When the Collar Comes Off: Who Am I Now?

I was never required to wear a clergy collar. Nobody expected it of me in my tradition, and there was no dress code in the job description. But I chose to wear one, especially for weddings and funerals. Something about it felt right — like I was stepping into a role that mattered. Not just for me, but for whoever was grieving or making vows that day.

The collar, to me, represented something deeper than church hierarchy. It represented a person who cared for souls. That’s why I wore it. That’s why I still do — even though it means something different now. I’m not a full-time pastor anymore. But the calling never left. It just shifted — out into the open. Into the wild, really.

The collar I wear now isn’t white. Sometimes, it’s a brewery t-shirt. Sometimes, it’s dirt from walking a trail. Sometimes, it’s nothing at all. But it still marks me. And I still feel called. Not to the pulpit. Not to a salary. But to the wilderness (as one of my friends frames it) — to the public — to the quiet work of caring for souls that might never set foot inside a church. This shift didn’t happen overnight, but it did happen over time, influenced by my grandfather’s ‘ministry.’

My Grandfather’s Collar Was Blue

I think about my grandfather a lot these days. Papa Crabtree never went to church, far as I know. But he was the most Christian man I’d ever met. He’d pick me up on Saturday mornings, and we’d spend the day at his saddle shop — a little place tucked in the back of a feed store on Highway 61 South in Vicksburg, Mississippi. Sometimes we’d work. Sometimes we’dhunt or fish. Sometimes we’d ride way out in the sticks to fix a saddle for a man named Rick who raised exotic birds — ostrich, emu, even peacocks, which felt like the Outback of Australia, not Mississippi.

Rick was different, and as a kid, I didn’t quite know what to make of him. But Papa never made fun or passed judgment. He’d ask him how he was doing. He’d check in. Not just about his saddle — about him.

I didn’t realize it at the time, but that was ministry. That was soul work. Papa never wore a white collar, like I had. No, hiswas blue — like a factory worker. Because that’s what he didbefore the saddle shop, and even in his late stage of life as a saddler, he still worked like a blue collar man. He was a worker,listener, and a quiet presence. And that’s the kind of minister I hope to be, even now.

After he died, we found a yellow legal pad in his room. Scribbled on it were the words to a song he’d written. It was a simple testimony — a story about how he came to faith. It wasn’t much to some. But it was enough for me to know that I’ll see him again.

What I Do Now

People ask me sometimes what I do. I tell them, “I brew beer and community. And sometimes I preach.” That answer used to feel complicated — like I had to explain myself. These days, I don’t.

My work doesn’t define me. Brewing is just my way of relating to the world and offering something good to it. Preaching is the same. My identity isn’t in what I do — it’s in who I am becoming.

I’m learning that my identity isn’t wrapped up in being a pastor or a brewer. It’s rooted deeper. It’s a lifelong process of becoming myself — the self that God created, unique from anybody else. The self that can walk into a room and not wonder whether I’ll be accepted. That, to me, is spiritual maturity: offering your life to the world without needing applause for it.

This Is Still Ministry

I still believe I’m called to ministry. But these days, ministrylooks less like sermons and more like walking with people while they figure out who they are. Ministry is being present. It’s knowing when to shut up. It’s listening to someone talk about their week and catching the moment when their voice cracks, and not letting it pass.

Ministry, for me, is walking patiently with people while they remember that they are loved — and maybe even realize that Jesus is still walking with them, even if they left the church a long time ago. I don’t need to perform anymore. I don’t need to manage a congregation or guard a platform. I’m not looking over my shoulder to make sure I’m doing it “right.”

I just show up. And maybe that’s the kind of ministry that fits this season — a quiet one. One that smells like hops. One that looks like community. One that doesn’t wear a title but still carries weight.

If You’ve Taken the Collar Off

Maybe you’ve stepped away from formal ministry too. Maybe you still feel the call but don’t know where it fits. Maybe you wonder if it still counts. Let me tell you: it does. Ministry might look like fixing saddles for quiet men in the country. It might look like raising kids or writing songs on yellow legal pads. It might look like brewing a beer and asking how someone’s reallydoing.

You don’t need a collar for that. But you do need a soul. And you’ve still got that. Keep walking. Keep showing up. That’s ministry.

And it’s holy ground.