10 Things to Avoid While Parenting Teens (advice from your loving youth pastor) (Part 1 of 2)

It is universally agreed upon that there are three things in life that are supremely difficult. The first is riding a bicycle across the Pacific Ocean. The second is training a cat to rotate your tires. The third, and perhaps most impossible, is parenting teenagers.

I haven't attempted the first two, but I'm nearly finished with the third. I began the madness 11 years ago when I had lots of hair. I will finish in 2018 as bald as a baby's belly. That's not a coincidence. Being a parent of teens is a little like being President of the United States. Each day is filled with unexpected decisions we have to make. Should I let him go to the concert? Should I let him drive to his girlfriend's house on this rainy night? Should I let him get his buttocks pierced? I suppose it's hard being President, but at least he has a cabinet of experts to help him make these decisions.

Now, before I paint too negative a picture of this daunting task, I have to say that I love teenagers and I have loved parenting three of them. I love the spontaneity, the goofiness, the passion, the moments of greatness rising to the surface. I love guiding discussions around the table and seeing them wrestle with expressing their thoughts. I love watching sports together and debating who the best teams are. I love seeing them develop into young men with tremendous gifts and quirky personalities. My boys have made me laugh until I cried, filled our house with activity and life, been my friends, companions, and occasionally even my teachers. They've taught me about fashion, music, culture, and unbeknownst to them, how to pray really, really hard.

It isn't just my kids that I've learned from. I have been in youth ministry for over 25 years. I've worked with all types of kids--shy, boisterous, awkward, confident, athletes, nerds, band geeks, IB academics, musicians, rednecks, preppies, cheerleaders, artists, and some who have absolutely no idea what they are. Many of them have a tremendous understanding of spiritual things, and others have no clue. I enjoy them all. But I'll admit that there have been many times when I've felt like a total failure. The student I thought was walking with God made another bad decision. The one who seemed so excited to be involved suddenly disappeared from our ministry. It's heartbreaking work, not for the faint of heart. Just like parenting.

So with all that said, I would like to offer a list of 10 THINGS TO AVOID WHILE PARENTING TEENS. I don't mean to make you feel bad for the mistakes you've made, especially since I write from personal experience, but I hope I can prevent others from repeating them. I'm starting with 5 today because this is a blog, not War and Peace, and you have something else to do, I'm sure.

10) AVOID PUNISHING YOUR TEEN BY INTERRUPTING THEIR INVOLVEMENT IN CHURCH. "My kid got in trouble, so I'm not letting them come to youth group." When we make mistakes, the first thing the devil wants to do is separate us from God. Conversely, the first thing God wants is for us to come to him. I know youth group is largely a social event for kids. Sometimes we have to take something that hurts. But to remove time with God's people as a punishment gives a dangerous subliminal message. God is only to be approached when we are worthy. Church is an activity no more valuable than any other. The spiritual message and the presence of the Holy Spirit at our youth ministry are not effective. A better option is to let one of the youth leaders know what's going on so that someone besides you can have an honest conversation and pray with your kid.

9) AVOID FREAKING OUT OVER YOUR TEEN'S MISTAKES. In 25 years of youth ministry, I've heard just about everything. Are you shocked to learn that some of our teens have been caught stealing, had sex, gotten pregnant, cheated on exams, forgotten to turn in their homework, been depressed, cut themselves, lied to parents, snuck out of the house, posted something inappropriate online, looked at porn, gotten in a fight, gotten drunk, been kicked out of school, taken drugs, sold drugs, grown drugs in the backyard garden? When it's our kid, it's panic city for most of us. But it's important to remember that teenagers make serious mistakes (didn't you?), and though we don't wish for it to happen, it will. Freaking out about it doesn't help. Being too embarrassed to ask the youth pastor or youth leader for prayer doesn't help. I tell parents and teens that there is nothing they can tell me that would shock me. (Well, almost nothing. If your teen has a dead body hidden in the basement, I might be a wee bit surprised.) But honestly, I've heard it all. As sad as it makes us, it's also an opportunity to put our trust in the grace of God and let the Holy Spirit do an incredible thing. That's what God does--makes beauty out of ashes. Stay calm, and pray.

8) AVOID COMPLAINING ABOUT YOUR TEEN TO OTHERS, ESPECIALLY ON SOCIAL MEDIA. This is one that should go without saying, but unfortunately I've seen it happen--parents venting about their teen to other parents, occasionally even online. I get it--we all need to vent sometimes. That's okay. My wife and I vent about our kids--and yours--on occasion. Venting with a trusted friend who keeps her mouth shut might be a better outlet than posting your frustration to 1100 Facebook 'friends.' Kids get bombarded with negativity all the time. Parents should encourage their teens at every opportunity and speak well of them to others. One of the things we try to celebrate in our youth ministry is the unique contribution each kid brings to the table as image bearers of their Heavenly Father. Every kid is made in the image of God, even when it seems from their mistakes that they are more like us. Look for the good in your teen and talk about that instead.

7. AVOID FREAKING OUT OVER YOUR TEEN'S DOUBTS AND QUESTIONS. It has been a long time since I was a teenager. It's impossible to remember what my brain was like back then. I mean, I used to think that I was never going to get over that girl dumping me for that kid I couldn't stand. I was absolutely certain that I was destined to spend my life alone in a Georgian Super Cave for Losers. All these years later, my wife of 27 years still thinks I'm hot. You see, the truth is that the teen years are developmentally tumultuous. The thirteen-year-old--a concrete thinker who has zero doubt that Jesus died for them and the Bible is 100% true--gradually becomes the 17-year-old--an abstract thinker who starts to wonder if Samson could really tie the tails of three hundred foxes together, and thus questions his salvation. Psychologist Jean Piaget identified assimilation and accommodation as key components of adolescent development. Teens are constantly learning new things and are forced to assimilate them into their existing belief system. When there's a conflict between new information and old, they are forced to make accommodations for the new belief. It's painful. It's normal. It's good. It's what helps us make our faith our own. So when your teen admits she is having doubts about her faith, don't freak out. I tell students all the time, "You haven't thought of anything that nobody ever thought before. There are reasonable answers worth searching out, and there are many things we cannot fully understand." Faith involves knowledge, mystery and wonder. It is never complete or static, and never should be.

6) AVOID OVERPROTECTING YOUR TEEN. When my son Tim was two-years-old, we awakened one morning to find him missing from the house. After a 60-second mad scramble, we discovered him outside, behind our car, nearly in the street, playing in the dirt. As a result, Tim spent the next 18 years of his life in a 4x4 dog kennel so that he would never do that again. All joking aside, some well-meaning parents, fearing the worst, do everything possible to shield their teens from danger, whether it be physical, social or spiritual. But over-protection is really parenting by fear instead of parenting by faith. Safety is NOT the ultimate goal. As our teenagers grow, we need to remove the harness and allow them to take some risks in search of independence. Our goal as parents is not to protect them, but to see them grow into independent, confident, even dangerous ambassadors for the kingdom of God. That means allowing them to interact with all kinds of people, to go on that mission trip or wilderness adventure, to develop a life outside of our family, to think differently than we think. Imagine if Mary, knowing Jesus was in danger, had never allowed him to leave the house? Playing it safe may seem like good parenting, but it might be hindering the kingdom of God.

Joe McGinnis of INGAUGE Parenting has an excellent diagram which is helpful to see how our role as parents changes as our kids grow up. It shows how we must transition into new roles as our kids grow and mature, moving from protector to teacher to model to coach to mentor. I find this very instructive.

For more, check out http://joedmcginnis.com/

So those are my first five Things to Avoid While Parenting Teens. Check back soon for five more. As you ponder mistakes, and all the others we've made along the way, please be encouraged that our mistakes are not the final answer on who our kids will turn out to be. Not only is God's grace sufficient for our teen's mistakes, but for ours as well.

Now I have to go see if my cat finished rotating my tires.

With encouragement and love,
-Pastor Steve

Rhythm and Blues

My boys have rhythm. I wish I did.

Tim has the best rhythm in the family. The kid is so naturally rhythmic, I swear he could tap his head, rub his stomach, do an Irish jig with his left foot and the moonwalk with his right foot, all while carrying on a conversation defending Breaking Bad as the greatest moment in TV history.

Jon has this nice little dance he does. It involves his hips and his hands in a unique combination that would make Pee Wee Herman jealous. It's pretty much a family legend. Thomas can play the guitar or the piano without giving it a second thought and keep his tempo intact like a boss. Music flows from him like water from the tap.

Me? I can clap my hands and sing at the same time. This, by the way, is not a skill possessed by everyone. I've seen you in church.

Anyway, rhythm is a nice thing to have. I wish I had more of it. It's what I need in my life right now.

When I think of rhythm in a spiritual sense, I mean something a little different than imitating the Blue Man Group. I mean the balance of life and work, the discipline of prayer mixed with the spontaneity of play, the patterns of exercise, rest, Sabbath, productivity, creativity and relationships that give me the most joy and satisfaction. Rhythm means preparing for the normal but being ready for anything. Perfect rhythm brings perfect peace.

