These Games Aren't For Everyone

I’m resisting the urge to write about one hot blog topic—the Manning-Tebow drama that played out in Denver this week (suffice it to say that I’m heartsick)—in favor of another: the movie release of The Hunger Games.

I have not seen the movie, but earlier this year I decided to treat myself to some fiction reading. I ended up knocking out the whole Hunger Games series in a few weeks and though it lived up to the hype. But it is absolutely not for everyone.

Time magazine called it a “chilling, bloody and thoroughly horrifying book.” That’s exactly what it is, yet it’s also compelling, fascinating, and a wonderful study in character development, so much so that I couldn’t stop reading, despite my policy of avoiding disturbing sensory input. Yes, I was disturbed. I would question the moral fiber of anyone who could walk away from such a story undisturbed.

So can someone tell me why 12-year-olds are reading this? It’s the talk of my son’s sixth-grade classroom this week, with the books flying from one set of hands to another, apparently with the endorsement of the teacher, and “Team Gale” and “Team Peeta” dividing the ranks of the girls in the class. (A “Team Awesome” also sprung up in opposition to the whole Hunger Games craze.) I even heard rumors that kids in my daughter’s fourth-grade class were reading the book—those are 9- and 10-year olds. This is more disturbing to me than the book itself.

I won’t be so simplistic as to rail against the violence. My 7-year-old has seen all of the Star Wars movies and a good amount of Indiana Jones, so I don’t want to be hypocritical. My concern goes much deeper than kids and violence. I’m wondering how we turned into a society that forces our kids out of childhood so quickly. I realize that many kids have childhood stolen away by unavoidable life events and circumstances. That seems all the more reason to vigilantly protect their childhood from something as controllable as media. Why do we think it’s cute when 9-year-old girls scream over Justin Bieber? Why is there even a market for slutty-looking dolls marketed to 7-year-olds? Why do 11-year-olds look for identity in a cell phone? And why do 12-year-olds read books about teenagers forced to fight to their bloody deaths by a tyrannical government? How did we get here? And what are we going to do about it?

Not exposing our kids to the Hunger Games is a good start. I found this quote on an MSN entertainment site, and I think it gets to the heart of the issue:

“Really, though, the question should not be ‘Will my child be traumatized by watching this?’ Because if that is even a question, then they should watch something else. The better question is: Will my child understand what this movie is really about?”

If there are 12-year-olds out there who truly understand starvation, desperation, abandonment, hopelessness, psychological manipulation, governmental corruption, and megalomaniacs, then I pray they’ll end up in the office of a loving counselor instead of the seat of a movie theater. As much as it’s in our control, until our children have aged gently into the mental and emotional capacity to deal with the harsh realities of the world, can we just let them be kids?

Foot Traffic

People in my old neighborhood walk for exercise, either for themselves or for their dogs. People in my current neighborhood—I still have not found an accurate term for where we live: “downtown,” “the inner-city,” “the ’hood”—walk as a means of transportation. We live on a busy street with a bus stop a couple doors down and a Family Dollar store across the street. This creates a great deal of foot traffic in front of our building and plenty of opportunities for people watching.

Too bad Jesus isn’t satisfied with my mere watching of people. No, He wants me to engage with them. Sometimes I stay put and feel guilty about this, and sometimes I actually do something about it.

A couple Sundays ago, I was out for my morning run before church. I took longer than I expected and found myself crunched for time as I rounded the corner for the last six blocks. Two blocks later, I saw a woman walking with a cane up ahead of me. It wasn’t the first time I’ve seen her. As I’ve passed her a few times on my way to take the kids to school, I’ve whispered, “God bless you, sister” as I watch her labored gait move slowly, oh so slowly, down the street.

Now she was in front of me, sliding one foot in front of the other with the effort of a frozen mountaineer scaling Everest. I was running at a near sprint, making good time. Checking the clock on my iPod, I knew it was risky to start a conversation with her. Would there be enough time to find clothes for all the kids, hose down their heads, buckles shoes, round up coats, and maybe still get a shower for myself? I hate being late for church. You miss all the good songs.

But what about being the church? I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately, about the importance of teaching the kids not just to do church—ritualistically, once a week—but to actually be the church to the hurting world. Would the church run by this woman without a glance? Would Jesus?

