Last year a few days prior to the July 4th celebration, the sign in front of our church read: America Bless God.

Some folks from a theologically conservative fellowship took offense. During the four days the words were up they stopped at our church, backed a pickup up to the sign, stood in the bed of the truck to reach the letters and changed them to God Bless America.

Now if that isn’t an illustration of competing theologies, I don’t know what is.

One theology says “God look down on us and bless us.” The other proclaims “Let us do something, O God, which brings honor and blessing to you.”

I cannot help but remember that incident from last year. I’ve had time to think about it. Tomorrow we celebrate the 232nd anniversary of the signing of the Declaration of Independence. The dream of what this nation can be is embedded in that document. So profound and revolutionary are the concepts that were birthed on that day, the world is still being impacted.

The danger of living in the shadow of such a document is we begin to consider ourselves special, even chosen. And when we feel that way we appropriate a feeling that God blesses us above others, God bless America. When that happens treasured feelings of universal equality are twisted into arrogance.

God bless America? Nope, I’ll stick to what we said last year. The challenge on this Fourth of July is to look forward to the day when America’s desire is not to be blessed but to be a blessing

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The parson was jogging with his best friend, Charlie Brown, around the lake which fronted the State Police and the County Fire Department facilities. A commercial fountain head sent water shooting fifty or sixty feet in the air in the center of the pond. A jogging track circled the water providing the parson’s daily exercise. Canadian geese swam with their growing-every-day ducklings watching Charlie Brown who on past days had delighted in jumping into the water to swim in their midst.

Rounding the lower portion that circled the oval lake, the parson was hailed by Ralph Snyder, a lay person at the Providence Church But It Will Always Be Snyder’s Chapel to him.

“Hello, Ralph, what are you doing out this early in the morning. You haven’t taken up jogging, have you?”

"That won't happen,” said Ralph, as he spat a long stream of tobacco juice toward the pond. “That won't happen. I had to get my driver’s license renewed so I got here early to be in the front of the line. You got a second, parson?”

“Sure, Ralph,” said the parson, and he leaned down to unhook Charlie Brown from his lease, whereupon the eighty-five pound dog bounded down the bank to belly flop right into the intended path of a gaggle of geese. The parson turned to Ralph, “Here, let’s sit on this park bench.”

Once they were settled Ralph began, “I don’t want to waste your time, parson. I imagine you’re ready to get home and begin your day. But I needed to ask you about some denominational procedures.”

“Sure, Ralph, what’s up?”

“Well, it’s like this,” said Ralph and he stretched his long legs out in front of him. “You know we got a new preacher this year.” Ralph spat another stream out toward a rose bush blooming to his left.

“I’d forgotten you were getting a new pastor, Ralph. He was ordained just a few weeks ago, right?”

“Yep, he’s new for sure, parson. Wet behind the ears wouldn’t quite cover it.”

“But you have a young pastor, Ralph. That’s got to be something. Do you know how many churches would just love to have a pastor under fifty?”

“Well, I could recommend one to them, parson.”

The parson’s brow wrinkled. “Spit it out Ralph.”

“What I wanted to ask, parson, was for you to tell me the best way to get an appointment with the superintendent or bishop. This kid ain’t gonna work out. He’s terrible. What’s the procedure to make a change before the church is utterly destroyed.”

The parson stood. He felt heat coming to his cheeks. “What the hell are you talking about, Ralph? The
man only arrived in the parish last Thursday. Sunday was his first service. How in the world can you tell me you don’t like him? You haven’t given him a chance.”

“He’s not the man for our church, parson, that’s the long and short of it.”

“Well you sure wouldn’t have any idea whether or not he’s the man for your church or not, Ralph. Tell me, is his mother living?”

“How would I know if his mother’s living?”

“Ralph,” the parson pressed on, “what does he like to do in his spare time?”

“Holy crap, parson, what kind of stupid questions are these?”

“They’re questions you don’t know the answer to. And that means you don’t know anything your pastor. That means you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Look, parson, I don’t need a lecture. Are you going to tell me how to get time with the superintendent or not?”

The parson turned and whistled for Charlie Brown. He then turned back to Ralph. “No, Ralph, I’m not.”

The parson walked to Charlie Brown and hooked the leash to his collar. Charlie Brown shimmied and sprayed the area and the parson with a wet plenty of the lake.”

Darn, thought the parson, I should put you between me and him before you did that. Charlie Brown and the parson jogged away. Ralph spat upon the path.

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The parson saw her slip into the young adult Sunday school room. He smiled. It wasn’t often she got to attend church.

She was a simple young lady. Though she worked hard at her grocery store cashier’s job, she had difficulty making ends meet. There was the necessity of caring for a frail family member. The combination of her commute from the rural farm to the county seat store and rising gas prices needed for an ancient automobile conspired to build an ever increasing obstacle to solvency.

At the store she always smiled. “God bless,” was her last words to ever customer. “I’m not very smart,” she once told the parson, “but you don’t have to be smart to be nice to God’s children.”

The parson sat in the chancel chair as the prelude was playing. He watched her slip into the back pew, quietly taking her seat, a part, now, of the congregation and yet, as always, apart. She bowed her head. Her lips moved in silent prayer.

The service began with the usual Call to Celebration, followed by a familiar praise song. She stood singing, her eyes lifted toward the ceiling. Her smile sang in harmony with the twinkle in her eye. The time came for the reading of the scriptures. She retrieved a Bible from the holder on the back of the pew in front of her and read along with the parson. “The Word of God for the people of God,” intoned the parson. As she responded, “Thanks be to God,” her left hand lifted toward the ceiling, her eyes closed, her smile brightened.

At the appointed time, the ushers came forward. The proper words were spoken and the ushers turned to pass the plate among God’s grateful, and not so grateful, children. The parson sat in a side chair using the moments to quickly look over the sermon notes in his hand. He made a mental note to alter one illustration. The Offertory finished and the music modulated to the introductory notes of the Doxology.

The parson rose in unison with the people. The ushers stood at the rear now ready to process forward to present the plates and the offerings to God’s altar. The parson stared. His brow wrinkled. The usher on the left held the plate in her left hand. Her right swung between her and the other usher. It held something. Is that a Mason jar, the parson wondered.

The ushers places their plates on the altar, one to each side. The left hand usher placed a mason jar filled with coins in the center, between the plates directly in front of the brass cross. The parson stared at the jar. The parson turned and looked to the back pew where she stood smiling.

I’m standing in the midst of a parable, the parson thought.

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