As my memoir Accidental Preacher comes out in print, I want to share a series of reflections with you. I hope you find my story and my coming into this calling we share, somehow helpful in understanding your own.


When I was ten, my mother deposited me at Buncombe Street Methodist (founded long before H. L. Mencken invented “bunkum”) every Thursday afternoon for the church membership class. I retained nothing about Methodism from that class. My confirmation occurred not in the church sanctuary on a Sunday but rather in the parking lot on Thursday before Holy Week. On Palm Sunday we were to be joined to the church. The bulletin that Sunday was to feature a photo of the class lined up on the steps in front of the Ionic columns of Buncombe Street. (The facade earned the church a nickname, Jesus First National Bank.) Continue reading