Or, Transistions

When Chloe was born, I knew this: I didn’t want to be away from her any more than absolutely necessary.

I also knew that I would lay down my life for her.  She exposed me to a depth of love that I had never known before.

She was my child.  She would teach me much about love in the coming years.
I had known for some time that my days in youth ministry were numbered.  My heart was in the pulpit.

I grew to hate the trips, lock-ins, retreats and rallies that are ubiquitous in youth ministry. I didn’t want to be away from home.
I loved Bible Studies and teaching.  It was in those settings that I felt competent and qualified. But, as I already mentioned, that wasn’t enough to be successful in YM.

In those final months, I was not a good youth minister.  I taught well, the content of my classes were solid, but my heart was not in it anymore.

I wanted to preach.  My gifts were not geared to YM any longer.  I was a preacher and a teacher and nothing but preaching and teaching could feel that void.

When I finally convinced Tracy that it was time to make the transition, the towers fell.

I’ll be brief here because talk of post-9/11 reactions has been done.

Suffice it to say, any progress toward love was hampered on that day.  I hated terrorists, I hated Muslims, I hated people who looked like they might be Muslims. I hated people who knew Muslims.
I hated anyone who questioned the goodness and holiness of the American people.
Yes, it was time for me to transition into a role where I regularly proclaimed the love and grace of Jesus.  It was time for me to share the Good News of God’s salvation to those who needed to hear that message of hope, redemption and reconciliation.

Sadly, the irony was lost on me.  I was still a ways away from seeing the hypocrisy in my life.

In the meantime, I could preach full-time to people who looked like me (white), believed like me (conservative Republican, yet open-minded Church of Christ) and acted like me.

I blanketed the country with my resume and found the perfect place: Port Huron, Michigan.

It was a small congregation with a huge capacity to love.  They welcomed us in with open arms and for the next 32 months, they allowed me to learn what it meant to be a preacher.  They gave me freedom to question, learn and to grow.

Because of that freedom, I was able to take the next important steps.

Next: The Failure of Capitalism