On being "OK"

In exactly three weeks from this morning, I will be ushered into a room full of pastors and lay men and women - collectively known by the somewhat ominous name "District Board of Ministerial Development" (DBMD). Their job, in the time we are together, will be to interview me and ascertain whether or not I am qualified for ordination in the Wesleyan Church, ordination being a fancy word that means that the church - as represented by the men and women of the DBMD - sees in my the necessary knowledge, skills and (most importantly) the call of God necessary to be a minister.

Now, I should confess that I have spent the last ten years - more than 1/3 - of my life preparing for and looking forward to the moment of my ordination. It is supposed to be the crowning moment of my ministerial career - a cairn stone that marks the official launching of my ministry. I am excited about it, as I consider it to be deeply significant - far more so than the completion of either of my degrees.

That said, my ordination is not here yet. It is not a certainty. The aforementioned interview represents the last bridge to cross, the final step in a long, long process. So it is appropriate to say that the interview is a big deal. And for the last ten years, since I accepted God's call and began traveling down this long path of preparation, I have dreaded this upcoming interview. The questions abound: What if I say the wrong thing? What if they don't like me? What if I missed something somewhere along the way? Will the last ten years of my life have been for naught? If I fail to get ordained, does that mean I was wrong in thinking God had called me to ministry? On and on they go, running nonstop through my mind every time the thought of ordination occurred to me.

Until recently. As I spent several hours in the last couple of weeks completing the "Ordination and Commissioning Questionnaire," answering question about my family, about the Bible, about theology and about social issues like poverty and homosexuality, it occurred to me that the path on which I have been traveling has been incredibly important to me. The path itself has changed me in ways I could never have imagined.

I've met people that gave me perspective on life and altered forever the way I see God and the church - people named Craig and Tim and Mike and Dr. Thompson and Heather and a whole host of others whom I can't mention without extending this post to many, many pages. I have attended and ministered in a variety of forms at churches that have helped to form my ideas about ministry - churches like Faith Journey Church of the Nazarene, South Lake Church of the Nazarene and Lafayette First Church of the Nazarene. Along the way I've been forced to confront my own biases and prejudices, to search out on my own answers to the hardest theological questions. I've faced some of my weaknesses and come away stronger. In short, the man I am today has been shaped irrevocably by the experiences of the last ten years. And to tell the truth, I wouldn't trade the friends, churches, challenges and growth of the last ten years for anything.

Which means that, no matter what happens three weeks from today, I'll be okay. If the interview goes well and the DBMD chooses to ordain me, it will be awesome and the fulfillment of a ten year dream. If, on the other hand, the DBMD chooses - for whatever reason - to NOT ordain me, it will be disappointing, but not the end of the world. I will be okay no matter what happens at that meeting - and no matter what happens, it will not and cannot invalidate the transformation wrought by ten years on this path. Sure, they could say no, but that doesn't mean that I'm not called...it may mean that ministry looks different for me than I ever thought, but that may be a good thing.

In short - after ten years of nervously anticipating the big interview and being terrified of some verbal misstep, I am choosing to let that go. My future - including my ordination - is God's to shape, not mine. All I can do is show up at the interview and answer the questions honestly and without pretense.

That much I can do.

A Reflection on the (Possible) Predecessors of the "Emerging" Church

I recently began reading yet another book on the history of monasticism (monks and nuns and canons, oh my) - C.H. Lawrence's Medieval Monasticism. The book begins, as do most histories of monasticism with the first Christians who withdrew from the world in order to seek a deeper understanding of and walk with Christ. Lawrence, though, makes one thing clear that the other books I have read often seem to pass over - these earliest of monks, the "Desert Fathers" as they are known - were lay men and women. The earliest hermits who withdrew to the deserts of Egypt - men such as Antony and Pachomius - were simply lay people who sought more of God.

Perhaps it doesn't for you, but for me that came as a little bit of a surprise. After all, often monks and nuns and others who are seeking the monastic life are lumped together under the term "religious." That title would seem to link them with the established church. The fact that by the Middle Ages, most were connected through doctrine and organization to the Roman Catholic church only adds to the idea that these men and women were "super-Christians." They weren't priests, they were better and holier than priests. They have even garnered the reputation of a kind of Christian holy-man or holy-woman hero - as though their prayers were somehow more effective than the prayers of an average person.

