To Leave You Must First Arrive

Leaving Las Vegas inevitably recalls how we came to be here in the first place. That takes me back to my ministry in The United Methodist Church. As I’ve explained before, I did not follow the ordinary route to ordination, a decision on my part that was never fully accepted by “real” clergy who achieved their standing the traditional way. The net result of this was my being the last one chosen on the proverbial playground of episcopal appointments. In the context of the Nebraska Annual Conference not really knowing what to do with me—the offer to let me start a new congregation was never backed by a firm commitment—an offer from my old friend and mentor in the Desert Southwest Conference was attractive. I suspected that I was being appointed to a discordant senior/associate situation similar to the one I was appointed to in Omaha, but it turned out to be much more vile. As Mary and I recently ate at Blueberry Hill it brought back memories of that night in 1996 when I witnessed the bureaucratic execution of the associate pastor that was already there. It wasn’t so much being caught between a rock and a hard place as it was having nowhere to go. The Nebraska bridge had already been burned and Las Vegas was the only place showing even a hint of interest in me. The story of being the last one chosen through that cruel playground process of picking teams was not fantasy, it was my reality, and I discovered at the age of forty-six it was something I was never going to outgrow.