Seeking a New Job (I)

We had quite the adventure this last Spring.  Starting in December of 2010 I began a lengthy process of applying for an administrative position at a fantastic Christian college.  Although we've been blessed for the last ten years to be at our current location at a state institution, I have felt an increased calling to begin working in a school that is more closely aligned with my own sense of vocational calling.  I had kept an eye on the job sites where such positions are posted and found one in an ideal setting.

This university  is big enough to have a nice sized student body (and corresponding budget) but still about half the size of my current location.  It would afford a great opportunity to get to know a smaller group of people and be united with them toward a common purpose.  The position was one of greater responsibility as well.  It would stretch me out vocationally and push me to develop some skills that I'm currently under utilizing.  And it is a pretty stable place.  Sadly, not all Christian institutions offer the same sense of stability and fairness that I've grown accustomed to in a state institution.

And so it seemed like a good fit for both sides.  We began the process with high hopes.

From the Archives

I came across some old poems and writings the other day. On Nostalgia Tuesdays , I'll post a few of the least embarrassing ones. (And yes, you'd be amazed at the poor quality of what I'm not posting!). As you'll be pleased to note, I've been remarkably pretentious for around three decades now.

2-27-90
"It's nine o'clock on a Saturday,
The regular crowd shuffles in,,
'There's an old man sittin' next to me
Makin’ love to his tonic and gin"

I turned off Billy Joel in mid-verse as I pulled my truck into the school's back lot, and for a few minutes I just sat there in silence, examining the playground. Here I was, sitting in the back of Nell Burks Elementary school after "graduating" over ten years before. As I climbed out of the suburban, I noticed the bicycle tracks in the winter grass, and smiled faintly recalling how my own bike's tracks used to criss-cross the grass as well. In 1980 my family moved from McKinney, Texas to a different town so that my father could start his new job. This visit was my first time to return to the school-yard of my youth.

As I walked across the playground it became obvious that many things had changed. There was now a chain-linked fence that wound its way around the perimeter of the schoolyard. New equipment replaced the (OSHA mocking) aging jungle-gyms and slides that I remembered so fondly. Despite these changes, though, the playground still felt the same.

In the center of the area, I noticed a familiar spot of dark earth whose grasslessness attested to its popularity as the center of recreational activity during recess. Walking on, I kicked an empty crayon box forgotten and flattened by careless students. The box and I shared the lonely Saturday schoolyard of my youth and I lamented the passage of time and the ending of schooldays.

I went over to the slide that I had played upon as a youngster. It didn't look as tall, or as foreboding as I remembered. Looking quickly around and vereifying my solitude, I reached out for the two hand rails. Climbing the ladder, I noticed two worn spots on each step and tried to imagine the thousands of little feet that had scampered up in excited expectation of the trip down. As I reached the top, I could survey the entire schoolyard.

For a second. . .for a second, the yard was again filled with children and I could see the
playground monitor motioning for me to slide down, so that others could go.

Then I slid down, closing my eyes as the wind rushed around me, thrilling in the exhilaration of the moment until the short ride with the impact of my feet on the dirt at the bottom of the slide. At first I blinked in the brightness of sunlight. I sat still for a moment, savoring the thoughts of
another time and another place. A place too far away for me ever to return to.

As I got in the truck to leave, I thought of Heraclitus who said: “The same man cannot walk through the river twice, for the next time he does, both the man and the river will have changed."

Heraclitus was wrong. I turned on the tape recorder as I slowly drove out of the playground.

"He said 'Son can you play me a memory,
I'm not really sure how it goes,
But it’s sad and its sweet I knew it complete,
When I wore a younger man’s clothes.'"

Running the Race

In 490 BC, Pheidippides ran the 26.2 miles from Marathon to Athens to report the victory of the Greek army over King Darius' forces. After running the first Marathon and reporting the news, Pheidippides died.

Which explains why I feel half dead.

Kadie and I ran our first 1/2 marathon this morning, and lived to tell the tale. We ran the Chevron Aramco race in Houston, Texas. We've been doing some training for the 13.1 mile race, but Kadie's max run prior to this was 9 miles and mine was 5.

