Why I Did This, Part 2: Prophets and Priests

I often felt my calling in ministry was to be something of a prophet.  Not in the sense of someone who could predict the future. And not in the sense of receiving visions from God (my ministry-related dreams were sometimes more akin to nightmares than ecstatic visions). I mean prophet in the sense of one who speaks the word of God to his people, calling them back to faithfulness and obedience.

I thought of prophets like John the Baptist calling people to repentance (though I never had the guts to call a congregation a “brood of vipers”!). I thought of Peter boldly declaring to the temple authorities that they could threaten him all they wanted, but he would not stop preaching Jesus. I thought of Jeremiah, who would have quit if it were not for the burning fire inside that compelled him to keep declaring what he knew was true. And I thought of many voices in that prophetic tradition, my father among them.

I wanted to be like them. I wanted their integrity.  I wanted their insight into the will of God. I wanted to understand God’s message to his people and faithfully proclaim it with the clarity and passion and courage that I saw in them.

I was fortunate never to face the persecution they faced. Unlike John, I never risked having my head cut off (though I lost it a few times). Unlike Peter, I never was scourged in the temple (though, like most preachers, I left a few church meetings feeling a little beaten up). Unlike my father, I never was fired by good Christian cowards moved more by fear than by the Spirit (though there were brothers and sisters along the way who lobbied for my exile).

The tensions I faced over the years were not because of crowds and kings out to silence the prophets. I think much of the tension was because of the role I was in as a full-time minister. I was a prophet who was paid to be a priest. We do not really hire preachers to preach like prophets. We hire ministers to serve the church.

I don’t mean to discount the role of the priest and minister. Priestly service was God-ordained ministry. They were charged to teach the people the Law of God; to lead the people in worship and praise; and, to call the people before God in confession and sacrifice to experience God’s forgiveness. But I felt I was called to be a preacher more than a worship leader.

For too many years I found myself saying, “I’m tired of trying to keep rich, white, suburban Christians happy.” Those are hard words. They always felt hard whenever I uttered them privately to colleagues in ministry—who always seemed to know exactly what I meant. They are hard words because those suburban Christians were truly my friends, my family. I loved them, and always will. They are hard words because—perhaps, especially because—I myself was one of those rich, white, suburban Christians. (I’m still a rich, white Christian, just not in the suburbs.) But they are also hard words because they speak a disturbing truth about the role of church leaders in our contemporary, consumer-driven church culture.

I have often heard it said that the role of a prophet was to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. But most folk come to church only wanting the first part (especially since we all like to believe that we are afflicted). I must say that comforting the grieving became one of the most meaningful parts of my ministry. But overall, maybe it was a mistake for someone who felt called to be a prophet to get a job as a minister.

Prophets in the Bible were rarely priests—Samuel, Ezekiel, maybe a few others. Typically, prophets stood outside the institutions of temple, synagogue, and monarchy. Their task was to challenge the priests, kings, rabbis, and even other popular prophets, calling them back to righteousness, mercy, and justice. Their role was to stand like Jeremiah in the temple and warn the people not to trust in the church rituals. To cry out like John in the desert that God can make Christians out of rocks. To declare like Isaiah on the Day of Atonement that God hates their worship services.

So how do you do that and at the same time fulfill your responsibility to maintain the rituals, build the sanctuaries, lead the services, and give the children of Abraham an encouraging word with which to go forth and face the afflictions of life in middle class America?

I don’t know. Maybe if I figure it out some day, I’ll return to the priesthood. In the meantime, I just need to figure out what to do with what’s left of Jeremiah’s heartburn.