WARNING! GEEZER ALERT! The following rant was written by a geezer who pines for the good old days when things were done right. If you are under the age of 35 and/or have the misguided notion that the good old days were just days and probably not all that good, read no further.
Otherwise...
Whatever happened to the words, "you're welcome"? I still say "thank you." But something has happened to the polite response, "you're welcome." It's been replaced with "uh-huh." That's if you're lucky. If not, your thanks will be met with a barely audible "mm-hmm" or a dismissive "yep." Yep?!! What's up with that?
You don't believe me? Go through a day saying "thank you" to as many people as possible. Then tell me how many "you're welcomes" you get in return. They're as scarce as hen's teeth, I tell you!
For those of you still reading, I thank you listening to my petty little tirade.
Monday, January 29, 2007
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
The Vine
The assignment was simple: go for a walk outside; ask God to reveal a lie about yourself that you have believed; then find a stick that is symbolic of that lie. The exercise was part of a Pastors of Excellence retreat in Ashland, Ohio.
Dutifully, I ventured into the great frozen outdoors to find my stick. But my heart wasn't in it. This was the third such exercise of the day. Each one involved asking God to reveal something and then listening for his response. If you share my background in the churches of Christ, you know that listening for God's voice "separate and apart" from studying the Bible is not one of my strong suits. I had put my heart into the exercises, but not much was happening and I was exhasted. All I wanted was to find a stupid stick and get back inside where it was warm.
"God," I prayed, without much conviction, "You and I both know lots of lies that I've believed about myself. Just pick one." And he did. A thought formed in my mind: "I believe that I have to receive positive reactions from other people in order to be loved." In other words, I'm a people pleaser. My identity as a worthwhile person is wrapped up in my ability to make others like me. Now this was no news flash to me; I've long been aware of this people-pleasing pathology. But God seemed to be saying that now was his chosen moment to address this particular lie.
"Fine," I thought, "but what kind of stick symbolizes that, and where am I going to find it?" Just then, I passed a tree. Like all trees in Ohio in January, it had no leaves. But growing up the side of the trunk was a vine, probably some kind of ivy. The vine sported bright green, heart-shaped leaves. With considerable effort, I pulled loose a foot-long section and broke it off. "This will do," I thought. At my people-pleasing worst, I felt I had to latch onto others and conform myself to their shape in order to be worthwhile. Right down to the heart-shaped leaves, the vine perfectly symbolized my lie about clinging to others in order to feel loved. Or so I thought.
Then I looked again. The green hearts on the vine were the only leaves to be found in the drab winter landscape. If anything, the vine was a symbol of life in all its resilient vitality. Then God spoke the truth to me, one reminiscent of my Bible reading from the day before. (It was Jesus' teaching about the vine and the branches in John 15.) "The vine doesn't derive life from the tree," I thought. "It receives life from the root. But it does need the support of the tree."
The little vine didn't illustrate a lie at all; it taught God's truth. The lie I had believed was a reversal of the vine's message. My life does not derive from the people to whom I tend to cling. My life comes from the root--my relationship with Jesus. I do need other people around me for support. When I draw life from Jesus and receive loving support from others, I flourish. But when I reverse the order--trying to draw life from other people while seeking a little support from Jesus--I live by a lie, a lie that can yield only barenness.
I'm keeping the vine. I need it to remind me that while I need the support of other people, real life only comes from being rooted in Jesus Christ.
Dutifully, I ventured into the great frozen outdoors to find my stick. But my heart wasn't in it. This was the third such exercise of the day. Each one involved asking God to reveal something and then listening for his response. If you share my background in the churches of Christ, you know that listening for God's voice "separate and apart" from studying the Bible is not one of my strong suits. I had put my heart into the exercises, but not much was happening and I was exhasted. All I wanted was to find a stupid stick and get back inside where it was warm.
