The line was long.
So long that it snaked its way around the sanctuary, down the centre aisle to a stage that housed a large wooden cross already littered with hundreds of little white pieces of paper. I don't remember, but I suspect there was music. A moving worship song, perhaps. Maybe a hymn.
Each of the thousand or so men in attendance that weekend had come to Calvary Temple for one reason: to attend a seminar on “Sexual Purity”, or simply just sex, that three letter word most of us act out as if spelled with four. There were young and old. Short and tall. Suave and awkward. Married and single. To be sure, it was a less attractive bunch than one might expect for a group wrestling with desires of the flesh. Nevertheless, it was a group bound by a common denominator. A nemesis. A foe.
Having just moved back to Winnipeg from Toronto the week before, and battling the worst case of bronchitis I can remember, the last place I really wanted to be that weekend was sitting amongst what I felt were a bunch of guilty church-goers given to surfing porn when their wives were at choir practice. My father, ever concerned with my lackluster relational track record and noting my developing penchant for promiscuity, mentioned it on a number of occasions. "I think it would be really good for you," he'd say. "At least go check it out. You can always leave if it's not for you."
And so, sitting in the church parking lot on a nippy Winnipeg evening, I decided to give it a whirl...with one simple condition: I would only stay if I knew someone with whom I could sit. I mean, who wants to sit alone at a seminar on sexual purity? Creepy.
Not three steps in the door I heard my name, "Hey, Shayne!!"
Fuck.
It was Tom, a long time friend from the church of my youth. Worse, Tom's a great guy, so my excuse for bailing had officially vanished.
Over the course of the next two days, with numb behinds from uncomfortable pews, we heard story after story of seemingly harmless pleasures turned costly addictions. Lives risked for a moment of pleasure. Broken marriages. Shattered souls.
We also heard from men with incredible resolve, some having, get this, actually saved themselves for marriage and sang the praises of having done so. Others, despite the mess they had made of their lives, had been able to find redemption, abandoning their old ways to become men of integrity. Loving husbands. Exemplary fathers.
The choice was ours we were told. No matter what we were caught up in. No matter what we had done. There was freedom...and it was closer than we thought. Paper and pencils were handed out.
The most haunting part of the weekend came when one of the speakers asked that we bow our heads and close our eyes."If you were sexually abused, I want you raise your hand," he said in a compassionate tone.
Unable to resist, I quickly scanned the room.
Arms shot up all over the place.
My eyes focused on one individual in particular. Middle aged, overweight with a thinning pate and jeans pulled up well above his waist, he was the text book definition of the word loser. I had seen him earlier in the day and not so innocently guessed why he was there. Prostitutes and porn, I had deduced, pretty sure it wasn’t due to success with the ladies. Slowly, his body trembling the way it does when one is trying to quieten sobs, he raised his hand.
My heart broke. I felt sick.
“You fucking asshole, Shayne,” my mind yelled. “You fucking asshole.”
In a culture where we either brag or are embarrassed to admit the ease with which we have given and continue to give ourselves away, the topic of sex is vast, complicated and daunting. While I could take this blog in a million different directions - and probably will in upcoming blogs - the point I want to make here, however, has less to do with the utter mess we’ve made of sex in general, than it does with, quite simply, how our sexual cycles impact others.
You see, almost every man in the room that weekend was living out some sort of negative sexual cycle, whether it manifested itself in hours locked in the basement with a laptop, $50 hand jobs at a local den of iniquity or simply over-capitalizing on God given looks or pick up lines in nightclubs. Some had created their cycle out of insecurity and loneliness. Many, as the show of hands suggested, had been unwillingly dragged into one at a young age by an abuser - who was most likely also acting out a cycle. What I have now come to understand - and ironically aired for the first time with friends on the way to a strip club - is that unless these cycles are broken, we all become abusers.
Like it or not, we live in a world where, based on demand, capitalism has spawned a great deal of ugliness, and freedom is often denied to the weak and the poor. Nowhere is this more prevalent than in the sexual realm, where in small villages in Cambodia children are kept in dungeons to fulfill the demented cravings of sex tourists, and closer to home, young women trapped on reserves are lured into prostitution rings and strip clubs with the promise of modeling contracts. People, like our little brothers and sisters, bought and sold as fodder for someone’s perversion. Change in someone’s pocket. Human beings reduced to cum receptacles and commodities. Harsh, I know.
