Chasing Cap

How God used a failed governor and childhood friend to make me a humble pastor.

I became a pastor for many reasons. It seemed like an important thing to do. I “felt God’s call on my life.” People told me I should.

But also, I became a pastor to show my childhood friend Eric that I was better than him.

You see, when I was a kid I didn’t have a lot of friends. I was semi-smart and semi-athletic, but I was also semi-awkward and the other kids could more than semi-tell. I hung out with the other awkward kids—Cub Scouts and math geeks, mostly.

There was this one kid named Eric, though—Eric Greitens. He looked like a surfer, with chiseled features and feathered blonde hair to match his Nordic name. Most of the pretty girls thought he was hot stuff. Plus, he was brilliant. He knew the majority of the answers to test questions and could charm the rest from awe-struck teachers.

And he was friendly—at least to me. We played together on the same baseball and soccer teams and he actually, like, talked to me. He complemented me on good shots and plays. Eric sometimes even invited me over to his house to hang out, just him and me. He actually seemed to kind of admire me. I taught myself to juggle in junior high because I naively thought it might impress my fellow classmates. It didn’t—except for Eric. He asked me if I could come over some afternoon and teach him how to juggle. So I spent a couple hours with Eric in his backyard, showing him basic juggling skills.

He was also considerate. After I lost a badly-conceived and poorly-executed campaign for student council in the seventh grade, Eric called to console me. I played it cool on the phone but cried after I hung up. It was one of the most thoughtful things any kid had ever done for me.

Eric had other, better friends. I knew that. But he made me feel kind of cool through some pretty awkward, lonely years.

Over time Eric only grew more impressive in every way, and his student accomplishments just kept piling up. He was President of the National Honor Society. Top Ten Student. President of the Key Club. We were both highly-motivated students, so we ended up doing a lot of stuff together: the debate team, student leadership, band.

He always seemed a step or two ahead, though. The summer before our senior year, for example, we were both selected for a state-wide leadership conference with hundreds of other successful high school boys. I did well at the conference. But by the end of the week Eric had been selected from among the thousands of boys in attendance to go on to the national conference in Washington D.C., where he met Senators and Presidents and the Dalai Lama, for all I knew. This, despite the fact that he had told me at the beginning of the week that he was going to blow it off and settle in for a good time.

The guy was just like that. Success found him naturally, the way eagles learn to fly.

Once Eric got asked by a local television station to participate in a panel discussion on the state of education in our fair city of St. Louis, Missouri. He did great, and everybody loved him. I still remember watching the program in school and hearing the audience applaud wildly at this local wunderkind who gave a particularly astute answer to the moderator’s question. A bit later another TV news crew followed him around at school one day. I’m not sure why. People just liked him. The mayor even named a day after him: “Eric Greitens Day.” It’s March 2nd, 1992. (I’m really not kidding. I found the official Proclamation at City Hall. Yes, I went looking for it.) The official mayoral document commends him for his “maturity, intelligence… contagious happiness and humor” and for even “finding time to captain his school’s soccer team.”

This was Eric Greitens. As early as I can remember, people talked about him running for office and changing the world. Nobody doubted he would.

* * *

Me? Well I wasn’t doing too shabby, either. I grew out of (most of) my awkwardness and kinda-sorta found myself. I had the lead in the school play, was prom king and student body president, and got straight As. (Except calculus…ugh.)

But when you’re insecure and super-competitive like I was, it wasn’t enough. I couldn’t compete with Eric Greitens Day.

I did try, though. Once, in fifth grade, our class at McKelvey Elementary went to the computer lab to do some typing practice. The teacher wanted to see how many words per minute we could type. On the way out, Eric and I were walking back to our classrooms. He asked me how I did.

“35 words per minute,” I said. Not quite secretary material, but not bad for fifth grade.

“And how about you?”

“Oh, I got 40,” Eric casually replied.

Something snapped. I could never keep up. No matter how hard I tried.

