I did something yesterday that I have not done in a long, long time. I went into an "antique" store. I write "antique" because when I was a kid these places would have been called second-hand shops or flea markets. Antique was not a word applied to old Coke cans or Smurf figurines. Things are different in the 21st century. In a world full of euphemisms, antique now means anything used that the seller wants to unload.
My absence from the world of flea markets, oops, my bad, antique stores had nothing to do with a dislike of shopping. I actually enjoy looking through stacks of old CDs or books in the hopes of finding a real treasure. To be honest, antique stores, at least the ones like I went to yesterday, just freak me out. They give me a feeling of sensory overload. There is simply too much stuff to look at. Then I start thinking about where all of these items came from, and what happened to the 3.2 million other Alf dolls that used to be in peoples homes but is now priced to sell for $45, and how in the world did one culture make so much garbage, er, antiques?
There are three antique stores within a block of each other not far from where I live. I paid a visit to all three yesterday. Why, I don't know. I think I was looking for something and it crossed my mind that these stores might be the place to find it. I was wrong, or a least I never found whatever it was I started out looking for. What I did encounter was thousands upon thousands of things - furniture, books, dishes, DVD's, family pictures from the 19th century where everyone looked absolutely miserable (which is not that different from most family photos today), cans, jewelry, and, my personal favorite, those old jelly jars that had cartoon characters on the sides. You know, the ones you used to pay like a $1.50 for in the grocery store and now, sans jelly, will run you $5 each.
In one cabinet was an old Six Million Dollar man doll. This particular homage to Lee Majors was not in a box nor was it in mint condition. The previous owner appeared to have gotten at least Five Million Dollars worth of their Six Million Dollar Man. Yet there he was, right next to his rocket ship (which looked as if it had seen more than a few trips to the moon) ready for someone to buy him up. Provided, of course, that they chunk over $15. When I saw the price tag I about freaked. I had one of those dolls as a kid and brand new it cost less than that. Why would anyone pay that kind of money for a beat up action figure? Then again, why would people pay for most of the stuff in these stores? Call it will you will, but sometimes junk is really just junk.
I think that what must drive the "antique" industry (besides a desire for money) is nostalgia. People go into these stores and see things that remind them of the past, of happy feelings and memories. They buy things in the hopes that the doll or picture or record will help reproduce something powerful that is missing in their lives. Antique stores remind me of that scene in Field of Dreams when James Earl Jones tells Kevin Costner that if he keeps the baseball field people will come and willingly pay $20 a head because they are longing to connect with something in the past. Of course today it would be more like $40 ($24.99 for the kids 12 and under) but it is amazing what nostalgia will make us do.
I respect the power of nostalgia and understand the role that memories play in our lives. I just wonder if sometimes we get so caught up in recapturing a feeling that we start to do some really silly things and I don't just mean overpaying for a well worn action figure from a 1970s TV show. Sometimes we allow the past to block out the present and future. We ignore what is going on around us and end up turning our current life altering experiences into junk that we just throw away.
God is at work in our lives all of our life. Yes, let's remember the glories of the past (which is why God invented DVD's so we could watch entire seasons of The Six Million Dollar Man) and buying a trinket or two to help us do that is fine. But also celebrate now and look forward to all of the wonderful blessings that God has lined up for you in the days ahead. They may not produce the same emotions as I felt on my 8th birthday (when I got my Six Million Dollar Man action figure) but then again Lee Majors has nothing on what I experienced when I met my wife or when my three kids were born.
I have no idea what it will feel like when my children graduate from high school and college (though my wallet will feel much lighter) or when I retire or get to be a grandparent (which better not happen anytime soon!) Will I find something in an antique store that will remind me of how I felt on those days? Perhaps...oh, who am I kidding, most likely not. I will indulge my feelings of nostalgia in different, less costly ways.
Give thanks to God for the past. Just don't get lost in it...and try not to get overcharged when you want to remember the good old days!
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Sunday, August 29, 2010
PROD Me
Lets be honest, if you are going to a fast food restaurant you don't expect to get "fresh" food. Sure, the corporations will occasionally run adds saying they use fresh ingredients, but they don't believe it. Neither do we. What we are concerned about is how long the food we are being served as been around. Ever had a french fry that has been sitting under a heat lamp for 45 minutes? Yummy, right! Or how about that sandwich that remembers when Reagan was president? Tasty! We have convinced our brains, and taste buds, that frozen burgers...and fries...and chicken is OK. We just want the food hot and not eligible for Social Security.
Now days they don't make your burger till you order it. However, they have cooked up the meat long before you pulled up to the drive-thru. When I worked for McDonald's it was different (not better, mind you, just different). Back in my fast food days we cooked up sandwiches before you ordered them and then gave them a life-span of ten minutes. That's right, your Fillet-O-Fish had 600 seconds from the time I boxed it up to get on your tray. For those unfortunate sandwiches that were not adopted within the ten minute time limit a fate worse than being eaten awaited - the trash can (the horror, the unspeakable horror!)
Needless to say management did not like food being put in the trash can. Nor did they like customers waiting on their burgers. The powers that be wanted enough food prepared that customers were served quickly (except for you freaks that wanted your sandwich different than everybody else's. It was OK if you waited, and waited, and waited) but not so much that it was being thrown away. No problem, if you are clairvoyant. Unlike more dignified restaurants, where patrons are required to call in advance and tell you they are coming (and then only order what you told them was available), fast food joints never know how many customers they are going to have or when they will show up or what they will want to eat. Thus was born the guessing game known as Production Control, or PROD for short. The poor fool stationed on PROD had the enviable task of, well, controlling food production. This was not for the faint or heart or those with weak constitutions. Many employees knew that PROD was a fast train to nowhere and therefore went out of their way to appear intellectually unworthy of the challenge. Most succeeded. I failed. So much so that my for many years I thought my name was PROD.
The worst thing that you could do on PROD was to get behind. Once you started to run out of food it became very hard to catch back up. To this day I still believe that there was a sign over the counter and at the drive-thru that said "We are currently out of Big Macs so please order 5 more." When you got behind customers smelled blood in the water. I swear, you could have ten hot (not fresh, remember, just hot), ready to eat cheeseburgers and the next five orders would all be for hamburgers. When you got behind the rest of the staff started taking matters in their own hands. It became the restaurant version of the Titanic with everybody scrambling for a seat on the proverbial lifeboat. Front counter workers would start telling the grill crew what to make and those on the grill would start telling you what they were going to make. It could get real ugly real fast.
The key to being on PROD and not ending up in a mental hospital was attitude. You had to appear to be in complete control all of the time. Never let the other workers see you sweat, especially when you were guessing wrong about how much food needed to be produced. As long as the rest of the employees believed you knew what you were doing they would not mutiny. One whiff of fear and it was all over. Confidence was the name of the game. Or maybe it was just the illusion of confidence.
As a person of faith there are times when I feel very confident that God and I are on the same page. No matter what happens that day I know I will be able to handle it. Flat tire at rush hour, please! Cell phone bill arrives and I discover that my child does not understand the meaning of limits on minutes, we can get through this. My wife comes home in a really, really bad mood, well the Lord is my shepherd and we will find a way to those green pastures.
There are, however, times when my confidence melts away, when the trails and temptations seem too much. But I can't let other people see me like this. I am a follower of Jesus, moreover I am an ordained minister. What would folks think about me, about God, if they knew that today I am treading water in a sea of doubt and confusion? So its time for the magic show and the illusion that I have it all under control. But I don't and there are times when I am not sure I ever did.
Some of the best parts of the Bible are when the writers acknowledge before God and the whole world that they are struggling. From the Psalmists all the way through to Jesus, yes Jesus, scripture bears witness to fear, uncertainty, and a complete lack of confidence, but also faith. Faith is not about always being confident and faith is certainly not the illusion of confidence. Rather, faith is what keeps us hanging on when nothing makes sense and we are not sure we will ever figure it out. Faith is something deeper and stronger and more powerful than mere confidence. Faith is a gift from God that comes at those times when we are the least confident.
Slowly I am learning that what is required of me, as a follower of Jesus, is to bear witness to my faith in times of doubt rather than create the illusion that I have it all together. For that illusion prevents other people from seeing God at work in my life.
Now days they don't make your burger till you order it. However, they have cooked up the meat long before you pulled up to the drive-thru. When I worked for McDonald's it was different (not better, mind you, just different). Back in my fast food days we cooked up sandwiches before you ordered them and then gave them a life-span of ten minutes. That's right, your Fillet-O-Fish had 600 seconds from the time I boxed it up to get on your tray. For those unfortunate sandwiches that were not adopted within the ten minute time limit a fate worse than being eaten awaited - the trash can (the horror, the unspeakable horror!)
Needless to say management did not like food being put in the trash can. Nor did they like customers waiting on their burgers. The powers that be wanted enough food prepared that customers were served quickly (except for you freaks that wanted your sandwich different than everybody else's. It was OK if you waited, and waited, and waited) but not so much that it was being thrown away. No problem, if you are clairvoyant. Unlike more dignified restaurants, where patrons are required to call in advance and tell you they are coming (and then only order what you told them was available), fast food joints never know how many customers they are going to have or when they will show up or what they will want to eat. Thus was born the guessing game known as Production Control, or PROD for short. The poor fool stationed on PROD had the enviable task of, well, controlling food production. This was not for the faint or heart or those with weak constitutions. Many employees knew that PROD was a fast train to nowhere and therefore went out of their way to appear intellectually unworthy of the challenge. Most succeeded. I failed. So much so that my for many years I thought my name was PROD.
The worst thing that you could do on PROD was to get behind. Once you started to run out of food it became very hard to catch back up. To this day I still believe that there was a sign over the counter and at the drive-thru that said "We are currently out of Big Macs so please order 5 more." When you got behind customers smelled blood in the water. I swear, you could have ten hot (not fresh, remember, just hot), ready to eat cheeseburgers and the next five orders would all be for hamburgers. When you got behind the rest of the staff started taking matters in their own hands. It became the restaurant version of the Titanic with everybody scrambling for a seat on the proverbial lifeboat. Front counter workers would start telling the grill crew what to make and those on the grill would start telling you what they were going to make. It could get real ugly real fast.
