Get Back Here, You %$&#@*!

A Lesson in Bravery

I grew up in a large church built in the 70s with fake and psychedelic-looking stained glass windows. On Sundays, people gathered to worship God, raising their hands towards heaven amidst the burnt orange pews.

The pastors’ pictures were mounted on the front lobby’s wall. Each wore a suit, tie and smiled out at all who entered.The gold frame held a small plaque at its base where the pastor’s name and position was engraved.

Seeing my father smiling, under a thick mustache, from that infamous wall made me feel proud. Every week, one thousand attenders walked by it in their Sunday best. This made me feel special.

It also made me feel watched. Everyone in the church knew who my father was. Ministers and their families are held to a higher standard: holy perfection.

Lucky for me, our church LOVED kids. The children’s ministry took over the gymnasium with tan rubber floors and brown shag carpet on the walls. A wooden castle was built by the adults of the church who constructed turrets and made medieval walls of painted bricks. From a window above the stage, puppets emerged for conversations with the kids’ pastor. They bobbed their heads and swung permanently-straight arms while lip syncing worship songs.

And the parents of the 80s were different. They raised us on 6-8 glasses of Coke or Dr. Pepper a day, so they had no issue with the handing out of sweet rewards to their children. If we behaved well, brought our Precious Moments Bibles to church or memorized Scripture, we received all sorts of candy that overflowed from buckets as we exited the gym: jolly ranchers, tootsie roll pops, chick-o-sticks and fun dip.

The elderly loved to see a church that wasn’t silent like other churches in St. Joseph, Missouri–pews filled with dwindling congregations of white-haired members. Our old saints allowed us to roll under the pews, draw and pass notes on offering envelopes during services, play foursquare in the parking lot, and rule the church’s lobby like miniature gangs addicted to a sugar high.

My father recruited a few adult volunteers for his weekly youth service and ministry–always a challenge. The good people of the church weren’t lining up outside his office door for the chance to mingle with B.O., blackheads and sass. But, my father still assembled a dedicated crew.

One of those youth volunteers was John–newly out of college and married. He and his wife braved the frey to be a part of Dunamis Youth Group every Wednesday night. And since he was young, he wasn’t opposed to a pack of church kids hanging from his shoulders or chasing him short distances in the lobby.

It was a normal day at First Assembly of God. The kids were released from their kids’ church castle–high on pure sugar. A few of us found John. He placated us and allowed his body to become a human rock wall. After peeling a child off his back he said, “OK, kiddos. My wife’s already in the car. I’ve got to go.”

My posse let out a collective moan. There weren’t too many adults left in the building who liked to play. He grabbed his leather jacket with billowy sleeves and headed to the parking lot. My girlfriends joined me in the pursuit.

They were wise enough to stay silent.

I flung wide the glass double doors that opened into a large parking lot. One thousand church members were disbursing to their cars–climbing into Ford Escorts and Chevy Corsicas.

I yelled at the top of my lungs so John would understand our desperation.

“John! You get back here, you %$&#@*!” (Reader, just imagine a loud BLEEP in your head–the ones used to mask the most horrible of words.)

Heads turned. Mouths gaped. I’m sure some lady clutched her pearls as they experienced me, a pastor’s daughter, cussing for the first time in her life.

How completely unfortunate.

My parents were not there to soak up all the attention. Back in the youth room, they were still cleaning up the disorder left by 100 teens.

Mom and Dad had been there for my first steps. My first words. My first report card. But they missed out on this first. No one there took a camcorder recording I’d later watch while home for Christmas in my 20s. No pictures taken. Just 1,000 eye witnesses who could tell them the story.

I didn’t want my parents to feel bad for missing the occasion of their eldest daughter’s first usage of profanity. So, on the ride home in my dad’s red Jeep truck, I didn’t say a thing.

I didn’t have to. I knew someone in that parking lot would soon share their firsthand experience.

The phone was already ringing when we walked through the backdoor and into our blue kitchen with a rusty brown double oven stovetop range. It was John.

“PK (my father’s nickname at church–short for Pastor Kent), I’ve got something to talk to you about.”

I walked out of the kitchen and plopped down in my usual spot on the black and peach floral couch–peace and calm on the outside, all shame on the inside.

John told my dad the story of my first curse word that bounced off cars and echoed in the hot Missouri air.

“Sorry, PK. My wife and I are officially resigning from being volunteers in the youth group.”

My dad gave a long exhale that could be heard from the living room. He was in a button-up shirt and tie, with dress pants and dark brown loafers. He deflated and propped himself up against the kitchen’s doorframe. “Well, okay, John. I’m really sorry for what happened.”