I huffed, “Well, Eric, not everybody’s as good as you are at everything!” and I stormed ahead. He reached out and protested, “No wait, Matt, that’s not what I meant…”

I’m not sure what was more embarrassing: losing yet again to Eric Greitens or letting it slip that I even thought it was a competition. But that’s what it was to me. All my unresolved childhood insecurities about not measuring up had somehow been funneled into a pointless race with a class friend who, for his part, had no idea we were racing. Not that he needed to compete. Really, Eric had such a rare, special combination of talent and grit that he didn’t need to concern himself with the likes of me. But I did with him, and pointlessly so. I couldn’t keep up. I always felt like I was futilely trying to outpace someone who ran through life as though he had been born to sprint to the top.

In fact, one day that’s exactly what happened. In the sixth grade I registered for the Green Tree Run—a 5K race in a nearby town. For months I got up early before school to train. I wanted to do well.

Eric was with my family on the day of the race. His parents had another event and my mom had agreed to keep him for the morning. He was going to cheer me on from the sidelines.

However, as I was standing in the throng of runners waiting for the gun, Eric jumped into the race next to me.

“Mind if I run with you?” he asked, with shining confidence.

I was stunned by how quickly he just hopped right into a 5K. “Uh, sure, that’d be great.”

The gun fired and we all awkwardly stepped forward, trying to get our footing and find a lane. Within a few minutes I had a terrible cramp and had to walk most of the race. It was actually pretty disappointing: months of training, only to be felled by cramps. Eric, however, zipped ahead and met me at the finish line.

I had been running every day before school, and he met me at the finish line.

I actually registered for the race and had a number pinned to my shirt, and he met me at the finish line.

He was wearing jeans, and he met me at the finish line.

I just couldn’t compete. But I couldn’t stop trying.

My mother knew this. She knew how insecure and competitive I was. Which is why one bright Saturday morning many years later, after I had come up the stairs for breakfast, she greeted me in the kitchen. Standing in her flannel nightgown in front of the breakfast table shielding me from something, she set a hand on her hip and said, “Matthew, don’t look at the newspaper.”

Sure, Mom.

I maneuvered around her and picked up the paper. The front page of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch featured a large colored picture of Eric Greitens. I don’t remember the exact headline but it read something like, “Area High School Student is Totally Incredible.” It was some sort of special feature and included interviews with his family and teachers. The article was about how hard it can be for students to pay for college. They had called Eric for the paper because, well, what other high school senior was there to call in St. Louis?

Standing there in the kitchen, I studied the article carefully and stared at the picture. I cannot tell you what was going on in my mind at that moment. Excitement at finally knowing a celebrity? Jealousy at having lost another race? I’m not sure. It was a long time ago.

But I do know one thing. I remember resolving—if not consciously, then in the deeper, more determined part of my soul which controls these things: someday I, too, will get my picture in the paper.

* * *

Ultimately Eric and I parted ways and moved on.

His trajectory kept skyrocketing up, though. He went to Duke University on a full ride. (Contrary to the article, he didn’t have any problems paying for school.) After Duke, he became a Rhodes Scholar. He got his PhD at Oxford. In addition to winning marathons, he became a boxer. He joined the Navy Seals and completed tours in Afghanistan. (I am not making any of this up, by the way.) He secured a fellowship with the White House and worked with government officials to start a highly-touted program to help rebuild New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

He also began to speak on the public circuit. He spent time with Mother Theresa in Calcutta. He started a wildly successful organization called The Mission Continues to help returning war vets. He was named to Time Magazine’s 2013 List of the 100 Most Influential People in the world—that’s the 100 most influential people in the world—and made Fortune’s list of the world’s 50 greatest leaders. He wrote several books and had books written about him. One noted national journalist profiled Eric in a book and called him the perfect “warrior-intellectual”—someone who blends brilliance with strength. The internet called him “Captain America.” (“Cap” for short.) It fits.

With this other-worldly resume, he fulfilled a lifelong dream and ran for the Missouri governorship in 2016. Despite a very crowded field, a brutal election, and having spent absolutely zero time in office, he won the race.

