Are You A Christmas Liar?

NOTE TO PARENTS:  If your kids are nearby, STOP READING!

I remember it well.  The first time my kid called me a liar. 

I was rushing around the house, trying to get a bunch of chores done before my wife arrived home from a trip and saw the chaos that reigns while she’s away.  You know what I mean.  Kids wearing underwear on their heads.  Soggy paper boats clogging the bathroom sink.

Anyhow, my three-year-old stopped me as I was half-way out the front door and asked, “Daddy, come look at this picture!”

I replied, “One second, Jake.  I just have to get something out of the car.”

I walked to the driveway, opened the door, reached into the console, and retrieved my wallet.  As I approached the house, my son stood in the doorway, boiling with a white-hot rage that had previously been reserved only for that little plastic bubble thingy that forcibly sucks snot out of a toddler’s nose.  As soon as I stepped over the threshold, his eyes pierced my soul as he shouted.

“Daddy!  You said it would only be one second! You left... and I counted to ONE… and YOU WEREN’T BACK!  You’re a LIAR!”

So, after calming him down with a well-timed cookie, I did my best to explain the concept of a “figure of speech” to his tiny mind.  This proved only slightly more difficult than explaining how “yesterday, today, and tomorrow” works.  I might as well have just read him a bedtime story from a textbook on quantum physics.  Let’s face it, some things are just too hard to explain to children.  Especially the intangible. So, I left the conversation vowing to stick with the truth.

Which makes me a HUGE liar.  Because I break this vow.  All.  The.  Time.  And, unless you are one of the rare breed who sucks all the fun out of childhood, you probably do, too.

Forget for a moment all of our poor relationship choices, or those college memories that remain hidden behind a haze of smoke and suds.  We all know to keep those stories a secret until the right emergency presents itself, like a proposed elopement at age seventeen, or being on the receiving end of their one phone call during an overnight stay in the pokey. 

No, I’m talking about the lies we tell on a regular basis.  The tooth fairy.  The Easter Bunny. Most of us parents create these fibs as a way to maintain the magic in a childhood that is becoming shorter and shorter with every generation.  The same holds true for that damned Elf on a Shelf that doesn’t actually stay on a shelf but miraculously moves every 24 hours like an escaped convict. 

We tend to keep these charades alive until the first genuine inquiry from our offspring, when we spill the beans and tell the truth.  Once they back us into a corner, we sheepishly tell them that these things aren’t real, but are traditions to add a bit of wonder and majesty to life (the fairy and the bunny) and encourage good behavior (the elf). 

But what about Santa?

For some reason, I think of the Santa differently.  I shamelessly stuff the jolly fat man into a box wrapped in half-truths and lies. Over the years, my kids have let their subtle curiosities slip.  “Daddy? How does Santa go around the whole world in one night?” or “ Why does all Santa’s stuff come wrapped in the same boxes I see in the store?”  And the biggie, “Is Santa real?”  So far, my wife and I have gotten away with dodging the question by asking “What do you think?” or making up our own White Christmas lies to explain the magic and avoid further inquiry.

And each time I do this, I wonder if it’s a Christmas cop-out.  I mean, if this Holiday is supposed to be about Jesus, then why do I as a Christian need Santa Claus?  Isn’t the Savior of the World enough? 

Apparently, I’m not the only one asking the question.  If you search the web about the belief in Santa, you will find that some parents choose not to “do Santa” at all, for very spiritual reasons. For some, it’s about not wanting to lie to their kids (Don’t bear false witness).  For others, it’s about placing the focus on Christ during this church season.  Still more see that the Holiday actually has pagan roots, and is a sin, even going as far to note the common anagram for Santa is SATAN.

All of these people have solid (if not Grinchy) reasoning for dumping Kris Kringle.  Some argue that it’s best not to even start the tradition, believing that if they lift the veil on the Santa secret, their kids start to question everything else? 

Are we really safe in our house? 

Will mommy and daddy always be here for me? 

Is there really a God?

So what do we do?  Especially those of us who are already a hundred miles down the Santa interstate?  My kids are now eight and nine, so they probably know more than they are letting on.  And I expect they will ask me again soon enough.  So, what will I say when they ask me if Santa is just a made up thing? 

I’ll tell them the God’s honest truth.

Santa is a real guy.  Just like Jesus.

And that’s no lie.

According to those who spend their days researching this sort of thing, he was actually a man named Nicolas, born sometime in the late third century in the region now known and Greece and Turkey.  His family was very wealthy.  Unfortunately, his parents died when he was young, leaving him their inheritance.  Rather than hoard it all for himself, he followed Jesus’ words to the letter to “sell what you own and give the money to the poor.”

Throughout his life, Nicolas used his entire fortune to help the needy, sick and suffering, eventually becoming Bishop of Myra.  He was no rock star in a traditional sense, but Bishop Nicolas became known throughout the land for his uncommon generosity, his undying love for children, and his concern for the safety of sailors and ships.

But, not everyone thought he was such a great guy.  He also suffered greatly for his faith.  He was persecuted and exiled by Roman Emperor Diocletian for his deep, unwavering devotion to a higher calling.

Sounds a lot like Jesus, doesn’t it?

While St. Nicolas was not the Son of God.  He was a child of God in the truest sense.  A man who walked this earth, yet seemed to be of another world.  A man who dedicated his life to serving others.  A man who kept nothing of his power and stature for himself, yet poured it out on others, washing us in kindness and compassion.  Filled with joy.  Doing good “for goodness’ sake.” 

And nothing more.

Yes, some things are just too hard to explain. Especially the intangible.

This kind of selflessness is seldom seen.  But thanks to Nicolas, we now have a compass to guide us.  So every year, our Santa tradition shows us what being Jesus looks like.  Christ in our midst.  Tirelessly working for the benefit of others.  And for a brief moment each December, we pour ourselves out to friends and strangers through acts of service and generous gifts.  It’s a beautiful thing.  All fueled by an inner warmth of peace and joy, buried deep within for many months of the year, but now visible.

The light of Christ, finally tangible and accessible.

So when my kids ask if Santa is real, I will tell them this story without a hint of disappointment or remorse in my voice.  No, this will be a joyful revelation.   That they have experienced Christ’s love in the form of a beautiful tradition.  That it’s time we make them part of this not-so-secret club.  A hapless band of Christians that has finally experienced enough of this selfless giving that we can now be the magic makers for others.  Unseen.  Unheard.  Spreading Christ’s love in tangible, human form.  Face to face.  Flesh to flesh.  Human to human.

And then I will ask: 

What is your gift? 

Where is your chimney? 

And who will receive this spirit you bring? 

The choice is yours.

For Goodness’ sake.  

* Enjoy this post?  Subscribe by clicking on the link at the top of the page.  Or follow us on Facebook and Twitter.  And, if you're still dying for more, pick up our book The Year Without A Purchase, (ironically) sold on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or WJK Press.

Dumping the Christmas Distractions

If you're anything like me, you’re hustling around like a crazy person this season, trying to get a million things done and make it to every event. For me, I curb my stress by eating everything in sight, which makes me so sluggish that I finally crumble into a sad ball of shame on December 24th when I give up on shopping and just buy a bunch of gift cards for all of my extended family. The latter causes my wife to lament that we’re only one step away from putting out no effort at all and simply creating a system where we negotiate a family dollar amount and just go buy stuff for ourselves in the name of our favorite relatives.  I try and tell myself that it’s the thought that counts, but when I look at the Nativity on our mantle and see the little Baby Jesus in his uncomfortable, sneeze-inducing manger bed gazing back at me, his eyes seem to be saying, “You should have thought a little harder.”

While there are genuine moments of peace and beauty this time of year, we inevitably end up feeling harried and stressed, vowing that we're going to do it differently next year. Two years ago, our family realized that we were on the great American Hamster Wheel to Nowhere, piling up stuff in the name of progress. So, we challenged ourselves to a Year Without A Purchase beginning on January 1st.  It was a radical attempt to disconnect from our consumer side and try to reconnect with what’s important.

We learned a lot about ourselves during the year, and Christmas in particular gave us ample opportunity to try some new things to see if we could put more meaning back into the season.  Below is a list of some of the traditions we started that year that help us keep the focus on Christ during the Christmas season.

By the way, it’s not our desire to add a pant-load of new tasks to your Holiday to-do list to add more stress.  Instead, we hope this will be a conversation starter where others can share their own meaningful traditions, so we can all find something that fits perfectly for our own families. 

Five Ways to Dump the Christmas Distractions

1.      Give Experience Gifts:  All the happiness research shows that experiences bring more joy than things, as thy create memories that will last forever.  These gifts can be as simple as baking cookies together or attending a sporting event, to bigger experiences like going on a family ropes course or taking a road trip together.

2.      Wise Men Gifts: We wondered, “If three gifts were good enough for the Savior of the World, it should be sufficient for our little snot factories, right?” My wife’s sister Amy turned us on to this tradition of limiting the number of gifts for the kids. It delivers a double-whammy of benefit in that it cuts down on Santa’s greenhouse gas emissions (lighter loads means less fuel) and allows us to tie in the story of the Wise Men to Santa’s gift giving (Note: necessities like toothbrushes and underwear in the stocking did not count toward the three gift limit in our house)

3.      Wrap a “Jesus Gift”: We make a list of charitable donations, service projects, and things we did to help others throughout the year.  Then, we type them all up on slips of paper and place them in a gift box under the tree.  On Christmas morning, we unwrap the “Jesus Gift” and the kids each read the items aloud.  It provides a flood of good cheer for everyone and reminds us of why we do all of those things.  Pro Tip:  Keep the box in a visible spot all year t remind yourself to do stuff for others, and when you do, create the slip of paper right then and there.

4.      Give Charitable Gifts: Let’s be honest, most of us can hardly remember the gifts we’ve received from Christmases past.  So, rather than shopping around and trying to find that perfect thing, use that time to go online and make a donation in someone else’s name to a charity you think they would support. Then, print the receipt and write a nice note telling the person what positive qualities they possess that led you to choose that specific cause for them. 

5.      Serve Others On Christmas Day:  Once the presents are unwrapped, it’s time to get out of the house.  Advance planning helps if you want to serve with an organization (singing carols at a long term care facility or VA hospital, or serving meals for the homeless, for example), but some things can be more spontaneous, like randomly handing our cookies or snacks for people in hospital waiting rooms, or saving some of your charitable giving for random acts of kindness, like distributing secret envelopes of cash to those who have to work on Christmas day (airport cleaning crew, gas station attendants, Waffle House servers, etc.)

This is certainly not an exhaustive list, so please let us know what your family does to bring meaning and focus to the Christmas season.  And, the simpler, the better!  Because, during this time of year or any other, I believe best gift we can give ourselves is to let go of perfection. Deep down, no one truly cares if the dinner plates all match, or if the bow stays on the gift, or if a strand of lights is burned out. Life happens. And it’s what we do with life’s happenings that make them extraordinary. The spirit we bring to our everyday breath.

And this time of year, more than any other, we should take comfort in the fact that the Bethlehem innkeeper’s stable was not decorated by Restoration Hardware. Nope. It was an imperfect, chaotic, smelly mess. But here we are.  Still telling the story 2,000 years later.

Joy-filled and grateful.

* Enjoy this post?  Subscribe by clicking on the link at the top of the page.  Or follow us on Facebook and Twitter.  And, if you're still dying for more, pick up our book The Year Without A Purchase, (ironically) sold on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or WJK Press.

Of God, And Books, And Supermodels

When a supermodel calls you and asks you to talk to her about your book, it's kinda' hard to say no.  Even if you're married.

Needless to say, my 90's self was very excited when our family got invited for an interview on Tyra Banks' new talk show, FABLife.  I think she was just trying to make up for the fact that she turned down every single one of my invitations to come with me to my senior prom.  Tyra's got a heart o' gold like that, ya' know.

Anyhow, since our Good Morning America interview had all the God chopped right out of it (our entire reason for doing this crazy thing), we decided we'd mention the Big Guy on the Catwalk in the Sky as much as possible.  We weren't sure if they would keep any of it, since the day our segment was taping, the show topics included "how nipples are now 'in'", "naked grilling," and "foods to get you laid."

In case you missed it, check it out here.  And feel free to contrast it with the edited piece on Good Morning America, and the live interview on MSNBC.

In the end, I think they kept the heart of the experiment, and we are grateful to the show for the opportunity.  And no, I haven't washed my shirt since the taping of this show. (see below)  A special thanks to all of you regular readers for you shares and support.  The message (and the book about not buying stuff) wouldn't be reaching a broader audience if it weren't for you.  Peace to you and yours!

* Enjoy this post?  For more, check out Scott's book about the family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon  (We know... dripping with irony...but there's always the library!). And, to see more posts like this, click the Subscribe bar at the top of the page to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter @sdannemiller.  Cheers!

What Really Happened That One Time We Were On Good Morning America

I got an interesting call last Friday morning.

“Scott. It’s Stacie.”

