Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Five Guys, Burgers, and Burdens

The answer the perennial question, "How many thirty-something pastors can fit into a Holiday Inn room?" is five. I discovered this while visiting Baltimore last week for the national ETS Conference. Every few years I attend the event with colleagues. We share an Alma mater, small church ministry experience, and an appetite for dicey, theological issues. Needless to say, we're a pretty wild bunch.

The topic for the week centered on Inerrancy and the Word of God. I wanted to hear what scholars had to say about the theme, and if they could explain to me why the NT authors didn't quote the OT authors verbatim; or if my appreciation for The Message in any way hurt my credibility as a pastor. (They did; it doesn't.) I took copious notes, live Tweeted twice, and purchased fifteen books to add to my shelves. (The hefty discount on printed material is worth the price of admission.)

Transparently, the most important aspect of the trip was the opportunity to share burgers, beds, and ministry burdens with other pastors. We divided and conquered for the parallel sessions, but reconvened each day to eat and sleep. In our conversations, we critiqued the papers we read, swapped stories about "evangelical celebrities" we greeted, and waxed eloquently on the oral culture of the Bible we study.

And when that three minutes of conversation ended, we came to issues of the heart--family, ambition, finances, and regrets. One pastor grieved a family that just left his church. One pastor disclosed a looming legal issue. One pastor lamented the socioeconomic woes facing his church. One pastor confessed his overwhelming intensity. One pastor expressed concern for a lack of evangelism in his church and personal life.

Our disclosure was less a request for counsel, than a plea for prayer. So we did. Our final night in the Holiday Inn, we interceded for one another. The unity of the Spirit was palpable. Praying did not solve all our problems, but it did increase our intimacy...which is saying a lot, because there were five of us in a room.

Burdens bind men together. We should share them more often.

Monday, November 4, 2013

My Mole Removal - A Preventative Measure

I did not chose baldness. It interrupted my hairline -- a small dimple on a healthy crop. These sorts of things do not go away. Once a hairline starts to backpedal, it does not reverse. Once a bald spot emerges, it only expands. I looked in the mirror and saw the inevitable. I was aging. Vanity gave me a noogey and left a mark.

So I chose to hasten the process. I bought a pair of Conair clippers and shaved my crown. That was the day Sharon reared her big, fat, ugly head. She was a mole of such gargantuan proportions that I named her.

Five years have passed, and Sharon and I have become close companions. Weekly we meet in the bathroom for a rendezvous with the clippers. She screams as the razor-sharp teeth come close. A few times they've bitten her. She bleeds. And when I'm done with my grooming, Sharon whispers in my right ear, "I'm still here. Bigger than ever."

Tomorrow at 11:20 a.m. I'm putting Sharon to rest. The time has come.
She's not cancerous, not technically. She's a mere, aesthetic blemish on my otherwise handsome head. But her faceless, naked presence reminds me of a different kind of cancer: My pride. The desire to cover up flaws, appear glossy, and make believe that I will live forever haunts the typical American. Wrinkle creams, Viagra pills, hair dyes, and gluten-free diets are marketed as elixirs from the Fountain of Youth.

These are lies, of course. The Bible depicts a single line to eternity, and it has more to do with the Rose of Sharon, than a Mole named Sharon. I have to remember that Jesus finds me lovely, even when I can always find something wrong with my face.