Questing Parson

What A World We Live In

I started writing this in the customer lounge of a car dealership. It's oil change time on the trusted hybrid. What a world we live in.

I drove that hybrid over here and got some really exceptional mileage. And beyond the fact the mileage was terrific, there's the added benefit that I don't pollute as much as some of you. I read an article a few years back which stated you can put your nose up the tailpipe of my hybrid and take a deep breath and you would breath cleaner air than in most metropolitan areas. What a world we live in!

Arriving I pulled out my laptop computer, opened it, clicked on the control panel and clicked the right buttons to tell my computer to search for a wireless internet connection. Bingo. With one more click I was connected. I checked my email, answered a couple of them, deleted several more, and downloaded some needed information from others, placing the information in the designated files so I could deal with it later. Then I watched some news clips from the internet server news service. When I started my ministry down in rural Wilkes County, Georgia, we had one of those crank telephones that connected to the central operator, and then we told her who to connect us with so we could have a conversation, a conversation that might be monitored by any number of people on the same line. Now I can bring the whole world to my lap via this notebook size machine. What a world we live in!

Speaking of the phone. Now my phone is in my pants pocket. I no longer need to be home to get a call. You can reach me anywhere I am. You have to have my phone number. And since it's so easy to reach me no matter where I am you'll understand why I probably will not be giving you my phone number. And even those who do have my number may not get to talk to me. That's because this new phone I carry in my pocket also tells me who's calling before I answer the call. Which may explain to some of those who have my number why there was no answer when the called. What a world we live in!

The phone does a lot more than allow me to talk to folks. It also is a camera, a video recorder, a dictionary, a copy of the Bible, internet access device, GPS instrument that provides me a map on how to get from here to there virtually anywhere in the world, a weather forecast service, a stock exchange monitor, and other. I'm not sure about some of the other uses it has. My grandchildren haven't taught me how to use them. What a world we live in!

I decided to read the paper. I took another device from my pocket, called a Kindle. I flipped it on and there was the Atlanta Journal / Constitution's current edition. They don't deliver the AJC to our fair town anymore, but I get it electronically. And I can read countless other papers, magazines, and books. All of them are in the Kindle I carry in my pocket. What a world we live in.

When I returned home I noticed the new neighbor's car was in the carport. They moved in last week. I don't know their name. What a world we live in.

Enough Is Enough

The parson sat back listening to Jeff Autry, a lay person who served as an area representative to the church governing body. Robert Everest, a fellow pastor from down the road and Steve Underwood, a pastor visiting from out-of-town were there. Jeff was upset.

“Parson, sometimes it seems like there's no purpose to it. I go to every meeting I'm able to attend. Now, I grant you I don't get to all of them. But even when I go it seems the whole organization is going in a different direction that it ought to.”

“I'm not following you, Jeff,” the parson said.

Jeff gave a bit of a huff, and then said, “Well, pardon me for saying so, Parson, but it's really easy to understand. I get the feeling that because I have to miss a few meetings I'm sort of a bastard child. Look, I've got some good ideas and I'm tired of people not listening.”

“No one lets you talk, Jeff?”

“Oh, they'll let me talk, but that's all I'm doing is talking. When the get to the vote I might as well have not said a thing. I'm tired of it.”

There was silence. The other two pastors were waiting for the parson to respond. The parson had no intention of responding. After an interminal pregnant silence, Jeff spoke again.

“You don't have anything to say?”

“Nope.”

“Look, I might as well quit.”

The parson was silent. The other two pastors figeted in their seats.

“I said, 'I might as well quit.'”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

“Quit.”

“Well, hell, I will. You can inform them that I'm withdrawing my participation in their discussions.”

“I will.”

“I guess I might as well leave, then.”

“See you around,” said the parson.

Jeff left. The other two were still quiet. The parson picked up his phone and called his superior in the church. “Morning,” he said. “Look Jeff Autry was just in my office. He wanted me to let you know he's resigning from that committee he's on.” The parson listened to the response. “No, he said he wanted to quit and I told him I'd tell you.” The parson listened some more. “Okay, have a good day. See you next week.”

The parson turned to his guests. “Anybody want more coffee?”

“Parson,” said Robert, “I can't believe you just let that guy quit.”

