Anglican Prayer Beads  Prayer Beads  Anglican Rosary Rosaries  Natural Soap  Handmade Soap

Retreats are things that religious people - especially ministers - do sometimes. I went on a retreat last week. I wrote about the food, which was fun, but what has really been on my mind are the people I met, the conversations we had, and what happened to me in Georgia.

Everyone at the retreat was a Disciples of Christ minister in Georgia. Except me, of course. I'm a Texan and still proud of that. I'm a Baptist and not so proud of that, but okay with it.

I was the leader guy of the retreat, but you have to think about that concept loosely. These are people who lead retreats and preach and walk with people on their spiritual journeys all the time. You don't need to talk to people like this. You should get the conversation started and then join in. That's what I did, and it made it seem like I wasn't leading anything or anyone.

There is a certain collegiality among ministers when we get together, in part because we can have a hard time being ourselves at church. We have a tendency to become icons and symbols of the community. Many churches want an icon and many ministers get lost in that role. How you live in the role of preacher/pastor is an esoteric journey itself. There aren't many how-to manuals. You have learn things the hard way. When we get together, it's very relaxing. Suddenly the shepherds are all together in a flock, watching out for each other.

I became aware that something was happening inside me on the first night. I was experiencing a rush of joy and a slow creep of sadness. After the shattering events of the takeover of the Southern Baptist Convention by Falwellesque fundamentalists, many fringe Baptists like myself have felt rather alone. I'm aware of some ministers who are kindred spirits here in Texas, but we aren't organized well enough to get together regularly.

Disciples of Christ ministers come in many varieties, of course, but I find that as a whole they are more theologically open than Baptists. In truth, I fit better with these guys. However, I love the church I serve. I don't know if there are other Baptist churches that would have me, but I'm not looking to go anywhere, so that's not an issue at this time.

So what happened to me on the retreat? I think I could say it this way: I did not feel alone. I felt, instead, surrounded by ministers who are on the same journey. And even now that I'm home in Texas, I still don't feel alone. It helps just knowing that these people are out there.

To my new friends in Georgia: Thank you for making me welcome. It was so good to be with you.

This is a very cool bunch of ministers. Relaxed, open-minded, in love
with the journey, able to walk with you and not try to drag you along.
So many people have sent me emails telling me how badly they wish
they could find an authentic minister and a church that will bless their
journey and not shout them down. Take a look. Here they are.
If ONLY I could find a way to hook you up with them.

rlp

I am among the last generation of American males to grow up before video games, VCRs, and cable television. Without easy entertainment inside the house, we went outside and played catch.

You know playing catch. You grab your mitt and your best friend grabs his. You get a baseball and you throw it back and forth until it gets too dark to see the ball. You do this every day until throwing and catching is as natural and easy as walking. Around 13 you start trying to throw curve balls. You put your fingers to the side of a seam and snap your wrist hard as you throw the ball. Then you shout with great hope, “Did it break?” Your friend yells back that he thinks maybe it did, a little.

There is a secret to throwing a baseball. You can’t think too much about it, and you certainly never try to aim the ball. You lock your eyes on your target, rotate your shoulders, cock your arm, and shift your weight. Then you cut loose and let it go. Your muscles and some deep part of your mind somehow know when to release the ball. This deep knowledge comes after years of playing catch. The feeling of your arm springing forward behind the power of your shoulders is incredibly satisfying. This is your power, the power of a man’s shoulders. You are strong and the ball zips along a straight line and pops into your friend’s glove. The sound of the ball hitting the mitt is a wonderful thing.

And then your friend winds up like a spring and then unwinds. You see his arm blur around his body and there is a white circle coming toward you at a terrific speed. But you feel no anxiety because your gloved hand slips forward smoothly and you pluck the ball right out of the air. You’ve caught a thousand balls, and you know you’ll catch this one. There is a sharp pop in the leather of your glove that stings a bit, but even the sting is nice in its own way.

My father bought me my first baseball mitt a few months before I was born. I loved that mitt and used it until I lost it in the park one terrible day. The grief was very intense, and even now I mourn its loss. I saved money from mowing lawns and bought a used glove from a man in our church. It was my second mitt, and it got me through Pony League and on through high school. It was delightfully broken in, well oiled and supple, and it fit my hand like, well, a glove.

In 1980 some of the rawhide straps broke, and I tied them together in a makeshift manner that lasted through college. After that the mitt ended up in the back of my closet. Seminary, marriage, and children changed my life, and baseball was no longer a part of it.

Then I met Cristopher Robinson, an Episcopal priest here in town. We both grew up playing baseball and were talking about it and also about sermons. I mentioned that I had been wanting to get another lectionary study group together. I was in one years ago and enjoyed it greatly.

