Bima Envy
Every retired preacher I know suffers from a tad or more of
“Bima (Pulpit) Envy,” the obsession to again mount the pulpit and take just one
more shot at it. My mentor Rabbi
Shusterman, mused wistfully that “The only honorable way for most of us to
leave the pulpit is in a plain pine box.”
For those of us who have left our pulpit so morbidly, as I
did from raging bouts of bipolarity, it is especially ignominious. Once I loudly cursed the beloved Jewish mayor
of Greenville, a Holocaust survivor, as he gently tried to calm me from my
rage. I summarily fired our Hebrew
school principal before I even interviewed her.
I routinely launched into relentless diatribes from the pulpit, thinking
that they were masterpieces, when they were, in fact, just paranoid ravings.
Finally, I became so bipolar that I quit the pulpit in a huff,
blasting away that I could no longer stand the abuse to which I imagined the
leadership had subjected me. It was, of
course, all a figment of my unhinged psyche.
Sure, I figured, I am still a hotshot.
I blustered even to Linda that I could easily in a month find a $100,000+
job in another vocation. Now, eleven
years later I am still unemployed, potchkeying with my circuitous writing and a
weekly Bible class.
I was so sick that
even Linda could do nothing but watch me decompose. How she begged me to get help, but each time
I would scream at her for abandoning me. She knew that I was a timebomb that had
already exploded. Finally, when I cursed
out her entirely undeserving parents, she gave me her ultimatum. I capitulated to psychiatric treatment, pill
and talk therapy, which I am not ashamed to say I continue to this day.
Few cases of bima envy are as grave as mine. More often than not, it runs along the lines
of, “I can deliver a better eulogy than he,”
or “I was better at conducting a wedding, a bris, a bar/bat mitzvah, delivering
a sermon, a sisterhood book review, starring in the schule Purim schpiel,
leading a Shabbat dinner singalong, entertaining the kiddies at a Tot Shabbat .
. . you name it, and just call. “If they
would just give me one more chance, I know I could do it better.”
Bima envy is a cruel
master. No more tries for one who bears
the stigma of the loose cannon. No more
chances for one who has cruelly alienated unforgiving parishioners, no matter
how many apologies or boxes of Godiva’s you send with notes begging forgiveness. Oh yes, some of them have, baruch HaShem,
graciously forgiven me, but not sufficiently to turn me loose on their bima.
Yet, the neurosis (or shall I say “psychosis”?) has
gradually abated. After apologies and
confessions, the surest elixir for bima envy is joy, even if it is still
sometimes tinged with a drop of the bitter.
Over the Holy Days, I was privileged to hear the teaching of three
extraordinary rabbis. Rabbi Mathew,
Adam, and Eric is each a brilliant preacher and pastor. Each one has deeply touched my spirit. They sense how to “comfort the afflicted and
afflicted the comfortable.”
WAIT! NOT SO
FAST!
Deep down I know that I could still preach it better! But finally, I know that I will never
fully recover from the terror of bima envy. No, I will forever struggle with recovery, and
still occasionally surrender to its ravages no matter how denatured they may
be.
You see, when that glory-day comes, I know that as they lower
my plain pine box into the ground, you will hear a rapping from down below and
a voice bellowing, “A good eulogy, huh??
I could do it better!”
MARC WILSON is a retired rabbi who writes from Greenville,
SC.