Epilogue

About 4 years ago, I started writing a book about my spiritual journey, and by draft #3, it was obvious that the heart of the story was the 3+ years I spent at Golden Gate Baptist Theological Seminary. Certainly, the funniest stories emerged from those years, so I began cutting my manuscript down to a series of tales about my life as a Baptist seminarian in Marin County—material that forms the basis of this blog.

And now we’ve reached the end of the story. Sure, I could carry on with more recent anecdotes, but I have concluded once again that it is best to limit my musings to those few seminary years that shaped all the rest. Which means that this blog has run its course. But before I sign off, it seems only fair to offer a brief epilogue that tells the rest of the story—at least in part.

After graduating from seminary, Mimi and I remained in Marin to continue serving the churches that had become home to us, and I kept working at the environmental company to make ends meet. Eventually, Mt. Tam and BayMarin merged (under the latter name), and after a new senior pastor arrived on the scene, the church entered a period of steady growth.

Within 3 years, Mimi and I had two daughters, and I had joined the staff of BayMarin as an assistant pastor. For the next 6 years, I led the small group ministry (ironically), preached occasionally, and helped the church launch a transitional housing program for single mothers. But I also continued to struggle with some basic questions, such as whether the resources devoted to high quality musical/video presentations should have been channeled to ministries like the housing program. (Or to pastors’ salaries. One of the two.)

Sensing a fresh start was required, we moved north to Sonoma County to start a new church with some other BayMarin families, and I also became executive director of the housing program—now a stand-alone entity. The new congregation got off to a good start, and on the outside, everything seemed fine.

Internally, though, I felt increasingly torn. Maybe it was the new surroundings or some midlife deal, but for the first time, I gave myself permission to reexamine my faith from the ground up—no holds barred. And I soon realized that the professional ministry is a poor context for such a process. So, long story short, after 2 years I left the ministry and found another job in the environmental field.

That was over 5 years ago, and while the reexamination process is probably not complete, I do feel more settled as a person. My views have changed considerably, though the process has not been as simple as replacing Belief A with Belief B or Position X with Position Y. In fact, the biggest change of all may be my growing disinterest in having the right answers—the settled, orthodox theology I can cling to forevermore.

Of course, if you’ve read this far, you’ve probably already figured some of this out already. So I’ll simply close by thanking you for coming along for the ride. I hope you had a few laughs along the way, if nothing else.

Graduation

On a cool December evening, my seminary education concluded with a simple graduation ceremony held at the Golden Gate chapel. During the commencement speech, I gazed through the chapel’s floor-to-ceiling windows to the lights of San Francisco glimmering across the Bay, and I remembered arriving on campus as a callow 23 year-old, unsure if I really belonged at the seminary or among the ranks of professional Baptist ministers. But, despite ill-advised encounters with felons, a small arms arsenal, two stoned construction workers, and a licentious retiree, I was about to walk out as a newly minted Master of Divinity.

Of course, the chapel afforded me no views of the future, so it was impossible to perceive how the course of my life would be shaped by a handful of years spent immersed in two very different worlds. The terms were not in vogue then, but studying Red State religion in a Blue State world had changed me. I had brought a host of questions to Golden Gate expecting ready answers, but my professors had, for the most part, shown a vexing reluctance to provide them. If anything, my seminary education had ended up raising still more questions that I couldn’t answer.

These doubts and struggles were more or less set aside for a long time, but eventually they came to bother me very much, as you may have gathered by reading various posts in this blog. In recent years, some of my faith issues have gotten resolved, others haven’t, and I have come to the overall conclusion that questions aren’t so bad, and answers aren’t always what they’re cracked up to be. No, that’s probably not what my old seminary professors were trying to teach me, exactly. And, as such, they should be held blameless for my present spiritual and mental state.

Of course, it must be admitted that during my seminary years, I was also influenced by the various denizens of Marin County who crossed my path. If the seminary gave me a broader view of my faith, then Marin and the Bay Area gave me a broader view of humanity in general. It struck me as a place where you got to be more or less whatever you were, and no one would make too much of a fuss about it. Even if what you were was a rather goofy Southern Baptist seminarian.

I kind of liked that open stance, and over the years I began to wonder if there was something almost Jesus-like about this easy, come-as-you are acceptance. It doesn’t take much reading of the New Testament to see that the main gripe people had with Jesus was that he was too inclusive—too ready to hang out with women, children, cripples, and assorted riff-raff. Maybe you can read too much into that tendency, but then again, maybe you can’t.

Perhaps that’s why I’m still in the Bay area almost 17 years after that graduation ceremony. My, how time does fly.

Willow World

Okay, back to the story at hand. As my seminary education was wrapping up, I was also trying to get the Weekday Church off the ground, but starting a lunchtime church in San Francisco’s financial district was not proving to be easy. So when Pastor John decided to inspire the troops by taking a few key leaders to a conference, I jumped at the chance.

The seeker-sensitive church movement may have started in Southern California, but its crowning glory was Willow Creek Community Church in the suburbs of Chicago. Led by an energetic pastor named Bill Hybels, Willow Creek started out in a rented movie theater, grew to a weekly attendance of over 15,000, and built a beautiful 90-acre campus in the town of South Barrington.

Eventually, Willow Creek began hosting conferences to share the secrets of their success, which brought our little band of BayMarin/Mt. Tam/Weekday Church leaders to Chicago. When we arrived at the church, it reminded me of an upscale office park, with carefully-manicured landscape and modern buildings. The vast parking lot was staffed by numerous attendants in orange vests, and as we entering the main building with 4,000 other conference attendees felt like walking into a basketball game or rock concert.

Once inside, I was even more impressed by Willow Creek’s spacious auditorium, jumbo video screens, and massive worship band, and floor-to-ceiling windows that showed off a beautiful panorama that included a tree-lined lake.

Despite (or perhaps because of) all the grandeur, Bill Hybels and the other conference speakers were quick to point out that they had never set out to build a megachurch, but rather a “biblically functioning community.” And the church’s skyrocketing growth followed as a natural consequence. This was not exactly a catchy phrase (“Visit Willow Creek: We function biblically!”), but it was good to know that our churches didn’t need a beautiful campus, parking attendants, or charismatic speakers to grow. We just had to straighten out a few functions here and there.

We also heard a lot about “spiritual gifts.” Willow Creekers emphasized that all believers are endowed by God with one or more special abilities that equip them to assume an indispensable role in the church. These abilities are listed in the New Testament and include teaching, leadership, encouragement, and evangelism.

Willow Creek had even developed a special questionnaire that could be used to identify one’s spiritual gifts. This instrument contained yes/no questions like “I regularly try to persuade others to my point of view” and “I have spoken in a language that is unfamiliar to me.” I had to answer “no” to both of those, as pushiness and speaking in tongues are not my spiritual gifts. And I felt sure that anyone who could speak in tongues would be able to figure out their gift without resorting to a questionnaire.

Still, the exercise was enlightening, as I learned that I had been endowed with “shepherding” and the rather vague gift of “helps.” Neither of these sounded particularly helpful to a potential church planter, but there was always the biblical functioning stuff.

No on Proposition 8

At times, I’ve felt nostalgic while writing about my seminary days and remembering all the friendships and good times I experienced. Then I come across story like this one and remember why I am no longer an evangelical Christian:

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26891725

Here’s the deal. I understand how someone could argue that Scripture prohibits gay relationships, as I used to hold that position myself. And if that is your opinion, it seems perfectly reasonable for you to refrain from gay relationships and attend a church that only recognizes marriages between people of the opposite sex. So far so good.

But I do not understand the urge to raise millions of dollars and hold prayer vigils to deprive others WHO MAY NOT SHARE YOUR BELIEFS of a right THEY ALREADY POSSESS as Californians. Do you have nothing better to pray for or spend your money on? Like, say, starving multitudes, hurricane victims, or REO Speedwagon tickets?

Oh, I know—gay unions undermine “real” marriage, destroy the very fabric of society, blah, blah, blah. BALONEY (sorry for getting carried away with the caps here). My wife and I have been married 18 years, and in that time I’ve learned that the only thing that can undermine our relationship is the choices we make as partners.

Think about it—maybe you’ve got a gay couple living down the street. Maybe, like some friends of ours, they’ve been together for over 20 years and raised a child who now has a family of her own. Well, that couple isn’t going away. They are part of the community, and the only question is whether or not we will afford them the same rights and protections that we “straights” take for granted. If that supposedly menacing couple was going to undermine society, they would have already done it—so having the state recognize their relationship changes nothing for the rest of us but means a hell of a lot to them.

Oh, I also know—if we let gays marry, what’s next? People will start marrying dogs! I actually heard this argument recently, and frankly, this kind of “slippery slope” reasoning is laughable. When we have a significant group of folks wanting to wed their pooches, we’ll address that issue as a society (and I won’t hold my breath). The reality is that right now we have a host of friends and neighbors who are clamoring to retain the right to wed another consenting adult of their choosing. So let’s focus on that fact.

Having unburdened myself thusly, I am off to make another donation to NO ON PROP 8. Please join me!

The Haiku

The men’s group I wrote about in my last post continued to meet until seminary graduation sent us off in multiple directions. When the end was near, we decided to mark the occasion by surprising our wives with a group date. Matt suggested that we pack a picnic dinner and attend an outdoor Shakespeare production he had heard about. This sounded bad enough, but Matt upped the ante by insisting that we all write a poem to our wives and read them aloud during the meal. This idea met with immediate and protracted resistance, but Matt was not the kind of guy to take no for an answer.

