Fancy suits. Enormous hair. Bright lights. Pulpits. Thousands of congregants in their midst. Booming voices. Books, mp3s, podcasts, TV shows. Endorsements. TBN. Spitting when they talk. Walking with a strut. Swagger.
That's not me.
Being a pastor is...it's not...
It's not some title or some honor bestowed upon some attention-grabbing individual, who desires the perpetual and proverbial spotlight cast upon them from the hours of 9am to noon, one day a week (and the occasional 90 minutes on a Wednesday). It's far more than a position to be noticed or a description to be applauded.
I've shared my story. Or really, a few chapters of my story. The quest for sonship/adoption from the Father was a fight. It was a struggle to move past individuals who at various intervals, succeeded in impeding my attempts to achieve adoption. It sounds harsh. Well, it was harsh. I cannot apologize for the tone used here. This is my story. I am sticking to it.
This quest for sonship and adoption caused me to grow up. That is such a generality. I have felt so often that I was robbed of my youth. I lost my innocence. I lost all hope at being average, of this sense of normalcy. It crumbled into dust at my feet. At twelve, I had an effervescent spotlight cast upon me highlighting every single movement and action I took. I stood out on the front stage, alone and watched by the glistening eyes of the masses...
When I lived in Spain, I had this heated conversation with a friend’s dad about the use and misuse of grace. In his humble opinion, there needed to be more fear of hell and eternal separation in order to turn people’s heart toward the Father. He felt grace couldn’t do that and that people would just end up abusing God’s love. We both left the debate with sweat dripping off our faces and blood vessels bulging on our foreheads. I could not believe how obstinate he was, or for that fact how obstinate I was. He ended the conversation with a statement I’ve yet to shake, “This grace thing you talk about maybe great, but there’s just too much of it.”
“There’s just too much grace?” When did this happen? Who decided how much is enough? Is there such a thing as too much grace? When is it enough to say (in a perfect “Soup Nazi” accent), No more for you?
I think I maybe a bit obstinate. Possibly, slightly combative. Sometimes far too aggressive for some individual's liking.
We could be discussing the merit of authors such as Margaret Atwood and Salmon Rushdie, why U.S. politics should cease to be two party, or how certain "Christian" literature is utter nonsense, how U.S. citizens do no give football (soccer) a fair chance as a national sport, or why people seem to love to hate the Big Ten Conference, especially the University of Michigan. There is a possibility you may have even had a conversation like this with me. And there is an even higher possibility you have gotten frustrated with the conversation and mentally checked out.
This year began a quest and will end with the start of the journey.
Even in the wildest of dreams, would I have ever deduced marriage in a singular year. It seemed to be an element always out of grasp, only to remain a dream. For so long I desired to find her wondering if it would ever happen, if this dream would ever become reality. I had found myself so very disappointed and frustrated in my ability to perpetually remain single. Yet this became the year all of those sentiments faded like the receding of fog...
I've played around with the idea of writing about or the subject of Christmas. There is much I have desired to say and yet have decided much of it is left unspoken. Christmas is my favorite holiday. There are plenty of family birthdays throughout the month: mine and Jason and Wade's. Mine being Christmas Eve and theirs on the nineteenth. Christmas invokes multiple meaning such as love, passion, grace, and redemption. All are great topics that one-day I should hope to write on. However there is a meaning that follows closer to me than those others. For me, the holiday symbolizes a celebration of family.
And fourteen years ago I lost part of my family.
The cool December weather was a welcomed changed to the dreary Fall November brought with it. The rays of sun reflected down on the winter wonderland of snow, glaring an animus light off the ground below. 10:15am, I found myself in my Bible Studies class, a cliché class fit only for a parochial school. At twelve years of age, I was preoccupied with two thoughts: finally turning thirteen in two weeks and what gifts I would be able to open on Christmas Day. Shallow and pedantic I know, yet I was living in the 90s: the age of stylish, electronic yo-yos, Nintendo 64, Mighty Mighty Bosstones, the Taco Bell chihuahua, and the Dodge Viper. Yet beyond those definitive icons, I sat in a Bible class at 10:15am getting ready to prepare a Christmas skit in front of my classmates...
I set foot upon U.S. soil for the first time in a month. One month. It seemed like an eternity since I had been stateside. I was drained of enthusiasm, life, and grace. That is what done meant. I didn't care if I would ever be asked to lead again. Leadership was such a crux.
The entire trip appeared as such a joke. I had participants resent me. My co-leader and I were never on the same page. I was too harsh and high confrontational. Our ministry fell through. The hosts never spent anytime with my team. We always seemed to come up short. It was too easy to be a tourist than a missionary.
There once was a time when all I could see were the red veins swelling beneath my forehead. Finding myself perpetually clenching my fists. Appearing as though at any second I could explode. The right situation or circumstance would set me off like a powder keg of emotion. A fight would be eminent...
No. That would be an understatement. I grew up going to church, every Sunday morning and Wednesday evening. Without skipping a beat, I would find myself seated in the same row, the same chair every time my family would attend church.
I would walk through the big wooden doors, onward treading upon bland, red carpet, which led me to the sanctuary. An odd-shaped room with tall ceilings and few windows. In it, my nostrils would be engulfed by a sour and nauseating smell of mildew laced with a potent stringent, i.e., bleach. Fragments of dust particles were shown in the rays of sunlight.
Hours spent, singing hymns, bearing no cultural or personal connection. Hours spent, seated in an uncomfortable chair, listening to the droning of biblical significance. None of this ever resonated in my soul...
Years past, I've spent much of the evening of Thanksgiving, sitting in van, with some friends just waiting for Best Buy and Target to be open. Nights spent drinking Mountain Dew and devouring Taco Bell. Us guys spent the night, playing video games and watching movies, until 5am came around. We, like all the Michiganders around us, stood out in the frigid air, hoping to score deals on games, DVDs, music, and electronics. What we purchased were gifts for ourselves. Selfishly we braved the cold weather and lengthy lines, in order to spend hard earned money on ourselves. But that was under the guise of "Christmas shopping." I was young and selfish. I understand that today...