Stacie is the marketing guru at WJK Press, the company that published our book. And she sounded very serious. Like, “Your-Mom_Is-Not-Really-Your-Mom-But-Is-Instead-Is-A-Poorly-Trained-Russian-Spy” kind of serious.

“Hi Stacie! What’s up?”

Then there was this awkward silence.

“I’m trying not to flip out… but we just got a call that Good Morning America wants to do an interview about the book.”

I laughed out loud. In a high-pitched squeal. Like I do.

“You have GOT to be kidding!” I was at once thrilled and skeptical, wondering if she was actually talking about some cable access knock-off of the original, only with a different spelling. Perhaps Good Mornin’ Uh-Merika with Harold, Joanne and some guy they call “The Cap’n”

“No, I’m not.” She answered. “Please tell me you aren’t out of town this weekend. They want an exclusive. With the whole family.”

As she was asking that question, I was busily packing a bag for our weekend church retreat. The one the kids talk about all year long. Our family camp. With bunk beds. And bugs. In the middle of nowhere.

Sadly, my first thought was, "OMG, this is huge! We have to ditch family camp!” But then, my conscience spoke to me, (in my wife’s voice) and said, "What would that say about you if you write a book about growing in faith as a family, and then crush your children’s family camp dreams by cancelling so you can go on national TV and sell a book about not buying stuff?!"

I addressed Stacie’s request.

“Well, actually, we leave for family camp this afternoon and it runs all weekend. I can’t cancel. We might be able to do Sunday afternoon.”

Stacie started problem solving. “I’ll contact them and see if they can push it, but they really wanted to run the piece Monday morning. I hope it won’t be a problem.”

The rest of the morning was a back-n-forth blur, with schedules and questions and locations. Finally, we settled on a 3:00 interview Sunday, at our house. The “fixer upper.” The one that is completely torn up, save for the 800 square foot basement where we now reside. All four of us. With the kid’s mattresses on the floor. And bare wall outlets with no covers. It’s a lot like a movie set. If your movie is about the Apocalypse.

So we swept the floors in hopes that the gleaming tile might somehow distract from the live electrical wires protruding from the holes in the sheetrock.

We went to our kids’ school that afternoon, intent on leaving for church camp right after Jake’s “Punt, Pass and Kick” competition on the playground. As we waited, Audrey played on the monkey bars with the other children who were watching for their siblings compete. No sooner had I struck up a conversation with another parent when she comes running up to me, slightly whimpering.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

“I hit my face on the steps of the playscape.”

She was tired from a long day, and the tears came easily. I glanced down and didn’t see anything major, so I said, “You’ll be OK” and rubbed her head.

Two minutes later, Gabby walks up and asks,

“My goodness, Audrey! What happened to you?!”

Gabby turned my daughter’s face toward me to show me the red gash on her right cheek, surrounded by an ever-growing field of purple.

“Wow! It didn’t look like that a minute ago.” I said, guiltily.

We improvised, with Gabby shoving some ice cubes into an empty snack size bag of Cheetos to create a cold pack. Audrey held it to her face while the freezing orange-ish liquid mixed with powdered cheese dribbled all over her shorts. This only added some healthy anger to her already painful face wound. Poor kid. We prayed that the black eye would fade by the time the cameras and/or child protective services arrived on Sunday.

When we got to camp, we agreed not to tell anyone about the interview. For starters, the weekend was about community and togetherness, and we didn’t need to distract people from that. And secondly, the news cycle is very fickle, and we knew we could easily be bumped to the cutting room floor should Kanye West decide to enter the 2016 presidential race.

The weekend’s activities proved to be a welcome distraction, helping us focus on what was important. The workshop went well. Audrey played in the creek. Jake got to go fishing. We had a sing along on the porch. But the highlight was the big “Tailgate Party” celebration on Saturday night.

Dance music played while people chatted. The planners of the event even created a makeshift room out of tarps and bought in a bunch of black lights to create a “Glow Zone” for the kids. I dove right in, inviting a little girl named Maddie to paint me up with neon so I could enjoy it, too.

The adorable ten-year-old made designs on my arms. She decorated my forehead. She painted on hot pink lipstick.   I looked so good that I invited Gabby to participate.

“You need to go get your face painted so we can go in the “Glow Zone” together!” I prodded.

Gabby came up to me ten minutes later to show me her decorated face, adorned with polka dots, hearts and zig-zags.

She winced. “Mine burns a little,” she said.

“Really?” I countered. “Mine just feels kinda’ itchy.”

We both shrugged and went into the black lights so we could snap a picture.

As the night drew to a close, I went outside to the campfire to enjoy some quiet solitude and chat with friends and family. It was a beautiful, peaceful night. Then Gabby gingerly walked up and leaned in close.

“Ummm, Scott?”

“What’s up, babe?”

“This…” she said, looking very serious as she pointed to her arms and circled her face, “It doesn’t come off.”

“Huh?”

She was matter of fact.

“The paint. I washed. And scrubbed. With soap. And it DOESN’T.   COME.   OFF.”

My jaw dropped. I stared at her. Mystified. Like some mouth breather at a monster truck rally who has just seen his beloved Big Foot toppled by Truckzilla. Because there in the glow of the firelight, just a few short hours before we were supposed to be on camera in front of over 5 million viewers, my wife and I looked like this:

* That's no ordinary face paint

Perhaps the burning and itching should have been our first clue that it was a bad idea to let a grade-schooler decorate our faces with unknown glowing chemicals the night before we were to appear on national television. There are reasons why they don’t usually put people like us on camera.

We both burst out laughing. I could hardly breathe. Snorting. Wheezing. Tears and snot were streaming down my face, yet failing to smudge the paint. Our daughter was covered in the same decor, too. Yet hardly drawing the eye away from that purple-pink gash on the side of her face.

I immediately went to the bathroom and did my best to clean up. Apparently, the itchy paint was more washable than the burn-ey kind, so my skin was relatively clean. Gabby? Not so much. This is her face after giving herself a Silkwood shower and sandpapering her cheeks with a makeup remover cloth. We’re not sure of the red spots are paint residue or simply raw flesh.

* I don't even think the best of TV lighting and makeup can fix this.

The next day, we drove home to meet the camera crew. They arrived in a van that resembled an FBI stakeout team. The neighbors were probably suspicious, but we took comfort in the fact that they were probably happy that the law enforcement surveillance was distracting people’s attention away from the giant construction dumpster in our driveway.

Jordan and Steve introduced themselves. The sound guy and the camera man. They set up lights and microphones and who-knows-what in our basement while we did our best to distract the kids.

“Today’s interview will be by speakerphone,” Steve said. “Have you ever done a speakerphone interview before?”

“Ummmm. No. We’re kinda’ new at this.”

Jordan showed Gabby how to run a microphone cable up her shirt while Steve continued.

“Matt, our producer, will be doing the interview in New York. We’ll call him on my cell phone and put it on speaker. Then we’ll just set it on the couch between the two of you.”

Jordan chimed in.

“I’ll be sitting here,” he said, settling into a chair just a few inches from the camera lens. “You guys can look at me as if I’m interviewing you, but listen to the speakerphone. You’re going to want to look at the phone, but don’t do it. Just look at me and I’ll try and do some facial expressions and gestures to make it seem more natural.”

“Oh,” Gabby responded, with a laugh. “That won’t be awkward at all.”

“And make sure to wait two seconds after the question is asked before you answer.” He added.

“OK.”

“And don’t just give a one word answer. Speak in complete sentences.”

Just nodding now.

He went on, “And try to rephrase the question. But don’t just repeat the words verbatim. Mix it up a little.“

Sure. Both of us just looked at each other, awaiting the inevitable suckitude to come. Excited and mortified.

“You ready?” Steve asked.

He dialed the phone, set it down between us on the couch, and the interview began. Matt’s tinny voice burst firth from our laps. Asking us a full thirty minutes worth of questions. We did our best to answer as naturally as possible. Meanwhile, Jordan’s wacky facial expressions and gestures were strangely reassuring. Anytime I would see Gabby doing her “crazy eyes” (her term, not mine) I would signal her by squeezing her shoulder, which was our previously agreed upon secret code. And if I started hogging the questions (her term, entirely accurate) she would signal me by punching me in the solar plexus while the cameras rolled.

Luckily, only one of these things happened.

After the interview, we were instructed to “just do some regular family things” so the cameras could get some additional footage.

“What sort of things?” I asked.

Steve consulted his list, which included items like playing board games, baking together, and standing together on the porch and waving to the camera.

You know. Like we do naturally. All the time.

Out of desperation, I pulled the Spirograph out the closet, which we have played exacty zero times in the past six months. We also made a snack, forbidding the kids to eat anything unhealthy on camera lest we feel the wrath of America and Michelle Obama for years to come. And we played in the cul-du-sac, finishing off with our usual “hudlled-standing-group-goodbye-wave” which we have done at our house exactly zero times in the history of porches. The entire thing was captured on camera.

In the end, they chopped out all of the beautiful stuff Gabby said about faith and God and Jesus, and left in the stuff about shopping and saving. Still, they did a really nice job on the story and we are grateful for the experience. The best part was being able to share it all with family and friends. The one who have supported us through thick and thin. Our year in Guatemala. Getting back on our feet. Moving to Nashville. Not buying stuff. And now a book.

As our fifteen minutes of fame comes to a close (which was actually only two minutes and twelve seconds), we simply want to express our gratitude for you. And we hope we did you proud.

Peace to you and yours,

Scott & Gabby

* Enjoy this post?  For more, check out Scott's book about the family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon  (We know... dripping with irony...but there's always the library!). And, to see more posts like this, click the Subscribe bar at the top of the page to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter @sdannemiller.  Cheers!

The One Thing Every Mom Needs

I got my first official email from a literary agent a few weeks back, which shocked the eyebrow hair right offa’ my face.  I mean, the idea that my writing could be called “literary” is as absurd as saying Velveeta is made of “cheese.” 

I just had to schedule a phone call.

On the day of our meeting, our two loud kids were at home, so I went to my remote office (A.K.A. the senior citizens lounge at my local YMCA) and found a quiet place away from all distractions.  Filled with anxiety and doubt, I took a deep breath, dialed the number, and prepared to sell myself as a writer. 

Only I didn’t sell myself at all.

Instead, the agent spent a thirty solid minutes saying things like:

“Your writing is so… accessible!”

“You voice is one-of-a-kind, it just has to reach a broader audience.”

“You have an unmatched quality of blending humor and spirituality. So talented.”

By the time I got off the phone, I felt like my ego had been kneaded by angel wings and polished with the tears of Rainbow Brite.  As I sauntered through the YMCA, I gazed at the faces of the senior citizens gathered for coffee and saw awe and wonder in their eyes.

It was a really good phone call

When I arrived home, my wife was on the couch.  There was no awe or wonder in her eyes.  There was, however, a pile of unfolded laundry in her lap.

She asked, “How was your meeting?”

I burst forth like a raging river, sharing every last word with her. 

Accessible.

One-of-a-kind.

Talented.

As the story came out of my mouth, I realized something.  Agents are paid to say stuff like that.  Their whole job is to make me think I’m awesome so they can negotiate for me and make me sound even more awesome to other people who don’t even know me.  But somehow – miraculously – that fact didn’t make me feel any less awesome about myself.  I know this because I still had a giant grin plastered on my face. 

Meanwhile, Gabby just stared at me.

Without a grin.

“That’s nice.  While you were getting showered with compliments, your son told me I was the worst mom ever. And your daughter didn’t eat the breakfast she specifically requested. Because I didn’t prepare her waffle the right way. A  $#%#& waffle! Apparently, I am too incompetent to toast an Eggo and pour syrup on it.”

I was rendered mute.  But she continued. 

“Agent.” She scoffed. “You know what I need?  I need a MOM AGENT.”

And then it hit me.  My wife is a genius.  Her off-handed comment could likely be the genesis of most amazing job idea in the history of the Universe.  The one thing every mom needs when she’s trapped in the whirlwind of chaos, stress and doubt. 

A MOM AGENT. 

Just imagine...

Mealtime/Bedtime/Pottytime Negotiations

Those without children may be asking themselves, “Who the heck needs to be coaxed into doing something that comes naturally to every living soul on the planet?!”

Tiny people, that’s who. 

Never again will you pull your hair out trying to cajole your children to eat, sleep, or poop.  Now, the MOM AGENT will handle all proceedings, using whatever tactics are currently admissible by common parenting literature.  Including, but not limited to: corporal punishment, bribing with tiny pieces of candy, guilt, locking doors from the outside, or outright manipulation. 

Daily Affirmations

Motherhood is known as the most thankless job on the planet. For that reason, our MOM AGENT will be present during the routine parts of your day, uttering those words of appreciation that kids rarely share until you are on your death bed.  Things like, “I love how you are always there for me. So accessible.” Or “Boy Mom, your ass-wiping is one-of-a-kind!” And “This frozen waffle has an unmatched quality of both toastiness and sweetness.” And let’s not forget, “How in the world did you catch my puke in your bare hands without puking yourself!  So talented!”

