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 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.

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.

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!

San Quentin Blues - Part 2

On the day that Leon was to be released from San Quentin, Mike and I drove his faded green Beetle to the prison’s front gate. Leon soon appeared with a huge smile on his face, and after giving Mike a quick hug, he placed himself confidently behind the wheel of the Volkswagen. Mike shot me a worried glance over the car’s rounded roof, then leaned down to speak through the open window.

“Hey, Leon, do you think driving is a good idea?” he asked.

“Oh sure, man. Toss me the keys—I’m taking you boys to lunch in San Francisco!”

Call me untrusting, but I had grave doubts about Leon’s possession of: (a) a valid driver’s license; or (b) the money to spring for lunch. Still, I followed Mike’s lead and got in the car. In moments, Leon had sped across the Golden Gate Bridge and pulled up in front of a seedy pizza joint. Once inside, Leon immediately ordered a large pitcher of beer and consumed its contents in approximately 18 seconds. Leon promptly ordered a second pitcher, but just before it was set on our table, he retired to the restroom to address needs created by pitcher #1. In his absence, Mike fixed me with a determined stare.

“We can’t let Leon have any more beer, bro. There’s no telling what he’ll do if he gets drunk.”

While I agreed with Mike’s assessment, I didn’t see how we could stop Leon from downing this second pitcher and said as much.

“We’re going to drink it,” Mike said with an eerie calm. “You and I are going to drink all this beer before Leon gets back.”

Well, this was a full-blown moral crisis. Golden Gate Seminary had a strict ban on the consumption of alcohol, so while Mike’s plan had a certain allure, how could I go along with it? My mind was racing, but Mike wasn’t finished.

“I have to drive home, so you’ll need to do most of the drinking.”

By the time Leon returned from relieving himself and chatting with a few other patrons, the pitcher was almost empty and my head was starting to spin. It was still spinning when we dropped Leon off at a friend’s apartment and drove back across the Golden Gate Bridge.

“You did the right thing, Steve,” Mike said as he eased the ancient Beetle onto the Seminary Drive off-ramp. “There was no other way once that second pitcher came out.”

I nodded, still unsure how to feel.

“But just the same,” Mike continued, “You’d better hit the mouthwash as soon as we get back to the dorm.”

San Quentin Blues - Part 1

Marin County is a strange place for a Southern Baptist seminary, but there is another local institution that is even more starkly out of place. San Quentin State Prison also makes its home in Marin, where the notorious penitentiary houses California’s death row population.

I became aware of San Quentin when a chaplain visited Golden Gate to recruit volunteers for a prisoner visitation program. My friend Mike needed little convincing. “Let’s do it, Steve,” he said eagerly. “Who in Marin needs us more than these prisoners?”

“You’re probably right,” I hesitantly returned. “But what if they send us to visit some wacko?”

Mike’s shrug suggested that, in his view, visiting a homicidal maniac would not be such a bad thing. Who needed us more, right? So after completing a training program, Mike and I were paired with two willing prisoners named Leon and Julio.

The prison’s visiting area consisted of several round tables and a handful of television sets, and I was introduced to Julio shortly after entering this room. He was quiet at first, but after a few visits, we fell into a comfortable routine—often praying or discussing the Bible together. Once, Julio even presented me with a gift—a small cross he had woven out of stray threads.

Meanwhile, Mike was finding that Leon was interested in more worldly concerns. During Mike’s visits, Leon usually passed the time by watching Soul Train and commenting on the size of various dancers’ breasts. Leon also displayed an inappropriate curiosity about Mike’s personal life, often asking, “When’s the last time you got laid, man?”

Soon, Mike was dreading our monthly prison visits. To lighten the mood on our way to San Quentin, I sometimes asked, “Any news to share with Leon this week?” Such remarks were probably not helpful, but to his credit, Mike never gave up. His visits would have continued indefinitely if not for a stunning development.

“Leon called me today,” Mike said one afternoon. “He’s getting paroled in two weeks.” This sounded like good news—until the next sentence. “Leon wants me to pick him up when he’s released.” And after a pause, Mike added the clincher.

“You’re going with me.”

Well, this was the least I could do after all my wisecracks, but one question weighed heavily on my mind. If Leon was a handful on visiting days, what would he be like outside the prison walls?