Dr. Dan Boone

And then there were two . . .

Trevecca Nazarene University has been blessed with exemplary presidents across its 110-year history. When I was elected, there were four living former presidents: Dr. William Greathouse, Dr. Mark Moore, Dr. Homer Adams, and Dr. Millard Reed. During my second year in office, Dr. Moore, my college president, died. Yesterday, Dr. William Greathouse died. Oddly, on the same day, Trevecca re-dedicated the Adams Administration Building and celebrated the life of Dr. Homer Adams. And Dr. Reed was moved from ICU to a regular hospital room following his recovery from surgery.

I am reminded how fragile life is—and how people carry inside themselves the history of places we love.

I’ve been reflecting on the life of William Greathouse and invite you to use this blog site as a collector for the stories you have. Feel free to add your stories in the comment box.

Dr. Greathouse was president of Nazarene Theological Seminary during my years as a student there. His rich, booming voice filled the chapel during community worship. I learned to lead congregational singing from him—not the arm-waving role but the role of the pastor as worshipper. Dr. G would rear his head back and sing the hymns from memory with great joy and expression. I’ve never seen a more authentic heart-head worship than he rendered to God in that small holy chapel.

I was privileged to serve as his teaching assistant/reader in the classes he taught on Wesley and Romans. The classes were so large that they were held in the chapel—and seemed like a worship experience. When we use the language of sitting at someone’s feet, I am taken to that room and sit again under Dr. G’s teaching. I credit his theological mentoring with changing my understanding about Nazarenes. I learned from him that we are not the small church on the wrong side of the tracks with a questionable theological pedigree, but, rather, we are the people of God standing the rich stream of the early church Fathers and the traditions of the Wesley brothers and Methodism. He gave me confidence in a Wesleyan interpretation of the Bible. Dr. G is inside my brain, and I couldn’t erase him if I tried. Nor would I want to.

When we graded papers, we would sit shoeless and sock-footed on his office floor and read the work of students. He would always want to know whether a student faring poorly in class was under any difficult situations—work schedule, finances, etc. While he demanded good thought, he cared about the students. In the spring before he was elected general superintendent in the Church of the Nazarene, he made the comment one day that he was concerned about what might happen in Dallas that summer, site of the General Assembly where he was elected. I believe in the wisdom of the collective conscience of the church, but I still wish he had not been elected general superintendent. His footprint on generations of Nazarene leaders who passed through the Seminary was profound and would have been much larger had he been president during the remaining years of his life. He cast a large, protective umbrella for the professors of the Seminary, allowing them to do critical thinking in an atmosphere of trust. My model for what a Christian university should be is learned from him. The church has serious issues to address, and its universities and seminaries are the places most suited to plowing the ground.

I think I’ve read everything he has written. It is scholarly and pastoral. His preaching was more of a collection of Wesley quotes and Romans recitations than anything humanly concocted. In his dying days he was quoting large segments from Paul’s Epistle to the Romans. In the fantastic language we use about heaven, I’m sure he made a beeline to Paul to discuss Romans.

Dr. Greathouse is my role model for lifelong learning. He had books in his brain that he never got on paper. His last commentary on Romans is a lasting gift. I shared with him a new resource on Romans, and he devoured it with comments within a week. The sin of so many pastors is to die from the brain down to the heart. Not so with Dr. G.

When elected president of Trevecca, I called two people to discuss whether this role could be done in this culture by someone with a distinct theological bent. I loved being a pastor and had never woken a morning in my life desiring to be a college president. Didn’t the college need a fund raiser and PR person and glad-handing sort of chap who could be the cheerleader of the university? “Nonsense,” he told me. “If they had wanted that, they would have found someone besides you. They are looking for trustworthy theological leadership that is not afraid of higher education.” So I said yes, because he sounded so much like the voice of God to me.

I owe this man so much. I love him dearly. I miss him already. He makes me want to be a better man.

The senseless shooting of a U.S. congresswoman and others in Tucson, Arizona, has people talking. As with every tragedy, we seek to make sense out of it by blaming someone. If we can categorize this act, we can deal with it rationally. But theological  reality runs in the opposite direction. This act was evil, and evil is irrational. There are no categories of reason for an act like this one. The angst in Christians overreaches in trying to pin this action on explainable deeds. Last night when I pulled into my steep uphill driveway, I was greeted by six inches of snow that fell while I was out of town. My tires had no traction on the incline. I sat there, wheels spinning, going nowhere—like our words that try to explain irrational evil.