Right in the middle of the conversation, I asked Cristopher, “When was the last time you played catch?”

“Just catch?”

“Yeah, just got out with a friend and threw the ball back and forth.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Years, I guess.”

“So why did we stop doing that? I mean, I LOVE playing catch. I wish I could play catch right now!”

And so was born a new kind of lectionary study group. I pulled my old glove out of the closet – the one I’ve had since I was 12. I had to re-lace parts of it, but it still feels perfect on my hand. Cristopher and I get together once a week or so. We throw the ball around while talking about the passages in the lectionary for the coming Sunday. Sometimes we just play catch and say nothing. Or we might stop, sit down and talk more seriously. We do whatever we want to do.

I was scared the first time we met, wondering how long it would take before I regained my instinctive feel for my arm and my release. The baseball felt very small in my hand, and I was pretty wild. And man, was I ever sore the next day. We’ve gotten together three times now, and my arm has loosened up considerably. It’s starting to feel natural for me to throw a baseball. I don’t worry about it. I just let it loose and feel the power of my arm. My whole body moves in the follow-through, and when our "study session" is done, I feel loose and warm all over.

It’s like the ultimate male yoga.

So this is our lectionary study group. The rules are simple. If you want to join us, you have to be a minister who is preaching, and you have to strap on your glove and whip the ball around with us. While we play catch, we talk about the Bible and what it means to us. If these requirements don’t work for you, no problem. Most lectionary groups don’t require you to play catch, so I know you’ll find something out there that works for you.

As for Cristopher and me, we don't know where this thing is going, but there has always been a needed connection between body and spirit, and between work and play. Maybe we'll learn some unexpected things on this journey. I don't really care though, because I'm playing catch again, and it's been too damn long since I did that.

rlp

 
My beloved mitt. I'm back baby!

Ps – Visitors who want to join us for a session are welcome. You can hang with us even if you’re not a minister. The glove requirement stands though. You gotta bring it. If you happen to be in town and have your glove, you can join us. Send me an email.

A memoir of Faith by Barbara Brown Taylor

Barbara Brown Taylor is a beautiful writer. She has clarity, simplicity, and depth. She is also a beautiful thinker. And that shows in her writing as well. That's why I own every book she's ever written.

My reading has suffered since I began writing seriously. I have less energy for reading, so I am careful with my choices. I’ve been avoiding church books these days in favor of serious literature that feeds the writer in me. But when I saw that Taylor’s memoir was out, I had to have it.

Behold, here is a Barbara Brown Taylor that is new to me. She is very vulnerable in this book, confessing her motives and insecurities and allowing us to walk with her as she tries to deal with them. Her struggles are the classic struggles of every pastor. She worries about her power and how she uses it;  she worries about what people think of her; and she worries about her church and its identity. Most of all, she wonders how to maintain her own growing faith in the middle of working to support the faith of others.

Some may wonder why a seasoned minister like Taylor still struggles with these things. But I am an insecure minister myself. And I know what it is like to write with some sophistication, but still worry about what people think about you. I feel a kinship with her in this regard.

Ministers can feel dehumanized at times. This happens in part because we court our righteous image and in part because the people in the pews want to see nothing but our image. Taylor describes a church party where people were pushing each other into a pool. No one would push the minister in, of course, so there she stood watching everyone else in the water. But then someone gave her a shove and she found herself in the water with all the rest of us. I found myself struggling with tears as I thought about my own life and how many times I have wished I could be “a regular person.”

Barbara Brown Taylor left church to find her faith. Not THE Church, of course, but the little church, the shaky and wobbling shadow of The Church that is every local congregation. She left the center of religion and moved to the wilderness, and there she found the presence of God had not left her after all.

I would say this to you. This is a book about leaving church. And if you never find a way to leave church, you might have a hard time finding God.

rlp

Note: Viva Books is offering this book at 30% off retail on their website. Click here for more info...

Tom is back. With a vengeance. Long time RLP readers may remember Tom. He's my minister friend whose wife left him. Then his church fired him because they were too holy and righteous to have a divorced minister in their church. And you know what? I have no quarrel with their right to their own theology and practice. Their theology is their business, and they must do church in a way that seems right to them. But they fired Tom immediately and with no sensitivity to what that would do to his life and his ability to make a living. Boom. You're fired. You're out. Their actions were punitive and angry. They could have let him resign, but they didn't. And a Baptist minister who is fired might as well find a new way to make a living. Tom sells insurance now, which is a good living and honorable, but it's not his vocation. It's not where his heart lies. In his heart he is a pastor, a shepherd.