There's an entire running subculture that I really don't have a handle on. There are running clubs that ran together the whole way. Some people ran dressed as Winnie the Pooh (who could use a work out), Elvis, and even the Statue of Liberty. It was interesting. I saw several short shorts (on men, alas) that were in the design of the Texas flag. I couldn't decide if it was desecration or an homage.

The crowd of spectators was strange too. There are hundreds (if not thousands) of folks who come to the race and cheer the runners on. Surprisingly, one cannot underestimate the encouragement of perfect strangers. Our identification tags (referred to as "bibs") included our names. On numerous occasions strangers yelled "Great job, Taran!" as I went by. It felt a little like Norm walking into Cheers.

I've never been the biggest fan of Houston, but the 1/2 marathon was a great way to see a lot of neighborhoods. Many people came out on their porches and waved at us with their free hand while clutching mimosas (or beers?!) in their other. It was 7:30 in the morning. My brother Bartolo talked us into running this a few months ago and I'm glad he did. (Although he did leave us far behind him early on in the race.)

BFMOTY

My first Bad Father Moment of The Year (BFMOTY) occurred on Monday. The morning was atypical. First, it was Squealer’s birthday as he turned five years old. Plus, two new kids shattered our normal morning routine. Kadie has an RN coworker who needed us to take her two boys to school for her. They go to Skeeter’s school and we were glad to do it.

The two kids arrived at 6:30 am and we fed them breakfast. They are nine and seven and, naturally, overflowing with excess energy. When Squealer wandered in at 7:00 he saw two strange boys sitting at his breakfast table eating oatmeal. Since Squealer had just awakened, he stared his unfocusing eyes at these two strangers at his table. In a thoughtless moment, I instinctively blurted out “Squealer, these are your two new brothers. Happy Birthday!” Much to the laughter of all.

After the boys finished their breakfast they proceeded to chase, push, and tickle Squealer until they went off to school. Squealer loved it. That night as Squealer prepared for bed, he prayed “Thank you God for my brothers.” Then the next morning as he wandered into the kitchen populated only by his two sisters, and asked plaintively “Where are my brothers?”

Making matters even worse was the fact that I was out of town and Kadie had to explain to Squealer that I was just joking the day before.

When I returned she told me the whole story and I said “Thanks for cleaning up after my mess.”

“Yet again” she added.

2008 Goals

I'm lousy at resolutions, but goals sound much more manageable.

Three Personal Goals for 2008:

Have a family devotional four nights a week

We've slipped off in this area. In 2007, we had family devotionals at the end of the day, but were very inconsistent. Kadie's night shift work means that she will be at home far more often in the evenings and they can truly be family devotionals. Time flees and these kids are growing up!

Lose weight, then keep it off.

In 2007 I succeeded in the first part, but failed in the second part. More exercise will be helpful, including a prodigious amount of time spent on the trampoline.

Learn to play the hammered dulcimer.

Years ago, in a fit of Rich Mullins love, I purchased a Hammered Dulcimer. When we moved to our current locale, I couldn't find a teacher in the area, so I gave it up. Time to resurrect it.

We'll revisit these goals in 2009. Or not.

Fed-Ex Stinks!!!

We ordered an exciting gift for the kids, one of the larger and pricier Christmas gifts we’ve given. Of course, it is delivered to the house mere moments after Kadie leaves to go pick up Skeeter from school and mere moments before she returns. When the Fed Ex truck pulled up to the house, Scooter looked outside into the car port to see the Fed Ex guy dropping off two large packages. According to our neighbor (who was walking by at the time), the following conversation took place:

Idiot FedEx Guy: “Oh, I’ll just leave these here in the carport.”

Scooter: “What are they?”

Idiot FedEx Guy: “I can’t tell you that, they might be your Christmas present.”

Scooter: “Oh.”

Scooter then starts to close the door.

Idiot FedEx Guy: “Just kidding, it’s a trampoline.”

