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.
Why can it feel strange to lose homes we haven’t seen for years?
If you’re driven to create beauty, you’re an artist — like it or not
We’re more like other animals than we like to admit to anyone
If politics sends you into a rage, is it really a good use of your time?
Political action may seize power, but only ideas bring real change
Pursuit of perfection leaves me feeling shame when I’m flawed
If you can’t change your life story, that narrative will become destiny
Now that his wife is gone for good, man is left with memories and love
Sabans remind me that choice of partner can be a key to success