Questing Parson

How Long the Madness?

The parson was in the back corner of his favorite diner, reading his morning paper on the Kindle and sipping a decaf, when Stanley Kausman entered. He saw the parson and headed his way.

“Morning, Parson,” he said. “Where were you last night?”

“I was taking a nap with my wife if you have to know.”

“Oh, funny, Parson. The meeting. You were not at the meeting.”

“There was a meeting last night? When did they announce that?”

“Right! You didn’t know a thing about a meeting.”

The parson sipped his coffee. Stanley sat across from him.

“How was the meeting?”

“The meeting was crap,” said Stanley. “It was boring as hell. And then, on top of that, they handed out the denominational asking for next year. That was far from boring. It was infuriating.”

“What’s the rub, Stan?”

“Oh, let’s see. My church is being asked to meet a raise what we pay to capital funding, not for our church mind you, but for the conference, a mere 63%. And I suppose because we are such dedicated folks who have trimmed staff hours to meet our responsibilities we are being asked to increase what we give to the conference administration a small amount of 51%. I tell you parson I looked at those figures and decided these folks just didn’t know how to manage their budget, but then I saw that they are asking us to increase our giving to that retreat that’s been bleeding money since it was started by 41%.”

Stan rubbed his head with both hands in frustration.

“It’s insane, Parson. When did this kind of thinking start?”

The parson smiled and said, “It started forty-five years ago last June when I arrived at my first church.”

Impressive Fundraiser

The parson’s old friend Buddy “Roll Out” Hathaway had invited him to speak at a community meeting. The parson had readily accepted, mostly as an excuse to travel halfway across the state to visit with his former high school classmate. Now, the morning after the speech, the parson was walking to his car from Roll Out’s office at the school where he was a part time teacher and part time administrator.

Roll Out had convinced the parson to talk a longcut through the campus in order to show him the new athletic field.

“Look at that,” said Roll Out, “this new artificial turf makes this school the envy of every sports program in the area.”

“It looks impressive,” said the parson. “How did you get the board to approve this expenditure.”

“Oh gracious, Parson,” said Roll Out, “the board didn’t put a dime toward this. We raised this through private donations from businesses in the community and through some fundraisers by the football and soccer boosters. No, sir, this was done with a dime of school money.”

“That’s really impressive,” said the parson. “What did this cost?”

Roll Out broke the numbers down for the parson, the turf, the installation, the markings so it could be used for both soccer and football.

“Have you ever seen a high school athletic field any better than this?” asked Roll Out.

“I truly have not,” said the parson. “Let me ask you something, Roll Out. How many furlough days, without pay, were the teachers required to take last year because of the economy?”

“Let’s see,” said Roll Out as he closed his eyes and mentally calculated. “I think it was six.”

“How many will they have to take this year?”

“Oh, this year it’s ten. Why do you ask?”

“I’m just thinking how it the booster clubs and all these local businesses had a fund raiser to supplement your teachers. How many furlough days do you think this field would have covered? You know, Roll Out, doing that would really have been impressive.”

Moving the Scammer to Another Parish

The parson made his way down the interstate, heading for the Quik Trip, America’s best gas and convenience store. About two miles from the exit he passed a RV camper of the vintage variety. It was from the early 1980s, the kind where a pickup was modified to accommodate the camper. It was towing an economy sedan from about the same year.

The parson quickly moved ahead and exited. He pulled into the Quik Trip and headed for the cappuccino dispensers. He no sooner had his cup filled than Eugene Jones entered the store. The two had agreed to meet here and ride to a meeting together. The parson waited for Eugene to get a cup of refreshment for himself and headed toward the cashier. Halfway there his attention was captured by someone walking in. The parson stared, knowing the man looked familiar. Then it hit him; he was the fellow driving the old camper.

The parson paid and he and Eugene departed to head toward their meeting. In the car, the parson asked, “Eugene, I need to run by the post office to mail some letters before we go.”

