“You actually don’t get that much from writing a book,” said the author of two books published by major publishers. It’s the second time in a month that an author has related to me how much of your life doesn’t change once you join the ranks of actual, honest-to-God authors. It’s such a struggle to convince yourself that you actually have something to say that would take a whole book, and it’s such a trial to actually produce that thing, that you must think all the while that everything about your life will change once it’s done and on bookshelves somewhere.

But I guess nothing really changes. Only now you have to sell your book. You have to go talk to the public about it. And you have to start working on the next one. What, you thought you’d be content to publish a single book and be done?

I’ve never written a book. I have harbored the illusion, though, that if I did I would be a different kind of person: smarter, more interesting, worth listening to.

If the work we’re doing is a ladder to another kind of life in which we’re a different kind of person, then it’ s an illusion. We always must scrap and struggle to be producing work of value, and no past or potential achievement will remove that burden from us. If anything, the burden intensifies once we’ve reached a goal. Because now we know we can do it; we don’t have that excuse anymore.

What if the book you’re thinking of writing is just one piece in a larger constellation of work you’re doing?

My blog posts have come later in the day this week, because I’ve been going to the gym during my blogging time. Previously, my gym time came later in the morning, but that frequently meant not digging in to work until 10:00, and that felt hard to justify. Because the story I tell myself about myself is that I am a responsible professional.

But I also tell myself a story about myself that says I am a blogger, so the time to do that needs protecting. For a couple of months it came at the expense of the gym.

I also want to tell myself a story about myself that I am not a lazy out-of-shape slob, and the absence of regular exercise makes that story a very tough sell indeed.

I’m telling myself multiple stories about myself, and there’s a constant negotiation going on among them.

Everybody does this. The people who come to our churches are doing so as an exercise of the story they tell themselves about themselves. “Lifelong Presbyterian,” Liberal Christian,” “Interested observer,” “Begrudging companion”: these stories all interact with a personal network of related stories like, “I’m a teacher,” or “I’m a marathon runner.”

People leave church because it no longer fits the story they’re telling themselves about themselves: “I’m inclusive.” “I obey the Bible.” “I”m open minded.” “I’m faithful.”

Sometimes something happens in the church that changes the fit, like a changing definition of marriage. But I think just as often something happens in the person. Their story changes, while the church doesn’t.

I feel like I need to know my peoples’ stories better.

I’m totally faking it.

“I’m a writer.”

“I’m a podcaster.”

“I’m a pastor.”

“I’m a parent.”

So often, the interior assessment doesn’t match the external role and so you fake it. It’s not disingenuous or inauthentic; it’s survival. Some of what you fake is the official stuff–the role/title/commitments–and you wait out the lag until it feels like it fits again. You go through the motions, which is so totally faithful, even though it feels phony.

Other stuff you fake to convince yourself of something you hope is true but seriously doubt. I remember calling people for a story I had pitched to write for a national magazine and introducing myself on the phone as a “Freelance Writer,” even as I checked the clock on my apartment stove to be sure I wasn’t late for my shift at the restaurant down the street. As soon as I said it they believed it. And so did I.

Faking it is for real.

How much of leadership in a church (or any organization) is about leading groups of people, and how much is about individuals? If there’s a new thing happening, is the pastor helping to gather a team to work on it, or is the pastor pouring time and energy into one person, so that s/he can gather a team and do the work?

It sounds like a minor distinction, but it feels consequential. I was trained to, when someone approaches me with an idea, send them out to “run it up the flagpole,” see who else feels called to the idea, and then to come back. Then, as the pastor, I’ll get involved and help lead.

I’m realizing, though, that “running it up the flagpole” is by no means self-explanatory, and that many people who feel a calling to solve a problem feel far less called to rally their peers to solve it with them. It’s a confidence issue. So, nine times out of 10, I send them out to drum up interest and they never come back.

“I don’t think that’s a good way to lead,” a fellow pastor told me recently when I described this method. He said, “This is our job, not theirs. They have a job. They don’t have a bunch of extra time to do those things. But it’s our job.” (That’s a pretty loose paraphrase).

Instead, he says, he commits to some concrete steps toward exploring the idea and the person’s sense of call to work on it. That exploration is time-bounded and open ended, so it’s possible at least one of them will discern that moving forward is a bad idea.

So I’m trying this. Somebody came to see me yesterday with an idea, and I promised to do two concrete things over the next two weeks to see if it’s something that energizes me and seems good. He’s doing some things too. We’ve set up another meeting together in two weeks.

How do you channel new energy and new ideas?

Kile Jones started this thing called Interview An Atheist At Church, where he’s connecting pastors across the country with atheists in their community and facilitating opportunities for them to talk to one another, publicly, in worship.

Again, that’s an atheist, a “deconverted” Christian, investing loads of energy and time into making connections between communities of belief and individuals with no religious belief, all for the sake of encouraging “humanizing” encounters between them.

That’s good. God –and every atheist–knows we need as many “humanizing” encounters as we can get.

Listen to my very humanizing conversation with Kile below, and check out all the podcast episodes and how to subscribe here.

The action we take when the moment of decision is upon us has been determined long before, and if we’re not careful we can rule out the possibility of generosity and courage without even knowing it (this blog post is brought to you by an embarrassed softball duff who still can’t field a ball properly because he chooses, time and again, to play everything to the side and to let the ball come to him–a choice made inevitable before the ball is even hit).

Will we help the stranger who’s standing right in front of us? Will we blow the whistle? Will we stand up to a bully?

What if we anticipated these openings and prepared for them? It’s a myth that people who do remarkable things for others are made of holier stuff than the rest of us. Maybe they simply used all of the non-remarkable moments as opportunities to prepare for the chance to make a positive impact: grab some money before you leave the house in case anyone asks for some, pay for a stranger’s coffee now and again–you know, practice.

When I catalog the times I failed to live up to my own expectations, I notice the failure was all but guaranteed by a chain of smaller failures. And when I celebrate those moments when compassion or restraint win out, of course I discern a road well paved by little decisions nobody noticed.

Doing a podcast is teaching me the importance of editing. It is a waste of an audience’s energy and time to require it to wait out long pauses, endure a hailstorm of “um’s,” or to subject them to giggle-filled inside jokes. You have to cut that stuff out and hand over a product that is tight and easy for the audience to relate to. Cut the fat off the bone.

And yet one of my favorite podcasts routinely offers the uncut version of their episodes alongside the one edited for broadcast, and I almost always choose the uncut version. Maybe some gems are buried ‘neath the editing floor scraps. Maybe I’ll hear something that few others will. There could be a connection lurking there, and I don’t want to miss it. So I choose the longer, less polished product.

Do you do that?

Here’s the unedited version of my most recent podcast episode, which I haven’t even edited yet, much less posted. But if you’re into this sort of thing, here are comments about time limits, sound checks, and an admission about ratatouille.