Assisted Living

Assisted Living?

I am not too much of a couch potato, but I am leaning more that way every day.  I caught myself repeating a simple mantra of three Rs this week - a mantra that reorders the universe into a harmonically converged cosmos of meaning: Recliner, Remote and Rolaids. Now I'm not the guy in  underwear with a beer and a six pack, reeling under the influence of testosterone that just sits in the recliner, hogs the remote and eats Rolaids like candy.  And I'm not into games either - not a Monopoly man who thinks life is just a game in which you go around the board every day, pass go at midnight and collect another 24 hours. 


That's no doubt a bit harsh. But there are people who can't get out of their La-Z-Boys although they'd like to. They're people who've lived strong, active lives, but who now need to move - on the advice of children and friends - to a place where they can get assistance. Not a nursing home. Not an old folks home, not the poor house, but an complex of cozy apartments staffed by nurses, cooks and recreation directors.  I had to put my parents in one this past week.  

This geriatric condo I found are for people like one elderly woman who ate with us in the community dining hall the first evening there. Mildred once held her family together like matriarchal glue. She orchestrated the holiday dinners, the house renovations and the family vacations. She taught her daughters how to play the piano and sew a hemstitch. She navigated her family through two wars, one house fire and the slow death of her husband. She baked biscuits that probably melted in your mouth. She wore pastel suits with matching handbags to church every Sunday. She juggled membership in two bridge clubs, a church prayer circle, her college alumnae association, and the hospital "pink lady" auxiliary.  But one day she slipped in the kitchen and broke her hip. From then on, her life was a straight decrescendo from allegretto to adagio.

For a while her daughters covered the grocery shopping and doctor appointments. But they had their own lives to juggle, too: husbands with high blood pressure, children with marriage problems, grandchildren too spoiled, their own bills to pay, their own homes to maintain, their own health problems to nurse. 
So now Mildred's at "Morningside," or "Spring House," or "Courtyard Manor," or "Cascade Village," or "Marble Towers," or something.  A cheery place where there's still a lot of living to do and you can reward yourself after 80-plus years of workaday by letting others wait on you hand and foot. Aging happens. We're gonna need help, perhaps sooner than later.

What I sometimes forget, however, is that none of us goes through life unassisted.  Our culture glorifies rugged independence and individualism, and every once-in-a-while I need to be reminded that none of us goes it alone. I have been assisted from the cradle and will to my grave. Countless people - my parents, teachers, friends, pastors, neighbors, employers - have helped me along the way. So, that I might need some special assistance late in life, is no embarrassment. People have been helping me all along.

Life on earth is "assisted living" whether I know it or not. To think otherwise is to be guilty of weapons-grade stupidity. Assisted living is the only way I can get through life. There is no such thing as independent living. It's a myth. Yet, as true as this is, I find it hard to ask for help.

But I have to face it. I've tried independent living and found it to be dangerous if not deadly. 

That's why folks from other states are warned not to travel on the backroad of Mississippi. Ever heard of disappearing without a trace and winding up on a work farm? (FYI - I'm from Mississippi - just giving you a little "assistance" for your next tour through this beautiful state.)


A few others?

That's why women are encouraged to be careful when traveling or walking alone in the city.
That's why children are given a buddy when taking field trips to the zoo.
That's why God gave Adam and Eve to each other, because God knew it was not good for us to be alone.
That's why mentoring is so cool.
That's why mountain climbers never climb alone.
That's why lifeguards are posted around swimming areas.
That's why police officers patrol our neighborhoods.

Why even pretend to live "independently?"

I wish the administrators of assisted living facilities to be as faithful to those who depend upon them as God is faithful to us.  God lives up to his promises. When I need spiritual assistance it is readily available. When I need strength, it is mine for the asking. When I need wisdom, I'm invited to ask in faith without doubting (James 1:6). When I need forgiveness...well you get the idea.  

 
The place where my folks now reside actually has a Church Service like most.  I am going to call it "The Church of Assisted Living."  Just hope my folks will head to the church as fast as they moved their walkers this week to visit the foot doctor who stopped by to clip toenails and chisel bunions. 

