making sense of a dysfunctional culture
I got the news Thursday afternoon that someone I knew had died in his sleep a couple of nights ago. His death left me thinking about how the people around me take care of themselves — or don’t take care of themselves. And it left me thinking about myself and what this tendency toward “slow suicide” says about all of us.
When I was in high school, I surprised everyone — including myself — by deciding that I was going to become a pastor.
Until then, my career choices had all been conventional. Various types of engineering. Law. Politics. Business. But one Sunday night, I decided — without any prior thought — that God was calling me to ministry. I didn’t know why. It just felt right.
As well-meaning adults in ministry tried to direct me over the next few years, I found out that I was nothing like them. There were square hole and there were round holes in church ministry. I was a hexagonal peg that didn’t fit into any of the holes.
During my last year of college, I served on a church staff as youth minister. Each Sunday and Wednesday, I drove about 40 miles from Tuscaloosa to Carrollton Baptist Church. I taught classes to students and I preached for the congregation at times when the pastor was out of town.
The last time I preached there — at the pulpit you see above — seemed to make clear that I just wasn’t cut out for this job.
It’s always the worst at night. I have no idea why.
That’s when the images and sounds flood my mind. It’s as though someone made a movie and I saw only the first part. I loved the movie and wanted to see all of it. I loved it so much that I wanted to live in it, but I couldn’t.
And then someone had all the images and sounds and smells and emotions from the rest of that movie — and feeds bits and pieces of them to me at random times. It’s warm and loving images of love and family and home and everything I’ve ever wanted.
There‘s a projector on the inside of my skull — and someone plays those images. What I see teases me and torments me, but I can’t make them go away. I don‘t even know whether I want them to go away.
She’s always there. But she’s not really there.
Try a new game: Make others smile — and let yourself smile with them
I can change my appearance, but my inner self will stay the same
Dear FBI, NSA and all three-letter agencies: ‘We don’t trust you guys’
Identity politics is the cancer behind Elizabeth Warren’s lie about ancestry
I’m trying to do something new — and I don’t know what to call it
Obama administration wants to choose skin color of your neighbors
What makes good science fiction? Aya Katz and I discuss ‘Podkayne’
We all live with a death sentence, but we act as if we’ll live forever
The pounding rain from the storm brought me warmth, light and love