Softening your introduction questions

Tell me about yourself?

Married.

2 kids.

Teacher.

This is my BBQ bio.

Marital status.

Job.

This is the default information you serve up when introducing yourself.

When we meet someone for the first time we may prompt them to divulge a part of their BBQ bio.

What do you do for a job?

Who are you here with?

One reason we - and read the grunting Aussie male - may ask these questions is to determine the others status.

We will judge their answer.

We will rank ourselves against their bio.

But, with maturity, these things matter less.

We become less insecure.

We work out that the comparison game sucks.

So, you soften your introduction questions.

As you grow in wisdom, you ask wiser questions.

How do you spend your day?

Who’s in your family?

These questions are far more open and, therefore, less threatening.

They allow the responder to direct the narrative.

Frankly, these questions allow for better conversation.

The sneaky church creeper

The obvious disclaimer to attach to this headline is that this post has nothing to do with guys in trench-coats, windowless vans or anything which may result in you being interviewed by the police.

But, every Sunday… in all churches… there’s a church creeper.

Maybe it’s the person doing the notices.

Or about to deliver the bible reading.

Or saying a prayer.

All church services have creepers.

People who are, as inconspicuously as possible, slithering from their chair towards the front of the church.

Waiting.

Often crouching.

Ready to pounce once their element in the service is due.

I’ve been a creeper.

With good intentions I’ve crept towards the front of church in preparation for a seamless transition.

But, viewing a church creeper is ecclesiastical gold.

And, these creepers exist beyond those with upfront roles.

If you’re late? 

You creep in.

If you’re setting up morning tea?

You creep out.

The church service can be a hive of congregational creepers, scurrying amongst the pews.

Chances are, you’ll notice one out of the corner of your eye the next time you’re in church.

When do healing prayers transition?

I used to work for the denomination with, on average, the oldest church members anywhere in Australia.

Needless to say, some died.

Others got sick.

Old age, sickness and death are a chain of events all of us will encounter. It may be personally. It may be a family member. It may engulf acquaintances.

Nonetheless, as those around us creep into old age - if they are believers - should our prayers for them be adjusted?

Should we, if someone is advanced in age, always pray for healing?

Would that be the best thing for a centurion?

Should we, instead, pray for comfort?

Or peace?

Or preparedness?

For, inevitably, death will find all of us (unless Jesus returns earlier!).

Should our prayer for the elderly be different than, say, our prayers for a 40-year-old?

Of course, irrespective of age, everyone could use a prayer for comfort, peace and preparedness. But, in general, we desire to see the 40-year-old restored to health.

But what of someone who is 105 years old?

Maybe we should be as much - if not more - concerned with their preparedness to face Jesus. 

Hopefully, this will be one thing they are looking forward to.

Like meeting a friend.

For, at this moment, they will be healed. Fully restored. Without pain or discomfort.

The trouble is, I’m comfortable with the bedside prayer agenda being a balance of preparedness as it is healing for someone in old age.

100.

90.

80…

70?

Fewer years than that???

This is where the petition gets tricky.

Unless the prognosis is terminal, where is the balance between our thoughts being primarily about this life or more concerned about the afterlife?

When is it appropriate for the driving question of our pray to transition from “Are they getting better?” to “Are they dying well?”

The pain reaction which stays with a man

There’s a distinct moment in the life of a young lad that, in my mind, determines where he is on the path to manhood.

It has nothing to do with your birthday or a date on any calendar.

It’s not shaving for the first time.

It’s not getting your first job.

It’s not picking up a lady and getting laid.

It has to do with the way you respond to getting hurt.

When you’re a child and you get hurt you respond in two ways.

You cry.

You look for your mum.

These are the responses of a child. Accepted responses.

But, as you mature, the way you react to physical pain changes.

Hurt equals anger.

Every man knows this it be true.

They have all undergone the same metamorphosis.

As a bloke gets older, if he stubs his toe, he’ll swear, not cry.

If a bloke falls over, he’ll make noises like Peter Griffin, but he’ll no longer shed a tear.

This is the subtle change that you see on the rugby field around the ages of 12-13.

As injuries happen, some weep. Others yell. The new accepted response.

No matter, everyone fell for the old “magic sponge” trick to make you feel better

(I said it was a sign on maturity, not intelligence).

Nonetheless, this transformation for the way we react to pain stays with us.

Hurt = anger.

And, what starts as a reaction to physical pain, can bleed over to other forms of pain.

Relational pain.

Emotional pain.

Disappointment.

Dissatisfaction.

Grief.

We are conditioned to avoid tears and release our hurt through anger.

Ditto for fear.

Same for a lack of control.

This is why men, most often, are angry.

They are manifesting their pain.

And, what worked throughout puberty - and what was accepted by their peers - is still their go-to response.