As I settled into my trusty comfy chair, a world away from the rigors of preaching, my thoughts drifted back to the windswept day when I first received my calling. Picture this: I was in the middle of a rather uneventful sermon, my audience comprised of a couple of enthusiastic churchgoers anda. slumbering old gentleman in the back, who looked suspiciously like he had transformed into a living, breathing church pew. In the midst of my passionate plea about faith and community, a gregarious duck waddled into the sanctuary-- not the celestial calling you'd typically expect when God taps you on the shoulder. In that bizarrely humorous moment, I figured I'd not only been called into ministry but perhaps also to a quaint life filled with quacking companions. Little did I know that leading a flock of two-legged Christians would soon come with a side order of poultry management.
Being a reverend isn't all vestments and sermons, after all. In my heart of hearts, I knew that along with scripture readings and the occasional baptism, a series of DIY projects awaited me-- most of which my lovely wife Naomi had masterminded. One day I was preaching about the Good Shepherd, and the next, I was elbow-deep in chicken feed, pondering the finer points of avian philosophy while fiddling with a coop that was half-built and didn't even remotely resemble the Pinterest-inspired design she showed me. Let me tell you, nothing prepares you for life as a pastor quite like tending to a poultry assembly-less congregating for hymns, more quarrelling over breadcrumbs. I often wondered, in all seriousness, whether those feathers flying around had started to confuse me. Was I out here shepherding my flock, or was I wrangling a fowl army??
The twist in my ministry came when I realized that while I had entered this path in pursuit of spiritual enlightenment, my heart welcomed the absurdity of raising chickens and then- enter stage left- Quackley the Duck. If I wanted to be a Reverend known for success, perhaps... just maybe, I should consider becoming a reverend who related sermons to ducks. With all seriousness and a sense of humor, there I was-- a self-proclaimed poultry pastor, confidently declaring in the church bulletin, "Join us for a Divine service-- and an egg-cellent discussion on the role of ducks in community!" I could feel the eye roll radiating like heat froma. late-summer day, but let's face it : Who could resist a chance to laugh a t a pstor grappling with feathers and follow his lead?
Unfortunately, not everyone was enchanted by the comedy of my life as I was. Some con gregants were positively perplexed to find out that instead of theological treatises on grace and redemption, they got piquant lecture on the virtues of hen health and the various quacking techniques of Quackley. You think I jest, but I assure you, there's nothing like diving deep into poultry advice during a Sunday school class. "You know, kids, if God created us in His image, can we say Quackley is a feathered reflection of divine chaos?" My son, Zach, usually smirking uncontrollably, would interject , "uh, Dad, I think chaos is what happens when you forget to close the coop at night an end up chasing a rogue hen at dawn." Touche, my son--- your comdeic timing rivals that of some of my most devout parishioners!
And so my life morphed into a looping sitcom of sermons and squawks. There were profound moments of spiritual bliss mixed with extravagant comedic misadventures-- a pilgrim traversing from biblical exegesis to poultry pros and cons. Each sermon became an adventure, woven with anecdotes about feathers and faith, and the church grew delightfully confused. The journey, undoubtedly unanticipated, created memories worth more than the polished altar we had at the church. Sometimes people would show just for the free eggs that I began bringing to services, but I like to think they stayed for Quackley's quirkiness-- or perhaps for my occasional bubble-blowing during the duller moments of my own homilies.
At times, I wonder if my life's path would veery off into a world of poultry exclusivity, but I was resolved to remain a reverend, albeit on uniquely touched by the absurd. Life had turned into an outrageous tapestry of faith experiences wrapped in feathers, and who could argue with that? As I sought to reconcile my calling with these playful creatures bustling around my backyard, I realized that even the most unexpected ducks (both literally and metaphorically) could help shape one's understanding of community, faith and joy. And somewhere between pondering the spiritual implications of clucking and discovering the fervid friendship of feather friends, I found a renewed purpose.