"God," I prayed, without much conviction, "You and I both know lots of lies that I've believed about myself. Just pick one." And he did. A thought formed in my mind: "I believe that I have to receive positive reactions from other people in order to be loved." In other words, I'm a people pleaser. My identity as a worthwhile person is wrapped up in my ability to make others like me. Now this was no news flash to me; I've long been aware of this people-pleasing pathology. But God seemed to be saying that now was his chosen moment to address this particular lie.
"Fine," I thought, "but what kind of stick symbolizes that, and where am I going to find it?" Just then, I passed a tree. Like all trees in Ohio in January, it had no leaves. But growing up the side of the trunk was a vine, probably some kind of ivy. The vine sported bright green, heart-shaped leaves. With considerable effort, I pulled loose a foot-long section and broke it off. "This will do," I thought. At my people-pleasing worst, I felt I had to latch onto others and conform myself to their shape in order to be worthwhile. Right down to the heart-shaped leaves, the vine perfectly symbolized my lie about clinging to others in order to feel loved. Or so I thought.
Then I looked again. The green hearts on the vine were the only leaves to be found in the drab winter landscape. If anything, the vine was a symbol of life in all its resilient vitality. Then God spoke the truth to me, one reminiscent of my Bible reading from the day before. (It was Jesus' teaching about the vine and the branches in John 15.) "The vine doesn't derive life from the tree," I thought. "It receives life from the root. But it does need the support of the tree."
The little vine didn't illustrate a lie at all; it taught God's truth. The lie I had believed was a reversal of the vine's message. My life does not derive from the people to whom I tend to cling. My life comes from the root--my relationship with Jesus. I do need other people around me for support. When I draw life from Jesus and receive loving support from others, I flourish. But when I reverse the order--trying to draw life from other people while seeking a little support from Jesus--I live by a lie, a lie that can yield only barenness.
I'm keeping the vine. I need it to remind me that while I need the support of other people, real life only comes from being rooted in Jesus Christ.
Monday, January 15, 2007
The Penny Must Die!
A recent tour of the United States Mint in Denver served to harden a conviction I've long held: the penny should be abolished. The Mint makes more pennies each year than all other coins combined! It costs 1.23 cents to make a penny. Then they are sold to banks for, um, one cent each. We make almost 8 billion of them a year, representing an $18 million burden on the taxpayer. Two-thirds of each year's production winds up in mayonnaisse jars, coffee cans, or the trash. Many others are tossed into "Give a Penny/Take a Penny" cups at checkout counters. They are no longer taken seriously as a medium of exchange. When asked why the Mint continues to produce pennies, our tour guide answered, "Congress has mandated it." I think it's time we un-mandated it. So, what do you think? A nickel for your thoughts...
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Lullabies
My Mom sang Rock-a-bye baby to us, but I was always troubled by the bough breaking and the cradle falling with the baby in it. So I never sang that one very much to our babies. Why unnecessarily traumatize them if you can avoid it?
When my grandfather walked the floor with fussy babies, he sang a song from his childhood about a heroic railroad engineer, Casey Jones. Although he remembered the tune, he had evidently forgotten most of the words, so he replaced them with nonsense syllables. So his lullaby went thus:
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doo.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
And a hi-de-hiddle and a hi-de-ho.
So what difference do babies know anyway? (The real lyrics are here.) When my children were babies, I sang Casey Jones to them, using my grandfather's lyrics, of course. With my daughter, I interspersed a song that I composed:
Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl, yes her is.
Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl her is, be-dooba-de-boop.
My wife hated it, because she's a school teacher and the song is grammatically incorrect. (My daughter has a degree in journalism and is a professional copywriter who uses flawless grammar, so I don't suppose my lullaby scarred her too badly).
When my granddaughter Maizie was born, I tried singing Casey Jones to her, but it just didn't sound right. And morphing Daddy's Precious Girl to Papa's Precious Girl didn't feel right either. So I composed a new song for Maizie:
Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
He's plum crazy about his Maizie,
'Cause she's the cutest one in all the world.
Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
There could never be another one like she,
Papa loves his Maizie girl!
