For as long as I can remember, it has been a Stephens' family tradition to read the biblical account of Jesus' birth following the candle lit service at Grant Memorial Baptist Church on Christmas eve.
Seeing as how this is the first year in recent memory that I have not joined my family for a frigid Yuletide in Winnipeg, albeit 12 hours late and in absence of the candle lit service - I decided upon awaking this morning to do the same. Beside my absent roommate's' cute miniature tree - adorned with odd ornaments like Gretzky avec Rangers uniform, Darth Vader and the Pink Panther - I cracked open my not-nearly-read-enough Bible, took a sip of my lukewarm Bailey's and coffee (instant, of course: Second Cup is closed) and turned to the first chapter of Matthew, skipping the long, boring and theologically important genealogy (So and so begat so and so).
Whether you buy into it or not, when stripped down, the story is pretty simple, fascinating and would make for an interesting movie (immaculate conception, unique GPS, mass infanticide and a dash of frankincense).
The Story
Prior to consummating their marriage, Joseph finds out his lovely bride-to-be, Mary is pregnant, a plot thickener no doubt. Being what the text offers as a righteous man, Joseph decides he's going to divorce her - another paragraph says "while he was trying to figure a way out..." - but is then visited by an angel in a dream who gives him the details: there had been no drunken carousing with another one of the town carpenters...rather, it was the Holy Spirit that had impregnated his fiance. "...do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife," the angel explains, "she will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins."
And you thought you had some messed up dreams.
Imagine if you will, guys, finding out that your fiance is pregnant. An exciting thing to be sure...if the two of you had been intimate - it's Christmas, so I'm choosing light terminology. I suspect, unless she was an absolute angel whom you'd never witnessed a bit tipsy and flirting with your friends, you'd be a little pissed off and hurt. Chances are good, like Joseph, you'd be ready to load up the donkey and move out of the shack. You might even send an email to Maury Povich.
And then the dream. Today, we'd write such a thing off as emotional distress: the angel represents such and such, the Holy Spirit a manifestation of the pain of betrayal or some gibberish. Nevertheless, Joseph does what he is told, or commanded, and off they go to Bethlehem, although the reason for the trip (the census) isn't mentioned in Matthew, only in the gospel of Luke.
(Note: the biblical text is confusing as hell. It's the first time I've actually understood the whole "if the biblical text was manufactured, you'd think they'd have polished it up a bit" argument.)
[Enter an interesting supporting character] King Herod is one crafty mofo. After learning that the Messiah is to be born in Bethlehem, he arranges a sit down with the Magi (wise men or scholars) and tells them that they should continue to follow the now infamous star and then report back to him, so that he too could go and "worship". Of course, he had zero intention of doing so. When they, being wise men and all, clue in to his real intentions (the aforementioned mass infanticide, which he later carries out), they exit stage left - after presenting the baby with gold, frankincense and myrrh - without so much as sending the good king a text message. The Christ family then splits Bethlehem for Egypt, only to return after Herod's passing.
And that's Matthew's account...
Now while it might seem that I have an aversion to mangers and shepherds, let me be clear that I am not, although I am allergic to hay. When combined, the two gospels make for a much more well rounded story, including an angelic choir and the Inn sans vacancy. But what then is the point of Christmas? It would seem that whether or not there were goats present at the manger birth, or if the baby Jesus was wrapped in "swaddling clothes", the story is much bigger than the ever present Nativity scene perched upon the piano in the Stephens living room each December could ever possibly capture.
You see, despite what marketers have done to Christmas, or Xmas as we'd seemingly rather call it (easier to text and write, I guess), it isn't about dysfunctional family gatherings, credit card debt, a 70% Off Diesel Boxing Day event , or work parties that lead to lengthy conversations with HR departments. Rather, because of Jesus birth, and that one thing alone, it has cosmic significance. Why? Because if the story is true, that same cute baby depicted in the school plays hung on a cross as a criminal thirty something years later after saying some pretty profound things. Things that rubbed and continue to rub a lot of people the wrong way. Things that all of us can either accept or reject, but either way need at some point to make a decision on. And even though Christians have made a bloody mess of the whole thing, and the atheists have chosen not to believe, Christmas - the event, not the day - like it or not, is a turning point for all of us. Either way has consequences.