But in the beginning, it wasn't like that. Antony didn't set out to create a movement - he went to the desert seeking Christ in solitude. Yet others were drawn to him in an effort to find that very same thing. Similarly, Pachomius - considered by many to be the founder of the "communal" monaster - never intended to create such. It happened when others were drawn to his desire to know Christ. Though neither intended to do so, when faced with groups of other Christians seeking to find Christ through solitude, neither could deny them and so a movement began that led to the formation of literally hundreds of monasteries and convents across Europe and in England.

As I was thinking on this, it occurred to me that, in many ways, people like Antony and Pachomius belong in the same category as many of those who are a part of today's phenomenon frequently called "the emerging church." This movement did not start out seeking to become a movement - it started out as individuals and groups seeking to know Christ better and deeper through shared experience and community life, through sensory worship and a welcoming spirit. I doubt that the earliest members of the movement were thinking to themselves, "In 10-15 years, we'll have all kinds of groups and publish all kinds of books." Rather, a movement grew up around them like a movement grew up around Antony and Pachomius.

People were drawn to Antony and Pachomius and their sisters and brothers in the desert not because these Desert Fathers and Mothers were somehow calling them, but because the people saw in them something lacking in themselves. A piety, a holiness, a strength, a courage - whatever it was, people saw it in Antony and in Pachomius and began to ask them, "How can I get this kind of faith?" Faced with such questions, the Desert Fathers and Mothers could hardly fail to respond.

Similarly, people are not drawn to the "emerging" church necessarily because the emerging church is calling out to them. Rather, they are drawn to a group of Christians who have something that other incarnations of the church seem to lack. A sense of community, a healthy understanding of the environment or the like. And people came (and continue to come) to the emerging church and ask, "How can I experience this kind of faith?"

While it would be a stretch to call the emerging church a "new kind of monasticism," there is no doubt in my mind that it stands in a grand tradition of those who step out of the popular church simply to seek Christ...and I am glad for that.

A Reflection on Business Cards

When Melissa and I first moved to Oklahoma City to pastor at May Avenue Wesleyan Church, I remember very clearly one of the first things I did as "pastor." It was something I was quite excited about - something I had always looked forward to being able to do for the first time...I ordered business cards. Not just ordered, I even designed business cards. They are super-cool cards that have a celtic cross in the background and have the name of the church, my name, and all the contact information for our church on them.

I had finally arrived - I was officially a pastor now that I had business cards. From the day that these business cards arrived (with, of course, the snazzy little metal business card carrying case), I was prepared to spread the word about our church by slipping my card into the hands of whoever I might meet - the pastor of a neighboring church, my neighbor, the mayor, Bob Stoops, whoever. This is what pastors do, and I am going to be great at it because I have professional looking business cards. Or so I thought.

My initial order was for 250 business cards. I figured that would be good to start with and, after a few months of liberally spreading them around Oklahoma City, I could order more to replenish my supply. Well, as I sit here typing this, almost exactly one year later, I have hardly made a dent in the 250. All those opportunities to slip a card into someone's hand or pocket didn't quite materialize like I thought they would. And the few that I did give away weren't to Bob Stoops or the mayor, but to people like Sheree and Lynette - people who came looking for help and who left with my card and a hearty, "Call us if there's anything else we can do for you." Certainly not what I had been expecting when I placed that order.

Truth be told, though, I am glad that I haven't given away all those cards and, to be even more brutally honest, I'm kind of ashamed of my fascination with them to begin with. Business cards, it seems to me, are often used as signs of power and influence. They are designed to be tools of self aggrandizement, of self promotion. That's why people design business cards with flashy colors and ornate designs and with celtic crosses in the background.

It is also why the biggest thing on most business cards is the name of the person, as is certainly the case with mine. Right in the center, in bigger letters than almost everything else on the card, you will see the words, "Rev. Joseph E. Boggs." And those words are where the problems begin - as if this thing called May Avenue Wesleyan Church has anything at all to do with me. Or, perhaps it would be better to say, as if "Rev. Joseph E. Boggs" played any significant role in creating the church in Oklahoma City.

It was not my birth that made angels sing. No one has dropped everything to follow me. I did not go willingly to my death so that the people of Oklahoma City could experience love and grace and freedom like no other. The same is true of any pastor of any church. It's not us. No matter how good the preaching or how effective the leadership, it is not the pastor that is the driving force behind the church. It is not the pastor's name that belongs on the front of the business card.

Of course, I'm not trying to say that business cards for pastors are inherently evil or that they are not useful tools in ministry. Neither am I saying that we pastors should create business cards with the name of Jesus on them instead of our own - just imagine the confusion that would ensue if, in the place of "Rev. Joseph E. Boggs," my business card simply said, "Jesus, Son of God." No thanks - my messiah complex isn't quite that developed.