Waiting Rooms

Went to the physician for a checkup this week.  Glad it was no emergency.   

Is there any more annoying, exasperating experience in "civilized" life than being at the wrong end of an interminable, serpentine line of humanity?

Of course, the slowest and most frustrating lines occur at all our very "favorite" places.  Like waiting behind Aunt Blanch at a Quick  Check as she attempts to discern whether she should, along with her Virginia Slims, purchase : “Texas two-steps? Happy Heart Cash? Double Blackjacks? “3X Lucky?” “Yellow Rose of Texas?” or the ever popular “Groovy Cash” and the can’t live without “Set for Life?” - and she's paying by rummaging through her coin purse.

If I were to fall down the steps and hear a sickening crunch as I land, bet that a trip to the hospital emergency room would be in my future. Bet, too, that when I  got there, for some reason, I’d find the place looking like Wal-Mart during Black Friday in November  - add a few squalling babies, bleeding do-it-yourselfers, frightened wheezing great- grandfathers, all of them in desperate need -- and all of them ahead of me and my shattered hip.  I once waited in a triage line at a New Orleans hospital during Marti Gras- never made it through the door - waited in the street until I stopped bleeding & decided to put some cole oil & cow salve on it  - and called it a day.  Still have the scar.  No wonder the mood of the ER is surly, snappish and snarling.

Other infamous waiting rooms? That day-devouring line I have faced at the Department of Motor Vehicles. Why does it seem like it is the goal of all DMV employees to force you to stand in every single one of their mystery lines -- keeping secret just which one I really need to be in? Or have you ever had the pleasure of going to the unemployment office? I have.  In addition to suffering the depression and desperation that come with joblessness, I got to endure hours in a humiliating line-up, just to get the chance to prove I was really still out of work. Still not as bad as waiting behind Aunt Blanch and her coin purse. Or waiting in line at the post office? Right?

Fax machines, microwaves, Federal Express overnight deliveries, express check-out lanes (I've blogged about this before - I must have "issues" with this)-- all these postmodern conveniences testify to the fact that I hate to wait -- for anything. I  have so many demands on my time, so many things going on, such a busy, busy, busy life  that I consider any time spent waiting as time hopelessly lost.

Amazing  thing - Jesus took advantage of every circumstance to demonstrate God's love and presence. For Jesus, every moment was open to transcendence -- Sabbath "waiting" - a day wandering in a grain field,  fruitless fishing expeditions, time spent waiting by a Samaritan well, the hours before his arrest and execution -- all were times equally ripe for God to use him as a messenger proclaiming the Good News.

Ironically, it could be my impatience with waiting rooms that might finally teach me how to make the most of every moment. The age of fiber optics and microchips have converted all kinds of waiting rooms into work rooms.  This week I used the time to write this blog. (Not so sure it was the BEST use of time - but definitely better than phone surfing.)  Laptop computers have made airplanes and hotel rooms offices-on-the-road for workaholics like me. Next-Generation Phones make it possible to be completely accessible to any caller at any time. The "waiting room" that has been utilized the best, however, is in that American home-on-wheels -- the automobile. Add the XM Satellite Radio, and now even microwaves available for my car - I practically need a traffic jam in order to get a chance to put all my gadgets to good use. (Dreaming here – don’t have all those in my little Honda with 385,000 miles – don’t even have a radio – so – my car IS a waiting room.)  Anyway - I can close a big deal, e-mail a contract and celebrate with a hot pizza, all while waiting in line at the freeway off-ramp – now that’s living.

All this while “waiting” for the Doc to draw my blood.  Just a thought but when I spend every waking moment attending only to the business of business, I ignore spiritual needs. By putting off prayer until Sunday morning, confining thankfulness to a quick grace before meals, squeezing joy into he few weeks of the Christmas or Easter season, I confine faith to a waiting room.

