Questing Parson

Connecting With the Audience

The parson was enjoying the solitude of a quiet breakfast in the back corner of his favorite restaurant. Ellen, the competent server, was attending to his every need. The eggs had been consumed, the grits devoured, the bacon savored, the toast with grape jelly relished. And now the parson sat sipping his decaf as he looked over the notes he’d made for the coming Sunday.

The parson was interrupted. It was a surprise to see the church superior standing next to the table. “Hello, Parson,” said church superior, “can I join you?”

The parson motioned for the church superior to sit across from him. He made a motion for Ellen to come over. She took church superior’s order. The parson contemplated what to say. Truth be told, the parson was not that fond of church superior. But he was church superior, and so the parson waited patiently to discover why church superior had plopped himself into the booth opposite the parson.

“Parson, do you know Henry Sullivan?” asked church superior.

“I do,” said the parson. “He’s serving the Quiet Church In the Valley Beside the Gentle Flowing Stream.”

“He is,” said church superior. “And I have a problem.”

“What’s that?” asked the parson.

“Okay, Parson, we’ve decided we want to move Henry. He’s a great servant, but we need someone more dynamic in that church, someone who can attract people to the church, someone who can build the congregation into something it’s not now. Do you understand what I mean?”

“I have no idea what you mean,” said the parson. “I gave up trying to figure out what you guys on the bishop’s cabinet are trying to do back in 1994.”

“Look, Parson. We need to move Henry out of his church so we can move a more dynamic preacher in. Someone who will attract a bigger attendance. But when I brought this up with the local congregation they didn’t just resist; they down right rebelled. I don’t understand it. Henry couldn’t preach his way out of a wet paper bag, but those people are being defiant.”

The parson smiled. Ellen arrived at the table with church superior’s order. The parson watched him as he dug into the scrambled eggs.

“You know,” the parson said to church superior, “my son is the artistic director of a world renowned dance company.”

“I knew that,” said church superior.

“Well, let me tell you something about that dance company,” the parson said.

“And this has what to do with Henry Sullivan?”

“Look,” said the parson, “you’re the one who interrupted my solitude. So I’ll tell the story in my own way.”

Church superior nodded assent.

“So, over the years I’ve had the opportunity to watch more than a few dancers come and go with the Pilobolus Dance Theater. Some have been good; some have been great; some have been down right exceptional. But of all the dancers I’ve seen with that dance company, two - obviously excepting my son - have stood out. One was Rebecca Anderson. She’s retired and doesn’t dance with Pilobolus anymore. The other is Jordan Kriston. Now, here’s the thing. Every dancer with Pilobolus is an exceptional dancer. They couldn’t dance with that company without being so. But, there’s a difference.

“I go to a theater and watch a performance of Pilobolus. I can sit on the fifth row from the stage, or the ninth, or the twentieth. And it doesn’t matter where I’m sitting when Jordan Kriston is dancing. She doesn’t just perform; she is dancing with me. She sucks me into the performance. She makes me part of the story.

“And that’s your challenge with Henry Sullivan,” said the parson to church superior. “Henry Sullivan isn’t just preaching. He’s bringing them into the adventure, making them part of the story. So, you’d better recognize that you’re not going to be able to replace Henry Sullivan.

“You know what,” the parson said to church superior, “Jordan Kriston is going to be dancing in Chattanooga on April 18th. You should buy a ticket. Then you might understand.”

 

http://www.utc.edu/fine-arts-center/pattenperformances/pilobolus.php

 

The Silly Fool

I don’t know why I do it. Every time I do, I make myself a promise I will not do it again. But, over the years, I’ve been unable to maintain my resolve. And I find myself doing it again.

I speak of getting together with those old high school classmates. Every year since we graduated, fifty-five years ago, there’s been a reunion. Sometimes they were lavish affairs. These rolled around every ten years or so. Other times there were more informal events, such as a gathering at a local tavern, owned be an old classmate, a hop, skip, and a jump from the school.

Every time one of these happenings rolls around it’s the same group that organizes them. And that same group is the same group that was the “in group” when we were in high school. What really amazes me is they still talk about the same things they were talking about the day before graduation. They still hang out together. Sometimes it appears their life experience is but an adjunct of those days half a century ago.

And so, I seldom go to the gatherings of the friends of long ago. But, sometimes, I get curious and agree to come. So it was with the last invitation. I accepted the invitation. As soon as I did the former student body president contacted me and asked me to open the gathering with a prayer. I accepted, not because I thought the Lord God Almighty would be there, but because after all these years of ministry I’d never been invited to open a gathering of the soon-to-be-drunks.