For me, this is simple to plan but difficult to master. I need a regular pattern to my life and work. I need my days to be structured but not overstuffed. I need time with people. I need time alone. I need to have a place to be, and I need to have nowhere to be. I need a harmonious schedule that provides time to think, pray, exercise, and create. When life does not allow for those things, due to circumstances under or beyond my control, I feel out of rhythm and out of sync. My heart suffers. My body suffers. My spirit suffers. When I have no rhythm, I have the blues.

This year has been pretty blue. It started off with a couple weeks of sickness. Then we got nailed by the snow which brought everything to a halt. It's nearly the end of January and I feel like I have gotten nothing done at work and regressed spiritually. My prayer life is pretty weak at the moment. I haven't exercised much. And the worst part is, I don't feel like doing any of it. I am out of rhythm with myself and out of sync with God. I need a spiritual pacemaker.

I don't know if you can relate to any of this. People are wired differently. Some are disciplined through whatever comes their way. My wife, for example, protects her prayer and exercise time like a bear protects her cub. It doesn't matter if she's sick, exhausted, or too busy to breathe, she's up before dawn every day and she says this is what keeps her sane. Others don't want any schedule at all -- they need to find something new to do every day. For me, I do best when there is mix of these things. I need routine, rest, and coffee. I need to be busy, but not too busy. I need lots of structure, but with moments of laughter and fun thrown in for good measure. A vacation to look forward to is always good as well.

So here's to starting 2016 over again. I'm planning to get back to the gym. I'm planning to get up at 6:00 to read my Bible and walk the dogs. I'm planning to keep Tuesday mornings free to write and create things for the best youth ministry anywhere. I'm planning to get away once a quarter to pray. And I'm planning to write a blog every other week. I like the rhythm of the tapping of the keys as I create something from a well-rested and inspired mind.

Here's to a better rhythm, starting now.

Happy Festivus!

Today is Festivus!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y8rzt-vj2gU

As is fitting, I would like to end the year with the Airing of Grievances. It has been a bad year for my blog, and I'm feeling a little testy. I have five grievances. If they make you mad, well, come at me with your feats of strength. Hopefully, though, you'll chuckle instead.

5. AUTO TUNE. I like my fruit fresh, not in a can. I like my vegetable fresh, not in a can. I like my meat grilled, not in a can. I guess I'm not a big fan of cans. That's why I like my music with real voices and real instruments, which is getting harder and harder to find, at least on the radio. I know I'm old school, but super-synthesized and auto-tuned doesn't do it for me. Nor does DJ-generated turntablism. Give me the sound of the guitar fingers sliding, the bass rumbling, the raspy voice breaking, and the leather pants stretching anytime. Okay, maybe we can do without the leather pants, but for goodness sake, if you can't sing the song in tune, you probably aren't that good.

4. ANGRY ATHEISTS. Congratulations! You've discovered enlightenment and are now smarter than the rest of the human race. Unfortunately, your new-found uber-humanity seems to have upset you. That's why you insist on posting angry articles declaring that Jesus is as real as the Easter Bunny and Christians are holding onto our outdated beliefs like hoarders on the set of the Home Shopping Network. I'm not sure why you're so mad at people who believe. Did someone take your favorite toy or something? Anyway, there's a lot in the universe we don't understand--so maybe a little faith and mystery will bring some cheer back into your world.

3. ANGRY CHRISTIANS. Speaking of angry, atheists aren't the only ones who seem angry these days. Why do so many Christians seem angry about things that Jesus isn't angry about? Signs that say Happy Holidays? People who favor gun control? Obamacare? Donald Trump? Political debates? Red cups at Starbucks? Chick Fil-A being closed on Sundays?



Jesus got angry at religious hypocrites and anyone who made it harder to get to his Father. We might do well to follow his example, at least in how we present ourselves in social media.

2. NFL INSTANT REPLAY. Fans of the Sunday Synagogue are always ranting about poor officiating. I am guilty as charged. But instant replay, designed to "get it right," only makes things irreducibly complex. The ability to slow plays down into nanoseconds and watch them from a gazillion different angles makes them indecipherable. Did he catch it or bobble it? Did it hit the ground or just a blade of grass? Is a blade of grass considered the ground? Was his arm moving forward to throw or was he just waving to his mother? As he tumbled to the ground like the lunar module, was there control--defined by 76.5 lbs per square inch of pressure on the ball--or did the ball just rotate with the earth? After the interception, did he perform a football move, or was he just reenacting a scene from Magic Mike? Or my personal favorite, Let's check the spot of the ball to see if it made it to the 41.9846 yard line (though on the previous play it was tossed to the ground with all the care of a half-eaten chicken wing). Watching the NFL is like watching Inception; the layers get deeper and deeper until we can no longer tell if we're watching replay, real life, or the Miss Universe pageant. "Ladies and Gentlemen, 43 years later, the Immaculate Reception is still under review."

1. NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS. Who's idea was this, anyway? We take an otherwise relaxing holiday and turn it into a guilt trip and 365-day reminder of how little self-control and discipline we have. I had some amazing resolutions coming into this year -- encourage 6 people daily (fail), go to the gym 200 times (fail), write a blog every other week (fail), and read 30 books (done). I'm one for four, which even upon review by NFL officials, would mean I SUCK. New Year's Day is like the cake you haven't even eaten yet, and might never eat, but feel guilty for wanting to eat, and awful after you eat it. I resolve to strengthen my resolve to not make resolutions this year.

Happy Festivus, everyone, and more importantly, MERRY CHRISTMAS, too!

The God of the 99

Youth pastors, trying to appear humble and spiritual, will tell you numbers don't matter. We lie. Sometimes they matter. A lot.

Last night there were 99 people at our high school youth ministry, which we call SOS. The name is a mystery to most, but it actually stands for "Stoked On Sunday," a tag I brought from my days in Denver, where people tend to say the word stoked a lot. For the past 15 years, we have been gathering students and youth leaders together on Sunday nights to talk about God and hang out together.

I still remember my first Sunday night at Mountain View. It was May 2000, and I was a candidate for the youth pastor job. As part of my vetting, I was asked to meet with the few high school students of the church. There were about 10 of them gathered in Dave Carruther's living room. The church had only existed a couple of years, so they didn't know each other very well and didn't seem to care. We played a stupid game where you make shapes out of bubble gum. I'm pretty sure they were all thinking, "loser."

I got the job anyway.

That fall we started a youth ministry from scratch. The high school kids met in a nice basement in Holly Hills. I recruited my first high school volunteers, Scott and Erika Rape. The kids were cool, they seemed to like me, and pretty soon we had 25 or more every week. We started small groups. We talked about the Bible. We ate a lot of pizza and shot a lot of pool.

Over the years things steadily grew and changed. We met in lots of different locations. We filled the basements of Katsotises, Sheehys, Joneses, Leggits. We romped around the corridors of the Landon House for four years. We'd average 35 or 40 kids, maybe 50 on a big night. We added lots of great volunteers. We did so many retreats, mission trips and conferences that sometimes I felt like a travel agent instead of a youth pastor. Even with all the changes and activity, I remember nearly every student who was ever a part of our ministry.

Five years ago, things changed dramatically. We opened our new building, home of the coolest youth room in Frederick County, which we called the PIT. We optimistically bought 80 chairs. We had live music and a snack bar and a legit arcade-grade air hockey table. We had modular sofas aptly named "Love Sacs" and tons of pictures on the walls. The night we opened, we had about 75 people. We settled at an average of 50 or so. We've grown steadily since. Last year we bought 20 more chairs to accommodate that growth. You can do the math. It has been very rewarding and humbling. I reflect on it often, and I'm blessed to have been a part of this.

Yet, despite the success we've had, I still have doubts and fears. Mine is this: I worry that I'm getting too old for this. I worry that I will lose my relevance, my youthfulness, my ability to relate to students, my identity as a youth pastor. I worry that I'll be left in the dust, like an old piece of stereo equipment in the digital age. This has been my life's work--what will become of me when I'm no longer "Pastor Steve" to the students of Mountain View?

In a moment of vulnerability, I shared this with the students at SOS last night. I talked about fear and how it hinders our relationship with God. Fear is really lack of trust that God is powerful and that he is good. The truth is, we all have fears which hinder our relationship with God. High school students have lots of them -- the fear of being alone, the fear of being left out, the fear of failure, the fear or unrealized dreams. I'm sure you have your own fears. They are always with us, reminding us we're not in control. The key to defeating them is to remind ourselves what God has done for us, and that he is capable of even greater things.

This morning I awakened with a refreshing sense of confidence. I looked at last night's attendance and smiled. 99 is such a unique number. It represents where we've come from, and where we are going. It represents what God has done, and a threshold we are going to cross. There may be 99 in the fold--a beautiful number to be sure--but there is always room for another. God makes room. And he makes room for us to play an important role in his work of adding to the flock. I have 99 reasons to trust God's faithfulness, and one big reason to keep going. I don't know why I ever doubt him.