Eugene nodded as the parson pointed his car back toward the interstate. He crossed over on the bridge and headed toward the post office about a mile ahead. He made a quick trip around the parking lot and dropped the letters into the outside receptacle. Now the car was pointed back toward the interstate again. One hundred yards before the interstate, the parson saw the camper again.

It was parked in the parking lot of a defunct business, with the nose pointed toward the highway. The man stood outside beside the front left fender next to a hand painted sign which leaned against the wheel and read, “Stranded. Will work for food and/or gas.”

The parson pulled in, got out of the car and approached the man. Eugene followed.

“What happened?” the parson asked.

“Oh, thanks for stopping,” he said. “I’m heading home in Florida and I realized I have lost my wallet. I guess I lost it at my last stop up in Tennessee. So, I’m stranded here. This is a little embarrassing. Look do you know anywhere I could get some work for some gas and food?”

The parson was taking in the Quik Trip cup and sausage biscuit wrapping on the fender as the man spoke.

“Tell you what, partner,” said the parson. “I’ve got a Quik Trip gift card here. You know where the Quik Trip is?”

“Ah, I think so. Isn’t it on the other side of the expressway?”

“Right,” said the parson. “I’ll let you have it. You can get some gas and food there.”

“Thanks much,” said the man as he took the card from the parson.

Back in the car, Eugene let go on the parson. “Parson, are you out of your mind. You saw that guy come into the QT. There’s no way he had time to make that sign before we got to him here. He had that sign already made.”

“I know,” said the parson. “But I know a little about these scammers. He will move on now to a better another place. And, if he’s even a little bit down on his luck, I think there was just enough money on that card to get him to your county.”

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Danger! - Rant Ahead!

 I hate it when these things happen. Maybe it’s never happened to you, but occasionally it happens to me. What happens is I get down right .... I get stirred up. My usual gentle demeanor gets disturbed. It happened last night. 

First, let me give credit where credit is due. The source of my irritation, my agitated state is my good friend Gary. He’s a big church preacher a couple hundred miles from where I hang out. I don’t know what possessed Gary to do what he did, but he did it. Personally, I’m too busy trying to iron out the wrinkles in this little congregation I serve to indulge in such things; but Gary is, as I say, a big church pastor and has a staff to do his work. As a consequence he has recently been entertaining himself by using the internet to spy on the accomplishments of our brothers and sisters of the cloth in our conference. He called me to share this information with me and gave me a quick tutorial on how to navigate about the episcopal area’s website in order to view the source of my irritation for myself.

As a consequence, I’ve discovered that with the inserting of the proper URL address to be followed by a few flips and clicks of the mouse I can view the contributions of every church in the area toward their denominational asking. Viewing the information has left me perplexed, shocked, and downright stirred up.

I know we’re in severe economic times. I know that the giving among church goers has decreased considerably. I know one can expect a downturn in contributions. But I never expected to see listed on that site all the churches that are blessed with fortune giving less than half the amount they were asked. And frankly fellow pastor (and all of you know who you are) if my church’s contributions toward the asking was less than ten percent I’d haul my ass down to the conference treasurer’s office and write a personal check just to demonstrate I was committed. 

I can’t but wonder if seeing a church giving one or two percent of the asking is more offensive than giving none at all. A zero contribution, it seems to me, is an acknowledgement that one is not with the program. A contribution of one or two percent is an acknowledgement of the program’s existence but the pastor’s “I don’t give a shit.” attitude. (That’s just my opinion; I could be wrong.)

I’m wondering if any of those pastors whose church paid less than they were asked turned down any increase in pay or asked that their pay be reduced. Do you suppose there’s one who did?

