"I never claimed to be," is the honest response.
Yet here I am ... preaching ... again ... after I'd sworn it off ... yet again!
Decades ago, an inner city congregation of little old ladies lost their collective minds and "called" me to the ministry ... one had a butcher knife in her apron which makes it very hard to say "No."I've had a love/hate relationship with preaching ever since.
On the one hand it's great!
For 20 minutes or so ... once a week ... I GET PAID to be the "Center of the Universe" and speak on God's behalf!
It makes me completely understand televangelists, politicians addicted to being elected and other Prostitutes.
On the other hand ... I'm standing there in front of people really wanting God ... and what they're getting is me.
Wounded ... wearing scars ... non-conforming ... multiply divorced ... often in trouble with organized religion ... a known sinner ... with long hair WAY BEYOND MY AGE GROUP ...
Let's be honest, my resume is not Preacher caliber material.
And I'm okay with that.
Then strange things happen ... and ... there I am "standing in the spotlight! Losing my religion," for anyone who wants to catch it ... or let it fly by.
I'm cool with it either way.
I do my best.
My Granddaddy Carver ... whom I passionately loved ... once said, "Mike, you are God's and he got mighty plans for you."
I wish Granddad were here right now because I'd really love to hear what he's got to say about my ministry, Bar Church and the things I'm doing now.
I've love for him to know Sarah.
"Before I formed you in the womb," I can hear my Granddaddy say to me ... quoting the Prophet Jeremiah ... who had his own issues with God ... once accusing the Lord of rape ... and who my son is named after ...
"Before I formed you in the womb," God says through my Granddaddy Carver who I passionately love to this day ... "I KNEW YOU."
"And before you were born I consecrated you appointing you a Prophet to the Nations," he says and kisses me on the head.
I can still feel his lips on my brow.
It's a terrible job!
Most Prophets didn't do too well in the end, getting killed or run out of town for the things they said on God's behalf.
Hell! In my case, I'm not even getting paid.
Yet here I am ... preaching again.
Given the choice I wouldn't do it at all.
There's not a lot of joy in it.
Except for the rumble in my stomach ... which is close to a womb for a boy ... when it's time to speak.
For my Granddaddy's lips on my forehead which I can feel to this day, wiping it repeatedly to be close to be him again.
And for this past Sunday when an old man cried with his hand on mine over things I'd said.