Tom limped into our church after his life fell apart. We all fell in love with him and his three kids. And he fell in love with us. Now it's hard to remember what church was like before he came. For a long time he was angry, and he didn't think he would ever be interested in being a minister again.

But now Tom is back. He does almost all the weddings at our church. He preaches sometimes, helps lead a contemplative ministry we are developing, and teaches Bible classes now and then.

Click for larger image

That's him in the back, the guy in the robe flashing peace signs. Maybe in the first photo he did rabbit ears behind the people in front of him and then raised his hands for the second photo. I wasn't there, so I can't be sure. Knowing Tom, anything could be true.

The thing is, Tom doesn't put up with church shit anymore. He's taken the worst a church can dish out, but he still believes there is the potential for grace and beauty in a spiritual community. He doesn't play church games these days, though he will take a silly picture after he does your wedding, if you want him to. If Tom does your wedding, you have to be ready for a man who will never again take religious stuff too seriously. He may have taken church too seriously once, but never again.

But I don't really care about any of that. I look at this picture and my heart feels like it is going to burst in my chest. Because Tom is back, and I love him.

rlp

p.s. - Tom is cool with me posting this.

Being a rambling account of nausea, preaching, mother's day, evil, and a few other subjects. It's too long, covers too many subjects, would be rejected if I submitted it to any decent publication, and is probably very self-indulgent, blah blah blah.

I was strangely ill last week. I say strangely because any illness seems strange to me. I'm one of those people who rarely get sick. I will admit I've been pretty smug about that over the years, though I don't know why. It's not like I have anything to do with being sick or not being sick. I just sit here in my skin and take whatever comes to me. I guess we all do that.

So anyway Tuesday, out of the blue, I got severely nauseous. I don't have a lot of experience with nausea. I haven't thrown up since I was a small child. They tell me I threw up on my teddy bear when I was three. Apparently, it was so disgusting that teddy had to be thrown away. I'm sure it was traumatic as hell, though I don't remember anything about it. Maybe after that I just decided to opt out of the whole throwing up thing. However it happened, I don't throw up. I can't. I don't even know how to get started with it. It looks to me like some sort of heaving of the chest precedes the event itself, but I couldn't tell you for sure. I will tell you this - by Tuesday afternoon, I wanted to throw up badly. I wanted to, but I never did. Instead I just rolled around in bed for about 7 hours, trying to find a comfortable position.

Did you know that there is no position that is comfortable when you are nauseous? None. I tried them all.

I was plagued by this strange, unexpected nausea all week long. Wednesday wasn't so bad. Thursday was another rolling around in bed day. Having lost two complete days, I was nowhere near ready for the sermon on Sunday morning. I got to church early with a page of scribbled notes and a general idea of where I was going. I had to throw the entire sermon together in a couple of hours. You can get away with that kind of thing if it's an emergency and if you normally do your work. But if you try it too often, you will not survive. Preaching every week is something you can't fake your way through. Fakers have a few years of sermons, and then they move on to another church. That's how you spot fake preachers, in case you were wondering. Lot's of shuckin, jivin, and movin on.

I got the sermon together, I guess, but I was anxious and uptight all morning. Somewhere in the middle of the delivery I sort of lost the sense of what I was doing. I can follow my notes and plod through a sermon, but I like to be emotionally connected to what I'm talking about. That emotional connection is critical to preaching. And it's another thing you can't fake unless you just give up and become completely evil. And I'm trying to adopt Google's motto for my preaching - "Don't be evil."

I figure it's the least I can do.

Anyway, while I was speaking and looking at my friends out there in the chairs, the sermon began to feel heavy and disconnected. The paragraphs, transitions, and various sections became isolated and alone in my mind. They felt like slabs of heavy beef coming down a conveyor belt. I unloaded each one in turn, but the whole thing never came together for me. I assume I made reasonable sense. I hope so. But if not, I've probably earned an off Sunday.

Look, if one of my sermons is good or if it meant something to you, then I'm happy about that. If my sermon was bad or boring, just consider it penance. We all probably need penance now and then. So you can endure my sermon or crawl up some stairs on your knees like they do in Rome. Your choice.

Oh, Sunday was also Mother's Day. I was over at Spidey's blog and read about what happened at her church. That got me thinking about Mother's Day and churches. I have mixed feelings about recognizing this holiday during worship. I've been to churches that go way overboard with this. All the mothers get corsages, and sometimes they all stand up in the worship service. Then the preacher says, "If you've been a mother less than 10 years, sit down." A bunch of young women sit down. Then he says, "Okay, less than 20 years sit down." They keep doing this until only one woman is standing, the woman who has been a mother longer than anyone else. She gets some flowers or maybe just everyone claps for her and looks real happy. I don't know, that kind of thing seems surreal to me. And it can lead to the awkward situation where you have some woman praying that another woman will finally die so that SHE can be the oldest mother in the church next year.