Now let me wave a flag of triumph here. The little rural church I serve managed to pay 100% of what they were asked. In addition, they clothed a substantial number of indigent children, provided lice treatment for impoverished children  who need such in an extremely financially disadvantaged school, provided a substantial portion of the needed funds for a missionary in Peru, operated a weekly soup kitchen where a wide variety of meals, not all of which were soup, were provided free, financed one half of the funding for a transitional housing ministry, as well as several other ministries. We did this by cutting expenses. We no longer mail out a newsletter; when something breaks we fix it ourselves rather than buy a new one; we economize to have money for ministry and to pay all the denominational asking (which, by the way, is ridiculously high).

Speaking of economizing, I’m a little tired of hearing from my denominational supervisors that the preachers need to push the people to get the asking in. I’m tired of it because I don’t see any economizing on their part. They still drive, one person to a car, to their meetings. Apparently they have no idea of internet-enhanced meetings. They still find reason to go to a sea side resort to decide which pastor is going to be moved where. There has been no trimming of staff on the denominational level. I could go on and on here, but I won’t. One or two of them actually read this.

So here’s the end of the rant: To all you pastors and churches who are not doing your job, who have decided to thumb your nose at the connection by doing the least possible, and to all you denominational executives who have done nothing to trim costs and practice real stewardship, this country parson who has encouraged his church to pay out 100% and to do even more than that:

Get a calling; get a ministry; get some gumption; get a sense of purpose because we’re sick and tired of carrying you on our back.

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I Don't Want to Be Your Customer Anymore

The parson placed the phone on speaker, sat back on his sofa and settled in to listen to the music. It was a strange genre nestled somewhere between blues and classic country. The violins played counterpoint to the clarinet as both danced in and out of the piano’s promulgation of the central melody. His eyes had just closed when the music stopped.

“Hello, my name is Henry. It is my pleasure to be your service representative today. How may I help you?”

“Henry,” said the parson. “This won’t take long. I need to close my account.”

“We would hate to lose you as a customer, sir. Is there a problem I can resolve to your satisfaction?”

“Actually, no, Henry, there’s no problem. I’m just rearranging my life and I’ve decided to discontinue the service you offer.”

“Why would you want to discontinue, sir? J. D. Powers ranks us as number one in customer satisfaction.”

“I have no doubt of that, Henry. I’ve been a customer for a good many years now, and I can’t recall a single complaint. You folks have an excellent track record. I’d recommend you to anyone, but, as I said, I’m making some changes in my life and I no longer need your service.”

“Can you give me the phone number from which you are calling?”

“I can.”  He did.

“Can you give me your Mother’s maiden name?”

“I can.” He did.

There was a pause. Henry came back on the line.

“I’m looking at your account now, sir, and, indeed, you have been a customer for a long time. We would hate to lose such a customer as you. If I lowered your monthly fee to $9.95 a month would that entice you to remain with us?”

“You are offering to lower my monthly fee to $9.95 a month?”

“That’s right, sir. As I said, you’re a valuable customer and we’d like to keep you with us.”

“Henry, you’re telling me you can provide me with this service for less than ten dollars when I’ve been paying almost five times that much.”

“I can, sir. We want to keep you as a customer.”

“Why haven’t you let me have the service for $9.95 all these years, Henry. Why have I been paying five times that much?”

“This is a special offer, sir, to keep customers as yourself.”

“Here’s the point, Henry: If you can stay in business with me paying only ten dollars why would you charge me fifty?”

“As I said, sir, this is a special offer.”

“You know, Henry, when we started this conversation I told you I didn’t have any reason to close this account other than my making different living arrangements. But now, Henry, I have a big reason.”

“Sir, $9.95 is a big reduction.”

“It is, Henry, I can’t argue with that. But, Henry, I have to tell you. I feel violated, abused, taken advantage of, undervalued, ripped off, spat upon, a victim of your company’s money grabbing, damn the customer attitude.”

“I’m sorry, sir. Suppose I added five free email addresses to the $9.95 offer? Would that sweeten the deal enough?”

“Henry, now I’m beginning to feel as though my intellect is being questioned.”

