Twelve hours ago I wanted to be right where you are now. Better yet, I just didn’t want to be where I was. I didn’t want to be what I was or even who I was. These sort of Sundays happen for me every now and then - the ones where I feel there couldn’t be a more incompetent pastor in the history of God’s calling. There were multiple points throughout my own teaching where even I was wondering what I was talking about.

Then came the meetings. It took me seemingly forever to be able to leave the church only to have to meet up with more over an extended lunch. All nice people. All good intentions. Nothing over-the-top. But there’s this wall that you hit, really you know that it’s coming far before you hit it because it’s properly labeled “ENOUGH” in giant white letters across the brick facade.

I came home and I couldn’t have been more done in that moment. I didn’t want to write, study or talk to anyone (which in my communal house of four married couples is an achievement unto itself). And, ultimately, I didn’t want to do it again.

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