And so, as you sit alone, or celebrate with friends or family today, take a moment to reflect. What and why do you believe what you do? And how does it impact your life?
Merry Christmas all.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
The Imposter
While known predominantly for his bestseller,The Ragamuffin Gospel, a weighty tome on the forgiving and loving nature of God, author Brennan Manning's most important, most culturally relevant thoughts might just be penned in his often overlooked work, Abba's Child.
In it, Manning describes an important revelation that came to him during a twenty day silent retreat in a remote cabin in the Colorado Rockies. "As the days passed, I realized that I had not been able to feel anything since I was eight years old," he explains. "A traumatic experience at that time shut down my memory for the next nine years and my feelings for the next five decades. When I was eight, the impostor, or false self, was born as a defense against the pain. The impostor within whispered, "Brennan, don't ever be your real self anymore because nobody likes you as you are. Invent a new self that everyone will admire and nobody will know."
I suspect that the majority of us share a similar story. In fact, we could probably just swap our names with Brennan's in the above quote and sign off on it as our own. Whether at age eight or twenty-eight, there probably isn't a person alive that hasn't forged from their pain an impostor to help make things a little better, to take the focus off the seemingly unlovable, broken schleps we feel ourselves to be. And so we hide. Hide behind a smile, weight, bravado, alcohol, sexual conquests, humour and even religion. We are the class clown, the school druggie, the cheerleader, the Sunday school teacher, but we are never truly ourselves. And sadly, many of us, myself included, years later, find ourselves trapped behind masks that have become far too familiar, far too much like home.
In his life changing memoir, Telling Secrets, author Frederick Buechner concurs. "The world sets into making us what the world wants us to be, and because we have to survive after all, we try to make ourselves into something the world will like better that it apparently did the selves we originally were," he says. "...the original, shimmering self gets burried so deep that most of us end up hardly living out of it at all. Instead, we live out all the other selves which we are constantly putting on and taking off like coats and hats against the world's weather."
As a kid, I spent a fair amount of time at Grant Memorial Baptist Church. Truthfully, although we went a bit much (3-4 times a week on average), I didn't really mind it. My parents were good enough to not let it interfere with my hockey schedule, so other than being the last ones out of the building every Sunday thanks to my mother's incessant socializing (love you, mom), it wasn't that bad. When it became bad was during the secular music embargo at my house. Not that I didn't like Michael W. Smith's sentimental electric piano pop songs, because I did and still do (please don't tell). Simply, it was not being able to play Platinum Blonde, Ozzy and G&R during mini stick games or Atari battles with friends that sucked (and created a chasm between my friends and I). I remember one time trying to convince David Todd that the Christian band Mad at the World was actually the new David Bowie album I had somehow scored. Needless to say, it didn't go over well.
And so the teasing began. Oddly, seeing as I had a bad haircut and carried a good twenty pounds of excess baby fat back in those days, the teasing was church related. At that point, when I wasn't being invited out as much on account of my "faith", it became clear to me that whatever God had to offer me in the here and now couldn't compare to the acceptance of my friends. And that is when my impostor was born.
I won't get into the gory details of my impostor in this blog. Let it suffice to say, however, that he is alive and well, wreaking havoc at times. But I am aware of him now. And while I very much dislike him, the impostor has helped me through the good and the bad and any hating of the impostor is, as Manning later goes on to explain, self-hatred. So it is with gentle hands that the mask must be removed.