Me? Well, I took a different path. I graduated from high school and went to a nearby state college on a partial scholarship. Like hundreds of other college kids who didn’t know what to do with their lives, I studied communication. I disappeared into anonymity.

But eventually I found something to do. I wanted to be a pastor. I wanted to serve Jesus. God changed my life through Christ and I wanted to let others know how he could change their lives, too. It worked out, and it’s what I do.

The thing about being a pastor, though, is that it doesn’t take you up. It usually takes you down. It takes you down into the troubled lives of other anonymous people who are just trying to get through the day. And while in principle I have nothing against anonymous service to anonymous people, my soul didn’t want to disappear into anonymity. I didn’t want to go down. I wanted to go up. I didn’t just want to be a pastor. I wanted to be a famous pastor. A famous pastor who writes books. A famous book-writing pastor who speaks at conferences and knows celebrities. A famous book-writing, conference-speaking, celebrity-knowing pastor who has news crews follow him around. Like Eric.

Our celebrity-worshiping culture has trained me to pursue this and even expect it. Even the religious culture in which I live actively does its own part to cultivate these expectations. We modern American Christians practice our own version of celebrity-worship—in some ways worse than the world does, with more terrible results. Church leadership conferences market successful pastors as God-ordained heroes and gurus whose books we should buy if we want to be famous and notable, like them.

But this drive-to-succeed came from inside, too. Something deep inside made me think that being liked and followed by lots of people would make me feel better about myself. My parents worked their tails off to provide for me in every way they could, but in me they were assigned by God a young man of unspeakably profound self-loathing and fear. Who knows where these insecurities came from. Like David in the Old Testament, I was conceived in sin. My folks did their best, but not even the most nurturing set of parents on earth could have shown someone like me the way to contentment. As such a perpetually nervous kid, I learned to cope by embracing the easy and dangerous lie that being admired by others was the key to happiness in life. It drove me to seek acclaim at whatever I put my hand to—in this case, being a pastor.

There is not necessarily a lot of success in being a pastor, though. Most of us are just anonymous public servants trying to scratch out a living and make a small difference in a very big world.

This was my course in life. I was clearly on the anonymous-pastor route. I worked in a couple small churches for a modest salary. Nobody knew my name except my congregation—and even many of them struggled to get it right sometime. I was too busy taking care of needy congregants to write books, learn how to box, or start a humanitarian organization. I loved being a pastor, but even still, the anonymity of my calling was a challenge to my ever-present competitive ego.

In my heart, I was still chasing Cap.

* * *

A few years into pastoral work, though, I thought I might be taking off a bit. Along with some college friends, my wife and I had started a new church in St. Louis. We called it Rooftop. (You know, “shout it from the rooftops”? It’s from the Bible.) Rooftop was doing swell, depending on how you measure these things. People were coming, and then coming back. We paid our bills. Heck, we had commercials on the radio and even our own cookbook! (You know you’ve made it when your church has its own cookbook.)

In fact, Rooftop was doing so well that a local reporter from the Post-Dispatch heard about our successful new congregation and called me up for an interview. He wanted to know if he could do a story on our church for Easter.

I met the journalist for coffee up at the local coffee shop. (Tim Townsend was his name. Good newspaper name if you ask me.) Tim asked lots of questions about my church—about this and about that. He seemed pretty interested. I liked him. He made me feel important, like a bona fide local celebrity. He told me that his editors were intrigued by his story idea and wanted to put it on the front page on Easter morning. Above the fold, with pictures. (Pictures!) He’d have to send a photographer over to my house to get some photographs. He asked if that would be alright.

“Hmmm.” I paused to make him think I was carefully considering it.

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“Just one more question before I leave, though,” Tim said, as I had already reached for my coat and had one arm in. “Are there any other new churches like yours out there? Any other young pastors I need to talk to, to get the full story, here?”

I didn’t want to tell him, but there was.

