An old fable passed down for generations (and doctored a little bit)…
An elderly man was traveling with a boy and a donkey. As they walked through a village, the man was leading the donkey and the boy was walking behind. The young people there said the old man was a fool for not riding, so to please them he climbed on the animal’s back.
When they came to the next village, the moms in the crowd said the old man was cruel to let the child walk while he enjoyed the ride. To please them, he got off and set the boy on the donkey’s back and continued on his way.
In the third village, senior adults accused the child of being lazy for making the old man walk. The suggestion was made that they both ride. So the man climbed on and they set off again.
In the fourth village, the animal rights activists were indignant at the cruelty to the donkey because he was made to carry two people.
The frustrated man was last seen carrying the donkey down the road. [click to continue…]
(A Turning Point Story)
If being a pastor is like living in a fishbowl, then being a pastor in Abbeville was like swimming in a churning aquarium.
Beneath a florescent light.
That never goes out.
Now this is no mystery to the folks there; fact is, I think some of them are pretty proud of it. We’d laugh about it when we weren’t crying about it or stamping out the latest edition of “I heard from a reliable source.”
I knew this wouldn’t be a typical assignment when I went for an interview weekend and Bobby Joe Espy opened the Q & A session by asking, “Preacher, how thick is your hide?” I don’t remember what I said – something lame about leading with my heart. But I remember that this was the first time I’d ever had a chill in my chest.
Now every small town presumes to know everybody else’s business, but here it was elevated to an art form. Here people knew what you were doing and told you about it. After they told somebody else about it first, of course. They told me when my lights were on too late at night, or too early in the morning. They told me when the grass behind the, uh, privacy fence was too tall. And they told me every single time anybody had something to say that was of a critical nature. In Abbeville they called it like they saw it. And sometimes if they didn’t see it, they made it up.
Don’t guess my hide was very thick.
David Peterson was a great friend, which was helpful, since he chaired the committee that brought me and my very young family to the Wiregrass region of southeast Alabama. [click to continue…]
An old fable passed down for generations (and doctored a little bit)…