Scooter “Are you sure you delivered it to the right house?”

Idiot FedEx Guy: “Yep, this is the correct address.”

Then as the Idiot FedEx Guy started to get in his van, he sees my neighbor and comments “Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.”

Words fail me.

Kairos (II)

So why go through ordination now?

There are a few primary reasons.

First is that I feel a close relationship with our departing pastor. Although we theologically bear scant resemblance to one another, he and I have gotten along well over the last six years. I have supported him in the church and he has allowed me tremendous latitude in leadership and teaching roles. For example, he asked me to teach through 1 and 2 Timothy in a January bible study a few years ago when we disagree on the subjects of alcohol and female deacons. And as I have noted in the past, we've had our share of private confrontations.

The most amazing thing to me is that although he grew up a dirt poor boy from Arkansas, he has led our church (prior to my arrival) through a very difficult period of integration. It is the most integrated church to which I’ve ever belonged (though we still have a long way to go). He has modeled love and reconciliation and I consider it an honor for him to preside over my ordination.
A second reason is that I love this church and would like to have them be the ones who participate in this service with me. My kids came to faith in Christ at this church and Kadie and I have been blessed with places of service. Good people serve at this church. On those occasions when I do leaqve to serve in other churches, I want our family to have many connections to this church.

A third reason is the intentional interim ministry. As I’ve written extensively, it is a solid process for engaging the church in important elements of change. I now feel completely assured that this is what God has called me to do. Having a distinctive calling gives me something specific to be called to.

As to my previous objections?

I still don’t think I need to be ordained. But as I told Brother Jones last year and as I told "my former self" a few weeks ago: it’s not always about me. The church needs times of celebration and times of ritual. The church will take pride in my calling and will continue to serve as a support to me through prayer and encouragement. Wherever I go and serve, in some sense they will be participants in that service. In fact, B makes this point in his comment on Friday's post.

Lastly, I don’t think my distinction between clergy/laity will be too much affected by ordination. I say this because I will continue to be bivocational. Bivocational ministers might have an easier time than full time ministers explaining to the congregation that ministry is not something we pay other people to do.

But in the end, I do feel it is calling of God. It is kairos, God’s timing.

Now if I can just get through the candidacy interview without mentioning my affection for either Seinfeld or Letterman, I’ll be alright…

Kairos (I)

Maybe kairos is the best way to explain the following bit of news. This Sunday evening I’ll be ordained to the Gospel ministry by Lakeview Baptist church. A bit of background.

When Kadie and I packed up the UHaul and trucked on over to the spacious living quarters at Southwestern Seminary in 1991, I had recently been licensed. The seminary requires all its students to be licensed in order to enroll. My pastor at the time helped me accomplish this, but due to the tumult of graduation, marriage, and moving that occupied that summer, he and I decided that I’d return home at a mutually convenient time and then I would be ordained.

We planned on setting up my ordination later that year, but never got around to it. It was a low on my priority list. After that first year, the pastor of my home church was forced out, and there arose a pharaoh pastor who knew not Taran. I grew disconnected with that church, but didn’t feel a close association with our church in Ft. Worth either.

When I went to Baylor, and was called to pastor Lone Oak, it wasn’t a concern of theirs. Neither was it an issue this last year at Susan Song. Plus I had two additional reasons for not wanting to get ordained.

First, ordination is not a key doctrinal issue for me. I don’t know if there’s a fourth level of doctrinal triage or not, but that’s about where I’d put it. There’s nothing wrong with ordination, but it is not required. I follow Spurgeon in saying that if God has called you into service, you really don’t need any one else’s endorsement. It is simply not a big concern to me. (Although Spurgeon goes even further. He said that ordination was a case of “empty hands being placed on an empty head.”)

Second, I’ve always thought that ministers were separated enough from the laity. There is a tendency in the church to assume that ministry is what you pay the preacher to do. It is a faulty division of labor: there are those who minister and those who support those who minister.

But I believe strongly in the calling of all believers as ministers. The key verses of my own ministry have been 2 Corinthians 5:18-19.