You laugh, but that kind of thing happens.

In the short history of our church, there have been two women among us who were unable to have children and were deeply grieved about it. Maybe in larger churches you can get busy and caught up in the day and forget about that kind of thing. But in a small spiritual community, it's rather hard to miss. So I've always been aware that Mother's Day is a very sad day for many women. Some never had children and that grief has dominated their adult lives. Others have lost children or perhaps never married and have no reasonable hope for having a child. I don't know, to me it has always seemed like a day when the mothers get yet another blessing, while the heart-broken woman on the back row of the church dies inside one more time. The whole thing reminds me of the kind of person who goes on and on and on about how great her children are and how they have straight A's and are perfect and all that stuff. Of course, she's talking to her friend whose children are making horrible grades and have all sorts of problems, but she just prattles on, either unaware or unconcerned about how this is making her friend feel.

Have you ever known someone like that? I have. And I'm sad to say it, but churches are often like that. All the shiny happy people are handing out awards and celebrating this or that. You can make the broken people feel even more broken if you're not careful. That would be bad enough, but it's even worse if you consider that the basic message of Christianity is that we're ALL broken and need help.

Mother's Day isn't a Christian holiday anyway, so in my mind it deserves at most a quick mention and perhaps a prayer. And the prayer had better be the most inclusive prayer you can come up with. A prayer for mothers, and for the women who have been like mothers to children in need, and also some kind of careful and solemn recognition that every joy, even the joy of being a mother, has its dark side. For every joyous heart, there is someone crying and alone.

So I did my Mother's Day prayer on Sunday like I do every year. I tried to say everything that needed to be said, but you can never pull that off. You can never get that prayer worded right. There really aren't words that can speak for the joy and the sorrow of mothers. And I wasn't at my best anyway, coming off a week spent mostly in a nauseous haze. I kind of stumbled through the whole service, if you want to know the truth. I can't remember what I said during the Mother's Day prayer. It was probably okay.

When the service was over I retreated quickly to my office and didn't come out until everyone was gone. Wow, it's been a long time since I did that. In the old days, sometimes I would close the door to my office after church and pray that no one would come knocking. It's okay. I needed to retreat, so I did. I doubt anyone noticed. And hey, I'll be back next Sunday. I'm in this for the long haul, not for the quick fix.

Well, Sunday is over and gone. And I can now look at it with a new perspective, almost as if Sunday was preserved in a jar. Looking closely at it, I can see that last Sunday is a clear reminder to me that the Church must be a place of both joy and sorrow. It has to be a place where friends celebrate but never forget each other's pain. It has to be a place where you can shake hands and laugh, or retreat to a back room and cry. Joy and sorrow. They are never very far apart.

You know you are a part of an authentic, spiritual community when you can hide and you can't hide. You can run to a back room or sob on the back row, and people will give you the space and privacy you need. But at the same time you hear the Word of the Lord. Amazingly, you hear this Word in the voice of your very imperfect and even comical minister. And in his or her shaky voice, you are reminded that nothing is forgotten, neither your joy or your sorrow. Neither are forgotten because they are both somehow packed into a single hour of worship.

rlp

Let this circle represent a pastor.

Let x represent the reality of his life. X includes the best and the worst in him. X includes his secret sexual fantasies and the most selfish and harmful urges he usually suppresses but sometimes cannot. X is the real person.

Let this rectangle represent the image of himself that this pastor presents to the congregation and to others who see him mainly in his role.

Let Y represent a completely fabricated image that has almost no connection to X, the real person.

In the case of some TV preachers and some pastors of very large congregations where many of the people in the pews will never actually meet the pastor, this is often what you get:

Let us agree that when a minister presents an entirely false image, it is hypocritical and as harmful to Christianity as the airbrushed magazine images of women are to real women. In both cases, the image has no connection to reality. The airbrushed magazine images create impossible expectations and terrible self esteem. The fabricated minister image creates congregations who think that the work of Christianity should be done by professional ministers. They are only to happy to sit in their pews, hoping to be spoon-fed by Dr. Wonderful, whose spiritual wisdom and maturity seems utterly unattainable to them.

Let us also agree that this would be undesirable:

While honesty and transparency are good things, some boundaries are in order in every relationship. We all know that everyone struggles with certain issues and “sins,” if you use that kind of language. We don't need to see every doubt and weakness in the lives of the people standing behind the pulpit.