As we roll into 2010 and resolve to hit the gym more, watch less pornography, stop smoking or become better parents, let's, if but for a moment, peek out from behind the masks we have worn since God knows when, if only just to remind ourselves of who we truly are: lost and broken men and women who were fearfully and wonderfully made when stitched together in our mother's wombs (I admit I stitched a couple of Bible verses together there). To be sure, much shit has happened since. We have done horrible things and had horrible things said and done to us. But it will all be redeemed, whether we have abs or money or the perfect marriage or amazing children or not. Those lies are what got us here in the first place.
And so new decade, I introduce you to me: a sensitive little (still little after all these years) boy from the prairies who despite the tattoos, foul mouth and penchant for Jack Daniels (notice the impostor needed to list those), still listens to Christian rock, misses ham sandwich lunches with his Grandma in Morden, MB, and would one day love to grow up to be just like his dad. And I think I'm beginning to be OK with it.
Happy New Year, all.
A toast: to removing the masks, quieting the Impostor, and finally accepting who we truly are, not what the world has told us to be.
In it, Manning describes an important revelation that came to him during a twenty day silent retreat in a remote cabin in the Colorado Rockies. "As the days passed, I realized that I had not been able to feel anything since I was eight years old," he explains. "A traumatic experience at that time shut down my memory for the next nine years and my feelings for the next five decades. When I was eight, the impostor, or false self, was born as a defense against the pain. The impostor within whispered, "Brennan, don't ever be your real self anymore because nobody likes you as you are. Invent a new self that everyone will admire and nobody will know."
I suspect that the majority of us share a similar story. In fact, we could probably just swap our names with Brennan's in the above quote and sign off on it as our own. Whether at age eight or twenty-eight, there probably isn't a person alive that hasn't forged from their pain an impostor to help make things a little better, to take the focus off the seemingly unlovable, broken schleps we feel ourselves to be. And so we hide. Hide behind a smile, weight, bravado, alcohol, sexual conquests, humour and even religion. We are the class clown, the school druggie, the cheerleader, the Sunday school teacher, but we are never truly ourselves. And sadly, many of us, myself included, years later, find ourselves trapped behind masks that have become far too familiar, far too much like home.
In his life changing memoir, Telling Secrets, author Frederick Buechner concurs. "The world sets into making us what the world wants us to be, and because we have to survive after all, we try to make ourselves into something the world will like better that it apparently did the selves we originally were," he says. "...the original, shimmering self gets burried so deep that most of us end up hardly living out of it at all. Instead, we live out all the other selves which we are constantly putting on and taking off like coats and hats against the world's weather."
As a kid, I spent a fair amount of time at Grant Memorial Baptist Church. Truthfully, although we went a bit much (3-4 times a week on average), I didn't really mind it. My parents were good enough to not let it interfere with my hockey schedule, so other than being the last ones out of the building every Sunday thanks to my mother's incessant socializing (love you, mom), it wasn't that bad. When it became bad was during the secular music embargo at my house. Not that I didn't like Michael W. Smith's sentimental electric piano pop songs, because I did and still do (please don't tell). Simply, it was not being able to play Platinum Blonde, Ozzy and G&R during mini stick games or Atari battles with friends that sucked (and created a chasm between my friends and I). I remember one time trying to convince David Todd that the Christian band Mad at the World was actually the new David Bowie album I had somehow scored. Needless to say, it didn't go over well.
And so the teasing began. Oddly, seeing as I had a bad haircut and carried a good twenty pounds of excess baby fat back in those days, the teasing was church related. At that point, when I wasn't being invited out as much on account of my "faith", it became clear to me that whatever God had to offer me in the here and now couldn't compare to the acceptance of my friends. And that is when my impostor was born.
I won't get into the gory details of my impostor in this blog. Let it suffice to say, however, that he is alive and well, wreaking havoc at times. But I am aware of him now. And while I very much dislike him, the impostor has helped me through the good and the bad and any hating of the impostor is, as Manning later goes on to explain, self-hatred. So it is with gentle hands that the mask must be removed.