Now all these things are from God, who reconciled us to Himself through Christ and gave us the ministry of reconciliation, namely, that God was in Christ reonciling the world to Himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and He has committed to us the word of reconciliation.

Paul is writing these verses to underscore the fact that all people are entrusted with God’s ministry, not just the leaders in the polyester suits. Ordination simply adds another unnecessary layer of insulation between clergy and laity.

So why get ordained?????

Church Graduation

Four years ago, as I finally wrapped up my doctorate, I was approached by one of our church secretaries who asked for a photo of me in my graduation regalia. (It looks sharp, though it does bear (!) a stark resemblence to the Green Goblin's outfit.) She said that she wanted it for our Graduation Day Sunday service so they could put it on the screen when I walked down the aisle of the church with our other graduates.

I was less than enthusiastic about the idea. In retrospect I can very much see my pride at work as I considered church Graduation Day something for high school students or maybe a college graduate. But for a graduate degree? I didn’t need any attention and so I declined.

In fact, I never gave her a picture and told her that I had no desire to participate. But secretaries can be persistent and she repeated her request on more than one occasion. A showdown was avoided because we had to travel to Waco for graduation and elected to visit our friends at Lone Oak on the same Sunday that our home church would be having Graduation Day.

I was aggravated to find out later that they still put my name on a scrolling list of graduates during the morning service, simply without the picture.

Looking back on that experience, I am struck by how foolishly self-centered I was. I thought that the ceremony was for my benefit, but I now realize that many (though certainly not all) church ceremonies serve an important part of the life of the church and are vital to its continued health. A church graduation day, for example, allows the church to see the fruit of its effort in a tangible way.

As the high school and college seniors (yes, even the grad students) walk down the aisle in church, the congregation gets to celebrate the role that it has had in the life of these new graduates. All of their Sunday School teachers and youth leaders have invested themselves in these students over the years. In a sense, when these high school church members go off to college, they take a part of the church with them. And we do and should celebrate that.

I now regret not having participated. If I could go back and speak to my “aggrieved” younger self, I would simply say…


“It’s not about you!”

Miscellaneous Drivel

Cherry Coke Zero is the best beverage going right now. Coke Zero is slowly taking over the world.

Next season, Jack Bauer will climb aboard a spaceship and (with the help of Chloe and his cell phone) rescue the universe from the big crunch. All in 24 hours.

I still miss Rich Mullins.

At this point, the Democrats are going to destroy the Republicans in the 08’ elections. And the way the Elephants have governed, they will deserve it.

Scooter and Skeeter go ga-ga over Superchick.

300 is too violent. That’s an odd statement to make about a war film, but I think that it is accurate. Saving Private Ryan was violent, but its violence was in service to its realism. The violence in 300 was stylized in an attempt to make it hip. Also, as a general rule, I try to witness no more than one decapitation every 5 years. This film had a good three or four of them. (A pet peeve: the posters for 300 all said “From the writer of Sin City.” I was unaware that Herodotus wrote Sin City). Kadie’s comment after watching the film: “Esther never would’ve married that guy!”

There are few things more pitiful than a four year old with a stomach virus. Squealer simply doesn't understand what is going on. All he knows is that his Daddy won't give him some milk when he's thirsty or a PB&J when he's starving...mostly because Daddy is tired of washing his comforter, sheets, and mattress pad because he's deposited partially digested milk and sandwich all over the place.

We have gorgeous oak trees in our neighborhood, but twice a year (in the Fall and Spring) they shed like long haired cats. Plus we live at the end of the block and every time it rains they all drain down into our front yard.

March Madness is almost over. Finally!

I really like the automated check out lines that are now ubiquitous throughout the retail world. I use them constantly, even when I exceed 15 items. (I am careful to always ask for a special suspension of the rules). I get to move in and out of the store quite quickly. The only downside is that I never bag the groceries correctly and end up with squished bread. A small price to pay.

Chewing gum is underrated.

