Questing Parson

Perspectives

The parson and Ms. Parson picked up Ms. Parson’s two Canadian cousins at the airport about 7:00 p.m. They’d not eaten supper so the parson suggested they might like to sample the Varsity, that world-famous eatery where presidents and homeless feast. 

It was a great evening at the Varsity. The staff was up to par. “Hey, speak up! Speak up! What’ll ya have? Come on, people are waiting? Whata ya want?”  From there they headed to the Krispy Kream donut place and purchased a dozen donuts that had just come through the glazing process. 

 “Can we drive around Atlanta a bit?” asked the Canadians.

“We can,” said the parson who began the guided tour.

At one corner a cousin commented, “Goodness this city is clean.”  The parson smiled at her comment. The parson had not noticed. His eye was fixed on the woman who’d just abandoned her shopping cart and darted behind a dumpster when she saw the police car.

The parson turned on Peachtree Street and provided a tour through the heart of the city.  Passing through the canyon of skyscrapers the parson turned left. 

“What’s that over there?” asked a cousin.

“That’s Turner Stadium where the Atlanta Braves play,” said the parson. “It’s where the Olympic Stadium was.” Apparently the cousin did not notice the transaction taking place between the fellow in the car and the young lady leaning in the window. 

As they approached the State Capitol a cousin asked about the dome. Ms. Parson was explaining how the dome was coated in gold brought from Dahlonega, Georgia, where gold was first discovered. The parson was counting the homeless huddled in sleeping bags against the cold in doors of churches across the street from the capitol.

As they left the city, the parson reflected on what the cousins had seen and what he had seen, wondering at different perspectives.

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Definition of Prayer

  The Christmas event at the parson’s church was just about over. Folks had started to file out of the Fellowship Hall to rush across the parking lot, through the torrential rain, to their cars. But Samuel Parker, an occasional visitor, who’d come to this function for no particular reason the parson could discern, lingered. As the volunteers were cleaning up the facility, he said to the parson, “Could I speak to you a minute?”

The parson readily agreed and took the man back to his study. He cracked the door and then quickly pulled in closed as three of the youth were using the room to rehearse their lines in the upcoming play. Samuel followed that parson as he tried to find a quiet place for the two to talk. All over the church young people were striving to become thespian stars. Finally, the parson found an empty room. It was a primary class.

The picture of the two would have brought chuckles had anyone opened the door to see two grown men sitting in pre-school chairs engaged in serious discussion.

“I wanted to talk to you about the church, Parson,” said Samuel. “I’ve been coming here for six months now. I like the church. I really feel at home, and in a way I guess I feel challenged. But I’m having some trouble with this, well, I guess you’d say this spiritual stuff.”

“What kind of trouble are you having?” asked the parson.

“It’s just that ... well, I guess it’s just that I can’t dismiss my empirical mind when I try to get involved in these faith things. I mean some of this just doesn’t compute, if you know what I mean.”

The parson smiled. “Actually, Samuel, I don’t know what you mean. Help me out.”

Samuel leaned back in the chair and balanced on the two rear legs which would have made the scene even more incongruous had someone looked in as Samuel was over six feet tall. He closed his eyes for a moment or two.

Opening his eyes, he said, “Okay, let’s take prayer. I just don’t relate to that. I mean, logically, thinking prayer is, well, prayer is just illogical. And because it’s illogical I jsut can’t seem to pray. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

The parson didn’t answer the question. Instead, he asked Samuel a question: “Samuel, if you were able to pray tell me what you’d be praying about.”

“That’s an interesting question, Parson,” said Samuel. “Let me see. I guess I’d pray that I could have a clearer understanding of what’s eating at me. You know, I’m a scientific person and none of this stuff is logical to me, so I guess my prayer would be to find a way to reconcile things. Now, Parson, that doesn’t mean I’d become a believer. It just means that I’d have a clearer understanding of things.”

“But you think you can’t pray?” said the parson.

“No, I can’t,” said Samuel.

