The parson didn’t get to the meeting exactly on time. He thought of himself as being fashionably late, having only missed the pre-blab refreshments. But he was there. The periodic gathering of the pastors of his area had been prescribed by the superintendent of the shepherds of the flocks. And so were gathered the various clerics. As the parson negotiated the steps to the little country church where the confab was beginning his muttering of “damn meetings” was drowned out by the combined voices of the seventy gathered pleading in lyrical splendor: “Tell me the stories of Jesus ….”The parson settled himself into his selected pew just as the assembled were entering the city “following the children’s band, waving a branch of a palm tree high in (their) hand(s).” They were united as “one of his heralds” and were singing “loudest hosannas, Jesus is king.”
“Well, that was wonderful,” proclaimed the superintendent. “Thank you so much for getting this off to such a rousing start. Be seated. We are so fortunate to be meeting this morning at Chapel Conjoined to the Cemetery Beside the Road Leading to Nowhere. I’m going to ask the most effective pastor of this congregation to begin our gathering with prayer. Brother Ima Blessum, would you come and beseech the Lord’s presence with us?”
The good pastor-in-charge of the chapel came forward and before addressing the Lord addressed more pressing matters. “Before we begin, let me point out a couple of things for you. The men’s restroom is located through the door on left side of the vestibule, and the ladies will have to come up here through the chancel to the facilities off the fellowship hall, just through that door over there.” He pointed to the door over there. “Now let us pray. “Dear Lord we come before you now ….”
The parson had bowed his head with the proper show of reverence to the One who reigns supreme. But before the host servant of that same One had intoned his petition for divine guidance he noticed a smudge on his left pants leg just above the knee. That stupid dog, the parson thought and quietly began to rub the spot away. As the pastor was asking the One to make a haven of blessing every home represented there, the parson raised his right hand to pat the inside breast pocket of his sports coat. Whew, he thought, for a second I thought I’d forgotten my pen. No sooner had he reassured himself than the host pronounced “Amen.” And the seventy servants, well including the parson it was now seventy-one, echoed, “Amen.”
“Thank you so much for that,” the superintendent said. “Now, as you folks know I don’t usually ask officials of the conference to come to these meetings, but today is an exception. Because of some matters that are going to be considered at the General Conference in April, I’ve asked Dr. Onna Wayup to share a few words with us.”
As the conference official approached the pulpit the parson smoothly pulled his legal pad to his lap, removed his pen from his sports coat, and wrote across the top of the page: “A Sermon for All-Saints Sunday.” As the official talked of possible changes in the candidacy process the parson felt a pang of frustration. What in the world is the scripture for Sunday, he questioned himself. His self did not answer.
One of the brothers asked a question which somehow seeped into the parson’s consciousness. The parson looked across the aisle to determine the source of the irritant. Recognizing the brother the parson thought Why don’t you just stand up and say you’d be really pleased if the fellow knew who you were. Now he was completely distracted. There was no way he could think of a sermon idea in this environment. He crossed out the heading and wrote another: “Ideas for Newspaper Columns.” He numbered the lines at the left margin consecutively from one to ten. “Arts in the Community” he wrote beside number one. “Animal Rescue” he wrote beside two. Trying to think of three he looked up and his eyes rested on the stain glass picture above the altar. The details fascinated him.
“Thanks a lot for clearing things up, Onna,” said the superintendent. “Now if you’ll all look at the packet that you received as you came in, let’s go over the calendar for next year.”
The little girl with the blonde hair pulled back into a pony tail was flying down the touchline carrying the ball with practiced precision toward the opponent’s penalty box. With a deft move she switched direction and turned toward the goal. The goalie, a dark haired girl, moved out to challenge. It was no use. The blonde was too sure of her abilities to be intimidated. She faked left and dragged the ball right and with a quickness that belied her age cocked her lower leg back and then brought it forward to strike the ball perfectly so that it flew into the back of the net without a spin. Everyone on the sideline erupted in cheers. . . .
“Now if you look at March you’ll see a schedule for the ministry evaluations. Be sure you’ve got your time down, and if there’s any conflict you must contact me to make the necessary changes . . . .”
The wind on the steep side of Mount Healy was cold even though it was the end of May. All along the path of the hiker were small wildflowers bursting forth in bloom, soaking up the sun and giving announcement to the coming of new life the valleys below the Alaskan peaks. His legs were aching a bit now, the natural consequence of age. The altitude was belaboring his breathing but he was not going to be stopped. The summit was the goal the summit was going to be obtained. On, on, on, he climbed. On, on, as the wind whipped his face imprinting a burn that would sting that night. On, on, on, and then, and then he stood there at the top. He looked around him at the snow covered peaks in every direction. On the slopes across the valley Dall sheep grazed in the sunlight. He sat down on a rock absorbing the beauty of the Denali National Park . . . .
“Okay, now let’s talk about the days the bishop will be available if anyone needs to talk with him …” intoned the superintendent.
He felt the warmth of her hand in his. He couldn’t be sure where he was, but she was there and that made it where he should be. They were walking down a path beside a pasture with horses grazing. A pond was over to the left with Canadian geese swimming about their newborns following contentedly. They stopped and leaned their arms against the split log fence. The wind whipped their hair. He looked over at her and warmth stirred in his heart. She sensed his looking. Without turning his way she whispered “I love you.”
A cell phone rang. The parson jumped upright in the pew. He shook the cobwebs from his mind. Looking down at his legal pad he saw the meandering line made by his pen as it wandered down the page. The cell phone rang again. Idiot the parson thought as he shifted himself awake.
“Okay, if there’s nothing else we’ll be adjourned. Parson, would you be kind enough to dismiss us with prayer.”
The parson rose, “Let us pray. Thank you Lord for this time we’ve shared today ….”
Credits: Graphics by subscription with Clip Art Dot Com
Change the name of the conference and the district and I think I've been to one just like this. Thanks.
Posted by: Anonymous Visitor | October 30, 2007 at 07:54 AM