Shortly thereafter, we found ourselves eating on blankets with our wives in front of an old amphitheater. After dinner, we husbands presented our wives with flowers, and Matt announced that an even more special gift was forthcoming. Hoping to get things over with quickly, I had volunteered to read my poem first, and Matt cued me to begin. When I finished the dozen or so lines I had painstakingly cobbled together, I was relieved to see the other 3 wives give Mimi closed-lipped smiles and little pats that plainly said, “You have such a nice husband.”

The other men, however, were staring daggers at me, which I was at a loss to understand. Didn’t they like it? Had I gone off track somehow? But the reason for their animosity became plain as soon as the remaining poems were read.

Matt went second and announced that he had decided to write his poem in the form of a “haiku.” This brought more smiles from the ladies, who were growing more impressed with their choices of mates by the moment. But by the time Matt finished, the smiles had turned to expressions of bewilderment, and an awkward silence descended over the group. Ethan finally spoke for all of us, asking, “Dude, do you even know what a haiku is?” Matt then expressed an eagerness to see what Ethan “had come up with,” so he read next.

Ethan’s “poetry” turned out to be a stream-of-consciousness manifesto that made little sense to anyone—his wife Carlie least of all. Jeff and I tried in vain to suppress our laughter as a vindicated Matt cried, “What on earth was that?! At least I wrote a poem!”

“Ever heard of free verse?” Ethan countered, but the damage was done. Jeff brought the proceedings to a reasonably dignified conclusion with his effort, but all in all, it was clear that some of our wives would have been far happier with the evening if we had dropped the poetry idea altogether. Mimi was an exception, I am happy to report, and at least for one night, my stock rose considerably on the home front.

Growing Your Hedges

My next brilliant idea was to gather a few friends who had recently gotten married and start a little men’s group. Initially, this group consisted of Jeff, a pal from church, and two fellow seminarians named Matt and Ethan.

The 4 of us began meeting weekly for breakfast, and we soon fell into a comfortable routine. Generally, one of us would begin by describing some incident during the previous week that had upset his wife, such as saying, “Could we talk about this tomorrow?” when the wife was trying to share some heartfelt concern right at bedtime. The other 3 would then remark, “Your wife doesn’t like that either, huh?” And we would all go away with a deepened understanding of our spouses’ mysterious needs.

While helpful, this strategy only took us so far, as the stories quickly began repeating themselves. To shake things up a bit, we decided to read and discuss a Christian book on marriage. The book we ultimately settled on bore the strange title of Hedges, and it promised to help husbands “affair-proof” their marriages. I now wonder why this theme struck us as a necessary or appealing one, but we eagerly began reading tips on building a union strong enough to withstand any outside temptations.

The book began with several detailed anecdotes about men who had been unfaithful despite having a strong personal faith. As I recall, all these stories followed a similar pattern, with friendly conversations and flirtations turning into emotional attachment and then, despite all efforts to resist, full-blown infidelity. I had a hard time envisioning this sequence of events playing out in my own life, as I had a tough time with just the friendly conversations part and had only dated about three women in my whole life.

Still, I tried to keep an open mind—until the book suddenly got a little weird. The author began laying out some ground-rules he had developed for himself to short-circuit the progression of infidelity, which included his commitment to never—under any circumstances—ride alone in a car with a woman who was not his wife. Upon reading this, I wished the author had included a picture of himself on the back cover. Was he some Adonis who women couldn’t keep their hands off of during a routine drive to the airport? If not, his rule seemed like overkill, and I said as much during our next breakfast gathering.

The opinions of the group on the subject were somewhat divided. Jeff and Matt agreed with the author that it was better to be safe than sorry, but Ethan showed some sympathy with my reaction. “What if it’s some 70 year-old crone?” he wondered aloud. “Don’t you have to take this on a case-by-case basis?”

This remark stirred disquieting memories of my experience at the nursing home, but I was grateful that some common sense had begun to enter the picture. And before long, we all agreed that our marriages were “hedged” enough to allow us to move on to a new book.

The Miracle at South Bend - Part 2

Having decided to give up sports for the betterment of my marriage, I vowed to dispense with half measures and go cold turkey. No more games on TV, sports pages, or radio call-in shows. Why make an emotional investment in something I had no control over anyway?

Just forming this resolution in my mind had a salutary effect. Though I had yet to forego a single Monday Night Football telecast, I already felt more deeply connected to both God and my wife. The benefits of my decision were so tangible that I quickly began feeling selfish for keeping them to myself. Surely other Christian men shared my sports addiction, so perhaps I could start a program called “Sports Anonymous” that would minister to these miserable souls. Soon, broken men would gather all across the nation in dingy church basements, where they would share searing tales of shattered lives and new beginnings.

“Hi, I’m Joe, and I’m a Bills fan,” some disheveled slob would confess. “It all came unraveled for me when friggin’ Norwood shanked that kick in Super Bowl XXV. I lost my job, my wife—everything. But then a buddy told me about Sports Anonymous, and it saved my life.” Such stories would be met with knowing nods and warm hugs from men who had frittered their lives away on the Chicago Cubs or Cleveland Browns, and stadium crowds would begin to dwindle noticeably as the new movement took hold.

Filled with such lofty aspirations, I managed to make it for two weeks before cracking. Everything fell apart one Saturday afternoon when my alma mater, the University of Tennessee, was slated to play at mighty Notre Dame. Mimi had gone grocery shopping while I stayed behind to catch up on some school work (mistake #1). And as the minutes ticked by, I became increasingly consumed with finding out how the Vols were faring against the Fighting Irish. After waging an intense inner battle for an hour and a half, I finally couldn’t resist the temptation to turn the game on—just for a minute—to check the score. What was the harm in a quick peek?

Well, a peek revealed that, as the game neared halftime, Notre Dame was mauling UT by a score of 31-7. I wondered if this was God’s way of telling me I had made the right decision in forgoing this idiocy. But I decided it would be harmless to continue watching for a while, seeing as the game was already decided and wouldn’t be able to draw me in emotionally.

Around Knoxville, this game is now known as “The Miracle at South Bend.” Somehow, the beleaguered Vols staged a furious comeback, culminating in a thrilling 35-34 victory. And, in a remarkable piece of timing, Mimi walked in the door just as Tennessee deflected a last-second Notre Dame field goal attempt to preserve the win. Only dimly aware of her arrival, I began racing about the limited confines of our apartment making strange, guttural noises to express my great joy. Somehow, a stunned Mimi was able to refrain from calling the psychiatric unit to seek a forced admittance.

Shaken by the fact that I had almost missed the greatest comeback in school history, I felt it would be wise to reconsider my earlier resolution and began seeking more realistic ways to work on my relationship skills. But these would not work much better.

The Miracle at South Bend - Part 1

As my last semester at Golden Gate was about to get underway, Pastor John offered to set up an internship for me at the seminary that would provide 6 hours of credit and reduce my course commitments to nearly nothing. This attractive arrangement would, in turn, allow me to help John with his latest brainchild: The Weekday Church.

Yes, John had decided to start a church in San Francisco’s financial district that would meet during lunch time and target business professionals on their own turf. Attracted by brief, nontraditional presentations tailored to their needs and interests, these urban workers would be won to Christianity, then encouraged to settle into more conventional Sunday-morning congregations in the suburban neighborhoods they lived in. Like Mt. Tam and BayMarin.

It was an innovative idea, but I immediately wondered how this new role would impact life at home. Mimi and I were still adjusting to married life, especially since we were both incredibly busy and exhausted. And, too, Mimi been proven strangely unwilling to live in the kind of dorm room squalor that my roommate Mike and I once enjoyed.

Of course, a bit of teamwork around the house was not an unreasonable expectation, so before tackling the Weekday Church, I resolved to make some changes on the home-front. It was time to start carrying my domestic weight and investing more time and energy in my relationship with Mimi. But that would mean simplifying my life somehow, and between work, school and ministry, I didn’t see a lot of room for trimming fat. And it wasn’t like I had a lot of time-consuming hobbies.

Except one. In the interest of full disclosure, it must be admitted I had (and have) a mild obsession with sports. Many an afternoon was spent watching a ballgame on TV, and poring over sports page each morning was an absolute necessity. Yes, I did often multitask while watching sports by reading a book or folding a load of laundry. But I also tended to get a bit too emotionally involved in the proceedings—particularly if my alma mater was playing—and displayed a tendency to carry on heated (and sometimes profane) conversations with the TV. Mimi found this behavior to be a little on the psychotic side, and I sometimes imagined her describing one of my more colorful monologues to a marriage counselor, who would then quietly refer her to a divorce lawyer.

Sobered by such visions, I decided to swear off sports completely, take on a fairer share of the domestic chores, and spend more quality time with Mimi.

What could be so hard about that?

The New Age Rage

Several weeks before I moved to California to attend seminary, I was advised by a well-meaning friend to read a book called The Seduction of Christianity and its sequel, Beyond Seduction. As I recall, these books represented a response to the New Age/Eastern thought that emerged from the counterculture of the 1960’s and emphasized meditation, religious tolerance, and world peace. Fearing that unsuspecting Christians would be unduly influenced by such pernicious ideas, the author of the “Seduction” books penned his grim, two-part warning.

I was directed to these works because they contained some rather disturbing information about Golden Gate Seminary. According to Beyond Seduction, nefarious agents of the New Age movement had infiltrated this once-proud institution and begun teaching a form of “shamanism” to its impressionable students. But after arriving on campus, I could find no evidence of New Age inroads into the curriculum, though surrounding Marin County had no shortage of gurus, psychics, and meditation centers. I soon became accustomed to references to crystals, karma, and role of “The Universe” in supplying all our needs.