As we roll into 2010 and resolve to hit the gym more, watch less pornography, stop smoking or become better parents, let's, if but for a moment, peek out from behind the masks we have worn since God knows when, if only just to remind ourselves of who we truly are: lost and broken men and women who were fearfully and wonderfully made when stitched together in our mother's wombs (I admit I stitched a couple of Bible verses together there). To be sure, much shit has happened since. We have done horrible things and had horrible things said and done to us. But it will all be redeemed, whether we have abs or money or the perfect marriage or amazing children or not. Those lies are what got us here in the first place.
And so new decade, I introduce you to me: a sensitive little (still little after all these years) boy from the prairies who despite the tattoos, foul mouth and penchant for Jack Daniels (notice the impostor needed to list those), still listens to Christian rock, misses ham sandwich lunches with his Grandma in Morden, MB, and would one day love to grow up to be just like his dad. And I think I'm beginning to be OK with it.
Happy New Year, all.
A toast: to removing the masks, quieting the Impostor, and finally accepting who we truly are, not what the world has told us to be.
Monday, August 10, 2009
Anxiety
The first attack was the worst.
It came without warning, somewhere between the rooftop hot tub and the living room. Somewhere between the lines of coke and the 30th or 40th cigarette. Somewhere between the red wine and the two girls waiting for me in the living room.
It had all the signs of a heart attack: shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat (like just sprinted 100m fast), tingling in the extremities and instant sweat. Having just sat down on the couch, the overwhelming sense of fear shot me right back to my feet and out the door, ignoring the girls' queries as to where I was going. I needed to get out of there. I made a beeline for my room, ditched the towel and got dressed. If I was going to die, it couldn't be at my own house party. And please God, anything but a drug overdose. My family would be mortified.
I don't remember whether it was hot or cold outside. Winter or Summer? Couldn't tell you. All I remember is wandering around an unusually silent Whistler Village, heart pounding in my chest. I headed straight for the clinic: CLOSED.
"I can't call 911," I remember thinking to myself. "I'm stoned out of my mind."
And so I walked. And walked fast. And cried. And prayed to a God to whom I'd been silent for a very long time.
"God, I swear I'll never touch that shit again," I pleaded, making what was probably the most genuine promise of my life.
It's amazing what goes through your mind when you're not sure if your heart is about to explode. For some reason, it was my younger brother Cam that came to mind. Seven years apart, I'd never really been around enough to be much of a big brother. Sure, we'd played mini sticks in the basement and I used to throw him around in the pool, but he had no idea who I was. "He's going to be the kid at youth group who's older brother died of a fucking overdose," I thought, disgusted with myself. I need to write him a letter.
What that letter said, I am not sure. I returned to an empty apartment - the party had since ended - and crawled into bed, my heart rate a little closer to normal. With shaky hands I chicken-scratched something or other about not being around enough and asking for forgiveness for how I was convinced I would be found in the morning. I'm sure there was much more I was planning to say, but I passed out before I could put it to paper.
In the end, my heart never exploded, although it very well should have. Rather, I'd had my first panic attack. For a solid year following that horrific event, I wrestled with my mind every time the sun went down. A flutter of the heart or pain in my arm would awaken a terror in me so grandiose that most nights I fell asleep with an Ativan tucked into a dry spot under my tongue. During that time, I refused to sleep in my room, choosing instead the couch, the same CD playing night after night: tried, tested and true things that somehow, and for no good reason, just narrowly kept the monster at bay.
For those of us who tend to repeatedly put our hands in the fire, fear can be a wonderful motivator. It's been over a decade now since that night, and a decade since I've touched drugs (the illegal ones, anyway). Once in a while, I can feel the monster's presence, lurking at the strangest times. The other night it passed while I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep. It's how I imagine it might feel brushing shoulders with a ghost.
And as much as I hate it. As uncomfortable as it might get. It acts as a reminder. A reminder of the terror that could be. A reminder that life is fragile. That the mind is fragile. That no matter how much I can bench press or how hard I can punch, I can be rendered useless in the blink of an eye, with one simple, random surge of adrenaline.