“Believe it,” said the parson. “I've known him for twenty-two years. I think his middle initial is 'B', and that would be 'B' for bitching. I'm tired of it. He's always threatening to resign from some committee or another so folks will beg him to come back. I'm an old man and I've had to deal with his kind for forty years. Today I decided I wouldn't do it anymore.”

“I don't think I could get away with that,” said Steve.

“You're not as charming as I,” said the parson.

A Different Story

The meeting was over, but no one seemed in a hurry to leave. The conversation centered for a while on each participant's hopes for the church in the next few years. There was laughter; there was a sense of pride. The parson, sitting at the corner of the table, listened with pleasure.

Eventually, the talk wandered to more personal matters. “Fran,” one lady asked another, “how are things with your sister?”

“How are things with Helen? Oh, my goodness, do you have a few hours. I don't know what we're going to do with her.” Everyone listed to the tale of Helen's refusal to assert herself in a difficult situation at her work. “I'm just flabbergasted,” said Fran, “Mama wouldn't want her rolling over and playing dead like that.”

“I know what you mean,” interjected Susan. “Have you heard about Sam and Veronica? They decided they're not going to church anymore. I mean, just out of nowhere they're not attending. You know Sam was the lay leader of his church for a long time. Veronica says it has nothing to do with the new preacher. But you have to wonder.”

The conversation headed around the corner and seemed to be gathering in all the disappointing people in the community to the table. The parson listened quietly. Susan finally turned to him. “Parson, what do you think about all these people? It seems like everywhere we look people are, well, you know ...”

The parson rose in preparation for leaving. “You know, Susan, my grandfather used to say, “To live above with those we love, well that will be glory. To live below with those we know, now that's a different story.”

Why Can't You Remember?

“You remember me; don't you?” he said with a smile on his face.

I studied him carefully. There was something vaguely familiar about his face but the memory would not come into focus. A former parishioner? My mind quickly attempted an inventory of remembered members. Nothing. College? Another quick inventory brought the same futile results. There was no way to avoid the answer.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “Your face is somewhat familiar, but I just can't recall. I'm really sorry.”

“Come on,” he insisted. “Come on. Give it a try.”

I stood there staring in confusion. Give what a try?

“Come on, guess. You don't remember do you. Okay, but you remember Doris,” he said, pointing to the woman beside him. As he pointed I looked at Doris. She was not familiar at all. I did not remember Doris. “Remember, 1963. Oh my goodness, those were the days. We didn't have a care in the world back then. And you certainly had a take no prisoners attitude. It's a wonder you didn't get kicked out of school with all those pranks you pulled.”

Ah ha, I thought. Okay, college. Pranks. Here's a clue. But wait, to this day Jim and I had kept our vow of silence. We were still the only ones who knew. Could Jim have possibly given it up after all these years? Naw, we promised each other we'd never tell who put the cow in the dean's office. Naw. Jim wouldn't have told unless he checked with me first. Still, 1963? Pranks? What else could they be talking about?

I stared more intently at him and his wife. Still memory would not activate any recognition. And yet, they seemed to know about the pranks.

“You know,” he said, “it was just yesterday Doris was talking about that girl you brought to the dance. What in the world was her name? She didn't go to our college. Was she a local girl? I tell you this, she was a looker. Everybody at the dance was envious of you. Doris thinks she was a bit older than you.”

I thought again. A dance date who was good looking. What dance were they taking about? Could they have been talking about Pamela Jane? She did go to the spring dance with me. She was a looker. Okay, pranks and a dance and a pretty girl. Why can't I put these together?

“Don't tell me you still can't remember us,” he said. “You're goint to hurt our feelings.”

I didn't want to hurt their feelings. But who were they? What was wrong? Why couldn't I place them? Maybe. Maybe it was because he hadn't told me his name. I pointed to his wife. “Doris. Doris. But remind me of your name,” I said to him.

“My name. Oh, my goodness, you don't remember. Edward. It's Edward,” he said holding his arms out to the side in a “here I am” gesture.

Edward? 1963? Pranks? Good looking date? Nope. I couldn't put the name Edward with any of it.

Just then another man walked up. Edward hailed him, “Randy, look who's here. You remember Bart.”

“I don't think I do,” said Randy. “Do we know each other?”

