They Call Me Pastor

David, my colleague at FBC, told me that someone asked him a strange question a few weeks after he began here: “Have you watered the organ yet?”  He thought it was a joke. It wasn’t.

I have not fully begun my job as an associate pastor but I’m working up to it.  We’ve put the sign on the outside and people have started calling me “pastor.”  It sounds strange every time they say it.

It was exactly a month ago that the church voted to call me.  Here’s what I’ve learned since then:

1. Pastors are 100 times more likely to be asked to pray before meals.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been at a meal and the host turns to me and says, “Pastor, would you say grace.”  One friend asked me after a meal at a restaurant, “Does this count as a business dinner since you said the prayer?”

2. You need to get a license if you’re going to show a movie that’s been advertised.

I was going to show The Nativity Story illegally before a friend pointed this out to me.

3. You can learn a lot from a seasoned veteran.

In addition to helping me navigate health care and tax issues, here are just a few of the things David has taught me so far.

• A plastic-wrapped ream of paper comes with a special tab that makes opening it a lot easier.
• The paper towels in the restroom are installed by pulling down from the center of the roll.
• Flicking the handle up on the urinal keeps it from running continuously.

I look forward to gleaning many more of these valuable tidbits from this wise man.

4. Just because you’re a pastor, it doesn’t mean you can’t live in a great location.

My third floor penthouse looks out over the harbor, is a half mile from the beach, and next door to one of the most popular ice cream stands in the world, Captain Dusty’s.

5. The demands of pastoral ministry are far outweighed by the perks.

I’ve been blessed beyond words by the welcome given me by the wonderful people at FBC.

My small group helped me paint my entire apartment.

David gave me the key to his office and unlimited access to his library (and to him).

People from the church showered me with cake, gifts, and gift cards for my new place.

I love being a pastor.

What do you do when you turn 30?

The water in Lake Zoar was much warmer than the early morning air on September 20^th.  The contrast in temperature created a thick fog over the water.  The start of the triathlon was delayed so the fog would burn off enough to see the buoys at the end of the swim course.  I was anxious to get started.  I had already been awake for several hours and was painfully aware that I had a long day ahead of me.

Over the course of the summer I had been fairly consistent with my training.  I rode over 800 miles on my bike, ran about 325 miles, and spent several hours swimming in pools, lakes, and the ocean.  I told people that I was thinking about doing a half-ironman but I didn’t actually commit to it until two weeks before.  I was afraid to commit because I didn’t know if I could finish.  The main reason I finally decided to do it was that the race was on my thirtieth birthday.  I wanted to do something memorable before I hit middle age.  If I had known how many hills I would have to climb, I probably wouldn’t have even started.

The gun finally went off went off and I plunged into the waters of sweet oblivion; one of the greatest adventures of my life had finally started.

Luke describes the birth of Jesus in chapter 2.  Look across the page to chapter three and He’s already a full-grown man.  We only get one story of Jesus’ life between his birth and adulthood.  In one scene he’s a precocious preteen and in the next He’s being plunged into the waters of the Jordan River, being baptized by his cousin John.  He exits the water to begin the greatest adventure of his life.  He knew what hill he had to climb but he went anyway.

It was thirteen years ago when I began to think that someday I might be a pastor.  In those 13 years I have had quite a few opportunities to be a part-time pastor but for the most part I have been a full-time student.  I have spent twenty-two years of my life in school.  For the last thirteen years I’ve been waiting for that day when I would be able to commit myself completely to serving God in a local church.

I got a taste of what full-time ministry might be like when I served for six months at West Cohasset Chapel.  Then I went off to London for more school and then returned to Gordon-Conwell to continue my PhD.  The whole time I was waiting for the adventure to start.

This fall I suspended my PhD program and began applying for jobs.   Some folks at First Baptist Church suggested they create a full-time position for me there.  We talked about it (a lot) and then presented it to the congregation.  Last night the church voted.  Today I have a new title: Associate Pastor.  The adventure is finally beginning!

Am I ready?  I think so.  But maybe that’s just because no one told me about the hills I’m going to have to climb.

I feel like I should have gotten to this point a long time ago.  The road to full-time ministry was longer than I expected but lately I’ve been encouraged by Luke 3:23, “Now Jesus himself was about thirty years old when he began his ministry.”  Maybe thirty isn’t such a bad time to start after all.

 

The water in Lake Zoar was much warmer than the early morning air on September 20^th.  The contrast in temperature created a thick fog over the water.  The start of the triathlon was delayed so the fog would burn off enough to see the buoys at the end of the swim course.  I was anxious to get started.  I had already been awake for several hours and was painfully aware that I had a long day ahead of me.

