Mythical Musings: Bacchus and Barbecue

Mythology makes an easy segue to discussions of God. In the past week or so (depending on the class), we have studied a number of characters, mortal and immortal, whose stories have led to a discussion -- sometimes deep, sometimes not -- about Yahweh.  

When I introduced Bacchus, the god of wine, to them, we talked about his dual nature, that same good-and-bad tug of war in each of us that makes people who are trying to be very good do very bad things. When we reviewed Demeter, the goddess of grain and the harvest, we looked at how they are often shown together: the wine and the bread. So we talked about communion and this precious sacrament that brings us closer to God and closer to one another.  Important lessons, to be sure. 

But not every connection carries such gravity. I do, after all, teach freshmen. 

On Friday, we read from the Odyssey, the part when the blind (and dead) prophet Teresius tells the "man skilled in all ways of contending" that he'll need to sacrifice 100 cows to all the gods. Wouldn't that be one bang up barbecue?? Listen, I live in Memphis, home of the best BBQ joints in the world, but I'm pretty sure that the temple altars could put on a mighty good spread, as well. And it wasn't just the Greek and Roman gods; Yahweh must be a fan of a good grilling, too -- just look at the meat that the  Israelites offered up to the Creator: bulls and rams and lambs and doves. If He's such a fan of brisket on earth, then that heavenly feast He serves down the golden street will put Rendezvous and Tops and Central and the Dancing Pigs to shame. 

Ok, so it wasn't a deep, theological moment. But it was a reminder that this life is good and that the next will be even better when we honor the one true God. 

Amen, and pass the cole slaw! 

Homecoming Hoopla

Tonight is Homecoming. 

At most schools, Homecoming hosts visiting alumni and crowns a queen and plays a football game against a team they are scheduled to beat.  And, yes, we do that, too. 

But, oh, there’s so much more. Here, Homecoming is a weeklong hoopla, a hoopla with a theme. This year:  GAME TIME.  So students dressed up every day to reflect some spinoff of that concept: Monday was Bed Time (a favorite and an excuse to wear pajamas to school – but why anyone would want to wear those heavy, 125° fleece animal suits is beyond me!); Tuesday was Adventure Time (which happened to fall on Talk Like a Pirate Day… duh); Wednesday brought Half Time (find a partner and come as a famous pair); with Thursday came some Down Time (represent your favorite pastime); and today, Friday was Game Time, a chance to rock that school spirit. As if dressing up weren’t enough, each grade also decorated their lockers to reflect the dress up days.

But, oh, there’s so much more. The dressing up happened in the days. After school, for this one week, students got comfortable and shuffled off to various spots in the school building to work on artistic projects: banners that will hang all year in the hallways, a variety of posters that will hang in the cafeteria, dance routines in which every member of each class participates, and a skit. Painting and sweating and writing lines, students labored over these tasks, fueled not only by delicious homecooked or catered meals brought by parents but also by a nightly devotional.

My twelve-year-old, a middle schooler who is observing all the mayhem for the first time this year, asked me before it all started, “What is the point of Homecoming, Mom?” I confess, sometimes I wonder that myself. Several times this year I wondered.

I wondered when my skit committee wouldn’t throw out really bad jokes or when the exhaustion of several 15-hour days made students (and teachers) testy or when the encouragement was eclipsed by criticism or when I hadn’t seen my family for a week because they were all in bed when I got home from school.

All for a trophy, not a cup but JUGG -- freshmen against sophomores against juniors against seniors, competing for this prize.

Oh, they got scrappy. They got secretive. They worked together. They fought. They encouraged, and they blistered one another.

But this afternoon, when all was revealed, these students, wiped out from a week of late night artistry and rehearsals, restoked their adrenaline and let loose school spirit I have never before heard. They reveled in the fruits of their labors:  the laughter at well-timed jokes in the skit, the applause at precision moves in their dance routine, ooohs and ahhs from other classes as they unfurled their banners, and compliments on their clever and well executed posters.  They chanted for themselves and for one another. They sang. They danced. They showed the power of the Body.

My prayer all week has been that God be glorified. Every day, I begged Him to find the worth in their efforts, to show them how to honor Him. I imagine there were moments of dishonor. Aren't there always? But I know that these students worked together to achieve what none of them could have done alone. And they earned the right to be proud of what they accomplished.

This teamwork, that problem solving, those humble apologies, these new friendships forged – that’s what I imagine God smiled down on. And I think He’s grinning as He looks years ahead and sees some of these friendships enduring to rocking chairs and false teeth.

It’s not JUGG that really mattered this week, although tonight when it is awarded at halftime, the winning class will crow mightily. It’s not the bragging rights that go along with the trophy, no matter what they think. It’s not who wins the poster category or the class unity category or skit.

It’s the lessons these teenagers learned about getting along and loving one another.

I’m proud to say that, in some small way, some of those lessons happened in my classroom.

