When I became a minister years ago, just out of college, I was first licensed, then ordained. The ordination service, held at the small rural church that I pastored, was something I will always remember. There were guest minsters who spoke, offering good wishes and counsel. At the close, the ordaining council, made up of ministers, deacons, and laymen, maybe 15 or 20 in all, gathered at the altar where I knelt. Earlier in private, they asked me questions about my faith, how I planned to minister, and what were my beliefs about scripture, theology, and so forth. Afterwards, they met without me present, to decide if I was sufficiently competent and morally worthy of ordination. I wasn’t. No one ever is. But they declared I was anyway. Later, at the close of the service, one by one, they came to me putting their hands on my head and leaning down to whisper a prayer, a “God bless you,” or a personal word of encouragement. It was a moving and humbling experience for me. One of the men,
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