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A mother
once asked, with exasperation dripping from her voice, whether
the Bible had anything to say about teenagers. So I said:
"Why do you ask?" And she told me. She had a lot
of pent up frustration and my office was as good a place to
dump it as any.
But concerning
teenagers and the Bible, there is little that is said directly
to them, and even less that is said specifically about them.
When I pointed that out in a study group, someone said: "I
guess they've always been an enigma." Possibly so. As
teenagers go, all of us have been them. Some of us still like
them. But none of us fully understands them, including those
of us who are them. But the more likely reason teens do not
pop up with regularity in the pages of scripture is that teenagers
simply didn't exist in biblical days. In those days, a boy
was a man at 14. And by that age, most girls had already married
and borne children.
An exception
is this story of Joseph, his magnificent sport coat, and his
ten older brothers. Madeleine L'Engle, gifted author and teacher
of spiritual formation, has written a beautiful book about
Joseph entitled Sold Into Egypt. Concerning this particular
story, she writes: "I try to listen to the story of Joseph
because it describes the journey of a spoiled and selfish
young man, finally becoming a full and complex human being.
I have much to learn from him."
Ms. L'Engle
reminds us that Joseph was a teenager at the time this messy
business with his brothers takes place. Taking a few poetic
liberties with the text, she describes him thusly:
He was
a spoiled brat, Joseph, the eleventh brother. Indulged.
Selfish. He clung to his father. Whined. Got his own way.
When one of the wives said no, another would surely say
yes. And when he was crossed, he would wail that he had
no mother.
In adolescence
he became arrogant. He knew he was the favored one of the
brothers. But he was not yet old enough to know that a father
does a son no favor in singling him out, giving him a beautiful
coat, lavishing him with love.
Who can
know all the reasons behind such indulgence? We are led to
believe it had to do with the fact that Joseph was born in
his father's old age (when his daddy had more to give and
had mellowed to the degree that he was more inclined to give
it). Moreover, Joseph was born to Rachel (who his daddy loved
more than he loved the other women who had borne the older
boys ... and who had died). There's probably enough material
in that brief description to keep a therapist busy for a year
or more. But, hey, it's just a story. For the moment, take
it for what it is.
Joseph,
of course, takes everything that comes his way. He contributes
to his downfall by sharing with his brothers a pair of dreams.
These dreams make Joseph out to be a hero and his brothers,
considerably less. In fact, the hidden message of both dreams
is: "I will be your master and you will do my bidding."
Joseph would have been better off keeping his mouth shut about
such dreams ... if, indeed, he really had them. But his father
also set him up for what was about to happen ... both by something
he gave him (a beautiful coat) ... and by something he failed
to ask of him (that he work as hard as everyone else was asked
to work). Notice that when the confrontation with the brothers
takes place, Joseph is not only all dressed up, but he is
coming out to the workplace where his brothers are already
hard at labor ... and he is not.
They see
him coming. They decide they've had their fill of him. A small
debate breaks out among them. Should they kill him or sell
him? They settle on selling him. And Joseph is off to Egypt
while his brothers are off to tell some cock-and-bull story
to daddy.
End of
story? Hardly! For, as Madeleine L'Engle so nicely summarizes:
Sometimes
terrible things are redeemed in unexpected ways. This sudden
and violent separation from everything familiar was the
beginning of Joseph's growing up. This breaking of the pampered
pet was essential to his development into a mature human
being.
Don't
let that last line slide quickly by. That's a marvelous re-statement
of a most accurate analysis: "This breaking of the pampered
pet was essential to his development into a mature human being."
What Ms. L'Engle seems to be saying is that it's hard to have
everything and grow up, too.
Clearly,
in the Joseph story, the deeper issue is one of favoritism.
One child is singled out, treated differently and over-blessed.
It is the underlying issue in virtually every family saga
in the book of Genesis. And it still takes place today.
But what
if there is no favoritism? What if everybody is equally over-indulged?
Do some of the same problems still arise? Is the same highway
to maturity slowed to a crawl? I think so.
When we
were talking about this the other day, someone picked up on
the issue of over-indulgence and used the word "spoiled."
