I have a story I’ve never written. Not because I lost it or forgot about it, but because it’s so graphic I thought it needed a preliminary warning. In 1990, I left my work as a congregational pastor to begin a one-year internship transitioning into a career as a hospital chaplain. During my internship at UC Davis Medical Center in Sacramento, I worked four rotations in various parts of the hospital. The one I will never forget was the 13 weeks I spent working in the burn unit.
With more than 35 years in full-time ministry, I’ve performed scores of weddings. In the initial planning stages, the groom will often raise the awkward question about my fees. For me, this moment is about as tricky as asking a waitress to decide her own tip. I sometimes try to defuse the monetary strain with a joke. Like, “Pay me whatever you think she’s worth, sir.” Boo-hiss. A real Grandpa joke, I know.
On a Sunday afternoon, my wife, Becky, and I visit the Crimson Tattoo Co. in Auburn. We’re not looking to get a painful heart-shape tattoo, but rather to help alleviate the spiritual pain of suicide. Shop owners Jon and Brittney Hendricks invite us inside where a dozen volunteers are emulating a suicide-prevention tactic recently started by a woman in the UK. The idea seems beautifully simplistic—write and attach anti-suicide notes to any local structure known for suicides.
Have you ever noticed a resemblance between the church hypocrite and gym hypocrite? It’s said that the church hypocrite is a “seasonal saint” who comes to church only on Christmas and Easter. They come to be seen in their finest new clothes. Much like the church hypocrite, the gym hypocrite thinks only about fitness after the big eating holidays. They work out in their designer fitness clothes only to look good for the swimsuit season
The very first time anyone ever called me “Pastor” was during the early 1980s at First Baptist Church of Hopland, Calif. For 52 Fridays in 1981, I left my seminary classroom in the Bay Area and drove 100 miles with my wife, Becky, to my weekend pastorate. Parishioners often hosted us in their homes, but eventually they converted a Sunday-school classroom into a kind of bed-minus-breakfast room for their newlywed pastor. The church ladies strove for a homey feel, covering our poster bed with doily pillowcases and a homemade quilt. They welcomed me as their faithful, fun and fearless pastor.
I was only six months into my first pastor’s job in Hopland, Calif., when I contemplated quitting. As I considered my pastoral responsibilities, I had to admit I had an uncomplicated life. I was a full-time graduate student driving 90 miles every weekend to preach two sermons in a country church. Not a bad gig, as they say.
