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After a long pause in our conversation, I suppose that he felt the need to ask another question. I was inclined toward hanging up. The conversation had been annoying thus far. I didn’t see the potential for improvement.
“So, what’s your favorite movie?”
It is probably best that this was a phone conversation so he couldn’t see my eyes roll with the exasperated gesture that accompanied it. He asked this exact question three times – in our three previous phone conversations. The fates hadn’t aligned as his first email contact arrived in my Match.com inbox days before Christmas. Though he was heading out of town to see family, my schedule was more of a nightmare. Our casual emails drifted as New Year’s arrived. We had graduated to the phone by then. It was clumsy. And yet, our conversations had always had this tone of silence.
So when he asked this question for the third time, I didn’t play it cool. I called him on it. “I think I answered this before,” I said. “Remember?” More silence on the other end of the phone as I made another annoyed gesture into thin air.
The truth was: he didn’t seem all that bright, while claiming to be an intellectual type. Nothing about his personality seemed to have all that much depth – especially if interesting conversation for him was limited to what my favorite movie was and how much it had snowed. I was bored.
I was mind-numbingly bored of our conversation. This realization made me wonder why I was even carrying on this fantasy of meeting someone on the Internet. If this was what was out there, I’m wasting my time. I didn’t articulate any of this. I opted to be cute and girlish because there seemed to be no other way that I was meeting someone that could offer the possibility of romantic interest. So I giggled through my boredom. I wasn’t sure if he believed my attempt at being coy anymore than I did. It was unclear what he was thinking when he announced that he was tired. We said goodnight and made plans to meet for a drink the following night. Read more
Recently, at a local governing board meeting, the chair of a search committee presented his candidate before the governing body with the words, “We really did have a real search.” I sat back in my pew, folded my arms, and rolled my eyes, because we all knew the truth. It was just another sham.
Have you ever fallen prey to the fraudulent pastoral search? Do you know what I’m talking about? Between my husband and me, we’ve been caught up in it. I hate to say just how many times.
You see, in our denomination, to ensure fairness, there’s a solid process, where people are reviewed, interviewed, and selected. The pool of candidates needs to be wide-ranging: male, female, differing ethnicities, etc. But sometimes everyone knows that the church is really going to hire the non-ordained interim, or the pastor’s seminary buddy, or that particular someone for whom the job description has been written. Everyone knows it, except for the other candidates.
And, since we have this process, the church sets up a committee that half-heartedly meets. The members ask around for good candidates, and the pool begins to come together. Then the phony interviews begin. Read more
I’m in love!
Oh, don’t get too excited. I’m not in love with anyone I’ve actually met. . .or am likely to meet. This love is a secret love, which is something juicy for me to savor. I’m not telling many people and definitely not telling members of my congregation. They are very kind to me, but I think they would find this love of mine polarizing.
Yes, that’s right, I’m in love with a politician. A candidate, actually. A candidate for President. And I can’t tell ANYONE! I want to shout my love from the rooftops, proclaim it in the pulpit, but I also don’t want the IRS breathing down my neck. I feel very strange being in this position. I used to love politics. As a kid, I made my own campaign buttons out of card stock and contact paper. But the last few years, politics has been so stressful, so filled with vitriol and betrayal and power grabbing that I just haven’t been able to bear participating.
