Every Monday morning I wake up with a hangover. That’s right, a hangover. I am groggy, weak-legged, uncertain about my actions from the previous day and certainly full of regrets. My hangover is not from beer (though I like beer), it is a preacher’s hangover. I have not spent the night praying at the porcelain alter, but I have said my share of Hail Mary prayers. Prayers like, “God, are you sure I’m supposed to be doing this with my life?”, “What in the world did I say yesterday?”, “I’m such a screw up, how in the world did you put me here to lead them?” Monday morning comes in a haze and the doldrums of life begin [again].

Thankfully, as quick as the fog disappears on Monday a clarity of purpose and hope takes it’s place. As if gratitude is a new emotion, I throw my hands up in joy as I think about the many who worshiped their guts out not 24 hours earlier. The mass who arrive as individuals but make one singular confession of the greatness of our God. Voices lifted high like incense rising to the heavens moving the very heart of Jesus

I can still hear the laugh of children who are hearing about Jesus, perhaps for the first time. And I’m imagining how sweet the sound of the gospel was to my own untrained ear 20 years ago.

When a band member laughs at the sound guy and says, “Turn me up man! We’re gonna get rowdy!” I think, this guy is primed for the preeminence of God.

I remember why I drink in the brew of ministry. Mondays suck. But looking forward to the weekend always gets me through. Today I re-invest, sign up again and dig my heels in for next Sunday.