Twice Blest

My daddy has long said, “Behavior has consequences.” Sometimes the consequences delight us; sometimes they irk us. Always, they should teach us something.

We talk a lot about consequences in my classroom. I don’t really have classroom rules because, on the first day of school, I have a conversation with students that goes like this: 

“You know how you are supposed to behave, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Then do that. And you know what you aren’t supposed to do, don’t you?”

“Yes!”

“Good. So don’t do that. I’ll tell you what:  I’ll trust you to behave the way you should, and if you start to get out of line, I’ll let you know. How’s that?”

They look at me like I’ve lost my mind. But I don’t generally have discipline problems in my room in the face of this kind of trust. Undoubtedly, my students aren’t perfect, and that’s when grace takes over – grace that says, “Nope, you’re pushing the envelope, but I’m not canceling your postage just yet”; grace that says, “That wasn’t a very nice thing to say, but perhaps some kind follow-up words will soften the hurt”; grace that says, “Wow, you guys sure didn’t prepare for this test, so let’s try again.”

That was today’s picture of how grace serves up a powerful reaction.

My sophomores had taken a killer grammar test, full of the kinds of nitpicky errors English teachers and ACT test makers love to trip kids up with – sorry – “with which we love to trip them.” I sat at my kitchen table Tuesday night, laboring over their errors. What to do? What to do? The Fs outnumbered the Bs, and the As disappeared into a black hole somewhere. I just could not find any contentment in those unbellcurve results, nor in their natural consequences.  It was time for grace.

“So,” I began, standing in front of them, clutching the tests in my hands. “These were not wonderful.”

No. They nodded in full awareness, waiting for the boom to fall.

“You are a group of overthinkers, and I believe you have simply overanalyzed these sentences to the point that you confused yourselves.  I want to give you a chance to redeem yourself – at least partially. Get a different colored utensil and take another shot at these, correcting your incorrect corrections.”

Their faces brightened. Their posture straightened. They dug for green and orange and turquoise pens. They accepted with a smile papers marked with some of the year’s lowest grades. And they attacked.

And they succeeded. Mistakes became lessons on Thursday that didn’t count against them nearly as heavily as they had on Tuesday.

And my prayer was this: “Dear Lord, giver of all blessings, we know that you are the author of goodness and that, when we fail you, you have every right to condemn us. But that is not your desire. No, your desire is to teach us and to make us more like you. So you chastise us and then forgive us and then give us another chance. Make us always grateful for second chances – and third and fourth and twenty-eighth chances. And, because we cherish your mercy so, teach us to give it to those around us. In the name of our Author of Grace, Amen.”

“The quality of mercy is not strain'd,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.” 

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n  Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act 4, sc 1

Life, Right Down to the Toes

Not everyone goes to church. I know that. Not everyone in America. Not everyone in my city. Not even everyone in my Christian school.

There was a time when I didn't either. Just didn't want to do the chit-chat with people I barely knew. Didn't want to sing happy songs when I was near tears. Didn't want to try to pry my eyes open through a pedantic sermon. I get it.

But I also know that those people who chitchat on Sunday may be Heaven sent to help bear burdens on Wednesday or to rejoice in victory on Friday.

And I know that it's ok to cry in church tears of pain, of exhaustion, of regret, of loneliness, of repentance.

And I realize that a hard lesson may be the very one I need to hear from the pulpit.

So Thursday, when my sophomores talked about why Hester Prynne quits going to church, they determined, "She feels like all the sermons are directed at her."

And I heard myself reply, "That's right. She thinks the sermons were all directed at her. But is that a reason not to go? Haven't you ever felt like she does? The preacher says something that really steps on your toes and you get all squirmy. And you don't look around because, if you make eye contact with someone else, he might know. And then the same thing happens the next week... and the next, one sermon after another. And you get tired of the preacher preaching at YOU, so you quit going. But what you don't realize, what Hester doesn't realize, is that lots more toes than just yours, than just hers, are stepped on. And, oh, by the way -- that's a big reason we GO to church:  to hear truth spoken, to have our faults uncovered, to let the Holy Spirit speak to us. That's not the time to quit going. That's the time to perk up and listen."

Feeling like a lone target is Satan's tool. His deception tells us we are singular in our sin because he knows that, hidden, that error still works for him but that, once it we unveil it, his deception is foiled. That's why he likes it when we wallow in our indiscretion and hide it from others and slink down in the pew to avoid detection or, better yet, stay home in bed.

None of us likes admitting our faults. None of us likes cowering down in a pew when the preacher targets our heart with a spiritual dart. None of us likes painful truth. And so we close our ears, close our eyes, close ourselves from healing fellowship.  But left to work, that truth brings Life.

And, Oh!, how I long for my students to find that Life, that most Abundant LIFE.

I wasn't in class with them today, but I'm praying now that the Spirit will embolden them to attend church this Sunday, to hear words of truth, to allow those words to minister and convict so that they might have life. Let it be. Amen!