A New Parson Comes to Town
When I was a young minister freshly graduated and ordained, my first ministry in the 1960’s, after seven years of the slums of Newmarket, was in a small country church, in the small country town of Ararat, gateway to the Wimmera in Western Victoria. There I learnt the difficult art faced by all city bred ministers, of becoming a country parson.
At the end of my seven years in the slums of Newmarket my wife Beverley and young daughter Jenny and I were packed to leave for the United States of America where I was to pursue some post graduate studies working towards my doctorate. Our furniture, luggage and all of our possessions were on board the SS Arcadia steaming towards San Francisco. We were not. The assassination of President John F. Kennedy had caused consternation in the United States consulate in Melbourne. It had gone on full terrorist alert and many of us who were waiting for the final processing of our visas for entry into the United States were caught up with the whirlwind that followed. As a result we were without visas and unable to travel.
For the next couple of weeks we haunted the consulate trying to get our papers stamped, but they had been lost somewhere in the mad rush that had followed the tragic event of the President’s assassination. In the meantime our money had been transferred to the United States to await our arrival. So Beverley and I and baby Jenny possessed nothing other than what we stood up in with all of our possessions, belongings and money either in the United States or else crossing the Pacific on the way.
I needed income immediately.
The Churches of Christ officials in Melbourne, knowing of our predicament wanted us to get some income immediately. I received a letter asking me to take a temporary appointment until the visas were approved at a small country church in Ararat. The denominational officials realized that I might only be there for a couple of weeks or perhaps a month at the most, but if I could give them a little time I could settle down what had been an explosive situation. In fact the church had been a sore in the side of the denomination for many years. They needed someone fresh from outside, someone who would not be bossed around by some of the local men who had made it so difficult for the previous pastors all of whom had left following disputes and difficulties.
We were in no position to bargain so we accepted the proposition. I headed up country with my wife and baby to commence what we had hoped would be a brief interim ministry as a country parson. Little did I know what was to lay ahead of us in the next few weeks.
I received a long letter from the Conference Executive explaining that this church had a reputation for internal disputes and division. Many members had left over the previous years as had several of the ministers, broken by the spirit of the place.
I was warned about several people who would either try to bribe me or force me into their way of thinking. I was encouraged to be my own person. They also indicated that they had every confidence in what I would do following my successful seven years in Newmarket, that they believed I was the right man for the job, and that if things turned out for the worse there would be no mark against me, rather it was an indication that this church was impossible.
I spoke by ‘phone to the church secretary who sounded a gem of a man. In fact he was. He very quickly became our closest friend and supporter. I explained that I had the commission to go and commence ministry that coming weekend but we had no furniture, no clothing, no crockery or cutlery, no luggage, no books it was simply my wife and I and baby daughter who were arriving. If he could round up anything for the empty manse to make our time with them comfortable I would deeply appreciate it.
Ron replied that he would do what he could. He was sure that he could get a mattress and perhaps a bed there before we arrived. He knew where there was a lounge suite, and was sure he could rustle up some kitchen utensils and crockery from among the small number of members.
It was a stinking hot January day when we arrived. Only those who have lived in the Wimmera, the Mallee or the Outback understand what the dry Australian heat can really be like when the north winds blow. It was about 105 degrees fahrenheit when we arrived and stood outside the manse that was to be our home. What a depressing and deplorable sight!
The manse was surrounded by the most rusty iron fence you could imagine, and the iron roof was to match. It had been painted a couple of decades earlier in battleship grey which was peeling and weather stained. There was a dirt drive with a gate hanging from its hinges. The rooms were empty with threadbare lino covering the floor.
The church secretary, Ron, had been true to his word. There was a double bed mattress and some blankets in the front room. In the kitchen there was a table and some chairs which someone had not wanted and a pile of mismatched crockery. The stove was burnt out and looked is if it might be difficult to coax into life. In the lounge room there was the couch and two chairs that Ron had said would be available. They looked as if they had been on someone’s back shed for a while and had perhaps given comfort to a few chooks. There was wood heater in the centre of the wall which also looked burnt out and useless.