So the question is, how much of your pastor do you want to see? How well do you want to know him or her?

If very good friends show you .9 of X, let us agree that a reasonably healthy and authentic pastor might show the congregation some lesser part of himself, say .5 or .6 of X. Most congregations don't want to see any more than that. And since many pastors have little time to nurture relationships outside of the congregation, they often have no one to whom they may show .9 of X.

This is why so many ministers feel lonely and isolated. At church they seem cheerful, outgoing, and winsome. At home, they struggle with depression, disillusionment, and despair.

As Real Live Preacher, I try to show you .9 of X. 

For this I am both admired and despised.

note: I know some are saying, "despised?" I understand why that would be confusing because most of the comments are so flattering and embarrassingly nice. The negative stuff usually comes via email. Generally one a week or so. Outraged and horrified people condemming me to a variety of terrible afterlife experiences. It doesn't bother me, though it took a little getting used to.

A free association exercise: Random memories from the 18 months I spent as a chaplain intern at Baylor University Medical Center in Dallas.

Computer lists of patients generated by the clacking dot matrix printer and folded neatly to fit into my coat pocket. My tiny notes and check marks slowly accumulating beside the names as the day went by.

The sound of Coyle, my supervisor, with his gentle southern accent and a well-polished shoe hanging from the leg he casually crossed over his knee as we sat in his office and explored the hidden parts of my life.

Click here to read the rest of this essay at The Christian Century online.

Archive of Christian Century Articles by Gordon Atkinson

Judy caught me in the hallway of our church on a Wednesday night, when we were finishing dinner and people were busy putting chairs and tables away.

“Hey, I need to talk to you for a minute when you get a chance. Alone, if we can.”

“Sure. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, it's nothing bad or anything.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

I finished up a couple of conversations and said goodbye to a few people. Then Judy and I ducked into the room at the end of the hall where she teaches the four and five-year-old Sunday School class. This was her first year to teach, and I remember how scared she was when she started.

“You know about that deacon thing, how I was nominated and all?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I was gonna say 'No.' I thought about it a lot, and I decided that I just wasn't worthy of something like that. I mean, I just finally stopped smoking, and I still cuss sometimes. I'm trying to do better with that.”

I opened my mouth to say something, but she continued before I could get a word out.

“But then I read your book." She began to smile. "And I thought, dang, if this guy can be the PASTOR of the church, surely I could be a deacon or something.”

We looked at each other for a moment or two, then we both started laughing. After a few seconds, she spoke up again.

“So anyway, count me in. I'll serve if you need me to, or if  I get elected or whatever."

I nodded.

"You know, I always used to put you up on a pedestal or something. You being the pastor and all. And I never thought I could be that much of a spiritual person myself. But you're just human, like the rest of us. That made me feel a lot better."

"Okay," I said. "You're on the ballot."

Then she left, and I watched her walk down the hall. Judy, who wandered into our church five years ago, looking for the God she lost when she was growing up in the Texas Panhandle. Judy with the big smile and the sad eyes.

I admit I was a little worried when the book came out. Not for myself, but for our church. I didn't want the collection of friends we call Covenant Baptist Church to be harmed. I was worried that some of the people in our church might be uncomfortable with parts of my book. Let's be honest; a lot of church people are uncomfortable with some of the things I write.

So yes, I was a little worried. But then this thing with Judy happened, and I thought, "Maybe this is all going to work out just fine."

rlp

Written with the permission and blessing of Judy S.

If I close my eyes and become quiet, I can almost remember how I used to think of preachers long ago, when I sat in the pew myself. I didn't know how a person came to be a preacher in the first place. I didn't know where preachers came from or where they went when they were finished. There was a preacher in every church, so obviously they were coming from somewhere...

Click here to read this essay at The Christian Century online.

Let's call her “Susan.” She's a 40-something woman who works at the convenience store near our church. I frequent this store to buy soft drinks, and we have developed a casual relationship over the past year or so. She teases me about the number of Diet Cokes I drink, and I often respond with humor or pleasant conversation. Neither of us know the other's name. Until last week, she did not know that I am a minister.     

Read this essay at The Christian Century website
                 NOTE: Look for the Real Live Preacher graphic on the right and click on it.

rlp

On Tuesday the back of my mind felt a little itchy. Something was wrong or maybe missing. I reached down and put my hand on the little holster where I keep my mobile phone. It wasn't there.

“I'd better go find my phone. One of my web clients might have called.”

I went to my bedroom and found the phone lying on my bed. When I picked it up and saw that I had missed a call from Ben Chappell, I experienced a full-body spasm of panic as the details of a forgotten event flooded into my mind.