I trust the God of the 99. I hope you do, too.

The Dog Years

It started as a conspiracy; four members of my family plotting behind my back, devising their manipulative plan while I was at work. The plan hatched into the open one night at dinner, timed perfectly amidst my giant bite of spaghetti so I would be rendered helpless to respond without spewing food.

"We should get a dog," Karen said.

"Yeah, Dad, we should get a dog," echoed three smaller voices in unison--big, hopeful smiles on their cherubic faces.

It was January 2004. We had lived in Walkersville for three and a half years. The boys were 12, 10 and 6. Our lives were full of family, church, and sports. Our home was simple but warm. Life was good.

I chewed my spaghetti and looked at the four sets of eyes staring me down, their pleading smiles reaching into my chest to tug on my heart. I stayed calm. "No way," I said after swallowing. I played it cool, as if I had known about their secret whispers all along.

"Why not?" asked Karen with that look that always gets what it wants from me, the one in which emotion defeats logic.

Why not? I thought to myself? Why should we? It seemed wrong on every level. I'd never had a dog. Dogs are work. Dogs are dirty. Dogs are like children, only worse. And by golly, they are expensive, with their shots and food and vet bills. We were a one-income family in a tiny house with barely enough money to buy name-brand cereal. We already had three boys running around making messes everywhere. We didn't need another source of chaos.

With self assurance, I assumed my role as PD (Practical Dad) to squelch the uprising. I suggested these reasons, and others, and gave a firm, "No."

All of which fell on ears as deaf as a doorknob.

"We've all discussed it, and we think it's a good idea," said Jonathan, the oldest at 12, speaking for the conspirators.

I responded with my trump card, holding out hope that perhaps my supreme logic would draw the lone other adult in the room to see the foolishness of this idea. "You know who would end up caring for it, don't you?" I said to all involved. "Your mother." I dropped the words on the table like Thor's hammer, certain of victory.

Two weeks later, a smelly and excitable puppy ran around our kitchen as the boys squealed with delight. Jonathan named her Treble.

Treble had quite a backstory. Her mother was a Jack Russell who had been featured in the Frederick News-Post because she had been running free on the base of Ft. Detrick, escaping capture for a number of months. During the winter, she had three puppies, all of whom took on the characteristics of their part-husky/part-beagle father. It was hard to imagine the exchange, but the result was an extraordinary mix of true dog snout, beautiful markings, and poor behavior.

The poor behavior was nearly enough to drive us insane. Daily garbage shredding. Leash-straining so relentless we thought she was going to choke herself. She gained a reputation as a runner, jumping over our fence and running off to herd the cows in the field behind our house. More than once the whole Anderson family was seen chasing her across the train tracks into the park. She once broke her leash and ran off into a lake, only to return soaking wet and sheepishly unrepentant. She was blacklisted from one kennel for her behavior, and once bit a veterinarian to the tune of three stitches. We soon learned it was nearly impossible to take her to ballgames or picnics because she would not settle down. We tried to expend her energy in the backyard, chasing her in figure eights until we were panting harder than she was.

And the eating! My goodness, that dog would eat herself to death if possible. She once stole four double cheeseburgers off the counter. She devoured a pan of delicious breaded chicken Karen had lovingly made for dinner. She ate butter, cream cheese, tampons, socks, and cat poop. When she wasn't eating, she would groke--relentlessly groke.

Groke (v) origin unknown: To silently watch someone while they are eating, hoping to be invited to join them.

During every meal, every snack, every bowl of cereal, Treble would stare at us, eyes fixed with a look of entitlement and inevitability.

Treble was a bad dog. I was so right. Getting her was the most impractical thing we'd ever done

But as you've probably guessed by now--I was also so wrong.

She nestled into our family routine like a warm, comfortable blanket. She would spend the evenings in the middle of wherever people were gathered, even though it meant we had to step over her. She would allow each of us to be in her face, her ears back in total submission and trust as she rolled onto her back for a "rubbing of the tum." She would let Tim hold her snout and blow in her nose like a balloon. She gained the surprisingly neat habit of only pooping at the fence line of our property so that we didn't have to clean up after her. She stopped running and became easier to manage. And when we would return from being out of town for a few days, we would be greeted by a jumping, dancing and yelping of joy so inexpressible and thick, it would bring tears to your eyes. She loved us. And we loved her.

A few years ago, she tore her ACL. It eventually healed itself, but it slowed her down. She gained some weight, mellowed out. She became the most docile, loving creature you could ever imagine. People could do no wrong to her, and her gentleness was a gift to us.

Karen indeed ended up being the one who did most of her care, but I'm convinced I am her favorite. She is my "other girl." In recent years, as Karen returned to work, I received the privilege of being the designated walker. Our trips around the neighborhood in the morning have been a blessing to me. I lovingly chatted with her as we walked, and dutifully picked up after her like a bridesmaid carrying her train. I loved giving the "Poop Wave" to my neighbors as they drove to work. (See March 12, 2014 blog). I adore my dog, and she adores me.

Now she is dying.

About four weeks ago, Treble awakened us in the middle of the night, whining and scratching. I found her pressing her empty water dish up against the wall. We had already filled it several times that day. We knew something was wrong. Lots of tests have followed, with a variety of vague diagnoses. Doggie Diabetes was one of them, but our training in giving insulin proved to be in vain. She has stopped eating altogether. It seems to be a matter of days now. I have seen each member of our family taking our private moments with her, and girding ourselves for the difficult day that will soon be here. I'm glad all five of us are here to say our goodbyes. We should have no regrets, only sadness and gratefulness.

The dog years began 11 1/2 years ago, and though I got a late start, they now represent 1/5 of my life. They began with no teenagers in the house yet, and will conclude with only one remaining. The fact that her life coincides with the raising of our sons causes me to reflect upon the brevity of life and the quick passing of parenthood. Wasn't it only yesterday Treble chased Jonathan, Timothy and Thomas as they played whiffleball in the backyard? It's too much to bear if I think about it too long, my heart both full and achingly wistful at the same time.

Mostly, I am grateful. Though once I was blind, now I see. Treble has made sure of that. I am a full-fledged dog lover. In the bigger picture, Treble has helped me realize how chaos and expense are small prices to pay for the richness of relationships, human and canine alike. Practical Dad needed to be defeated, and he was. And as I grieve her impending loss, I wonder if perhaps I'll see her again in God's perfect future, for surely paradise includes everyone's Treble. "In this world you will have Treble, but take heart, I have overcome the world."

The dog years have been the best years of my life.

Defending Santa

Every year at this time, I read lots of posts and hear lots of people discussing whether or not they are going to play up the Santa myth with their kids. Thoughtful young parents, especially evangelical Christian ones, tend to lean on each other to find their path in matters such as this. We do a good job in our subculture of making every decision a bigger deal than it probably is and laying guilt on ourselves to be the perfect parents whenever possible. We live in fear that we will commit the unpardonable parental sin that leads our kids into apostasy, atheism, or the wearing of skinny jeans.

The logic usually goes like this: If I tell my kids Santa is real, I am lying to them. When they find out I lied to them, they will no longer trust me. Therefore, when I talk about Jesus, they won't trust me on that either. Furthermore, Santa also steals the real meaning of Christmas away from Jesus, and I want my kids to love Jesus more than they love Santa. Therefore, I will not allow any Santa in my house, thus fulfilling Commandments 1, 2 and 9.

I'm overstating it a bit to make the point, but the whole issue does cause me to wonder if perhaps we all need a spoonful of lighten up. So, I've decided to defend my position. I am defending Santa.

First, I must confess that I'm a bit biased. As a child, I believed in Santa. I loved the mystery and the anticipation of him. My parents would send me to bed at midnight on Christmas Eve. I would be so excited for Christmas morning that my skinny body would be charged with electricity and the footy pajamas I was wearing would be nearly busting at the seams. I knew that Santa would not come if I was awake, but I would always have trouble falling asleep. So I would attempt to lie there perfectly still, my eyes half closed, trying to trick Santa into thinking I was asleep while I listened for his approach on the roof. I wanted to hear the proof of the hoof, see the shadow of the reindeer against the moon. I never made it past 12:30.

In the morning I'd find a package "from Santa," and it brought me nothing but joy.

I love those memories.

Karen and I played up Santa with our kids to a lesser degree. Jon was always too smart for us. He figured things out early on and relayed the message to his brothers. Nevertheless, we dutifully stuffed their stockings with packages marked "from SC" in silly handwriting to throw them off. (Santa apparently shopped at the Walmart checkout line a lot). A couple times before they were entirely sure, the boys tried to "catch" him by tying a thread across the fireplace that he would have to break upon entry.

So I have a special place in my heart for the big fella. Which is why I am writing this blog in his defense. So, with all due respect for those who disagree, this is why I think we should all get our chimney cleaned before Christmas.

