Questing Parson

Expecting Something From the Sermon

The parson made his way from the vestibule where he'd been greeting the departing worshipers. He'd been speaking at a special service at a nearby Church-on-the-Hill Overlooking the Calm Waters. As he reached the front porch and was headed down the steps tohis car on the street, a middle-aged couple approached him.

“We just wanted to say how much we were inspired by your message,” intoned the wife.

“Thank you so much,” said the parson. “And thank you for inviting me to your beautiful church.”

“Oh, the pleasure was all ours, Parson,” said the man. “We don't hear preaching like that too often.”

The pastoral hairs on the back of the parson's neck began to tingle. “Well, I'm at an advantage. I'm only preaching here this once, most likely. So, I can pull out a good, tested, semon and preach it without anyone knowing it's an old practiced one.”

“You're too modest, Parson,” said the man. “Listen, it was good to hear your sermon. We'd heard about you from Henry Watson. We expected it to be good and it was. Too bad we can't say that about our pastor.”

“It is too bad you can't say that about your pastor,” said the parson. “And now that you've been frank about your pastor I hope you'll allow me to be frank also.”

“Of course,” said the couple in unison.

“Listen, folks, what I'm about to say doesn't in anyway negate my gratitude for you saying you liked my sermon. I'm grateful for that. But, truth is, I knew you would like it. I've been preaching for over forty years. I have this file of tried and true sermons from which I can pull one when I'm preaching at another church. I probably first wrote the sermon you heard tonight in the 1960s. People liked it, so I went back to it time and time again, just like I did tonight. And every time I preached it I refined it. So, I can tell you without any hint of modesty, but truthfully, that I knew you'd like this sermon before I stepped into the pulpit.

“Now, your pastor is another matter. He has to prepare over a hundred sermons a year for you folks. And he has to prepare the sermon knowing that he's going to have to face you next Sunday, and at the board meeting on Tuesday or the Men's Club on Saturday morning or the women's group whenever they meet. He has to preach to you week after week after week without the luxury of pulling one out of the “really good sermon” file like I did. It's a daunting task, and it's especially difficult if you think you're not that good a preacher. So, my advice to you is to make your pastor a good preacher.”

“That's what seminary's for, isn't it, Parson?”

“Well, sometimes you're better at it than seminary. Tell you what, why don't you try an experiment. Do this, check the lectionary to see what the pastor's preaching on next Sunday. For instance, this Sunday the Gospel lesson is the Prodigal Son. Why don't you read it over a few times, and then next Sunday when you're greeting the pastor after the service tell him you really liked some aspect of the way he preaches on it. Give him a compliment that's specific, something like, 'You know, pastor, I never looked at the elder son in that way.' If enough of you do that you might be surprised.

“And if you do that two things will happen. First, you'll come to church truly expecting something from the sermon, and usually when you do that you actually get something. Secondly, your pastor will begin to look forward to preaching to you. It's a win-win. Why not try it.”

The couple stood silently as though trying to formulate an answer. They didn't get to answer. Andrew Todd, their pastor approached. “Thanks so much for tonight, Parson. It was really good to have you.”

“Thank's for the invitation, Andy,” said the parson. “It was a great night.” The parson nodded to the couple, “Nice to meet you folks.”

The parson began to walk toward his car with the pastor by his side. “I see you met the Howard's.”

“I did,” said the parson. “We were talking about how they are looking forward to your sermon next Sunday.”

“Are you serious?” asked Andy.

“I am,” said the parson. “They're expecting something special.”

Preaching Preparation

The lectionary study group had stretched their attention span to the max in their examination of the Ahab, Jezebel and Naboth story. The lapse in attention partially resulted from the knowledge that outside, under the arbor of the campground where they were gathered, was a large wash bucket filled with ice and watermelon.

When all pretense of intellectual discussion was over, the group adjourned to the shade of the arbor. The parson reached into the tub and extracted a watermelon, placed it on a table set up earlier, and retrieved a large butcher knife resting on a stack of napkins. With the practiced agility of one who had cut scores of melons per season, he plunged the knife into the fruit and ripped through the skin to the accompaniment of that unique sound that proclaimed all was ripe within the rind.

With quick dispatch, the parson divided the melon into equal slices and proceeded to hand each of the gathered a slice into which he had inserted a kitchen knife.

Joel Patrick, a seminary student from Ohio and newly appointed to a two-point circuit, seemed to stare at his slice.

The parson noticed his hesitation and asked, “What’s holding you up, Joel?”

“We don’t have a fork,” he informed.

“Let me show you something,” said the parson reaching for Joel’s plate.

Taking his plate the parson set it on the table and with a practiced hand used Joel’s kitchen knife to separate the fruit from the rind. He then with a five downward slices divided it into six pieces. He handed the plate back to Joel.

“Watch this,” said the parson.

He then repeated on his slice the same movement of the knife. Then, after placing the knife to the side, picked up a piece with his fingers and directed the wet sweetness to his mouth.