The other tendency is to demonize and dehumanize the man who did this. Similar to what Nazis did to Jews, when we demonize someone we make that person less than human and thereby legitimize his or her extinction. But the young man in Arizona is fully human and evil. He is a chilling reminder of what we are all capable of being. We must remember that one of us did this to one of us. This man is no alien, but a person who lives in a community. By calling him human, we are able to call his deed evil. And it is right that justice be done to the evildoer. We cannot relieve ourselves of this dark reminder of what humans are capable of by placing him in a non-human category.

So what do we do with this situation and our responses to it?

I am grateful for the call that has risen for charitable discourse among political dissenters. Both sides of the aisle and every political movement could stand a heavy dose of respect for a fellow human. I think the church of Jesus could play a stronger role in leading the way toward mature conversation among those who differ on issues. In A Charitable Discourse: Talking About the Things that Divide Us, my newest book (to be released in February), I address the practices of Jihad that have made their way into the church as a pattern for dealing with dissent. I write about labeling, half-truth, scripture-quoting, grandstanding, and enemy-making as practices that have found a home among us. While the octane and anger of the political rhetoric bothers me deeply, I am even more concerned that our pulpits and church conversations have become so toxic.

But the thing that weighs on my heart for Gabby Giffords and others is not those issues. What the church owes Gabby and the world is to do our work in the trenches of human brokenness. No other organism or organization in the world is more strategically placed to care for the broken, sick, and deranged among us. The church of Jesus is located on the avenues of community life. We know who these people are in our towns. I have often thought that God gave the congregations I served more than their fair share of the unbalanced. Caring for them is hard work. But it is our responsibility to care for them, give them a community rather than isolation, get them to medical help if needed, and seek to bring healing to them. They are the neighbor in the ditch. We are the Good Samaritan.

When the church adds to public anger rather than calling for a civil discourse, it fuels these folks. We unleash an anger in them which they may not be capable of controlling. I am not suggesting that this shooting was the fault of the church. As I learned early in life, God does not will every situation, but God has a will in every situation. Maybe the will of God in this moment is that his people embrace our calling to heal the broken. Maybe it is a moment to reprioritize what we are doing. Rather than seeking to out-entertain the world, install over-powering technology, and get noticed, maybe we should do the thankless work of befriending these needy neighbors.

What do I hope? I hope our pastors will teach their people to pray for government leaders rather than hate them. I hope we can learn to discuss political issues without being divided as a body of Christ. I hope we will seize this moment of tragedy to renew our commitment to care for the deranged.

This is what we owe Gabby Giffords.

This is her last night in her home of the past 46 years. Tomorrow morning she will be lovingly escorted to the East McComb Nursing Home where the last chapter of her life will begin. None of us know how long or short that chapter will be. Dad is 86, in relatively good health, and tired. He has cared for her as long as he could. Tonight he will sleep with her. Tomorrow night he will sleep by himself, alone for the first time in 60 years.

His questions have been fair. Why? Why her? Why now? Why this? Mom has spent her life in service to God and the church – pianist, church treasurer, Sunday School teacher, maker of Kool-Aid for 60 years worth of Vacation Bible Schools. Couldn’t have happened to a finer woman, but it did happen to her. Dad’s prayers, which have moved mountains across decades, did not budge this one. Alzheimer’s came, and kept on coming.

This morning at church, 500 miles away from Mom and Dad, we talked about the meaning of Advent. I sat behind Adrian, a middle-aged woman whose body was disfigured, whose eye patched, whose speech slurred and difficult. We were singing “peace and earth and mercy mild.” I’d prefer some mercy wild enough to heal a disease that has denied the prayers of the saints. But as we sang, her hands went into the air. And when the children came on stage to sing their choreographed songs, Adrian delighted in their physical movement to the Christmas music. I wondered if she remembered days long ago when she could move like that. I saw joy and hope and life. God came to Adrian this morning. I saw it with my own eyes.