Here are a few facts I am certain of. First, we should not fear messing up our kids with every decision we make. We aren't going to derail their faith in us and send them into decades of therapy because we put a present from Santa under the tree. We aren't going to send them on a path to hell because we allowed them to read Harry Potter or go trick or treating. We aren't going to ruin their worldview because we forced them to watch old Star Trek episodes on Netflix (although some of the sillier episodes may leave a scar).

I believe we pose a much greater risk to our kids' well-being and faith when we fret about everything, fill our homes with lots of worry, and make the Christian life more work than play. Joylessness is the killer of faith.

Second, telling our kids that Santa is coming doesn't make us liars in the biblical sense. Is God angry with us when we wake our kids up at 6:00am on April First and tell them there's a camel in the yard? Does he judge us for telling them mom and dad were in the bedroom, um, "talking?" Are we in danger of eternal fire when we tell our three-year-old that, "Why yes, of course I knew that was a picture of me you just drew"?

Telling a five-year-old that Santa is coming will not turn you (or him) into a liar. I know my dad ate that cookie on the hearth, just as my boys know that it was mom who got those stupid drinking straw eye glasses at Kohls. I never once thought of my parents as liars, and I'm sure my kids don't think of us in this way either.

Third, one of the best things we can do for our children is feed their sense of imagination, wonder and awe. This is a mission we have to pursue relentlessly, in every way imaginable. If we do this well, it's like giving vitamins to our children's faith in Christ. Eventually, they'll discern the difference between the fable of Santa and the reality of Jesus. In the meantime, we cannot overfeed the imagination. The Santa story is really about wonder and possibility, and I think it helped feed my appreciation of the wonder and possibility inherent in the Gospel. How could God become incarnate in a baby, and how could a man walk on water? If we worry Jesus somehow won't be able to overcome "reality competition" from Santa, it seems we don't truly believe in either of them.

Lastly, having fun with Santa can help create the kind of winsome family atmosphere kids need to flourish, It's not the only thing -- not a necessity -- but it worked for us. We kept the Santa story alive as long we could, but it was just one piece in the game box. We also told lots of ridiculous stories at bedtime (I made them all up--liar!), read lots of good books (the Chronicles of Narnia top the list), and played lots of games of whiffleball in the backyard. Our kids grew up in a family that likes to laugh. They grew up aware that the world is filled with wonder and mystery. (For years, I had them convinced there was a secret compartment in my car that they could never find.) As pastor's kids--sometimes privy to the strain that church life can bring--they grew up knowing that home was a fun place to be and their parents were normal people. Most importantly, they grew up knowing that the Lord Jesus--who was at the center of our lives in a thousand ways--was the giver of joy, not the killer of it.

Santa faded, but the warmth and winsomeness of our family system endures to this day.

So here's to you, Santa, you big red figment of my imagination. Thanks for the memories. Haters gonna hate, but don't be late! I can only stay awake so long.

#blamebieber

The Pittsburgh Steelers laid an egg on Sunday against the New York Jets. Coming into the game as the league's hottest team, the Steelers somehow managed to give away four turnovers and not score a touchdown until there was a minute left in a 20-13 loss. There was lots of blame to go around, from QB Ben Roethlisberger (2 interceptions) to receiver Antonio Brown (2 fumbles) to coach Mike Tomlin (1-8 vs. teams with a winning percentage under .200). But the most likely cause of this loss was the pre-game visit from Justin Bieber. According to reports, Bieber paid a visit to the Steelers' team Bible study on Saturday, thus throwing off the Steelers' ever-so-fragile mojo and tossing them into the black hole of NFL weirdness on Sunday.

Justin Beiber was at the Steelers' Bible study on Saturday. That sentence alone boggles the mind on a number of levels, but it makes perfect sense that this would cause the Steelers to lose. It also got me thinking what would happen if Justin Bieber visited other NFL teams? If you're a football fan, you might agree with me.

If JB visited the Washington Redskins, Dan Snyder would sign him to a 7-year contract.
If JB visited the Dallas Cowboys, Tony Romo would fumble the handshake.
If JB visited the Houston Texans, JJ Watt would invite him to the school dance.
If JB visited the Baltimore Ravens, John Harbaugh would blame him for bad officiating.
If JB visited the Denver Broncos, Peyton Manning would find a way to get him 10 TDs.
If JB visited the New York Jets, Rex Ryan would get a naked tattoo of him on his arm.
If JB visited the Green Bay Packers, Aaron Rodgers would give him the Discount Double Check.
If JB visited the Chicago Bears, Jay Cutler's face would not change expression.
If JB visited the Cincinnati Bengals, he would have the shortest arrest record.
If JB visited the Cleveland Browns, he'd be mistaken for Johnny Manziel.
If JB visited the Kansas City Chiefs, Andy Reid would eat him.
If JB visited the New England Patriots, Tom Brady would date him.
If JB visited the Oakland Raiders, they would still lose.

As a precaution, I suggest that Justin Beiber never show his face around the Steelers ever again. I think James Harrison will tear him in half.

Education is a Three-Letter Word

My wife is a second-grade teacher. She returned to education eight years ago, but this is the first full-time position she has had since our first son was born. Things have changed a lot over those 22 years.

Karen is a diligent person and she is working like a dog to be the best teacher she can be. It's a challenging environment, with a fascinating mix of economic and cultural diversity. To meet the demands of her job, she gets up at 4:45am and often doesn't get home until 7:00pm. She spends her weekends grading papers, writing lesson plans, and stressing about the coming week. She thinks and talks about her job all the time. I hear all the details; the rowdy students, the demanding and absent parents, the faculty drama, the prowling presence of reviews and requirements. There are joys--she loves her "little peeps," but mostly I hear about the manifold layers of meetings, management and morass that have enveloped public education in its current form. It's overwhelming to a person whose primary skill is loving kids and making them feel good about themselves. Don't get me wrong; she can teach a great lesson on counting money or reading diphthongs, but she's not so keen on keeping up with the 127th revision of the math curriculum for seven-year-olds. Education has become so data-driven, so technology-toasted, so change-charged, that they have created an unfathomable volume of bureaucratic mumbo-jumbo that would send the hardiest IRS agent to the asylum with his fingernails buried in his skull. Sometimes in her frustration she utters four-letter words. But mostly, she utters three-letter ones. Our conversation usually goes something like this. All of these acronyms are real.

ME: "Good morning, honey. What's on your agenda for today?"

KAREN: "I have a meeting this morning with the guidance counselor to discuss Jacob's BIP. It's probably because his home life is such a wreck; we just have so many FARM friends. Then I have to meet with the reading specialist to go over DeShaun's IEP. Between that and Tamara's DRA, it's going to require the entire SST to get these kids to meet their SLOs. I have to stay late today because we have a PLC to talk about the CCR and CCSS, so I don't know when I'm going to have the time to work on Henry's DRA. At least he's meeting the SMP. And Kimberly's parents think she's a rocket scientist so they want me to provide her with a personalized ELO. Truth is, she's not as good in math as Sonya, even though she's ESL. Oh, and I also have a meeting in the Learning Cottage to discuss the latest additions to the TAC. I think they are online but I lost the password. You'd think I was an ELL! Ha ha. Anyway, by Friday I have to turn in my PDP to the principal. It's the teacher version of the AYP, which is required for the CFA. I don't know how I'll do it; I guess I'll just roll the number generator. It's a good thing I'm covered by the FCTA. How about you?"

ME: "Wow. I don't know what to say. All I have to do today is PEE."

KAREN: "What's PEE?"

ME: "I just had my second cup of coffee."

She is amazing, my wife. She does all this, and somehow remains as HOT as a perfect score on the SAT.

Thanks to all teachers who navigate through the minefield of edubabble to teach our kids to read, write, and be kind to one another. You all deserve a BEER.

(No letters were harmed in the writing of this blog.)

We Don't Know Squat

I like to think I know a lot about baseball. I've been an avid fan my entire life. I've played it and coached it. I won my fantasy league this year. I've watched untold amounts of it in person and on TV. My kids get annoyed with me when we watch a game together because I will boldly tell them what's going to happen next. I'm often right.

There were 10 teams in the Major League playoffs this year. Of those 10, there were a few I thought were the favorites. There was only one whom I thought had zero chance of winning it all--the Kansas City Royals.

The World Series starts tomorrow in Kansas City.

I don't know squat.

It isn't just sports, either. There are other areas of life I like to think I know something about. I've been to seminary. I have a degree in communications. I do a lot of public speaking. I've read a lot of books. I've raised three sons. I've been married to the same woman for 26 years. I've never been in a car accident that was my fault. I've watched every episode of The Walking Dead.

I'd like to think I know something about these things. Perhaps I'd even dare to say I was an expert in some of them. That would give me the right to tell you all the great things I know.

I don't know squat.

I've been thinking about this lately because I've been reading the Bible. The Bible takes us into a world beyond ourselves, where we meet God and his character. The Bible has a way of putting us in our place. I've been reading the Sermon on the Mount and the Psalms.