“The Christian Legal Society Christmas Luncheon! Today is Tuesday. What time is it? What time is it? What time is it?”

I squeezed my wristwatch between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand as though this might somehow help me see the time faster. It was 11:50 am.

“Oh, shit! Damn! Shit, shit, shit, shit, SHIT!”

My wife heard the outburst and rushed into the room. “What's wrong?” she shouted, greatly alarmed.

“I'm supposed to be speaking at the Christian Legal Society luncheon TODAY, and I forgot. This is horrible! I don't remember what time the lunch is or when I'm supposed to be there.”

I called Ben on his mobile phone. “Hey, howya doin?” he asked pleasantly. He probably thought I was calling from the lobby or something.

“Terrible. Ben, I totally forgot about the luncheon. What time does it start?”

“Noon, but it's okay. Listen, they probably won't be ready for you until 12:15 or so. Just come quickly, and if I have to, I can get up and tell them you're running a little late.”

I looked at my watch again. It was getting close to 11:55. It's about a 15 minute drive to the Petroleum club from my house. I cupped my hand over the phone and hissed at Jeanene. “Get me clothes. Nice ones. A tie and everything.”

She ran to my closet and started grabbing things off hangers.

“Yeah, okay Ben. I'm leaving right now.”

Jeanene rushed over with black slacks, a shirt, and a tie. While I was frantically stuffing a leg into my pants, she tossed me some socks. “I couldn't find any black socks or ANY matching socks for that matter. Here's a brown one and a dark blue one. I guess that will have to do.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever. I don't care at this point. No one's gonna see my socks.”

She watched me for a second while I tried to make a knot in my tie while working my foot into a shoe.

“So, are you ready with what you're gonna say? With your sermon or whatever? What are you gonna talk about?”

A small bomb went off in my head, causing my mouth to drop open and my hands to freeze in the middle of tying my tie. In my panic about forgetting the luncheon, I had not considered a far more disturbing fact. I had nothing to say. I planned on spending the morning before the luncheon getting ready to speak. But of course, when I forgot the event, I forgot to prepare for it as well.

I should tell you that like most ministers, I do a fair amount of public speaking. Weddings, prayers, sermons, bible studies, little talks for this group or that association. I always prepare extensively. I generally have an outline with me, typed and with transition statements clearly marked. I usually go over this outline so thoroughly that I don't even need it. But I keep it on the podium just in case. I like to be prepared, and I don't like speaking unless I know exactly what I'm going to say.

For some reason I stayed calm even when I imagined myself standing before a room full of lawyers with nothing to say. Maybe my adrenaline glands were limp and empty after they seized so violently when I saw Ben's name on the phone.

I decided I didn't want to confess to Jeanene that I had nothing to say. It was rather superstitious of me. I wondered if admitting my weakness out loud might inspire my glands to find reserves and give me another shot of panic juice.

“What am I going to talk about? At the luncheon? At the Christian Legal Society luncheon today? Well, obviously it's Christmas or near Christmas. So uh...you know, something Christmasy I guess.”

She stared at me for a moment. “You're not ready are you?”

Okay, it was time to be honest.

“No.”

“You don't know what you're going to say?”

“No.”

“Do you have ANY idea at all what you want to talk about?”

“No.”

“You have NO idea. You're telling me you have NO plan. You do NOT know what you are going to do. You haven't thought about this at all.

“Nope.”

“So...what are you gonna do?”

“I don't know. Like I said, something Christmasy I guess.”

She let this sink in, then nodded. “I kinda wish I was gonna be there now. This is, uh, gonna be interesting.”

“Yep, it's going to be interesting. Okay look, I have to talk to myself now. That's how I do these things, so you're gonna hear some weird stuff.”

“Oh by all means, go ahead. Don't mind me.” She folded her arms and leaned against the doorframe.

I switched on my electric razor and glanced at my watch. It was almost noon. While I shaved I talked out loud to the man in the mirror.

“Okay, lawyers, lawyers, lawyers...lawyers. What do lawyers need to hear at Christmas? Christian lawyers. CHRIStians. I gotta shock em a little, shake em up. They need to be surprised. Lawyers keep everything in, I don't know, little lawyer boxes or whatever. They need to hear something new, something they've never thought of. Something to make them see.”

“Wise men? No.”

Shepherds? No.”

Simeon, that old man that waited so long to see Jesus......No.”

“The manger? Hmm. Yeah, manger. Something about the manger and letting people put their baby in your manger. Manger, manger, manger.”

I glanced at Jeanene as I headed out of our bathroom. “It's going to be about the manger. Something about the manger. I'll work out the rest in the car.”

