Questing Parson

No Answer to the Questions

The parson walked across the campus of the big university in the really, really big city on of which the seminary was part. He'd been at hospital where occasionally he volunteered for some testing and procedures in the cardiac clinic. Now he was headed to the seminary library to look up a couple of obscure facts and to continue his pretense of being a scholar.

Absconded in a corner of the library, the parson was reading about the history of several churches in his conference, churches who had been in existence during the expansion of his denomination in the eighteenth century. His study was interrupted.

“Parson, what are you doing here?”

The parson turned to see Emily Watson, the daughter of a dear friend, now a student at the seminary. “I'm just reading up on some church history no one else is interested in,” said the parson. “It's really good to see you. How are your studies coming?”

Emily sighed. “Can I talk with you a minute?”

“Sure,” the parson replied, “have a seat.”

Emily seated herself across the table from the parson. She looked intensely at the parson for a moment then said, “How long does it take to be certain?”

“Certain about what?” the parson asked.

“I'm not sure, Parson. It's just that, well, I'm in my second year now, and it seems the more I learn the more questions I have to ask.” Emily then began to relate her studies of the early theologians, Augustine and others; she talked of the writings of Kant, of Bonhoeffer, of current religious thinkers.

“I read and read but the more I study the more questions I have. I wish, Parson, I could be as certain as you are.”

“You think I'm certain about things?”

“Well, you always seem to have the answers to the questions.”

“Oh, Emily, I don't. I don't. I'm just like you, Emily, every time I turn a page I find a new question.”

“Doesn't that discourage you?”

“Not one bit,” said the parson. “Not one bit. If I had the answer to all the questions I'd no longer be able to marvel at the mystery.”

Living Nativity Questions

The day had been long. Darkness had long ago closed the door to the sky. Now the parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, were headed home through the chilly night.

The parson was tired. Two-and-a-half hours after the morning worship, he'd gathered with some of the men of the church. They'd stood staring at the pile of lumber the parson and two others had hauled to the church from a church member's old chicken house. The stared and stared. The parson insisted the pile represented the correct lumber. When asked how he knew the parson pointed to the manger that he'd found on top of it.

Somehow the group had constructed the stable in rapid time. It wasn't as intricate as the one they'd used the year before, and there was a considerable bit of lumber left over, but it looked good.

At the prescribed hour the “actors” arrived, partook of the refreshments and quickly were transformed into shepherds, wise men, Joseph and Mary, and an angel. Taking their proper places the nativity was given life.

Now, heading home, the parson spoke to his faithful companion, “You know, Charlie Brown, I'm trying to figure out some things about these living nativities. After all these years, I've got questions. You got a minute?”

Charlie Brown made no protest which encouraged the parson to continue. “Okay, Charlie, here's the first question: Why don't church people label the parts of the stable so next year's crew will know how to put it together?”

Charlie Brown made no response.

“Okay,” the parson offered, “try this one. Why is it that as soon as everyone takes their place in the scene one of three or a combination of three things happen: one, it rains; two, it snows; or three the temperature drops twelve degrees?”

Charlie Brown did condescend to shift about on the rear seat of the car, but other than that gave no indication he knew the answer.

“So, here's another one for you, Charlie Brown: Why is the part of the Mother of Jesus, a young woman living in Israel two thousand years ago, usually played by a blond blue-eyed beauty?”

Still Charlie Brown made no response.

Now the parson pulled up the steep slope that is his driveway leading to his little bungalow on the hill overlooking the activities below. The parson opened the door, exited the car, opened the rear door to facilitate the exit of his faithful, if silent, canine companion. Charlie Brown was halfway up the steps when the parson asked his final question: “And by the way, Charlie Brown, where in the gospel stories is there any reference to an adopted stray dog being part of the manger scene?”

Charlie Brown stopped halfway up the steps. He turned to look at the parson with an expression that seemed to indicate he would not dignify the question with an answer.

If He Didn't Have To?

The parson sat with his Kindle in hand, reading Robert B. Reich's Aftershock: The Next Economy and America's Future. Reading Reich's recommendations for fixing the economy struck the parson as Christian in approach but difficult to carry out in today's climate of calling such proposals “socialist.” Coming to the end of the chapter, the parson switched the Kindle off and sat up. His friend, Clint Conally, sat with his head leaned back against the wall, eyes closed, breathing deep, eyelids flickering in rim sleep. The third member of the gathered trio that day, Harvey Dustin, walked into the hospital room at that time.