I prayed a prayer that went something like this: Precious Lord, we thank you for the great memories we have. We give you thanks for the gray in our hair that is evidence of our growing wisdom; we praise you for the wrinkles around our eyes that are proof we are still looking toward the future. We express our gratitude for the slowness of our walk, because finally we have time to observe the beauty of your creation. Bless our time together, O Lord, because we don’t have that much time left. And before this night ends, O God, grant to me, your humble servant, the courage to finally ask Dorothy Hammond to dance.”

We went about the festivities of the evening. We exchanged memories and lies, talked of children and grandchildren, remembered old and revered teachers, and enjoyed a succulent feast prepared by the expensive caterers. Laughter filled the banquet hall. The music, brought to us by a 50s diskjockey, brought a tapping of the feet and memories of dances long, long ago.

In the middle of one of those memories I felt a tapping on my shoulder. I turned. There stood Dorothy Hammond in all of her beauty and elegance. My heart went giddi-up. Her lips formed the word, “Well?” I froze. I could not speak. “Well?” she repeated. “Has the Lord given you the courage?”

So, I danced with Dorothy. We danced two dances, surprising ourselves that we could still fast dance without dropping in exhaustion. We turned to go back to the table. The lilting sounds of Elvis singing “Love Me Tender” sounded over the speaker. “One more time,” she said. We danced; we danced slowly, very slowly. She bit my ear lobe and whispered, “You should have asked me fifty-five years ago, you fool.”

I can’t wait for the next reunion.

 

The Mystery Woman

Next to doing things with my grandkids, the thing I most enjoy doing is messing with my children. Now I don’t get involved in their lives. Well, I don’t get involved unless they attempt to define what I can or cannot give my grandchildren. Generally, speaking I respect their space and they respect mine.

They are, however, typical kids who shake their heads in consternation at the “old age” things I do or will not do. A few years back they did apparently get some instruction from the Almighty that advice on living and living properly should be sent my way on occasion.

It used to be that I’d help them out around their houses, cutting the lawn occasionally, putting in a new bathroom floor, little things that occupied my time and gave me a sense of being useful. I don’t do that anymore. All my children have children. And I don’t care if this is the Twenty-first Century or not; I firmly believe children, I’m speaking of their children, should be required to do chores such as cutting grass and such. So I don’t do those projects anymore. Besides I’ve reached the age where my back hurts.

This reduction in activities, however, does not diminish my joy at messing with them. And I’ve gotten a bit cagey at it. Such was the case recently.

One of my kids, the oldest son, is an Artistic Director of the Pilobolus Dance Theater. His dance company was performing in Atlanta. I bought the tickets and made plans to attend. Not wanting to go alone, I called my two oldest granddaughters. The older one, the one with the car and driver’s license, informed me she couldn’t fit it into her schedule. I hate it when they start thinking on their own. Her younger sister, who doesn’t have a driver’s license or a boyfriend, jumped at the chance.

So, we made our plans, dinner at a nice restaurant and then the dance performance followed by a visit backstage to talk with the dancers.

Now to the part about messing with my kids. Well, wait before that part, here’s a note to a certain woman: There are people in this town who like to talk, to make something out of nothing. Therefore I’m not mentioning your name. But thanks for making it possible for me to mess with my kids.

Okay, there’s this lady in town to whom I happened to mention the dance company was coming to Atlanta. She bought tickets for herself and a friend. We’d planned for the two of them to meet my granddaughter and me at the restaurant and then head to the dance. It turned out at the last minute her friend couldn’t go. We rode together to pick up my granddaughter.

The woman of whom I speak is (How shall I put this?)  The woman is a fox. She definitely above average. This head-turner and I pulled up at my daughter’s house. We walked in. I said to my daughter who’s four years older than this woman, “Hey Sweetheart, this is my friend (insert name here).” My daughter was transfixed for a moment. “Oh, how nice to meet you.”

We three enjoyed our dinner and especially the performance.

My phone rang a few minutes ago. It was my youngest son. “So, Dad, I hear you went to the dance last night. Did you have a good time?”

I love messing with my kids.

Thank You Gus Olafsson

I wanted to take a moment today to express my appreciation to Gus Olafsson. Now, it might seem a bit eccentric I would write about Gus. You see, I have no idea who Gus Olafsson is.