Mom-to-Mom Public Relations

All moms know that worst part about being the maternal unit is standing up to the barrage of silent judgment from other moms.  The good news is, the MOM AGENT comes with a built-in “Side-Eye Alarm” that activates anytime someone looks at you in a scrutinizing fashion.  For example, when your kid has a complete meltdown in the housewares section at Target, the MOM AGENT will be dispensed to the troubled area to distract the other moms by placing a “Clearance” sign atop a rack filled with new arrivals so you can discipline your child without being watched like an episode of SuperNanny. 

Damage Control/ A.K.A. “Fetal Position Rescue”

All moms have been there.  That moment when all hell is breaking loose at home and you have three choices: 1) line up every small person in your house and “slap ‘em into next week”, 2) pack a bag and buy a one-way ticket to Who-The-#%$^-Cares, USA, or 3) lock yourself in the bathroom, curl up in a ball on the floor, and scream and cry like you’ve just had your entire body scrubbed with a cheese grater. 

Lucky for us, you crazy moms choose #3. Every. Time.

When this happens, the MOM AGENT will be on hand to usher your children into a room on the other side of the house, give them a pre-approved snack, and put on a wholesome TV show.  Once the kids are extracted, the MOM AGENT will hug you, tell you how awesome you are, feed you unlimited pints of ice cream, and babysit that night so you can go to book club where you can drink wine, laugh ‘til you snort, and tell your stories to a bunch of girlfriends who really get you.

Moms, as you’ve been reading this, you may have heard yourself saying, “Yes!”  Or maybe even an “Amen!”  Out loud.  In front of a computer. Which makes me feel both satisfied and sad.

My satisfaction stems from the fact that these words might give some of you some comfort.  Some realization that you are noticed.  And even, perhaps, understood.

But sadness comes from the fact that lots of moms struggle. And dad’s, too.  (I’ll lump myself into this category. ) Constantly wondering if you’re doing a good job.  Or simply an adequate job.  And the inner doubt is so strong that it sometimes takes external validation for us to realize that we really are serving our families in a meaningful way.

But the doubt is real.

So today, my prayer is that we might be MOM AGENTS for each other. By ditching the Facebook stories of perfection and sharing our struggles and “fetal position moments.”  Loud and proud.  And offering a listening ear.  Or words of encouragement. 

Because there is a God voice inside each one of us saying “You are enough”.  But sadly, that voice often speaks in tones that are far too quiet for our bustling households.  Drowned out by the crying and the whining and the worry. 

It’s in these moments that we must be His hands and heart.  His AGENTS. Encouraging, supporting, and speaking this truth. 

That there is honor in the struggle.

Excellence in the effort. 

And forgiveness for mistakes made along the way.

* Enjoy this post?  For more, just preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon launching August 4th from WJK Press (We know... dripping with irony...but there's always the library!). And, to see more posts like this, submit your email here to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter @sdannemiller.  Cheers!

Five Things You Think You Need, But You Don't

Not long ago, my wife and I felt like our family was on The Great Hamster Wheel to nowhere. Maybe you feel that way, too. You’re spending a ton of time and effort to earn a paycheck so you can give your family “the good life.” And now you have a lovely home and some neat toys, but you’re often too tired, too stressed, or too busy to truly enjoy it all.

That was us.

So we decided to try a little experiment. We challenged ourselves to check out of the consumer culture for twelve months to see how it might impact our family. Before you think we’re complete whackos, realize that our challenge did not require us generate our own electricity, make underwear out of old burlap sacks, or only eat things we could kill with our bare hands. For us, it was less about saving money and more about focusing on people and shared experiences to see if it might have a positive impact on our relationships. So we lived by a simple set of rules that were restrictive, but not too crazy.

Rule #1: We wouldn’t shop for “stuff.” Sure, we could buy consumable items (think food, cleaners, hygiene products, etc.), but if it couldn’t be used up within the year, we put in the “non-essential” category.

Rule #2: If something broke, we could fix it unless we already had a suitable replacement lying around.

Rule #3: Gifts had to be in the form of charitable donations or "experiences" to be shared.

Entering this challenge, we recognized two things. First, the majority of humans on the planet live by these rules (or even more restrictive ones) out of necessity. In fact, my wife and I had spent a year serving as missionaries in Guatemala, and experienced first-hand how anything beyond food and shelter is a luxury for those living in poverty. So our experiment wasn’t really a sacrifice.

Second, there are far too many people like us in the United States who live under manufactured stress, never realizing that our never-ending quest for more is what is ultimately giving us the feeling of dissatisfaction.

While you can read about entire 12-month journey in our book, The Year without a Purchase, here are a few nuggets we have personally found helpful to review now that we’re finally allowed to shop again.

FIVE THINGS YOU THINK YOU NEED BUT YOU DON'T

1. NEW CLOTHES

My wife often asks me, “Are you naked from the waist down?”

As you might imagine, this question always captures my full attention. That is, until I realize that she is simply responding to my comment that, “I need a new pair of pants.”

Clothing is one of the big areas where we often confuse “need” with “want.” And I’m not the only one. The EPA estimates that each American throws away nearly seventy pounds of clothing per year.

Seventy pounds!

So, I only need those new pants if I am, as my wife says, in danger of getting arrested for public indecency. Otherwise, it’s an option. And our family was able to survive an entire year without buying a single stitch of clothing. And no one made fun of us.

At least not to our faces.

2. MORE STORAGE

It is estimated that the average American home contains over 300,000 items, and America itself is home to 50,000 self-storage facilities. That’s over twice the number of Starbucks locations worldwide! Our problem isn’t that we don’t have enough storage, it’s that we have too much stuff.

Often times we hold onto items because we can easily rationalize their value to us, whether it’s sentimental, or tangible. We can think of millions of situations where we might need an item. Yet, miraculously, we haven’t needed the item but one time in the past four years.

If you’re holding onto something, take the "Not Much, Not Me" challenge by asking yourself these two questions. 1) “What horrible thing would happen if I didn’t have this thing in the future?” and 2) “Who would get the most use out of this thing?” If the answers are “Not much” and “Not me,” get rid of it and get a small piece of your life back.

3. A NEW CAR

There used to be a time when auto makers touted a three-year cycle for purchasing new vehicles. Whether that was ever true is subject to debate, but the latest research shows the average age of vehicles on the road is 11.4 years.

Today, cars last far longer than they used to, and are far cheaper to maintain. Whenever you get that urge to upgrade and take on another car payment, remember this statistic: it only costs $151 more per year to maintain a car between 6-15 years old than it does to maintain a newer auto. That’s far less than a single month of payments, and the old wheels still get you from point A to point B.

4. MORE SPACE

Hypocrisy alert! It’s hard for me to write this, as my family is in the process of moving to a different home. But any time we say, “our little 1700 square foot house is too small,” we know it’s all in our heads. Even though our two extremely loud kids make the place feel like an echo chamber.

But statistics show the average American home size has nearly tripled since the 1950’s. Back then, a single family home averaged just 983 square feet. Today, it’s 2624. At the same time, the average size family has shrunk from 3.5 people to 2.5. Granted, people are bigger these days, but I’m guessing we don’t need an extra 1641 square feet for our girth alone.

Bottom line: rather than asking, “What are we missing by not having more space?” I need to remind myself to ask, “What do we gain by being closer together as a family?”

5. THE APPROVAL OF OTHERS

Ah yes! This was one of the biggest things I learned from our experiment. When I found myself wanting to buy something, whether it was different clothes or a different car, I would have to ask, “Why do you want it?” At best, I simply wanted the item because it would make my life simpler or better. Like a four slice toaster or an ultra-thin laptop for traveling.

But often, when I dug beneath the surface, there were many things I wanted because I thought they would make me better.

I am a professional, so I should get some better clothes!

How can my clients take me seriously if I show up to our meeting in my 15-year-old, compact car?

Our kitchen table looks like it’s been bouncing down a rocky cliff since the late 1980’s and just now landed in our house. What does that say about us?!

You see, “stuff” isn’t inherently bad. What is bad is the meaning we derive from it. The instant we begin to let our stuff define who we are, that’s when we start to tell Our Maker that the way he designed us just isn’t good enough. When we start to compare the cutting room floor of our own lives with the highlight reel on Facebook or TV commercials, we start to believe that perfect is normal. We start to believe that we are “less than.” We start to believe our worth is tied up in how others perceive us.

Here’s a news flash for you. There is no bigger lie.

The truth is, whatever your life situation, your stuff does not define you. In the end, the only thing we truly need is to fill ourselves to overflowing with the knowledge that we are all beautifully flawed and wonderfully made. To see ourselves as God sees us, and then give that same unconditional love to others.

I’ll buy that.

And I hope you will, too.

* Enjoy this post?  For more, just preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon launching August 4th from WJK Press (We know... dripping with irony...but there's always the library!). And, to see more posts like this, submit your email at the upper right to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter @sdannemiller.  Cheers!

Incredibly Ironic Cheap-o Book Offer for Blog Followers

Hey there avid readers!  By now, you've probably figured out that I wrote a book called The Year without a Purchase about not buying anything for a year.  Some of you were there with us to follow along on the blog, and maybe even tried the little experiment yourselves.  For this, we thank you!

* Me visiting my book at a friend's house, since she got it before I did. But I'm not bitter.

Now we're redefining irony and hypocrisy by selling the book about not buying anything.  Our publisher, Westminster John Knox Press, has been kind enough to provide a special discount code for those who want to get in on the preordering.  So, if you have any interest, you can visit the publisher page and enter the code YEAR40 at checkout to get 40% off the cover price. (New price = $9.00 just for you!) The page even has a gigantic button to download the first two chapters for free so you can try before you buy.

That said, if you are a loyal Amazon or Barnes & Noble person who gets free shipping, you can visit their sites and purchase as well.  B&N has a slightly better deal at the time, but that can always change.

Thanks again for being loyal followers of the blog.  We're grateful.

Peace!

-Scott

To The Moms: My Apologies

Hey there folks!  I wrote a piece a couple of weeks ago that has spread across the interwebs like wildfire.  Or a case of herpes.  It all depends upon your perspective, I guess.  While many found the piece helpful and uplifting, some of those who read it were deeply offended. To those who I offended, I sincerely say thank you for taking the time to write to me comments or emails and let me know about it.  I appreciate hearing your perspective.  The online forum is an open one where everyone can and should participate via email or otherwise.

First off, the words on my page are mine, and I own the fact that they hurt some people, including you.  This was not the intended result, but it is indeed what happened, and for that, I apologize.  Some interpreted my words to mean that I hated crafting, that people who do it are only doing it to impress other moms, and that everyone should stop doing it because it was a big waste of time.  Again, not the intent, but that’s how some viewed it, in many cases due to the way I crafted the message.  I’ve been called a “dick”, “sociopathic”, a “sack of shit”, a "douchebag", an abusive husband, awful father, misogynist, and much more.   I haven't read all of the comments, but I definitely got the message.

My blog was aimed specifically at moms who are constantly trying to keep up with some image of perfection in their heads.  It was for the ones who see gifted moms doing wonderful things and then thinking they are not good enough because they can’t measure up.  I wanted to highlight that this competition was all in their minds because most of these people who do the fun crafts are doing it because they love it, not because they want to one-up another mom.  My wife is one of the people who created the cute little fruit cups out of a sense of obligation, staying up late and wondering why she was doing it.  This is all spelled out in the article, but my attempt at humor obscured this message for some.

The "Suzie" I mention in the article is not a real person.  She's just a caricature and not reality.    What I was trying to convey is that Suzie is good at being Suzie and she should keep doing what she loves.  Because Suzie isn’t judging.  She’s just doing it out of love.  It's the intent that truly matters.  And I honor your intent and celebrate it.  If that did not come across in my article, I am sorry for that.

With that said, I do hope you will continue reading, but I completely respect your decision if you don't.  Thanks again for your attention.

Peace to you and yours,

Scott

To The Moms: Just Stop It

Writers note:  While most have found this piece helpful and uplifting, some have been offended by it.  If you get to the bottom (or even just mid-way through) and find yourself wanting to punch your computer screen, please read my apology. I got home after midnight from a business trip last night. That’s probably why I didn’t notice it until the morning. This bag. Alone. On the kitchen table.

Normally, getting my kids to the breakfast table is like trying to coax a couple of cats into a swimming pool. As soon as they wake up, they hide under blankets on the couch and make strange noises. But this morning was a different story.

Audrey came out of the bedroom, wiped the sleep from her eyes, and went right to the table. She sat in front of the bag with a smile on her face.

“What’s the bag for?” I asked as I created my super-duper breakfast parfaits. Colorful layers of yogurt, fruit, and cereal.

“We got it for our end-of-year party yesterday.” She reached into the bag.

“What did you get?”

She started pulling out different items and commenting.

“Goldfish crackers… Some cookies… ooooooh! Gummy worms! And a mustache!”

“Cool!”

The morning went on as usual, with me reminding the kids to brush their teeth, make their beds, and get a summer job. (Note: “I’m only seven” is not an excuse.) We finally made it out the door and walked to school as a family unit.