I don't like the word. To me, it is always indicative of fruit
that hasn't been eaten in time. Suddenly it is soft and mushy,
smelly and moldy. It's black bananas, brown pears, and powdery
white oranges. "Spoiled" tastes terrible, makes
people sick, and draws flies wherever it is pitched. Once
something is spoiled, there is no resurrecting it. And the
only earthly use to which it can be put is just that ... an
earthly use ... making compost. That's what "spoiling"
is all about. What's more, we never even think of "spoiled"
without the other word that follows ... the word "rotten"
... as in "spoiled rotten." Such language is occasionally
appropriate for fruit. It is never appropriate for kids.
Still,
there is a reality to which all of this points. Bruce Baldwin,
a well-known psychologist and an acknowledged expert on the
subject of lifestyle management, has been stumping the country
suggesting that by giving our children too much materially,
we may be giving them too little of what they really need
to succeed in life. His mission is to shed light on the much-asked
question: "Why don't Dick and Jane succeed despite every
advantage?" Baldwin discovered, as a result of doing
lifestyle management seminars across the United States, that
two things continuously emerged in conversations with modern
parents. First, they were genuinely committed to doing their
best. Second, they were highly concerned about the ability
of their children to "make it" in the real world.
Their
concerns were reflected in three recurring complaints.
A. Our
kids have values that seem shallow and self- serving. They
are primarily interested in pleasure-seeking activities.
They assume that all they need do is express a need and
someone will meet it. Gratitude does not come easily to
them. Neither does sensitivity.
B. We
don't see our children motivated to become self-sufficient.
They don't have the same drive we did when we were their
age. They are quick to lay aside long-term goals in favor
of gratifications that are more immediate. In short, if
it can be had right now with little effort, it is preferable
to that which can only be had down the road with much discipline.
C. We
don't see our children developing a sense of responsibility.
They can be highly manipulative in getting what they want,
but have to be "hounded" into fulfilling even
the most minimal responsibilities. Their most highly polished
verbal skill is the art of making excuses as to why something
didn't get done or wasn't their fault.
Now those
are heavy complaints. As I read them, I bristled. I immediately
thought of several kids they did not fit. But then I sat back,
analyzed my defensiveness, and realized I had heard the same
things expressed by many of you. Just three days ago, a lady
sat in my office and said, concerning her son: "We made
it too easy."
From complaints
such as these, Bruce Baldwin formulated the concept of "the
cornucopia kids." These are kids who have been raised
in great homes by highly-committed parents who, with the best
of motivations, simply wanted to give their children a secure
lifestyle, a comfortable environment, and a competitive edge
by providing them with every material advantage. But these
parents failed to understand how that generosity was being
perceived by the kids who were its recipients. Simply put:
"Cornucopia kids are kids who develop an expectation,
based on years of experience in the home, that the good life
will always be available for the asking, and without the need
to develop any accountability for it or motivation to ensure
its continuance."
In short,
cornucopia kids may be suffering from our success and our
desire to share it. After all, what is a cornucopia but a
mythical horn-of-plenty ... the traditional symbol of a harvest
that has been abundant, not merely to the point of sufficiency,
but to the point of spilling over. Yet this is more than a
problem of the very rich. The fact of the matter is that cornucopia
kids are being raised in homes that are very middle class,
and even in households where there is a struggle to make ends
meet.
All of
this got me to thinking. It made me think about the toys kids
get ... the trips kids take ... the allowances kids receive
... and the clothes kids wear. But it also got me to thinking
about some things that are even more basic to the home itself,
like having one's own room.
Most kids
have their own room. Today's houses are big enough. Today's
families are small enough. Neither used to be the case. But
it is the case today. Having your own room is probably a good
thing. It gives you privacy. It gives you "turf."
It gives you space that you can define, control and call your
own. I don't know anybody who couldn't make a case for the
benefits of one kid to a room.
But at
Albion College we know three things about kids and rooms.
We know that 98 percent of our entering freshman will come
from homes where they had their own room. We know that the
room from which they came will often be twice as large as
the dormitory room into which they will move. And we know
that "roommate problems" will be the biggest non-academic
adjustment that freshmen will have to make. Not freedom. Not
alcohol. Not sex. Not loneliness or homesickness. The biggest
adjustment will involve living in the same room with somebody
else ... dividing space ... protecting stuff ... negotiating
differences ... setting schedules. Many will not be able to
live with the first roommate, not because the initial choice
was wrong, but because learning a new developmental skill
often claims a few casualties in the process.
Or maybe
your kid has a car. Perhaps the company provides an extra
one. Or perhaps it is simply more convenient, given the fact
that you have had it up to here with chauffeuring and hassling.
Good thing, a car. Saves wear and tear on everybody. True.