I came across his name the other night watching the movie Prometheus online. I have this quirk. Most of the time when a movie has come to its end and the credits are running, I let them run. It’s easy to click on the next point of interest, but I let the credits run. After all, that’s a list of folks who made the movie possible. I confess, I don’t read the names. But they played their part; the least I can do is let their name run over the screen without my impatient interruption.

As I said, I was watching Prometheus. I was watching it because Noomi Rapace was the star. I may be an old, old man, but Noomi Rapace makes my heart go giddy-up. Movie over, the credits ran. I let them run as I began to straighten things up. At the point I looked back at the screen my eyes fell on the name Gus Olafsson. Gus has a title. His title is: Set Dec Buyer.

I have no idea what a Set Dec Buyer is. I have no idea who Gus Olafsson is. But Gus did his part to make the movie possible. I enjoyed the movie. So, thanks Gus. I appreciate your effort.

Thinking about Gus reminds me there are a lot of folks responsible for our enjoyment who never get recognition. My son is with the Pilobolus Dance Theater. He used to dance; now he’s an Artistic Director for the company. Being the dad of a dancer I’ve had the opportunity to watch the performances from back stage as well as in the control booth at the rear of the theater. The Pilobolus dancers are spectacular. But sometimes the spectacular is made possible because of the way the dancers move from light to shadow to light again. It would be a less commanding performance if the shadow wasn’t there.

After the performances people like to hang around and speak to the dancers. “Oh, you were wonderful,” they say. “My gracious, I was so captivated by that last piece.” I’ve watched those audience members express their appreciation to the dancers for the beauty of the performance more than a couple of times. Strangely, I’ve never heard anyone say, “Is there any way I could speak to Michael Faba, the lighting supervisor. “I just love the way he made that piece come alive.”

The same goes for Sarah Fujiwara, the Pilobolus stage manager. Got to tell you, folks, if it wasn’t for Sarah the Pilobolus dancers wouldn’t need to stretch out prior to the performance. Without Sarah, there would be no performance.

So, Michael and Sarah, please accept my apology for not expressing my admiration and appreciation. It was thoughtless on my part.

And that brings me to last Sunday’s worship. I don’t think anyone said to Larry, “Thanks so much for greeting me at the door with your smile.” I don’t think anyone said to Jackie and Jonnie, “I just want to thank you for passing these collection plates around so I could drop these big bucks into them.” I’m pretty sure no one told Karen what a great job she did cleaning the sanctuary so we could mess it up again.

So, Gus, I’m grateful no only for your efforts on the movie, but, also, for reminding me I should be more appreciative to those who get so little credit for some really good things.

And if you read this, Gus, would you do me a favor. Send me an email letting me know what the hell a Sec Dec Buyer actually does.

Pilobolus Workshop

So, what do my oldest son and his wife, my daughter-in-love, do in their spare time?

Have I Told You About My Granddaughter?

 

 

 

 

 

This is my fifteen-year-old granddaughter. I don't want to brag, so click on the picture. 

Nine months ago she was hiking with me through the Aslaskan Wilderness. And now ....

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

You And I Were Right, Mother

Well, Mother, Sunday is Mother's Day. That will be the twentieth anniversary of the day you, reclined on that bed at Emory Healthcare's Wesley Woods Geriatric Hospital said to me, “You think you're going to put me in a nursing home, but I'll show you.”

I remember being a little put off by that remark. I don't recall what I said in retort, but I do know this. Twenty minutes after I left you died. You know, Mother, it's a bit disconcerting that you always had to have the last word.

But that should not be surprising. Over the years I've discovered that much of what you said proved to be, if not prophetic, infused with an abundance of wisdom.

You once told me that my resentment of your constant interfering in my life would come back to haunt me. You told me that someday I'd be in the position of attempting to give my grown children advice and having that considered advice rejected, cast aside, relegated as out-of-date and of no consequence. You told me that when that happened I'd be remembering all the times I ignored your accumulated wisdom.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that someday I'd be waiting for a postcard, telephone call, some sign of recognition, or any affirmation that I mattered in the life of my children and that on that day I'd remember the infinite number of times I didn't call you, I didn't send you a letter, I didn't drop by your house because I was too occupied with the unimportant, and that on that day I'd be filled with guilt that I did not honor you and the price you paid to make me what I am today.

You were right, Mother.

You pointed out to me, in that delicate voice of yours that conveyed love and admonition in one breath, that the day would come when I would want some private time with my grandchildren, time to educate them to their linage, the contributions of their ancestors, the history of from where they came,and that one that day I'd regret I never brought them to sit at you feet and hear of the one room schoolhouse where their great-great-great-grandfather taught in the first public school in Gwinnett County.