When Gabby and I got back home, I tidied up the breakfast mess before getting to work. When I reached down to pick up all of the things that Audrey had removed from her bag, I did a double-take.

Every single item was accessorized. Little notes. Ribbons. Sayings. Like a professional stylist had just prepped them for the red carpet at some weird awards ceremony for pre-packaged snacks.

Follow me on this one. I truly appreciate that people have taken so much time to make sure my child felt important yesterday. Craftiness is a gift. One I do not possess. I am awestruck by the flawless execution of cuteness on these snacks. And I realize the inherent hypocrisy of my statement, since I am guilty of adding a bit of “flair” to the breakfast parfaits from time-to-time.

But for some of you, it's exhausting, right?

As the man who is married to the person who reluctantly put googley eyes and a graduation cap on all the fruit cups, I feel I am qualified to offer this sage advice to the mothers of the world who do this kind of thing through gritted teeth out of a sense of obligation.

Stop it!

Just. Stop. It.

Here’s a theory for you. There's a type of person who actually enjoys doing this kinda thing. She sits whistling in her craft room, making little doo-dads out of marshmallow fluff and fairy turds while bluebirds flit about her shoulders -- and she's having fun. Meanwhile, all the rest of the moms are like:

“$#!+. That f’in party is tomorrow, and I gotta’ come up with something cute for the kids, cause you know Susie Craftsalot is gonna’ make the Taj Mahal of lemon bars. Here, let me just slap some googley eyes and some construction paper on this fruit cup and call it good.”

So now we’re all working to impress Susie Craftsalot, hoping to measure up. All the while, she doesn’t give a flying unicorn fart what we made.  Not because she thinks she's better, but because she’s honestly, genuinely surrounded by the intrinsic joy of making creative stuff. That, or she’s too damn distracted by the little field mouse she trained to ride a unicycle to deliver her handmade, end-of-year teacher gifts.

Whatever the case, for most of you moms out there, the competition is all in your head. And so is Susie Craftsalot.   Some folks love to do this kinda' thing, and that's totally cool.  But if it's not you, then don't try to be something you're not. Because the results of our endless impress-a-thon are not good. A survey of 7,000 women show that their average stress level is 8.5 out of 10. Nearly 50% report suffering from “Pinterest Stress” – not feeling crafty enough. And three out of four say “the pressure they place on themselves is worse than any pressure or judgment they get from other moms.”

I remember when crackers used to be enough. You probably do, too. Can we get back to that place, please? Deep down, we know we’re not doing it for the kids. They couldn’t care less. My daughter didn’t even notice the adornments. But she did appreciate the snacks.

And you know what? No one will judge you for bringing a box of Chips Ahoy. Or an unopened bag of string cheese. And if they do, why do you care? Pardon my fit of cynicism here, but we spend far too much time and effort worrying about what others will think, forgetting that most don't even notice.  And those few who do are likely too self-absorbed to be a true friend to you anyway.

So stop it. No more worrying. No more needless effort.  No more made-up competition.

Because oranges are enough.

Cookies are enough.

You are enough.

* Enjoy this post?  For more, just preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon launching August 4th from WJK Press. And, to see more posts like this, submit your email at the upper right to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook.  Cheers!

What Would Happen If We Just Quit Asking?

“Remember! Take your time! It’s not a race!”

I called out to my son as he headed off to school to take standardized tests last week. We had heard horror stories from other parents about how their kids were filled with anxiety over being assessed, curling up into crying balls on the floor. To prevent this problem, we didn’t talk about the exams at all, save for this one piece of advice.

Later that afternoon, Jake came bounding in, filled with energy.

“How was your test today, buddy?” I asked.

“Good,” he chirped.

I prodded, looking for more detail. “Just good?”

“Yeah. I’m white.”

“Huh?”

“The test says I’m white.”

“What do you mean?” I was confused, wondering if this was a new category on his color-coded behavior chart. Or maybe they had already received their test results and he was in the “white” range.

“Someone filled out the top part of the test for us. Ben was black. Arjun got Asian. I got white.”

He “got” white. Like they were handing out popsicles or something.

“But you’re not white.” I corrected. “You’re Asian-American.”

“Like Arjun?”

“No, he’s from India. Your mom is half Japanese.”

He quizzed me. “India and Japan are both Asia?”

“Yeah... I think?” Before he could test more of my geography knowledge, I added “You’re technically Japanese American.”

“But how can I be Japanese, Dad? You’re not Japanese.“ He paused for emphasis. “You’re like… pink!”

I wondered whether or not I should be offended. He continued his assessment, turning toward Audrey and saying,

“I bet I would be a lot darker if mom had married another Asian.”

To which my seven-year-old daughter replied,

“True. But I don’t think that’s going to happen.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh because it’s funny, or cry because it’s true. Here I was, a white dad, trying to explain the construct of race to my Asian-American kids, and they couldn’t care less about the subject. And all because of a pre-filled bubble on a standardized test. The whole episode had me wondering:

Why do we even ask the race question any more?

From an accountability standpoint, I understand why we need to know a person’s race. The Civil Rights Act was a beautiful piece of legislation. It was one of those rare times in our nation’s history when capitalism took a back seat to doing the right thing. Imagine if you owned a lunch counter in Mississippi in 1962.   Serving “colored people” might hurt your business. So the Federal government thankfully stepped in and made it illegal to discriminate based on sex, race, color, religion, or national origin. And today, capturing demographic information helps us see if particular groups of people are being denied jobs, loans, or opportunities based on the color of their skin.

It’s an accountability thing. So we count.

But not very well.

Consider a recent leadership meeting my wife attended at our church. The team was reviewing the demographics of our congregation to see if we mirrored the community where we live.   Gabby pointed to the document and noted,

“This says there are no Asians in our church.”

“That’s right,” someone offered.

She raised her hand, “Ummm… we should have at least one. Right?”

*insert awkward silence*

To be fair, my wife is like an optical illusion.  She can look Asian, Hispanic, or Caucasian depending on whether we're eating at Pei Wei, El Chico, or Applebees.

Gabby filled the void by asking, “How do we determine this information? Do we just look at people and take a guess?”

That's when someone chimed in and said what everyone was thinking,

"We definitely shouldn't be guessing."

Again, laugh because it’s funny, and cry because it’s true. All of us adults are trying hard to get it right, but still making mistakes.  There is a genuine intent to honor the experiences of others, and race plays a part.  At the same time, I'm finding that my own kids seem to be oblivious to their own race, and we’ve told them dozens of times. It’s like they have racial amenesia or something. Or maybe they’re allergic to labels.

If so, they’re not the only ones.

In the most recent US Census, “Some Other Race” was the third largest racial category chosen. And it’s not for lack of options. The form allows people to select between White, Black, African American, Negro, Hispanic, Latino, Cuban, Puerto Rican, Spanish, American Indian, Alaska Native, Asian Indian, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Guamanian, Samoan, Chamoro, Filipino, Hawaiian, or Pacific Islander.

Yet “Some Other Race” was number three.

This has the Census Bureau confounded. They are trying mightily to fix this problem to assure people accurately categorize themselves. They’re even working with the US Office of Management and Budget to adjust the “official” race categories. I know it’s silly to imagine, but yes, there are people whose job it is to determine what races are “official” in America. And it’s rather arbitrary, like trying to determine how many squares a roll of toilet paper should have, or what name to give the latest nail polish color at the Clinique counter. Looking at a brief history of how these decisions were made in the past, I was simultaneously amused, confused, and outraged.

The funny thing is, we’ve been doing all of this counting, since 1790, and every decade the number of boxes grows ever larger, with no end in sight. In fact, Census Bureau is testing a question for the 2020 form that adds a space beneath each racial and ethnic category so each person can write in his or her own description.

Yes. A fill-in-the-blank census.

As crazy as it sounds, it is probably the most accurate measure we could have. While it’s human nature to want to put people into boxes to make sense of the world, humans themselves resist being placed into boxes. I’m not sure why this is. Maybe it’s because our egos don’t like being pigeon-holed. Or maybe it’s because the Constitution says that we’re all created equal, and labeling groups of people only encourages stereotyping and generalizations.

Or maybe it’s because God never intended it to be that way.

I know I am a naïve idealist given the current state of race relations in our country, but I believe there’s some truth in the words of Roger Rosenblatt, who, at the turn of the millennium wrote this in his Letter To The Year 2100,

“U.S. immigration officials recently predicted that by 2050 (50 years ago for you), nearly half the country's population will be nonwhite. There are more interracial marriages every year. I like to picture you all as a nice, rich shade of beige.”

It sounds nice, doesn’t it? Rosenblatt is on to something here. Maybe the solution to our problems isn’t ever more boxes to check on a census form, church register, or standardized test. Maybe what we’re truly after is something completely different. Think about it…

If we no longer asked the question, would division no longer matter?

It’s worth considering. And worth an investment of prayer and hope. That Rosenblatt’s words would somehow come true. All of us checking a single box. The human race. Created equal and treated as such. Seven billion unique expressions of the image of God.

Loving each other into oneness.

* Enjoy this post?  For more, just preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon launching August 4th from WJK Press. And, to see more posts like this, submit your email at the upper right to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook.  Cheers!

The Two Most Important Things To Teach Our Kids

I was lying in bed a couple weeks ago when it happened.

“$#!^!”

I tried to reel it back in, but the expletive was out of my mouth. I sat bolt upright, pulling the covers off my wife. She put down her book and looked at me like I was a crazy person.

“What is wrong with you?!” she asked.

Panicked, I said, “We only have six days left, and we haven't done enough!”

Somehow, in my twilight sleep, my mind flashed back to an article she read when our kids were infants. It stated that parents are the chief architects of a child’s moral compass through age 8. After that, kids begin to question the infallibility of adults in their lives and look to their peers for guidance. Even if those peers are throwing bricks off an overpass and snorting cinnamon.

So, with my son’s 9^th birthday fast approaching, a sense of doubt washed over me. If you’re a parent, you’ve probably felt it, too. Silently wondering if you’re doing it right, but knowing deep down that you haven’t done enough.

The next day, I Googled “top things to teach your kids” to find out just how much I had failed. One article listed five things of critical importance. Another had twenty-seven. One even listed 100 things. It was completely overwhelming. Especially considering I still haven’t been able to teach my kids to chew with their mouths closed or apologize for farting in my lap.

However, just before my downward spiral hit rock bottom, something miraculous happened. A still, small voice in my soul broke through the malaise and said:

Just because something is hard doesn’t mean it has to be complicated.

And that voice is absolutely correct. Our problem as parents is not that we don’t have enough information - it’s that we have too much. Parenting today is like being trapped in a dryer full of “should have’s” and an “ought to’s”. The chaos spins all around us, but there isn’t a single thing we can hold onto for assurance.

In an effort to simplify parenting and get back what’s truly important, I dove into the research looking for common themes. And while there may be countless lessons we must teach our kids, I discovered two that stood out above all the rest. Two simple things that have the greatest chance of creating the society we all crave, filled with happy, productive adults that we don’t want to punch in the throat.

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#1: Courage

In the age of helicopter parenting, raising courageous kids can be difficult. As the television fills our heads with fear of kidnappings and sexual predators, we grow ever more protective. We teach about stranger danger and conduct our surveillance from the cradle to the college campus using every device imaginable.

But here’s what has me scratching my head. There has never been a safer time to be a kid in America. A recent Washington Post article points out that mortality rates have fallen by nearly half since 1990. Reports of missing persons are down by 40% since 1997. Before you say, “that’s probably because we’re now watching our kids all the time!” note that 96% of missing persons cases are runaways.

So, not only is our over-parenting unnecessary, it’s also counter-productive. Our well-intentioned protection is actually creating a society of fearful, dependent adults.

Surveys show roughly one-third of professional employers today report parents submitting resumes on behalf of their child. One-quarter say a parent has called to advocate for their child being hired. And nearly one-in-ten accompany their child to the interview.

As parents, we must reverse this trend. We must give our children the courage to face adversity on their own.

Make no mistake, courage is not confidence. Kids today are more confident than ever. Even when there is no justified reason. Courage, on the other hand, comes from the latin word, “cor”, meaning “heart.” Courage is defined as “the ability to do something that frightens you,” or “strength in the face of pain or grief.”

And this is what our kids need.

Because one thing is certain in this life. Our children will fail. No matter how smart, confident or hard working they may be. But studies show that kids who are most likely to achieve their goals are those who find their true passion and doggedly pursue it. But it’s important to note that these passions are not painted on by a parent from the outside. No, they bubble up from within. And they become so all-consuming that the child can’t help but find joy in the pursuit itself, no matter the outcome.

Instilling such courage in our kids requires that we parent at arm’s length. Or farther. Offering autonomy, support, and en-courage-ment. So our kids can become who God made them to be.

In His image.

Not ours.

Yes, this is the courage we must teach. But it’s not enough.

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#2: Compassion

Like me, you likely feel that you do a good job of encouraging your kids without pushing too hard. You cheer them on, teaching the value of working hard to achieve a goal. The question becomes: how might our kids interpret all of this encouragement?

