When I became a pastor as a young man, I was prepared to minister to my congregants through all phases of their lives. I expected to spend my time welcoming new babies into the world, sharing biblical principles with thriving families, and ministering to our elders in their last days. I knew I would be called upon to offer comfort through hard times, illness and loss.
What I didn’t expect to do much of was bury parishioners in their 40s and 50s, or even in their teens – men, women and children who died from everything from heart attacks to lung disease to suicide; parishioners who were suffering mightily from a lifetime of seemingly bad choices.
For years, I tried to figure out what was going on. Had I signed up to be a pastor in the dysfunctional family capitol of America? I moved to another community and found the same despair and early demise among parishioners of all economic backgrounds and ethnicities.
[For more of this story, written by Dave Lockridge, go to http://www.mercedsunstar.com/opinion/opn-columns-blogs/article3474051.html#storylink=cpy]
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