Not sure what that all this means – but it sounds profound.  But I am willing, I think, to wait and find out.  Time...will tell - I'm sure of that and - I'm willing to wait, but not sure if I am willing to wait in "The Waiting Room." Just sayin'

Placebo Effect

I was late for a meeting on the 4th floor and jumped into an open elevator, only to find that the doors weren't closing fast enough for me so that I could get on to my meeting. So, I jabbed at the "close door" button four or five times and, after a slight delay, the doors ease closed, leaving me satisfied that I have exerted masterful control over the recalcitrant machine. 

Is he wearing shoes?

I got to the meeting, and realized that someone had forgotten that the month of May can still be chilly at times - has the air conditioning on "dog sled" - cold enough for an Alaskan Malemute to freeze. I got up from my chair and adjusted the thermostat, believing that I had saved the day and prevented frost bite.

At lunchtime, I decided to take a walk around the park across the street.  I noticed people putting on special rocker-ized shoes that are supposed to tone  calves, quads and glutes while walking.  There were even folks wearing toe shoes (I think they were shoes - toe shoes?).   I wonder what those would do for me?  Another person was wearing what he called "the Anti-Shoe" - apparently (according to him) designed by Masai warriors.  But do Masai wear shoes? 

I think of it as double-dipping in the fitness department. On my way back, however, I get stuck at a crosswalk where the light is against me. No problem, I think to myself. There's a "push button" there on a post that I can push in order to make the light change and allow me to cross.  I jab at it a few times, just to be sure that it registered, and even though it takes a minute or so, the "Walk" sign changes and I go merrily on my way, once again believing that I have mastered the traffic pattern of the city with the push of a button.

When the day ended, I got back in the elevator, closed the doors again with my magic finger, went to the parking garage, got in my car and headed home - where I can't wait to watch TV.  I settle into my easy chair, flip on the remote and marvel at just how crystal clear the Ranger's Game looks on the screen. Later, I go to bed secure in the knowledge that I have successfully negotiated another day because all the things that should have worked for me actually did.

Or at least I think they did.

See, all those things I  thought was doing, causing, controlling, I really wasn't.

(THE ABOVE CLIP IS LONG but WELL WORTH IT - Classic Andy on Placebo Effect)

You've heard of the "placebo effect" in medicine, where doctors in a study give a control group of patients useless sugar pills but tell them they are painkillers, and the patients' brains convince them that they're the real deal and they begin to feel better. Well, the truth is that the placebo effect isn't just for medicine anymore. Indeed, every day I am encountering things that convince my brain that they should work, but actually don't.

That "close door" button in the elevator, for example, isn't actually there for me to push. It only works when a key is inserted in the elevator panel by a firefighter or maintenance worker. Push it all I want, but the door will close when it's programmed to do so every time. Ever since the Americans with Disabilities Act, the doors wait a little longer to close no matter what. Manufacturers could put a sign on the button saying something to that effect, but that's a hassle. It's easier to let the me believe I am the master of elevator control.

That thermostat on the office wall is very likely a dummy that actually controls nothing. Think about it: What would the cost of heating and cooling be if every individual in the building had access to the real thermostat! That dummy thermostat is there to give people like me the illusion of control; the thinking being that if I believe I've set the thermostat higher, I'll actually feel warmer even though the real temperature remains the same. 

Those tushy-toning shoes? A USA Today article quoted a doctor calling the shoe manufacturers' claims "utter nonsense," and the Federal Trade Commission ordered Reebok to pay out $25 million in refunds to consumers for false advertising. Even so, there are still plenty of people who claim that the shoes work, or at least they think they do.  I have yet to try them.

The "walk" button on the street corner might actually work, but not everywhere. In New York City, for example, all the buttons have been deactivated because they've been replaced by automatic timers. That doesn't stop people like me from continuing to jab them incessantly in hopes of beating the traffic.

And the technology that makes my TV HD may be real, but people like me who bought an HDTV and didn't  realize I needed special hookups (or do I?) - anyway, I don't seem to know the difference. Just telling people I have HD is enough for me to believe the picture is sharper.  I also have wondered whether I REALLY can control the TV remote....mmm.

The bottom line is that there are a lot of things that look like they should work, but really don't. Their purpose is to get me believing that I'm in control while, actually, something or someone else is -- someone who has a bigger picture in mind than my own personal need to get something done. While it's sometimes done under dubious circumstances, often I need to be managed this way for my own ultimate good and the good of others.  Just ask my wife or the congregation I serve.