(Note to evangelical readers: When dealing with New Age folk, refrain from smart-ass comments about “The Universe” stepping up its efforts in sub-Saharan Africa, or you might be told that the same could be said of the Christian God. Some of these New Age-types are cagier than they look.)

To help us understand this local phenomenon, one professor finally brought the New Age to Golden Gate during my last year of seminary. Dr. S, my favorite theology professor, offered a new class called “Responding to the New Age Movement,” which I eagerly signed up for. And not content to erect straw men, Dr. S soon had us reading popular New Age texts like The Aquarian Conspiracy and writing papers that identified the positive attributes of the movement as well as the negative ones.

And I had to admit that it wasn’t difficult to spot a few parallels between the New Age movement and Christianity. The Aquarian Conspiracy defined the movement as a loose network of activists who transformed the world without resorting to traditional structures like political parties—a description that could easily have applied to Christians in the days before Focus on the Family got its congressional scorecard down to a science.

Of course, there were clear differences as well. New Agers were less interested in getting to know Jesus than in getting to know oneself. Transformation was achieved through becoming mindful of your own mind, leading to a paradigm shift that, when experienced by enough people, would redefine every social structure from politics to medicine. Crystals and the channeling of spiritually evolved beings were also deemed helpful to the process.

In the end, it all struck me as a harmless blend of pop psychology and junk science. It’s not like New Agers were starting wars, grabbing for political power, or imposing their values on everyone else. Now that would really be scary.

Contemporary Models of Church Planting

Pastor John’s initial success in Marin garnered him a teaching slot at the seminary, where he offered a course called Contemporary Models of Church Planting. I eagerly signed up for the class after John mentioned that it would be more “practical” than “academic,” which I translated as “an easy A.”

Once the class started, John began by carefully outlining the characteristics of Baby Boomers, a generation whose vast numbers and pot-addled minds apparently called for entirely new forms of church life. This generation was defined as all Americans born between 1946 and 1964. As it happened, Mimi was born in 1964, while I came along in 1965, the year “Generation X” (or “Slackers,” as many of us prefer to be called) arrived on the scene. This critical difference in our ages would, I quickly realized, allow me to drop statements like “You just don’t understand my generation” or “That’s just what I would expect from a Boomer” whenever Mimi and I had a disagreement.

But John also pointed out that not all Baby Boomers were alike, so each new congregation had to be carefully designed to fits its particular community. To discover the preferences of one’s target audience, John taught us to conduct brief surveys that could be used to assess the needs, likes, and dislikes of potential church members so that worship services could be designed accordingly. Our first class assignment was to design such a survey, use it to interview 5 unchurched people, and write a report on our findings. Keeping things simple, I focused on 2 key questions:

1. Why do you think most people in Marin don’t attend church?
2. If you were looking for a church to attend, what are some things you would look for?

The responses I got to this little questionnaire surprised me. Virtually all the respondents mentioned the wealth and fast-paced life of most Marinites as the key impediments to both church attendance and the development of a spiritual life. One interviewee named Darrel went so far as to describe American society in general as “greedy, status-oriented, sterile, and phony” and recommended starting a church with “a revolutionary attitude” that would spark a “cultural jihad.”

Based on these results, my best bet would have been to start a church which addressed such topics as Don’t Come to Us—You’re Already Way Too Busy! and Looking for Inner Peace? Lose That Bothersome Fortune! And there would have been plenty of biblical material to draw on, as everyone from Jesus to the crusty prophet Amos took a dim view of striving after riches. But even with my limited understanding of church planting methods, I knew that it was probably better to forego the “cultural jihad” and stick with a cookie-cutter approach.

Because, truth be known, there were very few differences between any of the seeker-sensitive churches that were springing up around the country. They all followed the same basic formula, and most of them were growing like gangbusters.

The Prodigal Son's Brother

Remember Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son? It’s the one where the younger son squanders his share of the family estate in wild living, only to have his father throw a lavish party when junior finally goes broke and crawls back home with his tail between his legs. Sometimes people forget that there was an older son in the story, too—one who had been carrying the load all by himself while little brother snorted coke in the bathroom of some seedy nightclub (or whatever spoiled rich kids did in biblical days). Big brother never got a party to honor his faithfulness, so he was none too happy about all the fuss over junior’s return.

Well, I, for one, always thought the older brother had a legitimate beef. He did the right thing year after year, got taken for granted, and watched some immature coke-head get all the attention. That sequence of events would be tough for anyone to swallow without feeling a tad resentful.

I know because I sometimes felt like the big brother during my last year at Golden Gate. I kept trying to do the right thing—build a strong marriage, work hard, get good grades, pour myself into two young churches—but it was all a bit exhausting. And Pastor John did not seem like the man to turn to for sympathy, fond as he was of statements like, “Relax? That’s what heaven is for!” and “Technically, a biblical workweek was 72 hours.” John based that last number on the agrarian societies that dominated Bible times, where people worked six days per week from sunup to sundown. To him, those were the good old days.

The ever-increasing efforts eventually left me feeling like the older brother in the parable. New people were coming into the churches, and while most of them weren’t exactly fiscally irresponsible coke heads like the prodigal son, there was no question that each Sunday service was a party thrown in their honor. Every last detail had been carefully orchestrated to make them feel welcomed, put at ease, and valued. But there weren’t any parties for the poor schmucks who were making it all happen.

As one of the worker bees, I sometimes fantasized about donning a disguise and trying to pass myself off as a non-Christian visitor with a shady past—just so I could get a taste of the prodigal son treatment. Of course, when these thoughts came, I recalled that the older brother was not exactly the hero of Jesus’ story and tried to will myself to be happier that things were going so well at church.

When that didn’t work, I reminded myself that if they stuck around long enough, all the newbies would eventually become worker bees themselves. And as they wondered where the party went, these ex-prodigals might also find some sympathy for the dutiful older brother.

This made me feel a little better. But not much.

Bombs Over Baghdad

After the wedding, Mimi and I went on a brief honeymoon—enjoying California’s diverse landscape by staying at bed-and-breakfasts on the coast and in the mountains. Upon returning to Golden Gate, I went back to work at the environmental company and prepared for another semester of seminary, while Mimi began working full-time for a greeting card company across the Bay in Richmond.

One January afternoon, a co-worker poked his head into my office and made a chilling announcement: “We’re bombing Baghdad.” This news raced through the building, as everyone tried to absorb the fact that our country was at war. In the coming weeks, traffic around the Bay area was snarled by sporadic gatherings of protestors with “No blood for oil” signs and conversations around the company break room were dominated by the latest word from Iraq. Among my work colleagues, the general attitude toward American justifications for the conflict was questioning, if not outright hostile.

It would not be entirely accurate to say that I witnessed a different reaction to the war among my Christian friends, since there really wasn’t much of a reaction to witness. Around church and the seminary, the war was discussed to a point, but it did not seem to be a central concern. As far as I could tell, everyone more or less accepted that our government was basically trustworthy, and its attack on Baghdad was viewed as a regrettable necessity. At the end of the day, no temporary crisis was going to detract us from the ongoing business of spreading the Gospel to a world that would always be racked by violence in one place or another.

In my journal from those days, the cultural divide I shuttled across daily was plain to see from one entry to the next. On one page, I recorded brief musings on local responses to the Iraq war—which included a protest designed to shut down the Bay Bridge—while the very next page contains notes from one of Pastor John’s sermons that addressed an entirely different war. Drawing on the Old Testament story of David and Goliath while speaking to the church’s leadership team, John compared us to a plucky, outmanned, young David who was battling not Goliath, but the twin giants of spiritual apathy and New Age deception in Marin.

Looking back, I’m not sure how well a military analogy works in reference to an apathetic foe, and, too, we Christians had New Agers outnumbered exponentially if you counted the whole world and not just Marin. So, really, it made more sense to cast us as Goliath when you stopped to think about it. But the bottom line is that this supposed spiritual war got top billing, even as a real, physical war was raging in Iraq. I would like to believe that this disconnect between the Christian circle I inhabited and the world outside it led to a growing dissatisfaction with my own insular thinking. But for the moment, these were still seeds that had yet to sprout.

The Wedding

You would think that getting married in California on December 22 would not be a problem. But as luck would have it, Mimi and I were wed on the coldest day Marin County had seen in 25 years. Though the skies were clear, the temperature hovered well below freezing, leaving patches of ice in the parking lot of Tiburon Baptist Church. Inside, the sanctuary was decorated for Christmas—awash in holly wreaths and brilliant red poinsettias.

And that’s about all I can remember of our wedding day. I know that at some point, Mimi and I exchanged solemn vows at the front of the church, flanked by my brother, Mimi’s sister, and an assortment of seminary friends. But the specifics are pretty hazy. That’s normal for weddings, where nerves and stress combine to render the mind incapable of accurately processing the surreal events that are unfolding. Which is why video cameras were invented, right?

Well, here are a couple of tips for you. Tip #1: When your father offers to record your wedding for posterity, don’t suggest that he just enjoy the wedding and give his camera to your mentally imbalanced friend Bill. Because Bill will use up 90% of the camera’s battery power shooting inane footage in the frozen parking lot.

Tip #2: When your father offers to mail you your wedding tape so you won’t have to deal with it on “your big day,” take it from him immediately. Otherwise, six months later, you will receive a tape labeled “Wedding,” only to find that the 10 minutes the ceremony that got recorded before the batteries failed have been taped over with a college bowl game.