“Sounds to me as though you’re doing a good job of it, Samuel.” said the parson.

“What do you mean?” asked Samuel.

“Well,” said the parson, “back in the early eighteen hundreds there was a fellow who wrote a bunch of hymns named James Montgomery. One of his hymns began, ‘Prayer is the soul’s sincere desire, unuttered or expressed.’ From where I sit, Samuel, it appears you’re already a man of prayer.”

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Becoming A Member - Again

 “Can I talk to you a moment, Parson?” asked Betsy Whitsome.

“Of course,” said the parson. Betsy was one of his favorite people. She was ninety-two and came to church almost every Sunday with her “baby” sister who was challenged to keep up with Betsy. “What’s on your mind, Betsy?”

“I’ve been thinking, Parson. Maybe it’s time I joined the church.”

The parson looked puzzled. He thought a moment and then said, “I thought you were a member of the Happy Valley Church of the Gathering In.”

“Oh, heavens, no, Parson. I’d never join that church. The only church I’ve ever been a member of is yours.”

“You’re a member of our church?”

“Well, I’m not now, but I was once.”

“I know,” said the parson. “And I thought when you got married you transferred your membership to Happy Valley.”

“Transfered my membership? I most certainly did not. Look, Parson, when I married Henry I attended Happy Valley just to keep peace in the family. But I never joined.” She leaned forward and continued in a whisper, “Those people are fanatics.”

“I’m confused,” said the parson. “You didn’t join Happy Valley, but you say you’re not a member of our church.”

“That’s right. You see, back in 1945 I decided that it wasn’t right to keep my name on the roll because I was not attending. So I asked the pastor to remove my name. So now I’m not a member of any church. And I need to know what to do to become a member of our church again.”

The parson thought a moment. “Betsy, all we have to do is ‘restore’ your membership at your request.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay, then,” said Betsy. “Let’s do it this Sunday.”

The parson talked with Betsy a few minutes longer. And when he left he almost skipped to the car in eager anticipation of calling the superintendent to see if he knew what line on  the annual report this should be reported.

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Good Days; Bad Days

 We buried Aunt Virginia Saturday. And as is the case when all the cousins assemble in one place “the good old days” were remembered. We wandered in our memory once again down that certain street, gathered at the park, played our games and pranks on each other, and generally resurrected younger days.

Those good old days! I remember siting on the porch on one of my elderly members once. We rocked back and forth and talked about how things were. Something prompted me, and I said, “Tell me about the good old days.”

He rocked a bit more and then he gave forth with a soft chuckle. He said, “The good old days, well, I was born in ’02. They must have been before that.”

Returning home from Aunt Virginia’s grave, after we cousins talked of our “good old days,” I saw a bumper sticker on a car in the next lane. It read: “No bad days.” It was cold that day, the wind, as we gathered around the grave, was biting. And now as I traveled home the car’s heater seemed too slow in providing me warmth. 

No bad days! I’d just buried Aunt Virginia. She became a young lady in the midst of the Great Depression, a time of hunger and having not. But still, even though when she died she was well-off, over the years Aunt Virginia shared stories of back then when there were bad days. 

Here we are in these economic difficult times. Every day I hear stories of people who are encountering the bad days and some of those bad days are becoming an endless refrain to a tired-out song. There are celebrities who have fallen; there are the famous who have made wrong choices; there are lives being tragically torn asunder. There is the war and the deaths, the starvation and disease. A large share of life is filled with bad days. 

Alcohol sales are on the rise during our time, the divorce rate increasing. The cause is attributed to the bad days we are experiencing.

Aunt Virginia told me that back in those bad days almost everyone went to church. Back in those bad days folks prayed a little more. But whenever she talked of those days there was a smile on her face. She didn’t dwell on the difficulties that were her family’s. She talked about playing, of pitching in together to raise the chickens and collect the eggs, of plowing and planting the vegetables. “Oh, my goodness,” she’d tell me, “you should have seen your Mama back then. She was a hoot.”