The Make Caring Common project at Harvard University recently surveyed 10,000 kids. What they found is both interesting and convicting.

Nearly 80 percent of the youth in the study said their parents were more concerned with their achievement or happiness than whether they cared for others. The interviewees were also three times more likely to agree that “My parents are prouder if I get good grades than if I’m a caring community member in class and school.”

Ouch.

Unfortunately, this is the result when we emphasize our kids’ courageous accomplishments in hopes of reinforcing effort and building self-esteem. They interpret this intense focus on achievement as an indicator of what is important in life.

But Brad Bushman, a research psychologist at Ohio State University, cautions that how we praise our children has a huge impact not only on what they believe is most important, but who is most important. His research found that overvaluing your child’s accomplishments, especially telling them how “smart” or how “special” they are, can lead to narcissism.

And this is how courage gets corrupted.

While self-esteem is believing your worth is equal to anyone else’s, narcissism is believing you are better than everyone else. And this can be very damaging character trait. Jean Twenge, who studies narcissism, notes that narcissists tend to lack empathy and have trouble maintaining relationships.

So why does this matter?

In the end, we all just want our children to be happy, right? But virtually every research paper written about happiness shows that the two biggest building blocks for sustained joy (besides health) are 1) having meaningful relationships, and 2) serving others. That’s right. These two trump money, trophies, and trips to the beach. Every. Single. Time. But all the courage in the world won’t give you strong relationships and a servant’s heart. It takes compassion.

Compassion comes from the Latin word meaning “to suffer with.” Compassion starts with sympathy - the ability to understand a person’s circumstances. And this sympathy grows into empathy - the ability to truly feel what another person is feeling. Even if they are suffering.

And compassion?

Compassion is empathy with action.

Compassion is how relationships are built and maintained. Friendships. Teams. Marriages. Compassion is about paying attention to the quiet voices of those on the margins. Hearing them. Feeling them. And then acting as though the interests of others are just as important as your own. Even when society and the scoreboard tell you something different.

Yes, we must teach our children to have compassion like this. And this type of compassion requires courage. The two go hand-in-hand.

Courage and compassion.

Inseparable.

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As I write these words, my oldest child is now 9 years old. There is already evidence that my influence is waning. We share fewer hugs in the school drop off line. His taste in music is becoming his own. Heck, he’s even spouting slang that I don’t understand.

Still, I refuse to believe that my time is up.

Amid the slamming doors and silent dinners to come, I’m sure there will be times I’ll feel like a failure. In those moments, my head will likely become a spin cycle of “should have’s” and “ought to’s”. But in those moments, my prayer is that I can be a father who has courage enough to show love without condition and compassion enough to see them for who they are. The ones I have raised. The ones I love. The courageous, compassionate children of God.

And in the end, that will always be enough.

* Enjoy this post?  For more, just preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon launching August 4th from WJK Press. And, to see more posts like this, submit your email at the upper right to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook.

The Church Is Not Your Home

An atheist walked into three churches last Sunday.

I know. Sounds like the beginning of a great joke. In fact, you could probably come up with an awesome punch line.

But it’s no joke.

A recent Christian Today article tells the story of Sanderson Jones, the leader of Sunday Assembly – also known as the “atheist church.” Jones’ mission was to attend three London church services in one day. But he wasn’t there to debunk Christianity. No. In his words, he was just “learning from the pros.”

Jones walked away with a great appreciation for communion and prayer. While he was not converted, he was most affected by the way in which churches welcomed him and gave him a sense of belonging.

I believe Jones experienced what every single one of our churches is trying to offer. We all want to do the work of Jesus by welcoming others like guests in our home. I’ve heard that phrase a lot lately as my own church seeks to reach the community in more meaningful ways.

Like guests in our home.

It’s a wonderful analogy, isn’t it? We roll out the red carpet for houseguests. We offer them our best food and drink. We break out the fine china. Heck, we even let them use the special towels that normally stay locked behind some sort of invisible force field in our bathrooms, never to be touched by an actual family member.

In this sense, Jones is absolutely right. Christians are pros at welcoming. If welcoming were an Olympic sport, churches would be Michael Phelps, only with coffee stations and tuna hot dish. But here’s the problem:

I’m afraid the mindset behind our welcoming spirit might slowly, subtly be killing our church.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not saying our churches should stop welcoming visitors. And I’m not saying church shouldn’t feel like a place where you belong. What I am saying is that we need to stop viewing our churches as our homes. And here’s the reason.

While I am very welcoming to my guests, I also see my home as mine. A possession. You probably do, too. And so I create rules and expectations to protect it. I’m kinda’ particular about the grass. The mower lines should run diagonally. And the spoons should never “spoon” in the dishwasher. Kids should never eat in the living room. And I’m fairly certain that failure to use a coaster is acceptable grounds for divorce in 36 of the 50 states. These rules are our custom, and we’re unlikely to adapt quickly.

When we do have parties for others, we relax these rules. We also vacuum the carpet, mop the floor, and scour the kitchen to make things bright and shiny for our guests. All the messy stuff stays behind closed doors or tucked away in closets, just waiting to pounce on someone who mistakenly thinks it’s the entrance to the bathroom.

Finally, while those parties may be absolutely fantastic, I have to admit that they usually only happen on the weekends, and they are normally limited to friends of friends who we know will enjoy each other’s company. But during the week, the house is largely empty, save for immediate family.

Sound familiar?

Again, please don’t misunderstand me. Our churches do amazing things. We go on mission trips. We sponsor charities. We bring the gospel to people desperately in need of a “good news” story.

But the truth is, when we think of the church, we see it as ours. Like our home. A possession.

And it has to stop.

We have rules and traditions that start to take on a God-like quality in the way we worship them. Then we wonder why some see Christians as rigid and inflexible.

We primp and prime for the big party on Sunday and greet folks with big smiles, while hiding the messy realities of church life in the closet. Then we wonder why some see Christians as lacking authenticity.

We spend roughly 82% of our church budgets on staff and buildings that are only open a few hours per week, mostly for programs designed specifically for our members. Then we wonder why some see Christians as selfish.

When I work with congregations, I often ask the members what they love most about their church. And 9 times out of 10, the response is,

“It’s like a big family.”

And every time I hear this, I cringe a little.

Please don’t misunderstand me. Families are beautiful. My own family is incredibly welcoming. At the same time, we’re also loud and boisterous and overwhelming. We have inside jokes and tired old stories. If you’re spending Thanksgiving with us for the first time it can be downright exhausting. And exclusive. As an outsider, you are left to try and quickly understand decades of history and assimilate quickly.

The sad truth is, we ask our church guests to do the exact same thing.

We absolutely want them to be members of the family. We invite them warmly. But rather than meet them where they are, we ask them to meet us where we are. The result? Those who are drawn to us, and therefore drawn to Jesus, will be those who tend to worship like us, believe like us, and look like us. Threading the impossibly narrow eye of the needle.

And we wonder why church membership is declining.

But here’s the good news. We need not take up such a heavy burden. Christ never asked us to own His church or His building. No. Man was simply the rock it was built upon. Consider the scriptures:

The Earth is the Lord’s and everything in it. The world and all its people belong to him. (Psalm 24:1 NIV)

We are here to support God’s creation. As stewards. And it’s time we recapture that call. As church leaders, we must begin to see ourselves as caretakers of sacred ground rather than owners of a house.

Because the church is not our home. We do not possess it. We shouldn’t try to tame it any more than we should try and reign in nature. Consider the parks where gates are wide and all are welcome. This is what our churches should be. Open to all at any time. Some people come to work. Others come for recreation. Still more come to rest.

The caretakers of such spaces don’t care why you are there. They only want to assure that, no matter the reason you have come, you will feel the beauty and magnificence of Our Creator. They also hope the beauty you experience will be so real, so palpable, that you have no choice but to share the experience with others. Like vacation photos of the Grand Canyon that never quite do it justice.

There are glimpses of this in our own communities. Some churches operate food pantries. Others have given up their buildings altogether to provide transitional housing for those on the margins. I think of a recent Monday night at my own church, where a dozen homeless men slept in a fellowship hall, while Alcoholics Anonymous met in a preschool classroom, and a community development meeting took place in the sanctuary. Not a single event for church members.

But the family of God was there.

So I pray today that this will be our call. That we may tirelessly look for ways to be caretakers of the church where we serve. To look for ways to use our buildings and our gifts not for ourselves, but for others. And in so doing, may the light of Christ show through our generosity. Our openness. And our selflessness. Reaching out to the family of God.

Welcoming them home.

* Enjoy this post?  For more, just preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon launching August 4th from WJK Press. And, to see more posts like this, submit your email at the upper right to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook.  Cheers!

Through The Eyes of a Child: Baltimore and Beyond

When you’re north of 40 years old with two kids, spring break looks a lot different than it did in your twenties. Instead of beaches, beer and poor life choices that end with a misspelled tattoo, you take a Tennessee road trip with your family. While that may sound simple, it’s anything but. Allow me to explain.

Our trip started innocently enough, with a plan to stay at the Peabody Hotel in Memphis. The place is known for its small army of ducks that live on the roof and ride the elevator to the lobby each morning to swim in the fountain. It’s like a fairy tale, and well worth the price of admission, especially if your room is free courtesy of some credit card points.

On day two, we rose early with our hearts set on seeing the Memphis Zoo. After a big Southern breakfast of grits, gravy and grease, we loaded into the car. As we rounded the corner just two blocks from the restaurant, I caught sight of a large sign that read:

Lorraine Motel

“Isn’t that where Martin Luther King was assassinated?” I asked.

“It is.” Gabby replied. “And now it’s the National Civil Rights Museum.”

I glanced back at the kids, still sporting syrup on their chins.

Pulling into the parking lot, I murmured, “Maybe we can just look at it from the outside?”

“Is this the zoo?” Audrey asked, amazed that the trip was so short.

“It’s a museum!” I said.

She elongated her response with a well-placed whine. “A museeeeeuuuuuuum?!?!”

“Don’t worry honey. We’ll go to the zoo in a minute. I just want to see something.”

Gabby and I got out of the car and stood outside the hotel. The kids bolted across the parking lot like a couple escaped convicts, and behaved as such, lacking only the orange jumpsuits. I looked up at the small, nondescript building. The balcony outside room 306 looked just like it did in pictures I’ve seen of the night Dr. King was assassinated.

When I looked back toward the plaza, the kids were standing at a kiosk, wildly pressing buttons. When we finally caught up to them, they were halfway through a short video.

“What’s this about?” Jake asked.

“Remember your teacher talking about Martin Luther King, Jr.?”

He nodded.

“It’s about how he led a movement to change laws so people wouldn’t be mistreated because of the color of their skin.”

Audrey immediately ran to the next kiosk. Jake, distracted, ran to catch up to her. There were a half-dozen stands in all, and they stopped at every one, watching the videos and growing calmer with each passing minute, occasionally glancing up at the balcony where King was shot. I grew nervous. Some of the images were hard to stomach. Angry people yelling at lunch counters. Fists pounding. Dogs barking. Faces marked with dripping blood.

I thought to myself. This isn’t appropriate. They’re only 7 and 8. This is too much for young kids.

When they finished the final video, we were standing right by the door to the museum.

“Can we go in?” Audrey asked.

“This isn’t the zoo,” I reminded them, hoping they would drop it.

They didn’t.

Gabby looked at me and shrugged a “why not?” I tried to manipulate the situation, feeling hypocritical based on my recent post about racism and the need to move beyond our shame.

“Audrey. There are no animals inside,” I quipped. “And no rides.”

“I know.”

“No cotton candy.”

“I know dad. Let’s go see it!”

She tugged on my arm and pulled me toward the door. I told the kids that this was a quiet place. Not just regular quiet. Silent quiet. To which they replied that they knew dad.

They knew.

And they still wanted to go.

At that moment, I heard God say,

If your kids want to go learn about civil rights instead of petting goats at the zoo for the zillionth time, then take them to the museum, you moron!

Message received.

As Gabby bought the tickets, I started to sweat at the thought of my two young, white kids running and screaming through the civil rights museum. They are nothing if not loud, irreverent, and unfiltered. Unless this was the most inappropriate museum in the history of museums, there wouldn’t likely be any Emmit Till’s Tilt-A-Whirl or Jackie Robinson’s “Bat Like The Pros” baseball challenge to sap their energy.

But then it dawned on me that it wasn’t their behavior I was worried about. This would be heavy. And messy. And real. There would be confusion and sadness and heartache and questions. Questions for which this father has no answers.

We walked through the turnstile. I took comfort in the fact that the kids wouldn’t last more than fifteen minutes. It was clear their motivation was seeing the inside of room 306, which was at the end of the tour, and the mystery pulled them along like a rushing stream.

Then something happened.

The stream stopped rushing.

And so did they.

They listened.

They read.

Audrey crouched down in an exhibit that demonstrated how slaves were chained in a 3’ x 3’ space when they were transported across the Atlantic.

We sat in the bus seat next to Rosa Parks and listened to the recorded voice of a bus driver telling her to give up her seat to a white man.