Inflata-Church

"Feeding the bulldog" is a saying we ministerial types use for the offerings necessary to meet the church budget, pay the electricity & maintenance on an aging church structure.  I think I finally found the answer - maybe.  You be the judge.  I'm traveling through the metro-mess this week & couldn't believe what I saw.  An inflatable church.   I looked into it and for about 40 grand (my best estimate), I can have a luxury sedan OR a lovely Gothic church. 

www.inflatablechurch.com - no kidding!
It’s hard to believe, but for the price of a well-equipped  car, I can now buy myself a fully loaded, 47-foot-high place of worship. It’s got Gothic arches, an organ, a pulpit, an altar, space for 60 and even some stained-glass-style windows.  All for 40K, sounds like a deal, or even a steal. 

The problem? This building is a balloon. 

Apparently the world’s first inflatable church made its debut in 2004 in England.  Its creator had hoped that it would “breathe new life into Christianity.” (I'm sure no pun intended).  It apparently was featured on CNN and other media outlets. HOW DID I MISS THIS?  Here is a whole church designed to fit in the back of a truck.   

Inflatable Church Pool - NOPE - No mixed 'bathing.'  

When I told my wife about my life altering discovery - all she asked was "can you jump in it like a bouncy-house? Does it have a bathroom?"

I am trying to imagine myself walking through the gray Gothic archway, and entering a worship space that looks like a cross between a monastery and a moon-bounce (this is where a 'charismatic' service would thrive - imagine 'jumping for Jesus in this baptist balloon?  I would probably get kicked out of the association.) - brown polyvinyl pews, an inflatable organ, a pop-up pulpit and an air-filled altar.  Inflatable pews (it would seem to me) would be much more comfortable than seats made from hard, polished wood.  Just be sure to leave sharp objects at home.

Would Jesus have preached in an inflatable church?   Probably - but I do know that Jesus saw two boats at the shore of the lake, and so he hopped into Simon’s and asked him to put out a little way from the shore. Then he sat down and taught the crowds from the boat (Luke 5:1-3). Jesus created a sanctuary at sea. A worship center on the water. He placed a pulpit in the center of the people so that the word could be heard.

So why are am I so stuck with speaking in a sedentary sanctuary?

No mystery, really. I have a natural human hunger for stability in my life.  It makes sense that a church needs a solid foundation and a set of sturdy walls, plus an unchanging number in the phone book (that says it all right there) and an address that hasn’t shifted since the cornerstone was first put in place.  Wondering if I should ask myself more the question: "What is a church - really?"  When I was small I would clasp my hands and mantra "here's the church, here's the steeple, open the door and there's all the people."  Need to rethink that one.

Should I  be operating out of the trunk of a a hybrid? Or off the deck of a fishing boat? Or from a flatbed truck hauling an inflatable church? Details, details.   In the midst of all this I am reminded that in the Old Testament, God’s people worshiped in a tent. Now there's a retro-thought reminiscent of the spread of the Good News in "tent-revival" format.

That question, for me,  is  apostolic, not apocalyptic.  God has called me to go out, not to get them to come in. I need to meet people where they live and work and play. Jesus invites me to “Put out into the deep water and let down my nets for a catch." Do I have the nerve to walk with God into an uncertain future, knowing that God is always ahead of me, and that God is always on the move? 

Now I don’t actually have to worship each week in a big balloon in order to pass the inflatability test. After all, polyvinyl pews can pop, air-filled arches can sag, and space for 60 is not going to fill the bill for many services of worship. 


There is tremendous value in thinking about being a church that is apostolic and on the move with God, a church that refuses to be stuck in one location and sidetracked by worries about the condition of its bricks and mortar.

From now on I think my focus will be on inflatability, not stability.

