When I was in seminary, I served as a part-time pastor at a local church. Now, to qualify for this position, I had to complete four weekends of training. Worship. Pastoral care. Preaching. Administration. The whole works. It was slightly more involved than getting ordained online through the First Church of 1-800-I-Am-Too-Blessed, but not by much.
I was also a full-time seminary student, working what was supposed to be twenty hours a week at the church. Somehow, those twenty hours regularly turned into thirty or thirty-five. I had kids at home, a family that occasionally wanted to see me, and enough schoolwork to make me question this life decision. I was exhausted.
One afternoon, I was desperately trying to finish a paper on the eschatological reality found in the New Testament. I know. Riveting stuff. Try not to get too excited.
That's when four women from the church approached me about decorating the sanctuary for Advent. They had a vision. And apparently, I was the muscle.
My assignment was simple enough. Go down to the basement, find a ladder, haul it upstairs, and hang an enormous piece of purple fabric behind the altar. Another piece needed to be draped around the large wooden cross. I wasn't entirely sure what they were trying to accomplish, but they seemed confident.
Then I found the ladder. I'm fairly sure Noah used this thing to build the ark. It was covered in cobwebs, and I had serious doubts about whether it was going to hold me. I hauled it upstairs and climbed on it anyway.
I positioned the ladder against the wall, climbed up, and began hanging the fabric. "A little to the left, Pastor." I moved it. "No, no. Too far. Back to the right." I moved it back. "Just a little higher." I reached. "No, now it's crooked."
For the love of God. I had a paper to finish, work piling up, and a family waiting at home. At that moment, I could not have cared less whether the purple fabric was centered, off-center, or hanging in the parking lot. But I kept trying. Left. Right. Higher. Lower.
Then the ladder started shaking. Not a little wobble. This thing was coming apart underneath me. Then it began splitting apart. From top to bottom. The rungs started breaking loose and falling to the floor. Then I began falling.
Now, I don't know if you've ever fallen from a considerable height, but it's a remarkable experience. Everything seems to happen in slow motion. You have just enough time to realize you're in serious trouble and absolutely no time to do a thing about it. Somewhere between the top of that ladder and the sanctuary floor, I had one clear thought. This is gonna hurt.
And a let loose a guttural groan, “FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK!"
I hit the floor, landing among the broken pieces of that ancient ladder. It hurt. A lot. I lay there with my eyes closed, trying to determine whether anything was broken, whether I needed an ambulance, and whether my obituary was going to mention that I died trying to hang purple fabric. "Seminary student dies in tragic Advent decorating accident."
Eventually, I opened my eyes. Standing over me were the four women. They looked absolutely horrified. For a moment, I wondered if something was seriously wrong. Perhaps I was bleeding. Perhaps a bone was sticking out somewhere it shouldn't have been.
Then one of them spoke. "Pastor Mark! You cuss?" I blinked. "We do NOT use that kind of language in church! I am appalled!" The other three nodded in agreement.
There I was, lying on the floor, surrounded by pieces of a shattered ladder, wondering whether I was going to need medical attention. The real emergency was my vocabulary.
Not one of them had asked whether I was okay. Not one. But they were deeply concerned that their pastor had said the F-word.
I finally managed to get up. Everything hurt. Word spread through the church. Not about the ladder collapsing. Not about the pastor nearly killing himself while decorating for Advent. Nope. Pastor Mark said "fuck" in the sanctuary. I'm pretty sure that was the main topic at the next women's group meeting. I had given them something to talk about for weeks. You're welcome, ladies.
Now, I know some people don't like profanity. Fine. But I wasn't standing in the pulpit. I wasn’t leading a Bible Study. I was falling off a ladder.
But can we talk about what happened here? A man fell off a ladder. He could have been seriously injured. And the first concern of four perfectly respectable church women was that he said a bad word. Does anybody else see a problem with that?
Remember that story Jesus told about the Good Samaritan? A man gets beaten half to death and left alongside the road. Two very respectable religious men see him and walk right past him. Then a Samaritan comes along. The guy nobody expected to do the right thing. He stops. He helps. He takes care of the man. Jesus didn't make that story complicated. We did.
Somebody was hurting. Two religious guys walked past him. The outsider stopped. Go and do likewise.
I sometimes wonder how much energy Christians spend worrying about things Jesus didn't seem particularly concerned about while overlooking the very things he told us mattered most. We can get worked up over somebody's language, clothing, tattoos, politics, or who they love. We can spend hours debating whether somebody is living a sufficiently Christian life. And all the while, there's a person lying at our feet who could use a little help.
I wonder how differently we might treat one another if churches spent less time teaching people what to be offended by and more time teaching them what Jesus actually cared about.
I've spent a lot of years in church. I've met some remarkable people who have shown me what the love of Jesus looks like. I've also met people who seem to think God is sitting in heaven keeping a running tally of every inappropriate word, questionable thought, and violation of proper Christian etiquette.
I have a tough time reconciling that God with Jesus. I don't think Jesus would have been particularly impressed with the decorating committee that afternoon. I suspect he would have been the first one asking whether I was hurt. Helping me off the floor.
I can't tell you exactly what Jesus would have said if he'd been the one falling off that ladder.
Although I have my suspicions. My wife has a whole collection of substitute swear words for moments when she's trying not to cuss. "Oh, freaking frick!" Stuff like that. My favorite she uses is “Jimmy Cricket.” I always reply, “Pinocchio.”
Maybe Jesus would have said that. But I'll tell you this. I don't believe God was offended by what came out of my mouth that afternoon. I'm quite sure God was more concerned about what happened when I hit the floor.
The problem wasn't that the pastor said "fuck." The problem was that four church ladies heard a man hit the floor and forgot to ask if he was okay. And somehow, they thought I was the one who needed to work on my Christianity.