There are bad days and good days. I suppose it depends a lot on one’s perspective as to which the day is. I’ve learned over the years that there are no bad acts of kindness. there are no bad expressions of compassion. There are no bad ways to say I care about you. There are no bad ways to be thankful, and there are no bad results that ever come from having been thankful in all things.

So I rode home in the cold from Aunt Virginia’s grave and I thanked God that winter had arrived. I thanked God that the car was running though the heater was slow in waking. I thanked God I had a home to go to. 

Aunt Virginia taught me that whether its good days or bad days really depends on how you live your days.

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Chattanooga Christmas

His bag seemed packed to the hilt, sitting on the curb beside him where the semi-trucks exited the Quik Trip. The piece of cardboard he held in his hands read “Chatt.”  The parson had seen him as he drove in. And now here he was as the parson and his faithful canine companion, Charlie Brown, exited the facility.

The parson stopped beside him. “Hop in.”

The man rose, took a grip on his bag, and as he was pulling it upward spied Charlie Brown in the back seat. He froze and continued to stare.

“He’s not going to hurt you,” said the parson. “He’s just big; he’s gentle as can be.”

The man studied Charlie Brown intently. He placed his bag on the ground and stepped close to the car. Tentatively, he stuck his hand through the open window and slowly extended it toward Charlie Brown. The faithful canine companion stretched his nose toward the hand, sniffing the digits carefully. After a moment the man seemed satisfied. He turned and retrieved his bag from the curb.

“Where do you want me to put this?” he asked.

“Want to toss it in the trunk?” the parson asked.

“I guess so,” said the man whereupon he walked behind the car.

The parson pulled the lever, disengaging the trunks lock and it popped open. The bag was tossed in; the man closed the lid, walked back to the front passenger door and hopped in.

“Next stop, Chattanooga?” said the parson.

“You’re going all the way to Chattanooga?” the man asked.

“I am,” said the parson.

“But your tag says you’re from the county just up the road.”

“I am, but today I’m heading to Chattanooga.”

The man seemed to study the parson as the car merged with the northbound traffic. 

“What’s your name?” asked the parson.

“I’m Sid,” said the man.

The parson then introduced himself. And the conversation began. Sid was from Florida. He had a job waiting in Chattanooga. He was trying to hitchhike to save money so he’d be able to find a cheap place to live until he could get paid. Sid had two children, both girls. He produced pictures and bragged on each as he held them up for the parson’s inspection. Both he and his wife had been laid off their jobs. She and the children were staying with her mother until Sid could get settled. 

A few miles outside Chattanooga, the parson asked Sid for the address of the place he was headed. Sid pulled his wallet out and extracted a card. He gave the parson the address. The parson pulled the car into a rest area. There, he punched the address into his GPS device and proceeded up the road. Sid was silent.

Following the GPS devices the parson pulled up in front of Sid’s next place of employment in about ten minutes.

“Here we are,” said the parson.

Sid continued to stare. Then he quietly got out of the car and stepped to the trunk. The parson popped the lid. Bag rescued, Sid  stepped to the still open passenger door. He leaned in.

“You weren’t coming to Chattanooga, were you?”

“Well, not until I saw you,” said the parson.

“Why’d you do that?” asked Sid.

“It’s a Christmas present,” said the parson.

“It’s not Christmas yet,” said Sid.

“It is today,” said the parson, for both of us. Hope the job works out Sid.”

Sid’s image was framed by the rearview mirror as the parson drove away. His bag rested on the curb. Sid was still staring at the retreating car.

Almighty God, Into Your Hands We Commend Your Daughter, Virginia

The parson sat quietly in the living room. That drained feeling that just precedes the onset of exhaustion had enveloped him. A glass of wine sat on the side table beside a plate of cheese slices and grapes. They were both ignored by the parson whose head was resting on the sofa back and whose eyes were closed. Soft jazz music filled the room.

It had been a dreary day with rain constantly falling in torrents. The parson had driven through the downpour for a hundred and fifty miles, sometimes unable to go above 20 mph for miles at a time. It had been stressful.