“Hey, Knucklehead,” he called out as his cowboy boot prodded Clint's left leg, “wake up; there's no sleeping while keeping vigil. “Let's go get something to eat. I checked with the nurse and she said Greg would be in surgery another couple of hours.”

Clint roused himself from the chair; the parson tucked his Kindle into his coat pocket, worked his way around the empty hospital bed, and the three headed into the hospital corridor. The parson took the lead. “You're mighty dressed up this morning,” greeted Deborah Miller, the charge nurse on this floor.” The parson thanked her and replied he was dressed for the company he was in. His two friends didn't know the parson spoke the truth. When he retired, even though he supplied a church, he'd not been wearing his clergy collar. But whenever he was with these two and Greg whose surgery had brought them together once more, he wore his collar. He did it to keep them off balance. Of the quartet, only the parson was a “believer.”

The parson quietly spoke to the nurse for a minute and then rejoined his comrades.

The four had formed their bond decades ago during experienced adventures during a tour of exotic places, all expenses paid by their Uncle Sam. Over the years, they'd kept in touch, getting together at infrequent intervals to reform their bond and being at the side of each other whenever a Crisis such as Greg's confronted one of their number.

In the bowels of the big city hospital they found the cafeteria and were pleasantly surprise at the rich selections available. Carrying their piled high trays to a corner table that looked out on a delightful water garden the two settled in for their meal.

“You need to same some blessing or something, Parson. I mean, there are people watching. It wouldn't be much of a witness to start gobbling down that food without returning thanks; would it?” asked Clint with a smile on his face.

“I've already said a silent prayer,” Clint informed the parson. “If I really did a proper audible prayer I might give into the temptation of praying for your worthless soul and that could take long time.”

“Well, we all know you pray for us anyway,” said Harvey. “And, personally, I want to thank you for that. You're the only one of the four of us who is religious, but I want you to know I really find it comforting you care enough for us to want us to come into the fold.”

“That's right,” said Clint, “but you need to know I, for one, am not open to conversion.”

“I'm not open to converting you just now,” said the parson. “I'm a little busy with this meatloaf.”

Quickly the consumption of lunch became the focus of the day. They ate and talked about family and friends, aspirations and goals achieved. Strangely the event that had formed their bond was never mentioned. It never was; in all their years since then it was never talked about. It did not need to be; it was there.

“I can't believe you're still at it,” said Clint to the parson. “I have to tell you I really thought you'd throw in the towel in a few years. But you've hung in there.”

The parson smiled. His vocation was often the butt of humor among the group. “I guess I hang in there because there are so many infidels, like you two, I can target.”

“Yeah, right. And you know how futile that would be,” said Harvey. “But seriously, Parson, let me ask you something. Do you think the Christian religion is going to be twisted into something we don't recognize because of the prominent place the religious right seems to have on things today?”

Harvey's comment ignited an intense discussion of religion. The parson did not fail to recognize the irony of the unbelievers bringing up the subject of religion and not engaging themselves in a critical inquiry into the church.

His friends always surprised him. Neither of them believed in God in any manner that could be accepted by the Christian church. Harvey was a down right atheist. And yet, in all their talk they were respectful. There's power in the collar, the parson thought. He marveled also at their expertise in what they discussed. Prominent theologians were quoted. As was often the case, the parson's unbelieving friends had a better grasp of current theological thinking than any member of his church. And yet, their command of theological issues did not insulate them from falling into the well trodden path of typical criticisms of organized religion.

They'd been in the cafeteria dissecting the church and redefining God or proclaiming the absence thereof for the parson's benefit for over an hour when the parson's phone began to vibrate. He held the phone to his ear and answered. He listened a moment and then expressed thanks to the caller.

“Greg's in recovery. The doctor says everything went well. He'll be back in his room in half to a full hour.”

“That's great,” said Clint. “Let's head back to the room.”

The four stood and policed their table. As they were about to leave, Harvey said, “Look, Parson, since we've gotten into another of those religious discussions, I have to ask you something. How come when you retired you agreed before you had a day off to become the pastor at that little country church?”