My dad’s apology only emboldened the young whipper-snapper right out of college, with a new ring on his finger, who somehow accumulated the wisdom of the ages. “You see, I don’t think I could ever respect a pastor who raises children who speak like that.”

I don’t think this terminology was around in the 80s. But John, over a landline phone, gave the ultimate mic drop. Dad apologized again and hung up.

The next two days were quiet–no words from my parents while my mom curled and hair sprayed my sky high bangs or on the way to school. No conversation on the way to my piano lesson; ignored at dinner time. For the first time in my life, I’d done something they had to distance themselves from. The silence, heavy with disappointment, was my punishment.

John and all those haughty church people had won. The 10-year-old Olivia needed to wear a scarlet letter so everyone knew I was sorry.

After a long 48 hours, my parents woke up. “Sorry, Liv. We were wrong.” The silence was broken. “What you did was normal for a kid! John is the one with the problem. We’re sorry we treated you that way.”

That night’s dinner was different. We talked again; laughed. Guzzled our 12 ounces of Dr. Pepper while crunching tater tots.

As a Christian pastor in 2026, I am re-living that experience in my home church’s parking lot. With so much division, one side or the other will stand on the sidelines and notice your “mistakes.” But no one is brave enough to call me or my dad on our kitchen phone to complain and resign.

They send mean emails or text messages announcing the withdrawal of their church membership. Opinions are screamed online while remaining silent face-to-face. When asked, they tell white lies to avoid an uncomfortable conversation (which in the typical karma of lies, always gets found out). Others hope a silent exit, a withdrawal of relationship, will somehow go noticed.

I guess in another time–when hard news could only be given by speaking to someone through a phone on the wall or by sitting down in a booth at Perkins, speaking face-to-face over a cup of bad coffee–that self-righteous youth volunteer, John, was forced to be brave.

He may not have been right. But he was brave. He spoke to my dad and gave my father an opportunity to respond.

To Understand.

Empathize.

Hear the backstory.

Feel their stress.

Not always restore a relationship, but lay a path for forgiveness.

An Estonian–with hair dyed that combo of orange, burgundy and red only found in Europe–once looked down at me over a plate of spaghetti and got brave: “I’m glad you’re a Christian. You need it–like a crutch to make it through life. I’m strong. I just don’t need it the same way you do.”

Unfortunate for her, I did not remain silent; chewing on a piece of al dente penne covered in sauce.

“Christianity’s not for the weak. It’s for the strong. Everything tries to pull you away from living out really hard stuff—like love, forgiveness, generosity. People (especially in Estonia) think you’re just weird for following Jesus.” I took a sip of lukewarm water to chase down a piece of pasta. “It’d be so much easier to just give up, fit in and do everything that makes me happy and acceptable.”

Jesus turned his world upside down through radical love and service. It led him to the cross.

The famous Paul, a saint who has large cathedrals built in his honor, guided outsiders into “The Way” across Asia and Europe. Those found in Paul’s shadow, while passing down a dusty road, found God’s healing.

What did he get? Lashes, beatings, an attempted stoning, ship wrecks, long stints in prison, and beheading.

Estonians are comfortable with long periods of silence during conversation. The friend with the unnaturally red hair stared at me while sipping her own bottle of San Pelligrino. “I’ve never thought of it that way.”

Being a Christian leader in 2026 America is tough. The stats show many resigning and fewer and fewer choosing ministry as a career path—seminaries closing left and right for lack of students.

Although I am not in a comparison game with Jesus or Paul, ministry still costs. It requires great amounts of bravery that is not always reciprocated by those we serve.

Sometimes I beg God to let me just be a normal Christian–love God with everything I have and show up on Sundays to sit in the pews with all the other normal Christians.

I tell Him that I don’t want to live a public faith observed from stages, behind microphones, and through my or my kids’ public mistakes.

Then two Sundays ago, I felt God answer.

From my front row seat, reserved for leaders in the sanctuary, I sing and lift my hands. I ask for God’s help to somehow do this all. To survive. To help people.

“I am here. I have put you here. All will be okay.” Deep inside He somehow speaks to me.

He’d let me cuss into the sky at Him. At the people who hurt me. At the unbrave. At all the church people staring from their Fords and Jeeps, pearls in hand.

He won’t give me the silent treatment for two days. Or one day. Or even a milli-second.

And I think back to that conversation at an Italian restaurant in Estonia. Maybe Christianity isn’t for the strong.

It’s for those who ask for help; ask God for help. They can’t do it on their own–love, forgive, be generous, lead a church.

It’s for those who are silent enough to listen to their insides as He says, “I am here. I put you here. All will be okay.”