Worthiness, given

I’m awful at conceptualizing time. I always think that I have more time than I actually do. This means that I’m almost always running late. I’m the kind of guy who shows up RIGHT on time.

(It’s such a stressful way to be.)

The other day, I was doing my thang, running behind, and I had to drop Rory off at summer day camp. We were late outta the gate, and then, about ten minutes into our drive, Rory yells, “I forgot my backpack!”

I’m pissed. 

It’s like my ego says, Yes! Finally something/someone to project your own aggravating propensity for lateness onto.

I go directly into dad-mode. Maybe you know what this is like, dads. You physically transmogrify into a daunting authority figure. Your face changes. Your voice morphs and takes on the tone and hue of Nickelback (or Creed, if you prefer). It’s ugly. 

“YOU need to be BETTER at getting your stuff ready ON TIME,” I yell as she covers her little ears in the passenger seat. I’m fuming. I was already mad at myself for getting out of the house late, but now I had an external target for my rage... My 8-year-old daughter. I popped off a few more times at her as we drove back to the house to get her backpack, and we didn’t talk the rest of the way to camp. 

—

I need to interrupt my story to tell you about an interesting dynamic between Rory and I... Rory is, in many ways, my little guru. She has no idea how wise she is. 

Case in point...

When I work at the Detention Center, I wear a black shirt and a clerical collar (it helps me NOT get shanked). On her first day of summer camp, I took my white tab out when I dropped her off. I had to go inside to sign her in, and I didn’t want to embarrass her. (From what I hear, it’s hard being a pastor’s kid. I’m trying to dampen the blow as much as possible.) 

Well, when I did this, her reaction was... Profound. 

As we walked down the hall out to the car, she turned to me and said, “Why aren’t you wearing your collar, dad?”

I wasn’t expecting that. “Well, I don’t need to wear it here.”

“Are you embarrassed?” she asked. (She asked in a kind way, though. Like she was guiding me. People pay life coaches BANK for this kind of thing.) 

“No... Well, I dunno. I don’t want to embarrass you, I guess.”

She had me.
Ugh...

“Wear it, Dad. It’s okay. I like that you’re a pastor.”

I almost started crying in the hallway of the camp. She was right. I was being insecure and inauthentic and she sniffed it right out. 

—

When I pulled up to Rory’s camp late on the day of our little blowout, I instinctively reached up to pull my collar out. I was such an ass to her. We were only 5 minutes late - ‘twasn’t the end of the world. But I blew it up like I’d found heroin under her pillow or something.

I wasn’t worthy of the collar. What a blockhead. A poster boy for toxic masculinity. The collar only amplified this. Typical pastor-dad move. 

It just showed me how even I - one who writes and preaches ad nauseam that worthiness cannot be earned - can fall prey to earned righteousness. The little accuser in my brainbox whispers incessantly that in order to wear the collar, I must live up to a certain moral standard. And if I waver at all (even if it’s something as minor as yelling at my kid), I am not worthy, and I may as well give the whole gig up.

This is why Martin Luter was often found in his courtyard yelling (to himself - or, to the devil on his shoulder), “I am baptized!” In other words, my belovedness cannot be taken away because I DIDN’T EARN IT. My worthiness was IMPUTED/given to me by God, the very ground of being. This is the only hope that we have, and it’s the one thing the devil tries to convince us to give up. 

So, I stopped. I kept the tab in. And I did the walk of shame through the hallway with her as I dropped her off. We kissed each other on the cheeks. I apologized to her when I picked her up and told her I shouldn’t have gotten that angry with her. 

And we were... Okay.