Aunt Virginia died the night before. She was ninety-four. A week ago she’d fallen and broken her neck in several places. Because of her age and previous health problems surgery to correct her neck was not an option. Up until the moment of the fall she’d been the active and mischievous matriarch who never stopped. Aunt Virginia was the last of the generation that raised the parson. An era had come to an end. 

The parson memory floated back to the yard of his childhood where Aunt Virginia was on her hands and knees trimming the grass on the bank with a pair of scissors. And then she was in the backyard showing the parson how to kill and pluck a chicken she’d just retrieved from the chicken coop. 

Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion, broke the parson’s reverie with his barking at the front door. Having scouted the yard for intruding raccoons and possums he pranced inside when the parson opened the door and into the kitchen where he stood by his food bowl awaiting his reward. He got it. The parson returned to the sofa.

 A bite of cheese, a sip of wine, a head back against the sofa and Aunt Virginia returned to his memory. She was in the living room of the house now. The parson was beside her. “No, no, watch,” she said, as she demonstrated a particular move as she continued her lesson in dancing the Charleston. She was boundless in her energy and laughter.

And then it was Christmas. Seventy-five aunts, uncles and cousins filled the house. The   gifts were exchanged, the teasing was engaged, the turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce and all the food consumed, and then she motioned for the parson to follow her into the kitchen. There it was on the side board, the pineapple-upside-down cake she always had for him. 

On and on down the avenue of memory the parson wandered, remembering the times she fussed at him, the times she laughed at and with him, the prodding, the encouraging, and always she was the one who whispered the truths to him other family members guarded.

Finally, the parson wandered again into the pulpit of the last church he’d served as an full-time pastor. Down below the pulpit decked out as the Southern lady she was sat Aunt Virginia, the one who guided him all along the way, Aunt Virginia smiling ear to ear that the parson was now her pastor. 

The parson finished the cheese and grapes and the wine. He headed to the kitchen to wash the dish and glass. Returning to the room, he picked up the Book of Worship from the table and turned to the “Services of Death and Resurrection.” On Saturday he and Aunt Virginia’s daughter, a member of the first class of Anglican female priests, would celebrate the services. “Listen,” he read, “I will tell you a mystery! We will not all die, but we will all be changed. For this perishable body will put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality.”

The parson closed the book. This was not the time to prepare. He was tired. Tomorrow, when rested, he would approach it. There would be one more chance to make Aunt Virginia proud.

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Thanks Curtis

Curtis -

A glitch prohibits me from replying to comments via the comments on my own blog (go figure). But I wanted you to know how much your last comment meant to me. You put a little perk in the step of this old parson. Thanks.

Young and Knowing

 The parson sat with two colleagues at his favorite diner. The table they shared was clear except for the coffee mugs in front of each. The two pastors, one male, one female, across from the pastor were in their mid-fifties and served churches in the same district as the parson.

Evelyn, the career server and sneaky monitor of the parson’s cholesterol intake, had provided the table in the back of the diner for their meeting and was keeping the coffee mugs filled. The subject of the morning’s discussion was getting more participation of the area churches in the homeless ministries.

Ben Andrews, a young pastor, two years out of seminary, had been eating on the other side of the room. His view of the parson’s table had been blocked by the buffet table in the center of the facility. As he paid his tab, he noticed the pastors in the back and came to greet them.

“Morning, Parson,” exclaimed Ben.

The parson acknowledged his presence and introduced him to the other pastors. Ben took the chair beside the parson.

“How are things going at Testing Ground of Naive New Pastors Who Have Been Told They Are Being Sent To A Great Opportunity United Methodist Church?” the parson asked.

“Great,” said Ben, “just great. We’re starting a new outreach program that I think is going to get us noticed. But I have to tell you, Parson, that it would be a lot easier if the denomination made resources more available to us for this. What is needed is for the church to ....”

Ben went on to explain to the parson and the other clergy the shortcomings of the current support of the smaller churches and gave them a three point presentation on how this could be remedied.