The key to being on PROD and not ending up in a mental hospital was attitude. You had to appear to be in complete control all of the time. Never let the other workers see you sweat, especially when you were guessing wrong about how much food needed to be produced. As long as the rest of the employees believed you knew what you were doing they would not mutiny. One whiff of fear and it was all over. Confidence was the name of the game. Or maybe it was just the illusion of confidence.
As a person of faith there are times when I feel very confident that God and I are on the same page. No matter what happens that day I know I will be able to handle it. Flat tire at rush hour, please! Cell phone bill arrives and I discover that my child does not understand the meaning of limits on minutes, we can get through this. My wife comes home in a really, really bad mood, well the Lord is my shepherd and we will find a way to those green pastures.
There are, however, times when my confidence melts away, when the trails and temptations seem too much. But I can't let other people see me like this. I am a follower of Jesus, moreover I am an ordained minister. What would folks think about me, about God, if they knew that today I am treading water in a sea of doubt and confusion? So its time for the magic show and the illusion that I have it all under control. But I don't and there are times when I am not sure I ever did.
Some of the best parts of the Bible are when the writers acknowledge before God and the whole world that they are struggling. From the Psalmists all the way through to Jesus, yes Jesus, scripture bears witness to fear, uncertainty, and a complete lack of confidence, but also faith. Faith is not about always being confident and faith is certainly not the illusion of confidence. Rather, faith is what keeps us hanging on when nothing makes sense and we are not sure we will ever figure it out. Faith is something deeper and stronger and more powerful than mere confidence. Faith is a gift from God that comes at those times when we are the least confident.
Slowly I am learning that what is required of me, as a follower of Jesus, is to bear witness to my faith in times of doubt rather than create the illusion that I have it all together. For that illusion prevents other people from seeing God at work in my life.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
A View From the Drive-Thru
In my last blog I wrote about working at McDonald's. Not the sexiest job in the world, I'll give you that. However, this particular McDonald's was very unique. The interior was decorated with scenes from fairy tale stories (try finding that at your local burger joint), which the kids loved. But that was not even the best part. What really brought the youngsters in was the drive-thru.
My local manifestation of the global behemoth known as McDonald's was originally constructed without a drive-thru. On either side of the counter were small little rooms where customers could sit and eat (or have a birthday party) and at the back of those areas were the restrooms (given their proximity to the loo one only ate in these ante-chambers when the rest of the dining room was full). When the owners of the store decided to join the 20th century and add a drive-thru they had no place to put it. Ah, but this is America and we are a creative people when it comes to finding ways to make money by serving folks unhealthy food in their cars. The owners constructed a little booth on the other side of the birthday party/entrance to the men's bathroom alcove (putting the party area in front of the men's bathroom was a brilliant move since nothing added to the fun of a 5 year-old birthday celebration like the smells that came wafting out of the men's room. The Big Mac, it became clear, did not agree with everyone).
But how, you may ask, did the food get to the booth? Now, that was the cool part. Since they did not want to lose the seating or men's bathroom the owners had a conveyor belt built that ran between the front counter and the drive-thru. The whole contraption hung from the ceiling so that people could walk underneath of it but it had glass on the sides so you could see the food get from the counter to the drive-thru. This conveyor belt, dear reader, provided countless hours of entertainment to the masses who, having nothing better to do with their time, would stand in awe of moving french fries (cue up Proud To Be An American right about now).
I do not recall, or wish to remember, how much of my life was spent in that booth. It was maybe 4 feet wide and about 10 feet long, and when you threw in all of the equipment (cash register, drink dispenser, ice bin, cups, coffee pots, etc.) it became very cozy. You felt like you were on a deserted island in that booth. The door was locked from the outside so the curious or criminally inclined could not get in. Except for the breakfast/lunch/dinner rush hours, when another person or two was thrown in the mix, the drive-thru booth was run by one person. Alone. By themselves. With no one to see what you did or how you did it (unless customers came inside to complain, then the manager might take an interest in your activities).
Did you know that over 80% of the business at a fast food restaurant comes via the drive-thru? People like to satisfy their appetites in the safety and security of their automobiles. Yes, there were people making the food and a person called a "runner" who was getting the orders together at the main counter, but it was the person in the drive-thru that saw most of the action. The employee working in the booth got to take all of those orders, see all of the happy, smiley faces, wait while customers tried to get out of their cars and pick up the change they dropped all over the ground (which was really fun because the drivers-side door was about six inches from the side of the building) and, my personal favorite, suggestive sell.
All of us are familiar with suggestive selling. It happens at most restaurants. "Would you like some fries with that?" is suggestive selling. "How about an apple pie?" is suggestive selling. "Can I get you anything else?" is not suggestive selling. Trust me on this one, I still have emotional scares from the frequent reprimands I got from the store's general manager. The point of suggestive selling is to get you to buy more by suggesting a particular product that you have not already ordered. The more you suggestive sold the happier the owner was. Yet, suggestive selling is a difficult task. Even the good ones, the "Can I get you a sundae?" All-Stars, struck out more often than they succeeded. Suggestive selling involved a lot of rejection. And there is nothing like being rejected, through an intercom, in a locked room, all by yourself.
Too often, I fear, people think of Christians as if we were restaurant employees trying to sell them something they did not order and do not want. And just as frequently I believe that followers of Jesus feel like they are out there in that booth, all alone, under pressure to push their religion on other people. Faith is not a product, even if some TV evangelists try to act as if it were. It cannot be bought or purchased and suggestive selling is not what Jesus calls us to do. Faith is about story, about how God moves in our lives and transforms us into the people God created us to be. Evangelism is nothing more than sharing our story, not so people will "buy" it, but because our story is filled with so much good news we just have to tell other folks about it.
Since humans first walked the earth we have told each other stories. Some are made up, others based upon real events, but by sharing our stories we invite people into our lives, our joys and celebrations, struggles and failures, hopes and dreams. Stories bind us together and, every once in a while, they can change our lives. That is why, for thousands of years, God has spoken to us through stories. So, don't fear telling your story or listening to other people tell theirs. Who knows, God may be speaking to you in the narrative.
My local manifestation of the global behemoth known as McDonald's was originally constructed without a drive-thru. On either side of the counter were small little rooms where customers could sit and eat (or have a birthday party) and at the back of those areas were the restrooms (given their proximity to the loo one only ate in these ante-chambers when the rest of the dining room was full). When the owners of the store decided to join the 20th century and add a drive-thru they had no place to put it. Ah, but this is America and we are a creative people when it comes to finding ways to make money by serving folks unhealthy food in their cars. The owners constructed a little booth on the other side of the birthday party/entrance to the men's bathroom alcove (putting the party area in front of the men's bathroom was a brilliant move since nothing added to the fun of a 5 year-old birthday celebration like the smells that came wafting out of the men's room. The Big Mac, it became clear, did not agree with everyone).
But how, you may ask, did the food get to the booth? Now, that was the cool part. Since they did not want to lose the seating or men's bathroom the owners had a conveyor belt built that ran between the front counter and the drive-thru. The whole contraption hung from the ceiling so that people could walk underneath of it but it had glass on the sides so you could see the food get from the counter to the drive-thru. This conveyor belt, dear reader, provided countless hours of entertainment to the masses who, having nothing better to do with their time, would stand in awe of moving french fries (cue up Proud To Be An American right about now).
I do not recall, or wish to remember, how much of my life was spent in that booth. It was maybe 4 feet wide and about 10 feet long, and when you threw in all of the equipment (cash register, drink dispenser, ice bin, cups, coffee pots, etc.) it became very cozy. You felt like you were on a deserted island in that booth. The door was locked from the outside so the curious or criminally inclined could not get in. Except for the breakfast/lunch/dinner rush hours, when another person or two was thrown in the mix, the drive-thru booth was run by one person. Alone. By themselves. With no one to see what you did or how you did it (unless customers came inside to complain, then the manager might take an interest in your activities).
Did you know that over 80% of the business at a fast food restaurant comes via the drive-thru? People like to satisfy their appetites in the safety and security of their automobiles. Yes, there were people making the food and a person called a "runner" who was getting the orders together at the main counter, but it was the person in the drive-thru that saw most of the action. The employee working in the booth got to take all of those orders, see all of the happy, smiley faces, wait while customers tried to get out of their cars and pick up the change they dropped all over the ground (which was really fun because the drivers-side door was about six inches from the side of the building) and, my personal favorite, suggestive sell.
All of us are familiar with suggestive selling. It happens at most restaurants. "Would you like some fries with that?" is suggestive selling. "How about an apple pie?" is suggestive selling. "Can I get you anything else?" is not suggestive selling. Trust me on this one, I still have emotional scares from the frequent reprimands I got from the store's general manager. The point of suggestive selling is to get you to buy more by suggesting a particular product that you have not already ordered. The more you suggestive sold the happier the owner was. Yet, suggestive selling is a difficult task. Even the good ones, the "Can I get you a sundae?" All-Stars, struck out more often than they succeeded. Suggestive selling involved a lot of rejection. And there is nothing like being rejected, through an intercom, in a locked room, all by yourself.
Too often, I fear, people think of Christians as if we were restaurant employees trying to sell them something they did not order and do not want. And just as frequently I believe that followers of Jesus feel like they are out there in that booth, all alone, under pressure to push their religion on other people. Faith is not a product, even if some TV evangelists try to act as if it were. It cannot be bought or purchased and suggestive selling is not what Jesus calls us to do. Faith is about story, about how God moves in our lives and transforms us into the people God created us to be. Evangelism is nothing more than sharing our story, not so people will "buy" it, but because our story is filled with so much good news we just have to tell other folks about it.
