Twenty two years ago life was much simpler than it is now. A friend sent me the above picture of a youth retreat and even though it might seem like an innocuous scene, it flooded my memory of a happy time in my life.

The difference between then and now is that I’ve seen too much. I have reverted to the childhood game of hide and seek. You know the one? The kid closes his eyes and thinks no one can see him. I’m bringing that one back.

In 1986 I was a youth pastor. I use the term loosely. Triage Technician might better fit the bill. It was my first full time gig as a padre. Like all first time experiences, I thought that what I was experiencing was normal. As it turns out, the experience was unique.

With the benefit of hindsight, I can say we were a bunch of misfits. Outcasts. I fit right in. It was a small church with a progressive pastor who was trained at Fuller Theological Seminary. He’s still one of the coolest people I know. I had no idea what I was doing, so I just started doing things. That’s what pastor’s do, right? Do things? When in doubt, do something. So I gathered a group of adults and called them “youth sponsors.” And we started having some “meetings.” It was in these meetings that we developed a “program.” We renovated a taxidermist’s office into a “youth center.” That was fun.

What happened next was beautiful, but I was too young to see it. The “youth sponsors” and I became a family. They were almost as screwed up as I was and we bonded instantly. We seemed to attract an interesting lot of kids. This was before ADHD, Oppositional Defiant Disorder, and Borderline Personality Disorder were common household names. Looking back, we should have named our group the “DSM-IV.” One thing is for sure: I have not laughed as much before or since. It was from that group that I learned that we take communion because Jesus is the “King of the Juice.” We laughed at funerals and cried at weddings. And we tried to help the kids that came our way who were in various stages of disrepair. And we did this while trying to put band aids on our own mixed up lives. It was pastoral nirvana. I’ll pull the curtain back for you just a little: On the prayer list one night was one of our youth sponsors who had sliced off her nipple in a food processor. I’m not making this up. I COULDN’T make this up. We did pray for her, but it was between howls of laughter. We thought God was laughing hysterically with us that night.

We got in the habit of taking the kids on a retreat to the Smoky Mountains twice a year. We rented chalets and vans and collected permission slips. It was during these trips that we discovered a beautiful community. Secrets were shared far away from home. Guards were lowered. Hearts exposed. Wounds healed. Farts proclaimed. Book of Acts kind of stuff.

As you know by now, all good things must come to an end. We returned from one of our retreats to find out that our pastor had been fired (or asked to resign, I can’t remember which). Like there’s a difference. I can’t remember why they didn’t want him anymore. I think it had something to do with him not making enough house calls. Something heretical like that. I have blocked out the details of that event. I remember having the wind knocked out of me. I remember coming down off the mountain into a pile of crap. And that was the beginning of my fight with the church. A fight that I have lost.

Even so, when I have a difficult day (like today), or when I have seen too much, I can close my eyes and travel back to this place of innocence and ignorance. To a time when we were the “least of these” and didn’t know it.

Tonight, at least for me, experience is vastly overrated.

Postscript: A few weeks ago I had breakfast with the ousted cleric. He’s going to take another run at it. He’s good at what he does and he tells me he has the stomach for it. He never really left the ministry, but he’s been hiding out in the cheap seats for a few years. I’m pulling for him. You might want to send up a prayer for him if you’re the kind of person that does that sort of thing.

Jesus said you can’t pour new wine into old wineskins. The New Urban Translation puts it another way: “You can’t polish a turd.”

I have two suggestions for you: 1) If you are currently in a new wineskin, I hope you can see it without the benefit of hindsight, and 2) Be careful with your food processor.