To be inflatable is to be incarnational — that is to be the living, breathing, walking, talking, fully enfleshed body of Christ in the world today. To be inflatable is to be filled with the Spirit — after all, in the Hebrew Bible, there is only one single word for the concepts of wind and breath and Spirit. To be inflatable is to be easily transportable, and able to move quickly and efficiently to wherever God wants us to be. When the Lord is on the move, I don’t want to be "left behind."

Inflatability is seen most clearly in our actions when I leave a building and go out into the world. After all, maybe I have come to worship feeling deflated by the frustrations of the week, and maybe even punctured by sharp words and destructive, damaging actions. 


When Jesus called, the future disciples “left everything and followed Him."  They abandoned their rootedness, and began instead a journey that would lead to their ultimate eternal destination.

So here I go, floating out into the world as a sign of God’s love for all people. “Do not be afraid,” said Jesus to his very first inflatable followers; “from now on you will be catching people." The best way to attract people to God is to be light and flexible and full of the Spirit, and the most effective way to draw people to Jesus is to do my best to love them as profoundly as Jesus loves them.

There was a woman in a mental hospital in Washington who was just sick and tired of hearing her chaplain tell her how much God loved her. She heard him say this again and again, and it just didn’t ring true; she didn’t believe it. Finally, she said to the chaplain, “Please, stop telling me how much God loves me. First, you love me. Then I’ll know that God loves me.”

That’s my mission  - apostolic, not apocalyptic. 

That’s the approach of a disciple who is determined to live in the world, meet people where they live and work and play and show them the irresistible love of God. 

That’s the technique of a Christ-follower who values inflatability over solidity, and flexibility over stability.  I wish it were me - I'm still a tremendous work in progress & too often "deflated." I drove by the "inflate-church" site again - just to see it again - wouldn't you know it had moved...what's a follower to do when his church moves too quickly and leaves no forwarding address?  Houston, we have a problem.  Just when I was sure the "bulldog" problem was solved.

I just thought this was funny!

"Stuff"

Once upon a time there was a "retired" pastor who became a ponytailed loner who was often seen pedaling his bike around the streets of his former parish.  He picked up cardboard boxes and bags full of "stuff." 

One day, when neighbors hadn’t seen "Pastor" emerge from his home for several days, they called the police. Officers broke in, only to find a house so full of trash that the only way to get around was through an elaborate series of tunnels running through the filth. The stench was so bad that a police dive team using a breathing apparatus was called in to search for "Pastor." He was found deep inside the unholy labyrinth. Police believed Pastor's problem started when he became disoriented in a Benevolence, Finance, or Budget Church  meeting and began collecting "stuff" to help meet the overwhelming needs facing the church.  “Human Mole Nearly Dies of Thirst … Lost in his own Tunnels of Trash,” read the headline in the Local Times.

Sadly "stuff" most of us would call “junk” - old newspapers, magazines, old clothing, bags, books, mail, notes and lists, as well as other accumulated items (even garbage) was hoarded because he believed the church might somehow need those items in the future. His home became a dumping ground, where piles and piles of "stuff" choked out living space to a dangerous point.  (It didn't take long for the clutter to start spreading onto the floors, countertops, hallways, stairwells, garage and cars. Beds become so cluttered there was no room to sleep.) Chairs become so buried there was nowhere to sit. Kitchen counters become so cluttered that food couldn't  be prepared. Eventually the living space could only be accessed only by a series of narrow pathways or tunnels through the clutter. 


The therapists diagnosed Pastor with "Chronic Wealth Syndrome" - a high-end "stuff" disease symptomatic of a larger and more pervasive human disease.  He told the therapist that "he had been keeping all this 'stuff' since his youth - since his first pastorate."  He now attends therapy twice a week while living in a white padded cell with periodic visits from his family and former parishoners.  He is not living happily ever after.

NOW - the truth?  In this midst of my current move & I am fearful that I may be a hoarder.  I have always been able to get two cars in my garage.  But where in the world did all of this "stuff" come from?  It is like an endless bowl of spaghetti.  I mean -  I am putting "stuff" in boxes & have no answer as to how to label the box.  What is it?  Not sure - "stuff."  I've read that people hoard things that they don't need because they are afraid of throwing away something that they might use later.  I've heard that the difference between a collector and a hoarder is that collectors keep things because they give them pleasure, not because they are afraid to throw them away. Also, they are somewhat organized with their collectibles.  Mmm - makes me nervous. Am I a hoarder? Will they find five hundred empty mayonnaise jars in my attic when I die even though I don't like mayo?