“I tell you what, sir, I’ll add a free mouse pad.”

Henry, if you make one more offer I’m going to report you to the Secretary of State for harassment.”

“I’ll close the account, sir.”

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Putting Your Mouth Where Your Money Is

The parson was headed into the pharmacy to discuss a pending issue with the pharmacist, who was head of a community non-profit. He was distracted by one of the town’s more vocal members and a member of a church near the parson’s.

“Sometimes I give a lot of thought to attending your church,” he told the parson.

God help me, thought the parson. “You need to stay right where you are and support your pastor,” said the parson.

“He’s a bit hard to support, Parson,” he said. “Every time I plop my fanny in a pew he’s talking about money, Parson. And when he’s not talking about money he’s coming up with some new project that is going to cost money. We just can’t afford his ideas.”

“You have a good pastor. And if I remember you asked that a young person like this be sent to your church. So you should get behind the ministry.”

“Look, Parson, since we got this pastor we are $4000 behind in our budget. And that means we can’t pay our denominational asking. So it’s not just our church that’s getting hurt by this; it’s the whole church.

The parson paused a moment wondering if he should say what he wanted to say. He weighed the pros and cons quickly and spoke.

“You’ll have to excuse this old retired preacher,” he said. “But I’ve reached the point in life I just speak the truth without counting the cost. And here’s the truth: We both know that you have more than $4000 in your wallet right now. You do; don’t you?”

He stared at the parson a moment and replied, “I might and I might not.”

“You might,” said the parson. “So why don’t you put up or shut up.”

Persistence Pays?

She came into the church’s Monday night soup supper, provided free for anyone who might want to enjoy the meal. She came not every Monday but often. She’d amble in and wait to be invited to join the assembled. Most evenings she would ask if someone could bring her a bowl. And when she asked someone did.This night she’d come early, almost as soon as the doors were opened. 

On this night despite the stated purpose of the evening the bowls were filled with chili, poured over rice with a side bowl of mac-n-cheese and cornbread. It was followed by peach cobbler, with ice cream cones for the children.

She sat by herself most of the evening, as was her usual practice. As the parson walked in and out, going from duties in the kitchen to meeting with electricians in the sanctuary she sat quietly and watched him with practiced eye.

About an hour-and-a-half after the doors had opened the parson was sitting at a table with a couple of high school students who often stopped by the soup kitchen. They were discussing possible colleges to apply to. She came up and tapped the parson on the shoulder. He turned quickly. He had been expecting the tap

“I’m going to head out now, Parson,” she said. “That was really good chili. It filled me up.  Ms. Parson said I could take this bowl of cobbler home with me.” She held up the bowl.

“Hope you enjoyed it,” said the parson. “Come back next Monday.”

“I just might do that, Parson. I really like eating here.”

“We’re always glad to have you, Shirley,” said the parson.

“You know, Parson, the price of gas went up again this week. And I had to buy some extra medicine. I was just wondering if ....”

The parson held up his hand. “Shirley, it’s Monday. I had two funerals today. I haven’t been to the bank so I don’t have any money. Now, I know that Reverend Stephens at the Baptist church gave you twenty dollars this morning, so there’s not going to be any money given out tonight.”

She studied the parson a moment. “Okay, I can understand that. I hope you brought some comfort to those folks at the funeral. You’re a good pastor; you know that, don’t you, Parson?”

“I try, Shirley. I try. I’ll see you next Monday.”

“Well,” said Shirley, “I heard you tell that electricity man you were going to meet him tomorrow at noon. So I’ll see you then.”

Sometimes It Pays To Go To Church

The parson was leaning over the church kitchen counter. He was engaged in a desperate race to review the sermon he’d have to preach in about an hour. The kitchen, he had settled on as the least likely place he’d be found. A movement attracted his attention.