I could add a third tip on things to say to your wife upon realizing that your wedding has been taped over, but you’ve probably already figured out that “Well, that was a good game” is not the smart choice.

The reception is clearer in my mind, mostly because Mimi coaxed three of her bridesmaids into singing Tennessee Christmas after dinner was served. My mother, who had been holding it together admirably to that point, was reduced to a whimpering bucket of tears by the poignant strains of the Amy Grant classic. Her breakdown was so complete that it seems to be the most memorable part of the day for anyone who was involved, to the point that I can never hear Tennessee Christmas without expecting to be asked “Hey, isn’t this the song your mom went ape over?”

“Yes,” I always say. “That’s the one.” And I wonder if getting married during the holidays was such a smart thing.

Marriage, Sexuality & Family

As part of our continuing preparation for marriage, Mimi and I decided to take a seminary class together on Marriage, Sexuality, and Family, thinking it would help solidify our relationship. However, the professor immediately announced that the course would be taught entirely by the students, with each of us selecting a topic of interest, researching it, and presenting our findings to the group.

On the one hand, this meant a class with minimal work. On the other hand, it meant that Mimi and I would be receiving the wisdom of our fellow students on marital issues rather than that of a professor with credentials in theology and psychology. That worried me a bit.

Once things got underway, the first presentation was on “The Six Stages of Childrearing,” with the student in charge presenting several case studies designed to foster group discussion. The first one described a scenario in which a pregnant couple comes to you, their minister, with questions about how love-making will affect the development of their baby. My first panicked thought was, “Do people really go to their pastors with this kind of stuff? It’s not like we’re pediatricians!”

Keeping such thoughts to myself, I tried to keep an open mind during the next presentation on “Choosing the Right Mate,” though I myself had already cleared that hurdle. But the student leading this session appeared to see himself as a friend to the lovelorn, offering advice to singles that included such helpful nuggets as “cultivate a relaxed attitude about dating” and “make yourself attractive to the opposite sex.”

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, the class took a decidedly bizarre turn. One week, a male student named Marvin launched into an in-depth analysis of the pros and cons of circumcision, during which he made a statement which is seared forever into my memory. With the most earnest of expressions, he said, “Another advantage of circumcision is that it prevents the accumulation of smegma—or, as I like to call it, ‘head cheese.’”

As I like to call it? Was this a topic that came up regularly in Marvin’s life? Maybe parishioners did come to pastors with anatomically explicit questions after all. I pictured Marvin in a well-appointed church office seated across from a matronly woman. “I glad you’ve come to me with this question, Mrs. Jones,” he was saying. “Your son’s problem is nothing more than a little old-fashioned smegma. Or, as I like to call it, ‘head cheese.’”

Strange as Myron’s presentation was, we hadn’t reached the bottom of the barrel just yet. Midway through the semester, the class was treated to a graphic discussion of pornography, which came complete with handouts. These free samples prompted questions about the student’s research methods, and I could see that our professor had begun spending class periods adding up the days to his retirement.

Of course, these efforts were all well-intentioned. But I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere in Alabama, a kindly Baptist grandmother in a floral print dress was dropping 50 cents in a worn offering plate—never imagining that her contribution was, in part, subsidizing my growing knowledge of head cheese and adult cartoons.

Volunteer Nation

By the time BayMarin got off the ground (as described in my last post), Mimi and I were officially engaged and actively planning for a December wedding. I tried to prepare her for what lay ahead by taking her to see my beloved alma mater, the University of Tennessee, play a football game in Southern California. UT was slated to face Colorado in the “Kickoff Classic” game that would launch the season, and I saw this is a unique opportunity to indoctrinate Mimi in the ways of the Volunteer faithful.

Thus far, she had proven doggedly resistant to my efforts to interest her in sports, having alternated between knitting and reading a book during an Oakland A's/Baltimore Orioles game I had taken her to a few weeks earlier. Thinking she might have a soft spot for the Orioles after growing up in Maryland, Mimi burst my bubble by stating flatly, “Their games always screwed up parking in my neighborhood.” I found it disturbing that Mimi valued convenient parking above the fortunes of her hometown team, but hoped for better results with football.

Once at the stadium in Anaheim, Mimi marveled at the throng of Tennessee fans who surrounded us, while I spent the first half grousing that “We've only got 10 or 15 thousand people here—you’ll never be able to get the full effect!” Certainly, the crowd was more subdued than the 100,000 die-hards who crowded into home games in Knoxville, but Mimi was still put off by their zeal. When the Vols quickly fell behind by two touchdowns, one man behind us repeatedly instructed Tennessee's coach to “Get your head out of your ass!” before going on to provide such helpful tips as “We're down by 14—ever hear of throwing the damn ball?!”

While impressing me as a voice of reason, this fan’s behavior seemed to diminish Mimi's enjoyment of the game, so I thought it best to keep my own coaching tips to myself. In the end, Tennessee was able to rally and salvage a 31-31 tie, but I could see that my dreams of converting Mimi into a Vol fanatic were hanging by a thread.

Shortly after returning home, we began premarital counseling with a favorite Golden Gate professor who had agreed to perform our wedding ceremony. The first thing he asked us to do was write an essay describing our expectations for marriage. I can no longer recall the content of my essay, but after our experience in Anaheim, I'm sure there were no visions of Saturday afternoons spent together watching UT football and yelling at the TV.

The Daughter Church

Shortly after Mimi and I returned from Tennessee, Pastor John decided to start a second church. Mt. Tam Community Church had grown to a respectable size—by Marin standards—of over 100 souls, but we had been more or less stuck at that number since the Easter marketing blitz of the previous spring. And John was sure that the buzz created by a starting a new “daughter” church would re-energize Mt. Tam and leave us with two thriving congregations instead of a single sort-of-limping-along one. (Of course, someone with a more pessimistic bent might have argued that expending our church’s limited resources on multiple fronts was likely to result in two sort-of-limping along congregations. But, assuming such a pessimistic person existed, he was probably worried about coming across as a no-faith naysayer, so he kept his mouth shut.)

So it was that BayMarin Community Church was born as my 3rd year of seminary got underway. I don’t remember who came up with the church's name, but it was perfectly seeker-sensitive: trendy sounding without a hint of religiosity. After all, words like “Christ” or “Redeemer” tend to remind seekers that they are, in fact, going to church, and nobody wants that. Better to have the realization dawn on them slowly. Very slowly.

The setting for the new church was an auditorium at a Catholic college in San Rafael. The space was dominated by a statue of St. Dominic de Guzman, who was perched front and center above the stage where he could keep an eye on things. Undoubtedly, St. Dominic was worthy of any such honors that could be bestowed upon him, but his presence did detract a bit from the neutral, religion-free zone we were trying to create. So Pastor John asked Mimi to sew a colorful banner whose dimensions were approximately equal to those of a certain 12th century Spanish saint. (Perhaps good Dominic can find it in his heart to forgive her.)

Once the location was set, we got things rolling with the same approach that had proven successful the previous Easter, sending out thousands of colorful invitations to BayMarin’s first service. And with the San Francisco Giants’ chaplain appearing as an extra drawing card, the seeker sensitive formula worked for a second time. Close to 200 people showed up, and even after subtracting for Mt. Tam people who dropped in after their service was over, it was a nice beginning. Best of all, no one seemed wise to the St. Dominic cover-up.

On second thought, the best part was that we pulled the whole thing off without a trailer. The college gave us some on-site storage space, so there was no need for Mike and me to venture further down Highway 101 with the Jed Clampett pickup truck.

Maybe this two church idea was going to work out after all.

Meeting the Folks - Part 2

When summer arrived after my second year at seminary, Mimi and I decided to head South so she could meet my family. I knew they would accept Mimi instantly, partly because she was intelligent, creative, and beautiful, but mostly because they were always thrilled whenever I could even manage to get a date. I also felt confident that Mimi would find the South charming and delightful, perhaps even insisting that we move to Tennessee after seminary and raise our children in “God’s Country.”

Careful readers of this blog will note that we still reside in California, which subsequent events on this trip may or may not explain. Our plan was to drive from the Memphis airport to my hometown, spend a few days with my mother, then drive down to Alabama to visit my father. Mom had moved into town from my rural childhood home a few years earlier, so the first order of business was to show Mimi the house I grew up in. Driving along the familiar country road, I delighted in pointing out places of special interest—like Mutt Williams’ garage, or the oak tree where I used to chew tobacco with my friend Ricky. Lost in this pleasant reverie, I didn’t notice the quizzical expression creeping across Mimi’s face.

“What’s the deal with the appliances?” she finally said, nipping my nostalgia in the bud.

“What appliances?”

“Well, rusted-out cars are bad enough, but why do people have old refrigerators and dishwashers in their yards?”

Though dumbfounded by this question, I tried to keep from adopting a condescending tone. “Well, they don’t work any more,” I pointed out gently.

“I gathered as much from the missing doors,” Mimi returned. “So why not haul them away?”

“Because there’s no sense going to all that trouble when there’s plenty of room in the yard. Besides, you never know when you might need to scavenge a part or two.”

“But what about property values? Don’t the neighbors complain?”

Clearly, Mimi had a lot to learn. Which neighbor was going to raise a fuss—the one with the two Kenmore freezers out front, or the owner of the 1964 Impala with grass growing out of the hood?

Things didn’t improve much during the rest of our tour, as it became apparent that an insurmountable communication barrier existed between Mimi and the citizens of my fair town. After two days of awkward attempts at conversation, Mimi’s frustration boiled over.

“I can only understand 80% of what these people are saying!” she fumed.

