Playing With Plastic Knives
How You Lead is How You Apologize
After years of watching jealous spouses, betrayed friends, and pure human greed play itself out in the form of murder, real estate must be pennies on the dollar in Cabot Cove, Maine.
As a child of the eighties, logic never enters the fray while sacrificing your planned date with Super Mario Bros for your mother’s guilty pleasure of murder intoxication on the one tv in the entire house.
She solved murders, then wrote about it. And we watched it every week.
After witnessing multiple homicides in this quaint coastal town, and surviving the trauma, the throat punch of logic strikes in your mid-thirties: How are there any people left in Cabot Cove and why would anyone want to move there?
You’re flummoxed. You saw the lead pass through their chest, the shove off the cliff, the rope around the neck, and that knife plunging its way into the heart. You watched them die. They should all be dead by now.
Frantic, you dial up your mother, confronting her with this conundrum. Then in a calm, measured tone, she attempts to soften the blow of a family secret kept hidden for years: none of it was ever real. Props and stunt men. What a dagger. Throw in Santa Claus while you’re at it.
Retractable knives. An entire childhood wrought with lies. Apparently, this was going on all over Hollywood back then. What’s next? Indian Jones chased by a giant foam ball?!
Your head snaps sideways when the left hook of reality sneaks its way through. You didn’t see it coming, but now you see it clearly.
Their words ignited a dormant warrior, reviving a belief in yourself exiled in a wilderness of obscurity. You sat at the table where the chess pieces of the church were moved. Dreams were allowed to soak up as much oxygen as needed. Casting a wider net for a vibrant future pushed nitrogen into an engine that had developed an acquired taste for unleaded. A melting pot of broken dreams joined together in this renewed sense of purpose. We marched in lockstep thrusting the mission forward, faster. There wasn’t a Satan strong enough to stop us.
The quiet rumblings of a few were quickly extinguished as new trails were being blazed. Hesitation was a beast quickly tamed when defending the captain as the ships burned behind us. Most of the bullets bound for the visionary’s heart, bounced off your chest with the rest hole-punching your loyalty beyond question. The standing orders had been canonized. It was all in. Late nights were a small price to pay while sacrificing domestic normalcy. Kids made great props on a stage built for Sunday success. Sacrifice was an early hospital exit after holding your newborn, just in time for making the announcements. No way McAdams was subbing in for your sworn duty. You carried your weight. You pushed each other harder, further, faster for an unknown prize at an undesignated point. We zeroed in on the rabbit around the track never asking why. Self-care was a webinar on how to lead more effectively and efficiently.
Critical thinking played inside a sandbox sealed with saran wrapped optimism and visually impaired loyalty. Running blind-folded had its risks without any caution tape to soften the blow from the barbed wire lined borders. But flesh wounds are for mortals. Pain was an obstacle in need of conquering and there’s no better elixir than megaphone-optimism. In a battle for kudos and budget dollars, this tight knit family buzzed about, unaware of each other’s struggle and barbed wire induced scars in this silent play of posturing. There was a kingdom to build and jobs to be kept. Loyalty points were on the line as everyone danced before the king under the guise of teambuilding exercises.
Saving the world on a grand stage didn’t waste time on distractions like mortgage payments, marriage issues, genuine relationships, difficult children…you know…life. Put on that make-up, inject that biblical Botox and smile, you’re on camera. Performance reviews are in a month. Vying for that golden globe, everyone lit up the stage in a carefully choreographed showstopper with no end credits in sight as the director gently strokes the clapperboard awaiting any missteps. This plastic drama played out to the delight of a raucous congregation applauding the pastoral banter on stage unaware new characters would soon replace the ones being dragged off stage. The sting of goodbye quickly fades as you wave to someone you never knew, in a culture you were never intended to.
The cracks became too deep for the natural beige foundation to cover, with unchecked burnout making it impossible to keep reciting the same rusted out lines. You gave everything. You played your part the way a seasoned actor should, and yet deep down, you longed for it all to be real. That need for relationship? You starved for it. That sense of knowing the Big Kahuna had your back. You bled for it. A mentor who breathed life into you. You craved it. You longed to be valued, only to unmask how replaceable you always were as you offered up your best years. You sat at the table playing chess, only to realize you were always a pawn.
The pain oozes out the cracks with no gauze in sight. They’re sorry you’re bleeding. A vain attempt to wipe the Type A off with a cotton swab miserably fails as a solid side hug is applied to the wound increasing the blood flow. They apply the ointment of appreciation to you, pouring on how much you meant to them and their church as they subconsciously thumb through a pile of resumes for a position that recently came available. Yours.
They genuinely feel bad about all the makeup you bought over the years; that’s a lot of money to spend. You tell them the toll it took on your family while having to remind them Blake and Morgan are the Youth Pastor’s kids, not yours. They hate what ministry can do to children and lament what it did to theirs, staring fondly in the direction of his son’s office. It pains them to think they didn’t see this coming, unable to sputter out a sentence as to why. They just know they’re sorry it turned out this way but hope to maintain a friendship through it all. Just don’t do anything that displeases the king in the future. They’re sorry you’re hurt. They’re sorry it didn’t work out. They’re sorry you don’t have a job. They’re sorry you lost friends. They’re sorry you’re still in their office.
But boy are they thankful for all the bullets you took for em’.
It’s surreal, like you’re in the middle of a scene where the murderer plunges the knife into your chest and the blood bag bursts and the director screams “Cut!”. You tug at the knife getting ready for the next scene. Only the blade doesn’t retract, and there wasn’t this much blood in that bag to begin with. Your heart must be allergic to this prop. Gosh, my chest hurts.
Backwardpastor exists to encourage pastors who’ve experienced hurt in the church. While this is a story about a staff pastor, I know of lead pastors who’ve experienced similar hurt by a board or staff members who betrayed them.
You’re not alone. Don’t suffer in silence. I pray this can be a place of healing for people who were never allowed to heal or don’t know how to.
You will never see my stuff on the cover of Christianity today, it’s too dark and sarcastic, but I firmly believe there is a large group of people who would connect with this message.
If you know of someone, please forward this article to them.
Thanks for reading and if you’re blessed by my writing, please subscribe.
