I called an old friend to say happy birthday Sunday afternoon. He's a basketball coach at a high school here in Houston and we chatted about his season a bit. His boys went 22-9 and had a great team experience.
I asked how a certain "superstar" played this year. I was interested because I knew that Lute Olsen, Tubby Smith, and Mike "DOOKIE" Kerzipoopski had been looking at this kid. Turns out that the "superstar" had left the school and didn't play with them this year.
"Oh no!" I said.
"Turns out it's a good thing." he said. "My boys did better as a team without him. Everyone played harder than before, they played like a team."
That, of course, got me to thinking about leadership. Especially leadership in church. I move in a universe that tends to make super stars out of pastors. Some of my church family falsely puts me on a pedestal, a place I believe happens to be reserved for the real head of the church - Jesus. Pastors walk this fine balance between leading out of strength, focus, and determination with keeping everyone focused on the fact that Jesus is the leader of the pastor and the church.
Good church people confuse pastors and Jesus. And sometimes, so does the pastor. It's easy to see how it happens, too. No matter how humble we want to be, the pastoral ego is a hungry beast that feeds on the lavish praises of church-folk like a fat kid on chocolate cake. It's only after I've binged on the sugary confection that I realize the icing is smeared on my face and stuck to the back of my knuckles.
I don't mind the leadership required of a pastor. I enjoy exercising what I believe to be a gift God has given me. But I worry that modern American Christianity has created more of a cult religion than a true church where people follow pastors, not Jesus. The ministry of the church is restricted and unfulfilled when everyone on the team stands around watching a great player do all the work and get all the glory.
This isn't to say that pastors and basketball players should diminish their talent so that others around them feel better about their mediocrity. It's just that I'd rather have a balanced team where everyone does what they do best, always ready to assist the others on the team as they go. I, for one, am ready for pastors to step down off the pedestal and utterly resist the evil temptation of being put up their by their adoring fans.
Like in basketball, churches win as teams, not because of super stud individuals.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
A Prayer for After Ash Wednesday
My friend Sharon Gould is a cancer fighter and so-far survivor. She was made a widow younger than most, so she's endured her portion of suffering. But her suffering doesn't define her, and that's one of the reasons I admire her.
She's a poignant and pointed person with a background in counseling. She's been a confidante and counselor to me and I watched her in action during Katrina relief, thankful that she was there to help the hurting and confused. She's an amazing lady, more so because she's raised two kids to adulthood without killing them.
She attended Ash Wednesday services at Willow Meadows where I preached the homily that is a post below this one. This is the prayer she composed after she wore the ashes and is allowing me to share with you:
She's a poignant and pointed person with a background in counseling. She's been a confidante and counselor to me and I watched her in action during Katrina relief, thankful that she was there to help the hurting and confused. She's an amazing lady, more so because she's raised two kids to adulthood without killing them.
She attended Ash Wednesday services at Willow Meadows where I preached the homily that is a post below this one. This is the prayer she composed after she wore the ashes and is allowing me to share with you:
ASH WEDNESDAY
(LIVE ASHES)
Dear Lord,
Ashes across my forehead; don’t wash them off!
Forge them into my brain; tattoo them onto my skin.
After church
I wore the ashes to the supermarket, somewhat unconscious of their presence.
As I smiled and said “You first” to an exhausted mother balancing baby and groceries,
I was uncomfortably conscious of my ashes.
(LIVE ASHES)
Dear Lord,
Ashes across my forehead; don’t wash them off!
Forge them into my brain; tattoo them onto my skin.
After church
I wore the ashes to the supermarket, somewhat unconscious of their presence.
As I smiled and said “You first” to an exhausted mother balancing baby and groceries,
I was uncomfortably conscious of my ashes.
The condemning thought was the radical hurt to Christ if I had barged selfishly ahead,
ignoring her need, while wearing the ashes.
But Lord, I am always wearing the ashes; sometimes more live and conscious than others.
Thank you Jesus for the defining dust.
Perhaps I should daily dust your invisible ashes onto my forehead as reminder to show the world your cross of salvation and your light of love for everyone.