Bad grammar seems to be a theme with my lullabies. My daughter likes this one, except after I've sung it 20+ times in a row. Maizie loves it--even when repeated ad nauseum--except for the one time I sang it for the video camera. She was screaming her head off by the time I reached the end of the song.
What about you? What songs do you sing to your little ones? What songs were sung to you? Have you made up any lullabies? If you have, would you share the words with us?
When my grandfather walked the floor with fussy babies, he sang a song from his childhood about a heroic railroad engineer, Casey Jones. Although he remembered the tune, he had evidently forgotten most of the words, so he replaced them with nonsense syllables. So his lullaby went thus:
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doo.
Casey Jones, badoodle doodle doodle.
And a hi-de-hiddle and a hi-de-ho.
So what difference do babies know anyway? (The real lyrics are here.) When my children were babies, I sang Casey Jones to them, using my grandfather's lyrics, of course. With my daughter, I interspersed a song that I composed:
Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl, yes her is.
Daddy's precious girl, Daddy's precious girl,
Daddy's precious girl her is, be-dooba-de-boop.
My wife hated it, because she's a school teacher and the song is grammatically incorrect. (My daughter has a degree in journalism and is a professional copywriter who uses flawless grammar, so I don't suppose my lullaby scarred her too badly).
When my granddaughter Maizie was born, I tried singing Casey Jones to her, but it just didn't sound right. And morphing Daddy's Precious Girl to Papa's Precious Girl didn't feel right either. So I composed a new song for Maizie:
Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
He's plum crazy about his Maizie,
'Cause she's the cutest one in all the world.
Papa loves his baby girl friend.
Papa loves his baby girl.
There could never be another one like she,
Papa loves his Maizie girl!
Bad grammar seems to be a theme with my lullabies. My daughter likes this one, except after I've sung it 20+ times in a row. Maizie loves it--even when repeated ad nauseum--except for the one time I sang it for the video camera. She was screaming her head off by the time I reached the end of the song.
What about you? What songs do you sing to your little ones? What songs were sung to you? Have you made up any lullabies? If you have, would you share the words with us?
Thursday, January 04, 2007
The Lord's Supper
Francisco is a brother in the Lord who lives in Recife, Brazil.1 We met him on a mission trip several years ago. He was working as a custodian for the downtown church in Recife. Despite meager pay and an hour-long daily commute on hot, overcrowded buses, it was obvious that Francisco loved his job. And it was clear that he loved his job because he loved God and God's people.
Francisco went out of his way to welcome us and to attend to our needs. We were pretty naïve about the danger of theft (even in a church building), so when Chico (a common Brazilian nickname for "Francisco") saw an unattended bag, camera, or even a Bible, he would lock it away in a closet. Whenever we couldn't find our stuff, we would call out, "Chico, chave!" (chave is Portuguese for "key") and he would come running to retrieve it for us. Chico had learned a little English and he loved practicing it on us. Mostly, he just loved being around us. And we loved him back.
One Wednesday evening, our mission team visited the congregation nearest to Chico's house. He insisted that we come to his house after Bible class. We were worn out and must have shown some hesitation, but Chico insisted. "I live very close; you can walk there," he urged. "Just come for a few minutes." We couldn't say no, so off we went, following Chico down narrow, dimly lit, dusty streets.
It turns out that Chico's definition of "close" was somewhat different than ours. My guess is that we walked nearly a mile. Upon arriving at Chico's house, we were faced with a reality we had chosen to ignore: Chico was poor! Even by Brazilian standards, he lived in poverty. His apartment was just a couple of rooms with bare walls and naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. What little furniture he had was rickety and threadbare. But he beamed with pride as fifteen of us crowded into his sparse flat.
Chico squeezed into his tiny kitchen, past the mass of standing-room-only Americans. There, he opened a small 1950s-vintage refrigerator. He pulled out some small rolls, each about half the length of a hot dog bun, and began placing a half a slice of American cheese on each. He served us the cheese sandwiches along with small paper cups of orange soda. Mike Pruitt, our missionary in Recife, told us that Chico had been saving money for weeks in order to pay for this extravagance. When all the sandwiches and soda had been distributed, Chico got our attention and said, "This is the happiest day of my life, because today my brothers and sisters from America have come to my house."