I wasn’t sure how she had arrived at that exact figure, but it struck me as a bit on the high side. So I took the opportunity to point out that my own accent—often the object of Mimi’s jests—was really rather mild, comparatively speaking.

“Maybe so,” she said, “but the longer we stay here, the worse your accent is getting.”

And we hadn’t even hit Alabama yet.

Meeting the Folks - Part 1

Against all odds, as my second year at Golden Gate Seminary was winding down, my love life was in full bloom. Mimi and I had begun dating in December, and by late spring we were serious enough to consider meeting each other’s parents. I nervously went first, as Mimi, who is Korean, had warned me that her parents might not be too happy to see her with “a whitey.”

During a visit to the Bay Area, Mr. and Mrs. Kim met us at a Chinese restaurant in downtown Mill Valley, and upon greeting them in the parking lot, I could see that they were disturbed not so much by my race as by my height. At 6’5”, I towered awkwardly above them during the perfunctory handshakes and was forced to duck a bit at the doorway of the restaurant. Several people were gathered in the foyer waiting to be seated, one of whom was a preschool-aged boy whose eyes grew wide at my entrance. Tugging on his mother’s sleeve, he cried, “Mommy, look at that big man!”

“It’s not polite to stare,” she scolded, implying that, as a freak of nature, I was to be regarded as an object of pity. Suddenly, on one of the most important nights of my life, my height—which I had never considered to be more than slightly above normal—had begun frightening small children. Standing next to the rather diminutive Kims, my frame had assumed gigantic proportions, and matters didn’t improve any when a waitress came over to seat us who was barely pushing 5 feet. I began to wonder if we should have met at an NBA basketball game, where I would have stood a chance of blending in.

Still, the dinner was far from a total disaster. Mimi’s father was a Southern Baptist minister, having started a church in Maryland that eventually grew to over 2,000 members before accepting a denominational position in California. This gave us some common ground and ready topics of conversation, enabling me to steer the discussion away from the elephant in the room—my suitability as a prospective son-in-law. Better to survive this first meal before stepping out onto the thin ice, I thought.

But Rev. Kim decided to broach the topic himself just before the check came. Apropos of nothing, he shook his head ruefully and said, “We brought Mimi to America when she was two, and this country is all she has ever known. So why should we be surprised if she ends up with an American?”

Rev. Kim said this with a resigned, noble air, as if he were assuming all the responsibility for his daughter’s impending misfortune. It was far from a ringing endorsement of our relationship, I knew, but it felt like a place to start. Maybe if it came to that, the Kims would manage to accept me into the family—freakish height and all.

Follow Me

As I mentioned in my last post, Jesus’ disciples were a mysterious lot. Some are barely mentioned apart from collective references to “The Twelve.” But we know that each of them was called to follow Jesus, and each one did so. And the Gospel stories suggest that these life-changing decisions were made on the spur of the moment, with two brothers dropping their fishing nets in a flash and a tax gatherer leaving his collection booth with scarcely a look back.

I’ve always found these stories puzzling, especially when I try to picture them in today’s terms. Sometimes I imagine Jesus passing a construction site or wandering through a maze of cubicles in a high-rise office building. “Follow me,” he calls to selected individuals. But I can never envision someone dropping a sledgehammer or pushing aside a keyboard to tag along, leaving behind their careers, car payments, and gym memberships at the drop of a hat (well, maybe the gym memberships, which they probably weren’t using anyway).

Intriguing as Jesus and his invitation might be, wouldn’t the called ones have a few questions about the proposed travel itinerary and the availability of health insurance? I know I would. But maybe these modern-day scenarios do not offer a fair comparison. These are the things I wondered about heading into New Testament Survey at Golden Gate Seminary.

The class was taught by the intimidating Dr. M, who opened each class by reading from the Greek New Testament, translating to English on the fly. During the first half of the semester, Dr. M dealt with the origin of the Gospels, including the famous “Synoptic Problem” surrounding the first 3 Gospels. Matthew, Mark, and Luke follow the same basic structure and, at some points, agree verbatim with one another. So how did this come about? Did God just happen to inspire them to write certain portions of their books identically, or did the authors start with a common source and add their own material?

Such questions introduced an undercurrent of tension to the classroom, as some students felt that we needed to focus on the Gospel texts themselves instead of a bunch of “hypothetical mumbo-jumbo.” I shared these concerns only to the extent that I hoped to get some answers on the disciples. And eventually, I got a few. Toward the end of the semester, Dr. M talked about the common practice in biblical times for a rabbi or sage to travel with a group of hand-picked disciples. He felt that Andrew, Peter, John, and the rest had probably heard of Jesus—perhaps even met him—before being asked to fill culturally recognizable roles.

That made sense, but it also took some of the romance out of the whole thing. So I preferred to believe that 12 crazy gamblers saw at first glance that Jesus might be a man worth following to God-knows-where. Travel itineraries and health insurance be damned.

The Keychain

As a child, I always attended the week-long Vacation Bible School held every summer at First Baptist Church. One year, it was announced that the first child to successfully memorize the names of Jesus' 12 disciples during VBS would receive a special prize. The teacher then held aloft a glimmering silver keychain with 12 charms—each shaped like the profile of a man's face and etched with the name of one of the disciples.

Instantly, I was gripped by a fierce determination that this keychain would be mine at any cost. Glancing about at my competitors, I noticed that most had adopted an indifferent—even blank—expression, but this did not reassure me in the least. Why, any number of these kids could show up the next day, rattle off the names of Peter, John, and whatever the other ten disciples were called, and take home the prize. And I couldn’t let that happen.

So that night, I worked feverishly to memorize the list of disciples, gleefully noting that since 2 of them were called James, I only 11 different names to learn. I kept rehearsing the list in my head the next morning as a new session of VBS got underway, while my colleagues pretended to busy themselves with chit-chat and bubble gum. Then, to my dismay, the teacher launched right into the day's activities with no mention of the contest. Singing time gave way to Bible story time, which was followed by craft time—and still no word of the keychain. By snack time, my nerves were shot, and I tentatively raised a hand.

“Yes, Steve, do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“No, ma'am. I want to say the names.”

“Names?”

“Of the disciples. I'm ready to say them.”

“Honey, you've got all week to learn those names. I didn't mean for you to do it all in one night!”

“But I’m ready now. Can I say them?”

“Well, alright.”

I went home with the glittering keychain that day, my joy undiminished by the fact that, as an 8 year-old, I had no real keys to speak of. And I developed a life-long fascination with the 12 men whose names had won me a moment in the sun. Who were they, really? Why were they chosen? With one or two exceptions, the Bible’s descriptions of these men’s lives and motivations were as lacking in detail as the silvery profiles hanging from my keychain.

So it was that I entered my New Testament Survey class at Golden Gate seminary haunted by a dozen men on a silver keychain, just as Elisha and the Bears had stalked my entry into Old Testament class a year earlier. Would I get some answers this time around?

The Trailer

My last post described how my friend Mike and I became roadies for all the equipment required by our church’s new seeker sensitive format. The only feeble resistance we offered to these new roles was to note that neither of us had a vehicle capable of pulling a trailer loaded with approximately 7,500 pounds of Christian gear.

“I’ve already taken care of that,” Pastor John assured us. “Phil is going to loan you his truck on Sundays.” This was definitely a case of a situation going from bad to worse. Phil was a fellow seminary student and a great guy, but the last time I had seen a truck like his, it was up on blocks in front of a double-wide trailer. The ancient GMC appeared to have been red at one time, though it was difficult to say for sure. Lumbering along on bald tires, it rattled, coughed, and belched thick smoke from every orifice. The thought of tooling around swank Marin in such a monstrosity was galling, though I was comforted by the fact that it only started about half the time.

For the next several months, a grim pattern unfolded for Mike and me on Sundays. Rising early, we would hoof it over to Phil’s place to get his truck. After starting the beast and letting it warm up for several minutes, we then chugged to a seldom-used parking lot on campus where the trailer was stored. Reluctant to shut the truck off lest it never reawaken, we were forced to grapple with the trailer hook-up while breathing clouds of noxious exhaust fumes.

Once at the elementary school, Mike and I were met by the remaining members of the “Set-up Team” and spent the next 90 minutes unloading and setting up equipment in the worship area and children’s classes. Bathed in sweat, we quickly pulled on fresh T-shirts before the service began and found seats near the back. There we scanned the crowd for new faces to convince ourselves that our efforts were bearing fruit, then settled in for John’s sermon (which always had a catchy title like Take This Job and Love It).

But just when we were starting to relax, it all ended. Parents collected their children from the classrooms, people began to drift off to the parking lot, and an empty trailer waited outside—its hellish craw hungry to be refilled. And once the repacking was finished, the worst was still to come.

As luck would have it, between the elementary school in Corte Madera and the seminary in Mill Valley lay a long, steep hill that taxed Phil’s ancient truck to its uttermost limits. Of course, the wreck topped out at 50 mph under the best of conditions. Faced with pulling a heavily-loaded trailer up this incline, it spewed forth extra quantities of smoke and refused to reach double digits on the speedometer.

Depending on how spiritual we were feeling during the tortuous assent, Mike and I would either pray fervently or mutter expletives that called the truck’s parental origins into question. Sometimes both. At all times, angry Marinites would fly past in their sparkling BMW’s, fixing us with glares that clearly said, “Go back to West Virgina, assholes!”

The Grand Opening

Easter Sunday always carries overtones of new hope and fresh starts, and that was surely true the Easter that newly christened Mt. Tam Community Church reinvented itself as a seeker sensitive church. Our little band of about 40 souls had prepared meticulously for the big day, sending out thousands of fliers and turning the high school cafeteria where our church met into as welcoming a space as possible.