“After the suffering of His soul, He will see the light of life and be satisfied.” (Isaiah 53:11)
Humbly and gratefully,
Your child.
But Lord, I am always wearing the ashes; sometimes more live and conscious than others.
Thank you Jesus for the defining dust.
Perhaps I should daily dust your invisible ashes onto my forehead as reminder to show the world your cross of salvation and your light of love for everyone.
“After the suffering of His soul, He will see the light of life and be satisfied.” (Isaiah 53:11)
Humbly and gratefully,
Your child.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Wounded Light
Ash Wednesday, 2007
Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services of the Christian year. I know that’s dark, rather like saying I like bitter wine or funerals. Ash Wednesday is a time of confession. It’s also a harsh time. We dwell on our sin, we contemplate our mortality.
It’s got all the angst of a teenager watching a Fellini film after a break up. It’s like that line between Gomez and Morticia from the Addam’s Family. He asks her about the nature of her labor pains and she replies, “Exquisite.”
So why would I say this is among my favorite worship services? There are several reasons.
One is that I am able to experience the exquisite rush of forgiveness that only a follower of Jesus can know. Because of these moments wherein we identify with the atoning death of Jesus, I am transported over time and across space and beyond geography. In my soul I am with Christ in his suffering, and I see the wondrous love in his eyes. I bear witness to the power of the cross and the pain which Jesus endured so I might be able to stand before God, forgiven and free.
Another is that I learn better each Ash Wednesday how to mark my time on this planet. “Dust you are, and to dust you shall be returned,” says the minister when the ashes are imposed. When those grave words are uttered I feel my mortality, my finitude, and my finality. Man’s days are numbered, and they are fleeting. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is a precious gift, and the people with whom I share the journey are equally precious. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is pregnant with possibility and that without God can be barren of meaning. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is mine to spend as I choose, so the ponderous weight of free choice presses down on my soul.
Another reason I like Ash Wednesday is unique to the office of pastor. As I impose the ashes I watch the face of each person. They all respond to this so differently. Some wish for eye contact with the minister, signaling something that seems like an assurance of the pardon I am promising from God. “Can this forgiveness be real?” their eyes question.
Still others look into the bowl of ashes and oil, contemplating who knows what? Their mortality? Their brokenness? Their breakfast?
Some approach the ashes dignified and somber, fully “in the moment” and steeping in the ritual and reality of the truth about the chasm between us and the lives of promise that God would lead us to if we’d only follow.
But all of these people remind me that what I like about Ash Wednesday is that we walk through our darkness and brokenness in community. Ash Wednesday reminds me that loneliness has its place in the Christian journey, but so does community. When I impose ashes on you it says, “You belong to this family. You belong to me. I belong to you. At our very core we see and say, “You’re not so different from me after all.””
Most of all, the reason I like Ash Wednesday is in the way it brings us to places of healing. It marks the beginning of Lent, a season of penitence, fasting, praying, and self-denying. Like the relief that comes from a lanced boil or wound, there is a painful letting and a powerful healing. Always, Ash Wednesday marks the doorway to Lent, which is the path to Easter. The older I get, the more convinced I become that the way of suffering, loss, and pain leads to deeper joy, gladness, and contentedness.
Once, my friend Lucinda told me that no minister was worth his salt unless he’d been through some suffering and loss. She said it helped the minister understand the pain of the persons for whom he cared. Not long after that, my mother passed away. And though it was not the first time I’d experienced grief, there was much pain because of the suddenness, and because of the state of my relationship with her.
It’s a kind of wounded light like we read of in Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus:
Isaiah 53.5
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
And in 53.11 we read:
11 After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
Wounds that heal, suffering that brings light to life. I like that.
As I have healed over the years I’ve come to believe that Lucinda is correct. Suffering produces something in our lives that compares to nothing I know. Ash Wednesday calls us into the suffering of Christ, into the suffering of our world, and into the suffering heart of God.
And by going into these dark places we more clearly see goodness, justice, and mercy. By going into the dark places of death and despair we more clearly see the bright light of the resurrection story that will be told at the end of the journey we begin today.