I got there in twelve minutes. And in that twelve minutes I remembered that there are some surprises left at Christmas. I mean, apart from the surprise of finding out that you are supposed to be on stage in fifteen minutes. I'm talking about the surprise of realizing that Mary and Joseph were refugees who needed some place to have their baby. Whatever accommodations they had arranged were not suitable for birthing, and they had to rely on the hospitality of a stranger. In this case, a stranger with a manger.

There is plenty in this story to shock everyone, certainly a room full of lawyers and a befuddled preacher.

I borrowed a piece of paper from the receptionist by the elevators, jotted a couple of notes on it, and walked in the room. Ben was there with the folks from his law firm. Lunch had been a little delayed, so I even had time to eat a bite before I had to speak.

And you know what? It went fine. Years of preaching from the Christmas stories have left me enough in my reserve tank to get me through one luncheon, though I am certain that if I ever got lazy and quit preparing, I would lose this gift.

So the preacher got a pass on this day. Thank God for small miracles.

After it was over, Ben and I walked out to our cars. He laughed and said, “I'm just glad I called you. It looks like everything came out okay this time, huh?”

“Yep,” I said. “This time it was grace all around.”

rlp

I'm not going to clean this up much, so however it sounds it how it sounds.

Tonight I wish it was like the old days with Real Live Preacher, back when I was anonymous and no one in my church knew about this blog. For some reason this is where I want to come when I'm sad. I want to come here and write. I think of Real Live Preacher as a place. I know that's a little strange. The blog software comes on the screen and I feel like I've left my life behind. I feel like I'm the one that matters here. My feelings matter. What I need matters.

Only it's not the old days. And I have to be careful in what I write. Not because I might hurt someone at the church, but because I have to be careful that I don't use this blog as a backwards and roundabout way of sending messages to my church family. That's a real temptation. It's the sort of thing you could do without thinking much about it. It wouldn't be healthy either.

So I can't share details about what's going on. But it's 4:30 am and my stomach is in knots of grief.

Someone in our community has been hurt. Not physically, but emotionally wounded. However unintentional, I had a part in that wounding. It's the kind of wound that is old and even a small thing can stir up that old pain. I'm unsure of how much this person will still want to be a part of our community, and that is a sorrow so intense that I'm not sleeping well tonight. I am devastated by this surprising turn of events.

I hate what is happening at our church right now. I hate this thing I can't really talk about. I hate it and I had something to do with creating it. I never saw it coming.

So okay. That's the deal.

One week ago I went to an Annie Lennox concert with some friends from church. It had been a long time since I had allowed myself to sit still and enjoy music. I closed my eyes and remembered that we need to play in this life. We need to set aside all of our cares and enjoy the present moment. And I did enjoy being present in that moment and leaving all other moments behind.

Some of her poetic lyrics stuck in my mind that night. Especially the song, “Here comes the rain again,” with its very poignant question, “Is it raining with you?”

Yes, it's raining with me.

And this is where I am turning. To Real Live Preacher. I hope he'll be here for me tonight.

I was already on the edge and now I've slipped over into deep sadness and grief. Grief sucks as a general rule, but it's worse when you are facing a lot. And I'm facing a lot this weekend. Saturday morning I'm driving eight hours round trip to visit a cousin of mine in prison. That's always a hard day, but that night we also have a baptism service. Jeanene and I are friends with a couple who have become Christians and joined our community of faith. They will be baptized in their own pool Saturday night along with some children in the church who are old enough to make that decision.

I have to be ready to celebrate that event with our friends. I am their minister. They need the best I have on Saturday night.

The sermon is coming Sunday morning along with the whole Sunday morning thing. I am the minister. I must be ready. I preach with a simple outline and no pulpit. I don't like things in between me and my friends. A good bit of that preaching event depends on me being emotionally present in that moment. I'll be ready, but becoming ready to preach when I am in such a low place is something that I can't really describe. One thing is for sure. There will be depression and depletion on the other side of that event.

I have learned to fear depression. I don't like knowing it's coming.

However skewed and illusionary this is, I feel like this is the only place where I matter right now. I have three children. They have to be cared for, fed, driven to school, all that. How I feel in the moment isn't an issue when it comes to children. At church everyone else comes first. Please don't write me to tell me that's wrong, or it shouldn't be that way, or I'm out of my mind. I'm not asking you to educate me. This is my reality. This is how I see it.

I'm the shepherd. That's the deal. I always have to think of how things are affecting people in the church. All of them. They come first.

When I pray and when I write for Real Live Preacher, I'm the one that gets taken care of.