Since humans first walked the earth we have told each other stories. Some are made up, others based upon real events, but by sharing our stories we invite people into our lives, our joys and celebrations, struggles and failures, hopes and dreams. Stories bind us together and, every once in a while, they can change our lives. That is why, for thousands of years, God has spoken to us through stories. So, don't fear telling your story or listening to other people tell theirs. Who knows, God may be speaking to you in the narrative.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Gleanings from the grill
It is amazing what you will do when you are young and cash strapped. Pride is expensive, folks. If you want to play you got to get paid. So, in the deep recesses of my employment history lurk a few jobs that have, I hope, made up for the sins of my past lives (because they sure did not pay me that well in this one). Each one has taught me valuable lessons about the benefits of labor unions, OHSA, and getting paid in cash (paychecks bounce, I discovered the hard way). And yes, along the way I gathered some important insights about life and faith which I am sure my overlords, er...employers, would argue was part of my compensation. Right, and I am going to play 007 in the next James Bond flick.
I started working when I was 13 but I did not land my first steady job until I was 16 (something about child labor laws). I, like tens of thousands of Americans, donned the polyester pants and visor cap bearing the logo of the Golden Arches. For the next six years Ronald McDonald and I got to know each other very, very well. When I finally called it a fast food career, I knew how do to everything in the restaurant. I could open, close, count the cash drawers, flip the burgers, fry the fries and chicken nuggets, make salads and biscuits (yes, from scratch!), serve customers at the front counter or drive through, supervise the unloading of the stock truck and, try not to laugh to hard at this one, even do birthday parties. Those of you that know me will, I'm sure, get hours of laughs imagining me with a room full of children trying to play party hostess. Mercifully there are no pictures...that I am aware of.
There were some jobs at McDonald's that I kind of enjoyed doing (like standing in the shade with a clipboard in my hand watching the other employees unload the stock truck in 95 degree heat. Those were some good times right there). Others I tried to avoid like the plague. Once again, pride is for the rich and famous. You want paid you have to work the hours. And many of those hours occurred on Friday and Saturday nights.
When you are in your late teens and trying to have something like a social life nothing crimps your style like having to work till 11pm or later on the weekends. McDonald's is not the type of job where you can just punch out and leave. There is the whole uniform thing, coupled with the lingering odor of grease that makes you less than desirable to the opposite sex (those of your same gender don't find you that aromatic, either). When your shift is over you need time to get a quick shower and put on some clothes that your significant other finds remotely attractive. So, you start shutting things down and cleaning as early in the evening as possible. The store I worked in had two grills. By 10pm one was already cleaned up and out of commission. Come 10:30 and we were down to half a grill. 10:50, and Elvis had left the building.
And that is when it would happen. The stupid drive through buzzer would go off and someone would want a freakin' Big Mac or some other equally unhealthy menu item that would require me to, I don't know, use the grill I just cleaned! Or, and this was the worst, a bus, or two, or three would pull in filled with high school kids. At close there would often only be one of us in the grill area so when the lobby filled-up with hungry teenagers you knew that your own evening just went up in flames. Stupid high school sports!
In those moments when my weekend went down the proverbial toilet I discovered some profound universal truths. First, the Wendy's down the street needed a much bigger sign, one that would attract people with no lives and the munchies. Second, I really hate Big Mac's. Third, your late night hunger needs were my problem. Not my joy or passion (SpongeBob is a cartoon, people!) or even casual concern. You were a obstacle, a roadblock, a thorn in my flesh and, on those rare occasions when I actually had a romantic post-work evening planned, you were a thief. I wanted you to go away, to leave me alone so I could clock out and get on with me life. There were even moments when I hated you and that half-cooked hamburger I served up was no accident!
In there own way these nights taught me a good bit about being a disciples of Jesus. Reading through the scriptures you get the sense that Jesus had more than a few late evenings. Even when he was tired and tried to steal away the crowds always seemed to find him. I know a little Greek and as best as I can tell there is no reference to Jesus ever slipping someone the proverbial undercooked sandwich. Even if he was frustrated he always showed care, compassion, and love for those who came to him. Now, I am not saying working at McDonald's on a Saturday night is the same as what Jesus did (though the whole Bread of Life imagery could be fun to play around with) but my attitude towards other people, people who make demands of my time, is the lesson to be learned.
Being a follower of Jesus means that people are going to come to me with needs. They will come at times and places that may not be best for me. How I treat them in the wee hours of the morning, or when I want to be doing something other than dealing with their pain, will reveal the true depth of relationship to Jesus. Serving others is a gift, a blessing. When I lose sight of that, I miss out on so much.
May you be blessed today with the chance to help someone in need. May you show great compassion and love to those who come to you. And, if you are in pain, may you be welcomed not as a problem, but as a child of God. Because at the end of the day the Kingdom of God is not like McDonald's on a Saturday night.
I started working when I was 13 but I did not land my first steady job until I was 16 (something about child labor laws). I, like tens of thousands of Americans, donned the polyester pants and visor cap bearing the logo of the Golden Arches. For the next six years Ronald McDonald and I got to know each other very, very well. When I finally called it a fast food career, I knew how do to everything in the restaurant. I could open, close, count the cash drawers, flip the burgers, fry the fries and chicken nuggets, make salads and biscuits (yes, from scratch!), serve customers at the front counter or drive through, supervise the unloading of the stock truck and, try not to laugh to hard at this one, even do birthday parties. Those of you that know me will, I'm sure, get hours of laughs imagining me with a room full of children trying to play party hostess. Mercifully there are no pictures...that I am aware of.
There were some jobs at McDonald's that I kind of enjoyed doing (like standing in the shade with a clipboard in my hand watching the other employees unload the stock truck in 95 degree heat. Those were some good times right there). Others I tried to avoid like the plague. Once again, pride is for the rich and famous. You want paid you have to work the hours. And many of those hours occurred on Friday and Saturday nights.
When you are in your late teens and trying to have something like a social life nothing crimps your style like having to work till 11pm or later on the weekends. McDonald's is not the type of job where you can just punch out and leave. There is the whole uniform thing, coupled with the lingering odor of grease that makes you less than desirable to the opposite sex (those of your same gender don't find you that aromatic, either). When your shift is over you need time to get a quick shower and put on some clothes that your significant other finds remotely attractive. So, you start shutting things down and cleaning as early in the evening as possible. The store I worked in had two grills. By 10pm one was already cleaned up and out of commission. Come 10:30 and we were down to half a grill. 10:50, and Elvis had left the building.
And that is when it would happen. The stupid drive through buzzer would go off and someone would want a freakin' Big Mac or some other equally unhealthy menu item that would require me to, I don't know, use the grill I just cleaned! Or, and this was the worst, a bus, or two, or three would pull in filled with high school kids. At close there would often only be one of us in the grill area so when the lobby filled-up with hungry teenagers you knew that your own evening just went up in flames. Stupid high school sports!
In those moments when my weekend went down the proverbial toilet I discovered some profound universal truths. First, the Wendy's down the street needed a much bigger sign, one that would attract people with no lives and the munchies. Second, I really hate Big Mac's. Third, your late night hunger needs were my problem. Not my joy or passion (SpongeBob is a cartoon, people!) or even casual concern. You were a obstacle, a roadblock, a thorn in my flesh and, on those rare occasions when I actually had a romantic post-work evening planned, you were a thief. I wanted you to go away, to leave me alone so I could clock out and get on with me life. There were even moments when I hated you and that half-cooked hamburger I served up was no accident!
In there own way these nights taught me a good bit about being a disciples of Jesus. Reading through the scriptures you get the sense that Jesus had more than a few late evenings. Even when he was tired and tried to steal away the crowds always seemed to find him. I know a little Greek and as best as I can tell there is no reference to Jesus ever slipping someone the proverbial undercooked sandwich. Even if he was frustrated he always showed care, compassion, and love for those who came to him. Now, I am not saying working at McDonald's on a Saturday night is the same as what Jesus did (though the whole Bread of Life imagery could be fun to play around with) but my attitude towards other people, people who make demands of my time, is the lesson to be learned.
Being a follower of Jesus means that people are going to come to me with needs. They will come at times and places that may not be best for me. How I treat them in the wee hours of the morning, or when I want to be doing something other than dealing with their pain, will reveal the true depth of relationship to Jesus. Serving others is a gift, a blessing. When I lose sight of that, I miss out on so much.
May you be blessed today with the chance to help someone in need. May you show great compassion and love to those who come to you. And, if you are in pain, may you be welcomed not as a problem, but as a child of God. Because at the end of the day the Kingdom of God is not like McDonald's on a Saturday night.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Fitting In
As I write this I am sitting in a coffee house drinking, well, coffee. Ah, coffee. I did not drink coffee until I was in my late 20s. Before I met my wife the beverage of choice in the morning was Mt. Dew. As the day wore on I was open to any soda, but nothing got the day going like some Dew. Then along comes this woman who drank coffee. I always liked the smell of coffee, but the taste put me off. I found this woman who drank coffee very attractive (still do) and she was a much better student than I was (which mattered since we were both in grad school). So I thought maybe it was time to give coffee a try. It may impress this lady and who knows, coffee might be the source of her outstanding academic abilities. I made a point to go out and buy a coffee pot (no small expense for a poor grad student) and to solicit her advice as to what type of coffee I should drink. And guess what - it worked! Developing a coffee addiction resulted in this woman marrying me and a greatly improved GPA (as well as kidney stones, but what is life without a few trade-offs). Now I am hooked - on coffee and the woman who, like Eve, led me into temptation.
I have a number of habits and a few addictions (Cheez Its crackers falling into both categories) most of which I don't recall when I picked them up. Yet every single one of them started somewhere and most likely began as an attempt to impress someone else. It is truly amazing the lengths to which I will go to be liked and fit in. As a child of say 8 or 9 all I wanted was to be selected for our church's youth choir. The kids in that choir were so cool, got to sing the latest songs and the boys, oh, the boys got to wear lime green polyester leisure suits. At the time I thought that was the end all be all of existence. What better way to fit in with the "in" group than to wear clothes made out of a fabric that does not breath or exist in nature. And honestly, nothing says, "please like me" more than a boy who willingly dons lime green. OK, show choir outfits with all those sequins are a more desperate cry for acceptance, but the leisure suit is a very close second.
I long ago kicked the leisure suit habit. What I remember from that period of my life was the wanting to be part of the group. The need to feel accepted and wanted is wired into almost all human beings. We are social animals who desire community. Yet, we can also be unbelievably cruel to each other and invent elaborate and creative ways to exclude each one another. The very primal need to be accepted results in us behaving in ways that reject others. Fascinating creatures, we humans.
