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Truth be told, I don’t really know why I’m a pastor. Let’s face it, on paper, I wouldn’t consider myself the ideal candidate. I don’t exactly crave the spotlight. I’m definitely not an extrovert. Any ability I have to initiate conversation has been carefully and awkwardly cultivated over the last so many years through a process of trial and error. As it happens, I maxed out the Thinking scale of my Myers-Briggs personality inventory, so I admit how certain feelings and attitudes can sometimes escape my notice. I’m not the most spiritual person in the world. I’m not part of some multigenerational family legacy. (I think I may have had a great-great-grandfather who was a pastor, but I’m sure he was Baptist!) I’m not particularly well-connected within the Presbyterian Church (USA), nor do I serve a large, influential congregation. Although I find polity fascinating, I have little threshold for church politics. Why someone like myself would publicly and professionally invite the scrutiny of others, I have no earthly idea.
When I think about it, I really have only two things going for me. First, I look the part: Tall, lanky, cleans up moderately well, looks good in black–it turns out, that can get you far in this business! The second is this annoying sense of call. It sounds almost crazy to say, but for some reason unbeknownst to me, I believe the words that are coming out of my mouth each Sunday morning–words of grace, words of justice, words of encouragement, words of redemption and hope. Words are important to me, and I figure, if I don’t at least believe them, I can’t really expect anyone else to, either. Maybe the why will continue to prove elusive, but at the end of the day, a pastor is what…or perhaps more accurately…who I am. And in a strange kind of way, the fact that I can’t rationally explain it only confirms why it had to be me, and not someone else who might fare better by the numbers.