When I was growing up, we studied hard to understand the requirements for the Lord's Supper. Only "authorized" elements were allowed. We argued that since Jesus, by his example, authorized unleavened bread and fruit of the vine, it would be sinful to substitute hamburgers and Coke at the Lord's table. We further argued that the first day of the week was the only day on which we had divine authority for partaking of the Supper.
But on that Wednesday night in Brazil, I realized how thoroughly we had dissected the form while missing the function of the Lord's Supper. For on that night, Chico's sacrificial provision of cheese sandwiches and orange soda clearly reflected Christ's sacrifice for us. And it was there, in Chico's tiny apartment that we all, as one Body, truly ate the Lord's Supper.
____________________
1 I recently told this story in impromptu fashion at our church's Christmas Eve service. In that telling, a faulty memory caused me to identify Francisco as living in Honduras instead of Brazil. I've been to Honduras on mission trips also, and had some wonderful experiences with brothers named Francisco in both places. For those who heard me Christmas Eve, my apologies for the mistake.
Francisco went out of his way to welcome us and to attend to our needs. We were pretty naïve about the danger of theft (even in a church building), so when Chico (a common Brazilian nickname for "Francisco") saw an unattended bag, camera, or even a Bible, he would lock it away in a closet. Whenever we couldn't find our stuff, we would call out, "Chico, chave!" (chave is Portuguese for "key") and he would come running to retrieve it for us. Chico had learned a little English and he loved practicing it on us. Mostly, he just loved being around us. And we loved him back.
One Wednesday evening, our mission team visited the congregation nearest to Chico's house. He insisted that we come to his house after Bible class. We were worn out and must have shown some hesitation, but Chico insisted. "I live very close; you can walk there," he urged. "Just come for a few minutes." We couldn't say no, so off we went, following Chico down narrow, dimly lit, dusty streets.
It turns out that Chico's definition of "close" was somewhat different than ours. My guess is that we walked nearly a mile. Upon arriving at Chico's house, we were faced with a reality we had chosen to ignore: Chico was poor! Even by Brazilian standards, he lived in poverty. His apartment was just a couple of rooms with bare walls and naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. What little furniture he had was rickety and threadbare. But he beamed with pride as fifteen of us crowded into his sparse flat.
Chico squeezed into his tiny kitchen, past the mass of standing-room-only Americans. There, he opened a small 1950s-vintage refrigerator. He pulled out some small rolls, each about half the length of a hot dog bun, and began placing a half a slice of American cheese on each. He served us the cheese sandwiches along with small paper cups of orange soda. Mike Pruitt, our missionary in Recife, told us that Chico had been saving money for weeks in order to pay for this extravagance. When all the sandwiches and soda had been distributed, Chico got our attention and said, "This is the happiest day of my life, because today my brothers and sisters from America have come to my house."
When I was growing up, we studied hard to understand the requirements for the Lord's Supper. Only "authorized" elements were allowed. We argued that since Jesus, by his example, authorized unleavened bread and fruit of the vine, it would be sinful to substitute hamburgers and Coke at the Lord's table. We further argued that the first day of the week was the only day on which we had divine authority for partaking of the Supper.
But on that Wednesday night in Brazil, I realized how thoroughly we had dissected the form while missing the function of the Lord's Supper. For on that night, Chico's sacrificial provision of cheese sandwiches and orange soda clearly reflected Christ's sacrifice for us. And it was there, in Chico's tiny apartment that we all, as one Body, truly ate the Lord's Supper.
____________________
1 I recently told this story in impromptu fashion at our church's Christmas Eve service. In that telling, a faulty memory caused me to identify Francisco as living in Honduras instead of Brazil. I've been to Honduras on mission trips also, and had some wonderful experiences with brothers named Francisco in both places. For those who heard me Christmas Eve, my apologies for the mistake.
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