I quickly informed Randy my name was not Bart.

“You're not Bart?” asked Edward. “Why didn't you say so earlier?”

It Could Happen

We're already three days into the new year, a full decade into the century. Gracious it seems only a few weeks ago we worried about Y2K. Now here it is 2011 and we've already broken this year's resolution. Maybe next year we should be more specific in our wording of those resolves

Tell you the truth, I didn't make any resolutions this time around. Maybe being worn out from that incessant cough I had just wore me out. Maybe experience from previous years of failed resolutions brought clarity of vision. Maybe I just got so caught up in the football game I forgot. No matter the reason I'm devoid of New Year Resolutions.

I am, however, looking forward to the New Year. I'm the eternal optimist. I'm convinced this year things will happen that have not happened before.

I'm convinced that finally this will be the year when a parishioner upon exiting the church will not say, “I enjoyed the sermon,” but will be more precise by saying something to the effect of: “Parson, I was particularly taken with your exegesis of the scripture this morning. I was fascinated with your take on the theological implications of Second Isaiah's eschatological vision. Could you recommend a detailed book I could purchase to further study this?”

This will be the year when I will be overtaken by one of those flashy Georgia State Patrol vehicles, the one with the blue lights invisible until the trooper pushes the button. The protector of our state's highways and byways will exit his patrol car and approach mine in his blue uniform with its military crispness and, rather than say, “May I see your license and proof of insurance,” will instead sing out, “Sir, I stopped you to just say I am in complete awe of your driving abilities. You are an example to your generation.”

This will be the year my children will come to me as a group. They will sit me down in the living room and, after sharing a few memories, will announce: “Dad, the reason we've come today is to tell you that we've taken an inventory of all the sage advice you gave us over the years. We have all agreed that you were right. In every case you were right. And we're begging you, Dad, please take an hour or two right now and give us some more pointers.”

2011 will be the year when a church member comes to me and says, “You know, Parson, Audrey Aggravate said some of the stupidest things in Sunday School this morning. I can't believe that woman can make me this mad. And it's not just that I'm mad; it's also that my feelings are hurt. I'm really steamed. I'm so steamed I don't know what to do. But, Pastor, I do know what I will not do. I'm not going to let this effect my life in the church. I'm going to remember that what we're here for is bigger than am I. I'm not going to let my silly feelings get in the way of me and my Lord and the vows I took when I was baptized. Nope, it's not going to happen. In fact, I'm going back in there right now and give Audrey Aggravate a big hug and tell her I love her.”

2011. It's a New Year. This coming year is full of possibilities. These things could happen.

 

I'm Tired, Really Tired!

Here's the deal folks. I'm really, really tired. I guess it's a combination of things pressing in, professional and personal. And, as much as I hate to admit it, my age may be a factor. One top of that I took on more than I should have lately. I've caught up on it all, but I've there's always more around the corner.

The long and short of it is I need a break, a complete break for a while. So, some really top notch preachers are filling my pulpit the next two weeks and Ms. Parson and I are out of here. We're headed out west to Utah, Wyoming, and Montana, and who knows where else. The only thing I know for certain is the next two Sundays will find me in Dave and Kim Pepper's churches, one each Sunday. I've always wondered which of them is the best preacher. Where we are on the other days depends on the toss of the coin when we get to a major intersection.

I've promised myself to make this a REAL vacation. So, the Parson's not going to blog while spending some quality time with Ms. Parson in the shadow of the Grand Tetons and looking out over majestic vistas.

So, that's all folks --- UNTIL OCTOBER 11TH.

When It Was Hot

There was no thermometer in sight. It was not needed. Some things, in their extreme, can be measured without instrument. Such was the case on this day.

The morning broke with no hint of the oppression that was to come. Any hint of the heaviness of air later to be experienced was swept away by the gentle breeze that sang prelude to the sunrise. That sunrise was majestic, a translucent orange, immersing the dawn in its glow.

They ignored the magnificence of the opening day, seemingly unaware of reports of the warmth that was to come. There were deeds to be done, adventures to be experienced, life to be celebrated. Every day was good, free, filled with promise, and no amount of atmospheric nadir could mar the promise of what was to be.