I guess that is why for the last two thousand years or so those who call themselves followers of Jesus have struggled to live out our faith. The gospel is about inclusion, about God opening up the doors and inviting everyone to the table. No one gets left out, no one is excluded. This is tremendous news to those of us who have felt unwanted or ignored. Finally, we are the "in" crowd. There is only one catch. As we have been welcomed, just as we are (with or without the lime green leisure suit) so we are to welcome others. Sounds great. No problem. Wait, how do we do that?
We give it a shot, make an effort to be open, but old habits die hard. Soon, those of us who have been blessed by God start making up ways to deny those same blessings to others. You have to dress a certain way, think a certain way, make a so much money, be married, single, straight, gay, old, young... Little wonder that some folks look at us, the followers of Jesus, and just shake their heads.
But, here is some good news. God's love and acceptance, God's gracious invitation to the fullness of life through Jesus Christ is greater than our ability to restrict it. Every time we put a barrier up, God comes along and knocks it down. Each time we say "no" to someone God turns around and gives them the best seat in the house. And each time we mess it up, God looks at us, smiles, and says "Let's try this again. Everybody is welcome." Even those of us who don't always get it right are still welcome into the kingdom of God.
If you have been excluded by the church before, take heart. God has never rescinded your invitation to the party. For those of us who have excluded others, take heart. Becoming Christ-like is a long process. And for all of us, hear the good news. Through Jesus Christ God has invited each and every one of us to the fullness of life. Enjoy it, rejoice in it, live it and then, share it with someone else. No matter who they are, what they dress like, or what kind of beverage their soon-to-be spouse gets them hooked on.
I have a number of habits and a few addictions (Cheez Its crackers falling into both categories) most of which I don't recall when I picked them up. Yet every single one of them started somewhere and most likely began as an attempt to impress someone else. It is truly amazing the lengths to which I will go to be liked and fit in. As a child of say 8 or 9 all I wanted was to be selected for our church's youth choir. The kids in that choir were so cool, got to sing the latest songs and the boys, oh, the boys got to wear lime green polyester leisure suits. At the time I thought that was the end all be all of existence. What better way to fit in with the "in" group than to wear clothes made out of a fabric that does not breath or exist in nature. And honestly, nothing says, "please like me" more than a boy who willingly dons lime green. OK, show choir outfits with all those sequins are a more desperate cry for acceptance, but the leisure suit is a very close second.
I long ago kicked the leisure suit habit. What I remember from that period of my life was the wanting to be part of the group. The need to feel accepted and wanted is wired into almost all human beings. We are social animals who desire community. Yet, we can also be unbelievably cruel to each other and invent elaborate and creative ways to exclude each one another. The very primal need to be accepted results in us behaving in ways that reject others. Fascinating creatures, we humans.
I guess that is why for the last two thousand years or so those who call themselves followers of Jesus have struggled to live out our faith. The gospel is about inclusion, about God opening up the doors and inviting everyone to the table. No one gets left out, no one is excluded. This is tremendous news to those of us who have felt unwanted or ignored. Finally, we are the "in" crowd. There is only one catch. As we have been welcomed, just as we are (with or without the lime green leisure suit) so we are to welcome others. Sounds great. No problem. Wait, how do we do that?
We give it a shot, make an effort to be open, but old habits die hard. Soon, those of us who have been blessed by God start making up ways to deny those same blessings to others. You have to dress a certain way, think a certain way, make a so much money, be married, single, straight, gay, old, young... Little wonder that some folks look at us, the followers of Jesus, and just shake their heads.
But, here is some good news. God's love and acceptance, God's gracious invitation to the fullness of life through Jesus Christ is greater than our ability to restrict it. Every time we put a barrier up, God comes along and knocks it down. Each time we say "no" to someone God turns around and gives them the best seat in the house. And each time we mess it up, God looks at us, smiles, and says "Let's try this again. Everybody is welcome." Even those of us who don't always get it right are still welcome into the kingdom of God.
If you have been excluded by the church before, take heart. God has never rescinded your invitation to the party. For those of us who have excluded others, take heart. Becoming Christ-like is a long process. And for all of us, hear the good news. Through Jesus Christ God has invited each and every one of us to the fullness of life. Enjoy it, rejoice in it, live it and then, share it with someone else. No matter who they are, what they dress like, or what kind of beverage their soon-to-be spouse gets them hooked on.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Talk to Homer (cont., still)
As a kid we used to play the If You Were Stranded On a Island What One [Blank] Would You Take game. The [Blank] could be anything - food, books, music. When my friends and I played this game the food question was fairly easy - pizza, nature's perfect food. Books got a little tricky. I remember once at church camp our counselor asked us what book we wanted with us. Everyone thought we were supposed to say the Bible, which we did, even though none of us had actually read most or all of it. Music ended up being whatever was the flavor of the month. Sadly for one young man that was Air Supply. No, I was not that foolish and I don't think the poor kid ever regained his standing with the rest of us boys. Hollywood turned that game into a movie called Cast Away (did you ever think you would say ripped and Tom Hanks in the same sentence. Weird.)
So, just for old times sake, let's play. You are stranded on an island and you can have one person with you. Just one. Oh, and they have to be alive right now. None of this picking Jesus so he can turn all the water into wine business. Is it going to be your spouse (so romantic) or, if you have them, one of your children (and you kept telling them you did not have a favorite. Well the gig is up). A best friend (thus sticking the knife in the back of a spouse and/or children)? Parent? Sibling? Boss (really, there is no need to suck up anymore, you are on an island)? Or will you opt for someone famous whom you don't know on the off chance that they really are as cool in real life as in the media? Take a few moments and think it over. I'll wait...
My guess is that for most of us choosing just one person out of all of our friends, family or celebrities is not easy. Each person and/or media creation brings something to our lives. So how do you pick? Who gets left and who gets to go? And why is it that we tend to value people and celebrities more when we think we won't get to see them again (think Elvis or Michael Jackson, both left on the curb of pop culture until they died)?
The other night I finally sat down to watch a movie called The Road. A very disturbing post-apocalyptic flick about a man and his son trying to survive. At one point the father rummages through an old vending machine and finds a can of Coke. His son has never had one and the father takes great delight in watching him drink it. The scene works because soft drinks are so common in our culture we take them for granted. Can you imagine a day when Cokes, or pizza or TMZ no longer exist? When they are not commonplace but rare and valuable (I know, TMZ being valuable is a bit of a stretch, but just go with me for now).
Our dismissive culture is rooted in abundance. We can dismiss people or things because we have so much. There is always another product to buy, place to go, movie to see. If I don't like this brand of dish soap no problem, there are a dozen other brands to choose from. And with billions of people in the world we can dismiss each other all we want. There are simply too many people to care about and there will always be someone else entering our world. If scarcity brings value abundance brings indifference.
I suppose we could try and play mind games and imagine that everything around us is scarce. Yes, our days on this earth are numbered, but most of us don't really think of them as finite, especially when the average American gets around 30,000 of them. People are all around us. TV and radio stations keep growing in number. Grocery stores are not scaling back in size. It would be a tough trick to play on our mind.
No, the answer lies, I think, in our approach to abundance. People are a gift. I will concede that other people are not always what I would consider the perfect gift, but then again, neither am I. What we, people, are to each other are blessings. See, I believe that each person who enters my life has some gift that I need. And I have something that they are looking for. Often our giftedness is not immediately apparent. And not infrequently the gift is wrapped up in a person who has, shall we say, flaws. My task is not to dismiss the person because of their imperfections, but to embrace them and cherish them because I need them in my life. And they need me.
Think of it this way. It is Christmas or your birthday. Do you tell people that you have too many presents? No! At least not if you are sane. You keep unwrapping until the last gift. And then, if you are like me, you take a good look around all of the boxes and paper to make sure you did not miss anything. That, dear reader, is how God calls us to treat each other.
I am glad my wife the minister said "NO!" to my Homer sign. Perhaps she should have suggested I make another one - "Homer was a gift. So are you."
So, just for old times sake, let's play. You are stranded on an island and you can have one person with you. Just one. Oh, and they have to be alive right now. None of this picking Jesus so he can turn all the water into wine business. Is it going to be your spouse (so romantic) or, if you have them, one of your children (and you kept telling them you did not have a favorite. Well the gig is up). A best friend (thus sticking the knife in the back of a spouse and/or children)? Parent? Sibling? Boss (really, there is no need to suck up anymore, you are on an island)? Or will you opt for someone famous whom you don't know on the off chance that they really are as cool in real life as in the media? Take a few moments and think it over. I'll wait...
My guess is that for most of us choosing just one person out of all of our friends, family or celebrities is not easy. Each person and/or media creation brings something to our lives. So how do you pick? Who gets left and who gets to go? And why is it that we tend to value people and celebrities more when we think we won't get to see them again (think Elvis or Michael Jackson, both left on the curb of pop culture until they died)?
The other night I finally sat down to watch a movie called The Road. A very disturbing post-apocalyptic flick about a man and his son trying to survive. At one point the father rummages through an old vending machine and finds a can of Coke. His son has never had one and the father takes great delight in watching him drink it. The scene works because soft drinks are so common in our culture we take them for granted. Can you imagine a day when Cokes, or pizza or TMZ no longer exist? When they are not commonplace but rare and valuable (I know, TMZ being valuable is a bit of a stretch, but just go with me for now).
Our dismissive culture is rooted in abundance. We can dismiss people or things because we have so much. There is always another product to buy, place to go, movie to see. If I don't like this brand of dish soap no problem, there are a dozen other brands to choose from. And with billions of people in the world we can dismiss each other all we want. There are simply too many people to care about and there will always be someone else entering our world. If scarcity brings value abundance brings indifference.
I suppose we could try and play mind games and imagine that everything around us is scarce. Yes, our days on this earth are numbered, but most of us don't really think of them as finite, especially when the average American gets around 30,000 of them. People are all around us. TV and radio stations keep growing in number. Grocery stores are not scaling back in size. It would be a tough trick to play on our mind.
