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.

Cheech & Chong - Part 2

After several months of working as Cheech and Chong’s lackey on a construction project, I was wondering how much more I could take. Then fate stepped in. The contractor informed my friend Mike and me that work was drying up, and he could only afford to keep one of us on board. Turning to me, he said, “Today’s your last day, Steve.”

Ever loyal, Mike said afterward, “That wasn’t cool. Maybe I should leave, too.”

“No, don’t do that,” I said, just to be nice at first, then with real conviction. Within seconds, the realization had taken hold that Cheech and Chong would never again require me to bear back-breaking loads or dig a trench in a filthy crawl space. Their drug-addled minds were finished conjuring up humiliating situations to place me in for their amusement. I was free.

“You stay on if you want, Mike,” I continued with a dreamy look. “I know exactly what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna get me an office job.”

And I set out to do just that. Surely an undergrad engineering degree earned me the right to do more than make sandwiches and haul lumber. So I began scouring the want ads for a part-time job with a high-tech company. Within two weeks, I had managed to land an interview with a small environmental firm in San Rafael. Upon arriving there, I found a beautiful redwood office building nestled at the foot of a tree-studded hillside. Inside, bright offices were filled with respectable-looking scientists working away in front of glowing computer terminals. What they were doing, exactly, was unclear, but none of them was serving as a human pack animal. That much was certain.

During my interview with a woman named Rhonda, I fought to keep my Southern accent at bay and sprinkled in a few ill-defined references to the “viscous flow theory” and “orbital mechanics” I had studied in college. Unfortunately, this worked too well. Rhonda finally shook her head and said, “You’re really overqualified for the position. It’s mostly copying and filing technical reports, and I think you’ll be bored stiff within two days.”

This couldn’t be happening. Given my recent employment history, thoughts of being overqualified for a position had never occurred to me. Fighting panic, I decided that complete candor was my only shot.

“Ma’am,” I began, ratcheting the accent up a notch, “I have spent the last several months hauling debris up and down a stone staircase in the heat of the day while being taunted by two middle-aged hippies. I am eager to be bored.”

It was a joke that changed my life. I got the job, and by the time I graduated from Golden Gate, I was worked my way up to a full-time engineering position—an unexpected career that I eventually returned to after 8 years as a pastor. And to think that none of it would have happened if it weren’t for Cheech and Chong.

Thanks, guys.

Cheech & Chong - Part 1

After briefly working in a local deli, my friend Mike and I found what seemed like the perfect way to put ourselves through seminary. We met a contractor at church who needed some help, and he hired us for double what we had been paid to make sandwiches. More money, a Christian boss, and the chance to learn some new skills—what could be better?

Unfortunately, our enthusiasm was quickly dampened by a hard dose of reality. Our contractor friend was renovating a house on a steep hillside that was inaccessible to trucks. Getting building materials to the work sites was difficult, and Mike and I were envisioned as the “human mule” solution. Our jobs consisted almost entirely of carrying lumber up the hill, then carrying down buckets of debris from demolition work.

To make matters worse, our only coworkers were a pair of ex-hippies who worked slowly and enjoyed smoking marijuana on their frequent rest breaks. Each day, “Cheech and Chong” (as we dubbed them) delighted in assigning us all gruesome tasks they had been carefully avoiding.

“Hmm . . . let’s have Mike and Steve break up that back patio with a jackhammer, then carry the broken concrete down a steep incline to the dumpster, shall we?”

Mike and I didn’t trouble ourselves too much over Cheech and Chong’s salvation, as it was pretty obvious that they were going straight to hell no matter what we did. Case in point: one day Mike and I noticed that the dumpster we were (as usual) filling with dirt and concrete was labeled “Organic Waste Only.” Mike suggested to Cheech and Chong that this container was meant for branches and leaves, not heavy materials.

“Nonsense,” Cheech murmured dismissively, “they couldn’t care less what you throw in there.”

But when it came time for the disposal company to pick up the dumpster, Cheech and Chong jumped into their pickup, shouted, “I’d throw a little brush on top of all that dirt if I were you,” and drove off laughing.

We took their advice, but our frantic attempt at concealment didn’t help any. When the flatbed truck from the disposal company arrived and began winching the dumpster up onto its bed, the massive weight caused the vehicle’s front wheels to pop up into the air alarmingly. Its red-faced driver leaned out the window and screamed, “What did you assholes put in that thing?!”

For the next 20 minutes, we took cold comfort in Cheech and Chong’s increasingly grim eternal fate, as the driver struggled to load the dumpster and continued to fill the air with curses. “Don’t bother calling us for another one,” was the nicest thing he shouted, as the truck inched away with its sagging load.