So this is how it works on most Saturday mornings. I stay downtown on Friday and Saturday nights. The church is located downtown, close to PSU campus, was built about 100 years ago, and has a wonderful, Victorian-style parsonage next to it. No pastor has lived in the parsonage for over 50 years. All I’ve been able to learn is that the last pastor who lived here “had a really, really big German Shepherd,” because (I think…) even at that time the surrounding neighborhood was, how should I say it…a bit rough around the edges. As a result, to even call it a parsonage would draw puzzled looks from most people–esp. in this neighborhood. A few would recognize what I was talking about if I said we were spending weekends in the “Hafner House” (Pastor Hafner, who ministered here from 1897 to 1943 was the senior/only pastor here when the house was built), but most would know what I was talking about if I simply said, “The house next door to the church on the corner.” Anyway, I woke up this morning and did what I really like to do on mornings down here: I sat on the front porch and had a cup of coffee. I should have prayed first, should have prepared myself for the day, for whatever the day would bring, because the first thing that they day brought did not bring out the best side of the downtown pastor. Actually, it called forth the downtown-putz. Here’s what went down… I’m enjoying my coffee, looking out at the day unfold before me. The sun’s out, it’s going to be a gem of a day. I’ve got some touch up work to do on my sermon tomorrow, and a teaching on the book of Luke to do, and other than that… it’s coffee, urban-love-the-people stuff, and all is good. Then, this dude walks down the street. He doesn’t see me–my porch is a bit higher then the street level. The dude has a dog, excuse me, it is a Dog; a broad shouldered, massive headed, brutish-looking junkyard rover that walks down the sidewalk like the cement was poured just for him. No problem, lot’s of big dogs down here; I’ve got my own little dog, Scout, curled up next to Mama in the bedroom, with no intention of uncurling anytime soon. So, Brutus-dog stops in front of the porch, squats, and procedes to do his bigger business of the day–right in the flower bed that two dear sisters had worked on, in the rain, planting-weeding, barkdusting, etc. There he is, master obediently paused, laying it down right in front of me. Now, here’s the thing a downtown resident looks for….did the owner reach into a back pocket to retrieve a plastic baggy to pick-up and put the poo in? It’s what you’ve gotta do down here, otherwise, well, with all the dogs, you know how things would be… But, nope, no baggy in site. The dude starts to walk away.
“Hi,” says I. “How’s it going?”
“Great,” he says…and keeps on walking.
“Whoa,” I said. “What about your dog’s mess there?”
He looks at me like I’ve just asked him to recite a Bible verse or something, then, the sneer creeps in.
“Yeah, right. I’ll come back for it later, dude.”
Now I’m standing, and not feeling very Saturday mellow anymore. I’m also not feeling very–pastoral either. I’m not liking this dude very much, either. Like I said, I should have prayed…
“No, at least kick it into the gutter.’ I sense that he does not appreciate an old dude sitting on the porch giving out orders.
“What, do you own this dirt?”
“Yeah, as a matter of fact I do own it, and I fixed it up, and I clean it when people let their dogs crap in it. What don’t you be a good owner, and take care of your dog’s mess.”
Now, he’s mad at me. I think by the fact that I’m sitting on the porch drinking coffee in my socks may make him at least wonder if I’m the pastor, or some sort of official somebody here, so maybe he shouldn’t just haul off and deck me. Then again, I’m bigger than him, for all he knows I might be crazy (this is downtown), and (I figure) he doesn’t know that I’m actually feeling a bit rummy from the cancer treatment on Wednesday. All in all, it’s worth a bluff, so I continue.
“C’mon, guy, it’s just what everyone has to do…”
“Hey,” he says, “it’s natural, good for the earth, just let it go.”
“Oh,” I say, “You’re actually doing a good thing for the planet by leaving your dog poo in front of my house. Wow, thank you! What’s your address? Maybe I’ll return the favor, just for the good of Mother Earth.”
You can guess what he told me to do after that.
Like Robert E. Lee at Gettysburg, my blood was up, I was in for a fight. “No, dude, why don’t YOU man-up here, and take care of your own business, instead of making other people take care of it for you? What are you, a little boy or a man?” (I think I have a definite left-over tinge of Promise Keeper ethos floating around in my brain that pops out at moments like these. Why else would I say stuff like that?)
He walked away, (I think he flipped me off…). I watched him leave. His last shot: “Take a picture; it’ll last longer…” Not original, but I get the point.
I turned to the couple of teenagers standing by outside the door of the homeless-teen-resource-center, which is next door to the Hafner House/Parsonage/Church Office. They’re having a smoke, and pretending that they aren’t listening. Actually, they looked a little scared of me, Pastor Ken.
“Wow, I guess I kind of got him mad, huh?” (Ya think?!)
“Uh…yeah. Looks that way, man.”
Well, that was the worst of it, thank the Lord. The rest of the morning I got to meet with some good friends, pray with a couple on the street, help a couple of them out, and belly ache to Jim, an older, wiser man who lives down here.
I told him the story, and told him I’d acted like an ass over a pile of dog poo. It’s the way people act when they really, really care about their lawns. I freaked out over a patch of bark dust.
Jim said it was cool, he didn’t trust pastors who acted like they batted a thousand, anyway. I guess I wouldn’t either, but man, it’s a drag to whiff out in the first inning of the game. Glad there’s a tomorrow around here!
I got my own little baggy, asked God to a) forgive me, and b) not let the dude or his growledigenious beast attack me if I saw him, and finally c) give me the grace to ask him to forgive me for making it a drag to make a mistake on a beautiful Saturday morning. He’s not the only person that’s left a few messes for other people to clean up, I figure.
Oh yeah, I was wearing a T-shirt that says, in Greek, theodidaktos, or, “God taught.” I’m hoping the guy doesn’t know Greek.
downtownpastor