Ash Wednesday is one of my favorite worship services of the Christian year. I know that’s dark, rather like saying I like bitter wine or funerals. Ash Wednesday is a time of confession. It’s also a harsh time. We dwell on our sin, we contemplate our mortality.
It’s got all the angst of a teenager watching a Fellini film after a break up. It’s like that line between Gomez and Morticia from the Addam’s Family. He asks her about the nature of her labor pains and she replies, “Exquisite.”
So why would I say this is among my favorite worship services? There are several reasons.
One is that I am able to experience the exquisite rush of forgiveness that only a follower of Jesus can know. Because of these moments wherein we identify with the atoning death of Jesus, I am transported over time and across space and beyond geography. In my soul I am with Christ in his suffering, and I see the wondrous love in his eyes. I bear witness to the power of the cross and the pain which Jesus endured so I might be able to stand before God, forgiven and free.
Another is that I learn better each Ash Wednesday how to mark my time on this planet. “Dust you are, and to dust you shall be returned,” says the minister when the ashes are imposed. When those grave words are uttered I feel my mortality, my finitude, and my finality. Man’s days are numbered, and they are fleeting. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is a precious gift, and the people with whom I share the journey are equally precious. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is pregnant with possibility and that without God can be barren of meaning. Ash Wednesday reminds me that each trip I take around the sun is mine to spend as I choose, so the ponderous weight of free choice presses down on my soul.
Another reason I like Ash Wednesday is unique to the office of pastor. As I impose the ashes I watch the face of each person. They all respond to this so differently. Some wish for eye contact with the minister, signaling something that seems like an assurance of the pardon I am promising from God. “Can this forgiveness be real?” their eyes question.
Still others look into the bowl of ashes and oil, contemplating who knows what? Their mortality? Their brokenness? Their breakfast?
Some approach the ashes dignified and somber, fully “in the moment” and steeping in the ritual and reality of the truth about the chasm between us and the lives of promise that God would lead us to if we’d only follow.
But all of these people remind me that what I like about Ash Wednesday is that we walk through our darkness and brokenness in community. Ash Wednesday reminds me that loneliness has its place in the Christian journey, but so does community. When I impose ashes on you it says, “You belong to this family. You belong to me. I belong to you. At our very core we see and say, “You’re not so different from me after all.””
Most of all, the reason I like Ash Wednesday is in the way it brings us to places of healing. It marks the beginning of Lent, a season of penitence, fasting, praying, and self-denying. Like the relief that comes from a lanced boil or wound, there is a painful letting and a powerful healing. Always, Ash Wednesday marks the doorway to Lent, which is the path to Easter. The older I get, the more convinced I become that the way of suffering, loss, and pain leads to deeper joy, gladness, and contentedness.
Once, my friend Lucinda told me that no minister was worth his salt unless he’d been through some suffering and loss. She said it helped the minister understand the pain of the persons for whom he cared. Not long after that, my mother passed away. And though it was not the first time I’d experienced grief, there was much pain because of the suddenness, and because of the state of my relationship with her.
It’s a kind of wounded light like we read of in Isaiah’s prophecy about Jesus:
Isaiah 53.5
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon him, and by his wounds we are healed.
And in 53.11 we read:
11 After the suffering of his soul, he will see the light of life and be satisfied;
Wounds that heal, suffering that brings light to life. I like that.
As I have healed over the years I’ve come to believe that Lucinda is correct. Suffering produces something in our lives that compares to nothing I know. Ash Wednesday calls us into the suffering of Christ, into the suffering of our world, and into the suffering heart of God.
And by going into these dark places we more clearly see goodness, justice, and mercy. By going into the dark places of death and despair we more clearly see the bright light of the resurrection story that will be told at the end of the journey we begin today.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Spectator Christianity
I love college basketball. From the pre-season to the final four, I could watch college basketball for hours and it doesn’t really matter who’s playing. The intensity, the speed, the fact that any given team could win on any given night are all exciting to me. I love to watch the sport and I am a great spectator of college basketball. Especially if the Tar Heels are playing.
It’s a good thing I love to watch, because I wouldn’t make a good participant. For starters, I’m no longer eligible to play by NCAA rules. I’m too old. I’m too fat. I’m too slow. I can’t shoot the basketball. Tommy Simons slaughters me at horse every time we play. I can’t dribble the basketball very well. I can’t rebound the basketball. You couldn't get a slice of pizza underneath my vertical jump.
