I think I am afflicted with what Anna Quindlen calls “creeping codgerism.” Or what I call Grumpy Old Guy Syndrome. I noticed it clearly during last Friday’s Battle of the Bands (see May 22 post). A number of times, things happened which, in most other churches, would be quashed as disrespectful of God’s House. When I began working with youth about five years ago, I got uptight about a lot of such things and drifted into the role of fun-stopper, or Guardian of the Building. I quickly chilled out, learning that much youth-type activity is harmless, and fusses should be made only about truly fuss-worthy stuff. But where’s the line?

Anna Quindlen wrote in her Newsweek column, “When I complain that my daughter’s skirt looks more like a belt, or that my sons keep vampire hours, those are the churlish carpings of a woman years removed from the days when her own dresses were sky-high and her idea of a good time was sleeping until noon.” I feel that way. Something wants to criticize today’s youth for their tattoos, their hair (whether long, short, or just wierd), piercings, and general youth-oriented behavior. Creeping codgerism afflicts me, and I don’t like it.

On Friday night, Grumpy Old Guy yearned to jump into action. I could use various rationale: what you’re doing is disrespectful of God’s house, shouldn’t happen on church property, could damage our property, is just plain inappropriate. Being in a position of authority, I had weight to throw around in such situations as these:

• One teen carried a gallon jug of purple liquid, like grape Kool-Aid, as he moshed–running around, swinging the jug, running into people, and taking a swig now and then. A disaster waiting to happen. Finally, someone rammed him and a huge amount of grape slopped onto the sanctuary carpet, which we paid to have professionally cleaned just before Easter. Grumpy Old Guy wanted to go down there, look at the teens with a disapproving expression, go get some wet towels and carpet cleaner, then come back and clean up their mess, donning an Impatient Martyr demeanor in the hope that they felt duly ashamed. Treat them like little kids who just don’t know better. Don’t say anything; just bark silent disapproval and clean up the mess. But I didn’t.
• Kids were smoking outside, as usual. I could say, “We don’t mind if you smoke, but not on church property.” That’s reasonable. But I didn’t. We used to fuss about this and put up “No Smoking” signs, but we don’t anymore.
• Some kids in the sanctuary were throwing around a soft plastic ball, and occasionally it smacked against the wall. I watched them, thinking, “Should I stop them before they chip the paint or break a window? Out of respect for this room in which we worship God for three whole hours every week?” Grumpy Old Guy wanted to stop them. But he let it go.
• The hallway leading downstairs, where the bands store their stuff, was littered with Gatorade bottles and other trash. Very messy. Disrespectful even. I didn’t say anything to anybody. But Grumpy Old Guy stewed about it.
• Two girls sat on the couch in the foyer for the longest time, laying against each other and intertwining legs. By all appearances to Grumpy Old Guy, they were gay. Surely I could justifiably break up such PDA occurring in the church. But I didn’t. Right or wrong?
• We moved the grand piano to the back of the sanctuary and surrounded it with stacked-up chairs. I heard someone playing, and rushed downstairs. A tall, skinny youth had climbed behind the chairs, lifted the lid, and was playing the piano–my piano. Over the roar of the band on stage, I yelled, “No. Stop. Get out of there.” Very terse, direct. He smiled at me sheepishly and complied. Grumpy Old Guy wanted to take a different approach, tell him with condescending sarcasm, “We blocked off the piano for a reason.” Grumpy Old Folks say stuff like that. But I just told him to exit, and left before he actually did.
• And then there’s the lead singer who did a striptease on stage, just behind where our worship leader stood two days later as we sang “Lord I Lift Your Name on High.” Grumpy Old Guy was too shocked to move.

This type of thing is the price of doing business with this crowd, in this neighborhood. It happens. Last year, somebody broke a window in the sanctuary during the Battle of the Bands. There is always gum in the carpet (I found two pieces mashed down this year). We deal with it, don’t get unduly disturbed, and life goes on. And on Sunday, when we gather to worship, God still shows up.

We say the “church” is the people, not the building. We say the building is a tool for the Kingdom, not a sacred shrine. But events like this test that pretty theology, and I suspect most United Brethren people would fail miserably. Frankly, I carry too much traditional baggage, growing up in the days when you didn’t run in church and you certainly never sat on the altar. (“What?” you say. “You mean those days ended?”) I was taught one theology about the church being the people, but saw a different theology in practice. But if we truly view the building as merely a tool for ministry, something which can be used for worship, but which can also be used for a carnival (which we do, putting a huge rented moonwalk on the platform), then you shouldn’t get uptight.

Last Friday, I sensed the onslaught of “creeping codgerism,” as Grumpy Old Guy tried to break free to scold/admonish/shame/punish those youth and show his frustration/disapproval/disappointment/general annoyance. I’m glad Grumpy Old Guy didn’t win. But he’s there, lurking within me, and he’s not happy.