In the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus is the teacher. He teaches us about everyday life--relationships, anger management, money, prayer, religious activity. He says to forgive freely, give generously, pray discreetly, and serve humbly. In a nutshell, says Jesus, life is humility through and through because we are not God.

In Psalm 89, we meet God in his home:

The heavens praise your wonders, Lord,
your faithfulness too, in the assembly of the holy ones.
For who in the skies above can compare with the Lord?
Who is like the Lord among the heavenly beings?

The question is rhetorical, of course. No one compares to the Lord. He set the distance between the earth and the sun, between the sun and Betelguese, between the Milky Way and Andromeda galaxies, between the center of our planet and the farthest reaches of the universe. He formed the black holes and red giants, the quasars and pulsars. He staked down the core of the earth and set us in motion. He made jellyfish and the elephant. He crafted your pinky finger and the brain which allows you to read this and comprehend it. He exists before and after all things.

"Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made." (John 1:3)

I like to think of these things whenever I'm tempted to think I'm somebody who knows a lot. I am reminded how small I am, how briefly I'll be here, and how little I actually know.

I have some bad news for you, my friend. You don't know much either. You might have experience, education, skill, research--even superior intelligence. You might be the best read person you know. You might know seven languages. You might think you have the answers to the Ebola crisis, the Isis threat, immigration reform, and global warming. You might have advice for marriage, money, child-rearing, and the best way to cook a chicken. You might have graduated from Harvard and Yale on the same day. Heck, you might even be able to convince me that you've figured out the answer to the debate between predestination and free will. Yes, you might be really smart, and have a track record of knowledge and accomplishments so deep that they are carved into that stone bust of yourself that sits on your impressive mantle of success. You might really be something.

Have you ever been here?



No, I didn't think so. I haven't either.

We don't know squat, you and I. Pondering God brings humility, and humility brings us closer to him. I think I got that right.

Good luck to the Kansas City Royals tomorrow night.

No Longer The Man

Once upon a time, I was THE MAN.

I was the 17-year-old lead trumpet tooting my horn front and center at the 50-yard line.

I was the 27-year-old shortstop stealing basehits and pummeling line drives into the gaps on the softball field.

I was the 35-year-old cool guy hired to be the pied piper of teens and build a youth ministry for the ages.

I was the 39-year-old excitable and creative preacher everyone wanted to hear.

I'm not any of those any more.

Instead, I'm now the "age of which we do not speak" guy who hasn't played the trumpet in 20 years, can no longer throw a lick, and whose role at church has changed from the cool youth pastor to the bald guy whom new kids mistake for the church custodian. Over the years my role has changed from being The One who does everything (and gets most of the attention) to being a guy who stands in the back and cheers others on, unnoticed when present and un-missed when absent.

And I'm okay with it. In fact, I'm better for it.

Here's a more concrete description of what I'm talking about. My role as a pastor is now primarily one of development instead of being hands-on, front and center. Instead of hanging out with kids and leading every meeting, I create structures and equip staff and volunteers so that we can have the maximum effect and reach as many kids as possible. I do things that few would notice so that many others will be noticed.

Yesterday, I saw this play out before my eyes. Instead of me: Our former youth leaders got the hugs from kids coming back from college. Our middle school director absolutely nailed the morning sermon. Our Girls Director made a fabulous first impression welcoming the new family. Our student leaders joyously rocked the worship, flawlessly handled sound and tech, and warmly welcomed our guests. Our current youth leaders deftly led our Family Groups.

There was a time when I did all these things in the same day. And while I might have complained a little too loudly in order to make sure everyone knew how amazing I was, the truth is that my ego enjoyed being The Man who could pull it off.

Not any more. I'm no longer The Man. I'm becoming something more.

Now, if I'm honest with you (and this is my blog, so I can be honest here), the mere fact that I'm writing this is evidence that I'm still wresting with it all. As the youngest of three brothers--the baby of my family--I've always been perfectly happy as the center of attention. I don't think I was obnoxious about it (my brothers might disagree), I just think I was spoiled enough--and good enough at enough things--to enjoy the limelight a little too much. I was happy to allow people to feed my ego with words of awe over my very mild achievements. Even as adults, we remain the children we've always been.

That's why change doesn't come easily. But it's also why change is inevitable. We grow, we mature, we move into seasons of life that force us to reinvent ourselves. As we do so, we draw upon our experiences and lean into opportunities we were not ready for in younger days. They might be less glamorous, but more meaningful. John Eldredge lists six stages of Manhood--Boyhood, Cowboy, Warrior, Lover, King and Sage. Cowboys and Warriors get most of the glory, but it's the Kings and Sages who are the most fulfilled. So now, as I near "the age of which we do not speak," I am beginning to let go of my need to the The Man. I'm helping others win the applause, get the glory, succeed in the spotlight. I'm moving to the back of the room, with a smile on my face and a cup of coffee in my hand, cheering them on. I kind of like it back here. Not always, but mostly. I'm still working on it.

I'm no longer The Man. And by God's grace, I'm becoming a better one.

Plowing for New Wedding Ideas

In a few weeks, I am performing the wedding ceremony for my niece, Melinda, and her fiance, Michael. It's going to be a traditional wedding, taking place in an old church in Lancaster County, complete with wooden pews and stained glass windows. This "old" thing is going to feel like a new thing, because lately all the weddings I've attended have been barn weddings.

"Were you born in a barn?"
"No, but I was married in one."

In the past three years I've been to seven weddings that were either in a barn, near a barn, or celebrated afterwards in a barn or barn-like atmosphere. It's the latest trend in weddings. Pinterest is going ham with a silo full of barn wedding ideas. I hear there are 700 pages dedicated to the mason jar alone! Martha Stewart must have had a cell mate from Iowa when the Feds sent her up the (Mississippi) river. Young people today are milking this theme for all it's worth, and as a pasture, I mean, pastor, I think it's pretty cool.

I love barn weddings. In fact, I think weddings today are way more fun than they were back when Karen and I got married. Our reception was in a country club. I wore tails. There was china on the tables. The photographer took boring, posed pictures. My favorite is of Karen's grandparents--in their wheelchairs--with the nursing home attendant standing behind them. How did this stranger make it into our album? It's like American Gothic: The Later Years. Anyway, the wedding was very nice, and I was young and in love and didn't care too much about the atmosphere. But I was sweating the whole time and worried about getting chicken cordon bleu on my tux. It was too formal for the kind of people we are now. I much prefer a laid-back, casual hoedown where a guy can take off his boots, throw some corn-hole, and unhook his suspenders before he does a little line dancing with a mason jar of Angry Orchard in his hand--yeehaa!

But the number of barn weddings has me thinking: How long will this trend last? What will the next big trend be? I have a few suggestions:

Baseball Park Weddings: Marriage on the mound, reception in the bullpen.
Chipotle Weddings: A much greater variety of meats than most receptions, and with sour cream.
Moon Weddings: The bride could take one giant leap down the aisle. The kiss might be tricky, though.
High School Cafeteria Weddings: A slap in the face to that teen crush who dumped you there.
Zoo Weddings: Nobody would even notice your weird Uncle Frank among the chimps.
Roller Coaster Weddings: For the groom with cold feet; once that bar is down, there's no turning back. "I now pronounce you husband and wiiiiiiffffffffffffeeeee!"
Lego Weddings: Finally, a wedding kids can enjoy!

These are just a few of my thoughts. I'd like to hear yours.

Noah's Art

Noah comes out this weekend. You've probably seen the trailer a few times by now, with Russell Crowe looking pretty studly as he prepares to save humanity once again, this time as a muscle-bound version of an agonized prophet preparing for a flood of biblical proportions.

I think I'll go see it. It looks like it could be a blockbuster, and I could use a night at the movies after 150 days of lousy weather.

I don't know how Noah will be received. It wasn't made by a Christian. It was made by a talented and reportedly atheistic filmmaker named Darren Aronofsky. It seems that Christians as a general audience have one of two responses to any movie which is based on the Bible or a biblical theme. If we feel the filmmaker has taken too many liberties with the story, we'll put on our sentinel faces and sternly warn the masses to stay away because this "isn't what the Bible says." If we like it and deem it "true to the text," we'll buy a block of 300 seats and make it a big church event, followed by a 4-week Bible study using a devotional published by Zondervan (free t-shirt, too!) and an invitation to all our non-believing friends to join us for awkward discussion groups in our living rooms.

I think I know why we do this. For a long time, evangelicals abandoned the arts because they didn't serve our purpose, which is to "get people into heaven." Once we realized that our lack of artistic involvement had made us irrelevant to the people we were trying to reach, we started making "Christian" art to get back in the game, so to speak. This explains things such as Left Behind movies and this music video which defies description: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0VPcPCwK_G0.