You see, there was another young church coming on strong and fast. My new friend Darrin had started a church-plant up the road. They were called “The Journey.” And The Journey had the mojo. They had the buzz. I could hear them breathing down our necks in the “race” for religious market share. We were hip, but they were hipper. We were cool, but they were cooler. It was really pretty frustrating, because Darrin’s church was quickly becoming the church I’d always dreamed of starting: trendy, exciting, well-connected, and attention-grabbing. In fact, some of “my” folks had already left “my” church and were going to “his.” Good things were happening over there.

Now, part of The Journey’s growth was due to what Christians call the Holy Spirit, who builds and grows churches. But part of it was just Darrin’s natural leadership gifts. He was a Christian Eric Greitens. He did everything well, with confidence and charm. He was dashing, dynamic, and muscular. He had experience and passion. He was one of the most naturally gifted leaders I’d ever gotten to know. When you met him you wanted to follow him. After coffee with Darrin I wanted to apply for membership in his church. Really. I even once suggested that my church become part of his church so he could be my pastor. No foolin’.

Do you know the old movie Amadeus, about Mozart? As I got to know Darrin—just as I had gotten to know Eric—I started feeling like Salieri in Amadeus. Salieri is a not-so-famous composer that tells the story of Mozart’s rise to fame. Mozart is a natural. By his own admission, Salieri’s good, but no Mozart. He’s no genius. Mozart’s talent drives Salieri insane with jealousy. It literally does. At the end of the movie you find out that he’s actually insane. He’s been narrating the story from an asylum.

I was Mozart’s Salieri: good but no genius. Able but not a natural. And it was driving me insane.

Darrin was a Mozart who was naturally gifted and would do great things. Eventually he’d be the one getting the interviews. It was simple luck (or providence) that this reporter had called me. I didn’t want to tell him about any churches other than mine. But Tim had asked: “Any other young pastors out there I need to talk to?”

Sigh.

“Actually, there are. There’s this church up the road that my friend Darrin leads. It’s a very exciting church, with a lot of great people. Here’s the website and the phone number.” I said all that. Not-so-sincerely, but I said it.

* * *

A few weeks later, Easter morning arrived. I got up early on Sunday like I normally do. Giddy and eager, I headed into my pre-game routine to get ready for the morning. On my way to the office I planned to stop by 7-11 to grab my coffee and my fame—the newspaper, with my picture, above the fold. This was the day that my pastoral fortunes would turn. This was the day when my semi-awkwardness would be put to rest and all those grade school dopes who had kept their distance would read about me in the paper and regret not knowing me, the awkward, juggling math geek who became the local celebrity pastor.

This would be the day when I caught up to Captain America. It wasn’t a tour in Afghanistan, but it was my picture in the paper.

I walked into the doors of 7-11 and turned to the newsstand. Sure enough, the article was there on the front page, above the fold. There was the headline: “New Churches Serving St. Louis…”, or something like that. And there was a picture.

But not of me.

Of my pastor-friend, Darrin.

I cussed. With the F word. I might as well have been staring at Eric Friggin’ Greiten’s picture again in the same effing newspaper. The title might as well have said, “Local Pastor is Totally Freaking Awesome, Like Captain America.”

I dropped the paper, paid for my coffee, and left.

When I got to church, everybody was excited. They had seen the article, and it was about our church and how new congregations with young people were springing up as a sign of hope in a city with a declining religious population. It was a great piece.

But I didn’t care. It was not my picture. Tim explained later that the photographer’s pictures hadn’t turned out. Not enough light or something. So he had to work quickly to get pictures of somebody for the story. Darrin’s church was right up the street.

I can still feel the dejection of walking back to my car out of 7-11 that morning without a newspaper in hand, set to drive off to my anonymous church to preach another forgettable sermon to people who may or may not know my name.

Trust me—I am not proud of such a childish reaction.

But maybe that’s what stung the most. On that Easter morning I looked into my soul and really didn’t like what I saw. I saw ego and desperation and a needy little kid who just wanted to be noticed. I saw years of effort and energy wasted while pursuing fleeting dreams of celebrity cloaked in the faux benevolence of service to God. I had suspected this about myself—that my insecurities were motivating me far more than I thought. But I had never really met this part of myself. I knew this part of myself like the neighbor you have to wave to but don’t have to deal with. That morning I finally met my neighbor-self face-to-face and did not like who I was living next to.

