Skip to main content

Catechetical Moanin'

Today's Catechetical Moanin' isn't about the kids. They are doing great, actually. Fun, participating, being squirrelly, asking questions, figuring things out.

No, today's moanin' is about "that" teacher. That teacher who's been doing this awhile. Who knows the curriculum inside and out. Who's got the lesson plans memorized. Who knows just what to expect from the children in the grade he/she teaches.

And has no joy in teaching at all.

Nope, this guy/gal thinks today's kids are a hopeless mess - divorce abounds, they don't go to church, the parents don't care, society is going to hell in a handbasket and we're just along for the ride. No matter what we do, it won't stick, because Beyonce and Josh.O have got these kids by the throat and are not letting go. We're pushing a rock up a hill, over and over and over.....and it's just not going anywhere.

Um, here's a thought: stop teaching.

If this is you, and you do not have ABUNDANT JOY in sharing the faith and letting kids today know that there is Someone who loves them endlessly, boundlessly, and wants desperately to be in relationship with each and every one of them, then stop. Just stop.

Please. The kids deserve better than your grumpy attitude, your defeated sighs, your thoughts that they just aren't going to "get it", no matter what.

We ARE fighting an uphill battle against society - no doubt about it. But where else are the kids going to get the message of Christ's love for them? And if that message is wrapped up in a big ball of defeatist attitude and grim-faced determination to shove the 10 Commandments down their throats, then why WOULD they want it?

Please. If you don't walk into your classroom every week with a song in  your heart, a smile on your lips and the anticipation of something great taking place during each and every class, walk away.

Each child deserves the joy of Christ. The abundant life of the Gospel. If you're not going to share that, step away.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Trying to "end run" God

If you're a football fan, you know what an end run is. From Merriam-Webster:
a football play in which the ballcarrier attempts to run wide around the end of the line We try to "end run" God a lot. I do. I figure I know better. I've got this - no need to worry the Big Guy about such a trivial thing.

Of course, it never works.

Like the puppy above, when we try and evade the tough obstacle (even though we KNOW we will eventually have to do it), we end up - well, off in the bushes.

But oh! How I wished my way worked. I'd love to take a flying leap and land smoothly and gracefully. People would be in awe, as if watching Simone Biles nail a balance beam routine that no one else would even attempt. I would shyly look down and blush - just lightly - and acknowledge (But humbly! Oh so humbly!) my achievement.

But no: I am the one pulling myself out of the bushes, scratches all over my legs and twigs in my hair. I'd hear that gentle but loving voice of God saying, &quo…

Secret Santa!!

Too old for Santa? I think not.

Yes, there are discussions as to whether we should "lie" to kids and tell them that Santa brings them gifts vs. We can't lie to the kids; it's wrong.

There is also the "Christmas is about Jesus" vs. "But Santa is magical!"

You know, we have so few magical and joyful moments, and less and less as we get older. Santa is fun. And the kids usually figure it out, and no one I know was ever scarred for life for believing that Santa brought them and every child everywhere a toy for Christmas.

It's the magic of looking up at the sky on a clear December night, thinking "I'll wait up to see Santa" and later, as you fell asleep at the window, being in your daddy's arms as he carries you to bed.

It's the magic of putting out cookies and milk (or beer, because Santa does like beer) and maybe some carrots for the reindeer, and then checking in the morning to make sure the food was all consumed.

It's…

Advent Brokenness

It was a lovely May evening, the kind we in Michigan savor like honey. After the brutal cold of winter, flowers blossomed, grass greened, mosquitoes flocked. School was almost done for the year - just the formalities of 8th grade graduation were ahead.

Why not saddle up the horse and go for a ride? Why not, indeed. So my sister and I did. I took Prince out across the road from our house, to romp through the weeds on a path my father mowed for us. The view from horseback on a spring night - well, nearly Heaven.

Until Prince bolted. He spooked. I fell. And my arm broke. Compound fracture.

My dog, a collie, had followed us out. He was not particularly trusting of Prince, as Prince would never allow himself to be herded, and this vexed my collie. My dog, channeling his inner Lassie, ran home without me.

My sister had been in the yard with her boyfriend at the time, Gary, waiting for me to come back. Instead, it was just the dog loping across the road. That didn't seem right, so my si…