But when one car per person is not available (and the family
car needs to be shared), valuable lessons are learned about
allocating and negotiating. Important decisions are made about
priorities and determining which needs are most pressing.
Discipline is developed when one needs to have the car home
by 6:00 because someone else needs to leave in the car at
6:05.
Ditto
for the phone. It would have saved a ton of problems in the
Ritter household had we given Bill and Julie their own phone
lines. But there were considerations other than cost that
mitigated against that. When we were all answering the same
phone, we knew a lot more about each other's business. We
knew who was calling for whom. We had to learn the art of
taking accurate messages. We had to parcel out phone time
by negotiating priorities. In a busy household, one phone
line is inconvenient. But it forces people to function as
a team.
Television!
Everybody talks about it. Everybody complains about it. Everybody
has a well-constructed theory as to why it may be the Devil
incarnate. But the issue nobody talks about is the number
of sets per house. Most kids figure they should have one in
their room. Ditto for a computer. They can close the door,
burrow in and hunker down, again learning nothing about negotiating
whose turn it is to watch what, or opening one's self to the
commentary of others concerning what is being watched. Someone
told me, just the other day, that it is not uncommon in their
household to have three different sets ... in three different
rooms ... watched by three different people ... with each
set tuned to the same program. That's a togetherness issue.
But watching a program in isolation also renders one immune
to the commentary of others. That's a content issue. I tended
to censure very little where my kids were concerned. But I
tried to watch the controversial stuff with them. With sets
all over the house, it becomes difficult.
Or consider
things that fall into the category of luxuries and rewards
... like senior trips. The whole "senior trip scene"
has expanded dramatically. We have seen destinations become
ever more exotic and costs become ever more astronomical.
In some school districts, a tradition of "junior trips"
has even gotten started. Many kids assume that spring break
will be a bust if they do not partake of an experience that
will make the honeymoon of their parents pale by comparison.
As a culture, do we really want to say that reaching the end
of one's senior year is best rewarded by a Caribbean cruise,
for which one of the more compelling selling points is the
removal of all restrictions on alcohol consumption and casino
gambling beyond the three-mile limit?
I think
Bruce Baldwin is onto something in his discussion of cornucopia
kids. I think Madeleine L'Engle is onto the same thing in
her discussion of Joseph. And I realize that my comments have
but scratched the surface of the issue. We want the "best"
for our kids. We want the "most" for our kids. But
we are beginning to learn that the "best" and the
"most" are not necessarily compatible. I fully understand
that the single-most difficult thing about being relatively
affluent is that it is difficult to turn to those we love
and say, "But I can't afford it." After all, how
do you answer the kid who says: "Hey, it's not as if
you and dad are broke or something ... "
Yet that
is precisely the question we need to answer. Because the issue
is not with our kids, but with ourselves. Two parents came
across Bruce Baldwin's original lecture on cornucopia kids
and, convinced they were well on their way to raising one
in their home, actually gave a copy to their adolescent son
and said: "Read this and tell us what you think."
Eventually he returned, tossed the magazine on the coffee
table and said: "Mom, Dad, I agree with everything it
says. But it's your problem, not mine." And irritating
as that answer may be, it's absolutely right.
A mother
was talking to a caseworker about her early-adolescent son.
The son had been in a minor scrape with the law. Too minor
for a court sentence. Not minor enough to let go of completely.
Community service was indicated, but the kid seemed too young
and immature to assign to an agency. So the requirement of
the caseworker took the form of some mandated household chores.
But no chore could be found. A maid cleaned the inside. A
yardman took care of the outside. The family never ate enough
meals in the kitchen to fill the dishwasher. It was suggested
that he might be able to change the litter in the cat box.
But even his mother knew something more strenuous was indicated.
She seemed perplexed. What could be done to help this kid
with his problem? Well, one of the first tasks of the caseworker
was to re-define the question of whose problem it was.
It is
part and parcel of the ethic of Jesus that when you have a
lot of anything (money, talent, brains, stuff), a great deal
will be asked of you. Which means that you can't just consume
it or stuff it away for the future. But neither are you free
from the obligation to discriminate carefully as to how much
... to whom ... for how long ... and at what cost ... you
give it away. That may require a bit more firmness (where
our children's expectations are concerned) than we have mustered
heretofore. But if the principle of isometrics suggests that
kids can build muscle by pushing firmly against a hard-to-move
object, is it not possible to suggest that character might
be built in precisely the same way?
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