Some of you know that I used to be a pastor. And some of you know that I'm not a pastor anymore, at least not in a formal sense. It wasn't the wine, or the women, or even the song that caused me to step away. No, it was the doubt. But that's for another post.
I still, however, have that itch to preach or teach or give a homily or whatever you want to call it. And, according to a facet of my personal credo, he who hath an itch, let him scratch.
I've decided that every Sunday morning, Lord willin', I'm going to do some scratching over at The Spoiled Priest. I plan to follow the lectionary readings for the year, just so you know. Some days it might be the OT reading, some days the NT, some days the gospel.
I've gotten the impression that many, or some, of you are without a church these days. I certainly hope you can find one at some point, but maybe, in the meantime, if you're itchin' for a sermon or homily or whatever, this might ease the itch.
The phrase spoiled priest refers to those Irish priests who never took their vows of ordination or dropped out of seminary or were defrocked for one reason or another, maybe doubt. Because of that, I feel a kinship with them. It is said that when the people of the countryside had problems, real problems, they would seek out the spoiled priests rather than going to talk to the priests who had big parishes or still wore their collars. The thinking was that these men knew about trouble, about problems, about pain and suffering and betrayal and loneliness and heartache. And doubt. And as such, it was they, the spoiled priests, who could really listen and pray. And hope.