“Use your fingers, Joel. You’re standing in a camp meeting arbor in the middle of the South.”

“I’ve never eaten it this way, Parson.”

The parson smiled. “Try it.”

Joel picked up a piece with his left hand. He then began to pick out the seeds with his right.

“Joel,” said the parson, “one more lesson. Watch.”

The parson took a piece and directed it to his mouth. He bit off a large chunk and crushed it against his pallet with his tongue. After rolling it about his mouth to savor the flavor and to separate the seed from the fruit, he then in one fluid force of air expelled the seeds through his lips to land outside the arbor.

“Try it,” the parson suggested.

Joel picked up a piece, carried it to his mouth, repeated the chewing movement, and then he expelled seeds with a noisy blow of wind. He did well with the exception of the two on his chin and the one on the front of his shirt. Joel looked at the parson and smiled a self-depreciating smile.

The parson smiled in appreciation, patted Joel on the back, and said, “Let me tell you a secret, Joel. Learn how to eat watermelon this way and to spit those seeds before the first dinner-on-the-grounds and those folks will be convinced you can preach a lot better than you can.

Pictured is the Arbor at Pine Log Campground, Rydal, Georgia

Reflection on the Gospel ~ Proper 18 (B)

This week I was honored to blog at Lectionary Homiletics on the scripture for this Sunday. I chose to blog on the Gospel lesson. Below is that blog on Mark 7: 24-37

“Dad, you need to come to the hospital,” the voice on the phone said. “It’s Christi.”

My daughter, four months pregnant with her second child, had for no apparent reason gone into a seizure and immediately afterward fallen into a coma. I rushed to the hospital and entered into the agony of every helpless parent with a child in the hospital.

Around one in the morning my sons came to me. “Dad, the doctors say she only has about a 10% chance of making it through the night.” My life stopped. It just stopped. Everything was on hold. The world stood still. That helpless child of mine was the only reality of my universe. I would have done anything. I would have sold my soul.

She made it through the night. And then the doctor, the famous neurosurgeon that had been brought in, called us together in a family counseling room. He still did not know what was wrong. He wanted to try a drug. But the drug would kill the baby.

This Syrophoenician woman is a friend of mine. We are kindred spirits. We have both experienced that devastation that comes when the demons are at work on your child. We both have begged him to bring healing. And we both have felt abandoned, alone, without hope. And so we argued with God.

Days later my child awoke. Days after that the doctors conducted tests. They discovered the virus that had caused the tragedy. They developed a recovery program. And then the doctor gave us startling news. “The virus was in every tissue of her body,” he said, “except for her womb. And that’s impossible.”

The woman and I know the uplifting exuberance that comes from finding your child alive on the bed, the demon gone. I do not know how the woman in the lesson celebrated, but when my granddaughter was born, she was named Faith.

Five years ago I married Lynn, who, as had I, lost her spouse. Lynn was a member of my church by when I was young and handsome, fit and smart. The last time I had seen her son was in that earlier day. He was three years old then. As his pastor, I learned to get his attention at church. I would raise my foot and stomp with all my might upon the floor. Chris would then turn to me for he had felt the vibration. I never called to him for Chris is deaf.

Chris is a college graduate. He’s astute and informed. But Chris is in a prison. I cannot know what it is like in there, in that silent world that we hearing people cannot understand.

Chris is patient with me as I try to communicate with him. The problem, you see, is I learn finger spelling by looking at the back of my hand. But when I try to read his finger spelling I’m looking at the front of his hand. Truth be told, Chris thinks me a little slow.

There is a rage in Chris. It’s a rage that comes from not being able to hear and not being able to talk. To walk about a world encased in a box of silence where everyone is isolated from the other boils frustration into a rage that sometimes bursts forth.

I smile at the verse 32 in the text. “They brought to him a deaf man who had an impediment in his speech ...” What deaf person does not? It is the doubled locked door of the box of silence.

I am trying to imagine the Lord looking up to heaven, sighing and saying to Chris, “Ephphatha,” that is “Be opened.” The deaf man in the story felt his ears opened and his tongue released. If Chris experienced that do you suppose he would tell anyone? If Chris experienced that do you suppose I would tell anyone?

Who does Jesus think he’s kidding.

This reading speaks to me. It speaks for I know the little girl who was healed. It speaks for I am family of the one who cannot hear nor speak.

As I read the commentaries for today’s lessons it I am taken with the efforts to explain why Jesus healed the Gentiles. The writer we are told is reaching out to show Jesus love extends beyond the Jews. The writers are no doubt right. But there’s more.

Jesus is about the business of healing. My granddaughter turns backflips and dashes through this life as one who has been healed. My daughter has given birth to another child since then. She keeps telling me to quit spoiling them.

When you get down to the nitty gritty of this lesson it’s about a little girl and a deaf man in need of healing. I give thanks every day that my child woke from her coma, healed. And I practice and practice every day to get more proficient with that sign language so that I, until Chris’ healing comes, can do everything possible to penetrate that prison cell of silence.