He stood there quietly, staring and not speaking. His clothes were clean but definitely tattered. His left hand was gripping the rope that held the sleeping bag in a tight roll. The right hand gripped an obviously well-stuffed back pack. The parson stared back. The stranger, around twenty-five to thirty years of age, just stared back.

“Can I help you?” the parson asked.

“Can I use the bathroom, please.”

“Sure, it’s just around that corner.”

“Are you the pastor?”

“I’m the pastor.”

“If I leave my things here will you watch them?”

“I will.”

“Thank you.”

He put his pack and bedroll on the floor.

“Excuse me, please,” he said and turned to go in the direction the parson had indicated.

It was ten minutes or so before the returned.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” said the parson. “What’s your name?”

“Daniel, my name is Daniel.”

“Where are you headed, Daniel?”

“Oh, I’m not headed anywhere now. I live up the road. I was gone for a while; I hitched out to New Mexico and stayed there a month or so and then I started hitching home.”

The parson looked more closely at Daniel.

“Is home under the Fifty-three Highway bridge?”

“Yeah, that’s it. How did you know?”

“I’ve seen you with Matt.”

“Oh, yeah, Matt lives there, too.”

“Do you need anything, Daniel?”

“I could use a little money, not much, sir, but a little for a couple of hamburgers would be nice.”

“Ah, Daniel, I don’t have any cash on me right now, but if you can hang around until the worship service is over, I’ll get some money out of the plate for you.”

“I see. You want me to go to church before I get the money.”

“No, Daniel, you don’t have to go to church. You can just hang out back here, or you can go crash in the youth lounge in that building over there.” The parson pointed out a window to the Youth Activities Building. You can go to the store across the street. You do not have to go to church to get any money. There are no conditions on our gifts.”

“That’s different.”

“Well, a lot of people say I’m different.”

“Okay. Can I leave my stuff where it’s safe.”

The parson told him he could and escorted him to a room where he could store his stuff. He told Daniel he’d see him at noon. Daniel walked out Ten minutes later the parson entered the sanctuary, walled over to the church treasurer and told her to give Daniel fifty dollars from the collection. 

The service started. Daniel was on the fourth pew from the back. When the first hymn was sung he joined in with gusto. When the prayers were prayed he placed his forehead upon his folded and interlocking fingers. During the sermon he was full of attention.

The benediction was pronounced. The parson began greeting the departing saints at the door. A nurse at the hospital ER paused and said, “I see you know, Daniel.”

“Tell me about him,” said the parson.

She told him a story of drug use, of family casting a child out, of his visits to the ER for treatments. She concluded, “I’m glad you’re helping him, and I know you are, he’s really messed up, but he’s a nice kid.”

The parson headed back to where Daniel had stored his stuff. The stuff was gone The treasurer said she’d found him and gave him the money. The parson thanked her and said if anyone questioned it to take the money from his discretionary funds. Then the parson began to stow away his stuff, robe and stole. 

Edward Franks was in the room where the parson kept his stuff. “I gave that homeless fellow twenty dollars, Parson.”

“That was nice of you, Edward. Thanks.”

The parson headed down the hall in search of Ms. Parson. Nancy Appleton, a high school student, came bounding around the corner. “Oh, Parson,” she said, “my Dad gave that guy with the back pack and sleeping bag fifty dollars.”

“Tell your dad that was very generous,” said the parson.

The parson found Ms. Parson and the two headed toward the car and the fenced area where the parson’s trusted canine, Charlie Brown, was completing his morning of worship. Three people passed them each informing the parson of their morning generosity that combined equaled another fifty-five dollars.

At his car the parson encountered the treasurer. “You know, Parson,” she said, “I think several people gave that boy money. Thomas said he say him walking toward the church early this morning. Where does he live?”

“He lives about seven miles up the road,” said the parson. “And it looks like the Lord knew which direction to point him this morning.”