More alarming for me?  In our Staff meeting we listened to Mark Batterson talk about "The Rich Young Ruler" (in Mark 10:22 he had "lots of stuff.") - a case study in "stuff" preventing a person from inheriting eternal life!  Whoa!  The larger question for me is "do I find my identity in "stuff?"  All be it - "ministerial stuff."   What must I do to inherit life?  Get rid of your "stuff" and follow Me.  Wow!

  
Jesus gives him a Facebook quiz on the Ten Commandments (well, at least five commandments, plus another that deals with human relationships; not the first four that deal with humans’ relationship with God), and the rich man checks all the boxes.  So far, the man is perfect. “I have kept all these since my youth,” he tells Jesus. He has managed to maintain a perfect standard, at least in his own eyes, while also managing to accumulate a good deal of "stuff." ( In Hebrew thought, prosperity was associated with God’s blessing, which was the result of faithful living.) To the casual observer, this guy had it all.

If I had everything where would I put it?  "Stuff" can become more of a life-choking burden than a blessing.  (That's why we move every so often - to get rid of some "stuff.") 


Have I become trapped in a maze of my own making?  Isn't it ironic then, that Jesus uses the illustration of a camel going through the eye of a needle to talk about how hard it is for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God? Will the "stuff" that I have accumulated create an ever-narrowing pathway until, eventually, it may be impossible to squeeze my way out? 

While compulsive hoarders need some serious psychological intervention, most people with "Chronic Wealth Syndrome" really need only one prescription. Jesus offers a therapeutic solution. He spells it out for the rich man: “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me." Usually that verse elicits a couple of standard responses from my soul.  

On the one hand, I read it and say, “Well, thank goodness I’m not rich!” It must be someone else’s problem. Like the neighbors who walked past "Pastor's" home day after day, I might observe my own wealthy neighbors and think they’re the ones with a possession problem. 



The second approach has to do with the force of Jesus’ prescription. Jesus isn’t really asking me to give up everything I have - is He? ; He’s using a "hyperbolic" metaphor. All disciples of Jesus shouldn’t really get rid of everything we own, right? Surely, this man’s problem with possessions required a much more radical intervention than I need.

Well, maybe. But Jesus’ words here seem to have a more universal application. Even the disciples caught the force of it. “Look, we have left everything and followed you,” they said to Jesus. Jesus’ advice/command to the rich man wasn’t lost on only those who had indeed done exactly what Jesus was recommending. Somehow, I expect that discipleship shouldn’t cost me that much; I think I can somehow maintain my consumerist lifestyle and still call myself a follower of Jesus. As Tom Sine writes, Western Christians seem to want “the American dream with a little Jesus overlay.” 

Jesus challenges that assumption directly, and his words are convicting for me - a person who claims to be his follower. He calls me to think about how I continue to collect "stuff" and hold on to things in my own life. The question is whether I will  seek health and wholeness by learning to give up my stuff when I'm asked, or whether I'll continue to cram my house and body full of the junk that our culture says I need. Only when I'm willing to let go, to see all my stuff as belonging to God, will I begin to see the light of the kingdom break through all the clutter.

The rich man was missing those first four commandments — the ones about honoring God, about making everything in my life subject to God. When I take those commandments seriously, I begin to see that my own idea of perfection is nothing compared to God’s perfection. For God, perfection and prosperity aren’t about full houses and mountains of material goods. Rather, they’re all about emptying, about giving away, about clearing the clutter and letting go of anything and everything that keeps me from finding the door to God’s kingdom.

I don't want to die in a squalid pile of junk in an ignominious end. But die I eventually will do. The question is whether I'll be found trying desperately to hold on to stuff I can’t take with me, or whether I'll be found having given the best of myself and my material blessings to the service of God, who ultimately owns it all anyway. 