Whether you stream free porn online, joke with friends over $10 beers in a strip club, or take part in an interesting new trend: massage parlour stags - you feed a demand and an industry that thrives on human rights atrocities. With every dollar. With every click through.
Before you laugh off my thesis as conservative rubbish, allow me this: Am I naive enough to believe that your avoiding pornography, for example, will put an end to child sexual abuse? Of course not. But at least it’s a start. Do I hope and trust that all of us, blessed with the freedom to live the way we want, will choose to engage in activities that fights for others’ freedom, rather than condemn them to slavery? I do.
I write this now not to take a moral high road, but first and foremost to remind myself that my decisions here and now impact others. Interestingly, we need not be molesters to damage and abuse. But none of us like to be tied to the far end, the loosely connected bits that even disgusts us. Sometimes, however, we need to be reminded that no matter how loosely we think the connection to be, or how minute our contribution, in the big picture, we are still co-conspirators.
What we wrote on the pieces of paper that weekend, and later lined up to tack to the cross for what I will admit was not only a stunning and humbling visual, but where true freedom lies, were our deepest darkest sexual secrets. Today, I have many more to add to that list. My prayer, however, is that from here on in, no one ever, anywhere, has one to add because of choices that you or I have made.
Lord, forgive us our sins and bless those whom our weaknesses and poor decisions keep from freedom.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
"...I am an angel with an incredible capacity for beer."
I used to love the word broken.
So much, in fact, that I was going to tattoo it in a classic handwritten script on my neck, a permanent reminder of my how I viewed both myself and the world around me. Tainted. Flawed. Damaged beyond repair. Marked like Cain.
And while I think the current state of affairs supports such a theory, it wasn’t until someone I love very much started throwing the word around during weak, lengthy defences of poor decisions that I began to see it for what it truly is: An abandonment of hope. An excuse. A get-out-of-jail-free card.
It should come as no surprise that we all have the capacity to do great good or unspeakable evil, one moment feeding the homeless, the next feasting on the insecurities of another. But what then do we let define us? Good cop or Bad cop? Saint or Sinner?
Sadly, many of us have spent so much time in life’s penalty box, having lost so many of the little battles, that we have grown apathetic to the fight, convinced that victory is a pipe dream. And so we build our houses on the sand, basing our self-esteem on how fucked up we are. We chuckle at our self-abuse, brag about our infidelities and addictions and balk at those who don’t share in our self-destructive pursuits. Disturbingly, we relate more to Californiacation’s degenerate sex and alcohol obsessed protagonist Hank Moody and Sex and the City’s hedonistic temptress Samantha Jones than we do anyone with a hint of character and integrity. And for some reason, we’re proud of it. We wear our brokenness as a badge of honour. As a title belt of folly, to which we cling for dear life as if it were the only thing that could set us free.
In his must-read book The Return of the Prodigal Son, the late author and Catholic priest Henri Nouwen has this to say when describing the Rembrant painting that so captured his heart: “The soft yellow-brown of the son’s underclothes looks beautiful when seen in rich harmony with the father’s cloak, but the truth of the matter is that the son is dressed in rags that betray the great misery that lies behind him. In the context of compassionate embrace, our brokenness may appear beautiful, but our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it.”
Once again: "...but our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it."
Simply, there is no beauty in our brokenness.
There is definitely no beauty in the breaking.
There is only beauty in a brokenness redeemed by compassion.
And so I am left with a choice: will I fall at the feet of my God, my family, my community and accept a compassionate, loving embrace and be redeemed? Or will I continue to wander around in my tattered and torn rags, peacocking as if they were the latest showing from Prada?
In a world, as a close friend recently pointed out, that glamourizes empty pursuits as cool, the former will be tough. It will be counter-cultural. It will scary. It may generate some light ribbbing from friends. But I suspect it will be worth it.
I wonder how the word Redemption would look in a nice Old English script.
So much, in fact, that I was going to tattoo it in a classic handwritten script on my neck, a permanent reminder of my how I viewed both myself and the world around me. Tainted. Flawed. Damaged beyond repair. Marked like Cain.
And while I think the current state of affairs supports such a theory, it wasn’t until someone I love very much started throwing the word around during weak, lengthy defences of poor decisions that I began to see it for what it truly is: An abandonment of hope. An excuse. A get-out-of-jail-free card.
