The banality of clergy failure
I’ve traveled a long way. I’m the preacher from across the pond who has dropped everything in the face of tragedy, reached out, and said, “Sure, I’ll come to the funeral. How could I not? I’ll use air miles. And yes, I’ll preach. Be glad to.”
At the funeral I’m surrounded by old friends, parishioners, and acquaintances. And then comes a word of recognition: “Sam!” And she’s before me, thrilled to see me, full of memories, energy, sadness—about the tragic circumstances—but also bursting with appreciation for my ministry, my moving sermon, and how marvelous I was when I used to be here—all the things pastors pretend people shouldn’t say but in fact crave.
And this: I haven’t a clue who she is. My mind goes blank. I’m in a different world now, showing hundreds of other people how important they are to God, and—if that’s too remote—important at least to me. And maybe my head or more likely my heart can’t take any more people, because when I run down my mental checklist of those whose names I may not instantly recall but whose lives I nonetheless deeply cherish, she isn’t on it. She’s greeting me as if I changed her life, and I’m failing to keep up the pretense that her name will come to me any moment.