On the big day, I was asked to greet people in the parking lot and direct them to open parking places. Frankly, I feared that the lot would remain so barren that my presence would become laughable, but minutes before the service started, dozens of cars began rolling into view. Soon, I was kept hopping with traffic to direct and hands to shake. After this initial rush died down, I slipped into the cafeteria, where I witnessed a crowd 150 strong singing and clapping along with the upbeat worship music.

This gathering felt like a mob in comparison to our usual Sunday attendance, so we all had to admit that Pastor John’s methods had worked as advertised. And though the church didn’t draw 150 people every week, our regular attendance doubled in the wake of the Easter grand opening. Everyone was encouraged by our success and glad to have the “big push” behind us.

Everyone but John, that is. Seemingly unimpressed by the boost in attendance, he was soon laying plans for further growth. Step one was searching for a meeting place that was able to accommodate larger crowds, and before long, John had leased a spacious multipurpose room from an elementary school in Corte Madera. Unfortunately, the school could not provide us with any storage space, so John purchased a large trailer that could hold all the church’s sound equipment, Sunday School supplies, and other materials.

“Loading and unloading that trailer every week will be a lot of work,” I thought, considering the chain of labor from a detached, abstract perspective. “Good thing I’ve got the parking lot gig lined up.”

But shortly thereafter, John began pulling my friend Mike and me aside to make references to our “faithfulness” and “spiritual maturity.” This was an obvious prelude to being asked to perform some distasteful chore, but Mike and I failed to realize this and were soon designated the official “Ministry Team Leaders” of the “Set-up and Take-down Team.”

Despite the evident honor conferred by such responsibilities, I failed to see why these two functions were deemed inseparable. Why not let us take charge of the “Set-up Team” then go grab a donut while the poor slobs on the “Take-down Team” did the rest of the dirty work?

Looking back, I can only guess that the other poor slobs were wise to the “spiritual maturity” bit.

Speaking in Tongues

Though not as disastrous as the nursing home experience described in my last post, the other leadership roles I assumed as part of the Supervised Ministry class I was taking at seminary were hardly an unqualified success. For instance, despite my earlier reservations, I began leading one of our church’s family groups. And trouble was not long in brewing.

Shortly after I became the leader, our small group ended a meeting in prayer, as was the custom. Different individuals would voice out a prayer as they felt inclined, then I would wrap things up. Normally, the closing prayer time was uneventful, but on this particular night, a member of the group named Ben decided to begin “praying in tongues.”

This odd phrase refers to speaking or praying in an unknown, ecstatic language, a New Testament practice that is common among Pentecostal and “charismatic” Christians but decidedly frowned upon in Southern Baptist circles. Baptists tend to believe that tongues were okay for the early church but—to spare the theological niceties—are a bit kooky for today’s world. But our congregation had started attracting folks from across the spiritual spectrum, and Ben wasn’t one to be fettered by an inconsistent approach to biblical literalism.

However, Jeffrey—another member of our little group—was one of those Christians who felt that tongues were best left in the pages of the Bible, and he became deeply offended at Ben’s unexpected outburst. I saw them in animated conversation after the meeting was over and could easily guess the subject of the debate. Being a decisive leader, I quickly determined that Ben and Jeffrey would be best served by having the freedom to work through their differences themselves, so I made a beeline for the other side of the room.

Unfortunately, Jeffrey was not content to leave me out of it, and he called me later in the week to request that I serve as a mediator of sorts between Ben and himself. The next day, the three of us gathered at a coffee shop, and I tried to find some theological middle ground. On the one hand, I pointed out that, according to the Bible, there was a clear precedent for Christians to speak in tongues, so Jeffrey may have overreacted to Ben’s prayers. But, on the other hand, I noted that each individual believer has the responsibility for thinking about how his or her actions affected others, so Ben might want to put a sock in it during group time. To my relief, this solution was agreeable to both parties.

But more trouble was coming.

The Nursing Home

I threw myself into the fevered efforts to convert Mt. Tam into a seeker sensitive church by Easter, partly because the Supervised Ministry class I was taking at seminary required me to invest 10 hours per week in local church ministry. Unfortunately, Supervised Ministry also required each student to lead a worship service during the semester, and it didn’t seem likely that Pastor John’s plans for a snappy, high-quality Sunday morning service would include any kind of visible role for me.

To get around this roadblock, I signed up to lead a worship service at a local nursing home. Area churches shared this responsibility on a rotating basis, and I convinced my friend Mike that by taking a turn, we could lead worship without making fools of ourselves at a real church. This notion would prove to be horrifyingly mistaken.

During our first visit to the home, Mike and I helped the staff recruit worship participants, some of whom appeared reluctant to leave the big-screen TV set in the rec room. Once we had gathered a dozen grumbling congregants, a staff member named Ed informed us that the old folks enjoyed singing and suggested that we start by leading a few hymns.

“Oh, too bad we don’t have a piano player or singer with us,” I said with a tense smile.

“That’s okay!” Ed fairly shouted. “Just start one acapella and they’ll all join in!”

Making a mental note to strangle this man after the service, I hesitantly rasped out the first few lines of The Old Rugged Cross. But it quickly became obvious that, despite Ed’s assurances, none of the old-timers had the slightest intention of singing along, preferring to stare at me blankly or talk among themselves. To make matters worse, Mike—who had not grown up in a Baptist church—didn’t know enough of the words to be of any real help. So I was essentially left to sing a solo as Ed merrily hummed along.

After finishing my caterwauling, I slumped into an empty seat to let Mike deliver the sermon. But before my jangled nerves could begin to unwind, the wheelchair-bound woman to my right reached over and began to vigorously rub my thigh with gnarled fingers. Horrified, I grabbed the offending hand and tried to exert some control over its movements while giving the appearance of making a comforting gesture. When this failed to work, Ed redeemed himself by wheeling my lecherous companion away, as I was left to ponder why such things never happened when I was seated next to a 20 year-old.

Meanwhile, Mike was having troubles of his own. After he made an innocuous statement about the importance of faith in our daily lives, a scowling woman in a faded blue housecoat cupped her hand to her mouth and cried, “That’s mental!” After she barked out a few similar comments, a startled Mike brought his remarks to a hasty conclusion. Once we had said our goodbyes and walked out to his car, he fumed, “I can’t believe that old lady heckled me! Next time, you’re preaching.”

“Better heckled than groped,” I sighed. Leadership, we were learning, was no picnic.

Changes Afoot

Mt. Tam Christian Community had barely imported its new pastor from Southern California when he determined that a number of changes need to be made to make the church fully seeker sensitive. At a hastily-convened leadership meeting, Pastor John started off by taking direct aim at the small group discussions that took place before the Sunday morning sermon (you may recall these discussions as a series of probing questions about one’s spiritual life).

“That’s crazy,” John said. “Put yourself in the place of a visitor who doesn’t know anyone. How would you like being forced to sit in a circle with a bunch of strangers and answer personal questions?”

At that moment, it was all I could do to restrain myself from leaping up and throwing my arms around our new pastor. If John accomplished nothing else but getting rid of those infernal discussion groups, his ministry would not have been in vain. But he didn’t stop there.

“And what about the name of the church?” he asked. This was already a sore spot around Mt. Tam, which had endured some criticism from seminary leaders for not having the word “Baptist” in its name. But that missing denominational tag was not the source of John’s complaint.

“What does an unchurched person think when they hear Mt. Tam Christian Community?” he asked. “It sounds like some hippie commune.”

And so it went. Every detail of our worship service was analyzed from the standpoint of the unchurched person and altered with his or her needs in mind. John’s goal was to “restart” the church with a whole new image, employing his proven arsenal of Southern California methods in the Bay Area. The plan was to put the church through a full seeker sensitive makeover, mail out thousands of carefully designed invitations to unsuspecting Marinites, and go public on Easter Sunday as Mt. Tam Community Church.

Could it work? No one except John was quite sure, but we were all thrilled at the thought that unchurched masses might soon be descending on our humble congregation. Wouldn’t that be something?

Seeker Sensitive

After surviving the loss of its founding pastor, Mt. Tam Christian Community eventually found a capable new leader. We hired John, who had been a successful church planter in Southern California, as well as a pioneer in the “seeker sensitive” church movement. Also dubbed “user-friendly,” these churches were carefully designed to attract visitors and put them at ease, particularly those who didn’t normally attend church (i.e., seekers).

And John hailed from the place where it all began. In 1955, the Rev. Robert Schuller launched Garden Grove Community Church in a most unusual venue—a rented drive-in theater. Schuller’s goal was to present his Southern California neighbors with a positive, entertaining version of Christianity in a non-threatening setting. And it went over like gangbusters. In 1980, the church became known as The Crystal Cathedral after erecting a massive glass sanctuary that held over 3,000 worshippers. Along the way, Schuller’s congregation became known as the first seeker sensitive church in America.

But others would soon follow. Scores of pastors resonated with the theory that most “unchurched” people stay home on Sunday mornings because worship services appear unintelligible and irrelevant to them. They go to church with a friend, let’s say, and have a hard time singing along with unfamiliar hymns that feature unusual (if not downright gory) titles like O Sacred Head, Now Wounded and There is a Fountain Filled With Blood. They can’t figure out when to stand up, sit down, or kneel; then they have to listen to an overweight minister with a bad haircut preach about some ethereal topic like “pre-millennial eschatology” for 45 minutes. Is it any wonder, the theory goes, that people don’t like going to church?