I’m a far better spectator than participant.
Some might say the same thing about the Christian faith.
Like college basketball, there are two ways to view the Christian faith. You can either do it as a spectator or a participant. Spectator Christians don't have bad theology, they're not heretical, and they're not bound for hell.
So if spectators are not bad or wrong, what’s the problem? The issue is that, as a Spectator Christian, it's easy to miss significant amounts of the good stuff in the faith. We miss the fullness of life as a follower of Jesus. But sadly, Christianity in American has become very good at producing spectators and not so good at helping people to fully clench the faith as a way of being and doing life. This is a shallow experience of a deep and mystical faith.
When Jesus was on this earth he gave his disciples a message and he gave them a way to live it out. The American church (if there is actually such a monolithic being) in our time is largely living out the gospel in a way that Jesus never intended it. It seems to me that we have become a generation of religious spectators, when the gospel of Jesus clearly demands that we be a people who “DO” our faith.
So I wonder, how do others out there "do" their Christianity?
It’s a good thing I love to watch, because I wouldn’t make a good participant. For starters, I’m no longer eligible to play by NCAA rules. I’m too old. I’m too fat. I’m too slow. I can’t shoot the basketball. Tommy Simons slaughters me at horse every time we play. I can’t dribble the basketball very well. I can’t rebound the basketball. You couldn't get a slice of pizza underneath my vertical jump.
I’m a far better spectator than participant.
Some might say the same thing about the Christian faith.
Like college basketball, there are two ways to view the Christian faith. You can either do it as a spectator or a participant. Spectator Christians don't have bad theology, they're not heretical, and they're not bound for hell.
So if spectators are not bad or wrong, what’s the problem? The issue is that, as a Spectator Christian, it's easy to miss significant amounts of the good stuff in the faith. We miss the fullness of life as a follower of Jesus. But sadly, Christianity in American has become very good at producing spectators and not so good at helping people to fully clench the faith as a way of being and doing life. This is a shallow experience of a deep and mystical faith.
When Jesus was on this earth he gave his disciples a message and he gave them a way to live it out. The American church (if there is actually such a monolithic being) in our time is largely living out the gospel in a way that Jesus never intended it. It seems to me that we have become a generation of religious spectators, when the gospel of Jesus clearly demands that we be a people who “DO” our faith.
So I wonder, how do others out there "do" their Christianity?
A Tribute to Bruce Metzger
Bruce Metzger died this past Tuesday. If you don't know who he is, don't worry. Unless you ever went to seminary or learned Biblical Greek you probably shouldn't know his name.
But I think my readers should know about him.
The reason you should know about him is that he provided leadership for one of the most academically reliable translations of the Christian scriptures into modern English. He was an intellectual giant on Biblical translation and critical study of the scriptures, as well as an expert on discerning the reliability of various Greek manuscripts that form the basis for all of our translations.
It's important for you to know who does the translating of your preferred version of the Bible. That's because all translators have a theological bent and no matter how hard they may try, their lenses affect the words as they migrate from original language to English. Metzger did the best job of any I know at keeping his theology out of his translations. The Revised Standard and New Revised Standard Versions of the scriptures offer the average English reader the best shot at a pure reading of the originals.
Thanks, Dr. Metzger, for dedicating your life to study - we are the downstream beneficiaries. I'm sure God welcomed you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Here's the ABP story by Robert Marus:
By Robert Marus
PRINCETON, N.J. (ABP) -- Bruce Metzger, who was perhaps the 20th century's preeminent New Testament Greek scholar, has died at age 93.
The retired seminary professor reportedly died of natural causes in Princeton, N.J., Feb. 13.
Metzger helped translate both the Revised Standard Version and the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible. He served as general editor for the latter, which is the English Bible translation used for academic study of Scripture in all but the most conservative Protestant colleges, seminaries and divinity schools.
"Dr. Metzger was a towering presence on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary during my days there as a student," recalled Michael Livingston, president of the National Council of Churches, according to an NCC press release. "Students used to say that Dr. Metzger 'wrote the Bible.' The comment reflected the high regard in which this gentleman scholar was held."
