I suppose I could write about what happened twenty years ago, or what happened ten years ago

I suppose I could write about what happened twenty years ago, or what happened ten years ago. Thirty years ago, my grandmother died. I was ten. Twenty, I got my DWI and ten, I had my bike accident during the great political campaign. My mother was dying of cancer by then. I was in an unhealthy, co-dependent relationship that wouldn’t permanently end once and for all for almost two more years. Thirty years ago, my oldest brother was gone from the home, and pretty much gone from the family for good. My second oldest brother was a year out from doing the same. I think we went to Washington D.C. some time that year.

It’s kind of hard to explain the apathy I’m feeling right now toward my new career. I don’t think I’ll lose it and drop out of seminary, but I am wondering if I really should be bothering with being a pastor. I don’t feel like I belong in my denomination. I wonder if I ever really did. It’s a cold sort of church. They joke a lot about being the frozen chosen, and they don’t do it for nothing. I guess I’ve been kind of a cold person on the outside since I decided to try to play by the rules in this life. But, I can’t hide my warm self very well.

I want so badly to give and receive the agape love I keep hearing about. I want to be a part of the fellowship of believers, the communion of saints. I want to arrive at a place where I don’t feel like everyone is just patronizing me, wearing the thinnest of veils for smiles to hide their utter contempt for me daring to sit in their pew or worship in their church.

I don’t want a phony warmth. I have seen it from all kinds of Christians–once you become a regular, you are forgotten, because you haven’t been there for ten years or more.

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