After

After (1,201)

July 8th, 2011

The show always comes to an end. I try never to go over an hour, feeling deep in my soul that sixty minutes is enough for people to tolerate listening to me talk to them. Many of them insist they could stay longer, but if we’re not supposed to tempt the Lord our God, we certainly shouldn’t put people’s attention spans to the test either.

What happens after a show is probably one of the more intriguing things in my life. First, there are those who resent having a program in a church referred to as a “show.” Many of these individuals believe that the rod of God should be stuck up one’s back side to make sure we’re all as uncomfortable as possible. May they enjoy enduring their posture. It is not for me and I’m not about to promote a spiritual experience that is not human friendly—thus entertaining AND inspiring.

I usually don’t have to worry about those “rod of God” people—they often literally run out of the auditorium on the other side of the room in order to avoid me. I hold no malice toward them nor will I afford them a moment of afterthought.

Most people, however, get it. They come to my table, some of them purchase my product and they bring their stories. I have only two jobs at that juncture. First, to stop performing. The audience has patiently listened to me yammer on for an hour. They don’t need to hear me continue my discourse on the glory of life. It is my turn to listen. It is my turn to be grateful. It is my turn to let them know that we’re not only equal in God’s eyes, but we’re also equal in my eyes.

Secondly, I need to stop expecting. There are those individuals who have a great ability to form words and communicate their ideas excellently, making me fully aware of the extent of their emotional experience. Others don’t. If my ego needs a boost, I need to go somewhere besides the stage—because the platform is a place for me to share my heart and not to demand that my heart be accepted and applauded. As long as I understand that afterwards, and stop expecting and performing, I receive a vista of human drama and joy—played out before my eyes like a great motion picture.

People are interesting, even when they’re not. People are beautiful, even when they’re ugly. People are the closest thing we have to God’s original intention.

I have never been more blessed than I am after a show, when the little dab of what I’m able to do is given spirited wings and flies out to me to tell me of its significance. It is precious.

And then there are always those who want to show their appreciation by helping to pack up the equipment. I would be much older and probably dead without them. There are also people who want to tell me about their book, their song and their work. I give an ear.

I know that church is not about making God feel good about Himself. Church is about me finding myself inside you, knowing that this is what God calls good. It is a magnificent experience.

As I get older, finishing up an hour performance, packing up and getting into a car leaves me fulfilled, but tired. That’s okay. We’re supposed to get tired. That’s how we are able to finally go to sleep—knowing that it was a good day and that if God took us home tonight, what we’re doing would not only be explainable, but possibly worthy of a bit of reward.