Baking Bread

I am a pastor. I've been a pastor for approximately 17 years, and I'm still trying to figure out what it is I do.
Some people think I'm a Professional Prayer (no pressure there!) or a Professional Christian (hello!) and there are some days I feel like a litterbox for multiple cats. But that's on bad days.
People call me "Pastor Peggy," which used to make me cringe, but I've learned to smile, grind my teeth a little, and take a deep breath. You don't understand? Shall I call you Farmer Bob or Nurse Betty? Then there's Wal-Mart Cashier Sue or Subway Sandwich Maker Kelly. Besides, the thing about being "Pastor Peggy," is that uncomfortable gap that suddenly widens between me and other people when I'm introduced that way. Suddenly the other person doesn't assume that I wake up with bad breath or bedhead just like they do, or that I don't weep when the casualties of war increases or that I don't get afraid when someone else shoots up a school campus.
I'm just saying, my job is a little weird.
Which is why you don't choose to do it (if you are in your right mind) unless you are absolutely convinced that GOD wants you to do it, and therefore you can't really get out of it anyway, even if you tried.
I mean, at the end of the day, it's a little hard to evalate how I did that day. I visit the nursing home. Or the hospital. Did the person I visit seem sufficiently comforted by my visit? How do I know this? The person who came into my office to talk about their pain-- did they feel sufficiently helped when they left? How can we know this? I don't have an "in" and "out" box on my desk to measure my progress. How inspiring was that prayer I prayed to open the Administrative Meeting? Did it shake the earth? Bring tears to eyes and drive people to their knees? That report I had to fill out-- did it make my District Superintendent weep with awe?

I have a weird job. (Did I already say this?) But TV and movies would have you believe that all pastors are always dressed in a suit or collar all the time, always thinking and saying holy things, or in many cases, just looking like bumbling idiots. Oh, and they're usually bald-- or very gray and wrinkly. Unless you're Rev. Camden from "Seventh Heaven" who is too busy managing the lives of his soap-opera-candidate kids and friends to have time to show up at the church or write a decent sermon. And I have never seen a parsonage that huge or luxurious. But maybe in California...
People ask me Bible Trivia questions all the time, as if I have the whole Book memorized. Or they ask me to come up with a "really good verse" to attach to a letter, or newsletter or article-- you know, just off the top of my head.
But don't get me wrong. I love my job. Well, now I do. I didn't always. Because sometimes I have been the litter box for multiple cats or the punching bag for anal-retentive people who have never gotten over the trauma of their childhoods and figured there's no better place to let out your frustration than on "the preacher." Because, hey, preachers HAVE to be nice, no matter what. Unless you're one of those crazy child molesters or the charismatic dynamo who runs off with the secretary or has a serious drinking problem and is in denial.
But sometimes, like in the last two years, I love my job. Because I get to do what I signed up to do 18 years ago-- well, most of the time, anyway. I love preaching. I especially love saying words in the pulpit that nobody expects a preacher to say (not the four-letter ones, c'mon...) or act like a regular human being who's just as confused as the person in the pew, but has a few more books read (and a lot of school debt!) and just happens to know where to go for Bread when you're starving.
I love to baptize babies-- especially when they're bawling in their mother's arms and then I get them, and in my arms, they just shut up and stare at me like "who are YOU and what did you do with my mother?" And then I splash water on their heads and pray God's blessing upon them and wait for the dove from heaven to descend and the voice of God to shake us up. I walk the baby out into the congregation and everyone gets a goofy look on their faces, staring at this fresh new child of God, and for a moment we forget the Iraqi War and terrible prognoses and the chronic pain or our money stresses, because we're looking at a miracle of God. And maybe we remember that we are all miracles too, though a bit roughed up by life. But we come because we believe SOMETHING, even if it's just that there's something in that sanctuary for us-- a chunk of bread dipped in Welch's, or a hug during the Passing of the Peace or our favorite song, or just the safety of the sanctuary and the smell of burning candles. And we believe that if we show up, maybe Jesus will too, and who knows what'll happen? Maybe we'll breathe a little easier or feel less alone. If that's all that happens, that is enough for today.
I guess I am the fire-stoker. I keep the fire going. Sometimes when life is good, people don't show up, or they don't have the need for church, but I'm here. If the floor falls out underneath them or they get kicked in the stomach and show up in the pew, I'll try to have a word of hope for them, a morsel of bread. I try to help people find bread, I guess. Or water. Sometimes this world makes you feel that way, that if you could just have a good warm slice of bread with butter on it, you'd feel better. Jesus understands that. When he'd risen from the dead and he showed up to find his disciples fishing like nothing special had happened or JESUS hadn't happened-- he just cooked them breakfast and invited them in. No hard feelings.
I'm still trying to figure out exactly what my job is, but in the meantime, I'll keep baking bread and gathering cold water.