It should come as no surprise that we all have the capacity to do great good or unspeakable evil, one moment feeding the homeless, the next feasting on the insecurities of another. But what then do we let define us? Good cop or Bad cop? Saint or Sinner?
Sadly, many of us have spent so much time in life’s penalty box, having lost so many of the little battles, that we have grown apathetic to the fight, convinced that victory is a pipe dream. And so we build our houses on the sand, basing our self-esteem on how fucked up we are. We chuckle at our self-abuse, brag about our infidelities and addictions and balk at those who don’t share in our self-destructive pursuits. Disturbingly, we relate more to Californiacation’s degenerate sex and alcohol obsessed protagonist Hank Moody and Sex and the City’s hedonistic temptress Samantha Jones than we do anyone with a hint of character and integrity. And for some reason, we’re proud of it. We wear our brokenness as a badge of honour. As a title belt of folly, to which we cling for dear life as if it were the only thing that could set us free.
In his must-read book The Return of the Prodigal Son, the late author and Catholic priest Henri Nouwen has this to say when describing the Rembrant painting that so captured his heart: “The soft yellow-brown of the son’s underclothes looks beautiful when seen in rich harmony with the father’s cloak, but the truth of the matter is that the son is dressed in rags that betray the great misery that lies behind him. In the context of compassionate embrace, our brokenness may appear beautiful, but our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it.”
Once again: "...but our brokenness has no other beauty but the beauty that comes from the compassion that surrounds it."
Simply, there is no beauty in our brokenness.
There is definitely no beauty in the breaking.
There is only beauty in a brokenness redeemed by compassion.
And so I am left with a choice: will I fall at the feet of my God, my family, my community and accept a compassionate, loving embrace and be redeemed? Or will I continue to wander around in my tattered and torn rags, peacocking as if they were the latest showing from Prada?
In a world, as a close friend recently pointed out, that glamourizes empty pursuits as cool, the former will be tough. It will be counter-cultural. It will scary. It may generate some light ribbbing from friends. But I suspect it will be worth it.
I wonder how the word Redemption would look in a nice Old English script.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Amazing Grace...
The calls are coming more and more frequently these days: my parents on the other end of the line, quietly relaying news of the positive test results and disheartening prognoses of close friends. Some are surprising: Innocent check-ups gone frighteningly awry. Spots on x-rays. People, quite simply, taken in the blink of an eye. Others, however, are less surprising: the grand finales of battles fought valiantly for years or months against crafty replicating cells that seemingly always get the upper hand. Home hospices set up in living rooms. Family members huddled around hospital bedsides. Teary-eyed goodbyes. Final breaths. Funerals.
Each call is sad. Each call a sobering reminder of my own mortality. The fragility of our existence. The human condition.
The call a couple of weeks back was more of a warning than anything. "Lorna Dyck isn't doing well," explained my mother in a pained tone. "Allan thinks she'll make it through the weekend, but he's not sure how much time she'll have after that. She's only taking ice chips now."
Ice chips...not good.
While I have known Mrs. Dyck for as long as I can remember, it has only been only over the course of the past few years, mostly via telephone updates from my parents, that I have come to know her as Lorna.
Rewind.
Having lost her leg to cancer at age 16, Mrs. Dyck was never hard to miss, moving with stealth-like ability through the halls of the church on her crutches. Although such a sight is an inexplicably interesting thing for a kid, more intriguing was the ever-present smile that graced her face from Sunday to Sunday as she went out of her way to greet you by name. Even then, I remember wondering why she was always so happy.
Over the years, as my parents and the Dyck’s became good friends, I started receiving frequent updates about their family. I listened as their two sons and one daughter grew into young adults, as my father's bond with Allan deepened into a heartfelt respect, and as my mom’s adoration for Lorna was mentioned in nearly every call. I also listened as the cancer came back, the way it had a number of times before.
Not long ago, during a visit to Winnipeg, I stopped in at the church on a Sunday morning. Weeks earlier, Mrs. Dyck had been told that this time the chemotherapy, would be strictly for the pain. Essentially, that the end was near. That morning, as the congregation belted out worship songs, Mrs. Dyck, with that same great big smile I remember from my youth, reached over the pew that separated us and gave me a hug, telling me how good it was to see me there. For the remaining 35 minutes of the service, I literally fought back the tears, my stomach muscles sore when it finally ended.