Over the course of the summer I had been fairly consistent with my training.  I rode over 800 miles on my bike, ran about 325 miles, and spent several hours swimming in pools, lakes, and the ocean.  I told people that I was thinking about doing a half-ironman but I didn’t actually commit to it until two weeks before.  I was afraid to commit because I didn’t know if I could finish.  The main reason I finally decided to do it was that the race was on my thirtieth birthday.  I wanted to do something memorable before I hit middle age.

I stood on the beach in my wetsuit and a fleece, trying to stay warm.  I was about to attempt a 1.2 mile swim, 56 mile bike ride, and 13 mile run.  If I had known how many hills I would have to climb, I probably wouldn’t have even started.  But when the gun went off, I plunged into the waters of sweet oblivion; one of the greatest adventures of my life had finally started.

Luke describes the birth of Jesus in chapter 2.  Look across the page to chapter three and He’s already a full-grown man.  We only get one story of Jesus’ life between his birth and adulthood.  In one scene he’s a precocious preteen and in the next He’s being plunged into the waters of the Jordan River, being baptized by his cousin John.  He exits the water to begin the greatest adventure of his life.  He knew what hill he had to climb but he went anyway.

It was thirteen years ago when I began to think that someday I might be a pastor.  In those 13 years I have had quite a few opportunities to be a part-time pastor but for the most part I have been a full-time student.  I have spent twenty-two years of my life in school.  For the last thirteen years I’ve been waiting for that day when I would be able to commit myself completely to serving God in a local church.

I got a taste of what full-time ministry might be like when I served for six months at West Cohasset Chapel.  Then I went off to London for more school and then returned to Gordon-Conwell to continue my PhD.  The whole time I was waiting for the adventure to start.

This fall I suspended my PhD program and began applying for jobs.   Some of the folks at First Baptist Church suggested they create a full-time position for me there.  We talked about it (a lot) and then presented it to the congregation.  Last night the church voted.  Today I have a new title: Associate Pastor.  The adventure is finally beginning!

Am I ready?  I think so.  But maybe that’s just because no one told me about the hills I’m going to have to climb.

I feel like I should have gotten to this point a long time ago.  The road to full-time ministry was longer than I expected.  Lately I’ve been encouraged by Luke 3:23, “Now Jesus himself was about thirty years old when he began his ministry.”  I guess thirty isn’t a bad time to start after all.

My Name in Vain

A few weeks ago I preached a sermon on the Third Commandment: “”You shall not misuse the name of the LORD your God, for the LORD will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name” (Exodus 20:7).  In that sermon, I talked about what happens pretty much every time I go somewhere to preach – my name gets all messed up.  First, it’s usually listed in the bulletin as “Rev. Erik Dokken.”  Two of those three elements are wrong: (1) I’m not a reverend (because I’m not ordained) and (2) I never spell my first name with a “k.”  Then, to make it worse, when someone gets up to introduce me, they usually say, “We’re glad to have Rev. Eric Doe-kin here with us today.”*  Then I smile and wave at the congregation while I seethe inside.  If I don’t like it when people mess up my name, how do you think God feels when we misuse his name?

After I preached the sermon, I headed down to Dallas for a prestigious society meeting.  It’s the kind of society that charges $200 for you to attend their meetings.  While in Dallas, I got to see the Mezgers whom I hadn’t seen since the day I graduated from college seven years ago (and I got to hang out with Nick whom I haven’t seen for about a month).  It was great to reconnect with them and to meet their kids: Simeon, Nathan, and Mack.   In fact, I had so much fun with them, I was tempted to just spend the rest of the week hanging out with them rather than go to the fancy society meeting.  But since I had spent $200, I figured I should probably go.

When I got to the meeting, I was excited that we were getting fancy laminated nametags.  My excitement died pretty quickly when I saw my own nametag:

I’m not blaming anyone here but I’m pretty sure that I spelled my name with a “c” when I registered…

*I’m considering sending the following video to any church at which I will be preaching so they learn how to correctly pronounce my last name. 

Kupenda 5k

The first race I ever won was the Kupenda 5k at Hampton Beach in 2006.  Kupenda is an amazing organization that ministers to children with disabilities in Kenya.  Check them out at kupenda.org.

I got a chance to run the race again this weekend at Gordon College.  This picture was taken about a second before the race started and about 1.5 seconds before I realized that the race was about to start.  There’s another picture here.