You were right, Mother.

You told me that manners were important. You insisted that I'd do well in life if I learned to be a gentleman. You insisted I should hold the door open for ladies, I should stand when my elders entered the room, and that, no matter what the circumstance, being gracious would bring more rewards than being obnoxious. . (Actually, Mother, you didn't say “obnoxious”; you used another word for donkey, but I'm constrained here by the newspaper standards.)

You were right, Mother.

You were right in so many things I would not admit then. You were right and I was wrong because I had not obtained the advantage of your senior status. Now, hopefully, Mother, I am more wise. Now I see things from your perspective.

This being said, Mother, do you remember when I told you if you continued to coddle my younger brother, to protect him, to treat him like he was so darn special, to forgive him of all his indiscretions, to just smile when he fell from grace, to, frankly, spoil him, he would become an opinionated, obstinate, hard-headed old fart?

I was right, Mother.

Reasoned Prayer

The parson was stacking his plates on the tray to take them to the conveyor belt for their journey to the hospital cafeteria kitchen. As he rose from the chair, Sam Holliday, pastor of the Church of the Glorious Redeemed, walked up.

“Parson, good to see you. Hope things are going well for you now.”

The parson replied affectionately, “They are Sam; much better. You know, Sam, I'm not sure I told you how much I appreciated your support when Ms. Parson died. The notes you sent all through that first year were, well, they meant a lot.”

“You're still in my prayers, Parson.”

“Thanks, Sam, I need them.”

“Well, I won't keep you,” Sam said. “It really is good to see you again though. We'll have to get together soon for another of our arguments.”

“Let's do that. Give me a call.”

Sam turned to join some folks at a corner table. The parson turned to move toward the tray return. Sam turned back. “Parson, let me ask you something real quick. What do you think about that secularist group trying to kidnap the National Day of Prayer?”

“I guess I've missed this, Sam. How is someone going to kidnap the National Day of Prayer.”

“Some organization of atheists and humanist had a celebration of a National Day of Reason on the same day as the National Day of Prayer. I thought it was insulting. What do you think?”

“You know, Sam, when we get together this can be what we argue about.”

“You're not offended at this.”

“Actually, Sam, I'm a bit hard pressed to find a conflict between prayer and reason.”

The Plants Have Been Watered

7:30 a.m.

The parson arrived at the church. He headed to the kitchen to make himself a cup of cappuccino, and, having completed that task, went to his study to make an attempt at organizing his day. On arriving at the study he realized he'd forgotten to bring the power cord to the laptop. Knowing there was another one in the media room he headed through the sanctuary to retrieve the cord from the room at the rear of the worship area.

Walking back to his study he noted the plants on the stands in the chancel were looking more than a little fatigued. He headed to the kitchen again, filled a pitcher with water and returned to the sanctuary where he watered the plants.

9:00 a.m.

The parson was at entering a meeting about a coming event in the community when he got a text from a member reading: “Parson, I was at the church and noticed the plants in the sanctuary were in real need of watering. I took care of it. Have a good day.” The parson did not give  much thought to the text and headed to his meeting.

11:00 a.m.

The parson was back at the church for a counseling session with someone. Following the session he left the church while the person who had sought the counseling remained to meet about a children's program at noon. About noon, the parson answered his cell phone. “Hi, Parson, it's me. Look I'm sorry to interrupt whatever you're doing but I thought I should tell you I watered the plants in the sanctuary.

The parson expressed his thanks, mentally filed this information somewhere in the recesses of his mind, and continued toward the hospital which was his next destination.

3:00 p.m.

“Ring. Ring.”

“Hello.”

“Hello, Parson, this is Wanda. I came by to clean the church. Those plants in the sanctuary looked a bit down on their luck so I watered them. Look, I know that Rhonda Milford likes to take care of the plants. But, gracious, she needs to do a better job. I went ahead and watered them.

It was around 5:00 p.m. The parson was sitting on the sofa contemplating the various possibilities of gastronomic delights he could create for himself. Suddenly, out of nowhere the parson's brain brought to the forefront the many calls about the plants.

“Come on, Charlie Brown,” said the parson. “We need to go to the church.”

7:45 p.m.

The parson finally rose from his knees in the chancel of the church. He took the soggy towel and placed it along with the dozen or so others in the bucket. Picking up the bucket he headed to the kitchen to ring them out and take them home to launder.

“Well, Charlie Brown,” the parson commented, as his faithful canine companion jumped in the backseat where the bucket of wet towels were on the floor, “those plants should look really fresh come Sunday morning.”