on rightly ordering ordination

19Jan09

Three years ago my mother was ordained as an elder in the Church of the Nazarene.  The service took place in an off-the-beaten-path Tabernacle (an old converted airplane hanger) on the district campgrounds in Southern Illinois.  This was a much anticipated ordination service for our family–not simply for the novelty of a woman being ordained, but because of the arduous process my mom went through in order to make this happen.  In the midst of newly diagnosed breast cancer, radical surgery, and chemotherapy, she pursued her qualifying ordination exams, only to face numerous delays: the wrong test was sent, the tester didn’t show, etc.  One might speculate on why a known and tried denominational process could be so horribly broken: at best it appeared to be incompetence; at worst, intentional delay.

But she never relented from pursuit of her calling, and for those of us who stood helplessly by while she struggled with the process, the evening was a night for celebration.  Friends and family gathered from across the nation, across denominational lines, and across cultural and sexual orientations to celebrate and affirm her on this sacred occasion.  

Paul Cunningham, General Superintendent of the Church of the Nazarene, preached the sermon and administered the laying on of hands (a symbol of apostolic succession of the rites of ordination) during the service.   He assessed the crowd and delivered an amazing sucker punch: a sermon against homosexuality, couched in the fear that were the denominational stance breached on said topic, the future and identity of this holiness denomination would be compromised.  In a heavy-handed fashion, he laid hands upon the mother of some of those threatening infidels, and physically placed upon her the burden of denominational politics–at the expense of her own children.  He associated her calling with a form of exclusion which hit many of her present supports below the proverbial belt.

I watched as her shoulders began to shake and the tears began to flow freely.  For those outside the family circle, it was an apparent movement of the Spirit.  For those within the familial lines, we saw abusive and wretched pain being transmitted.  She stood, newly ordained, and faced an expectant crowd: muted by the abuse of power.

I spent the evening and the next days reminding her that we are not Donatists: the sacraments do not require a perfect priest.  And that her ordination did not come from any single General Superintendent, nor from any particular denomination; instead, her ordination was to, from, and in the church of Jesus Christ.  It is he who called her and brought her out.  No one else.  And her tears would calm.  

Now, three years later, I still find myself occasionally having to remind her of that.  And the times she’s set foot in one of that denomination’s churches since her ordination, can be counted on one hand.  She has found better means and ways of ministering beyond denominational boundaries with those most forgotten and insipidly ignored by the church: the mentally and physically challenged.

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Yesterday, I witnessed and participated in an ordination of another breed: American Baptist.  Within the free-church tradition, it is the local congregation which recognizes the gifts and graces of the candidate and presents them for ordination.  In this case, the ordinand was Ann-Louise Haak, the associate minister, who over the past five years has served my local congregation with a commendable level of sensitivity and service.  She and her partner and two foster boys have brought their own unique perspectives and experiences in honesty and humility–dreams and sensitivities which cross racial and sexual boundaries and break down bourgeois notions of what it means to be family, and what it means to be community.

It was no mere coincidence that her ordination service was on the Sunday we also celebrate Martin Luther King, Jr.’s birthday.  The parallels between Ann-Louise’s journey, and the dream of being judged by the content of our hearts instead of the color of our skin, etc. cannot go unnoticed.  Bob Thompson, the senior pastor, so aptly reminded us that our task, as a congregation, and the ways in which Ann-Louise has led us and will continue to lead us, is the welcoming of anyone and everyone through the front doors of the church (no back-door, hidden, covert ecclesial-citizenship).  And the music swelled with the voice of a young Samuel saying, “Here am I, Lord”.  No one in the congregation was exempt from this calling.

The laying on of hands in this service seemed not to weigh her down with responsibilities, but rather to make Ann-Louise light as a feather: the congregation’s children gathered round her, including her own two African-American foster boys and laid hands of grace, support, and hope upon her.  They reached forward and touched her, sensing perhaps that somehow, they were also sensing their future: a future in which all are welcomed and affirmed.  The elders then surrounded the children and laid hands upon them, also participating in a sweeping gesture of hope and affirmation. The congregation then laid hands upon the elders, affirming the saints of the past, the present, and our future.

And again, I am reminded: we are not Donatists.  Perfection is not required for a sacrament to be efficacious.  But this time I feel hope: the promise not of the arrival of a state of perfection, but rather the hope of the faithfulness of the Spirit who promises to perfect (future tense).  This is the hope of holiness.

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Filed under: Communion of Saints, Ecclesiology, Homosexuality, On Being/Becoming Baptist   |  2 Comments