MAKING CALLS
Calling is at once the bane and the blessing of the minister’s life.   In rain, in sleet, in heat, in mud, in darkness, sick or well, glad or somber, the minister must make calls.   With the physician the minister stands by the sick bed and with the undertaker, by the death bed. He must visit the widow, the orphan, the discouraged,  the spiritually hungry,  the troublemaker, the complainer, the seeker, the doubter, the domestic fighters, the hysterical, the frivolous, the hypocritical, the scoffer and the proud. All of these he must meet and deal with besides making those friendly social  calls among his congregation, expected by the people and enjoyed by the pastor as a normal part of his work. A pastor may go night and day, work conscientiously and well, instant to respond to the call of distress or sickness or despair; and yet there will be those complaining, dolorous individuals in every church who will proclaim, “We like our pastor well enough, he is a good preacher, but he doesn’t call.”   And, Oswald, have you noticed that  the complainers are always women?   I am old and full of years, but never yet, my boy, have I heard a man complaining because his pastor did not call. Why on earth should any woman expect a busy pastor, who needs his time for meditation and study to run to her house when there is no particular need for his services, merely to chat for a few minutes on inconsequential subjects, listen to trivial gossip, hear a deal of “yammering,” some confidential disclosures, and a great amount of slush? Yet, expected this sort of calling is, and it is one of the greatest bores of a pastor’s life.
Make up to the children
There are calls that edify, where one may give and receive help; but heaven help you, Oswald, when you start on your round of duty calls, merely to stop the critical mouths of two or three dozen cantankerous females with poor judgment and warped dispositions.
You will hear this criticism, too, Oswald; “I was sick and the preacher didn’t come to see me.” You will find out later that she only had a tooth pulled and that her next-door neighbor didn’t even know about it. But she expected you to know all about it and to call.
Some people will expect and demand that your wife call with you regardless of the fact that Oswald Jr. has the measles, and that the plaster has fallen in the kitchen, and that she has sprained an ankle. The show must go on! Others would rather you left her at home anyway since they (I speak now of the ladies) can become more arch and kittenish, and confidential, without the wife to spoil it all by her sensible presence. They will become lachrymose and frail and appealing, and will tell you that they are misunderstood by their husbands—so, Oswald, my advice is: take the wife along and save yourself embarrassment. Get a neighbor to stay with Oswald Jr. and clean up the plaster yourself; even carry your wife to and from the car, if the ankle will not permit her walking. But TAKE HER WITH YOU. It is better to feel overworked and downtrodden than a fool. There are women in your congregation who will hate you if you do not “sister” them and pet them. Let them hate. It is better to have their ill will than to be involved in a scandal and lose your good name.
Of course, Oswald, you may be one of that brotherhood of granny-preachers who delight in being confidential with the ladies. In that case leave the wife at home. Then you can have some of those intimate little chats wherein you confess that the wife never really understood you, and that you are simply perishing for want of understanding and sympathy. You can shed a few tears, gently hold the lady’s hand at parting and feel you have at last found a True Friend.
If these sentimental ladies are ill, you can have a grand time talking of illness, symptoms, et cetera; and giving good advice, being a sort of physician yourself, as it were. There are ministers who do not care for this sort of thing —but some preachers do!
When you call you may wear your rubbers and carry an umbrella, or not, as you choose; or carry your gloves in your left hand or your right hand, and wear a flower or not, according to the degree of sentiment; there is no set rule. Emily Post does not cover this and I have nothing to offer. But be prepared to discuss anything from kittens to curtains, herrings to harness, and second marriages to what-do-angels-wear.
Pet dogs and cats. Make up to the children. Take them on your lap, dirty noses and all; but take it from one who is wise, Ozzy, right here be careful. Dire things have befallen noble men.
Make calls at all hours, in the night and at meal times—some preachers do. It is so uplifting to see the preacher walk up to the door when you have only hash and beans and bread pudding, and hardly enough of that to go around, and you know that it is his cunning habit to just “drop in and eat whatever you have, like one of the family.”
Run to the hospitals at unusual hours. Burst into the rooms just when the patient has dropped off to sleep after hours of pain, or when the nurses are giving an enema to an already embarrassed and irritated patient.
Push past a “No Visitors” sign. Stay an hour. Give advice freely. Fidget and especially contrive to bump the bed.   Discuss the election;
also an operation, just like the one performed upon the patient, that you witnessed, giving all the horrible details and ending with the pleasant information that the unfortunate victim died.
When they report the patient to be worse the next day, send flowers. Nurses are cranks anyhow, Oswald, so if they hint that the patient must not see you next time, just go in anyway, for a preacher could not possibly worry a patient. Everyone knows that a minister has special privileges. You can take advantage of the kindly attitude on the part of the public toward the clergy and do many things that other people are not allowed to do, Oswald. http://stasf.com
Posted in CHAPTER FIVE
You may try to persuade yourself that this is an ordinary book — in order that you may find comfort in the persuasion - but you cannot do so and be fair to facts.