aisle to get to a front pew while everyone watched. That was a discouraging realization. Also, I pondered why that church might be starting their service at 10:30. Two possibilities occurred to me. Either their pastor’s sermons is so extensive an extra half hour is needed or the earlier time is a calculated attempt to beat the Baptists to the restaurant. Neither appealed to me, so I headed to Ursinus.

There’s something special about being greeted with such warm and inviting smiles when walking into a new church experience. My oldest granddaughter, when we sat down, whispered, “These people are really nice.”  And indeed you were.

The warmth of your welcome was matched only by the warmth of your worship. Your congregation is truly blessed. And, oh my, allow me to lift my hand to heaven and praise the Lord for a pastor whose homiletic ability is surpassed only by his singing! Do you pay him extra for that?

I heard your pastor’s announcement about the meeting after next Sunday’s service to report to the church on the finances. Now, in my church, such a meeting would only mean we need more money. I’m going to pray this week that that money will be coming your way, because yours is a special church.

In his excellent sermon, Sunday, the Reverend Staunton pointed out that many of our sins are sins of geography, being where we should not be. It occurs to me the opposite may also be true. Many of our blessings are blessings derived from geography. I’m speaking of the geography of Ursinus United Church of Christ. There you sit on that major highway, an imposing presence, whose very location speaks to the centrality of faith in that community. 

Your pastor also mentioned that old adage of idle hands being the Devil’s workshop. My prayer is that whatever financial challenges come your way are the result of your hands being so active in doing the work of our Lord that it taxes the resources in redemptive ways. I’m planning to steal for one of my sermons one of your pastor’s counsel to “make the church a priority and not a Sunday obligation.” Wow! After worshiping with you and seeing your potential, your joyful countenance, and the possibilities of God’s blessing on you and your blessing on your community, I know where your priority surely will be.

I will always treasure the hour I spent in worship with you. I want you to know when they got home, one of my granddaughters, when asked about our week of traveling through the mountains and going to the theater in New York City, said to her mother, “Oh, Mom, you should have been with us at this really neat church in North Carolina.”

Those are my sentiments, also. My prayer is you will continue to be that “really neat church in North Carolina.”

Grace and peace to you all,

The Questing Parson