No, the answer lies, I think, in our approach to abundance. People are a gift. I will concede that other people are not always what I would consider the perfect gift, but then again, neither am I. What we, people, are to each other are blessings. See, I believe that each person who enters my life has some gift that I need. And I have something that they are looking for. Often our giftedness is not immediately apparent. And not infrequently the gift is wrapped up in a person who has, shall we say, flaws. My task is not to dismiss the person because of their imperfections, but to embrace them and cherish them because I need them in my life. And they need me.
Think of it this way. It is Christmas or your birthday. Do you tell people that you have too many presents? No! At least not if you are sane. You keep unwrapping until the last gift. And then, if you are like me, you take a good look around all of the boxes and paper to make sure you did not miss anything. That, dear reader, is how God calls us to treat each other.
I am glad my wife the minister said "NO!" to my Homer sign. Perhaps she should have suggested I make another one - "Homer was a gift. So are you."
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Talk to Homer (cont.)
Why won't you talk to me
You never talk to me
What are you thinking
Where do we go from here
It doesn't have to be like this
All we need to do is make sure we keep talking
Keep Talking by Pink Floyd
A couple of years ago I was blessed to go on a trip to Haiti. As often happens on trips there are unexpected surprises - broken down vehicles, people getting sick, fun stuff like that. There are also fantastic opportunities that crop up. A few days into our visit our host informed me that on Sunday afternoon I was going to be the featured guest on the organizations weekly radio program. Note that I was not asked. Is my love of talking really that transparent? It is a sad commentary that even across language and cultural barriers people just know that if you stick a mic in my face I will start jabbering away. Oh well, I could have worse vices. Right?
Sunday afternoon rolled around and our whole group headed to the radio station. It was late June which, in case you are not familiar with the Caribbean, is not exactly cool or comfortable. So, instead of being greeted with a breathtaking blast of air conditioning (which the studio did not have) we walked into a room that had spent the day being conditioned by heat and humidity. No problem, we were not going to be here that long and we were offered cold drinks. As we were sitting in the reception area I could see into the broadcasting booth. There was a large color television in the room showing a soccer match from the European championships. Two men were in the booth doing play-by-play of the game they were watching on TV. No problem, the game was almost over. Except that it wasn't. It went to extra time (another 30 minutes in case you are not familiar with the liturgy of the world's greatest religion) and then penalty kicks.
For a brief few seconds I wondered if they were going to stop broadcasting the game in order to get the program I was supposed to be part of on the air. Look, it was hot. We all have irrational moments when we are hot and tired. If I ever needed a reality check, a reminder of my place in the world, that soccer match provided it. Thanks you, soccer, for that dose of humility.
Almost an hour after our scheduled time the program finally got started. It was at this moment that our guest mentioned to us (there were two high school youth from our group who were also part of the program) that the show was broadcast all over the country. Oh, and that it was a call-in show. OMG.
Things got under way and we had few problems. The kids did great, our host was a good translator, and several people remarked that I had a great voice for radio (and the face as well). Then we got to the calls. I took a deep breath. I was familiar with American call-in programs. Since I did not speak Creole, would I even know when I was being cussed out? Threatened? Verbally abused?
God was, and is gracious. So were those who called in. The program ended and we headed back to our guest house. I have no idea how many people were listening, but I remain grateful for the experience and for the conversations that I had with the host and those who called in.
There are times when I look back on that day and wonder why I treated those who called in so differently than I have people who walk into my office. Rather than dismiss them as a distraction, I longed for people to pick up the phone and call the radio station. I wanted to talk to them and hoped that lots of people in Haiti wanted to talk to me. I respected those callers. Why?
There is such a need in our dismissive culture to be heard. Talk radio in America thrives because there are so many people that want someone, anyone, to listen to them. We want to be validated, acknowledged, noticed. Yet everywhere we turn people dismiss each other. Sadly, this happens a lot even on talk radio, but people still call in because they need to talk. Even negative attention is some attention.
So, where do we go from here? I have some ideas which I will share next time. Till then, keep talking.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Talk to Homer - He Might Care
There's hunger in Africa,
And anger on assembly lines.
At the touch of a button
I'm miles away.
I want no connection, just information,
And I'm gone.
My Global Mind by Queensryche
I, however, was not content just leaving Homer in the office to make people wonder what sort of freaks worked at this church. No, I felt a divine presence had brought him to us for a reason. For days, nay weeks, I pondered what use I could make of Homer. While I was in deep meditation over this weighty issue someone came into the office complaining about something that I felt was a complete and utter non-issue. Someone had too much time on their hands, and it was not me. It was at that moment that the heavens opened up and all became clear. Homer had been sent to help me deal with all of the annoying people in my life. Thank you, Jesus!
When my wife returned to the office I shared with her my glorious revelation. We would make a sign that read "Talk to Homer, he might be the only one who cares," and we would put it around his neck. Every time someone came to us with some pointless complaint or wanted to gossip or otherwise waste our time we would point them to the sign. I waited for her response, knowing that she would be so impressed with the concept that she would offer to make dinner that night. She looked at me for a second and then, with a rather surely look on her face, said "NO!" Not, "no," or "No," either of which would have indicated that while not thrilled with the idea she could be persuaded. "NO!" meant end of discussion. Not that I did not try and change her mind. I regard "NO!" the same way I do speed limit signs - they are more of a suggestion, a guideline if you will, rather than a fixed law.
I attempted to explain to her that this would not only keep people from coming to us with all of their petty gripes but it would send a powerful message to the congregation about the need to keep things in perspective. Once again, "NO!" When I pressed her for a little more detail she simply said (with the same surly look on her face) that it would discourage people who really needed to talk to us from doing so. Homer stayed and the sign never saw the light of day. Sometimes "NO!" really means "NO!" Stupid "NO!"
Some might argue, as my wife the minister did later on, that I was being too dismissive of people. "No," I responded (not "NO!" just "No") "you can never be too dismissive in American society. It is a necessary survival instinct. Without it you would go nuts." We are bombarded with an endless cycle of requests each day. Turn on the TV and someone is trying to sell you something. Drive down the road and the billboard is trying to sell you something. Flip on the radio, even supposedly commercial-free satellite radio, and someone is trying to push something on you. Magazines, newspapers, and oh, lest we forget the scourge known as direct mail, aka junkmail. How can you not be dismissive in this culture? If we paid attention to everything around us we would have a complete and utter meltdown.
I was at a conference where one of the speakers worked in advertising. He pointed out an interesting fact. On any given day there are countless ads in the newspaper for tires. We tend not to notice them, until we need tires. Then, suddenly, we see them. He's right. We have developed a remarkable survival skill in an age of hyper commercialism. It gets applied to every part of our lives, including relationships. I like to think that my Homer sign bothered my wife because it said what we really thought. And honesty can be brutal. I also think my wife was right in her belief that the Christian faith calls all of us, not just clergy, to care for and about each other. The problem is trying to live that out when we have to dismiss in order to survive. I am not sure what the answer is. I think I will go and talk to Homer for a while. He might not only care, he might have some answers. I will let you know tomorrow.
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Rhythm of Life
It's early August, which means back-to-school time. Or at least that is what the retailers keep telling me. It is 95 degrees outside, 1000 percent humidity, and Wal-Mart is showing me pictures of cute kids in sweaters surrounded by autumn leaves. Right. I sweat like a stuck pig just walking out to get the mail and somehow I am supposed to think about fall and school. Do I look like I want to worry about such things in the dead of summer? Pour me another lemonade and talk to me about school in September.
In our house back-to-school actually starts in July. My wife is a fanatic about getting school supplies early. Normally I would be repulsed by such behavior, after all I believe that there should be a constitutional amendment banning any Christmas advertising before Thanksgiving. However, in this case I suck it up since we save a fortune. One of my kids has to take 12 glue sticks to class this year (are they going to eat it?) so better get it for a quarter a pop when you can. Even if they are still selling firecrackers and sunscreen in the next aisle.
Summer is sacred to me, even though my favorite season is fall. I am not a big fan of oppressive heat (though it beats freezing cold) and still have emotional and physical scares from hot plastic seats in station wagons when I was a kid. But summer is about freedom and I resent anyone or anything that tries to take it away from me (except my wife, of course, whom I love and who saves us money with her school supplies on sale obsession).
My attitude about summer is a reflection about how thoroughly ingrained the American educational calendar is in my life. September-May is for getting up early, working, and then getting up early the next day. Summer, summer is about sleeping late, playing, going to the pool, sweating, and going to bed late. Little wonder the rhythm of school rules my world. Since 1973 I have been a student, teacher, or had a child in school all but three years. That's right, 34 of the past 37 years if you are keeping score at home. On top of that, almost every institution and organization I am associated with is influenced by the school calendar. Activities are delayed because of mythical holidays like Spring Break or Christmas Break or Fall Break. The program year starts in the fall, the new season starts in the fall, don't even think about planning anything before Labor Day (except school which now starts in mid-August for some kids. Hope they all have AC).
Even churches are under the spell of the academic calendar. Most Christian education takes place from September to May. Then many congregations have this little thing called Vacation Bible School. I never understood VBS. Why, in the middle of summer, do you expect kids to want to go to something with the word school in it. VBS always seemed like false advertising to me. It's not a vacation if it is school. Even I know that.
I realize that the American educational calendar took its shape and form from rural life. That is why there is no school in the summer, kids were out in the fields. Even though we stopped being an agricultural society almost a century ago the calendar remains unchanged. For the most part. There are a few school districts that want year-round education. They may well succeed. And our children may be smarter for it. But changing the school calendar will force us to give up a powerful symbol.
Ponder this - fall is about death. The growing season is over and we harvest what we can. Leaves die and fall off the trees. The warmth and greenness of summer are gone. Even the days get shorter. In the middle of all of this contraction and decay comes the excitement of newness and beginning. Pretty cool, don't you think. The rhythm of the school year reminds me of God (who knows, God may have even thought it up). What looks like the end is really God creating a new beginning. Death gives way to life, uncertainty to excitement. It is so like God to find a way to remind us that life, not death, will always prevail. Yes, the freedom of summer passes away, but in its place comes new opportunities for growth and learning (and football, le'ts not forget football!)
