OK, I'm Really Not a Happy Kitteh

During a recent blog, I posted about having a crisis with my faith.  As all y'all know, my father was a retired United Methodist Minister when he died.  I grew up with an intimate knowledge of the professional of the ministry.   It's a true callin', all right, as these men and women of the cloth are always on call, and often under the microscope more than celebrities! 



I've often been accused of measuring other ministers by the yardstick of my father.  And that's a valid accusation, especially when some ministers don't measure up!  Let's face it, men and women of the cloth are just as human as the rest of us.  We hold them to a higher expectation than most other humans.  Sometimes we may expect too much. 


In that previous blog, I listed my expectations in regards to losin' Daddy on 4 May in regards to my own minister.  I also listed how that minister fell extremely short of those expectations.  And still has.  Nearly six months later.  


So what has prompted this blog?  


A paid advertisement in the religion section of our local paper.  This month, in case you weren't aware, is Clergy Appreciation Month.  It's a time for the faithful to find ways to say thanks.  Maybe a card, or a note.  In the case of my church, a small ad was taken out in that section of the paper to thank the minister for all that he does for the church family and the community at large.


I don't doubt that the congregation as a whole feels great satisfaction in the pastor.  He does work hard to meet the needs of the majority of his flock.  Unfortunately, this one black sheep doesn't share that feeling.  Nor do I share their warm feelings of appreciation for his service. 


It's not that I don't respect the title of pastor/minister/clergy.  I do respect it.  I'm still lickin' my wounds from that ghastly day of 4 May and the fact that my own pastor has done little to help lift the burden of loss from my soul.  As of this day, not a card, or a letter.  Not a call or message left on either of the voice mails.  Not even a calling card stuck in the door to tell me (us, countin' the DH), that he at least stopped in. 

I recall times when Daddy would stop at a member's house while he was out making visits to the sick at home or hospital.   If the member was home, he'd enter upon their invitation to talk a few moments, see how the parishioner was doing, have a prayer, and then go on.  If that church member (and sometimes family member) wasn't home, he'd write a little note on the back of his business card and leave it stuck in the door to let them know he'd been by. 

Except for the blurb in the June newsletter, nary a thing has come my way to show that both my minister and my church of these few years gives a damn.   Even some of the members who know us best have been silent. 


And that hurts.


So pardon me if I don't share my church's feelings of appreciation for our pastor.  Or don't pardon me.  It's a free country, and you're welcome to your own opinion. 

Maybe that's why I now consider myself a hedonistic biker chick.  I've found more compassion and support from my biker friends than from my own church.  

Weird.

I will say this.  To all those other ministers out there, whether Protestant, Catholic, Jewish, or whatever who answered the call to preach and to serve, who strive daily to continue in that difficult journey of being God's representative on this Earth, thank you for what you do.  It's not the easiet path and those who follow it are always expected to toe the line.  You're not always allowed to be human.  I salute you.