In fact, that’s the irony of not seeing my picture in the paper that morning. Really, my picture was there. On the front page. Invisible to all but me. I didn’t see Darrin, or Eric. I saw only myself draped in my own needy, competitive ego. And it was not a pretty picture.

At the same time, I felt noticed. Noticed by God. Chosen by God, in fact.

How so? Well think about it. After pining for years to see my picture in the paper I saw somebody else’s the very morning I’m expecting to see mine. Who writes this stuff?

God does. God writes this stuff. He organizes the affairs of creation to expose our sin so that we may be refined and improved to perfection. The Bible says that “all things work together for the good of those who love him”—all things like newspaper articles that have somebody else’s picture in the paper because there was not enough light in the room.

This was not a pretty moment for me, but I could tell it was a good one. It became obvious to me that the author of creation was making clear to my soul, in a way that it might start to truly understand, that having a competitive ego is all well and good but not the way to happiness, especially as a Christian and very-especially as a pastor.

* * *

This is not an easy lesson to learn. Even years after the clarity and despair of that infamous 7-11 moment, I still wrestle with thoughts of professional jealousy at not being chosen to have more earthly forms of success. Even as the experienced, wisened pastor that I so clearly am (note the sarcasm there), I still have to repeatedly quote to myself the command against coveting as I drive by mega-churches with their big buildings sitting like casinos along the highway. Years later I’m still reluctant to go to church leadership conferences because I find all the success-worship too discouraging and distracting for my tender soul. Whenever I go to such conclaves I can feel previously-banished demons trying to wriggle their way into the battened-down confines of my heart.

But I do know I am not the only one out there who wrestles with his ego.

A few years ago, for example, I read a book by J.R. Briggs called Fail: Finding Hope and Grace in the Midst of Ministry Failure. I saw the title and knew I must have it. Now, don’t get me wrong, I know I am definitely not a professional failure. My medium-sized church is healthy and active, filled with good friends and wonderful people. It would be the envy of millions of pastors. But the in-control part of my brain is always comparing what I do with the likes of Eric and Darrin. My 35 words per minute is still a failure compared to their 40.

In Fail, Pastor Briggs relates his own story of ministry failure. He was fired from a large and successful church and then publicly humiliated by its leaders and congregants. Instead of moping about, though, he got some help. In the wake of his “failure” he encountered the mercy and presence of God. And then he decided to connect with other pastor-failures. He held a conference for pastors who “failed” one way or another.

Word got out, and Briggs was overwhelmed by the response. All kinds of pastors—current and former—showed up. Some of them had been fired for ineffectiveness, some of them led their churches into the ground, some of them made personal or moral mistakes that forced them from church work. They all found great support, encouragement and humor in this company of rejects.

Dear reader, I must tell you: that is a church leadership conference I would gladly attend.

You should also know that the problem of “ego” has plagued the Christian Church for a long time. In the ancient Roman city of Corinth, for example, followers of Jesus were starting to bicker over which leader they preferred and whose church was best. (The story is recounted in the New Testament book of 1 Corinthians.) Paul, Apollos, and Cephas were the successful, book-writing pastors of the day. While they seemed to remain above the fray, their followers were competing for pride of place according to the reputation of their favorite pastor. “I’m with Paul, I’m with Cephas, I’m with Apollos,” they would say.

Pastor Paul, the author of Corinthians, would have none of it. He writes to these divisive believers to emphatically remind them that there is no room for competition in the kingdom of God. We all have different roles, we’re all on the same side, and we all have the promise of eternal success in Jesus Christ—a promise that should expose our earthly competition for professional success as a silly game of grade-school kickball. We are, in fact, insulting the work of Jesus, who died on the cross to give us all the victory of heavenly reward. Why then the competition?