I really, really enjoy Celtic Woman. I suspect that the high-brow among us sniff down at their popularity, but I like them a lot. There is something very compelling about songs in unknown languages. (Plus it’s very fun for the whole family to try to sing along with Sail Away.)

Lastly, when people point out all the pain, suffering, and bitterness in the world today, I can point out what a wonderful God we serve who accomplishes magnificent things like this.

The Sports Lacuna

My sports passions revolve around football and baseball in that order. Hockey doesn’t exist and basketball is largely irrelevant. That is ironic given my childhood. The one sports I played more than the others was basketball. I still harbor fond memories of playing for our church in the Royal Ambassador’s league. I recall arriving early at the gym on Saturday mornings and shivering as we started bouncing basketballs in the cold, empty gym.

I was never a gifted player and looked forward to my minute or two of playing. I took from my playing time an appreciation for teamwork and a marginal jump shot (which I have recently used to devastating effect) but little else. I have concluded that at the end of the day, basketball is far more fun to play than to watch. I will, from time to time, catch a part of a professional game. (Who could ignore the incredible run the Mavericks are on right now?) But I NEVER watch college basketball.

Which brings me to March.

To say that you cannot stand college basketball is to utter blasphemy. It is the same as yelling “Raca” before the Sanhedrin. A stoneable offense. March Madness has become a cottage collage industry as millions are heaped upon schools for the benefit of the viewing audiences.

But it’s not the demand upon financial resources that I despise, but rather the drain on sports resources. Every sports commentary on radio, blogs and newspapers is filled with minutia regarding the teams, bubbles, their coaches, and fans. March Madness, with its infernal brackets and its overexposed Dick Vitale, is a vast wasteland of sports, a great Black Hole of useless activity.

I can’t stand it.

Only a little more than two weeks until a real sport begins.

Part of the Emphemera Still Floating Around in my Brain.....

Thirty years later, I still cannot get these images out of my mind...







And the One that started them all: The Yip Yip Martians meet the Telephone...






The Sleestacks still frighten me. And I still, bitterly hold Sidd and Marty Krofft personally responsible for so much that went wrong in the 1970's....

Otters and Lions and Hair—Oh My

I am considering changing the name of my blog to something like: An Otter’s Tale.

Gary Smalley distinguishes four personality types along two axes: Lion (leaders)/Retrievers (followers) on one axis and Beaver (workers)/Otter (players) along the other. I’m a Lion/Otter. My administrative responsibilities have forced upon me more elements of Beaverness than I care for, but that is the reward for showing any Leonine potential at my current educational institution. And I am incredibly blessed by our departmental secretary—who is truly a gift from God (and I mean that in all sincerity and sans fromage). She is meticulous and enjoys scanning papers for details and number crunching (shiver).

But once in awhile, my otter nature makes my life more difficult than it could be. Take this morning for example. I get up early with the girls and Scooter scoots off to the bus around 7:00. As bleary-eyed Skeeter and I go through our morning routine (Kadie sleeps in, having worked the late shift last night), it dawns on me that I could walk her to school, take our two dogs and then complete a brief run before arriving at work around 9:30. (Several morning arrivals this week allowed me to come in a bit later today.)

So I walk her to school and then continue running/walking for another 45 minutes or so. I return to the house at 8:50. Squealer is now up, and so is Kadie. The phone rings and it is our departmental secretary. "Payroll has to be approved by 9:00" she says.

"Crud!" I mutter. (Crud is my personal Christian expletive of choice).

Payroll has to be approved for all faculty in our department and for all student workers every two weeks. I have observed repeatedly that people become quite irate when their paychecks are delayed. And of course I have to sign off on payroll by enttering a code into our computer system software. That I cannot access from off campus.

So I find a Baylor cap to cover my motley morning hair and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I prepare to leave. I am in a gray T-shirt with gray gym shorts, unshaven, unbathed, and sweaty. I get in the car and race up to school. Fortunately I live very close. Unfortunately I remember that 9:00 for a MWF class is the busiest time of the academic week. There are several hundred students going into our building, as well as faculty who are late arriving to campus.

