Some months ago I got into a conversation with a fellow at a Starbucks. (It’s usually in coffeehouses that such conversations take place. I don’t think it’s necessarily ’cause they’re coffeehouses—it’s mainly because I hang out in coffeehouses so often.) He asked my name. I gave it. He gave his name as “Pastor Max,” although Max is not actually his first name; I’m not giving his real name because in this story he’s not gonna go over well.
We were having a civil discussion. He was trying to educate me in certain areas that he clearly knew nothing about, but I indulged him. People like to think themselves experts in certain things, and it is not my mission in life to burst their balloons. At least, not anymore. I’ve reformed from that.
At some point I addressed him as “Max.” And he corrected me: “It’s Pastor Max,” he said.