The Generation Lap

I once was a long distance runner.  Never was that good - at least at my high school.  I ran the 2 mile by default - I wasn't fast enough (in the top 3 on the team) to run the mile.  Our best miler ran a 4:11, number two ran a 4:13, and number three ran a 4:15.  My measly 4:23 did not hack it.  And in the 2 mile I was the # 3 on the food chain.  Our fastest ran a 9:25, second 9:30, and I brought up the rear with a 9:35 (my all time best).  I will never forget the day I was lapped - that day a dude ran a 9:0something and I ran a 10:0something...later I found out his 9:0something was one of his "bad days" - great - I could have been lapped twice!  I got lapped & got a standing ovation when I finished - how embarrassing- to boot - the girls National leader in the two mile ran in our heat for "some competition" and was on my heels...I have spent the last 35 years trying to convince myself that suppose the standing O was for me. 


This past week I realized I had been lapped - again.  Let's just say I'm technologically challenged. 

Vintage Coleco Mini Arcade Games Frogger & Pac-Man

The generation gap. Old news.  It means that the Builder or GI generation doesn't understand their self-absorbed Boomer children.  It means that Boomers wonder what's up with their Gen-Xer kids.  And older Gen-Xers who have children secretly worry about the Millennial Kids' fascination with   cyberspace.  Preschoolers today can wire anything, view VCR's as museum relics, but struggle to tie their shoelaces.  About the best their Gen-Xer parents, when they were their age, could do, well -- was play a mean game of Pac-Man...and Frogger!   Middle-schoolers can help their parents navigate Windows, but don't know what to do when asked to wash windows.  High-schoolers spend hours on the Internet, sending e-mail, texting, tweeting....Their online world is one where it is easier to learn how to build bombs than to build relationships.  While the hackers of our country are peeking into the Norad, the army, or the FBI, their Boomer or X'er parents are often trying to hack into their own computer.

It's more than a gap -- it's a lap. A Generation Lap.  Like I said - I have been lapped - again!  While I was sitting at the computer, slowly punching in passwords, trying to go online and check my e-mail, my Millennial Munchkins were racing around the cyber-track -- chatting with friends, researching a school paper, and downloading songs -- all at the same time!  As my daughters grew through this phase I - often - noticed them "downloading" during a church prayer.  Now Dad - "we are made in God's image & if He can multi-task so can we."

I've been lapped.

Here's what's happened:  A Generation Lap occurred when I was overtaken by my more technologically savvy offspring.  I sometimes believe my "Net generation" kids have an innate, magical relationship with information technologies, one that is completely alien to all who have come before them.   I did not grow up with computers in the classroom and will never catch up with those who did.  

Old School Computer Lab

My freshman year in college I dropped a stack of COBOL cards in the Old School computer lab right before the card feeder - some of you know what I am saying here.

As a parent of "Millennials" I got depressed until I considered this:  Getting lapped could be good.  I am not too physically fit these days - could use some work in that area.  The Bible calls for me to be spiritually savvy, and to maintain a fitness for faith (remember 1 Timothy 4:8?  - bodily exercise profits little but spiritual exercise lots) - not only for me, but future generations.   I think it should be the goal of every generation to see its children sprint to new levels of health, happiness, wisdom, and spirituality.  But lapping is never a sure thing.   


I think that is why the Apostle Paul devotes so much time in his letters to spiritual growth, often invoking a racing metaphor.   Some would argue that Baby Boomers (that's me) not only failed to lap their parents in terms of spiritual faith and maturity, but actually fell far behind. Instead of racing ahead to new positions of faithful service, they stumbled and fell in a false start of "me-centered" spirituality.  But with each new generation there is hope - my hope and prayer is that the younger folks will return to God - some are already out front of their Boomer & X'er parents.   I know mine lapped me a long time ago - and that makes me feel good.   FYI - they get their spiritual fitness & ability to multi-task (even in church) from their Mom.   As for me - well.... I gave up pursuing the spiritually contemplative lifestyle a few years ago.