Jake watched videos of people battered and broken for daring to sit at a lunch counter.

And they were quiet. Silent quiet.

Standing next to Jake at an exhibit on Brown vs. The Board of Education, I saw a question come across his face. I knew he was thinking of his best friend at school, who is African-American.

He asked, “Dad? So I couldn’t go to school with Ben back then?”

“Nope,” I said.

He paused, then muttered, “That’s stupid.”

More uncomfortable questions came. With an innocence that fails to phrase things in a politically correct fashion. And I continued to sweat. I did the best I could, but sometimes my best answer was, “I don’t know.”

In the questions and the confusion, fifteen minutes turned into three hours.

Three. Hours.

The zoo became an afterthought. My heart swelled along with my feet. The experience was heavy, and depressing and sad. It was also hopeful, inspirational and soul-stirring. It was one of the most profound moments I have ever shared with my children.

And I almost missed it.

And this is what I think Jesus was getting at when he said:

“Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the Kingdom of Heaven.” (Matt 18:3 NIV)

Too often I try and shield my kids from the ugliness of reality. I want to sanitize the truth to make it more palatable, transforming the nightly news into a made-for-Disney script where it’s easy to tell the good guys from the bad guys, and everything is resolved with the wave of a wand. But here’s the problem with that.

Kids know fairy tales aren’t real.

And what I learned that day at the museum is that we can’t reduce the civil rights struggle down to the “I Have A Dream” speech any more than we can say that the resurrection is a story about Jesus “going up to be with God in Heaven.” By doing so we turn reality into a buttoned-up fairy tale with easy answers. A concluded story that has already been written.

But reality is messy. And ugly. And heart-breaking.

Reality is Selma. And Ferguson. And Baltimore.

Reality is nails and wood. A crown of thorns. A pierced side.

But reality is also a place where we live. Where we contribute to a story with no set rules and no easy answers. One where we can help write the ending. And in this quest, one thing is certain. Healing begins with a change of heart. And our hearts will never be changed if we choose to stand outside the fray, looking on like a patron outside a museum. Unfazed, untouched and uncommitted. We must be willing to pay our admission. To abandon the fairy tale, acting like adults with all of the answers, and instead approach the messiness with a child-like innocence.

With curiosity.

And wonder.

And hope.

* Since my last post, The Shame of Silence, people have asked how they can get involved.  For Nashville residents, I have found NOAH (Nashville Organized for Action and Hope) that works for affordable housing, economic equity, and criminal justice.  For those living elsewhere, consult the NAACP website to find a local advocacy group in your area.  Finally, if you enjoyed this post, submit your email at the upper right to receive new blogs hot n fresh to your inbox.  Or, Like us on Facebook.  And, for the die hard fans, we invite you to preorder Scott's book about his family's Year Without A Purchase on Barnes & Noble or Amazon, due out August 4th from WJK Press.

The Hidden Danger In Our Favorite Hymn

I grew up Catholic. Even though I’m not practicing today, I have a reverence for the rituals of the faith. They were imprinted on my soul at a very young age. In fact, if you look closely at my ultrasound pic, you’ll see me executing a picture-perfect sign of the cross in utero.

What’s interesting about ritual is that it can become so automatic that we miss its significance. That is, until we see it in a different context.   Take, for example, the time we were teaching our son the Lord’s Prayer. We marveled with delight one evening at the dinner table as he made it through the first half all by himself. Then he said,

“Forgive us our trash passes as we forgive those who pass trash against us.”

Even though he wasn’t perfect, we had to give him bonus points for coming up with a translation that is likely a more accurate representation of what Our Savior intended. Now that ritual has new life and meaning for me.

You’ve probably had the same experience if you have ever tried to teach your kids this famous prayer.

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.

This is hands-down, the most popular bedtime prayer in the history of bedtime prayers. Ritual. However, if your kids really listen to the words, there is a good chance they will NEVER. SLEEP. AGAIN. Think about it.

Mommy, who is this Lord and why is he hoarding souls as I sleep? Is my bed really some sort of death trap? Is someone really going to kidnap my dead body?

Sweet dreams, kids!

Recently, in an attempt to recapture the meaning behind ritual, I found myself listening intently to what is perhaps the most beloved children’s hymn of all time. It was being sung by an angelic, smiling child in church.

Jesus loves me this I know For the Bible tells me so Little ones to Him belong They are weak yet He is strong Yes Jesus loves me The Bible tells me so

Simple words and a simple melody with a simple message. Beautiful and timeless. But I was struck by something.

For most of us, it’s just not true.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m not saying Jesus dislikes children. And I’m certainly not saying we should remove the song from the hymnal. What I am saying is most of us don’t know Christ’s love because of words we read in the Bible. No. Christ’s love is something beyond explanation that we have experienced in the flesh.

And this is where I have noticed a troubling trend. Or maybe it’s always been there. But I fear that it’s slowly becoming a ritual.

We’re worshipping the Bible at the expense of Jesus.

Christians today, myself included, recite scripture to illuminate some truth that we feel deep in our bones, hoping others might feel Christ’s love leap from the page and capture their hearts. Unfortunately, when we do this, we lock Jesus inside the Bible. Forgetting that the Bible is a book full of words.

And words can be troublesome.

Consider these “inspirational” words from a religious book that shall remain nameless. These texts were behind the killing of thousands on our soil and overseas.

Make ready to slaughter [the infidel’s] sons for the guilt of their fathers; Lest they rise and posses the earth, and fill the breadth of the world with tyrants.¹

Then I heard [God] say to the other men, “Follow him through the city and kill everyone whose forehead is not marked. Show no mercy; have no pity! Kill them all – old and young, girls and women and little children.”²

Cursed is he who does [God’s] work deceitfully, cursed is he who keeps back his sword from blood.³

As we read these words, our thoughts likely turn to 9/11 and the horrific tragedy that affected the world. Our hearts also go out to those in the Middle East tormented by ISIS. But there’s just one problem.

These scriptures are from our own Bible.

And there are hundreds more like them. Literally. Hundreds.

When I look to The Good Book for examples of God’s love and forgiveness, I also encounter words of God’s wrath and judgment. It’s confusing and contradictory. But no matter how hard I thump on my Bible, these scriptures just won’t fall out and leave only sunshine and rainbows behind.

The fact is, Christians throughout history have used the words of the Bible as a weapon to justify some horrible atrocities in the name of love. From the victimization of Native Americans to the Spanish Inquisition. And while only Christian extremists would justify such actions today, we also have to acknowledge that many of us, myself included, lift verses out of context to serve our own agenda. Leaning toward the side of judgment and away from the side of love.

But that’s when we must remember that many of the words we read today are the same ones Jesus pondered and prayed over. Ritually. And His life was a perfect testament to the idea that we should let words inspire and inform us, but when we are truly connected to God, it’s our actions that do the teaching.

Christ himself saved his wrath and judgment for the righteous. The ones who were caught up in living life by The Book yet ignoring the image of God standing before them in human form. Born of God, He understood the basic premise that humanity would never truly experience the love of God unless humans learned to give that love. Freely. Without condition.

Word made flesh.

The gospel of John tells us:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of all mankind. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

And later, the writer recounts Jesus’ arrival

The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the one and only Son, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth. (John 1: 1-5, 14 NIV)

And here we have all the illogical contradictions of the Bible summed up in the most beautiful logic problem ever. The Word = God. God = Life. Life = Light And this light exists in all of mankind. Made real through the example of Jesus Christ.

And for most of us, this love isn’t the result of some lines in a children’s song or words in The Book. We know the love of Christ because some human, flesh and blood, filled with light, has shown us this love and light in our darkest hour. They have ventured out beyond what is reasonable to demonstrate to us that God is alive in each and every one of us.

So today my prayer is that I can create a new ritual. Bringing the Word to life by showing others the love of Christ. With uncommon compassion and selfless service. For the broken and blessed. For the sinner and the saint. Pouring out my life like a song until all God’s children know every word.

By heart.

1. Isaiah 14:21 NAB 2. Ezekiel 9:5 NLT 3. Jeremiah 48:10 NKJV

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The Shame of Silence

I’m ashamed today.

Odds are you have seen it by now. The video of fraternity brothers in Oklahoma singing a racist song to the tune of “If You’re Happy And You Know It.” Certainly, the words they use are despicable. They chant racial slurs and reference lynching in such a nonchalant way that you might think they were singing about a school carnival. But far worse than the words are the intent behind them. These kids from my home state created an entire song to proclaim that African Americans were beneath them. Less than. Worthless. As an Okie myself, it’s hard to watch.

But our shared geography is not the reason for my shame.

Over the past several months the topic of race has been front and center. The death of Michael Brown in Ferguson, MO. The choking of Eric Garner in New York City. The shooting of Tamir Rice, a twelve-year-old boy in Cleveland who was killed for brandishing a toy gun in a park.   These incidents lit a fuse leading to demonstrations, protests and riots.

This whole time, I have sat silently on the sidelines trying to wrap my head around the news reports. What happened in those fateful moments between Michael Brown and the officer who took his life? Why does a community believe that rioting is the best way to bring attention to a crisis? What might cause a police officer to fear an unarmed man? How on earth could Garner lose his life for selling unpackaged cigarettes? How could two seconds end a child’s life? How could any of this happen? And who is to blame?

In my quest for answers, I have listened to interviews and read numerous articles, and several things are now clear to me.

I understand why Michael Brown and other black men are so distrusting of police.

I understand how officer Wilson might have felt threatened enough to pull the trigger and take the man’s life.

I understand why a community of voiceless people would riot.

I understand the arguments of those who say the riots did more harm than good.

I understand why a police officer in Staten Island might have felt the need to subdue a man who was resisting arrest.

I understand that Garner died of asphyxiation caused by a police-administered choke hold.

I understand how police might feel endangered if dispatchers did not inform them that Rice’s gun was a toy.

I understand how Tamir’s parents would feel outraged at an official report saying it was their son’s fault that a police officer shot him in the torso two seconds after arriving on the scene.

Yes. I understand.

I hoped all of this understanding would make me feel better about the whole situation.

But it doesn’t. And that’s why I’m ashamed.

I have been settling for understanding. I have convinced myself that my quest for facts and a balanced perspective has accomplished something. I argue it has helped me to remain level-headed in debate and assures no one gets too riled up.

But all of my understanding has accomplished absolutely nothing.

Yesterday, I sat in an airport terminal as CNN blasted the video of the frat boys singing their song. Talking heads on screen expressed outrage. Meanwhile, a big, boisterous fella’ sat across from me. He was a giant of a man. As he sat holding his newborn baby, his wife was arguing with him about how they should have packed more diapers. Half-listening, his gaze was fixed on the TV screen when he said,

“Sheesh. Here they go again. Last I checked, this country allows free speech.”

I winced.

His wife, embarrassed, immediately said, “Shhhhh!”

Even though she wasn’t talking to me, I complied. Slowly filling with shame.

Don’t get me wrong. I had a huge conversation in my head. I labeled him a racist. I wondered what might make him so insensitive. I tried to understand his perspective. I reasoned that his parents were probably raised in the Jim Crow south. I assumed he probably had no black friends, so he was ignorant of the double-standard.

But I still said nothing. And neither did anyone sitting at the gate. We didn’t want to ruffle feathers or cause a scene. So we all just sat in silence. Most of us praying we wouldn’t have to sit next to this man on the plane. Our shared responsibility became a shared excuse to do nothing. So we let it slide.

Every.

Last.

One.

And this is the problem with systemic prejudice. When everyone is responsible for fixing the problem, no one is responsible. I have been safely hiding behind the language of “We need to” and “They should stop”, completely ignoring my role. Owning my shame, yet offloading the blame.

And it has to stop.

For me, it starts with moving past understanding and moving toward action. For understanding alone is unacceptable.

I can understand that 27% of African Americans live below the poverty line, nearly four times the rate of whites.

But I cannot accept it.

I can understand that schools enrolling 90% students of color receive over $700 less per pupil than schools with 90% white students.

But I cannot accept it.

I can understand that blacks are incarcerated for drug offenses at a rate nearly ten times that of whites even though the rate of drug usage is fairly consistent among all races.

But I cannot accept it.

What I must accept is the fact that I am part of a broken system. An unfair system that I cannot change by myself. But silence is not the answer.

So I pray I will find ways to speak out against injustice every day. Even if I am unsure of the facts. Even if I do not truly understand. For in the end, the only fact that matters is that we are all created in the image and likeness of God. And allowing anyone to tarnish that image is to deny the God I profess to follow.

So Lord, today I ask for you to give me the strength. Give me the words. Give me the courage to lend my voice to the chorus.

Silent no more.

* Writers note:  Would love to hear suggestions from you Accidental Missionaries out there about the best ways to help.  Especially those directly affected.

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Busy Is A Sickness

I’m busy.

I don’t know about you, but anytime I am asked, “How’s it going?” I never just say “fine” anymore. Instead, my stock response is always some degree of frazzled. The scale ranges from “busy”, to “crazy busy” to “nutballs.”

The good news is, my answer is usually met with sympathetic response, which is as reassuring as it is depressing.