Both the RSV and NRSV translations were done under the NCC's aegis. The group's general secretary likewise praised Metzger's life and work.
"I don't think it is an exaggeration to say the RSV would not have happened had it not been for Bruce Metzger," said Bob Edgar. "His leadership and scholarship were the reasons there is a translation of the Bible we call the New Revised Standard Version."
Metzger, an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA), earned a bachelor's degree from Lebanon Valley College in 1935, a bachelor of theology degree from Princeton Seminary in 1938 and his doctorate in classics from Princeton University in 1942.
He taught at Princeton for 46 years, beginning in 1938.
-30-
But I think my readers should know about him.
The reason you should know about him is that he provided leadership for one of the most academically reliable translations of the Christian scriptures into modern English. He was an intellectual giant on Biblical translation and critical study of the scriptures, as well as an expert on discerning the reliability of various Greek manuscripts that form the basis for all of our translations.
It's important for you to know who does the translating of your preferred version of the Bible. That's because all translators have a theological bent and no matter how hard they may try, their lenses affect the words as they migrate from original language to English. Metzger did the best job of any I know at keeping his theology out of his translations. The Revised Standard and New Revised Standard Versions of the scriptures offer the average English reader the best shot at a pure reading of the originals.
Thanks, Dr. Metzger, for dedicating your life to study - we are the downstream beneficiaries. I'm sure God welcomed you, "Well done, my good and faithful servant."
Here's the ABP story by Robert Marus:
By Robert Marus
PRINCETON, N.J. (ABP) -- Bruce Metzger, who was perhaps the 20th century's preeminent New Testament Greek scholar, has died at age 93.
The retired seminary professor reportedly died of natural causes in Princeton, N.J., Feb. 13.
Metzger helped translate both the Revised Standard Version and the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible. He served as general editor for the latter, which is the English Bible translation used for academic study of Scripture in all but the most conservative Protestant colleges, seminaries and divinity schools.
"Dr. Metzger was a towering presence on the campus of Princeton Theological Seminary during my days there as a student," recalled Michael Livingston, president of the National Council of Churches, according to an NCC press release. "Students used to say that Dr. Metzger 'wrote the Bible.' The comment reflected the high regard in which this gentleman scholar was held."
Both the RSV and NRSV translations were done under the NCC's aegis. The group's general secretary likewise praised Metzger's life and work.
"I don't think it is an exaggeration to say the RSV would not have happened had it not been for Bruce Metzger," said Bob Edgar. "His leadership and scholarship were the reasons there is a translation of the Bible we call the New Revised Standard Version."
Metzger, an ordained minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA), earned a bachelor's degree from Lebanon Valley College in 1935, a bachelor of theology degree from Princeton Seminary in 1938 and his doctorate in classics from Princeton University in 1942.
He taught at Princeton for 46 years, beginning in 1938.
-30-
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Servant Leadership
As a pastor who views church as a learning community, I am a teacher among teachers. Practically that means I sit under the teaching of my community with regularity. Tonight I participated in a group studying the book Lead Like Jesus.
The discussion was ably led and the conversation was good. The book is pretty much in the main of current literature and falls under the Robert Greenleaf umbrella of Servant Leadership. Indeed, Greenleaf's work is seminal to this school of thought.
I asked the question of the group tonight, "Do you buy this?" I asked because I'm not sure I totally buy it myself. I agree with the Lead like Jesus concepts, but the back story of servant leadership - at least from the philosophical point of view - is not one upon which I'm totally settled.
I think Jesus' leadership capacity came from a deeply rooted sense of self-definition and a non-anxious presence. I'm heavily influenced by Ed Friedman and Bowen theory, so if you know their stuff, you know my slant on how self-definition and non-anxious presence are the keys to leadership in any arena. In serving his disciples at the famous foot-washing, Jesus seems more about modeling the contrarian, upside-down nature of God's kingdom than about establishing a way for CEO's to increase the bottom line and employee happiness factors.