Only I haven't been praying much lately, and I guess I'd like to talk about that. I am in and out with praying. I'm not prescribing that as a method or saying it's good or bad. It's just the truth. I tend to go through times when I don't pray for whatever reasons. Bad reasons I'm sure.

Whatever you think about God and religion and the bible and praying, I'm here to tell you that prayer is powerful. When I am in the practice of sitting and listening and humbly sharing my heart with the Creator, that is a time when I matter and I am released from whatever legitimate calling or silly enmeshment is preventing me from taking care of myself. I find wisdom and direction in that discipline, and it is only because of my own weakness and silliness that I abandon prayer.

I'm a sinner. That's what we mean when we say that. What I know is right and good I abandon for things that are not right and not good. There are lessons I still have not learned.

So tonight, there is only Real Live Preacher for me. I remember now that's why I started writing here in the first place. I remember those old days when no one knew me and tossing my passion into the void of the Internet felt like casting my bread on the waters.

Do you think God might consider Real Live Preacher one big prayer from me? Even the cussing and the weakness and when I am skewed and crazy? Maybe God will consider what I'm writing tonight as a prayer. I like thinking that could be true.

It's 5:20 am and I feel better. Thanks for listening, whoever you are.

I feel I should tell you that I probably will not write for a while. I don't know, maybe some things like this, but no serious writing. I know that some of you come by here a lot to see if I've posted anything. And that makes me feel somewhat responsible to let you know if I'm not going to be writing. (Jesus, is there ANYTHING I won't take responsibility for?)

Yeah, no serious essays for awhile. It feels good to let go of that burden. Normally I like the motivation that comes with the drive to post things here. I don't question it because I need it. It makes me work at writing and whatever gets you working is good. I don't want to lose that motivation, but I'm going to set it aside for a time.

I may not respond to emails or comments much either. Or I might. What do I know? It's freakin 5:30 am in the morning! Who knows what I'll do tomorrow, really. But I need to experience this sadness and engage the real people in my life. I need to deal with this relationship grief straight up and in person. I need to do that. I need to walk the path of this weekend and see where it leads me.

It's raining with me, but there is always an end to the storm. I keep telling myself that.

Sunday Night, 12-8-02

Sundays can be a bitch.

I get up way before daylight and head for church. I open up the joint. I putter around and straighten hymnals. I make ready. I preach the sermon 3 or 4 times. I talk to myself. I talk to God out loud. I light candles and pray. Sometimes I throw a nerf football around the sanctuary while I get my mind straight. You should try that sometime if you can find a church that will let you get away with it.

None of this is what makes Sunday hard.

What's hard about Sunday is that I don't matter on this day. Sunday is for the folks who come to church. It's their day and not mine. I must be “up” when everyone arrives. I must be emotionally ready.

Anyone who has children understands what I'm talking about. If you are a daddy, you always make the left turn and take your paycheck and yourself home to your kids. One day you may feel like turning right and leaving town, but you don't. You love your children because you are committed to them. How you feel on one given day is not really the issue.

I believe love is primarily a choice and only sometimes a feeling. If you want to feel love, choose to love and be patient.

Okay, so when I made a commitment to shepherd these people, I made a conscious decision to love them. That commitment is more important than how I feel come Sunday morning. I will be there early. I will set things up. I will do the early morning candle/praying/nerf thing. I will be ready.

I do this every single Sunday. I do this when I am sad. I do this when I am depressed. I do this when I am hurting inside.

I do this many Sundays when I don't believe in God.

On those days I stare at the door to the church in the dark. The silence of the building is reminiscent of the silence of God. I say, “fuck it” and go on in. I do the candle/praying/nerf thing. I make ready. I will be glad to see them. I will love the children. I will stop for a moment and talk to the woman who needs too much. I will preach, one more time.

I'm tempted to talk about what shatters my faith, but I think I'll leave that alone for now.

Fidelity to commitment in the face of doubts and fears is a very spiritual thing. I don't suggest it for the weak of heart or if you are in a hurry. An old, African American preacher once told Martin Luther King Jr., “Until you've stood at the door for years and knocked until your hands bled, hearing nothing but silence, you don't know what prayer is.” (Not an exact quote)

I'd like to have met that preacher.

I wonder how much longer I'll do this? I have no idea. I live week to week.

On Sunday after church I feel numb all over. I mean that literally. I AM NUMB. I got nothin left for nobody.

The preacher lives for Sunday night. Sunday night is when I matter. On Sunday night I Sing the Song of Myself. I pop in the latest thing from Netflix, drink too much diet coke, and eat more than I should. I settle into the couch and take care of myself.

I do this every Sunday night except I didn't tonight. Tonight I wrote this. And the preacher feels better. And the preacher is going to bed.