Family Holiday Gatherings

This past week we had a "Holiday Family Gathering." My own family's hypocrisy helped me understand what I read in Twain's Huckleberry Finn.  Dysfunctional family life has been around long before pop psychology defined it for me.  Now - I really do "enjoy" to (occasionally) get together with our end of the gene pool. These can be dangerous gatherings for me. (Growing up I was taught that - "If you are smart, once you've  grown up and escaped, you would be wise to never go near "these people" again- our family & logic is akin to Ma & Pa Kettle.)

"The Speech"

But many of us are drawn to cousinly confabs like moths to dysfunctional family flames.  I have attempted half-hearted excuses to get out of these gatherings - but I am convinced that my own death would not be enough for me to escape - it would be just another reason for folks to gather.  When our kids were younger I would give them "the speech" before we went - well, several times on the way to "the holiday gathering." It was a drive of anticipation to a destination where people probably shared my same feelings and blood.  


Aunt Muggie, Uncle Fuzz, and Aunt Pete were ALWAYS there.  You know - cheek pinching, warnings on the dangers of drugs and alcohol.  If I remember correctly, some of our meetings were actually held in the AA building - I suppose, for a reason. Then there was what my girls call "the old people food" - yep - casseroles and "jello-type-whipped cream - salads...of all kinds (and colors).  Again - according to my girls this was food from "questionable origin" that someone had tossed together from a home-cooking experiment gone terribly wrong.  THEN there was the poor dog or cat who just happens to inhabit the area getting poked, prodded, and otherwise tortured by the "children of the corn."

These days my girls (and my wife) have to give ME "the speech." - When I show up the conversation always seems to polarize to church-state squabbling. True to form, the family begins discussing religion and politics.  Presidential candidates are hurled around as weapons -- and then someone always brings the "Good Lord" into it and I'm supposed to know the election mindedness of God.... “I’ll pray for you,” mutters Aunt muggy (on the right side of the political spectrum) to Aunt Pete  - the one on the left. “You need all the help you can get.”  Thermometers rising... on to something more important - like sports or dissecting the failings of the opposite sex.  Looking for me? - I'm sitting with a glazed expression for the rest of the gathering... next to the sleeping old man, attempting to get my phone to work - no service - my only entertainment is watching the slow progress of drool sliding slowly down this distant relative's  face while he snores with whistles and snorts "three stooges style."

I suppose that is why I "got it" when Mrs. Huckabee gave us a "pop quiz" theme on the feuding family of Shepherdson (& the Grangerfords) - a murdering family who stop from feuding and attend church on Sunday, but still carry their guns.  My take as a High School Freshman was that Twain lampoons the foolishness of so-called educated people.   Families destroying themselves because of foolish pride and absolutely ridiculous behavior since no one in the Shepherdsons "can recall why the family is at war."

This brings me to the shocking command that God gives to Abram is to leave his family behind. It is similar to one of the "hard sayings" of Jesus (Luke 14:26) - one that we like either to ignore or to soften to a more palatable texture. But the command is unambiguous. In Abram's case, leaving the family meant leaving behind all the structures that organized clan life: a known code of legal and moral behavior, an established place in the hierarchical pecking order and the personal cults, gods and idols that were worshiped by the family. But what is interesting is that he never can seem to really get far enough away from them and their influence. What  I am attempting to say is that Abram's family had an "Aunt Pete, Uncle Fuzz, and Aunt Muggie" - just read Genesis  sometime - the dysfunctionality will either alarm or encourage you that you are not alone.  Funny how things haven't changed much in the last 4000 years.

 "Family" is now such a buzzword that in the name of "the family" we will do almost anything. For the sake of "the family," we claw our way up - working longer hours, seeking more pay, taking on huge mortgages for better homes in better neighborhoods with better schools. We may be too exhausted or stressed out to enjoy the big "family vacation," but it is more important and more expensive than ever. The tourism industry knows that the surest way to attract more people is to offer special rates, programs and services for "families." Even Las Vegas casinos are styling themselves as "family casinos" and "family vacation" centers.  Heaven forbid that Muggie, Pete, and Fuzz find that out before Memorial Day weekend.  

Watch Out Las Vegas! Aunt Pete is headed that way!