What I AM saying, though, is that business cards can be a symptom and a symbol of pride. Every pastor faces the temptation to place himself or herself in the place of priority, to succumb to the thought that it is he or she that makes the church what it is and to lose sight of the fundamental truth that the church is only what it is meant to be when Christ and Christ alone is its head. I don't need to advertise me, I need only to point to Christ. Who cares what my name is or whether or not I carry the title of "Reverend." All that matters is the one who constantly breathes life into the dead bones of sinful people and through that breath creates life and animates HIS church.

Note: I wrote this after spending some time thinking about Jonah and Nineveh, as well as the idea of being a reluctant preacher, a reluctant messenger of God. I'm not completely sure, but I think this conveys pretty well the way I feel about the church - not about my "specific" church - but about the whole group of people who seek to follow Christ...

CON-

-FLICTED

She is beautiful...

...yet she is ugly.

She is flawed...

...yet she is perfect.

She is whole...

...yet she is broken.

She is worldly...

...yet she is holy.

She is hopeful...

...yet she is hopeless.

She is lost...

...yet she is found

She is healing...

...yet she is hurtful.

I loathe her...

...yet I love her.

I can’t leave her...

...yet I don’t want to stay.

She is God’s...

...and she is good.

Setting the Bar

One of the mothers in my church recently purchased a book for, well, almost the entire church. The book is called Do Hard Things - written by two young men who have been attempting (quite successfully, it seems) to start what they call a "rebelution" - a rebellion against rebellion. These two young men started doing "hard things" for God when they were in their teen years and, through that process, were led to write a book questioning the assumptions society makes about teenagers.

I haven't finished the book yet, but right off the bat the Harris brothers make one significant point that applies not just to teenagers, but to all of us. They talk about how, 100 years ago, the word "teenager" didn't exist. You were either a child or adult. Children who reached the age of, say, 16, were expected to think, work, and act like adults. Something has happened in the last 100 years, though, which has created a whole new stage of life called the "teenage years" - where expectations for todays teenagers are often miserably low. The question posed by Do Hard Things, then, is when did it become okay to have such low expectations?

I read that and immediately my mind went to the church in general. When did it become okay for the expectations of Christians to be so low? Seriously. In many churches, what we expect of a "good" Christian is painfully simple: be at church every week, tithe 10%, and maybe volunteer for a ministry here and there. Those tend to be the HIGHEST expectations we have - we're satisfied if a family can make it to worship two out of every three Sundays and occasionally contributes to the offering. What happened? When did this become acceptable?

Surely, these weren't the same expectations Jesus had of his earliest followers, whom he challenged to go throughout the world and preach and minister. Surely these weren't the same expectations Paul had of the churches to which he wrote letters. He challenges them to do really hard things...just read through Paul's letters sometime and you'll see. The blueprint for the life of a follower of Christ is a constant call to do hard things for God. And yet somehow we've set the bar so low, have so little expectations for ourselves that we consider the simple act of tithing to be a "hard thing."

To be honest, it's shameful the way we've subtly and consistently lowered the expectations to the point where we can meet or exceed them without a whole lot of exertion, without leaving our couches or our cozy suburbs.

We need God to challenge us, to raise the bar to where we have to reach, to jump, to run out of our comfort zone to live up to the expectations. We need to be people and churches that don't settle for easy but instead are constantly pushing for more hard things to do for God. We helped set the bar so low and, with God's help, we can help lift it back up again.

Besieged by Thoughts

It seems as though my thoughts are always against me, always willing me further, always pushing me to try harder and go deeper in my life. They never let me rest, I can never stop and just bask in some accomplished change or completed transformation; the moment one ends my thoughts start pushing me further. I am constantly assaulted with the questions that are the bane of any Christian's existence: Why am I so quick to sin? Why am I not more like Christ? Why am I doing so little? Shouldn't I be doing more?

Today my thoughts went further than ever before. In my office there are many, many books. There are books on theology, books on preaching, philosophy books, business books, Bibles and history books. They fill the wall behind my desk, and I love it that way. In a reflective moment this morning, though, I found myself looking at the wall of books and, instead of feeling the usual deep sense of satisfaction, I found myself feeling exceedingly disturbed. It only took a moment for the disturbing thought to crystallize as I began to pick out particular books with my eyes. I would look at a title and find myself thinking, "I wonder how many meals for a homeless family could have been bought with the money I used to buy that book." Another title - "Is there a child who lacks clothing or toys because I bought that book?" Still another title - "Was that missionary couple able to raise the funds they needed, or did my selfish desire for a book get in the way?" On and on it went, book after book, for about 15 minutes until I had to force myself to get up and leave my office.