I pull into a parking space and a junior faculty member in our department pulls in right next to me.

Stupid timing.

We get out of our cars at the same time and he does a double take. "Are we allowed to wear that?" he asks questioningly. (A good response would’ve been a Tom Swiftie "I’ll break you in half if you ask me again!" Taran snapped.) Instead I mutter something about casual Fridays and pulled my cap down lower across my forehead and put my sunglasses in place.

I arrive at the door to our building and see one of our student workers standing there. He doesn’t catch my eye, so I realize that he hasn’t seen me. I get past him and start to open the building door. He says "Dr. Taran, I almost didn’t recognize you!"

Stupid almost.

I quickly make my way to our departmental offices. Our secretary sees me and is completely unsurprised at my outfit. I approve payroll on the computer and start to head back to the parking lot. "Nice hair" she yells over my shoulder. I ignore her.

Later that day, when I have safely returned to school in proper attire a student mentions "I heard about your new look Dr. Taran." And the last vestige of my pride seeps away.

Stupid Otter!

But I enjoyed the walk with Squealer and the run with the dogs.

A Theological Question

So if it's not actually out yet...

and therefore no one owns one...

is it a sin to covet this?

An Impractical Joke

Kevin's query triggered this early marriage memory.

Flashback to February of 1992:

Kadie and I are in our first year of school in Fort Worth. I am in seminary while she is wrapping up her R.N. at TCU. Scooter, Skeeter and Squealer do not yet exist.

It is a cold morning and I am preparing to go to work at the library. We lived in B.H. Carroll Park in one of the two-bedroom apartments. I drove the 73’ canary yellow Volkswagon SuperBeetle and Kadie drove the first love of my life, a 1984 Suburban. (The wifey always gets the best car of course. Although in this case the "best" was certainly relative). Since the weather is cold, Kadie likes to allow the Suburban to heat up in the morning before she gets into it. She would turn it on, lock the doors to it, and finish getting ready in the house. (The parking lot was located very close to our apartment, maybe 25 feet away). The Suburban would then heat up and get toasty warm so that when she got in she would have a comfortable ride to school.

I expressed concern to her that it might not be the safest place to keep a running car, even with the doors locked. Someone might steal it. But we never reached a consensus in our conversation. One morning I went to work but forgot something. When I returned to our parking lot, I saw the suburban gently running, the tell-tale sign of condensation floating out of its tail-pipe.

I actually remember thinking “I’m going to teach Kadie a lesson.” [I interrupt this narrative, from the vantage point of 15 years marriage, to say that a husband should NEVER have this thought, and if he is foolish enough to think it, he certainly should never act on it]. So I parked the Bug down the street and then I returned and moved the Suburban. I parked it on the next block and then I returned to the parking lot, hiding behind some cars and watching our back door.

I shivered and waited about five minutes. While waiting, I planned on what to do next. I had thought she would walk out of the apartment and I would say something like “So, did you lose something?” amidst much laughter. But that is not quite how it turned out. There would be much less laughter than I had anticipated.

Finally, Kadie opened the door and….stopped. She stared for a moment at where the Suburban should be. Then I watched in horror as she turned, went back into the apartment and slammed the door. Now I was struck with indecision. Should I wait here for her to return? But then I realized she might be calling campus security, so I raced across the parking lot and went careening into the door as I clambered into the kitchen.

Now picture this from Kadie’s perspective. The car is missing, so she was worried about thieves. Then she went into the kitchen to call me at work to tell me what was going on. All the while she is terrified that these thieves might still be around. Then I came crashing into the kitchen, slamming open the door. (Who knew you could slam open a door?!). She immediately thought I was one of the car thieves and let out an unholy scream of terror.

She began speaking to me again last Thursday.

Mother's Day Post Script

Note to self (and perhaps other fathers)

When your wife mentions to you a slight disappointment with the quality of her Mother’s day, DO NOT respond with the statement “But you are not MY mother. Why are you telling me?”

I now know from experience that this is not wise.