Unfortunately, as it turned out, the “conversation” that I would eventually wind up having with Pastor Shelton would prove to be unworthy of the anticipation I initially had for it. And, instead of answering my questions, I wound up having more questions after we talked.
After Wednesday service, Dad spoke with Pastor Shelton while Mother and I waited in the car. When Dad came out about thirty minutes later, I was excited about the prospect of speaking directly with the Pastor about my concerns. Dad got into the car and said, "Pastor Shelton said that he would be glad to answer any of your questions, Aysha. He said the best time for him would be after Sunday-morning service...sound good?"
"Sounds great!" I replied.
I was very enthused and took our impending conversation very seriously. My mind was swimming with questions I wanted to ask the Pastor and ideas that I wanted to discuss with him. The next day I started to write down the questions I would ask the Pastor and ideas that I wanted to discuss with him.
One of the first issues I wanted to talk about with the pastor was the burning question about how he was called to our church. My first question would be: How were you chosen by God to be our pastor? I was eagerly looking forward to his response to this question.
I did my homework in preparation for our meeting. I checked on the Internet and in the local phone books. I found that there were some twenty-five churches of similar denominations within the area. I planned to ask him if he could tell me why there were so many churches of the same faith in a thirty-mile radius of our town. If unity was important among believers, shouldn't there only be one church representing Christianity? Why was it necessary to have so many churches and such varying denominations if they all worshiped Jesus?
Then I would ask him something that would get to the heart of the matter, the issue that had come to bother me the most. What responsibility do believers have? Are we, as a church and as individuals, doing everything we are supposed to be doing as Christians?
I was prepared to counter his response no matter what his answer would be. If he answered yes—Christians only need to attend church every Sunday and listen to their preacher, I would ask him how he could be sure of that. I was ready to show him book, chapter and verse. I was well aware of scriptures in the Bible that placed more responsibility on Christians.
If Pastor Shelton answered that no, we Christians are not doing enough. I would have to ask him why we were not. I might even have the nerve to ask him why he wasn’t leading us that way—teaching us how we can better serve God.
I had worked hard and thought long and was proud of my questions. I would be going into our meeting with a positive attitude and I hoped that I wouldn’t be let down. I truly hoped Pastor Shelton could not only give me the answers, but also help me understand them. Teach me and tell me where I’m wrong in my ideas and tell me why, I thought. I hoped he’d be a little like my dad who had a way of making me feel important, that I counted and what I thought mattered. But I had to remind myself that most adults aren’t as skilled in communication with young people like my dad. But I was looking on the bright side and hoped that our conversation would go smoothly, that I’d be enlightened and that my concerns would be answered.
It was a long week, but Sunday morning finally came. I was quiet on the ride to church because I was still practicing in my mind what I would be asking the Pastor. Mother sensed that she should just let me be but curiosity got the best of Dad and he couldn’t resist asking me if I was prepared for my big meeting.
"Know what questions you're going to ask the pastor?” he said.
I replied, "Yep, I've got all my questions, and comments, written down and memorized – or mostly memorized. I’m still practicing right now!" Dad laughed out loud. Mother was quiet. She was proud of me for doing my thing but I knew she thought I could be treading on dangerous grounds.
Dad, Mother and I entered the church together. As we entered, I heard the familiar hymnal music playing through the speakers in the lobby. Mrs. Fogerty, our organist, had been with the church for years and was a very talented musician but sometimes I wished she would learn some new songs—even some contemporary Christian music. If she belted out one of those songs, I mused, she’d wake up a lot of people. But I knew that wasn’t my decision—that was up to Mrs. Fogerty and our music director, Charlie Duncan.
As usual the sermon seemed to last too long. Perhaps it was just because I was anxious for my talk with the Pastor afterwards. But as I looked around, I saw the same behavior from the people in the congregation that I had noticed before. And the longer the sermon went on, the more the people acted up. I saw two young boys throw spitballs at each other. Their mothers were distracted—not by the sermon. One mother was using an Emory board to deal with a hangnail. The other mother had her eyes closed—and I don’t think they were closed in prayer!
shook everyone's hand and finished up with the usual conversations about weather and sports—not so much about Jesus and God. Mother left right after the service with some of the other church ladies to go to a local restaurant for lunch. Dad and I told her we’d meet up with her at home and we’d all do something together later.
Finally, Pastor Shelton had said all his goodbyes and the last couple left the lobby. He turned and smiled widely as he approached Dad and me.
"Well Aysha, your Dad tells me you have some questions for me," the pastor said in a booming voice.
"Yes, sir," I mumbled.
“Well, that’s great. I love it when one of my parishioners wants to talk one on one.”
Pastor Shelton put his hand gently on my shoulders and led me to the small couch located in the foyer.
"Well have a seat here and I'll do my best to answer them," the pastor said with what I thought was a wink to my Dad.
"Aysha, I'm going to wait for you in the car," my dad said. I felt very grown-up suddenly and I didn't know if I liked it or not. Something in me hated to see my dad walk out the door but yet I was having a private meeting with our Pastor. I felt I was somewhere between little girl and young woman and I had no idea who I’d be by the time our meeting was over.
The Pastor said goodbye to my dad. “Don’t worry, John, I won’t tire her out with too much information!” he said in that joking voice that adults like to use sometimes around kids.
But at last, I had his full attention.
"Okay, fire away!" the pastor said.
I nervously looked and fumbled with the paper that contained my questions and I began to have doubts. What was I doing here?! I was preparing to question the Pastor’s very existence in our church. I questioned my sanity. The things I had concern with suddenly didn't seem that important – but here I was so I had to soldier on. There was no backing out now. I blurted out the first question—the one that had set me on this truth-seeking path.
"How were you chosen by God to be our pastor?" I asked with a quiet voice. I was bracing for the Pastor to be angry or at least annoyed but I was pleasantly surprised.
"Great question!" he said. And apparently it was so “great” that it required nearly thirty minutes to answer. It reminded me of Sunday morning sermons and that was exactly the opposite of what I was looking for. But he went on and on. I thought about interrupting him, but that would be rude and my mother would have a fit if she ever thought I was less than respectful to the pastor.
In his response, Pastor Shelton covered a wide range of topics. He was quoting Bible verses, talking about his dad who was also a pastor and had inspired him to service and how he had survived on almost nothing when he first started the church. I fantasized about finding a switch attached to his back that I could turn in the “off” position. He went on and on and on.
At one point, I fell into almost a trance-like state. I just watched his mouth move and had no idea what he was saying. It was just words and I’m pretty sure none of those words were really answering my question. I remember wondering if his ability to talk non-stop was considered a gift from God. I didn’t think so. Finally he stopped.
"Any other questions?" he asked. Trying in my mind to cut through his sea of words, I was fairly certain he hadn’t answered question one! But I was totally exhausted. I could not have withstood another long-winded answer to another question. Perhaps that’s how the Pastor dealt with people who questioned him. He talked them into submission. I felt defeated and I had been reduced to some type of mind-numbing state. I had to muster up the strength to even answer him.
"No sir, I think that will do it for now. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me," I somehow managed to say.