My heart is profoundly disturbed by these thoughts, these questions. Not because I think they are inappropriate thoughts, mind you. No, I find myself disturbed by them because they are wholly appropriate. They are questions that should be asked, inquiries that must be made. Have I sinned in my quest to own "stuff." More than just books, this extends to everything - TVs, DVDs, cars, furniture, even food at the grocery store. Has my drive to satisfy my desires - even my legitimate desires - caused me to forsake opportunities to go good? Are the things that I own merely signs of my greed? When I go out to eat on a regular basis, am I flaunting my wealth in the face of those for whom a meal in a restaurant is an impossibility?

I don't know that I will ever be able to look at the wall of books behind my desk the same way again. More significantly, I don't know that I want to. If my selfishness is hindering God's ability to use the resources He has given me, then my prayer is that God will continue to disturb my thoughts and discomfit my heart. I would rather sell every book that I own and never buy another than live with the realization that the book on my shelf represents what could have been food for the hungry or clothing for the naked or medicine for the sick.

May God continue to transform the way I look at things and at people and, through this transformation, radically alter the way I use my resources. The truth is that my thoughts are doing me a favor when they assault me each morning and each evening. I do fail. I am not like Christ. I should be doing more. There isn't time for rest...

Guest Blogger: Victor Hugo

Okay, so I'm reading Victor Hugo's Les Miserables, and I ran across a chapter in the early parts of the book that is so good, so compelling and makes such a powerful statement that I am going to quote it in its entirety. I wonder if I'm the first blogger to have a dead French guy as a "guest blogger?" Anyway, here goes (the emphasis at the end is mine):

Man overboard!

But the ship does not stop. The wind is blowing and the doom-laden vessel is set on a course from which it cannot depart. It sails on.

The man sinks and reappears, flings up his arms and shouts, but no one hears. The ship, heeling in the wind, is intent upon its business, and passengers and crew have lost sight of him, a pinpoint in the immensity of the sea.

He calls despairingly, gazing in anguish after the receding sail as, ghostlike, it fades from view. A short time ago he was on board, a member of the crew busy on deck with the rest, a living being with his share of air and sunlight. What has become of him now? He slipped and fell, and this is the end.

He is adrift in the monstrous waters with only their turbulence beneath him, hideously enclosed by wave-crests shredded by the wind, smothered as they break over his head, tumbling from one to another, rising and sinking into unfathomable darkness where he seems to become part of the abyss, his mouth filled with bitter resentment at this treacherous ocean that is so resolved to destroy him, this monster toying with his death. To him the sea has become the embodiment of hatred.

But he goes on swimming, still struggles despairingly for life, his strength dwindling as he battles against the inexhaustible. Above him he can only see the bleak pallor of the clouds. He is the witness in his death-throes of the immeasurable dementia of the sea, and, tormented by this madness, he hears sounds unknown to man that seem to come from some dreadful place beyond the bounds of earth. There are birds flying amid the clouds as angels soar over the distresses of mankind, but what can they do for him? They sing as they glide and hover, while he gasps for life.

He is lost between the infinities of sea and sky, the one a tomb, the other a shroud. Darkness is falling. He has swum for hours until his strength is at an end and the ship with its company of men has long since passed from sight. Solitary in the huge gulf of twilight he twists and turns, feeling the waves of the unknowable close in upon him. And for the last time he calls, but not to man. Where is God?

He calls to anyone or anything - he calls and calls but there is no reply, nothing on the face of the waters, nothing in the heavens. He calls to the sea and spray, but they are deaf; he calls to the winds, but there are answerable only to infinity. Around him dusk and solitude, the heedless tumult of wild waters; within him terror and exhaustion; below him the descent into nothingness. No foothold. He pictures his body adrift in that limitless dark. The chill numbs him. His hands open and close, clutching at nothing. Wind and tumult and useless stars. What can he do? Despair ends in resignation, exhaustion chooses death, and so at length he gives up the struggle and his body sinks for ever.

Such is the remorseless progression of human society, shedding lives and souls as it goes on its way. It is an ocean into which men sink who have been cast out by the law and consigned, with help most cruelly withheld, to moral death. The sea is the pitiless social darkness into which the penal system casts those it has condemned, an unfathomable waste of misery. The human soul, lost in those depths, may become a corpse. Who will revive it?