Advent celebrates the coming of God. First in Jesus as an infant, finally in Jesus as the one who makes all things right. But in between these two comings there are millions. I saw one this morning.

Will there be another tomorrow morning at East McComb Nursing Home? Can God come to one whose grasp of history is fading, to one who cannot recall the Bible stories that have shaped her, to one who will soon wonder who the people are who are smiling at her? Can God visit someone who has Alzheimer’s?  And will she know that God came?

As a trained theologian, I am not looking for a full-blown theodicy. I have preached sermons to people with my own questions and even written books to answer them. I know the answers. Religion, good religion, is loaded with very helpful answers. Bad religion isn’t worth the effort. But what I hope for this Advent is not answers but presence, the presence of God in the East McComb Nursing Home. I’ve never wished for that before, but I do now. I hope God comes there. I hope Mom recognizes God. I choose to believe both.

Blessed Advent,

Dan Boone

One of the things we give to the next generation is our songs. Sometimes they like them and keep them and sing them. Sometimes they don’t. My generation gave you the Beatles, the Beach Boys, the Bee Gees, and Black Sabbath. You kept the Beatles and Beach Boys but tossed the Bee Gees and Black Sabbath. No problem. Some things are worth keeping. Some aren’t.

When our first grandchild was born I wanted to give Eleanor Grace a gift that might have the chance of following her through life. I knew things would disappear, so I decided on a gift that would be planted deep in her consciousness – a song. First I chose the tune, and every time I held her or walked with her or rocked her, I hummed the tune. “Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo.” (The actually tune is an old English melody titled O Waly Waly. Several hymns have been written using the tune.) It became our song.

Then her parents did something profoundly unbiblical. They moved away. So I called her at bedtime and hummed the tune. (“Doo-doo-doo-doo, doo-doo-doo-doo.”) Eleanor Grace’s mother would hold my picture up as I hummed the tune on a cell phone. It became her bedtime song. When I was not on the phone, her mom hummed it to her. She associated the song with me.

They planned to come see us at Christmas (which is quite biblical for children possessing our grandchildren to do). Eleanor Grace was almost a year old. “We’re going to see Grandma and Papa,” her mother told her. Eleanor Grace looked confused so her mother pulled out my picture. “We’re going to see Papa.” Eleanor Grace looked at the picture, smiled, pointed, and replied, “Doo-doo”. Thus my name for the first years of her life. Doo-doo.

I’ve been called worse. Like Dr. Doo Doo.

We are identified by the tunes and songs we sing. God’s people have always been.

They sang the great song of creation, giving God praise for the loving hands that shaped all that exists.

They sang the song of deliverance at the Red Sea where the waters were split open and they walked to freedom on dry ground.

They sang the songs of thanksgiving for manna from heaven and water from a rock and fiery clouds in the sky, and rescue from enemies.

They were identified by the songs they sang.

Their history was in those songs.

They claimed their lineage in those songs.

In the writings of the prophet Isaiah, an interesting thing happens. Here they are, the exiled people of God, far from home, disconnected from the holy places of memory – and Isaiah’s writings become as bedtime songs sung to them as a reminder of one who seemed distant but loved them nevertheless – one who was coming to see them and take them home into a brand new day. Isaiah begins by reminding them of the things they have always sung about – creation, covenant, calling.

“Thus says God, the LORD,

who created the heavens and stretched them out,

who spread out the earth and what comes from it,

who gives breath to the people who walk upon it

and spirit to those who walk in it:

I am the LORD, I have called you in righteousness,

I have given you as a covenant to the people,

A light to the nations,

to open eyes that are blind,

to bring prisoners from the dungeon,

from the prison those who sit in darkness.

I am the LORD, that is my name;

My glory I give to no other,

nor my praise to idols.

See, the former things have come to pass…

(Isaiah 42:5-9a)

Isaiah takes the exiled child Israel in his arms and soothes them with a tune reminding them that they belong to someone who loves them. But he does not stop there, because the song goes on into their tomorrow.

See, the former things have come to pass,

And new things I now declare;

Before they spring forth I tell you of them.

Sing to the LORD a new song,

His praise from the end of the earth!

Let the sea roar and all that fills it,

The coastlands and their inhabitants….

