I have a confession to make: Being a minister can be really hard work—and not for the reason you’re probably thinking of. People say to me from time to time that they can’t imagine doing my job. The reasons for that usually fall into one of a few categories.

“How do you deal with a grieving family?”

“I don’t know how you give a sermon week after week. I can’t imagine having to come up with something to say all the time—and in front of people too.”

“I’ve seen the kind of people who go to church; there’s no way I could do your job.”

Those are the kinds of thing people usually mean when they say that it must be tough to be a minister.

And yes, those are definitely things that require some practice. But people do tough jobs all the time—things I’m pretty sure I could never do. My wife’s a nurse in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit—taking care of the sickest babies in the world, frail little humans, sometimes hovering on the verge of death. No, sir. Not for me, thank you very much.

Lawyers. Accountants. Grocery store managers. Auto mechanics. Kindergarten teachers. All really important jobs, but I’ll stick with what I know.

No, the reason being a minister is often such a difficult job has to do with other ministers and their impressionable flocks. I feel like I’m constantly having to tell people that I’m not, you know, that kind of minister.

I don’t make money by wholesaling anointed prayer cloths.

I don’t go on TV to tell people that the latest disaster is God’s punishment for gay marriage, abortion, or leniency toward Muslims.

I don’t believe in the whole Q-anon lunacy. I don’t believe the end times are upon us because Barack Obama’s middle name is Hussein or because Donald Trump is God’s anointed one or because taxes are already too high on rich people—and pretty soon the Covid vaccine is going to deliver us to the overlords of the new one world government.

But every time I meet somebody who finds out my vocation I feel compelled to let them know that I’m just a regular minister—not one of the knuckleheads that most people detest and privately make fun of.

I mean, there are plenty of reasons to make fun of me, but none of them have to do with me having a private jet, ranting about apocalyptic fantasies, or looking like the poster child for an Aqua Net intervention.

In sociological terms, it’s called “boundary maintenance.” We all have an interest in defining the boundaries around us so that we (and everybody else) knows where the wing nuts end and we begin.

Because the truth of the matter is, we all have a great deal invested in knowing who’s on the inside and who’s on the outside. We’re all part-time bouncers, carrying around with us a surprisingly detailed guest list who’s of acceptable and who we should take pains to avoid.

It struck me as I was reading our Gospel for this morning that the disciples were only trying to do a little boundary maintenance, just editing the guest list to better reflect the proper order of things—who deserves to be there and who doesn’t. Their intentions were good. They saw somebody casting out demons in Jesus’ name, and they rolled up their sleeves and headed out onto the dance floor to make certain the unauthorized exorcist understood that his behavior was going to be a problem. So, you know, if you don’t mind, dial it back a bit. You’re really not welcome here.

Good security work, right? Making sure that only those folks wearing the proper wrist band get in, and that once the crowd is in place, everybody behaves. If they have to start pushing people around for Jesus to make that happen, then that’s just the price of doing business.

But Jesus says, “Hey guys, I didn’t ask you to work security for me. Okay? I don’t want you to worry about who you think ought to be welcome here. If there are folks out there doing good things in my name, your job isn’t to set them straight; your job is to get out of the way and let the good things happen. Whoever is not against us is for us.”

But let’s be honest. We can understand the disciples’ concern, can’t we? You let just anyone roam the dance floor doing stuff in your name, and you’re probably going to run into problems. If they’re not part of the guest list, it’s going to be a lot easier if the security staff to keep them on the other side of the rope-line.

But Jesus is every Secret Service agent’s worst nightmare. He says, “Take the rope-line down, and let everyone in. Your job in this whole crazy reign-of-God-thing isn’t to keep people out. Your job is to figure out how to let people know that, as far as I’m concerned, where God is, there is no rope-line; there are no special wrist bands you have to present to be admitted.”