The first indicant of what was to come whispered its way through the forest where they began to explore at ten that morning. The stream meandering under the wooded canopy belied the climbing mercury. Yet, had they realized, such was the determination of the trio intent upon their mission, it would not have hindered them. Beads of perspiration dotted foreheads and cascaded down bare chests. On the explorers moved with determination toward their goal.

Noonday brought a halt in the journey. Brown paper bags were brought out and opened, their contents removed to allow the bag itself to become tablecloth on the moss covered rock. Three sandwiches, two kosher pickles wrapped individually in aluminum foil, one boiled egg likewise wrapped, eight Oreo cookies, and one canteen of water comprised the combined feast.

Flies and gnats kept free arms circling about perspiring bodies as the food was consumed, half sandwiches being swapped as each sampled the preparations of another’s mother. Meal completed, the bags wadded, stuffed into pockets, and the trek resumed. Sweat poured with every step taken.

Around one in the afternoon the destination was reached. The pond covered three to four acres, formed by a natural obstruction to the stream’s course. Three young bodies plunged into the cool waters; three muscular bodies executed the Austrian crawl through the waters in imitation of Tarzan knifing through a jungle river. Laughter echoed along the bank of the far side when they pulled themselves out, huffing with labored breath. Some moments of recovery were spent on a rock which refused to be comfortable. The sun now beat down like it had yesterday and the day before.

So hot was that sun their bodies quickly dried and torsos began to heat and life became miserable in the open out from under the shade of the trees. They plunged back into the wet making their way back to their shoes in a lingering dog paddle, attempting to shun the sun’s blistering heat. A snake swam across their path slowing their progress even more in an attempt to avoid the intruders.

On shore again they agreed to turn toward home. Retracing their steps toward their beginning as the forest sheltered them from the sun but not from the heat. It felt more intense now with the comparison of the cooling pond. Leaving the forest they headed up the hot, sticky, asphalt road and, then, separating entered their houses, adventure over, seeking relief with the hallway ceiling fan.

Mail retrieved from the box the parson walked back up the drive thru the ninety-seven degree heat and into my air-conditioned abode having remembered a day when it was really hot.

Alone On A Bench

The parson sat on the bench in the park listening to the band’s rendition of “Stranger In the Night.” The crowd was decent but not enough to crowd the little park. The head of the day was giving way to the cool of night but the weight of Georgia humidity remained. The parson felt for the band members whose foreheads sparkled from the beads of sweat.

Vera Huddlemann approached. “Parson, I didn’t expect to see you out tonight. Where’s Ms. Parson?”

“Ms. Parson is creating some stained glass artistic masterpiece, Vera. What are you doing here?”

“Well, I was shopping at the Little Ones Boutique and heard the music so I decided to come on over. I don’t usually come out to these things.” Vera sat down on the bench beside the parson. “The band seems to be quite good.”

“They are, Vera,” said the parson. “I’m particularly fond of the trumpet player. Jim Lester told me they’re going to play “Stardust” in a few. I’m hanging around for that.”

The band played two more pieces as Vera and the parson sat listening, nodding occasionally to the people who walked by. After that Vera turned to face the parson.

“Parson, I drove past the church today and noticed Cynthia Ryder’s car was there.”

“Was it?”

“It was. I was just wondering what she might have been doing at the church.”

“Why don’t you ask her?” the parson suggested.

“I thought I’d ask you, Parson, since your car was there, too.”

“Was it?”

“It was. So I suppose you’d know what Cynthia was doing there.”

“That’s possible, Vera.”

“Well, Parson, I mean, do you think it’s proper for you and Cynthia to be at the church together?”

“Vera, did it ever occur to you Cynthia parked her car at the church to car pool with someone?”

“Is that why her car was there?”

“I’d ask Cynthia about that Vera, if you have to know.”

“Well, I’m asking you, Parson.”

“Before I answer that, Vera, can I ask you a personal question?”

“I guess so.”

“Was there some reason you decided to come sit with me on this bench when Ms. Parson’s not around?”

It was but a few minutes after that the considerably talented trumpet player pealed forth the smooth notes of Hoagy Carmichael’s “Stardust” and the parson sat back, alone, on the bench, eyes closed, to enjoy the classic.

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."

Graphic by subscription with Clip Art [dot] Com

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.