A number of years ago, I was hitchhiking in Kansas. I was walking on U.S. 54 somewhere west of Pratt. This guy pulled over to give me a ride.
The first thing he said was, "I am a pastor. How may I help you?"
At first, I thought, sounds like a canned speech. Then I replied, "I'm just heading west. Thanks for picking me up."
As we talked, he mentioned that he used to be a farmer, but he wasn't making a very good living as a farmer, so he thought he would become a pastor. He told me that he was going to play some golf with some other pastors that afternoon.
So this guy is a pastor, not because he was called of the Lord, but so he could make more money. And I thought I had heard of everything.
He told me that it would be better if he had a congregation of one thousand where everyone gave 20 dollars per week rather than a congregation of one hundred where everyone gave 100 dollars per week. I have never thought of it quite like that before. A guy can get all kinds of sound financial advice hitchhiking the country.
I told him something like the Lord had delivered me of a lot of demons and I was very grateful for what the Lord had done in my life. All of sudden, this frown formed on his face and he started yelling at me. He then dropped me off at this gas station. Looks like I was casting pearls before swine.
I hope his golf game is much better than his preaching.
I Should Go To Dairy Queen More Often
"I'd rather have ten people that want God than 10,000 people who want to play church."
By Tim Shey
My eyes weep blood.
Pharisees smile like vipers,
They laugh and mock their venom:
Blind snakes leading
The deaf and dumb multitude.
Where are my friends?
The landscape is dry and desolate.
They have stretched my shredded body
On this humiliating tree.
The hands that healed
And the feet that brought good news
They have pierced
With their fierce hatred.
The man-made whip
That opened up my back
Preaches from a proper pulpit.
They sit in comfort:
That vacant-eyed congregation.
The respected, demon-possessed reverend
Forks his tongue
Scratching itchy ears
While Cain bludgeons
Abel into silence.
My flesh in tattered pieces
Clots red and cold and sticks
To the rough-hewn timber
That props up my limp, vertical carcase
Between heaven and earth.
My life drips and puddles
Below my feet,
As I gaze down dizzily
On merciless eyes and dagger teeth.
The chapter-and-versed wolves
Jeer and taunt me.
Their sheepwool clothing
Is stained black with the furious violence
Of their heart of stone.
They worship me in lip service,
But I confess,
I never knew them
(Though they are my creation).
My tongue tastes like ashes:
It sticks to the roof of my mouth.
I am so thirsty.
This famine is too much for me.
The bulls of Bashan have bled me white.
Papa, into your hands
I commend my Spirit.
Iowa State University
Genesis 49: 10: “The scepter shall not depart from Judah, nor a lawgiver from between his feet until Shiloh come; and unto him shall the gathering of the people be.”