In church I once told the story of standing in line at a department store, on a break from college and wearing my “Messiah College” T-shirt. The woman behind the counter pointed at my shirt and started laughing. “Are you…” she gasped out, “are you one of them born again Christians?”
I was really embarrassed. ‘Uh, yeah, I guess,’ I said. She wiped her eyes, still giggling. “I thought so.”
I left the store, without purchasing anything—my face very hot.
I think about that incident a lot. Especially lately, as I go around the community in Kearney or wherever, and someone introduces me as “Pastor Peggy.” Or I get my hair cut and the hairdresser asks me what I do for a living. I hate that. When someone finds out I’m a pastor, they start acting weird.
“How interesting,” they say, and then don’t say anything after that. Or they tell me what I call their “pastor horror stories”—about a pastor that “done them wrong.” Offended them directly, neglected to do something, or was just plain whacko. I guess they’re just making conversation. I keep thinking I need to think up some “hairstylist horror stories,” just so I’m ready.
My point is, the people out there often don’t think too much of us in here, in the Church. Sometimes I really can’t blame them. I’ve heard stories that would make Mother Teresa embarrassed to be a Christian.
I try to teach my daughter not to hate anybody, and that is difficult, because as you know, she’s in middle school, and middle school can be a vicious place. But I’m finding, really, that adulthood is not too much different than middle school. We still talk about people behind their backs, we still believe and spread vicious rumors about people, we still judge people for what they do or what their children do, we still exclude people if they aren’t like us, we dismiss people because of their political views or religious views, or when someone is in trouble, we stand back and say “what a shame” and leave them alone—all alone. I tell Sarah that middle school is preparing her for life, strangely enough. The only difference is that adults should know better.
There’s been a lot of talk for decades now of what is called “dysfunctional families.” After all this time, I think we’re learning that we all are, in some way, dysfunctional. We don’t always behave in healthy ways. We don’t live up to our potential. We hurt the people we love. Or as St. Paul would say it, “We all fall short of the glory of God.” The Church is made up of “glory-deficient people.” I believe as humans, we are all “glory-deficient.” G.K. Chesteron, an early 20th century writer, once wrote that Christianity has not failed; it has been found difficult and therefore untried.
Love your neighbor? Pray for your enemies? Jesus was surely exaagerating! Don’t take an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth? Didn’t Moses say we could? Yeah, but Jesus said no. Not anymore. Bottom line: love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind and soul and strength, and your neighbor as yourself. “Do that,” Jesus said, “and you will live.”
It’s never been tried. We keep falling short. That’s what Lent reminds us of. That we need to keep trying. It’s a new day. Today we start again. We dare to be different than the rest of the world in all its meanness, hostility and self-preservation. We look at the Cross. We peek into the Empty Tomb. And we remember that Love Always Wins. Love is the cliff notes to the Gospel. Love God, love your neighbor, love yourself. Let’s try it just for one day. Then another, then another. Because while we may be “glory-deficient” by nature, God has a way of lighting us up with amazing glory when we get out of the way. Easter is coming. I'm thinking we ought to try Jesus’ way, and make it our own.
