I have an admission: I have a problem—and not in the Frank-Costanza-Festivus-airing-of-grievances sense. My problem isn’t with you people. My problem is me.

The nature of my problem causes me great shame. So, it’s not easy to talk about … especially in public … from the pulpit.

I mean, who likes to get up and be vulnerable to a room full of people?

But I’ve beaten the drum of truth and honesty for so long, talked about how this is one of the rare congregations where it feels safe to be the same person you are in public as you are in private—not to have to worry that if people actually saw the real you, they’d judge you.

As I say, that’s an amazingly rare gift in this world where people are so busy hiding their most authentic selves from the invasively censorious glances of a world feverishly looking for any opportunity to judge us. So, I want to keep faith with this community by practicing what I preach.

So, here goes: I have a problem. My mouth gets me in a lot of trouble.

I see the shocked looks on your faces … but it’s true.

Now, this might seem to you like a pathetic admission—you, who probably never have to worry that your mouth constantly threatens to make your life miserable.

Lucky you.

But, me, I’ve got to stay vigilant, lest I talk my way into situations I can’t easily talk myself out of.

Now, you may be thinking: “Of course, you have a problem with your mouth. Everybody knows your mouth is forever getting you in hot water. We all figured that was why you like your job so much.”

Oh … well … yeah, sure. That may be true. But that’s not the problem I’m talking about.

The word that gets me into the biggest messes isn’t some rhetorical bomb-throwing I may take a bit too much glee in.

No, the word that so often makes my life miserable is “yes.”

Yes. Such a simple word, but saying it can be like pulling the pin on a grenade: if you don’t keep a tight grip, everything will blow up.

Here’s how it happens. I’m sitting in my office, and I check my email and see something from somebody I know. The subject line says something like: “Can you help?” or “Urgent request!” or “I need to ask a favor.”

What follows is usually—though not always—something legitimately important. Could you help with rent for a single mother of two toddlers?

Do you think we could use the church building to host our fundraiser, and would you be willing to clean up afterward?

Would you consider chairing the state committee to preserve Hello Kitty socks and Pokemon arm bands in our schools?

And me—either not wanting to let people down or thinking that it would be really cool to be the state Hello Kitty and Pokemon chairman—looks at my calendar—certain that five more meetings a month shouldn’t be that big a commitment. And I say, “Yes. Sure. I’m your man. Just tell me what you need.”