The rest of my dream follows a,similar flight plan. Cries go out for help. I fly over and people outline their problems. I fix them.
I help Cranky Hank who needs a ride to the airport on Tuesday- at 4 a.m.. I And I rescue Darla Detail, self appointed chief of the preaching police, who notes I gave the wrong address for a Psalm I quoted Iron memory last Sunday.
Several dream hours later, I fly home exhausted. My superwife says, “Just in time to drop our three precious children at their extracurricular activities, remember?” Of course, dear. How could I, SuperPastor, possibly forget?” My wife detects both my weariness and my sarcasm, “Are you OK?’ she asks.
“Truthfully? I’m beginning to feel the Fear Factor,” I respond “I’m not finished with the sermon. I fear that I’ll stand up to preach and there on the pulpit will be a bunch of empty sheets of paper.”
“What a nightmare!” she exclaims. “We’ll just turn that nasty phone ringer to off and you can return calls only if they are truly urgent.” ‘But,” I protest, “people expect me to be there for them, After all, I’m SuperPastor!’
My wife gently reads her verse of the day: “it was [God] who gave some to the apostles, some to be prophets, some to be evangelists, and some to be pastors and teachers, to prepare God’s people for works of service” (Eph. 4:11-12), “I know that one,” I say.
She smiles. “Do you remember what you said last week about our kids and how if we keep picking up for them, they’ll never learn how to be responsible? You are a superdad when you love them enough to equip them to be self-disciplined.”
“Ah! I’ll be a SuperPastor if I equip others to become successfully self disciplined in doing ministry!”
“You are so smart! That’s why I married you,” my superwife says.
I reply, “And I thought it was because of my rugged good looks.”
“Uhm, well, sure.”
The alarm clock finally brings me back down to earth. I awake next to my wife, who is just as pretty as she was in my dream.
“What were you dreaming about?” she asks. “You just said, ‘Up, up and away!’ ”
“Yes, you did. Are you OK?” she asks.
“Super,’ I say. “Just super.”
Even though it’s late, I’m not sleeping. I’m still chewing on the – latest criticism plopped onto my I pastoral plate, seasoned with
unrealistic expectations. Fog settles on my throbbing brain, and I drift into Pastorland, where an announcer heralds the arrival of a dreamy hero:
“He preaches more powerfully than Billy Graham, counsels more effectively than Dr. Dobson, spends more time making hospital visits if an Marcus Welby. He’s SuperPastor!
As my superdream gains altitude, I hear the sound of wind whistling through my perfectly styled hair followed by the sound of my landing with a thud.
‘How may I help you?” I ask kindly.
“I’m supposed to work in children’s church this Sunday,’ Martha Manic replies. “But this Sunday I’m scheduled to take my daughters to the garden show.”
‘I see,” I say. “Why don’t you call your designated nursery substitute and see if you can switch Sundays”
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Martha replies. “Oh, thank you, SuperPastor!”