“Tell me about it! We are, too!”

“I know! Isn’t it insane!”

“There’s never enough time in the day, is there?”

But something changed about a month ago. I bumped into a friend at the gym. Instead of sympathizing when I said I was “crazy busy,” he simply asked,

“Really? So what do you have going on today?”

I had to stop and think for a moment. No one has ever asked me to “describe my busy.” So I conducted a mental review of our calendar before explaining that I had a worship band rehearsal in the morning, followed by a basketball game for my son, a church commitment for my wife, a birthday party for my daughter, and a date night that evening.

His response?

“Sounds like a full day. Have fun!”

At first, I was a bit resentful. He obviously misunderstood me. I wanted to remind him how horrible all of this was. I wanted to explain how driving from place-to-place in my comfortable SUV was a huge pain in the ass. Not to mention how Gabby and I would have to split up for part of the day. Buying and wrapping the birthday gift? Don’t even get me started! And then only having an hour to get the kids fed and get ready for our semi-fancy date that evening.

Didn’t you hear me? I am busy! Sweet Baby Jesus, have mercy on my soul!

Here’s the thing. I wear busyness like a badge of honor. Only there’s no honor to be had.

Busy is a sickness.

The American Psychological Association has published its Stress In America survey since 2007. They find that the majority of Americans recognize that their stress exceeds levels necessary to maintain good health. The most frequent reason they cite for not addressing the problem?

Being too busy.

It’s a vicious cycle.

Dr. Susan Koven practices internal medicine at Massachusetts General Hospital. In a recent Boston Globe column, she writes:

In the past few years, I've observed an epidemic of sorts: patient after patient suffering from the same condition. The symptoms of this condition include fatigue, irritability, insomnia, anxiety, headaches, heartburn, bowel disturbances, back pain, and weight gain. There are no blood tests or X-rays diagnostic of this condition, and yet it's easy to recognize. The condition is excessive busyness.

We’ve heard for years that excessive stress causes health problems. But notice that Dr. Koven didn’t say stress. She said busyness.

And it’s an epidemic.

Dr. Michael Marmot, a British epidemiologist has studied stress and its effects, and found the root causes to be two types of busyness. Though he doesn’t give them official names, he describes the most damaging as busyness without control, which primarily affects the poor. Their economic reality simply does not allow for downtime. They have to work 2-3 jobs to keep the family afloat. When you add kids to the mix, it becomes overwhelming, and the stress results in legitimate health problems.

The second type of busyness also results in health problems, but it is a sickness we bring on ourselves. Like voluntarily licking the door handle of a preschool bathroom or having a sweaty picnic in the Ball Pit at Chuck E. Cheese.

It’s busyness we control.

Self-created stress.

Ever since my conversation a month ago, I realized that my busyness is this second type. Busyness we control. In fact, many times I create rush and worry where none exists. Any typical morning, you can find me riding my kids like a couple of three-dollar mules in a sea of marbles, begging them to move faster.

“If you don’t finish your waffles in the next 90 seconds, we’re gonna’ be late!”

“Do you like being tardy?! ‘Cause that’s what you’ll be if you don’t hurry up and brush your teeth!”

The funny thing is, whether I prod or not, we always seem to get to school at the same time every day. Before the bell. And if we’re late? Nothing bad really happens, but there is still the voice in my head telling me a couple of tardies today is a slippery slope that eventually leads to 5-10 years in Federal Prison.

Ridiculous.

After my conversation with my friend, I began to notice how much of my rushing was an overreaction to my “awfulizing” in my head. Most of the time, I manufacture urgency in hopes that it will create urgency in others. Instead, it only creates anxiety, resentment and spite. Which is absolutely counter-productive. And even in the cases where the urgency is real, it’s often due to a packed schedule I created.

All of this made me wonder:

Why would a grown-ass man, with a brain and two opposable thumbs, decide to voluntarily create stress in his life?

I found the answer, and it’s not pretty.

We are afraid of ourselves.

In America, we are defined by what we do. Our careers. What we produce. It’s the first question asked at parties, and often the first tidbit of information we share with strangers. The implication is that if I am not busy doing something, I am somehow less than. Not worthy. Or at least worth less than those who are producing something.

Now, before you start to think this is just one guy’s opinion, consider a recent study published in the journal Science. In one experiment, participants were left alone in a room for up to fifteen minutes. When asked whether they liked the alone time, over half reported disliking it.

In subsequent studies, participants were given an electric shock, and then asked if they would pay money to avoid being shocked again. Not surprisingly, most said they would trade money to avoid pain. However, when these same people were left alone in a room for fifteen minutes, nearly half chose to self-administer an electric shock rather than sit alone with their thoughts.

You read that right.

Voluntarily.

Shocking.

(Which is so not punny.)

Think about what this means. Just being is so painful that we are willing to hurt ourselves to avoid it.

And this is perhaps the saddest truth of all. I am created in the image and likeness of God, yet somehow that isn’t good enough for me. So I fill my Facebook feed and my calendar with self-important busyness to avoid just being. In the process I not only miss out on the peace and beauty that lies within myself, but I miss seeing that same beauty in others, because my manufactured urgency has covered it up with anxiety and worry.

It’s time I let my busyness rest in peace.

So my prayer today is this. That I stop defining myself by my doing but by my being. That I stop measuring time by the clock on the wall, but by the experiences I share with those around me.   And stop seeing my life as “busy” and instead, see it for what it truly is.

Full.

Writer’s note: For the past month, I have tried my best to eliminate the word “busy” from my vocabulary. The result? I feel lighter. Now, when people ask how things are going, I just say, “Life is full.” What works for you?

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The Sixth Love Language

Do you and your spouse have a secret language?

I’m not talking about speaking in gibberish or anything crazy like that. I’m just talking about shorthand language. For example, anytime I am doing something stupid and my wife wants to alert me to impending doom or injury, (like when I am using a metal staple gun to attach an electrified strand of Christmas lights to our house) she’ll shout,

“One point!”

It’s in reference to the IQ test I took as a kid where allegedly (according to my mother) I scored just one point shy of “Genius” on the charts. Much like the Loch Ness Monster, the actual document has yet to surface, but the score lives and breathes in our marriage on a regular basis.

We also use the word “Babe” when speaking to each other. Like, “Hey Babe, could you pass me the sports section?” or “Hey Babe, could you at least warn me when you are going to pass gas in the car?” It’s a term of endearment that conveys affection and intimacy. Unless, say, your toddler picks up on it and starts using the same word to get his preschool teacher’s attention.

But it works for us. It’s the language of love.

Dr. Gary Chapman has written a book called The Five Love Languages. You have likely seen it. It is one of the most popular resources for spouses, showing up in pre-marital communications workshops, couples Bible Study groups, or even the marriage therapist’s office.

In Chapman’s book, he describes the Love Languages as five different ways to express and experience love.

1. Words of Affirmation
2. Acts of Service
3. Receiving Gifts
4. Quality Time
5. Physical Touch

Chapman explains that every person has a different preference in terms of how he or she prefers to experience love. Again, a sort of “marital shorthand.” And studies show that we tend to express love in the same way we prefer to experience it. But Chapman’s main point is that we do our marriages a disservice when we express love in a way that our partner couldn’t care less about.

Being a Words of Affirmation guy, I used to spend a lot of time telling my wife how great she was all the time. But that didn’t mean a hill of beans to her unless I first cleaned a toilet (Acts of Service) and klutzed my way through a Vinyasa yoga class with her (Quality Time). Over the years, we have adopted a new language, learning how to give what the other person needs, which ensures that our limited stores of relationship energy are used for maximum benefit.

But something happened last week that made me realize I’ve been missing the most important thing of all.

A Sixth Love Language.

And without it, the other five are doomed to fail.

At the beginning of the year, Gabby quit her job to come work for my company. Now, before you think I’m all high-falootin’, please realize that LifeWork Associates has a grand total of one employee. Me. And she was going to take a massive pay cut (i.e. she works for sandwiches and compliments) to help me get some more local business so I wouldn’t have to be on the road as much. It was a change designed to help us be more intentional about life and get back to what’s important.

And over the past few weeks, I have taken significant strides to help this little dream become a reality. Made over a dozen new business connections. Worked hard to develop a plan to make writing a viable part of my career. And, I have also done a lot of Acts of Service for Gabby. Changing light bulbs, fixing the latch on the back door, feeding the kids and getting them ready for school, mopping floors, opening dozens of stubborn jar lids and smashing an untold number of scary bugs.

But when we finally sat down last night for our half-hour of decompression before bed, Gabby seemed agitated. She was miffed that I left her favorite pillow in Atlanta while on a road trip with our son. She complained that I was hogging too much room on the couch. She even made a comment about the inconsistency of my toenail management regimen.

Has she been paying attention? I thought. I am pretty amazing over here. A virtual Shakespeare of love languages. But she’s harping on how a wayward toenail cut her ankle in the middle of the night?

I was concerned about me and how I wasn’t getting my Words of Affirmation.

Then she said, “And could you please copy me on emails about the book and about the business? This is a team effort, you know.”

And that’s when it hit me. I had neglected the Sixth Love Language. The one upon which the others are built.

The Language of Inclusion.

Over the past several weeks, I had been immersed in the language of “Me.” Doing things by myself and for myself. Building contacts. Meeting new people. Finding new exciting opportunities.

But I’ve been rowing alone. With one oar. Moving forward, but traveling in circles. Forgetting that Gabby is the one who introduced me to a lot of these people.  She's one who gave me the ideas.  It's like she baked the cake, but I got to eat it.

The whole thing.

By myself.

I suspect we’re not alone. When schedules get busy and kids pull us in different directions with soccer and Girl Scouts and basketball practice, it is necessary to divide and conquer. When this happens, husband and wife experience both challenges and triumphs separately. And we communicate between interruptions using only five-second sound bytes. If this becomes the norm, it’s only a matter of time before “our life” gradually becomes “our lives.” Lived apart in the same house.

John Gottman, Professor Emeritus at the University of Washington, has studied marital satisfaction for the past 35 years. Through his research, he is able to predict which couples will stay married or get divorced with roughly 90% accuracy. By reading his stuff, I have learned two things.

First, never invite him on a double date. He’s a total buzz kill.

Second, if you want your marriage to work, it has to be built on the Language of Inclusion.

In his work with thousands of couples, Gottman found that satisfied couples have the ability to talk through even the most challenging issues with mutual respect, valuing their relationship over their own positions. And he asserts that we can’t achieve this level of respect by staying apart. We have to share day-to-day events and respond with enthusiasm. We have to develop an understanding of our spouse’s worries, hopes and dreams. We have to make decisions in partnership. And most of all, we have to be working toward the same goal, developing a shared sense of meaning in our lives. Rowing in the same direction.

And no amount of floor scrubbing or gift-giving can do that.

No. It takes commitment. Talking through tired eyes when everyone has gone off to bed. Staying curious in the midst of everyday routine. Finding new questions for which you don’t already know the answer.

Living the Language of Inclusion.

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Mommy Porn: Fifty Shades of Reality

One of the hottest books of the past four years has been E.L. James’ “Fifty Shades of Grey” trilogy, selling over 100 million copies. The novel has been dubbed “mommy porn” for its vivid descriptions of explicit sex, erotic bondage and horrible dialogue.

The trailer for the film adaptation was released last July, creating more media buzz than a wardrobe malfunction. Now after seven months of marketing foreplay (which is more than even the characters in the book can stand) the movie hits the big screen just in time for Valentine’s Day.

Though I haven’t seen the movie, I did peek at a few pages of the book. And fellas, I gotta’ tell you something: if you want to try and recreate scenes from this book with your significant other this weekend, it takes a lot more than a boquet of flowers. No, this craziness requires a trip to Home Depot and a notarized waiver signed by you, your wife, and a representative from the Department of Homeland Security.

Way too much trouble.

However if you simply want to increase your chances at romance this weekend, I have penned my own version of “Mommy Porn” for my wife. I gave it to her as a birthday gift a couple of years ago, and she was overflowing with desire after the first few paragraphs.

So, today I offer this to you as a free gift. A gift that keeps on giving.

Note: The following story must be read aloud in your most sultry, sexy voice.

Fifty Shades of Reality by Scott Dannemiller

The look on her face was utter shock, but the sensation in her soul was pure bliss.  He was doing things she had never before dreamed.  This was virgin territory.

“Is this how you like it?” He asked, a grin growing across his cheeks.

“That’s right.  Just like that.”  She answered, still trying to hide her surprise.  “That’s how I like it.”

He gingerly grasped her panties between his thumb and forefinger.  She leaned back and relaxed, breathing a heavy sigh.  As she settled into the couch, he brought the delicates to his chin.

Tucked them underneath.

Folded them in half.

And placed them into the laundry basket.

A rush went through her body, climbing her spine and erupting out the crown of her head.  As he grabbed her socks, it didn’t take long for her to realize he had done this before.  He didn’t just ball them up like other guys.  No.  He took his time.  Laying one sock on top of the other, and lightly folding them over.