Anyway, over the years I've developed a theology of art. (I wrote a paper on it in seminary. Yes, I got an A.) I believe that art for art's sake glorifies God. I believe that, as creatures made in the image of our Creator, we were made to create. It's an expression of the imago dei in each of us. Whenever and whatever we create--whether we acknowledge our Creator as we create or just create because we are creative--we are glorifying the Creator who created us. (That, my friends, is one heck of a sentence I just created.) So we glorify God when we spin a pot on the wheel, draw cartoons of talking animals, carve a wooden box to hold our jewelry, write a poem about Kansas in July, or edit a video of our children dancing in puddles. We don't have to write a verse on it or put a cross on it to make it "Christian." The art itself is enough. Theologian Philip Ryken says, "The doctrine of Creation teaches that by God's common grace, the gift of art inevitably declares the praise of its Giver." This is beautiful. This is what it means to be human. This is a gift from God. I can't think of anything on earth which points to God more than people making beautiful things.

So I don't know if Noah will be any good or not. It might be boring, boorish, or even blasphemous. I do know for certain that it's not completely true to the biblical narrative, because that story involved a hundred years of waiting, bark-stripping and beard growing, which sounds about as entertaining as watching Out of Africa, backwards, in French, on my phone. But this time, instead of judging its value based on whether it's "Christian" enough, let's determine if it's well-acted and well-shot, has believable characters and a good score, and gives us something to talk about over dinner. (At least it has Russell Crowe!) And good or bad, let's not start up the Christian bandwagon with an 8-week series' called "Drowning?" or flood the culture with cries of protest. Let's just grab our $5 Milk Duds and $8 Coke, then sit back, enjoy the movie, and remember that we create because he first created us.

The Wave

I just walked my dog. It's one of my favorite moments of the day. I've been out of town a lot lately, but Treble has not forgotten me. She came pouncing into my room at 6:45, a happy, expectant grin on her face. By the time I got my shoes on, she could barely contain her delight.

There are lots of things I enjoy about walking my dog. I like being outside early in the morning. I like the exercise. I like the sound of the birds chirping. I like the conversation I have with myself, my dog, and my God.

But my favorite part of the trip around the block is the Poop Wave.

Treble has her favorite drop location -- halfway on the journey -- at the most conspicuous place possible, where three roads meet. I guess she likes to be make a show. You might say she's a party pooper. Anyway, she stops, hunkers down like a football center before the handoff, and with neck out and tongue wagging, leaves her deposit. It only takes a few seconds before I dootifully pick it up with my plastic bags (two for better support). Mission accomplished, we continue on our way with a word of affirmation from me and a grateful grin from her. I hold the leash in one hand, and a bag full of poop in the other.

But it's not over. In fact, next comes my favorite part, probably because I have a strange sense of humor, having spent a lot of time taking middle school boys to camp. One of my neighbors will drive by. Being friendly, he waves. Being friendly, I wave back. Not the leash hand, either. The other hand goes up, from the elbow only, plastic bag steaming in the breeze like a fresh sacrifice offered at the temple. It's a greeting unlike any other, a canine blessing, a celebratory toast. "Carpe Diem, my friend. Today is a gift. Let's squeeze it for all it's worth. May things go smoothly for you. Go! Be warm and well-filled!" I suppose my neighbor was just being nice, but the Poop Wave brings me no small amount of joy.

Well, that's all for today. The bags are in the garbage and Treble is asleep on the floor. I hope you'll excuse me now. I have to go.

Why Ken Ham Doesn't Speak for Me

Last night there was a much-ballyhooed "Evolution/Creation" debate between Bill Nye and Ken Ham. People were posting links on Facebook and talking some good Christian vs. Atheist smack. I didn't watch it; I was too busy being annoyed.

Perhaps you don't know who either of these two men are. Bill Nye is the former host of Bill Nye The Science Guy, a Disney-endowed, bow-tied Mr Rogers for the science-minded millennial generation. I wouldn't have known who he was, except I've been told I look like him. This offends me. I'm far more handsome and I've never worn a bow tie.

Ken Ham is the Founder of Answers in Genesis and the Creation Museum. He's an outspoken advocate of Young Earth Creationism and a literal translation of Genesis 1. He's from Australia. Perhaps that's why he likes to hear himself talk.

Bill Nye was there to represent science. Ken Ham was there to represent Christianity. I wouldn't put my stock in the credentials of either of them. Bill Nye has a bachelors degree in Mechanical Engineering from Cornell and three honorary degrees, including one, impressively, from Johns Hopkins. He also has a patent pending on ballet toe shoes (no kidding). Ken Ham has a bachelors degree in Applied Science from Queensland Institute of Technology, and two honorary degrees from Baptist universities. He raised $27 million for his museum. Neither qualifies as an expert in anything other than self-promotion.

Bill Nye denies the existence of God. He believes in the Big Bang, but has no explanation for what caused it. He says we'd be better off forsaking any religious teaching and focusing solely on science. Hamhockey.

Ken Ham denies the Big Bang. He thinks the earth is 6000 years old, that humans hung out with dinosaurs, and that anyone who believes otherwise is a heretic. He has frequently attacked Christians who interpret Genesis 1 as a long period of time. "In many ways these sort of people are more dangerous to Christianity than the atheists," he says. Hogwash.

I love the subject of how the universe began. I find it fascinating to think about and discuss, and every time I do, my faith increases. I'm no expert, but I've read enough on the subject to at least be able to define some of the arguments and form an opinion. There are way too many points to even begin here, but here's what I believe: The universe started with a Big Bang, the earth is really old and finely tuned for life, and a Creator God is the only explanation for any of it. This is a belief system called "Intelligent Design." I also believe the Bible is a majestic and glorious book which always leads to ultimate truth. This is called historic orthodox Christianity. Ultimately, I believe Intelligent Design to be the scientific description of God's universal truth found in the Scriptures, which leads to a personal God, who is Jesus Christ. This is called robust Evangelical Christian faith.

This is why the mere prospect of this debate annoyed me so much. It's a stunt. Nye is a media-friendly atheist with a face a child need not fear. Ham is a media hound and self-appointed spokesman for God and Evangelical Christianity. With Ken Ham speaking for us, Christians risk seeing the beautiful and powerful arguments of more nuanced biblical interpretation buried in the wasteland of pop cultural hash. The public will equate what Ken Ham believes with what all Christians believe, much like they have done with Phil Robertson, or Pat Robertson, or any number of Christian "celebrities" who garner more attention than they merit.

Furthermore, it offends me that Ken Ham finds Intelligent Design to be the enemy of God and often goes "ham" on his fellow believers. I'm fine with those who believe in a Young Earth, but by making Old Earth vs. Young Earth a test of orthodoxy, Ham castigates many of today's most influential Christian theologians, scientists and apologists. (A brief list includes JP Moreland, JI Packer, Hugh Ross, Tim Keller, John Piper, Michael Behe, William Dembski, Hank Hannegraff, and even CS Lewis). http://www.reasons.org/articles/notable-christians-open-to-an-old-universe-old-earth-perspective

So while Ham believes that an Old Earth interpretation of the Bible will lead our children straight to faithlessness, atheism, and hell, in truth, it is Ham and his divisive spirit which risks losing a generation of thoughtful young people who want to believe in a God big enough to handle whatever discoveries science throws their way. As a father, youth pastor, and Christian, I want to teach kids to investigate, not just debate. God can handle it, and so can our kids. In fact, they are the hope for the next generation of scientists who will glorify God with their amazing faith and discoveries.

I'm sure there are opinions as to who won last night, but I think we all lost. Most of today's religious news will focus on Ken Ham and Bill Nye. There are ten thousand more representative stories of our faith being worked out on the planet today. But it's okay. No matter what your opinion of origins, the world has been around a long time and this too shall pass. I remain fully confident that God, who created the heavens and the earth (not to mention strange fellows like Ken Ham and Bill Nye), can handle our most rigorous questions and our silliest posturings. To think anything less of him is baloney.

Venting My Way to Mental Health

Despite my good intentions (explained in my previous blog) to become more like Jesus in 2014, I confess it's not working. I must have woken up New Year's Day on the wrong side of that Sleep Number bed I was in, because I've been feeling grumpy since this new venture started. My son Thomas calls it the "Grumpy Hat." Maybe it's the fact that the Steelers aren't in the playoffs. Maybe it's the polar rain-filled vortex hovering over my house. Maybe I have a weasel nesting in my shorts. I don't know, but I've not been feeling very charitable towards you or the world lately. The sarcasm has been building up behind the dam of my lips, and it has nowhere to go. So, in order to clear my head and dispel this fog of agitation and animosity towards all things living and dead, I'm going to offer my TOP 12 CURRENT PET PEEVES. I'm hoping I can vent myself into a state of bliss or at least ignorance. If this doesn't work, I'm going to punch my exercise ball and eat two gallons of ice cream. So here we go. I'm taking the parking brake off, baby!

12) Colonial Jewelers Radio Ads. Why do you try to be my friend? Why do you insist on making it seem like we've met, and my life is better because of your jewelry? Please stop. Truth is, I haven't bought jewelry in 25 years, and anyone dumb enough to pay more for your box is just paying more for your box.