To combat these formidable barriers to church attendance, seeker sensitive congregations make the worship experience as accessible, entertaining, and anonymous as possible. For starters, visitors are never asked to introduce themselves and are sometimes even discouraged from contributing money during the offering. The church choir is replaced by a worship band—complete with drums, guitar, and synthesizer—and hymns are jettisoned in favor of upbeat, catchy worship songs. Sermons are brief, chatty, focused on a real-life issue like marriage or financial management, and augmented by dramatic sketches or video clips from recent movies. In short, everything aspect of the worship service is painstakingly designed to communicate, “You are welcome here, and there is absolutely no chance whatsoever that anything weird is going to happen.”

Mt. Tam Christian Community had a bit of a head start on the whole seeker sensitive phenomenon, as we already featured casual dress and a worship band. Still, readers of this blog will be aware that weird things did happen from time to time.

But with John on board, that was about to change.

The Fall of the Evangelical Nation

Once again, I want to momentarily step away from the frivolity of my seminary years and fast-forward a bit. During the 8 years that I served as a pastor in Marin and Sonoma counties, I worked alongside a total of 7 other church staff members. Of the 8 of us, only 1 is still working for a church, and at least 4 of the 8 are not even attending an evangelical congregation.

At times, I have wondered if my choices and those of my colleagues represent an aberration (this is California, after all). But after reading The Fall of the Evangelical Nation by Christine Wicker, I know better. This book is thick with statistics and sociological analysis, yet I found it to be an absolute page-turner—perhaps because the hard numbers are interspersed with compelling stories of individuals who are rethinking their faith in ways that sound awfully familiar.

In a nutshell, Wicker lays out a well-researched tale of “halves.” She notes that fully 80% of Americans identify themselves as Christians, but only half (40%) say they went to church in the last week, and only half of those (20%) were actually there. Moreover, less than half of the true church attenders (7%) hew closely to traditional evangelical beliefs like viewing Jesus as the only way to heaven and accepting the Bible as the inerrant word of God. On top of all that, approximately 1,000 evangelicals leave established churches each day, and many of them are deeply committed believers who have become disillusioned with the state of conservative Christianity. Some seek out new forms of faith like the “emerging church;” others don’t bother.

As I read this book and the personal narratives it relates, my mind flashed back to a summer mission trip I took in college. Students from various Campus Crusade for Christ ministries across the nation spent the summer sharing our faith at a beach town on the east coast, and one night we received a sober warning from one of the CCC staff members. He told us that, if past patterns held, 75% of us would not be “walking with the Lord” in 10 years time. This was a shocking number, and I got the message loud and clear: if we “fell away,” it would be because we neglected our faith—not because something was wrong with the beliefs we all held.

Wicker’s book provides ample statistics to back up the attrition rate I was quoted, but it does something more. It explains that many people do not leave evangelicalism because of moral failings or a lack of commitment, but because they have grown weary of believing that their particular version of Christianity has cornered the market on truth, and that its corresponding right-wing politics has cornered the market on values.

Perhaps my old Campus Crusade leaders would number me among the dreaded 75%, but The Fall of the Evangelical Nation tells me I’m in good company. For that and other reasons, I recommend it highly.

Picking Up a Vibe - Part 2

Two weeks after rebuffing my romantic overtures during a trip to Costco, Mimi unexpectedly invited me to lunch. But I found this surprising turn of events only mildly exciting, since Mimi made it clear that we were just two friends getting a bite to eat. Mike, on the other hand, was elated—interpreting the lunch as proof that his vibe detections were to be gloriously vindicated after all.

But, having been burned once, I refused to get my hopes up. And the lunch itself did little to change my mind. At several points during our meal at a Chinese buffet, Mimi reminded me that this wasn’t a “real date” and strenuously insisted that we split the tab 50-50.

I offered no resistance to this plan, and when the bill came, I began mentally calculating my contribution while Mimi dug through her purse. But after a moment, she set the purse aside and burst into spasms of laughter. It was some time before she was composed enough to tell me what was so funny.

“I don’t even have my wallet,” she finally said, before dissolving into further mirth.

I think that was the moment when I knew that we would be together in the end. Part of me must have sensed that my only hope for romantic success was to find someone who could laugh off embarrassing situations, as life with me was sure to produce a wealth of them. So I decided to press my luck and invite Mimi to my office Christmas party—carefully emphasizing that it wouldn’t be a “real date” or anything.

Under those conditions, Mimi agreed to go. And though I feared that she would be bored among the scientists and engineers I worked with, or turned off by my poor singing during a “Twelve Days of Christmas” spoof I was forced to participate in, Mimi seemed to have a good time. And as we left the party, she casually slipped her hand into mine.

Mike, I knew, would be pleased to hear this.

Picking Up a Vibe - Part 1

As the midpoint of my seminary career neared, my roommate Mike decided to take an active interest in my love life—in part, to preserve his own sanity. Mike had begun seeing a young lady from church who drove a red muscle car, and she often dropped him off at the dorm after yet another of their dates. As the throaty rumble of her dual exhausts died away, Mike would bounce into the room to find me clipping my toenails and sighing loudly.

“Have a nice time?” I would ask, managing a weak smile in spite of my apparent loneliness.

After a few months of this sad spectacle, Mike took matters into his own hands. We sometimes hung out at the apartment his girlfriend shared with two seminary students, and I had become friendly with one of the roommates named Mimi. She had grown up in Maryland and once impressed me by singing a few bars of “Hail to the Redskins” as we all watched an NFC playoff game. Sensing an opening, Mike began encouraging me to ask Mimi out, thereby relieving himself of the necessity of living with a depressed and embittered soul. But I was having none of it.

“Mimi would never go out with me,” I insisted. “She went to Johns Hopkins and makes fun of me for graduating from a ‘football factory.’”

“That’s what women do when they like a guy,” Mike responded with an air of confidence. “Listen, I’m picking up a vibe when she’s around you, so this is in the bag.”

To that point, I had not been aware that “vibes” played a significant role in male-female relationships, or that Mike possessed any special ability to detect them. But he seemed to know what he was talking about—and he was dating a girl with a red muscle car. So I decided to follow his advice.

Shortly thereafter, I maneuvered myself into an opportunity to accompany Mimi on a Costco run. And though she didn’t seem particularly friendly as we shopped, I chalked this up to my previously established ignorance of vibes. And on the way home, I asked her out.

Twenty minutes later, I slumped into the dorm room that Mike and I shared, carrying more peanut butter than we could consume in 6 years. Seeing the look of dejection on my face, Mike’s eyes grew wide with disbelief.

“She said no?!” he cried, before peppering me with questions about the trip, all of which were designed to infer that I must have taken some wildly wrong-headed approach and ruined a sure thing. But I had an alternative explanation.

“So much for your vibes,” I spat. “And I hope you like peanut butter.”

The Deer Porn Incident

Just when Mt. Tam Christian Community was starting to gain some traction in Marin County, disaster struck. Pastor Bart announced that he was leaving to become a military chaplain, news that saddened our fledgling band of believers. Since we didn’t have any committees (or much organization of any kind), a team of leaders was hastily assembled to figure out what to do next.

Curiously, I was not invited to join this august body. Unaware of this oversight, the new leaders took steps to hire an interim pastor who could keep the church going until Bart’s replacement was identified. They quickly settled on my old evangelism professor Dr. B, a dignified man who brought an air of credibility to our congregation that was probably not altogether warranted.

Take, for example, the event at which Dr. B was presented to our church family. Three young women who attended Mt. Tam and shared an apartment in a wooded section of Marin hosted a party for the new interim pastor. Two dozen people packed into the cramped apartment, prompting Mike and Jim—two members of our leadership team—to invite Dr. B out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air. Dr. B and Mike had become lost in conversation when Jim spotted two deer—a male and a female—ambling out of the trees.

What happened next was one of those moments that seem too perfect to be entirely coincidental. Jim pointed and said, “Hey, Dr. B, look at those deer!” And the buck chose that exact instant to begin, er, mating with his companion. By the time Dr. B turned around, he was greeted with a sight that was very different from the one Jim had originally intended to show him.

To his credit, Dr. B followed through on his commitment to serve as our interim pastor, and he never even treated Jim like some kind of pervert afterward. But Mike and I weren’t so nice. For months, we asked poor Jim if he was still into “deer porn.”

The Answer Key

I always loved math classes in college, because after finishing a problem, you could immediately flip to the back of the textbook to see if your answer was correct. And let me tell you, there are few things in life more satisfying than working on some mind-numbing calculus problem for 10 minutes, ending up with x²(3tan(x)) at the bottom of the page, and finding that exact answer in the back of the textbook.

By my second year at Golden Gate, I found myself looking for the same kind of “answer key” for my seminary classes. It had all started with church history class, I suppose, where I learned about the origins of the hundreds of Christian denominations and sects that make up our current religious landscape. Each of them was basing its beliefs on the Bible but coming to different conclusions—even about core doctrines like salvation, baptism, and the Holy Spirit. So how could you reliably choose among them?

That’s where the answer key came in. I began craving a foolproof system for correctly interpreting the Bible, and I fully expected my hopes to be realized in Systematic Theology class (seeing as how it had “system” right there in the title). Here I would surely find a comprehensive theological framework capable of settling any nettlesome questions about a particular doctrine or practice.

That’s a tall order, of course, but Dr. S, the theology professor, seemed just the man to fill it. Though youthful, Dr. S was armed with an Ivy League education, and he immediately assigned us lengthy readings in an 1100-page textbook with stark chapter titles like Creation, The Church, and The Trinity. This sure looked like the kind of book that contained a lot of right answers, and I was eager to dig in.

