I wish I could say that so far I have had a peace-filled life as a pastor. I love to read books about the seemingly idyllic life of a pastor, like Eugene Peterson’s memoir, The Pastor, or Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, or even The Damnation of Theron Ware by Harold Frederic. When I read them, I imagine a time in which the biggest threat of ministry was the board of trustees or even one’s own self. Maybe the second option, being one’s own worst enemy, may still be true, but the board of trustees, though they may disagree with one’s vision, probably can do no worse than to ask for a resignation letter.
I had been in ministry as a senior pastor a very short time when I got a call from Johnny, a recently-retired insurance man, with more than forty years on the job. He had something he needed to tell me. He began, “Pastor Matt, I have a nephew who showed up on Sunday, maybe you saw him?” The story that continued in that phone call was one of trauma and heartache, a suburban son crippled by drug addiction, and a family struggling for more than a decade to know what to do about it. It was so bad that, though he was no longer on drugs, this young man’s mental health was shot, and he was riddled with delusions and unable to follow a simple conversation. The family was torn apart by making the decision of what to do with him. The young man’s parents and siblings wanted to continue offering help, though he could not live with them. Johnny and his side of the family had written him off and never wanted to see him again.
The young man, who we’ll call Sam, came to church on occasion all that year. I took him to coffee a couple of times and realized he had some pretty interesting ideas about economics and the nature of reality, perhaps most akin to Beadurillard and his concept that we are living in a simulation because of the media and the hyper-reality of the modern world. But he told me something hard to believe: He said he believed his family had stolen all of his money. He could not let it go. It was a long topic of conversation each time we met. One day he came to church and aggressively ran up to Johnny screaming for him to give him the money he was owed.
After that, I asked Sam to take a four-week break from church to reconsider his behavior. I told him that I would like him to meet with me at the end of four weeks so that we could assess where we stood. He never showed up to that meeting. Instead, he showed up in the church balcony two weeks later, in the last ten minutes of worship, with an aggressive stance and a scowling face, ready to do ‘something.’ I was sure of it. I quickly closed the worship service early, not even finishing all of the planned elements. Then I ran to the back of the sanctuary to make sure Sam had no access to Johnny.
Sam ambled down the stairs from the balcony and I went directly to him. I asked him why he had decided to ignore our agreement of his break from attending worship and being around Johnny. He told me he had an important discussion to have with Johnny about his money. I responded that he was welcome at church, but not when it insisted on accosting Johnny and his wife each time he attended. I continued by telling him, “You won’t be talking to Johnny today,” and then moved to block his access to the part of the building where I knew Johnny was having coffee.
“Then you’re a fucking ignorant pastor!” he exploded.
To set the scene: Sam is a hulking figure. He is 6’ 4” and 230 lbs., according to the police report that would later be generated. Then there’s me, 5’ 7” on a tall day, and wearing a clergy alb. Think of every priest you’ve ever seen dressed in linen.
He rushed me and put his hands around my neck and tried to take me to the ground to beat me.
Though he was unsuccessful in harming me physically, the following weeks were filled with police reports, court dates, and conversations about church security measures. Three years later, serving a new church, and living in a new city, I still sweep the congregation with my eyes to see if there are any threats present, at least forty-nine of fifty-two weeks. I often wonder if that feeling of threat will someday cease.
This series is part of Lenten practice and most will remain unfinished. I may or may not pick up the stories or themes for later posts.