Ichabod

I will never forget my first Sunday at my new church. I was dressed up in khaki pants, white button down oxford, red tie and a blue blazer (the uniform of the late 80's). I was over the whole "uh... I just came to put a face to the name" debacle of the previous week. I was pumped to partner with this local body of believers to change the world.

And then he stepped up to the pulpit.

He was a nice guy. In fact, that is one of the things that makes me crazy. This guy, when I met him, must have been 79 or 80 years old and the first thing he did was bend over and touch the ground with both of his palms... without bending his knees. Then he looked up, smiled and said, "Can you do that?" Uh... I couldn't. He was a deacon. He loved his family... and, he loved jokes. His job, before the service began, was to give the Sunday School Report. This was a chance for everybody to hear how many of their friends and neighbors had been to Bible Study that day. So, he gave the report. I'm sure the number must have been somewhere between 100-125.

Then it happened.

In what I'm sure was a long standing tradition, He told a joke. I really wish he hadn't.

Q. "How do you keep a black man poor?" A. "Put his welfare check in his workboots."

The joke is offensive enough... but he didn't say "black man".

My throat burned. My chest tightened. I even think I got a little dizzy. I really was stunned. And, to my bitter dismay the congregation was howling. They loved it. I decided within 15 minutes of my first church service to resign and move back home.

I called my former youth pastor, Dick Stagner, and told him what happened. He, thank God, shared my dismay but gave me an important piece of advice. "Stay there a year," he told me.

I did.