Pastors

When my son Mathew turned five, my wife and I signed him up for peewee hockey. We thought it would be cute. We envisioned munchkins wobbling on skates, leaning on sticks twice their size, chasing the puck around a massive rink.

After the first practice (indeed, it was very cute), we received a phone call from a man calling himself "a fellow hockey parent."

"Our first game is this Sunday at 11:00 a.m.," he informed me politely, "and it's your turn to drive. And that's not all." He was excited. "We have a great idea for you and your wife, volunteering at our annual Christmas tree sale, a fundraiser for the local hockey association."

A bit stunned, I said, "Wow, sounds like fun, but I have to work on Sundays," adding in my best ministerial tone, "I'm a pastor, you know."

There was a long, uncomfortable silence. "Well," the hockey man said, "Can your wife drive? We'd sure appreciate your commitment." As if trumping my clergy card, he asserted, "This is really important, you know."

Silly us. Little ...

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