11) Steven A. Smith. Other than his ten dollar vocabulary, insistence on using his middle initial, and self-admiring diction, what do we know about this guy, and why does ESPN feel the need to get his opinion on everything? "Let's hear what Steven A. Smith has to say about the next coaching hire for the Cleveland Browns? Let's hear what Steven A. Smith thinks about the origins of the universe. Let's hear what Steven A. Smith thinks about the early release of the Hobbit Trilogy boxed set?"

10) Mel Kiper Jr. So when did Dracula become a football analyst? With a haircut from the crypt and all the winsomeness of an IRS agent, this guy manages to turn 21-year-old athletes into widgets and make the NFL draft as much fun as an audit. I'll be happier when this joyless version of Grandpa Munster becomes Mr. Irrelevant himself. By the Teeth of Transylvania, I sure hope there's no Mel Kiper III!

9) Paper-Pushing School Administrators. We've been playing basketball at 6am at your school for 15 years without incident. Now you tell us we can't play because there's a problem with our paperwork (which we completed online)? Hey Roz, we were here long before you were, and we'll be here long after you're gone. Stop messing with our harmless outlet for exercise and competition before I throw down a sick reverse windmill dunk over that bee-infested bonnet you're wearing.

8) Bored FCPS Higher-Ups. (See number 7 above) Whose bright idea is it to move principals to new schools every year? What happened to the days when principals established themselves in a community and built relationships over time with families, faculty, and the random old guys playing basketball in your gym? Is consistency and stability not a good thing? Sheesh, I didn't think they were serious in 5th grade when they offered us the chance to be "Principal for a Day."

7) Confused Baseball Hall of Fame Voters. Some of the people in the BBWAA must have taken a foul ball to the head. You didn't vote for Greg Maddux? He pitched for 23 years, won 355 games, and had a lifetime ERA (in the steroid era, no less) of 3.16. He won at least 15 games a remarkable 20 years in a row. He faced 20,421 batters in his career, and just 310 of them saw a 3-0 count. He was a pitching savant. The only reason you may not have voted for him is that, a) You doubted he was human, or b) Your pencil lead broke after you cast your vote for Greg Gagne and Jacque Jones.

6) The Wendy's Red-Headed Ad Campaign. I don't know who was in the focus group when they developed this series of unfunniness, but they must have been high on bad chili and Frostys. The new Wendy Girl's smug, fast-food-elitist attitude and lousy jokes really get on my nerves. I'm tuning you out and going to Chipotle, Honey, because there's nothing remotely funny coming from your mouth except fake cheese and a horrible script. You wouldn't make it 15 minutes with Geico.

5) Ben Roethlisberger Rapist Jokes from Steeler Haters. How many ways can you work an insult into his name? Yes, the guy became a caricature of the entitled predatory athlete. Yes, he was a slimeball. His actions were despicable and he deserved more punishment than he got. But he seems to have found his better self and changed his ways. He's married, has a second child on the way, and has been eating humble pie for the past four years. He's a good teammate, kind to the press, and trying hard to restore his image. Last time I checked, King David killed a guy and got a second chance (I could make a Ray Lewis joke here, but I won't because I'm not you). So move on, Hater. The ship of your clever puns has sailed, along with the Ravens receiving corps.

4) Dr. Kevin Hornsby, MD. If you listen to Sports Talk 980 out of DC, you'll know who I'm talking about. It's the local radio version of the awkward moment when you are watching football with your teenage son and your Presbyterian mother, and the "double bathtub in the backyard" and "men at the age to get things done" commercials come on. "If you are a man, listen to me," Dr Hornsby implores. "I'm so sure you'll have a positive reaction to the medication, right here in my office, that if you don't, you'll pay nothing, guaranteed." Holy Eiffel Tower, who wants that? A positive reaction right there in the office? With people watching? Isn't that the nightmare of every boy who's ever had a sports physical?

3) Basketball Coaches Who Play Only 6 Players. By the Hair Grease of Pat Riley! It's an average JV team in an average sports county, not the NBA Finals! Hey John Wooden, your reward for winning games at this level is the small print under the varsity box score. So for the sake of my Linsanity, give the rest of the guys on the team more than 3 seconds of playing time, if you even know what 3 seconds is. They might surprise you.

2) Frederick County Planners and Commissioners. You know, if there's anything we MUST HAVE around here, it's another Super Monster Inter-Continental Mega Walmart across the street from the Entirely-Sufficient, Newly-Remodeled Walmart we have now. Oh, and let's build a WHOLE NEW TOWN on a twisty, dangerous, overpopulated road the width of my driveway, right down the street from the elementary school that already has 371 portables. This makes perfect sense. And good heavens, for the sake of all that is good and right in the world, DO NOT let that church in Urbana put a cross on the side of their building! What are you trying to do, ruin our pristine county and create unfathomable traffic problems?

1) Grumpy Bloggers. Seriously, didn't your mother ever tell you, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all"? Maybe you should take your Grumpy Hat off and wash your keyboard with some Jesus soap, you sarcasm-laced scoundrel.

Wow! My brain was on fire, but I feel better now. The fog is lifting. I can go back to being Mr. Nice Guy...

New Year; New You

2013 was a great year for me. I enjoyed it very much.

I traveled far and wide, including a mission trip to Ecuador, weddings in Arkansas and LA, and a conference with some buddies in Indy. The church has continued to grow, and I've had the privilege of leading our excellent and influential youth ministry into the prime of its life. I celebrated my 25th wedding anniversary with the world's best wife at a nice hotel in Annapolis. I watched my kids drum, play, sing, strum, shoot, swing, score, win, lose, laugh and grow. I read some good books, saw some quality movies, and got addicted to the Walking Dead. I didn't get too old to play basketball. Heck, the Pirates even made the playoffs! Yes, it was a fantastic year!



I like the new Facebook feature called "Year in Review." It takes you on a quick trip down memory lane, featuring your most popular posts and pictures from the year. What a hoot! It reminds me how fun this year has been and how blessed I am. The picture above is in mine. It's from a retreat with the high school kids this summer. It was good to have hair again, if just for a few minutes.

But I confess I've also been a bit sad about the passing of another year. Maybe it's the sugar crash of the post-Christmas diet, or this depressing weather. Or maybe it's the lack of progress I see in certain areas of my life. I'm not sure. But it gives me a reason to pause and reflect on what I want this year to be like. What do I want to accomplish? How do I want to change? (I know, everyone makes resolutions. How cliche`!) So bear with me as I jump into 2014 by asking myself the two best questions I can think of:

How can I know Jesus better a year from now?
How can I be more like Jesus a year from now?

Those are two pretty good questions, don't you think? They are really the only questions that matter that much. If a year from now, I know Jesus better and am more like him, that would be wonderful. I wouldn't so much call this a "resolution" as I would call it a pursuit. A pursuit of my Lord, and a pursuit of my best self. So as I've pondered these questions, I've come up with a plan to help me meet my goals. I won't give all the details, but here are some words from my journal that will help.

Daily, Weekly, Monthly, Quarterly
Accountability
Simplify
Serve
Exercise
Encourage People
Encourage My Family
Lead, Become, Stretch, Fulfill

These words are the core of some disciplines and rhythms that will help me grow closer to Christ this year. The Bible is a big factor. So is prayer. I'm hoping God will grant me the discipline necessary to follow through on my desires. It would be great if my progress was so obvious that you noticed it.

Perhaps you have goals for 2014 also. I would encourage you to think of them through the lens of those 2 questions I mentioned. How can I know Jesus better a year from now? How can I be more like him? That will make for an outstanding 2014 for you, and all who know you. Here's to the year ahead, to becoming what Jesus wants us to become, and to making 2014 a year worth reviewing.

Mr. Keating Goes to Public Education

"Let me be really clear: Great teachers are wonderful. They change lives. We need them. The problem is that most schools don't like great teachers. They're organized to stamp them out, bore them, bureaucratize them, and make them average."
- Seth Godin, Linchpin

I'm offering a few brief thoughts on public education today.

My wife teaches second grade. She is good at it. She possesses--has always possessed--an extraordinary social gift. She connects with kids, spreads love, makes people feel valued, creates inclusion, and spawns the desire to please. She has the God-given ability to inspire children to believe in themselves and want to learn. It is the very essence of effective classroom teaching. Without even trying, she is a teaching genius.

She works in an environment in which these essential qualities are overlooked, and worse, buried under the demanding expectations of test scores, conformity, and bureaucracy.

I'm not sure whose fault it is--parents, politicians, the faceless entity known as Public Education? I'm not casting blame, I'm making an observation, and a biased one at that. I'm a simple-minded observer. I know that Karen is a great teacher. I also know that she feels like a failure much of the time, unable to complete her work in a reasonable amount of hours, under constant demands of prodigious amounts of record-keeping and educational gobbledygook, forced to attend a multitude of meetings labeled by initials that no-one can explain, judged by the test scores instead of the personal success of her students. Every day she faces incredible challenges to keep up. She gets up at 4:30am and goes to bed after 11:00pm. She is never finished. I admire her more than she knows.