So, I don't mind the end of summer or the beginning of the school year. But please, all you retailers, chill out. Let me enjoy my summer. The school year will start soon enough.
In our house back-to-school actually starts in July. My wife is a fanatic about getting school supplies early. Normally I would be repulsed by such behavior, after all I believe that there should be a constitutional amendment banning any Christmas advertising before Thanksgiving. However, in this case I suck it up since we save a fortune. One of my kids has to take 12 glue sticks to class this year (are they going to eat it?) so better get it for a quarter a pop when you can. Even if they are still selling firecrackers and sunscreen in the next aisle.
Summer is sacred to me, even though my favorite season is fall. I am not a big fan of oppressive heat (though it beats freezing cold) and still have emotional and physical scares from hot plastic seats in station wagons when I was a kid. But summer is about freedom and I resent anyone or anything that tries to take it away from me (except my wife, of course, whom I love and who saves us money with her school supplies on sale obsession).
My attitude about summer is a reflection about how thoroughly ingrained the American educational calendar is in my life. September-May is for getting up early, working, and then getting up early the next day. Summer, summer is about sleeping late, playing, going to the pool, sweating, and going to bed late. Little wonder the rhythm of school rules my world. Since 1973 I have been a student, teacher, or had a child in school all but three years. That's right, 34 of the past 37 years if you are keeping score at home. On top of that, almost every institution and organization I am associated with is influenced by the school calendar. Activities are delayed because of mythical holidays like Spring Break or Christmas Break or Fall Break. The program year starts in the fall, the new season starts in the fall, don't even think about planning anything before Labor Day (except school which now starts in mid-August for some kids. Hope they all have AC).
Even churches are under the spell of the academic calendar. Most Christian education takes place from September to May. Then many congregations have this little thing called Vacation Bible School. I never understood VBS. Why, in the middle of summer, do you expect kids to want to go to something with the word school in it. VBS always seemed like false advertising to me. It's not a vacation if it is school. Even I know that.
I realize that the American educational calendar took its shape and form from rural life. That is why there is no school in the summer, kids were out in the fields. Even though we stopped being an agricultural society almost a century ago the calendar remains unchanged. For the most part. There are a few school districts that want year-round education. They may well succeed. And our children may be smarter for it. But changing the school calendar will force us to give up a powerful symbol.
Ponder this - fall is about death. The growing season is over and we harvest what we can. Leaves die and fall off the trees. The warmth and greenness of summer are gone. Even the days get shorter. In the middle of all of this contraction and decay comes the excitement of newness and beginning. Pretty cool, don't you think. The rhythm of the school year reminds me of God (who knows, God may have even thought it up). What looks like the end is really God creating a new beginning. Death gives way to life, uncertainty to excitement. It is so like God to find a way to remind us that life, not death, will always prevail. Yes, the freedom of summer passes away, but in its place comes new opportunities for growth and learning (and football, le'ts not forget football!)
So, I don't mind the end of summer or the beginning of the school year. But please, all you retailers, chill out. Let me enjoy my summer. The school year will start soon enough.
Monday, August 9, 2010
I Miss Telemarketers
A few years ago my wife and I signed up for the national Don't Call registry. We did so for two reasons. First, we dropped our land line a few years back and did not want telemarketers using up our cell phone minutes. Second, and perhaps more importantly, I hate telemarketers. With a passion. Now that they no longer call I kind of miss them, but not for the reasons you might think.
As much as I despise telemarketers they did perform a useful function in my life. Namely, they let me blow off steam. I come home from work and I'm not having a good day. There was traffic, construction, I had to wait 45 minutes for the doctor, etc... Then the phone rings. It is some strange person calling from some strange land like India or Iowa and they want to take up my valuable time trying to sell me something I have no interest in buying. So I take this opportunity, this gift if you will, to release all of my pent-up anger and frustration. "When you were a kid did you imagine that your life would be such a failure?" I snidely ask at the first opportunity. Or, "No wonder you can't get a date with a voice like that." And perhaps my favorite, which I reserve just for the guys, "So how many [fill in with product name] does your pimp make you sell each night before you get to go home?" They hang up and I feel better. For the moment, anyway.
Venting on telemarketers was much safer road rage. I am not a small guy, but I understand that cutting off the car in front of me may have some adverse consequences. Like a 6'8", 340lb very angry man who wants to see if in fact I will break open like a pinata when he hits me with a baseball bat. Telemarketers are not a threat. They are faceless voices on the other end of a phone line. They are not people, after all, they are telemarketers. Right?
In an impersonal society we treat people, well, impersonally. Granted, calling me at mealtime to sell me timeshares in Fort Wayne is not a sign of respect. Yet that does not give me a free pass to pretend that the person calling is entitled to have my spleen vented all over them. It is strange, but when we think there are no consequences, or at least no direct consequences that involve baseball bats, we can get pretty cruel. Inhumane. Downright unchristian.
I don't know what Jesus would do about telemarketers and to be honest I don't really care. I know what I am supposed to do. I also know that there have been days when I really didn't want to treat that person calling me with anything that resembled compassion, grace or love. And that is why I miss telemarketers. They force me to be the person I am called to be. Jesus said to love your enemies. But what about your enemy who can't hurt you, who you can't see? That is tough, but just as important. What we do when we think there are no consequences tells a great deal about who we are and what we believe. Real love for other people shows up when someone calls you while your children are screaming, you have a massive headache, and your dinner is getting cold. Valentines Day love is easy. Thursday night telemarketer love is the real deal.
Alright, if you have read this far you are entitled to know that I never really said such nasty things to telemarketers. Usually I just muttered something under my breath and hung up. But I thought the lines up and I wanted to say them. Badly. Which in some ways makes me no better than the people who have teed off on telemarketers. But it might also mean that God's grace has a hold on my tongue if not my heart. I hope that is true. I also hope to never, ever, get a call from a telemarketer again.
As much as I despise telemarketers they did perform a useful function in my life. Namely, they let me blow off steam. I come home from work and I'm not having a good day. There was traffic, construction, I had to wait 45 minutes for the doctor, etc... Then the phone rings. It is some strange person calling from some strange land like India or Iowa and they want to take up my valuable time trying to sell me something I have no interest in buying. So I take this opportunity, this gift if you will, to release all of my pent-up anger and frustration. "When you were a kid did you imagine that your life would be such a failure?" I snidely ask at the first opportunity. Or, "No wonder you can't get a date with a voice like that." And perhaps my favorite, which I reserve just for the guys, "So how many [fill in with product name] does your pimp make you sell each night before you get to go home?" They hang up and I feel better. For the moment, anyway.
Venting on telemarketers was much safer road rage. I am not a small guy, but I understand that cutting off the car in front of me may have some adverse consequences. Like a 6'8", 340lb very angry man who wants to see if in fact I will break open like a pinata when he hits me with a baseball bat. Telemarketers are not a threat. They are faceless voices on the other end of a phone line. They are not people, after all, they are telemarketers. Right?
In an impersonal society we treat people, well, impersonally. Granted, calling me at mealtime to sell me timeshares in Fort Wayne is not a sign of respect. Yet that does not give me a free pass to pretend that the person calling is entitled to have my spleen vented all over them. It is strange, but when we think there are no consequences, or at least no direct consequences that involve baseball bats, we can get pretty cruel. Inhumane. Downright unchristian.
I don't know what Jesus would do about telemarketers and to be honest I don't really care. I know what I am supposed to do. I also know that there have been days when I really didn't want to treat that person calling me with anything that resembled compassion, grace or love. And that is why I miss telemarketers. They force me to be the person I am called to be. Jesus said to love your enemies. But what about your enemy who can't hurt you, who you can't see? That is tough, but just as important. What we do when we think there are no consequences tells a great deal about who we are and what we believe. Real love for other people shows up when someone calls you while your children are screaming, you have a massive headache, and your dinner is getting cold. Valentines Day love is easy. Thursday night telemarketer love is the real deal.
Alright, if you have read this far you are entitled to know that I never really said such nasty things to telemarketers. Usually I just muttered something under my breath and hung up. But I thought the lines up and I wanted to say them. Badly. Which in some ways makes me no better than the people who have teed off on telemarketers. But it might also mean that God's grace has a hold on my tongue if not my heart. I hope that is true. I also hope to never, ever, get a call from a telemarketer again.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Passion of the Chiefs
For NFL fans August is a month of hope. Unlike baseball, where only a handful of teams really have a shot at winning, in professional football almost every one of the 32 teams starts the season with a legitimate chance. Granted, some team's path to glory is more difficult than others, but fans have hope. This is the year my team will raise the Lombardi Trophy. Let the celebrations begin!
As a devoted fan of the Kansas City Chiefs, reasons to celebrate have been in short supply lately. Over the last two seasons we have aspired to suck. Sometimes we have reached that lofty plateau, but frequently we have wandered in the sub-sucking nether world. Things have been even bleaker for the KC Royals, who have not been to the post-season in 25 years. That's right, a quarter century of futility, disappointment, frustration and failure. At least the Cubs have been to the playoffs. Come to think of it, almost everyone else has been to the playoffs. Ouch.
I am not a casual fan, at least not when it comes to football. I watch or listen to every Chiefs game and have, on a number of occasions, scared my children with my yelling at the radio/TV. Oh, the vocabulary they have learned from me on Sunday afternoons. All three of them are now ready for a stint in the Merchant Marines. Did I mention I was a minister?
I am not sure what compels me to be a fan. Unless you subscribe to the butterfly in the Amazon flapping its wings and making it rain in Kansas theory, then the fortunes of the Chiefs have nothing to do with my support. Sure, the club will get a few bucks every year from the merchandise I purchase and the tickets I buy (once every five years or so I make it to a game. This is one of those years!!!!) My beloved Chiefs win or lose no matter what I do. So, why do I invest so much emotional energy (and this year, so much money into one ticket)? What difference does it make? Why should I let the outcome of a game I have no control over dictate my mood for a whole week? And why, every August, do I hope?