“So precise!” she marveled at his technique.

“I learned this from an older woman,” he confessed.

“My aunt Edna.  She says it keeps the elastic from stretching.  Don’t worry.  I’ve got this.  I can go all night.”

Her core filled with ecstasy.  She watched as the neatly folded stacks of laundry rose higher and higher.  Socks.  Underwear.  Shirts.  Shorts.  Reaching their peak.  And just as she thought they might topple over, he moved each of them to the basket, arranging them by family member so to efficiently distribute them to their final resting place.

“I’m going to leave you alone for a moment.  I need to go put these things away.”

As he walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, she watched his tight buttocks sway back and forth, disguised by his baggy gym shorts.  Her eyes were distracted by something on the right hind pocket?  What could it be?  And then she remembered…

>>>

Just this morning, she awoke to a sun-drenched room.  There were squeals of delight coming from the kitchen.  Yes, her prince had risen before her and whisked the children off to the breakfast table.  There, he had lovingly prepared a meal.  Toast.  Milk.  Fruit salad.  And yes, oatmeal.  Oh, the oatmeal.  And not the kind from the paper pouch.  No.  He was too much man for that.

These were McCann’s Steel Cut Oats.  Steel. Cut. The kind that required warm water, heated to boiling.  Heat.  Hot heat.  Then turned down to a simmer to bubble and roll.  Full of fiber and tasteless.  Nutritious.  And he had somehow encouraged the kids to eat them.  To eat them all.  All except the blob that his daughter had dropped in his chair.  The blob that now adorned his rounded haunches.  Rugged and beautiful.  Like the freshly cleaned kitchen cabinet doors he had left gleaming, scented with Clorox wipes and Endust.

As she paced through the living room and into the dining area, bleary-eyed and foggy from a good night’s sleep, his voice cut through the clutter.

“It’s just how you like it. Hot. And sweet.”

She grabbed her cup of coffee and took a sip. He had lightened it with a heavy dose of Pumpkin Spice non-dairy creamer.

A real man remembers a woman's lactose intolerance, she thought.

She glanced up at him to see his strong hands wrapped firmly around the shaft.  The shaft of the mop.  Sweat covered his brow.  He was moving gracefully.  Back       and       forth.  Back        and       forth.  To the rhythm of beautiful music.  Like Norah Jones singing the theme song to a LifeTime movie starring Meredith Baxter-Birney as a woman scorned, then finding love again after fifty.

As she watched, his graceful movements increased to a quickened tempo.  Back     and     forth.  Back   and    forth.  Back  and  forth.  Back and forth. Back n forth.  Backnforth.  Bcknfrth.  The music now more Beyonce than Norah.  His movements strong, yet controlled.   The sweat dripping off the end of his nose.

It was a stubborn stain.

Grape juice?  Spaghetti sauce?  A smashed pea?  No one could be sure.  But what was certain is that he was dominating this kitchen floor.  Unleashing his power.  And she surrendered to it.  Submissive.

>>>

She felt a warm breath on her ear lobe, waking her from her flashback of the morning.  The clouds parted ever so slightly.

“Lift your legs,” said the deep baritone.

It was almost a whisper, hardly registering in her sleepy haze.  She hesitated.  What was he asking?

“Just for a moment,” said the voice.  “Then you can relax.  Please.  Lift your legs.”

She had fallen asleep in the afterglow of the laundry.  Fading into the couch like toddler spit up.  So much had happened since the folding.  But she did as the voice commanded.

As she contracted her abdominals, finely honed by Zumba and Ben and Jerry, her feet broke free from the carpet.

It was like an orchestra.  As she moved, so did he.  Finely tuned movements.  Sliding the great machine under her heels.  The sight made the hair on her arm stand on end, like the nap of the carpet each time he withdrew the vacuum.  The pattern he left on the rug was pure perfection.  Abstract art with a purpose.  With each pass, eons of pet hair and foot falls disappeared in an instant as the high traffic area in front of the sofa was tamed.  Her muscles were burning, but it hurt so good.

“Please don’t stop.  Don’t stop!  Don’t stop!” she wailed.  “That looks so good! “

“I have to.”  He replied.

“No! But why?” she asked.  “You were almost finished.”

“Oh, I promise I’ll be back.  But I have to go.”

Anticipating, almost as if he was channeling  Radar O’Reilly in a scene from M.A.S.H., he moved toward the hall bath.   A tiny voice cried out, “Mommy!  Wipe my bottom!”  It was in that moment that she knew why he couldn’t finish.

He bounded to the bathroom, still sporting the smashed oatmeal brooch on his behind, prepared for something dirty.  Very dirty.  She knew it well.

She scanned the house to find herself firmly ensconced in Camelot.  Every room had been scoured.  The wood floors were shining.  The dust had all been wiped away.  There was a crock pot simmering on the kitchen island.  What could it be?  Pot roast?  Gumbo?  Chicken and dumplings?  It could be dishwater seasoned with floor sweepings for all she cared.  She hadn’t lifted a finger all day, and it was nearly dinnertime.

The rest of the evening was a blur of activity.  She was like the queen bee, with everyone buzzing around.  Food was eaten without complaint.  Dishes were washed and children bathed.  Bedtime stories were read while she watched HGTV in the other room.  She sat alone in her happy home, marveling at the man who made it all possible.  Her heart swelled like the giant blister that now covered her husband’s mop-pushing hand.

“You coming to bed?” he inquired.  “I’ve got something planned just for you.”

Her spine tingled.  She looked in his direction.  He had showered, shaved, and smelled like Irish Spring.  Not the old fashioned scent, but one of the new, fancy smelling-kind.  Somewhere between Old Spice and Axe body spray.

“Oh yes.” She delighted.  “I’ll be right there.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

She changed into a tank top and slipped on her favorite sweat pants that she’s worn since her days as a Kappa Delta.  She turned toward the bed and saw him.  Ready.  Waiting.  Willing.

She slipped between the sheets and turned away, unable to look into his piercing hazel eyes.  She felt a hand on her back.  It moved slowly southward, then northward again, with a subtle pressure.  A squeeze of the shoulder, a tease of the neck.  Fingers through the hair.  For fifteen minutes his hands moved all over her, from waistline to necklace, relieving the tension brought about by the everyday.  She let herself go.  Free to enjoy the backrub.

A backrub without a future.

He slowly slid over and kissed her shoulder.

“I have a headache,” he whispered.  “I love you.  Goodnight.”

“I love you, too.’ She echoed.  And, along with her gorgeous, hunk of a man, she drifted off to sleep.

Smiling.

Spooning.

Satisfied.

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A Nation of Christians vs. A Christian Nation

I returned home from a trip to Saudi Arabia last week.

When I landed in New York, I was greeted by a stern-faced U.S. Customs agent grilling me about my travels. Next, a perfect stranger in airport security felt me up so thoroughly that I must now confess a sin of adultery to a Catholic priest. Then, I paid $17 for lunch in the airport food court, where every outlet serves a menu of soggy cardboard warmed beneath the tender glow of four giant heat lamps.

And I loved everything about it. Home sweet home.

After my meal and subsequent indigestion, I sat in the lounge waiting for my final hop back to Nashville, soaking in all of the familiar sights and sounds. College hoodies. Southern accents. Bluetooth headsets. I overheard a couple talking in the row behind me, grateful to be around a familiar language once again. As I listened, I imagined their names were Harold and Mabel. The TV news was running a story about the Charlie Hebdo attacks, with justifiably angry talking heads decrying extremism and cautioning against racism.

“What is this world coming to?” Mabel asked.

“Nothing good, that’s for sure.” Harold quipped.

I glanced back at the screen above me, enjoying their banter. A little while later, the news ran a story about Miley Cyrus, the all-too-familiar celebrity. Apparently she thought it would be a good idea to release a bunch of nude photos. But Billy Ray’s heart wasn’t the only one that was achy-breaking.

“And look at that?” scoffed Harold. “Can you believe it?”

“Good Lord.” Mabel replied. “I can’t believe we allow this kind of thing in a CHRISTIAN NATION.”

Yes.

A CHRISTIAN NATION.

We’ve heard it so many times that the words just seem to go together. Like chocolate and peanut butter. Or Bert and Ernie. But in that moment I was struck by a harsh realization.

It’s simply not true.

Please don’t misunderstand what I am about to say. I am a Christian. Big fan of Jesus! I try and fail every day to be more like Him. And I’m not just talking about the carpentry part. Whether the task is trimming out cabinets or extending grace to others, I have a devil of a time getting it right. Still, it is a goal of mine to become more Christ-like in word and deed.

Because of this, you might think I would be on the bandwagon, lamenting the fact that we’re looking less and less like a CHRISTIAN NATION every day. Especially so fresh from a trip to a Muslim country where openly sharing my faith is punishable by death.

But I am not lamenting. The truth is, the United States is NOT a CHRISTIAN NATION. And, as Christians, there are three big reasons why we need to get this crazy notion out of our heads.

First, when we say we are a CHRISTIAN NATION, we look like imbeciles to anyone who has read a grade school history book. The founders of our nation, most of them Christians, drafted the First Amendment (and Article 6 of the Constitution) to guard against state-sponsored religion. They had lived through true persecution, and understood how faith in the hands of government can easily stray from its original intent.

Second, saying we are a CHRISTIAN NATION provides an easy way for a people of faith to shirk responsibility. While I do believe governments have an obligation to assure citizens are afforded equal rights under the law, and government systems should not encourage marginalization, that does not mean Christ-followers can leave this work to elected officials. It is up to each of us to reach out to the “least of these” and take the humble stance of a servant. Every. Day.

The third reason gets to the heart of why Christ himself did not want to be “of this world.” Jesus had seen what happens to religion in the hands of politicians like the Pharisees and the Sadducees. In fact, he saved some of his harshest words for these folks, calling them “snakes” (Matt. 23:33) and “manicured grave plots, grass clipped and the flowers bright, but six feet down it’s all rotting bones and worm-eaten flesh.” (Matt. 23: 27 MSG)

Stop sugar-coating it, Jesus. Tell us how you really feel!

Jesus knew we should render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, but we shouldn’t want to be Caesar.

Bottom line: there is a big difference between being a CHRISTIAN NATION and being a NATION OF CHRISTIANS.

A CHRISTIAN NATION claims persecution when others don’t allow official prayers, or prohibit the use public space and funds to display the Ten Commandments or a government-sanctioned Nativity scene.

A NATION OF CHRISTIANS recognizes that although the vast majority of the population is of the same faith, there is an ocean of difference between sharing that faith and imposing your beliefs on others. You just can’t legislate devotion.

***

A CHRISTIAN NATION fears Sharia Law and all things Islam, labeling Muslims as terrorists or extremists, even though the majority of terror acts are committed by non-Muslims.

A NATION OF CHRISTIANS looks for places to be the healing hands of Christ in the midst of extremism, while constantly reflecting upon their own behavior to see if it, too, could be classified as extremely far afield from the loving example of Christ.

***

A CHRISTIAN NATION takes a protective stance, concerned about securing its borders to keep out the alien and those who don’t belong.

A NATION OF CHRISTIANS takes a welcoming stance, concerned about loving their neighbors as themselves. There is simply no greater commandment.

***

A CHRISTIAN NATION legislates love, making rules that govern who can and cannot commit their lives to one another, treating the marginalized as unequal in the eyes of the law.

A NATION OF CHRISTIANS sees everyone as equal in the eyes of the Lord, wonderfully and beautifully made in the image and likeness of God.

***

A CHRISTIAN NATION demands commitment and effort, and those who aren’t willing or able to give that effort are less than worthy, placed outside the circle of the deserving.

A NATION OF CHRISTIANS live by the mantra of Christ that those who sue you for your tunic should be given your cloak as well. Those who ask for a mile shall be given two. And those who beg and borrow shall not be refused.

Perhaps all of this is best captured in the words of the Apostle Paul, who was once a zealous Pharisee himself.

¹ Therefore if you have any encouragement from being united with Christ, if any comfort from his love, if any common sharing in the Spirit, if any tenderness and compassion, ² then make my joy complete by being like-minded, having the same love, being one in spirit and of one mind. ³ Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, ⁴ not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of the others.

⁵ In your relationships with one another, have the same mindset as Christ Jesus: ⁶ Who, being in very nature God, did not consider equality with God something to be used to his own advantage; ⁷ rather, he made himself nothing  by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. ⁸ And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death— even death on a cross! (Phil. 2: 1-8 NIV)

In the end, turning the United States into a CHRISTIAN NATION might ensure that “Christian values” are more consistently displayed on television screens and “Christian principles” are more practiced in schools and assembly halls. But that simply isn’t the answer. Because a NATION OF CHRISTIANS, made up of individuals striving to be Christ-like, understands that no one comes to the faith by force. Instead, people must be drawn to the faith of their own free will. Like a magnet to metal. And in this pursuit let us all be as strong as steel, praying this prayer together.

May our joy in despair be contagious. May our humility in service be infectious. May our generosity in poverty be irresistible. And may our love and grace be offered without condition to a nation of souls who need it so desperately.

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