As Paul writes, “So then, no more boasting about men! All things are yours, whether Paul or Apollos or Cephas or the word or life or death or the present or the future—all things are yours, and you are of Christ, and Christ is of God.”

All things are yours, he says. All things—especially the things that matter, like the riches of God’s grace and our destiny in the new heavens and earth. I repeat that to myself, sometimes many times a day. What am I competing for here on earth? My picture in the damn newspaper? For the love of God, why? Anything important I’ve ever really wanted is already mine in Jesus Christ.

I don’t mean to say that working hard for the recognition of others is a complete waste of time. Desiring success so that our peers will notice us is, at one level, perfectly human and quite motivational. As my childhood friend Eric Greitens wrote in his senior thesis (which I may or may not have read), “To desire esteem is not always an expression of pride…Rather, it often reflects hope that one will act correctly and a faith that others will eventually come to recognize right action.”

That is true and wise. (So Eric is not only a warrior-intellectual but a warrior-intellectual-dispenser-of-sage-advice.)

On the other hand, my sense of motivation was way too wrapped up in some misguided competition with old friends to be good for me. And more importantly, whatever I’m competing for does not and never will compare to the spiritual wealth I already have secured in the love of a holy God, by the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.

All things are mine.

* * *

It’s been many years since the early-morning disappointment in 7-11 that Easter morning. Since then I’ve watched both my Amadeuses take off to stratospheric heights in their respective galaxies. I’ve tried to keep my distance so as not to get caught up in the comparison game—and also so I could focus on my everyday responsibilities without distraction.

Try as I might, though, it’s hard to not stare at shooting stars glowing in the night sky above you. For his part, Darrin was always speaking at conferences, appearing in magazines, writing books, and showing up in my social media feed. He was asked to be the chaplain for the St. Louis Cardinal’s baseball team, and hobnobbed with local celebrities, leaders, and professional athletes. The Journey is just up the road, and I’d always have to drive by it or one of their several campuses throughout the city.

For a while I couldn’t get away from The Journey, in fact. They’re always doing something cool and newsworthy that I’d hear about on the radio, and I’d constantly run into Journeyers—at Starbucks, in my neighborhood, at parties. Everywhere.

But that became a very good challenge for me—a daily opportunity to focus on the honor of doing what God has given me to do, and nothing more. In fact, I’ve come to enjoy the anonymity of my sort of pastoral work. I enjoy being a little fish who pastors in my little pond and then swims home to serve my family. I’ve learned to specialize in the ministry of the small and insignificant—what German pastor-theologian Dietrich Bonhoeffer calls “the ministry of the mundane.” That’s where the real work of pastoring lies, and probably what Jesus is referring to when he tells those seeking glory that “he who would become great must become the servant of all.”

Besides which, I seriously doubt I have the constitution to serve on any sort of grander scale. Like so many pastors before I’d probably crash and burn in some humiliating, morally-compromising way. I have way too many problems to deal with the additional temptations that come with notoriety. In this way anonymity has become my “safe space.” My shield.

In fact, Darrin’s journey is a cautionary tale for me and others in this regard. (As if we really needed another tale of this sort.) He did become the famous, book-writing, conference-speaking pastor I so desired I might be—until he was fired from the mega-church he started, for professional misconduct. I recently saw his picture in the paper…again…with an article detailing his fall from grace. Tim Townsend wrote this one, too. Like I said, there are a certain set of challenges with pastoral fame that us anonymous-types will (thankfully and hopefully) never have to deal with.

The good news is that Darrin’s on the slow path to personal and professional recovery. I hope for the best for him. We need him at full-strength.

As far as Eric, his picture has never stopped appearing in the paper. And if Darrin’s failure was bad, well then, Eric’s is downright catastrophic.

In case you haven’t heard, very soon after winning the governorship my old childhood friend confessed to an adulterous affair under some very ugly circumstances. He was arrested for allegedly taking and transmitting pictures of a half-dressed woman tied up in his basement. On top of that, his administration could never shake questions regarding unethical political behavior which, his opponents say, won him the election. Even months after his resignation I am still seeing his picture in the paper.