I am not the only one asking these questions. My wife has no clue as to why I get so passionate about Chiefs football. Her uncle presided over our wedding and during his meditation encouraged her to develop an interest in the things I care about, including sports. She loves her uncle but completely ignored his advice (supposedly he said something to me about her interests. At least my wife claims he did. I don't remember any such sage counsel.) On Sunday afternoons she would rather take a nap than listen to Hall of Famer Lenny Dawson do color commentary for the Chiefs. And she generally reserves her screaming and yelling for me (I guess I am her Kansas City Chiefs. Cool.)
I am sure there are some deep seated psychological reasons for being a fan. No doubt I am either working through, or avoiding, some issues in my life via the NFL. So be it. For me, I am content to enjoy being passionate. Its fun to care about things, to share in the successes and failures of those things I attach myself to. The great thing about passion is that there is plenty of it to go around. I am intensely passionate about my kids, my wife, my faith community, and my God. For the record, yes, I have been known to swear like a sailor when I get upset with all of my other passions. That just comes with the territory.
Unlike the Chiefs, however, most of the other things I am passionate about I can participate in. I can make a difference in the life of my kids, my spouse, my community and even God. Sure, being passionate, actively passionate about someone or something will open me up to being hurt. But it is worth it. Life without passion, without caring and loving and yelling and colorful vocabulary is not really life. I would rather suffer through the disappointment of a 4-12 season than not care at all. Of course if the football gods were to bestow upon my Chiefs a 16-0 regular season record and a Super Bowl championship who am I to complain. Hey, it's August. I can hope.
As a devoted fan of the Kansas City Chiefs, reasons to celebrate have been in short supply lately. Over the last two seasons we have aspired to suck. Sometimes we have reached that lofty plateau, but frequently we have wandered in the sub-sucking nether world. Things have been even bleaker for the KC Royals, who have not been to the post-season in 25 years. That's right, a quarter century of futility, disappointment, frustration and failure. At least the Cubs have been to the playoffs. Come to think of it, almost everyone else has been to the playoffs. Ouch.
I am not a casual fan, at least not when it comes to football. I watch or listen to every Chiefs game and have, on a number of occasions, scared my children with my yelling at the radio/TV. Oh, the vocabulary they have learned from me on Sunday afternoons. All three of them are now ready for a stint in the Merchant Marines. Did I mention I was a minister?
I am not sure what compels me to be a fan. Unless you subscribe to the butterfly in the Amazon flapping its wings and making it rain in Kansas theory, then the fortunes of the Chiefs have nothing to do with my support. Sure, the club will get a few bucks every year from the merchandise I purchase and the tickets I buy (once every five years or so I make it to a game. This is one of those years!!!!) My beloved Chiefs win or lose no matter what I do. So, why do I invest so much emotional energy (and this year, so much money into one ticket)? What difference does it make? Why should I let the outcome of a game I have no control over dictate my mood for a whole week? And why, every August, do I hope?
I am not the only one asking these questions. My wife has no clue as to why I get so passionate about Chiefs football. Her uncle presided over our wedding and during his meditation encouraged her to develop an interest in the things I care about, including sports. She loves her uncle but completely ignored his advice (supposedly he said something to me about her interests. At least my wife claims he did. I don't remember any such sage counsel.) On Sunday afternoons she would rather take a nap than listen to Hall of Famer Lenny Dawson do color commentary for the Chiefs. And she generally reserves her screaming and yelling for me (I guess I am her Kansas City Chiefs. Cool.)
I am sure there are some deep seated psychological reasons for being a fan. No doubt I am either working through, or avoiding, some issues in my life via the NFL. So be it. For me, I am content to enjoy being passionate. Its fun to care about things, to share in the successes and failures of those things I attach myself to. The great thing about passion is that there is plenty of it to go around. I am intensely passionate about my kids, my wife, my faith community, and my God. For the record, yes, I have been known to swear like a sailor when I get upset with all of my other passions. That just comes with the territory.
Unlike the Chiefs, however, most of the other things I am passionate about I can participate in. I can make a difference in the life of my kids, my spouse, my community and even God. Sure, being passionate, actively passionate about someone or something will open me up to being hurt. But it is worth it. Life without passion, without caring and loving and yelling and colorful vocabulary is not really life. I would rather suffer through the disappointment of a 4-12 season than not care at all. Of course if the football gods were to bestow upon my Chiefs a 16-0 regular season record and a Super Bowl championship who am I to complain. Hey, it's August. I can hope.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
'76 Pinto
There are a million products in this world that make little or no sense to me. One of them would air fresheners with a new car scent. Supposedly you put this thing in your car and it makes the interior smell like it did the day it landed on the showroom floor. Why a person would want this odor wafting through their car I do not know. I guess my indifference has to do with not owning that many new cars and thus being deprived of their intoxicating aroma. Used cars have their own unique smells (my favorite being 8 year old McDonald's french fries) which, for some reason, Yankee Candle has not tried to replicate. Another reason I have not purchased one of these air fresheners is that some smells you just can't cover up. As proof I humbly offer up the 1976 Ford Pinto.
In case you are not familiar with our friend the Pinto it was, and is, a running (when it runs) joke. The Pinto is famous for all the wrong reasons. Seems the engineers at Ford designed this vehicle in such a way that if it gets hit in a rear-end collision there is a better than decent chance the gas tank will explode. Not cool. I have been in a rear-end collision. It was not in a Pinto, which may help explain why I survived the accident. Like many things in the 70s, including polyester leisure suits, disco, and Stagflation, the Pinto is better left in the past. If you are still driving a '76 Pinto I have some bad news for you - aint no amount of new car scent going to cover up the stench from that death mobile.
There is a great scene in the movie O Brother Where Art Thou. You can see it by clicking the link below
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82_bhD0_Trw
Delmar gets baptized believing that somehow this act will cleanse him of all of the wrong things he has done. A few scenes later the newly redeem Delamr and his friends rob a bank. Delmar treats baptism like one of those new car scented air fresheners, unaware, or unwilling to admit that a broken life that is not healed remains broken. A '76 Pinto is still a '76 Pinto, no matter how new it smells.
The Christian faith boldly proclaims that in and through Jesus Christ we find new life. Baptism is a symbol of that new life, a way to tell the world of our intention to become a follower of Jesus. Through serving others, growing into a relationship with God and taking full advantage of the gift of community our lives are transformed and healed. Discipleship is a process, a life-long journey, not a one-time event. Rather than mask the smell of our past mistakes baptism helps us understand that God is at work redeeming all that we have done. That redemption may take days, weeks, months, years or may even extend well past our own lifetime. Yet God will always find a way to create life. Even from a '76 Pinto (it's called recycling).
Faith is not about covering up or telling ourselves that something old is really new. It is about living life in all of its fullness. I hope that today you may experience a little faith and a whole lot of life. It is so much better than that new car scent. Or a '76 Pinto.
In case you are not familiar with our friend the Pinto it was, and is, a running (when it runs) joke. The Pinto is famous for all the wrong reasons. Seems the engineers at Ford designed this vehicle in such a way that if it gets hit in a rear-end collision there is a better than decent chance the gas tank will explode. Not cool. I have been in a rear-end collision. It was not in a Pinto, which may help explain why I survived the accident. Like many things in the 70s, including polyester leisure suits, disco, and Stagflation, the Pinto is better left in the past. If you are still driving a '76 Pinto I have some bad news for you - aint no amount of new car scent going to cover up the stench from that death mobile.
There is a great scene in the movie O Brother Where Art Thou. You can see it by clicking the link below
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=82_bhD0_Trw
Delmar gets baptized believing that somehow this act will cleanse him of all of the wrong things he has done. A few scenes later the newly redeem Delamr and his friends rob a bank. Delmar treats baptism like one of those new car scented air fresheners, unaware, or unwilling to admit that a broken life that is not healed remains broken. A '76 Pinto is still a '76 Pinto, no matter how new it smells.
The Christian faith boldly proclaims that in and through Jesus Christ we find new life. Baptism is a symbol of that new life, a way to tell the world of our intention to become a follower of Jesus. Through serving others, growing into a relationship with God and taking full advantage of the gift of community our lives are transformed and healed. Discipleship is a process, a life-long journey, not a one-time event. Rather than mask the smell of our past mistakes baptism helps us understand that God is at work redeeming all that we have done. That redemption may take days, weeks, months, years or may even extend well past our own lifetime. Yet God will always find a way to create life. Even from a '76 Pinto (it's called recycling).
Faith is not about covering up or telling ourselves that something old is really new. It is about living life in all of its fullness. I hope that today you may experience a little faith and a whole lot of life. It is so much better than that new car scent. Or a '76 Pinto.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Cable TV
In an age of technology every generation remembers something revolutionary that changed their lives. For my grandparents it was radio. My parents remember the day their families got their first television. Gen Xers, we celebrated the arrival of cable television. I can still clearly recall the day the cable guy finally showed up at my house. When he left we had a black cable running from the wall to a little black box on top of our TV. This was no ordinary box. It was magic. You pushed a button (yes, button. Wireless was just a dream then) and presto, a whole new world of entertainment. HBO was part of the package and my whole neighborhood of pre-teen boys eagerly awaited the weekend, for after midnight the shows we were not supposed to watch came on. The ones with women with no clothes who were doing things we were just beginning to become obsessed with. Thanks to HBO for many years I really thought 10 was a good movie. Ah, Bo Derek, how I miss you.
Cable in those days included MTV (which actually played videos) and Headline News (which actually was news) and TBS (which Ted Turner used to shove the then dismal Dale Murphy and the Atlanta Braves down our throats). There were maybe 20 channels to choose from. At the time we thought it was unbelievable.
Cable television did a lot of things for my generation. It introduced us to new styles of music (hair metal and rap) and the 24 hour news cycle. It pushed nudity and profanity from the margins to the mainstream of television and our culture. Cable television gave us an endless stream of reruns and some really fantastic original programming. And it helped to instill in us the belief that more is better.