The parson looked at his friend a moment, smiled, and replied, “Who knows, Harvey. Maybe it was to avoid having to answer my life's most persistent question.”

“What's that, Parson?”

“Ah, it's a tough one, Harvey. Would I go to church the first Sunday I didn't have to?”

The parson walked off to empty his tray at the proper spot knowing he'd confused the hell out of his friends who now stood looking at each other in perplexity.

Why Do You Do It? - Part II

“Why do I do it?” the parson repeated. He stopped rocking and leaned forward in the chair. The chirping of the crickets was joined briefly by the hoot of an owl. “Why do I do it? I have to tell you, truthfully, I ask myself that question a lot. In fact, I’ve asked myself that question for forty years. But until tonight I just let the question bounce off as I went about the business of being a pastor.

“Now here I sit with you guys ready to face the world. I’m so in awe of you, each of you. You’re going to live in an exciting time. Everything is going to change, and I don’t mean the technological changes we’re experiencing. I’m talking about the change that is bound to come in religion, the way it’s practiced, the theology that gives it structure, and the basic tenants of faith that will, if not put aside, become less formational.”

Neal interrupted, “Parson, what direction do you think these changes will go?”

“Hold on, Neal,” said Walter. “The question is ‘Why does he do it’. Let him continue with that.

Neal took a deep swig of his beer and leaned against the back of the porch swing in which he sat with Sharon. “Fair enough,” he said.

The parson reached down and took several pretzels from the bowl on the table and took a bite before continuing.

“Anyway, you guys are going to live in such an exciting time for the church and religion. Back when I started it was much more simple, more clear cut, and, certainly, back then I didn’t have the questions that rattle around this old brain now.

“My path to where I am now, I guess, began in the North Georgia mountains at a United Methodist youth camp called Camp Glisson. I don’t know what was on the agenda that day but for some reason I was wandering around in the evening. I found myself in the chapel. It’s still there today, a log structure with walls going two-thirds the way up and open the rest of the way. Above the altar there’s this cross embedded in the wall made of frosted glass. I guess the moon was full that night. That cross seemed to shine in the dark. I remember sitting down in one of the pews and just being quiet. I have no idea how long I was there. There were no tears, no prayers, but when I left there I knew I was headed toward the ordained ministry.

From that moment I followed the traditional path: studies to get a license to preach, college, seminary, and while in seminary a couple of student appointments.” The parson leaned back in the rocker. He paused a moment to listen to the cricket chorus. He smiled broadly, “You know those student appointments were so contradictory. On the one had I was so frustrated with them. After all, I was a seminary student. I knew things. I read Tillich and Barth and Bonhoeffer. They were so provincial. I couldn’t wait to get away from there. And now, looking back on it, I wish I could return to that parish where I was nourished and prepared, where my insolence was forgiven and I was loved. “

The parson reached down into the icy water and produced another beverage. He opened it and explained, “I’m sorry I’m turning this into a biography. I guess you kids just got me reminiscing. Well, to make a short story long, I served a variety of parishes along the way, from those rural student appointments to the suburban church to the inner city parish. Each was different; each brought new discoveries. And each brought new disappointments. But that doesn’t answer your question: Why do I still do it?

“Why do I still do it? In a lot of ways I don’t know how to answer that. My theology has become so liberal as far as the church is concerned I’m out in left field. And yet I find myself holding passionately to the old traditions that have come to have meaning for me. And while I hold fast to those traditions, the liturgy, the prayers, the expression of worship as practiced by my faith, I become more and more convinced that this God we preach is so much more than we can ever comprehend. I find myself while being a traditionalist being also open to discovering God in different ways.

“I took a survey a few years back that was designed to tell you where you were on the religious spectrum. The results said I was agnostic. That bothered me until I finally looked up the word. And I fit the description in that I’m one who doubts there is one correct answer or that God can be completely understood. So here I am in this tension of knowing I don’t know and proclaiming the word with certainty every Sunday morning.