“Sound’s like you’ve really thought this out,” said the male pastor across from the parson. 

“I have, sir,” said Ben. “I’m sure as we come to understand the nature of the small congregation throughout the conference we’ll find movement in that direction.”

“It’s good to hear you’re excited about your ministry,” the parson intoned. “By the way, I was talking to Edwin Garrison the other day. He was bragging about your preaching.”

“Well, that’s nice to hear, Parson,” said Ben. “I really appreciate you telling me that.” There was a short pause before Ben jumped on this bandwagon. “You know, Parson, we need to develop a more comprehensive sermon helper program that follows the lectionary for the General Church. I mean the internet is full of sermon aids, but it seems to me we have to come up with our own site that provides this and provides it so that as we follow the Revised Common Lectionary while uplifting denominational issues and causes. I know you’re friends with some of the delegates to the General Conference; I wish you’d bring this up to them. I’d be glad to give you some talking points on this.”

The female pastor said, “Would you want the General Church to tell you what to preach?”

“Oh, no, no, I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to imply that.”  From this Ben went on with a verbal thesis on freedom of the pulpit and the need for each pastor to follow the lead of the Spirit in the preaching, but that the sermon helps could be a reminder of denominational matters.

Soon after this Ben followed with his suggestions of a more effective use of the local church property being held by the General Church clause in the Discipline of the Church. That was followed by a discussion on the proper ways to empower the smaller church to maximize the potential of each member. And that was soon followed by an analysis of the appointive system and how this could better match each individual pastor to a particular church.

A mental alarm clock must have gone off in Ben’s head because he suddenly announced he had to leave. He was headed to a meeting with the local community volunteer organization where he was going to present some ideas on how to maximize the participation of the local governmental agencies.

The parson and his two colleagues watched Ben depart. Each seemed to relish the silence that was kicked up by his wake. Evelyn came and refilled their cups. Each took a long sip of their refreshened liquid. 

“How long has he been serving a church?” asked the female pastor.

“Two years,” acknowledged the parson.

“He’s something else,” said the male pastor.

“I know,” said the parson, “he reminds me of myself.”

“Of yourself?” intoned his two friends in unison.

“Sure enough,” said the parson. “I seem to remember when I was his age I also knew everything.”

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Enabling Jeanette

 She walked into the soup kitchen with the confident swagger that always accompanied her visits. Sitting down at the first available table, she asked one of the volunteers what kind of soup was being served this night. 

“Tonight is turkey vegetable, Jeanette,” the volunteer responded.

“Did you guys use white meat or dark meat?”

“It’s white meat.”

“Well, I’m kinda partial to dark meat. It gives it a bit more flavor, don’t you think?”

The parson, walking by, overheard the conversation. He stopped and turned to Jeanette. “Jeanette,” he said, “the soup is free, white meat or dark meat, it’s free. Do you want some?”

“Well, of course, I do, Parson. Why else would I stop by?”

The parson walked away. He headed to the kitchen to retrieve some more tea. As he brought the tea out he saw Janet Morris with a bowl of sleep and a plate with half a dozen biscuits. He overheard Janet say to Carolyn Johnson, “Do you know where the grape jelly is. Jeanette wants some grape jelly with her biscuits.”

The parson halted in his tracks. “Are you getting this together for Jeanette?”

“Yes, I am, Parson. And she wanted me to ask if it would be possible for someone to fix some mac n cheese.”

The parson hurried across the room and filled the tea dispenser. He then headed to Jeanette.

“Jeanette, did you just sit down here and ask Ms. Morris to get your food?”

“I did. I prefer she gets my food. She’s a little more generous with the servings.”

The parson flopped down in a seat across from Jeanette. “Listen, Jeanette, first, I’ve told you before we don’t do special orders here so quit asking what kind of meat it is. Second, everyone who comes in here gets their own food. You’re the only person who has someone bring it to you. does that seem a little strange to you?”