And if my heart should explode one night, then ultimately I was warned. The promises made, the important things that come to mind when you feel it may just be your last moment on earth, the things so quickly forgotten when the sun rises and lights up your room, inviting you to live another day, those are the things that should and need to be done. There are letters to be written and people to visit and places to see. I suspect that should we do the things we promise we will and avoid the things we promise to avoid in a moment of panic, then truthfully what would we have to fear? Dying, perhaps. But not death.
"Reach for the sky, because tomorrow may never come."
It came without warning, somewhere between the rooftop hot tub and the living room. Somewhere between the lines of coke and the 30th or 40th cigarette. Somewhere between the red wine and the two girls waiting for me in the living room.
It had all the signs of a heart attack: shortness of breath, rapid heartbeat (like just sprinted 100m fast), tingling in the extremities and instant sweat. Having just sat down on the couch, the overwhelming sense of fear shot me right back to my feet and out the door, ignoring the girls' queries as to where I was going. I needed to get out of there. I made a beeline for my room, ditched the towel and got dressed. If I was going to die, it couldn't be at my own house party. And please God, anything but a drug overdose. My family would be mortified.
I don't remember whether it was hot or cold outside. Winter or Summer? Couldn't tell you. All I remember is wandering around an unusually silent Whistler Village, heart pounding in my chest. I headed straight for the clinic: CLOSED.
"I can't call 911," I remember thinking to myself. "I'm stoned out of my mind."
And so I walked. And walked fast. And cried. And prayed to a God to whom I'd been silent for a very long time.
"God, I swear I'll never touch that shit again," I pleaded, making what was probably the most genuine promise of my life.
It's amazing what goes through your mind when you're not sure if your heart is about to explode. For some reason, it was my younger brother Cam that came to mind. Seven years apart, I'd never really been around enough to be much of a big brother. Sure, we'd played mini sticks in the basement and I used to throw him around in the pool, but he had no idea who I was. "He's going to be the kid at youth group who's older brother died of a fucking overdose," I thought, disgusted with myself. I need to write him a letter.
What that letter said, I am not sure. I returned to an empty apartment - the party had since ended - and crawled into bed, my heart rate a little closer to normal. With shaky hands I chicken-scratched something or other about not being around enough and asking for forgiveness for how I was convinced I would be found in the morning. I'm sure there was much more I was planning to say, but I passed out before I could put it to paper.
In the end, my heart never exploded, although it very well should have. Rather, I'd had my first panic attack. For a solid year following that horrific event, I wrestled with my mind every time the sun went down. A flutter of the heart or pain in my arm would awaken a terror in me so grandiose that most nights I fell asleep with an Ativan tucked into a dry spot under my tongue. During that time, I refused to sleep in my room, choosing instead the couch, the same CD playing night after night: tried, tested and true things that somehow, and for no good reason, just narrowly kept the monster at bay.
For those of us who tend to repeatedly put our hands in the fire, fear can be a wonderful motivator. It's been over a decade now since that night, and a decade since I've touched drugs (the illegal ones, anyway). Once in a while, I can feel the monster's presence, lurking at the strangest times. The other night it passed while I was laying in bed trying to fall asleep. It's how I imagine it might feel brushing shoulders with a ghost.
And as much as I hate it. As uncomfortable as it might get. It acts as a reminder. A reminder of the terror that could be. A reminder that life is fragile. That the mind is fragile. That no matter how much I can bench press or how hard I can punch, I can be rendered useless in the blink of an eye, with one simple, random surge of adrenaline.
And if my heart should explode one night, then ultimately I was warned. The promises made, the important things that come to mind when you feel it may just be your last moment on earth, the things so quickly forgotten when the sun rises and lights up your room, inviting you to live another day, those are the things that should and need to be done. There are letters to be written and people to visit and places to see. I suspect that should we do the things we promise we will and avoid the things we promise to avoid in a moment of panic, then truthfully what would we have to fear? Dying, perhaps. But not death.
"Reach for the sky, because tomorrow may never come."
Sunday, August 9, 2009
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