The Holy Hustle

The first sign of disaster came in the form of an invoice for glitter cannons.

I found it taped to my temporary office door, which was odd because I didn’t have an office door. I was still deciding whether I wanted my boring interim job as an assistant pastor to parlay into the presumably more boring full-time position I’d been offered. In my experience as a parishioner and my lack of experience as clergy, the bigger the church, the tighter the script. I was certain I could die here. But could I also live here? I craved excitement and, so far, almost nothing surprising ever happened. In fact, I prayed to God it would.

In any case, calling my office “an office” was a bit much for what could most generously be described as a repurposed broom closet in the back of Redeemer Victory MegaChurch. It was a closet so small that if I inhaled too sharply, I could dislodge the bookshelf and send a year’s worth of tithing envelopes fluttering like repentant pigeons. I know. It had happened more than once.

The invoice read: GLITTER CANNONS (4x, GOLD SPARKLE): $4,287