Do not remember the former things,

Or consider the things of old.

I am about to do a new thing;

Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?

I will make a way in the wilderness, and rivers in the desert.

(Isaiah 42:9b-10, 43:18-19)

It is time to sing a new song… because God is about to do a new thing. A new thing in keeping with all the old things. A new thing that does not obliterate all the old things, but a new thing nevertheless. Why new? Because their situation is different than it used to be. Like it or not, exile had changed their world and the new wine of God did not fit into the old wineskin of their past.

God was giving them not only permission to sing a new song, but commanding them to do it in response to what he was about to do.

The world has changed.

Jihad is now practiced.

The planet is in peril.

A political stalemate in Washington DC

keeps our leaders from doing anything

except blocking each others path.

The rich nations are fragile

and

the poorer nations on the brink of chaos.

Our energy sources cannot support

the lifestyle of an affluent America.

Farming is in jeopardy.

Cities like Detroit are trying to find their future.

Floods are sitting in downtown Nashville.

Our world in exile needs a saving move from God. And you are given permission to sing the new song of God’s new-thing redemption.  You already know the tune. It has been hummed to you for 4 years in a Christian university that has done its best to root you in the ways and paths of God, to locate you in the story of God. But now we urge you to write a new verse to an old song, and sing the new song of God’s way in your world.

I finally put words to Eleanor Grace’s bedtime tune.

The Lord has been so good to me,

his grace is sure, his mercy free.

Lord give us rest throughout the night,

and wake us in the morning light.

She knows the song I gave her by memory, but the situation she finds when she wakes up in each new day, will call for a new song of response.

Two weeks ago, Denise and I took Eleanor Grace and her cousin, Anna Ryan, to Disney World. These two creative, vivacious pre-schoolers had a blast. The trip home was about 13 hours. At one point, they started making up songs. Without coaching or suggestion, the tune of their songs was quite familiar. It had gotten into them, and they were singing a new song…to a very old tune.

Are you ready to sing a new song?

*Baccalaureate Address, May 7, 2010, Trevecca Nazarene University

The Cumberland River crested at 52 feet above flood stage. Nashville and the Middle Tennessee area were hit with destruction not seen since the Civil War, potentially the most costly inland disaster ever to hit the nation. To be a citizen of Nashville during these days has shown me a side of a city that gives me confidence in my fellow humans. Rather than massive looting, heavy military presence, and selfish headline posturing, we’ve seen a city of people step forward to serve their neighbors.

And right in the middle of it all, the students of Trevecca Nazarene University found their way to the poorest section of the city, rolled up their sleeves, and started working. They helped staff shelters around the clock, starting on Sunday evening; they helped clean up a church that had been flooded; they have helped families clean up damaged homes; and they have gathered and delivered supplies. All of this is happening as Trevecca students take final exams, prepare for the graduation of 948 on Saturday (with their 7,000 celebrating guests), and move into a major clergy conference on campus on Monday. At the heart of this work is a young leader and professor on the campus. Jamie Casler, the director of the J. V. Morsch Center for Social Justice. Now in its second year, the Center is preparing a generation of students to address human need with skill, compassion, and experience.

Floods and other crises call for response. Sometimes the need is immediate–rescue a child from a submerged car or get water to a thirsty person. But full recovery requires leaders who know how to assess the need, organize the response, and deliver the help. Compassion alone can never skillfully address massive human need. At Trevecca, social justice means doing the work of Jesus with the heart of Jesus in the most highly skilled way that addresses the true need.

While the words social justice have taken a beating in recent days by irresponsible commentators who try to link them to communism, liberal political thought, and forced distribution of wealth, at Trevecca we reclaim those words for their truest meaning—doing justice throughout social networks and neighborhoods in the name of Jesus. It is required of us that we do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with our God (Micah 6.8). That’s exactly what we mean by social justice. To be moved by compassion is the beginning of the Christian response, but to become skilled in doing justice to humans is the higher calling. Justice is the work of making things right, as God intended it to be.

I hope to see more floods. Not the kind we saw in Nashville this weekend, but the kind imagined by the prophet Amos: “Let justice roll down like waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream” (Amos 5.24 NRSV).