“Actually, Parson, it doesn’t. I’ve had a strenuous day. My bones ache. I’d like to get the food myself but there’s always the chance I’d spill it.”

The parson rolled his eyes, got up and walked to the kitchen. He asked one of the youth to request all the volunteers to gather in the kitchen. When everyone was in place the parson said:

“Look, folks, I’m really grateful for all you folks do. And I’m so happy you want to make this a great experience for these folks, but in the case of Jeanette you guys have to stop falling for all her lines. We have to take a stronger stance with her. I don’t mean we need to stop helping her, but we do not need to enable her bad habits. So, I’m just asking everyone to make sure what you do with Jeanette is to provide what she needs but don’t fall for her lines and don’t give her any more deference than you would any other person who comes to the kitchen. And please don’t fall for any of her lines about needing money. If she asks for money send her to me.”

Everyone nodded. Everyone went about their business. The folks who benefited from the kitchen drifted in and out. The room was filled with laughter and conversation. Most folks seemed reluctant to head back out as the temperature was dropping. But eventually the place emptied following the exclamations of gratitude. Everyone was gone , aside from the volunteers, except for Jeanette. She continued to sit in the corner.

When the parson came by her table pushing a broom, she asked, “Parson, can I talk with you for a moment?”

The parson sat down across from her. “What’s up, Jeanette?”

“Look, I’m sorry about being so pushy when I came in. I really did like the soup, and the biscuits were great. I’m grateful for all this; I really am. I know you’re kinda upset with me, but I still need to ask you something.”

“What’s that, Jeanette.”

“Everybody says it’s going to get cold tonight. Looks like winter’s coming. That old furnace at my place is on the blink. I need time to save some money to get it fixed. So I was wondering if you could spot me a twenty so I can get one of those small electric heaters. I just need to heat one room until the furnace gets fixed so one of those little ones will do. I know you’re trying to get me to quit begging money, but I really need some help with this.”

The parson reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, extracted a twenty and handed it to her. She thanked him with enthusiasm, hugging him in the process. And then she left.

When everything was cleaned up, everyone properly thanked, and the church locked up the parson and Ms. Parson headed home with Charlie Brown, the parson’s faithful canine companion in the backseat.

“Honey,” inquired Ms. Parson, “did I see you slip some money to Jeanette?”

“I did,” said the parson. “She’s having a problem with her furnace so she needed one of those portable space heaters. I only gave her twenty dollars.”

“That was really generous,” said Ms. Parson.

“It was only a twenty,” the parson responded defensively.

“Sweetheart,” Ms. Parson said as she patted his leg, “you bought Jeanette a new space heater last December.”

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Seconds Allowed

She is five. Her parents moved into the community a few weeks before the school year began. Her name was Gretchen. The family had never been part of the church before two weeks ago. They were feeling they way around the liturgy as well as the local customs of the members. And Gretchen was the center of it all.

The Great Thanksgiving was over, the invitation given. The people made their way to at the ushers’ directions to the altar. There they knelt silently, most praying, as the parson moved down the altar with the youth communion assistant giving each the elements. “Take eat; this is my body .... Drink this in remembrance.”

Gretchen knelt with her parents as totally fascinated as they were unsure what to do. It was obvious this was their first communion. They followed the example of those kneeling near them. The parson pronounced a blessing on this group, and then they rose to return to their pew.

The ushers directed the next group toward the altar. They did not notice Gretchen slip out of the pew to which she’d just returned and take her place at the back of the new group moving to the altar. Again the parson and the youth assistant proceeded down the rail and the words were repeated as they did so.

As the parson reached Gretchen, she leaned forward and whispered, “Parson, is it okay if I have seconds?”

The parson leaned forward and whispered, “You certainly can.”

“Thanks,” she said as the bread was placed in her hands after which she took a big swallow.

After the service Mildred Carson cornered the parson. “I can’t believe what that child did. What got into her?”

“I don’t know,” the parson replied. “Maybe it was the Holy Spirit. Have you ever asked the Lord for seconds, Mildred?”