I’m not Bowling Alone

There are times I’ve been a little sore about the fact that anytime I want to see people from my past I have to do the traveling.  I shouldn’t be upset since I’m the one who moved to the edge of the country while most everyone else stayed safely in the center.  And I’ve had some great visits from family and friends that have come out to experience my life here (thanks Dokkens, Franks, Leivas, Grant, Fulton, Shooter, Craig, and anyone else I’ve forgotten to mention).  Just making that list makes me realize how many have made an effort to see me.   In the last month I can add four more to the list: Aaron, Jonelle, Faith and Joy.  And I’m looking forward to a return visit from Fulton next month.

This year is a year of community at our church.  This and several other things have made me think a lot about community lately.  For a highly introverted fellow, community isn’t something that I naturally do.  There are times when I would rather spend a day in a Lithuanian prison than hang out with groups of people.  However, I’m coming to realize that I need people.  I need community because life, like bowling, is just better when you experience it with others.

This realization has compelled me start two initiatives to create community.  The first is a weekly small group which is affectionately known as Lonely-by-the-Sea.  The second is Friday night cornhole tournaments.  Each week I have been graciously losing so that others will feel welcome and can experience the joy of winning.

(That last sentence is a lie, I actually try to win every week but there’s always a team that beats me.)  (And, since I’m confessing, I admit that the tournaments probably have as much to do with feeding my bean bag addiction as building community.)

Both initiatives have been met with some level of success and for that I am really thankful.  If things keep progressing I will probably be living in a commune by the end of the year.

This is my excuse for not blogging for over two months.  I hope that my faithful readers will forgive me (all five of you).  You will be hearing more from me soon.  In the meantime, check out these recent pictures from a weekend with Faith, Joy, and Pride (formerly known as Craig) and some other winter adventures.

The Spirit of Christmas

Jdimytai Damour probably wasn’t excited about having to be at work before 5am the day after Thanksgiving.  But while most of us rested our over-stuffed bodies, Jdimytai got out of bed long before the sun rose and went to his temporary job at Wal-Mart.  I wonder what he would have done differently that morning if he had known it would be his last.

There were many that had gotten out of bed earlier than Jdimytai and even some that had camped outside of Wal-Mart the night before.  It was Black Friday and people were hungry for deals.  In the crowd of 2,000, I’m sure that they were looking for many things.  It’s what they didn’t see that troubles me.  They were unaware that in their passion to acquire things they walked right over an innocent person.  Jdimytai Damour was trampled to death in the spirit of Chri$tma$.

What troubles me even more is that our vision is not much better than those in the Wal-Mart crowd that morning.  We believe so strongly that we are entitled to own things we don’t need that we will go to any length to get it.  We won’t even let an unstable economy curb our rampant consumerism.  We are unaware of how our purchasing habits affect others.  Something is wrong when we care more about the prices we pay for products than the people who made them.

I started looking into buying Christmas gifts today.  I didn’t get very far though. 

Uncle x2

William Lewis - 6lbs 15oz, 19.5 inches

I have twice as many nephews this week as I did last week.

William Lewis was born Saturday November 29, 2008 at 8:38am.

Asher is now a big brother.

Two weeks until they get to hang out with their best uncle.

They are so lucky.

Race Recap

I think that it’s hard to make decisions.  Like what to do with my life, what to write my dissertation on, what to have for dinner, and whether or not to run the Philly Marathon.

There were at least two good reasons not to run: I had an injury and it was ridiculously cold.  Check out this forecast:

I decided that I had to give it a shot anyway (see previous post).  So I was out of bed at 5:30am on race day.  As I pulled on the trusty green technical tights that AJ so graciously loaned to me I watched the runners stream past our hotel room toward the start.

I made it down to breakfast for a bowl of oatmeal and then back to the room to get ready to go.  Here’s what happened next:

Ready or Not…

The Philadelphia Marathon is only two days away and I plan on running it, ready or not.  My hip is feeling OK and I’ve got way too much invested in this race to back out now.  For example…

1. As of today, I have run 1,624 miles this year for a total running time of 172 hours 5 minutes and 39 seconds or 7 complete days. (Look at the graph and guess which week I got hurt.)

When one part suffers…

Two weeks from tomorrow I will be running the Philadelphia Marathon, Lord willing.  I’ve been training for this race for months and I’ve been running faster and farther than I have ever run before.  Last Saturday I ran 22.8 miles (approximately) which brought my total for the week to 70.8 miles.

The run felt okay even though it was a bit warm and I was tired before I started.  The day after my long run, we were playing Cornhole in the backyard (Tonya and I went undefeated).  As we were playing, I noticed that my left hip felt a little sore.  I assumed that it was just tired from the run and the pain would go away.  It didn’t.

My hip became increasingly sore during my run on Tuesday.  I went out on Wednesday intending to run twelve miles but had to limp home after four.  It felt like someone had stabbed a knife into my hip and left it there.  I could barely even walk.