My Boys

No one can ever know what a joy my boys are. They are a handful. Lots of times they don’t listen, do the very thing you ask them not to, sometimes the very thing you told them not to do because it will hurt them. But there’s nothing but love from them. And more than that: joy.

Some thing that I am not sure that many people are aware of is how discouraging a pastor’s life is. I don’t mean to sound melodramatic, or look for sympathy. Not at all. But a point of fact is that no good deed goes unpunished; people you spend a lot of time in helping will turn on you precisely because you’ve helped them; everyone has their own agenda about what church should be like and God forbid you think it should go another direction—you’re only the pastor, after all. And then there is, for me, the relentless misery of so many people, especially children. When I realize how little of my time gets spent in the actual ministry of the Word, it is depressing. People are dying, but the comfortable elements of the church—people on something of an even keel, administration, any number of things—sap your time and attention. Next thing you know, you’re a manager, a fund-raiser, a chaplain, anything but the pastor the community needs.

Then there are the unexpected blows that threaten the delicate life of a congregation.

It was one of those days, really a series of those kinds of days, when all such things were hitting home that my two little prophets spoke up. First was Joseph. He drew me a picture of himself. He said, “Daddy I made you a picture. See, it’s me. Daddy, you were lonely and Joseph is coming to see you.” I am glad he knows that there is not much more in life that I want than to see him.

And on a Sunday morning, as we were driving in, and all kinds of thoughts were running through my head, when I was suffering discouragement and thinking about all the things that are not going right, and how I am not fully at The Rock as much as I would like, as much as it needs, John says out of nowhere, from his back seat, “Daddy, I am glad you are a pastor.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because you are a good pastor and you teach me and Joe about Jesus. And sometimes I can hear your sermons in children’s church, when you get loud.”

And sometimes the sweetness is silly, and all the more sweet for that. Their favorite t.v. show is Jakers, the Adventures of Piggly Winks, an animated program about some Irish farm animals. John likes the young bull Fernie who sings off-key. On Melissa’s birthday, he sang her a song he made up, just like Fernie would sing it. No one has ever had such a raucous and loving birthday song. There was a lot of love and laughter on both ends of the phone.

Joseph’s favorite character is Finnegan, the donkey. So much so that Joseph communicates in brays. You ask him what kind of cereal he wants, and you get a bray. I guess it’s a good thing Cheerios are made of oats… Joe can’t quite pronounce the name. It sounds like he’s saying Fillagain. One day we were in bed, taking a nap and Joe said, “Daddy, I am a baby Fillagain, and you are a daddy Fillagain, and Mommy is a mommy Fillagain and John is a big brother Fillagain.” That got John started braying, and it was another 15 minutes before we got calmed down for a nap.

John said to me, “Daddy, you should preach like Martin.” If only! Then he said, “If we were in a brown church, it wouldn’t be so quiet, and I could hear you more when I am in children’s church.” [I get a lot of help from Butch. He knows there’s a black preacher in me struggling to get out, so he hollers and claps.] How is it that John, a 6-year old, sees where we need to head? That is, we have opened up to at least calling ourselves multi-cultural. And then because we were willing to say it, we went past Anglos and Hispanics to Africans. But our community has a large African American population. Will we reach there, too? Will we be intentional? Will we reach the white folks in our community, who are culturally very different from the white folks who currently attend? These are questions not of intention, or words, or mission statements, but of guts.

And what kind of little seminary will we be? There are hearts full of joy, waiting.