Except this time, it’s his mug shot.

Unfortunately, this sad development is not too much of a surprise. I guess I was so blinded by admiration for Eric (and so enthralled by his friendship to me) that I missed what some of my other friends saw quite clearly: Eric was very good at bullying and cheating his way to the top. I really believe there is a profound and genuine goodness in Eric. I heard it on the phone that day when he called to console me after I lost my election, and saw it many other times. But that goodness seems to be equally matched by the same pernicious evil that lies in every single one of us. I imagine the battle between good and evil inside of Eric is a fierce one. (Like it is within me, for the record.)

Not-so-surprisingly, I have heard from some political prognosticators that as the supremely determined and not-to-be-defeated man he is, Eric Greitens could very well be planning a political comeback of some sort. He was one or two governor-terms away from running to become the next president of the United States. He had carefully assembled the perfect resume. Being that close to the history books is probably too tempting to just leave behind. Who knows what he’s planning?

But for the sake of my childhood friend, if not for the citizens of the United States—I desperately hope there’s no political comeback. Stay home, Eric. Enjoy your family. Learn humility. Learn integrity. Learn true and lasting joy. Learn the blessing of the private life. Fall into the supportive arms of whatever true friends and family you know will always be there for you, no matter what. Use the God-given treasure trove of gifts you’ve been given to rebuild your life on the rock of salvation and not the sinking sand of personal accomplishment.

And by all means, be forgiven of your sins. Be forgiven by a holy, loving God who needs nothing from you. In Christ there is an everlasting peace you can have and enjoy. But you must give up all your hopes, dreams and ambitions to receive it.

My old pastor-friend Darrin has discovered that—as have many other failed leaders. Including myself.

Eric, you can too.

* * *

In my life-long race with the man-who-briefly-became-the-governor-of-Missouri, one little experience has lodged into my brain, and I’ll leave you with this.

Years ago, when the future governor was nothing but a young, fresh-faced warrior-intellectual with the world at his feet, I stumbled upon another article in the paper about him. The Post-Dispatch said he would be in town at a release party for his new book: a compilation of critically-acclaimed photographs he had taken from refugee camps around the world, along with original essays he had composed on the topics of compassion and mercy. (I’m telling you, it’s really hard not to like this guy.) Honestly, I wasn’t sure I should attend. I’d worked pretty hard to starve the beasts of my ego and I didn’t want to give them any fresh meat.

But I decided to go. Really, aside from being insanely jealous of his talents, I had always respected Eric and I wanted to congratulate him on his success. (This was years before any rumors of salacious activities had begun to swirl.) Plus, I liked Eric and was grateful for his friendship.

So I went.

As it turned out, this was no small book-signing at the local bookshop. It was a packed house held in the great hall of a local museum. Fans, friends, and supporters all crammed the joint. Before the book-signing, there were some speakers—including some famous politicians and a man from Africa. His name was Paul Rusebagina, the hero about whom the movie Hotel Rwanda was based and who had saved over 1,000 African refugees during the Rwandan genocide. He and Eric were friends. (Of course they were.) Then Eric stood up and gave a nice speech. Afterwards, hundreds of us—old friends and new fans alike—lined up to buy books and snaked our way through barriers that had been erected for crowd-control, in order to have the man-of-the-hour sign our copies with his autograph.

As I inched forward in line my palms got sweaty at the thought of meeting a celebrity, not knowing what I’d say. Would he even remember me, his long-lost juggling mentor? It had been many years since we last saw each other.

When I got to the front of the line Eric was overjoyed to see me. “Oh my God oh my God!” he said. It was genuine. We shared a bro-hug and he signed my book. In fact, he said that if I hung out until after the line died down he’d write a little note inside the cover, as he only had time to sign his name. The line was too long.

It was a nice—if slightly odd—offer. I thought about sticking around. But it was late. It had been a long day at church. I had some commitments the next day and I needed to get to bed.

Tucking my book under my arm, I headed home.

I was done chasing Cap.

-MRH (March 2019)