From the Pulpit to the Grave and Back

Why does other people’s ignorance bother me so much? Whether it’s race, gender, poverty or generational differences. It has the ability to get under my skin and set my soul on fire like nothing else.

 

I’ve trudged along for so long under the weight of my own self-righteousness in its many forms. I’m smarter than you, funnier than you, and I would never succumb to the depths you’ve seen. I come from spiritually superior stock, I’ve stood behind the pulpit and addressed the filthy masses.

 

It was heavy though, the weight of all that truth. Perfection was only attainable in the rationalizations I twisted around in my own mind and spewed out with a pointed finger. But when I was no longer able to do that I lost my height, my stature, my position on top of the religious food chain. I began to see the depths I once only spoke of.

 

Strange thing about the darkness though, it wasn’t as scary as I thought it was. It wasn’t as dark as I envisioned. There were tons of people there; people who had come from places like me, people who had been born into it, people who had chosen it. It was strange how equally broken we all were.

 

It was there I learned to love from a place of humility and kindness. It was there I learned compassion and released myself into a place of grace. I heard all the words I had spoken from on high – empty, hallow words – come to life in a way  that changed me somewhere deep inside. It was embarrassing to realize what my words actually meant in light of how I was living. And I could see all the sudden how harsh they seemed to those I was delivering them to.

 

This painfully amazing place, I realize, has not been experienced by everyone. And so when I encounter those who remind me of the person I used to be, it’s difficult not to react. My knee jerk reaction of anger comes billowing up and I want to tell them all I’ve seen and show them how wrong they are. Just as I’m about to unleash the storm brewing inside, I see a mirrored reflection of myself in their eyes and realize it’s all me. I’m still angry at myself for who I was and who I couldn’t be.

 

It is in these moments I have to journey back to that place and remember how equally broken we all are, even those who might not know it yet. It’s in this place that I pause, breathe in deep the grace I’ve come to know so well and exhale in surrender, opening my fists and letting go.

 

Here's to the journey, my friends.

Hey guys! I'm a writer!

I went to listen to a writer give a speech today. He used to be a columnist and has his fair share of published novels. He’s kind of got it going on, as a writer at least.

He said the most common thing he finds in writers at the seminars he does is that they lack confidence. They won’t even call themselves writers until they’ve attained a certain level, published enough work or become known somehow. This is so wrong, he says, because when Joe Shmoe throws a bag of golf clubs over his shoulder, heads out to the course and bats a couple balls around, what do we call him? A golfer. And so, if you write, you are a writer. Call yourself a writer.

Geez, fine, I’ll call myself a writer. Enough with the public humiliation already.

Not ten minutes before that, my co-worker, who was the one to bring me to the meeting, told another lady at our table that I wanted to come today because I’m a writer, too. “Oh wow, you write books?!” she was very excited for me. I, in typical fashion, lowered my glance to my shoes and mumbled something like “yeah well not really, I mean….”

DING! I was literally saved by the bell. The meeting was started by banging on the side of a big gold bell at the front of the room, preceded by forced handshakes and uncomfortable eye contact. There was a slew of strange club traditions that made me feel like I was in Sunday School again, before the infamous writer got up to speak. I had never been to a Kiwanis meeting before, let alone known what Kiwanis was, as was made apparent when the leader asked if there were any guests present today.

The meeting went on and the speaker gave a kind of anti-climactic talk, but the truly great thing was that I knew, instantly, all I was there to hear. Call yourself a writer.

And so on this journey I continue.