I never wanted to be a pastor.  In fact, from the time I was sixteen my mantra was this:  There are two things I will never do - get a divorce and become a pastor.  Oh well, 0 for 2.

My dad became a pentecostal evangelist when I was in the eighth grade.  By the time my freshman year in high school rolled around, he had been given the opportunity to start a mission church in a nearby town.  And yes, it was your stereotypical store-front church.  

I was, at fifteen, appointed to be a Sunday School teacher for the kids younger than me.  I was also the piano player at times, even though I had no idea what that entailed besides banging out chords with my right hand and using my left hand to make octave bass notes that would transition the chords.  A good time was had by all, let me tell you.

But into this little slice of heaven, more than a minimum amount of hell inserted itself.  My dad decided to blaze a trail that future (and more famous) pentecostal preachers like Jimmy Swaggert and Jim Bakker would follow.  He decided to have an affair.  How he did this while working a full-time job at GE that entailed two hour commutes both ways and pastoring a church on the side is a mystery to me, but somehow he pulled it off. 

So, at the end of my sophomore year, my mom, brother and I moved back to our old town.  To say the church showed no grace to either my father or mother (who was blamed as much for the affair as my dad) is an understatement. This lack of grace was in some ways even more damaging to my faith at the time than my parent's divorce.  It did not take me long to drift away from the church and my faith. 

After all, I figured that if my dad, who was to me the pinnacle of hoiliness, could not be a pastor, then no one could. Further, since he visited us only once or twice during the early years of the divorce, I basically grieved for him as though he had died.  And, in effect, he had.   I was determined that I would never subject any children I might have to such pain, and so my mantra was born.

But, as I stated above, I was unsuccessful in avoiding both a call to ministry and a divorce.  

My call came in graduate school.  I was studying for a Masters in Public Administration (Community Health emphasis) and had started attending the Wesley Foundation (otherwise known as the United Methodist Student Center) on campus. I had completed my applications for doctoral study and had been granted a full ride to study Social Psychology at Miami University (Ohio). The campus minister, however, thought I was perfect for the ministry, so he arranged for a friend and myself to attend a Convocation at Drew Theological School. Drew was over 700 miles away, but for some reason, we decided to take him up on his offer and so we drove for 14 hours each way in order to attend a 24-hour convocation on ministry.  Part of me was hoping that this would prove my mentor and his sense of my calling wrong.

This was not to be the case. I cannot recall a 24 hour period more exhilarating and filled with possibilities.  I fell in love with the people and the campus, but more importantly I came to feel at this visit that my life's goal tipped from being a social psychologist to being a minister.  The Chapel service was one of the most inspiring I have ever attended, and by the time we had sung the last hymn, I knew that my fate was sealed. 

But let me add this: of all that day's events that have stuck with me through the years, the sermon that was preached stands out. In truth, it has become the foundation of my calling.  The preacher that day referenced the movie "Mass Appeal," which has since become one of my favorite films.  The movie is the story of a brash young man who wants to become a priest. I felt and still feel a ready identification with Mark Dolson, who had just been ordained a deacon.  The journey that Mark makes in the film is similar to my own.  Both of us had at one time left the Church, only to find that we were drawn back into it by God. 

Mark gives two sermons in the film which are illustrative of two very distinct attitudes towards the Church.   The first one is a total flop.  He accuses the congregation of a variety of sins, he rakes them over the coals, and ends up alienating himself from the people . . . at one point going so far as to refer to the older women as "blue-haired old ladies."  But over the course of a few weeks some rather dramatic changes occur.  Father Farley, who is assigned to work with Mark, sees an angry young man and asks him why he wants to become a priest anyway.  Mark seems so full of hate, and Farley asks if he does indeed hate the people - that would seem to be the only reason for saying some of the things he says.  Mark says that he doesn't hate them; he loves them.   Father Farley then tells him to show the people his love.

So in his second sermon, Mark Dolson tells the story of why he decided to become a priest.  He tells a story about his fish tank and tropical fish.  I quote his words, for they also say much about my own decision to enter ministry and how my religious development has occurred.  Mark begins to preach . . .

"I had a tank of tropical fish.  Someone turned up the tank heater and they all boiled.  I woke up on a Friday morning and went to feed them, and there they were.  All my beautiful fish floating on top.  Most of them split into, others with their eyes hanging out.  It looked like violence.  But it was such a quiet night.  And I remember wishing I had the kind of ears that could hear fish screams, because they looked as if they had suffered, and I wanted so badly to save them.

And that Sunday in church I heard that Christ had told his apostles to be fishers of men.  And from then on I looked upon all the the people in the church as fish.  I was young, so I saw them as beautiful tropical fish, and so I knew they were all quiet screamers.  The church was so quiet.   I thought everyone was boiling, and I wanted the kind of ears that could hear what they were screaming about, cause I wanted to save them.  

As I got older the people lost the look of tropical fish. They became catfish to me - just overdressed scavengers.  So I drowned out whatever I might be able to hear, and made my world my tank, so hot that I almost split.  And so now I am back listening, listening for the screams of angels."

Angels, you say?  There are many who find that hard to swallow.  After all, church people are, for the most part, hypocrites, right?  And to that, all I can say is "Amen," and "Yes, they are."  In my 25 years as a pastor I have never served a church that was not filled with hypocrites, myself included.  The truth is that we all fall short of our ideals, and sadly, Christians can also be such self-righteous pricks even when they fail. 

The Church often makes me angry and sick, and there are churches and Christians who are so far removed from living Christ-like lives that it is all I can do not to vomit. And yet, here I am . . . still . . . listening for the screams of angels (or perhaps we should just call them "people"), and hoping that there might be a little something I can do to ease their pain.

Of course, there are days that I despair, days that I wish I had just gotten my Ph.D. in Social Psychology, and days that would gladly walk away from the church and my ministry . . . if I could.  But I can't.  As the old spiritual says, "My arms are too short to box with God."  And the fact is that in my heart, even in times of desparation (and there are plenty of those), I know that this is what I should be doing.

So I carry on.  I know I am far from perfect. I know that I am far from anyone's ideal pastor.  I know that, as far as the wider world is concerned, what I do is probably insignificant.  But I also know that there have been times when I have been, to quote the book "Cider House Rules," of some use.  I pray that my usefulness, as little as it might be, continues.

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For a little more about my divorce, you can read this post which refers to the one of the major problems my ex had with me.

Also, though I do not tell it here, my calling involves a trip to Key West and visits to The Strand (a one time gay dance bar) and a topless joint there.  That story will have to wait for another day.