There are numerous tantalizing theological rabbits to chase on this. Some of the folk tonight mentioned their belief that Jesus knew his mission and purpose so clearly as to know the time and method of his death. However, I'm not personally convinced of this and if pressed, I can make a strong Biblical case for my position.
If we follow that strand of thinking we must deal with the issue of God intentionally planning for God's own death. Some theologians refer to this concept as either "The Suffering God" or the "Sacred Suicide." Purposing one's on physical death is quite the violent act - and some theologians purport that God's act of self-death was a guilt-offering to humankind.
While I'm not sure about all those theories, I go back to my position that Jesus as servant leader had a clearly defined mission, a clearly defined self, and in living fully in the image of God brought a revolution to the world. Jesus was by all accounts a non-anxious, self-defined presence.
My read on the Jesus of the gospels is that we're dealing with a guy who led from the inside out, was playing for an audience of One, and didn't give a rip about winning friends or influencing people. I'm convinced that if we are to truly lead like Jesus it will have more to do with sitting quietly with God and brooding over whom we are as a human before we can step into any arena we aspire to lead.
The discussion was ably led and the conversation was good. The book is pretty much in the main of current literature and falls under the Robert Greenleaf umbrella of Servant Leadership. Indeed, Greenleaf's work is seminal to this school of thought.
I asked the question of the group tonight, "Do you buy this?" I asked because I'm not sure I totally buy it myself. I agree with the Lead like Jesus concepts, but the back story of servant leadership - at least from the philosophical point of view - is not one upon which I'm totally settled.
I think Jesus' leadership capacity came from a deeply rooted sense of self-definition and a non-anxious presence. I'm heavily influenced by Ed Friedman and Bowen theory, so if you know their stuff, you know my slant on how self-definition and non-anxious presence are the keys to leadership in any arena. In serving his disciples at the famous foot-washing, Jesus seems more about modeling the contrarian, upside-down nature of God's kingdom than about establishing a way for CEO's to increase the bottom line and employee happiness factors.
There are numerous tantalizing theological rabbits to chase on this. Some of the folk tonight mentioned their belief that Jesus knew his mission and purpose so clearly as to know the time and method of his death. However, I'm not personally convinced of this and if pressed, I can make a strong Biblical case for my position.
If we follow that strand of thinking we must deal with the issue of God intentionally planning for God's own death. Some theologians refer to this concept as either "The Suffering God" or the "Sacred Suicide." Purposing one's on physical death is quite the violent act - and some theologians purport that God's act of self-death was a guilt-offering to humankind.
While I'm not sure about all those theories, I go back to my position that Jesus as servant leader had a clearly defined mission, a clearly defined self, and in living fully in the image of God brought a revolution to the world. Jesus was by all accounts a non-anxious, self-defined presence.
My read on the Jesus of the gospels is that we're dealing with a guy who led from the inside out, was playing for an audience of One, and didn't give a rip about winning friends or influencing people. I'm convinced that if we are to truly lead like Jesus it will have more to do with sitting quietly with God and brooding over whom we are as a human before we can step into any arena we aspire to lead.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
The Day The Pterodactyls Went Extinct
I don't know the exact day, but I know it happened in the last few weeks. Seriously, the pterodactyls just now went extinct. Let me explain.
The pterodactyls lived in the belly of the Youngest Sister quite comfortably for the last 5+ years. They were a friendly pair who made a growling noise every time the Youngest Sister got hungry. They were fond of apples and bananas and grapes. And popsicles and "Blue Doritos" and chicken (Chicken being anything that was cooked on the grill, of course).
The pterodactyls were also very clear about what they didn't like to eat. The Youngest Sister defended them against certain food choices by saying, "The pterodactyls won't eat that, Daddy." It became a running theme around our house, even the adults were trained to listen for the digestive opinions of the two pterodactyls. At the end of a meal when she asked if she could have dessert, the parental response was, "Are the pterodactyls full? Did they eat well?"
So yesterday after school I was curled up on the pillow in her room reading Corduroy the Bear and I asked, "Are the pterodactyls hungry?" which being translated means, "Do you want an after school snack?"
She said, "The pterodactyls are gone."
I exclaimed "What!? When did that happen!?"