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Economic News

There’s an old Chinese curse: “May you live in interesting times.”  And so we are living today. Can anyone doubt that “the times they are a-changing”? Interesting, changing times, things aren’t what they used to be.

I’ve been interested in the news coverage of these interesting times in which we live. The concentration, it seems to me, is centered precisely on the folks who are out-of-touch with the real consequences of the times. 

The real indication of the times is when someone in my income bracket opens the electric bill, not whether or not some jerk who lives in a penthouse apartment on Fifty-second Street in New York and has a little cottage in the Hamptons in which my house could fit into the living room got or didn’t get a bonus for performing or not performing. The real indication of the times in not whether the President should or should not be appearing on The Tonight Show With Jay Leno but whether or not I can afford the bill to hook up cable or satellite so I can watch it. 

News coverage, in my not too humble opinion, is concentrated on the things that hold no relational quality with my living. News coverage of the economic down turn is convoluted at best. I mean, I know there are people where I live who have more money than my lawn has blades of grass, but the vast majority of inhabitants of my neck of the woods, especially me, cannot interpret that stock market ticker that trails across the bottom of the TV screen. There are better indications of these interesting times in which we live.

I found one the other day as I perused the online webzines. Brace yourself for this one. To my mind this is truly an indicator of our economically challenging times: The average gift received from the tooth fairy has fallen from $2.09 to $1.88. This discouraging news evokes several questions:

Have the interesting times in which we live forced the Tooth Fairy to take lesser income producing jobs? Have investments of the Tooth Fairy, like mine, been drastically reduced because of the idiots that run our government and corporations? 

Has the Tooth Fairy lost his job? The very thought of that stirs paralyzing fear within. But, then again, if he has lost his job, he is to be commended for continuing to give it his all.

Has the Tooth Fairy’s equipment become obsolete? That certainly might explain the lower under-the-pillow deposits. With the cost of things these days expenditures on wing maintenance and repair can be oppressive. And, one has to admit, the need for such maintenance is expected. After all, he’s been doing this since I was a small boy.

There is the possibility, of course, that the Tooth Fairy has, in this cynical age, begun to feel a bit less-than-appreciated. And when that happens it’s difficult to put forth one’s best effort. 

The truth is whatever reasons I might put forth regarding the apparent decrease in the liquidity of the Tooth Fairy’s funds would be only a guess. What is the truth, however, is that the economic difficulties in which we live had now reached our children’s bedrooms, specifically beneath their pillows. 

But I always seek the positive, even in these interesting times. And the positive side of this is that someone noticed. And when the news folks begin to notice the economic woes of the Tooth Fairy they have become more relevant.

[ I readily acknowledge that every masculine pronoun used here could be changed to the feminine without changing the story. ]

My thanks to the Reverend Gary DeMore for the gist of this story.

Who Are You Talking About?

The parson was heading to the car following a meeting of the church council. Dawn Rawlings’ car was parked beside his. As the parson approached she called out to him, “Parson, I’d like to tell you something.”

“What’s on your mind?” the parson asked as he opened the passenger door of his car and tossed his carry case inside.

“You need to realize, Parson,” said Dawn, “there are some people in this church who just can’t afford a dollar a day.”

The parson had mentioned in the council meeting that the current deficit in the church could be overcome in eighteen weeks if fifty people would just give a dollar a day toward the problem.”

“That’s probably true, Dawn,” said the parson.

“Then you see that it’s just not as easy as you say to wipe out the deficit?”

“No, I don’t see that, Dawn. It is as easy as that. If fifty people would give a dollar a week for eighteen weeks the deficit would be gone. It’s simple math.”

“But there are people in the church who can’t afford a dollar a week.”

“That’s right.”

“So, you see it is complicated.”

“No, Dawn, it is not complicated. It’s very simple. You see, Dawn, I’m wasn’t talking about the people who can’t afford to give that extra dollar. I was talking about you.”

The parson smiled and said, “Let me open you car door, Dawn. Have a good night.”

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