Unfortunately, it soon became obvious that Dr. S was more interested in asking questions than answering them. He was big on something called “theological reflection,” which—as near as I could tell—was a fancy name for “figure it out for yourself.” And while a little personal responsibility is probably healthy, it did seem to me like Mr. Ivy League could have coughed up a few answers now and then. Was that too much to ask?

But this reflection stuff even extended to Dr. S’s tests. Oh sure, he usually started things off with a matching section where you would be required to connect Arminius with New School Theory or some such thing. But that was just to soften you up for the essay portion of the test, where Dr. S forced you to “reflect theologically” on some real-world situation. Once, he asked us to formulate a response to our hypothetical 16 year-old daughter who felt that God was calling her to preach. I knew the “right answer” from a Southern Baptist perspective, but I also knew that Dr. S was more interested in my thought process than the rightness of my answer.

And that’s just the kind of thing that never happened in calculus class.

Speaking for God - Part 2

As the fall semester of my second year at Golden Gate unfolded, I waited anxiously for my turn to preach in our Introduction to Preaching class. After Old Yeller’s performance, things settled down somewhat, although the most mild-mannered student in the group did trot out a rather colorful sermon on hell. Apart from that, it was mostly recycled Christmas sermons.

But what should I preach on? That question haunted me as the weeks dragged by. Finally, I decided that the best approach was to tackle a spiritual issue I myself needed to work on, so that the message would benefit me, if no one else. Of course, this didn’t narrow the list of possible topics much, but I ultimately settled on a passage from the book of James that emphasized the importance of controlling one’s tongue. This may come as a shock, but I have been known to speak with a hint of sarcasm and negativity, so I felt motivated to dig into some biblical advice on the subject.

While reading James during my sermon preparation, I noted that he compared the tongue to a rudder that directs the whole course of one’s life, and to a tiny fire that eventually destroys a great forest. These were not reassuring analogies—especially the forest fire part—but they were all too easily understood. So I didn’t have much trouble whipping up a message on Speaking With Grace (subtitle: How to Keep Your Rudder Pointed Away From the Reefs and Put Out the Little Fire Before It Torches All Your Trees). In fact, my main concern in the days leading up to the sermon’s delivery was that I had over-prepared and would exceed my 15 minute time allotment.

I’m not sure what happened when I actually stepped behind the pulpit. The ensuing 7 minutes exists only as a hazy blur in my mind. I vaguely recall looking out over the bored faces of my classmates, but the next thing I remember is being back in my seat looking at my watch in amazement that so little time had elapsed. A friend later revealed that once I got started, the words poured out in a fast, monotone stream that was broken only by my occasional need to breathe.

Once our professor was able to convince himself that I really was done, and he started the post-sermon feedback session by observing, “Well, you’re quite tall. That height gives you a nice presence behind the pulpit.” Next, a student piped up and said, “Yes, and you never said ‘um’ or groped for words.”

The comments usually started off on this kind of positive note, but those two chestnuts seemed to exhaust the praiseworthy aspects of my performance. At the end of the day, the class was unanimous in its opinion that a happy medium existed between the passion of “The Yeller” and my own catatonic delivery. Clearly, there was some work to be done.

Speaking for God - Part 1

By now, you’ve gathered that my first year at seminary was rather eventful. But as my second year got underway, things seemed to be falling into place for me. After two rough work experiences, I had landed the perfect job. After rooming with Rambo wannabe Ernie, I had moved in with my good friend Mike. And I had found a good church home. These small victories gave me the confidence to do something that scared me to death.

I signed up for Preaching 101.

Of course, I dreaded public speaking of any kind, but the idea of trying to speak for God left me with a particularly queasy feeling. And to pass the preaching course, you had to deliver two practice sermons in front of the class, who then provided you with immediate feedback on your efforts. I found this requirement intimidating, even if the audience was just a bunch of seminarians who already knew that I was a little shaky in the piety department.

Fortunately, the seminary provided us with several weeks of classroom instruction before we entered the pulpit, during which time we heard lectures on preaching principles and analyzed taped sermons of well-known preachers like Billy Graham and Martin Luther King, Jr. This latter activity did little to boost my fragile confidence, as it seemed to set the bar rather high. But I tried to digest whatever helpful tips I could while there was still time.

Once the actual preaching got underway, the first guinea pig was Charlie, a stocky student in his mid-thirties who was already pastoring a church. From the get-go, it was obvious that Charlie was a “yeller.” This breed of Baptist preachers is commonly found in the South, where they like to pound the pulpit with their fists, point their fingers, and shout themselves hoarse over the course of a one-hour sermon. Usually, though, the yelling is interspersed with brief periods of quiet—almost whispered—tones, so as to give the shouting phases greater impact. But Charlie was a different sort of yeller, as he kept the volume at full blast the whole time.

During the feedback time, Charlie was first asked if this performance was representative of his usual style—perhaps in the hope that we had just heard some sort of experimental sermon designed to “push the emotional envelope.” But a perspiring Charlie simply said, “Pretty much.” Then a second student cut straight to the heart of the matter.

“I feel violated,” he said flatly. “When you yell, you make people feel attacked. Is that what you want?”

Here, Charlie just shrugged his shoulders. One got the impression that he wasn’t inclined to heed the criticism of a bunch of pansies who had never even pastored a church.

Me? I said nothing. My turn was yet to come, and there was no sense making any enemies.

10 Things Your Pastor Wants to Tell You

Well, friends, we made it through my first year of seminary. There’s plenty more fun ahead, but I want to pause for a moment and mention a book I just finished. Apparently, I’m not the only heretic Baptist around, because Baptist minister Oliver “Buzz” Thomas has written 10 Things Your Minister Wants to Tell You (But Can’t Because He Needs the Job). This book raises some of the same issues I’ve explored on this blog, so I found myself nodding in agreement a lot. Still, I do wonder about the title. If you’re an evangelical, does your minister really want to join Buzz in affirming that the Bible is fallible, or that many Christians have missed the boat on women's issues and homosexuality? Probably not. So, based on my clergy years, I made my own list of things your pastor wants to say. Here’s the top 10:

1. My goal in life is to figure out which one of you keeps writing anonymous sermon critiques on the Welcome Cards.


2. That’s real interesting about your “gifting.” But I still need someone to help in the dang nursery.


3. No, frankly, I don’t have time to hear your groundbreaking theory on the Pauline authorship of Hebrews.


4. I tell you what, let’s put your salary on a budget sheet, pass it around, and discuss it down to the nickel for two hours.


5. You can give me all 29 Tim LaHaye books, but I’m still not doing a series on “The End Times.”


6. Listen, I had 3 units of pastoral counseling in seminary, most of which I slept through. So let’s not count on saving your 4th marriage here.


7. Yes, I’m aware that my predecessor had “a real pastor’s heart,” but that in no way obligates me to visit your ornery Uncle Dwight in the rest home.


8. I understand that changing the order of the worship service for the first time since 1952 was upsetting to you, but Jesus doesn’t care.


9. Why can’t somebody else “ask the Lord’s blessing” on a church function once in a while? It’s not that hard, folks.


10. You don’t have to apologize for cursing around me; sometimes “sorry sack of #$%&” is the only way to say it.

Any pastors (or former pastors) out there are free to offer your own suggestions!

I Got Something You Need

Marin County is one of the most prosperous and beautiful parts of the U.S., if not the world. Most folks have plenty of disposal income and easy access to beaches, hiking trails, and redwood forests, so attending church on Sunday mornings is not a high priority. As a result, area churches like to steal a line from an old Van Halen song:

You may have all you want, baby,
But I got something you need.

According to the song title, David Lee Roth “Ain’t Talkin’ ‘Bout Love,” and (I feel safe in saying) he ain’t talking about a personal relationship with Jesus Christ either. But at Mt. Tam Christian Community, we were.

The church was small and composed largely of seminary students, but there was a deep hunger to reach locals—convincing them that even with their BMWs and bay-front homes, we had something they needed. So it was big news when an actual Marin native wandered into the Mt. Tam’s cafeteria-turned-sanctuary on a Sunday morning. And shortly after I joined the church, an event of this nature occurred that sent electric waves of excitement through the congregation.

In keeping with our pastor’s directive to get out there and rub shoulders with non-believers, a seminarian named Mary signed up for a guitar class at the community college, where she met Alan. Alan had grown up in Marin and recently moved back home after finishing college. And like most Marinites, he possessed only the foggiest idea of what evangelical Christianity was all about. In short, Alan was the poster child for Mt. Tam’s outreach efforts, a perfect specimen of the type of godless individual we hoped to reach for Christ. So the faithful rejoiced when he accepted Mary’s invitation to church.

I was happy, too, but also a wee bit skeptical. Mary was quick to attribute Alan’s interest in Christianity to the inexorable work of God’s Spirit in the human soul, but I had a hunch that less mysterious forces were involved. The fact that Mary was a cute, guitar-playing blonde, I felt, may have played a significant role in Alan’s openness to church. Indeed, Mary could probably have lured young Alan to a basket-weaving convention—and needed no divine intervention to do it. So I figured that after 1 or 2 token visits, we would never see him again.

But I was wrong. Though it took several months and a boatload of prayers, Alan eventually became one of us. A bona fide believer. At his baptism, the excitement was palpable as Alan slipped beneath the waters of a backyard swimming pool. We were happy for him, of course, but we were probably a little happy for ourselves, too. Because if one smart, unbelieving Marinite had joined us, then others might follow.

Maybe, like Diamond Dave, we had something they needed after all.