She shrugged with an indifference I'm not accustomed to seeing in a 5 year old.
I pressed on. "Where have they gone?"
She answered, "I don't know. They just flew away."
I bit my lip to hold back a very unmanly sob, a sob driven by the rushing realization that the baby of the family is no baby at all. A sob propelled by my worry that her imagination had been somehow stolen by that thief of childhood named "Growing Up."
The extinction of the pterodactyl is just the beginning, sounding the death knoll for Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Stuffed bears and tea parties will give way to shoe shopping and mascara, cell phones and boyfriends. "Daddy" will become "Dad" and "Can we cuddle?" becomes "Can I go out?"
My soul is struggling with this because I do want her to grow up. I do. Really I do. Really really really. I'm not convincing you or me, am I?
That's because you and I fear what the extinction of the pterodactyls signals: Aging. Loss of innocence. Tempis fugit. Missed opportunity. Regrets.
This is more than a story about a daddy watching his little girl mature. It's not even quaint reluctance that squishes her on the top of the head as if to say, "Stop growing up so fast!" It's a story about grown ups "playing pretend" about the march of time, too willingly, too easily blinding ourselves to its passing.
If those dinosaurs go extinct so quickly, then how soon before I'll be the dinosaur? Did I miss the good stuff? Did I drink life to the lees with all three of my kids? With my wife? With my friends?
So I cling to those stupid pterodactyls because as long as they are around, I can be a child too. The Youngest Sister, if she could read this would say, "Oooooh, Daddy, you said the "s" word!" Maybe that's a sign that I'm not so close to being a part of the fossil record after all.
The pterodactyls lived in the belly of the Youngest Sister quite comfortably for the last 5+ years. They were a friendly pair who made a growling noise every time the Youngest Sister got hungry. They were fond of apples and bananas and grapes. And popsicles and "Blue Doritos" and chicken (Chicken being anything that was cooked on the grill, of course).
The pterodactyls were also very clear about what they didn't like to eat. The Youngest Sister defended them against certain food choices by saying, "The pterodactyls won't eat that, Daddy." It became a running theme around our house, even the adults were trained to listen for the digestive opinions of the two pterodactyls. At the end of a meal when she asked if she could have dessert, the parental response was, "Are the pterodactyls full? Did they eat well?"
So yesterday after school I was curled up on the pillow in her room reading Corduroy the Bear and I asked, "Are the pterodactyls hungry?" which being translated means, "Do you want an after school snack?"
She said, "The pterodactyls are gone."
I exclaimed "What!? When did that happen!?"
She shrugged with an indifference I'm not accustomed to seeing in a 5 year old.
I pressed on. "Where have they gone?"
She answered, "I don't know. They just flew away."
I bit my lip to hold back a very unmanly sob, a sob driven by the rushing realization that the baby of the family is no baby at all. A sob propelled by my worry that her imagination had been somehow stolen by that thief of childhood named "Growing Up."
The extinction of the pterodactyl is just the beginning, sounding the death knoll for Santa and the Tooth Fairy. Stuffed bears and tea parties will give way to shoe shopping and mascara, cell phones and boyfriends. "Daddy" will become "Dad" and "Can we cuddle?" becomes "Can I go out?"
My soul is struggling with this because I do want her to grow up. I do. Really I do. Really really really. I'm not convincing you or me, am I?
That's because you and I fear what the extinction of the pterodactyls signals: Aging. Loss of innocence. Tempis fugit. Missed opportunity. Regrets.
This is more than a story about a daddy watching his little girl mature. It's not even quaint reluctance that squishes her on the top of the head as if to say, "Stop growing up so fast!" It's a story about grown ups "playing pretend" about the march of time, too willingly, too easily blinding ourselves to its passing.
If those dinosaurs go extinct so quickly, then how soon before I'll be the dinosaur? Did I miss the good stuff? Did I drink life to the lees with all three of my kids? With my wife? With my friends?
So I cling to those stupid pterodactyls because as long as they are around, I can be a child too. The Youngest Sister, if she could read this would say, "Oooooh, Daddy, you said the "s" word!" Maybe that's a sign that I'm not so close to being a part of the fossil record after all.
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