So I got an invitation in the mail this week to attend a Houston-area preachers' luncheon. The guest speaker--(And by the way, why would I want to listen to a speech at lunchtime?)--is a writer for The Spiritual Sword, one of the most judgmental and mean-spirited church rags ever published. (The only bad thing about me saying that, however, is that I am being judgmental and mean-spirited. Sorry. I guess I shouldn't have said that.)
I thought about going. Picture it. I ride up on my HOG decked out in black leather and a flame-covered bandana. I wonder if I can get ahold of one of those temporary tattoos we used to put on with washrags when we were kids. You know the kind that started cracking an hour later. Maybe I can find a Death-Eater one for my forearm.
"How's it going, y'all?" I might announce as I stroll into the obligatory Western Sizzlin' back room with the accordion-folding wall separator.
Someone might nervously shake hands. "Who are you?" I imagine them asking.
"I'm the new preacher at Bering. I used to be with the Village People, but thought preaching would be a stabler gig. Plus, I wanted to be at a church where my daughter could read Scripture, and where people with shady pasts (and presents) would be welcome just like they did back in the day. You know, like in Jesus' day. And since this is a preachers' luncheon, where are the tax-collectors and hookers? Shouldn't we postpone the meal for an hour, go out into the streets and invite them so they can be here too?"
Yeah, that would go over well. Probably about as well as the time I went to a Gospel Meetin' in Hugo, Oklahoma wearing an ACU t-shirt.
I think sometimes I enjoy the eighth-century prophets like Hosea and Amos a little too much. I identify with the preaching of Jesus that looks at the religious establishment and calls them out on the rug in order to jerk it out from beneath their feet. I keep thinking age will temper my militancy. The only problem is that the religious establishment is me, and I am not Amos, Hosea, or Jesus. I fancy myself that way sometimes. But if I dare to really tell the truth, I need to hold up the picket sign like the one Donald Miller held up in Blue Like Jazz at the political protest. It read, "I AM THE PROBLEM."
(Sigh.)
And while I may always have a rebellious streak, I also know deep down that I have received far more grace than I deserve. In turn, that has to affect the way I treat others. Believe it or not, I am really trying to tone it down and be more gracious. No, really.
Still, I think it says somewhere in Scripture that there is a time to speak, especially when so many American churches are trying to answer questions no one is asking. Let's face it: Non-Church-Types today do not care about cool worship and fancy lighting if they are not able to see transparent hearts.
That observation has me in the mood to tell some truth. Here we go again. Preacher 'bout to tell the truth. Only this time, it's a former preacher.
Over at one of my favorite blogs called "Confessions of a Former Preacher," my friend Dan has been throwing down some gauntlets that most of us only know about from deep inside the belly of the beast. He has been giving away trade secrets like a magician who no longer follows the code. And you know what? I am so glad he has written what he has written, not only for fellow preachers on the verge of burnout, but for church-types who need to lift the hood and look at the motor.
I found myself on the edge of "Burnout Cliff" a few years ago ready to jump off into something else. If not for a trip to Israel that I credit to this day for perhaps saving my soul, I probably would be working at a car wash. At that time, I connected way too intimately with Peter Gibbons in Office Space.
So why am I telling you all of this? Simple: Because of my friend Dan Bouchelle.
Recently, he has given a voice to preachers too afraid to tell our congregations the truth. At one point, Dan even wrote about the oft-overlooked, soul-crushing lot of being a preacher's wife. He reminded me of something William Willimon wrote a while back, that pastors are conditioned by churches to lie. We are afraid to tell the truth about our own lives, and the lives of others, oftentimes because of the golden handcuffs that come with local church work.
The other reason I am showing you, O faithful bloggerland friend, all of this dirty laundry is simple as well: Because every morning when I look at myself in the mirror, I give thanks to the Living God that I did not burn out. That has nothing to do with Glenwood or Bering or any other church for that matter. Instead, that particular thanksgiving has to do with a reorientation for ministry at an exact moment in time when I found myself standing on the shoreline of the Sea of Galilee, a eureka moment when I saw that I was not so much lying to my church as I was lying to myself. As I have stated before in this forum: I woke up one morning and realized that I was a Christian because I was a preacher, instead of being a preacher because I am a Christian.
So today, I am thankful. I am thankful for being with a congregation where it is okay to tell the truth, where it is more important for me to be a disciple of Jesus than a manager, where I don't get ambushed at breakfast by people who "need to have a talk," and where most importantly, ministry does not get in the way of ministry.
I am grateful to be with a group of people in an urban setting who look around and see that a small, simple church can make an enormous impact on our neighbors who want little more than an authentic expression of the kingdom of God on earth that is unafraid to use the redemptive language of Jesus in order to heal, but never to harm. If you are a part of Bering, you know what I am talking about. And if you are not, but live in the general Houston area, come give us a try. We have something too good not to share.
Oh, and by the way, I probably will not go to the preacher's luncheon. But if I do, I promise to tone it down. And I promise not to roll my eyes... much.
