On the same discussion thread, “Dear God: A Little Venting” at Group Beyond Blue, member Luthitarian posted his letter (below), and then … God answered him! What a cool concept. God’s response is the post after this one.

From Group Beyond Blue member Luthitarian:

Okay, God, I know my wife is standing in line to ask you–actually, chew your Divine derriere out–about the food chain thing, so I’ll make this fairly quick. I’m feeling totally stuck with nothing new or different to look forward to but all work and no play. I’d feel fortunate if it only made me a dull boy like Jack, but I’m pissed.

I’ve chosen to serve you in chaplaincy and then also crossed over to mental health where I hope I can be of service there, too, and maybe while I am at it, take care of minor details like paying the bills. But, whoever determines the value of things (apparently not you, because I doubt your priorities are that screwed up!) the work I do at both jobs doesn’t pay any more than flipping flippin’ burgers and dipping french fries into artery-hardening grease. I could work for my son, the McDonald’s manager, or his wife, the Burger King manager (how’d you pull that one off, anyway!? Talk about ‘mixed marriages’!) and make about as much as I do now.

So, I’m working my age (61) in hours–almost. 56 hours last week. Sometimes more. Rarely less. And if less, I start sweating about bills.

People I started teaching with have been enjoying full retirement for about five or six years. Me? I’m working like some kid right out of college with a worthless liberal arts degree. (Come to think of it, that’s what I have)

Don’t get me wrong! I love serving you and trying to embody your love for those who need it most–the wounded, the crushed, the limping, the desperate, the defeated, the–well, you know the rest. And all I ever learned about self-care in seminary and during the chaplaincy residency have gone out the window because of that practical but annoying desire to not live under a damn bridge.

Okay, my wife’s clearing her throat and tugging at my sleeve, so I’ll wrap this diatribe up posthaste. I never wanted to serve you and live a lifestyle like some tv evangelist offering prayers for bucks. Just a little breathing space and some basic comforts–that asking too much!?

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