Next to the manse on one side was a large iron shed that belonged to a plumber. The shed, its roof and fence were in matching, rusting corrugated iron.
On the other side of the manse was a vacant paddock with waist high dry grass. On the other side of the paddock was the church. It was also painted with battleship grey, which was quite appropriate considering the wars the church had been through.
One of the main front windows was broken and there were cobwebs in all the corners. The paint was peeling badly from the battleship grey doors. Surrounding the front of the church and up the side was another rusty corrugated iron fence.
It would be the most depressing, decrepit looking group of buildings for the worship of God and the housing of the minister in the nation.
We stood outside, our hearts sinking in despair. Only one thing gave us some encouragement namely we had only a few weeks to stay there and then it would be off to America when our visas were finally approved.
It did not take long to unload the car of the few possessions that we had acquired from our parents and family members.
I immediately drove to the shops in the heart of the country town and found the hardware store. I asked the man behind the counter what could I do with rusty corrugated iron and he indicated that I had best brush it down with a wire brush and apply a coat or two of zinc chromate. I bought two wire brushes and two four gallon cans of zinc chromate. I asked him how I could treat peeling paint on wooden doors and he suggested that I wire brush them, undercoat them and then give them a couple of coats of good quality paint. I bought some more undercoat and brilliant pillar box red top coat.
I had already made up my mind that by the time the church people arrived on Sunday morning they would realize that a new minister had come to town.
My wife and I got to work as soon as we had had tea with Ron and Norma that first night. We rubbed down the front fence in the long twilight summer evening. It was late that night when the worst of the rust had been rubbed down and I had a coat of zinc chromate right along the front fence of the manse.
The man at the hardware show had not told me that zinc chromate was bright yellow! Even in the light of the full moon that brilliant yellow fence stood out. The next day I rubbed down the doors of the church, undercoated them and gave them two coats of pillar box red. It was Saturday and I knew that the following morning when the people came to service they would certainly notice the difference.
My wife and I came out of the manse that morning and walked past the brilliant yellow fence towards the red doors of the church. Several handfuls of people were standing around looking at the new painting, talking. They were absolutely goggle eyed. What was happening? Who had arrived at their church? Who had given authority to do this? Who cared enough about them to paint their fence and church doors? It had been thirty years since either had seen a coat of paint. Who was this new man who put a coat of paint down on his first day?
It was the first of a series of announcements that were made about changes taking place. I led the church service, introducing myself as I went. I announced that there would be a new youth club commencing that Friday night, meeting in our home.
There would be new boys club commencing that Tuesday night meeting in the church hall and a new series of Bible studies which I would take myself on Wednesday night. Furthermore, a Sunday School would commence the following Sunday morning and a family picnic would be held on the Australia Day public holiday the following Monday at Lake Fyans.
As I made the announcements I was also thinking that I had exactly one week to recruit, train and deploy teachers for the Sunday School, leaders for the boys club and youth club, to get materials, equipment and to organise facilities. But I was determined to show that country church what could happen when a qualified ordained minister took charge.
There was no more attentive congregation in the nation that morning. The stranger in the pulpit had taken charge, painted their fence yellow, and their church doors bright red. Then came the announcements of new activities, directions and programmes for children, youth and adults.
Everything was go. But who gave the authority? Where was the money coming from? Who sent this new minister?
The church was agog! The factions did not know who he was supporting. Indeed it seemed that he was getting on with the job of the church right over their heads!
As they came out of the church that hot summer morning, people were shaking their heads in disbelief and talking with each other including those people who never talked with each other. Instead of fighting among themselves they had been the subject of a surprise attack and takeover. They did not yet know whether he was friend or foe.
One thing was certain. Something would have to be done about that yellow fence. Within ten minutes several men volunteered to come after work each night and undercoat and top coat it so long as they could have another colour except yellow! Something respectable like battleship grey!
They did not know it and neither did I but very soon that small, difficult church would be transformed and we would then really paint the whole town red!
So I headed back to the country manse at 90 High Street, opposite the Railway Station, having learnt another lesson in the difficult art of becoming a country parson.
GORDON MOYES