Today ESPN alone has more than 20 channels (still love ESPN 8, The Ocho). The average cable/satellite package has nearly 200 channels to choose from. Think about it, in a 24 hour period I can choose from almost 5000 hours of programming. Obviously there is no way I can watch it all, so God invented Tivo so I could record what I missed and watch it later. And people talk about the demise of western culture, please!
The thing is, I have noticed that my life is beginning to look alot like cable TV. I keep adding things under the belief that more is better. Let me give you an example. Not too long ago I was employed full-time as a minister, taking a full load of courses for my Ph.D., employed as a part-time Teaching Assistant/Adjunct faculty for the university, had two children, a wife (how do you think I got the two kids) and took care of the cooking, bills, and lawn care at home. Then I added a part-time gig as a researcher for a history of slavery project. I tell you this not to brag but to share with you that at the time I did not think such a schedule was a bad things. After all, life is like cable and more is better (and sleep is so over-rated).
It seems that I am not the only one of my generation who feels this way. Between work and our families life gets pretty busy. We rush from here to there and back again, adding more and more activities to our already packed lives. Thanks to emails and other technology we can Tivo our lives, picking up what we missed from the day later on (or deleting it if we just don't want to deal with it right now. Remember, there will always be reruns). But has cable TV lied to us? Is more really better? Or is sometimes more just more? Just because I have access to 200 channels does not mean there is anything worth watching.
We do not have cable or satellite in our house right now. We gave it up about a year ago. Not out of some noble gesture, mind you, it just did not fit in the family budget (granted, it was a tough call, feeding the kids or keeping the dish. Tougher than I thought. Good thing for my kids that they are so darn cute). So I watch more DVD's and catch whatever program I really want to see on the Internet. My wife and I are still very busy, but we have started putting more thought into quality over quantity. We hope to teach our kids that a full life is not the same as a busy life. More is not always better, sometimes it is just more. Because some days, no matter how many channels you have, there is still nothing on.
Cable in those days included MTV (which actually played videos) and Headline News (which actually was news) and TBS (which Ted Turner used to shove the then dismal Dale Murphy and the Atlanta Braves down our throats). There were maybe 20 channels to choose from. At the time we thought it was unbelievable.
Cable television did a lot of things for my generation. It introduced us to new styles of music (hair metal and rap) and the 24 hour news cycle. It pushed nudity and profanity from the margins to the mainstream of television and our culture. Cable television gave us an endless stream of reruns and some really fantastic original programming. And it helped to instill in us the belief that more is better.
Today ESPN alone has more than 20 channels (still love ESPN 8, The Ocho). The average cable/satellite package has nearly 200 channels to choose from. Think about it, in a 24 hour period I can choose from almost 5000 hours of programming. Obviously there is no way I can watch it all, so God invented Tivo so I could record what I missed and watch it later. And people talk about the demise of western culture, please!
The thing is, I have noticed that my life is beginning to look alot like cable TV. I keep adding things under the belief that more is better. Let me give you an example. Not too long ago I was employed full-time as a minister, taking a full load of courses for my Ph.D., employed as a part-time Teaching Assistant/Adjunct faculty for the university, had two children, a wife (how do you think I got the two kids) and took care of the cooking, bills, and lawn care at home. Then I added a part-time gig as a researcher for a history of slavery project. I tell you this not to brag but to share with you that at the time I did not think such a schedule was a bad things. After all, life is like cable and more is better (and sleep is so over-rated).
It seems that I am not the only one of my generation who feels this way. Between work and our families life gets pretty busy. We rush from here to there and back again, adding more and more activities to our already packed lives. Thanks to emails and other technology we can Tivo our lives, picking up what we missed from the day later on (or deleting it if we just don't want to deal with it right now. Remember, there will always be reruns). But has cable TV lied to us? Is more really better? Or is sometimes more just more? Just because I have access to 200 channels does not mean there is anything worth watching.
We do not have cable or satellite in our house right now. We gave it up about a year ago. Not out of some noble gesture, mind you, it just did not fit in the family budget (granted, it was a tough call, feeding the kids or keeping the dish. Tougher than I thought. Good thing for my kids that they are so darn cute). So I watch more DVD's and catch whatever program I really want to see on the Internet. My wife and I are still very busy, but we have started putting more thought into quality over quantity. We hope to teach our kids that a full life is not the same as a busy life. More is not always better, sometimes it is just more. Because some days, no matter how many channels you have, there is still nothing on.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Losing Bites
This past spring I started playing in an over-30 soccer league. Even though I did not play soccer as a kid I love sports and thought this would be a great way to get some exercise and meet some new folks. Keep in mind this is a recreational league, so win or lose we are all supposed to be out there having fun. Only, I hate losing. Losing is not fun. Losing bites.
My wife is capable of playing a game and, win or lose, enjoying herself. I envy her. I don't understand her because, as I mentioned before, losing sucks and takes the fun out of whatever I am doing. Still, I wish I had her capacity to not be so competitive about everything. I am getting better. In the not so distant past if I lost a game I would spend a significant amount of time trying to figure out what went wrong (aka brooding). On more than one occasion I have been accused, wrongly I might add, of altering the rules of a game to ensure victory. Today, I only obsess about a loss for one or two hours, tops. I am a model citizen when it comes to following the rules and have even learned how to let my kids beat me at some things. Sometimes. Losing, however, still sucks the life out of me.
Yesterday afternoon I was out on the soccer pitch, in the middle of a brutal summer day, getting my butt kicked by a guy who was at least ten years younger and twice as fast as myself. Fun is not a word I would use to describe the experience. My age and life-long lack of foot speed are not excuses. I got beat, repeatedly, and I am still mad about it (give me a break it's only been what, 18 hours. It's not like I can't let go). What really ticks me off is the fact that 100 times out of a 100 this guy is going to outplay me. I did not have an off day. Yesterday was about as good as it gets when I play soccer. Which means every time I play against this guy I am going to lose. Did I mention that I hate losing.
Being competitive is not a bad thing. Imagine what the world would be like if people did not have a little drive, a desire to push themselves and others to achieve great things. But it can go too far and rather than trying to make the world a better place a desire to win can become an obsession with not losing. My need to win at everything I do is, I think, tied to a need to be perfect. Any chink in the armor is unacceptable. Every loss a sign that my best is not good enough. What I don't understand is why I feel like I have to be perfect, why I am afraid to lose.
Maybe it has to do with a fear that unless I never mess up God will not like or love me. Yes, in some really warped way getting beat on the soccer field ( or at Monopoly, or Guitar Hero) threatens my relationship with God. Or so I think in the deep dark places of my mind. Some Christian communities worship a God who is very strict. There are laws to be obeyed, perfection to be obtained and punishment for those who miss the mark. I am not part of one of those communities. I do not believe that is the nature and character of God. I believe in a God of grace and forgiveness and who knew from the beginning that we, humans, would never be perfect. That is until I lose. Then the God of compassion and understanding gets replaced by the demanding judge. Strange, I know.
Slowly I am getting to a place where I understand that my losses in life, rather than undermining my relationship with God, actually strengthen it. Yes, I still strive to get it right all the time. I doubt that I will ever, ever enjoying losing. Yet, through my failures I have grown to appreciate and value grace and understanding and see how God allows them to transform my life. God uses my losses to make me more compassionate and caring towards others and, eventually, towards myself. One day I might even begin to love myself as God loves me. What a great day that will be. In the meantime I will try to stop being afraid to lose and use my competitive desires in positive ways. But losing still bites.
My wife is capable of playing a game and, win or lose, enjoying herself. I envy her. I don't understand her because, as I mentioned before, losing sucks and takes the fun out of whatever I am doing. Still, I wish I had her capacity to not be so competitive about everything. I am getting better. In the not so distant past if I lost a game I would spend a significant amount of time trying to figure out what went wrong (aka brooding). On more than one occasion I have been accused, wrongly I might add, of altering the rules of a game to ensure victory. Today, I only obsess about a loss for one or two hours, tops. I am a model citizen when it comes to following the rules and have even learned how to let my kids beat me at some things. Sometimes. Losing, however, still sucks the life out of me.
Yesterday afternoon I was out on the soccer pitch, in the middle of a brutal summer day, getting my butt kicked by a guy who was at least ten years younger and twice as fast as myself. Fun is not a word I would use to describe the experience. My age and life-long lack of foot speed are not excuses. I got beat, repeatedly, and I am still mad about it (give me a break it's only been what, 18 hours. It's not like I can't let go). What really ticks me off is the fact that 100 times out of a 100 this guy is going to outplay me. I did not have an off day. Yesterday was about as good as it gets when I play soccer. Which means every time I play against this guy I am going to lose. Did I mention that I hate losing.
Being competitive is not a bad thing. Imagine what the world would be like if people did not have a little drive, a desire to push themselves and others to achieve great things. But it can go too far and rather than trying to make the world a better place a desire to win can become an obsession with not losing. My need to win at everything I do is, I think, tied to a need to be perfect. Any chink in the armor is unacceptable. Every loss a sign that my best is not good enough. What I don't understand is why I feel like I have to be perfect, why I am afraid to lose.
Maybe it has to do with a fear that unless I never mess up God will not like or love me. Yes, in some really warped way getting beat on the soccer field ( or at Monopoly, or Guitar Hero) threatens my relationship with God. Or so I think in the deep dark places of my mind. Some Christian communities worship a God who is very strict. There are laws to be obeyed, perfection to be obtained and punishment for those who miss the mark. I am not part of one of those communities. I do not believe that is the nature and character of God. I believe in a God of grace and forgiveness and who knew from the beginning that we, humans, would never be perfect. That is until I lose. Then the God of compassion and understanding gets replaced by the demanding judge. Strange, I know.
Slowly I am getting to a place where I understand that my losses in life, rather than undermining my relationship with God, actually strengthen it. Yes, I still strive to get it right all the time. I doubt that I will ever, ever enjoying losing. Yet, through my failures I have grown to appreciate and value grace and understanding and see how God allows them to transform my life. God uses my losses to make me more compassionate and caring towards others and, eventually, towards myself. One day I might even begin to love myself as God loves me. What a great day that will be. In the meantime I will try to stop being afraid to lose and use my competitive desires in positive ways. But losing still bites.
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