She taught many years ago, before we had children, and she's been back at now for about eight years. Each year the job gets harder. Each year it changes just for the sake of change. Each year it requires more loyalty to technology and less to common sense. Each year it becomes less about the teacher as a human, and more about the teacher as a factory worker. The creation of curriculum flows ever more upward and loses touch with the needs of each child. The pressure of meeting the political demands of a failing system flows downward, squashing people who simply love to teach under its weight. I have a brother who is a principal, and a sister-in-law who is a teacher. Both are, like my wife, exceptional at what they do. I think they would agree that public education has become widget-making instead of art, and what is lost in this Faustian transaction is the intrinsic value of the social genius who can unleash the dreams and talents of each unique child under her charge.

Remember John Keating? He was the Robin Williams character in Dead Poets Society whose unorthodox style inspired his buttoned-up prep school boys to pursue Carpe Diem instead of Carpe SAT. They learned to love poetry and dream big dreams while studying engineering to please the establishment. Well, Mr. Keating is dead. He didn't last at Welton. He would never get hired in Frederick County, and if he did, he'd be exhausted from the bureaucratic beat-down.

I wonder if, at some point, the whole system will break down. The world is changing. There's no longer a need to create a society of corporate minions. The days of working 40 years for one company in order to build your pension are over. The new world favors movement, creativity, art, and entrepreneurship. It favors those uncontrollable, outside-the-box thinkers whose gift isn't good test scores, but new ways of thinking and seeing the possibilities. It won't favor those who succeed within public education, but those who succeed in spite of it. I don't know how or when it will happen, or what it will look like, but I believe it's inevitable. Great teachers cannot be kept under wraps forever. Mr. Keating will rise again.

It's good they stink

I have my Sundays back!

The life of a youth pastor revolves around Sunday--at least it does for me, since our youth ministry meets on Sunday evenings, and of course we have church in the morning. Every fall Sunday since I've been at Mountain View, I've felt the frustrating tug of my other career -- being a Pittsburgh Steelers' fan.

Yes, I know it sounds trivial, but one of the challenges of the life I've chosen is that Sunday afternoons in the fall do not allow me to watch much football. Both my location (Maryland -- few Steeler games on TV) and schedule (Sundays very full) make it difficult to indulge one of my primary hobbies. With the Steelers being so good the past 10 years or so, I've constantly wrestled with getting ready for youth group while wondering what my beloved team is doing.

Imagine the inner tension. There have been many times when I've had a meeting after church, or had to leave home at 4:00, just as the rare televised game was beginning. There have been many nights I had to turn the TV off in our youth room--right in the middle of the 4th quarter of a close game--because it was time to start worship. Two years ago, I heard about the fateful Tebow playoff pass to beat the Steelers from one of the kids checking his phone during my sermon. Twice in the past six years, I've had to make a difficult choice between watching the AFC Championship Game or teaching a lesson about Jesus. (The game won once; Jesus won once)

But this year that's not an issue. The Steelers are bad, really bad. They won yesterday, but they are 3-6 and have little hope of making the playoffs. They have lost to perennial also-rans like the Raiders, Titans and Vikings. Their defense had the all-time worst day in franchise history against the Patriots. It's embarrassing. It's sad.

But it's also a bit of a relief! You see, this fall, instead of worrying about what the Steelers are doing, I've been set free. With defeat mostly assured before the game starts, I've been more focused on my work. I've been able to get fully prepared. I've been able to hang out with students without being grumpy or distracted. I've been able to look a taunting Ravens fan in the eye and say, "How was your week." I've been "in the zone"--and not the red one, unless you mean the words of Jesus printed in my Bible.

So for now, it's good the Steelers stink. It makes me a better pastor and maybe a better person. Here's hoping next year's NFL draft will make me a worse one.

The Pirate Child

First of all, if you are not a baseball fan, please humor me for a few moments. Surely there is something from your childhood--an experience, a hobby, a passion of some kind--so precious to you that you cannot imagine growing up without it. It's part of who you are, your history and your identity.

Then imagine that it disappears, becoming a source of pain, disappointment or embarrassment, or getting buried so deeply by the passage of time that it doesn't even feel like it ever really existed.

For me, this was Pittsburgh Pirates baseball. I was a Pirate child.

I grew up in the 70s, and more than anything else--from the time I was a little boy--I loved baseball, and particularly, the Pittsburgh Pirates. My first game ever, at the age of 6, was Game 5 of the 1971 World Series. I don't know why my dad got tickets--he wasn't even a fan--but he did, and my two brothers and I missed school to watch Nelson Briles pitch a 2-hit shutout against the Baltimore Orioles in the cavernous Three Rivers Stadium. It was like entering Oz. I was hooked.

The next year, as my card collection was growing even faster than I was, I was sitting in the left field bleachers, enjoying my friend Kim Steiner's 7th birthday party, as Roberto Clemente stood proudly on second base, enjoying his 3000th hit. Even at age 7, I understood the significance of his accomplishment and the nobility of his character. I learned the agony of allegiance quickly when a wild pitch cost the Pirates the pennant that year against the hated Reds, and learned it even more deeply when I heard the devastating news a few months later, while putting away the Christmas tree on New Year's Day, that Clemente's plane had disappeared off the coast of Puerto Rico.

I cannot separate my childhood from the Pirates. It was a glorious time to grow up in Western Pennsylvania. The Pirates were really good, winning the division six times in the face of worthy rivals such as the Big Red Machine and the Carlton/Schmidt/Bowa-led Phillies. Their team boasted such iconic stars and zany personalities as Steve Blass, Willie Stargell, Al Oliver, Dave Parker, Manny Sanguillen, and their gravel-throated narrator, Bob Prince. I loved the Steelers and their four Super Bowls, but nothing, NOTHING, was more important to me than the fortunes of my beloved Buccos. As the decade drew to a close, and Stargell's arcing home run fell into the bullpen at Memorial Stadium, giving the Pirates a fantastical come-from-behind World Series victory and second championship of the decade (1979), I was in heaven, my life and meticulously-kept scorecard complete at the impressionable age of 14.

That night, basking in the glory of my hero's greatest moment, I did not know--could not possibly have known--how badly things would unravel and how misery and humiliation would replace pride for a very, very long time.

The Phillies won the World Series in 1980. Stargell retired in 1982. In 1985, the city was humiliated by drug trials involving in-stadium cocaine purchases by numerous members of the team and even the team mascot, the Pirate Parrot. By the late 80s the team faced a changing economic landscape, and fears of a departure to another city were real. There was a brief respite in the early 90s--three division titles--but that period ended with a crushing, pennant-losing bottom-of-the-9th single to left in Atlanta, and the free agency departure of stars Bonds and Bonilla. My oldest son, Jonathan, could hear my agonizing wails from inside his mother's womb.

That night, I knew it would get bad, but I had no idea how bad. Beginning in 1993, the Pittsburgh Pirates embarked on a period of ineptitude unprecedented in professional sports history. One bad season turned into two, into five, into 20. There were bad drafts, horrible trades, inexplicable free agent signings, bored managers, poor effort, and the most inept period of upper management in the history of upper management. Every spring I pinned my hopes on self-deceiving propaganda--a litany of players so bad it produces retrospective groaning laughter--and every year my hopes were crushed, usually by the middle of May. Twenty consecutive losing seasons culminated in legendary late-season meltdowns the past two years that left me without the heart to carry on.

Early this season, after a miserable opening week and a team batting average of .100, I shared my anger on Facebook. I couldn't go through this any more. I was finished. For real this time. I had been the hopeful, loyal apologist and optimist when none could be found, but I'd had enough. I no longer wanted to be associated with losers. These weren't the Cubs, and they weren't loveable. They were the Pirates, and they humiliated me and all who followed them.

From that very moment, things changed. The team began to win. They won big games. They climbed in the standings. They won with spirit and style. They pitched better than anyone, hit just enough to be dangerous, and out-managed most. They developed a team chemistry second to none. Now it's September 2nd, and the Pirates just won two out of three from their competitive rivals in front of sellout crowds. They have a legitimate MVP candidate (Andrew McCutchen), a roster filled with true big-leaguers, and a real chance to win something. They are only 3 wins away from ending "The Streak" and are actually tied for first place. Now I watch the games at night on my iPad, and chat about them with my boys, now all older than I was when the Pirates last won anything, in hopes that it's not too late for them to rewrite their Pirate memories.

The Pirates are formidable; they've won a lot of games, and they've won me back (it wasn't hard--I'm so easy). I feel like I felt in 1978, the year before the Pirates won the World Series, when the baseball universe was filled with anticipation and good cheer. I feel like a child again.

I hope whatever you have lost from your childhood--joys and memories buried by failure, misery, humiliation, embarrassment or just the passage of time--springs back to life and makes you feel like a Pirate child again.