“Why do I do it? I guess I do it because I’m convinced that the best thing the world has going for it is the teachings of Jesus Christ. I doubt very seriously the world will be better or worse because Jesus did or did not walk on water or did or did not raise Lazarus from the dead. But I’m damn sure the world would be a better place if we could learn to love one another, if we could discover that we are the one lying in the ditch waiting for some Good Samaritan to come by, if we’d cease to lay up treasures where moth and rust corrupt. I guess I do it because I want the world to hear the path that Man of Nazareth pointed us to so long ago.

“Why do I do it? I like telling the stories of Jesus. I like making them appropriate to a really confusing technological world where religion is becoming devalued more and more. I want to be part of that struggle to make the church relevant in a world that is changing so rapidly and where so many religions are beginning to hear each other and learn from each other.”

The parson paused. He looked around the group and saw the promise in these young lives.

“Why do I do it? You know, I could go on with so many reasons and rationalizations like I’ve been telling you. But the real reason I do it is I like to hold a baby in my arms and sprinkle that water on that head and repeat the words that have been spoken on such occasions by pastors for two thousand years. Why do I do it? Because I love to preach to folks who are generous enough to come back week after week to hear my efforts even if the one the week before was the worse. I do it for Eddie who sits on the back pew week after week sick and in pain from all his ailments and goes promptly to sleep three minutes into the sermon, but who comes back to sleep upright next Sunday. Why do I do it? I do it because I love to hear the struggle of young people in my church trying to make sense out of things.

“Why do I do it? Oh, folks, there are so many reasons, most of which I can’t articulate, but this week the reason I keep doing it is because of Lindsey. She was eight when I moved away from her church. But she called me last week, and she told me she remembered all the lessons I’d taught her. She told me what’s been happening in her life for the last fifteen years. And she asked me if I would be the celebrant at her wedding.

“So I guess I do it because of Lindsey and all those like her over the years who have validated all my efforts by still inviting me to be their Parson.”

The parson leaned forward. He tossed his bottle into the recycle bag. “And there,” he said, “endeth the sermon. Amen.”

Slowly each one arose from their selected place. Trash was gathered. The icy water was poured on the glowing coals of the fire where the corn cobs had been prepared. Everyone headed to their respective sleeping area. The night closed over the cabin containing one ancient parson and six young seekers for whom the world waited.

The owl hooted again off in the distance. Someone from across the cabin called out, “Good night, Parson.” The parson smiled and a vision of a glowing cross in the wall of a rustic chapel escorted him to sleep.

A Question of Faith

“But what if I can’t believe it all?” she asked as she seemingly pushed herself back into the cushions of the sofa.

She’d been coming to the parson’s church off and on for almost a year. It was a leg of a spiritual journey she’d begun some time before she first visited the church. But of late things seemed to have intensified.

“Actually, it’s a bit hard for any of us to believe.”

She looked up at the parson. “I can’t believe you said that.”

“Said what?”

“That it’s hard for you to believe.”

“Well, it is. Think about it; the whole concept is preposterous.”

She stared at the parson a long minute. Then she leaned forward and said with intensity in her voice. “Okay, what about things like the virgin birth and walking on water?”

“See,” said the parson, “that’s just what I’m talking about. It’s preposterous.”

“You don’t believe Jesus walked on water?”

“It’s not really a matter of believing whether Jesus walked on water or not; truth is, I find that really irrelevant.”

“Do you really?”

“Sure; don’t you?”

She cocked her head to the side. “Well, yes, but I’m a skeptic. You’re a pastor.”

“Do you know something I don’t know? You can’t be a skeptical pastor?”

“Can you?” she smiled.

“I sure hope so.”

She leaned back again into the cushions. She stared first at the parson and then at the refraction of the light coming through the stained glass window of the parson’s study. 

“Look, I really believe Jesus was the Son of God. I’ve really come to believe that. But I also believe that I’m a daughter of God. And by believing that I’m diminishing what traditional Christians think about Jesus being the Son of God.”

‘

She looked to the parson. He finally surmised she was waiting for a response.

“Okay.”

“Okay? Okay? You’re telling me that’s okay.”

“It’s okay if that’s where you are in your faith.”

“That’s where I am.”

“Do you have any idea how blessed you are. Most people have no concept at all of where they are in their faith.”

“But my faith is one big question.”

“Ah, but you’re far enough along to ask the question.”

“This is going to end up with you telling me to just keep working on it; isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not.” This is going to end up with me telling you to just let it keep working on you.”