I stopped and assumed her snail’s pace. I said something about seeing her walk along this street before and admiring her tenacity. I told her I hoped I would be like her some day. All true. And then I got an education.

Her name is Renee. She’s 64. She’s had the same group of girlfriends her whole life, and they’re planning a big bash for their 65^th birthdays this year. She’d like to go in a hot-air balloon. She has two daughters who live far away. She worked in insurance for 29 years while raising her daughters, then went to college and then grad school to become a librarian. This woman with a couple of prominent teeth missing has more education than I do. Her husband died a while back, and she moved to Colorado Springs for a fresh start. She has a roommate she enjoys. She goes to church about a mile and a half away and usually has someone who picks her up because she doesn’t drive anymore. But on that day, the youth group was having a special breakfast for seniors, and she didn’t want to miss it, so she decided to walk. A mile and a half. She’d never made it further than our shop, which was about halfway. But she knew if she could make it to the bus stop, she could rest for a while before continuing. Along the way, she picked up cans and placed them into one of the several bags she was carrying. (Yes, “bag lady” came to mind before I took the time to know her.) She collects the tabs off the cans because somehow they are converted to money for the Ronald McDonald house in our neighborhood. She also volunteers on Fridays at the neighborhood school—the one where 90 percent of the kids are on the free-lunch program—to read to the kindergartners, and they bring in cans for her so they can support the Ronald McDonald house, too.

And here I thought I was the one being the church to Renee. God never tires of finding new ways to humble me.

I was hanging on her every word and barely noticed we had made it to the bus stop where she planned to rest. She was sweating pretty hard by now, and I begged her, pleaded, to let me drive her the rest of the way to church. After about four gentle rebuffs, she looked me straight in the eye and said firmly, “I need to do this.”

Again, I begged her to knock on our door if she changed her mind. I took her hand and told her I’d see her around. I went upstairs and looked out my window, watching to see if she would change her mind. She didn’t. Instead, she shuffled off, grabbing a can or two along the way, until I couldn’t see her anymore.

We were about five minutes late for church, and I didn’t mind one bit this time.

The Book that Found Me

Our message at church this weekend was on the authority and reliability of the Bible. Is it a reliable means of knowing truth? I need no convincing of this. I’ve chosen to live my entire life based on the truth of the Bible, and believe me, if I hadn’t, it would look a lot different.

Our pastor quoted a centuries-old French philosopher (Wouldn’t it be cool if I had taken down his name?) who put together his own book of pithy quotes and “life verses” in hope of finding some meaning for his existence. After what must have been a whole lot of work, he was disappointed when it amounted to nothing substantial on which he could base his life. Then he realized his wife had smuggled a Bible into their non-religious home, and upon reading it, he said something like, “Finally, a book that has found me.”

Yes, nameless French dude! I am one who has been found by it, too. What other book could paint such a broad but consistent message using such a variety of palettes? If I don’t care for history, I’ve got poetry. If long genealogical lists aren’t my thing, I’ve got some of the greatest biographies ever written.

Just recently I’ve been agonizing over Joash, one in a long line of Judean kings who chose to follow his own ways instead of God’s. Raised in the temple by the priest Jehoiada after his grandmother murdered all the other members of his family, Joash became king at 7 and managed to get a lot right while Jehoiada was alive. But he fell apart after his mentor died, following the lead of his wicked advisors and eventually being killed for it. Who am I when the important people in my life aren’t looking on? Oh, the things I can learn from Joash.

From young David I learn about ferocious faith and facing my own giants. From older David I learn how to lament, how to confess, and how to praise with abandon, not caring what anyone thinks.

From Solomon I am reminded of good common sense: accepting correction, holding my tongue, pursuing wisdom, choosing generosity over greed, being honest, not being lazy, trusting God instead of my own understanding.

From the book of Philippians (2:14–16a) we plucked the words for our family verse. Could there be anything more relevant to the six of us than “do everything without complaining or arguing”? Could Paul’s words written 2,000 years ago—“a warped and crooked generation”—be any more apt for the world we live in today?

And what about James? It’s as if he crawled into my brain and picked out every issue I’ve ever struggled with. How is it possible I’ve never met this man? How does he know exactly what I need to hear?

No one can convince me that the Bible is irrelevant for us today. It’s alive and active. It knows me. It found me. It penetrates my heart each and every day.