To list the many reasons why that hug, in that environment, meant so much to me would turn this blog into a novel. Let it suffice then to say this:
I have always been hyper-aware of how I am seen, how I am perceived in that building. I have done my best to play the part of the rebel, strolling in fashionably late, often in the same outfit I was in at the bar the night before. I have long looked at the people around me and judged myself unworthy, having pissed my innocence away in what I now understand has always been a blatant cry for help to to the heavens. Surrounded by those who are able to find fun in board games and clean jokes, in car rallies and cream soda; beside those who don’t find enjoyment or self-worth in self-abuse, I feel lost and alone and afraid. It is there that I see the chasm between the man I have become and the man I should be...and so I hate the place. I hate the music. I hate the walls. I hate that I hate.
Somehow, in some way, if but for a moment, Lorna’s hug bridged that gap. A single, thoughtful gesture, offered by one who had so much more to worry about, had a profound impact.
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound...
A few weeks later, I added Lorna as a friend on Facebook and thanked her. There, over a few emails back and forth, she explained that over the years, and always from a distance, she had spent much time not only praying for me, but also, as she put it “hurting and rejoicing over your journey.”
That saved a wretch like me...
I asked her a few questions about her faith, and in what would be her last response, she responded by writing about being OK with having a “simple faith.” She also wrote about having watched Allan’s mom, a woman she offered “only had her grade 9, and weakly at that...,” work her way through book after book, wrestling with complex doctrines, all in an attempt to get to know God better. “I watched how it changed her into a person who was selfless and hated when she sinned because it caused a chasm in her ability to serve and to be with her Father,” Lorna wrote. “And that was what I wanted!!! I was jealous to have that in my life. I've spent my whole life, from the time I met her, in the same way: Loving to learn of my Father, because I could. In all the years I've been studying and learning and discovering my Father, I really only feel as if I'm scratching the surface of what there is to know.”
I once was lost, but now am found...
On the morning of Sunday, January 3rd, 2010, Lorna went to meet the Father she had spent her whole life trying to get to know. My parents called to tell me the news later on that evening. But for some reason I already knew. At around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, hung over and tired, I went to my room, and had, as one of my favourite writers once put it, “a colossial-fucking-go-to-pieces,” which is something I haven’t done in years. And I prayed...asking God why he would take so many good people - so many calls - when the world is in such dire need of good people, of good stories. Silence.
Laying there, my pillow soaked with tears, I remembered something. When my grandmother passed away, the pastor explained that while our memories of her should bring a smile to our faces, they should also act as a catalyst for us to live the way that she lived, to do things the way she would have done them, to touch others the way that she had touched us.
Was blind but now I see...
In Lorna, I met someone who, despite having every reason to be bitter at her circumstances and angry at God for setting the whole blasted thing in motion in the first place, chose not to get caught up in a pity party. Rather, she chose to draw as close to Him as possible, understanding that every moment was a gift and that true beauty lies not in a body that can turn against you in the split second, but in a heart abounding in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness and self control.
God, may Lorna live on not only in our memories, but in our actions. Take care of your good and faithful servant. Give her a hug for me.
Each call is sad. Each call a sobering reminder of my own mortality. The fragility of our existence. The human condition.
The call a couple of weeks back was more of a warning than anything. "Lorna Dyck isn't doing well," explained my mother in a pained tone. "Allan thinks she'll make it through the weekend, but he's not sure how much time she'll have after that. She's only taking ice chips now."
Ice chips...not good.
While I have known Mrs. Dyck for as long as I can remember, it has only been only over the course of the past few years, mostly via telephone updates from my parents, that I have come to know her as Lorna.
Rewind.
Having lost her leg to cancer at age 16, Mrs. Dyck was never hard to miss, moving with stealth-like ability through the halls of the church on her crutches. Although such a sight is an inexplicably interesting thing for a kid, more intriguing was the ever-present smile that graced her face from Sunday to Sunday as she went out of her way to greet you by name. Even then, I remember wondering why she was always so happy.
Over the years, as my parents and the Dyck’s became good friends, I started receiving frequent updates about their family. I listened as their two sons and one daughter grew into young adults, as my father's bond with Allan deepened into a heartfelt respect, and as my mom’s adoration for Lorna was mentioned in nearly every call. I also listened as the cancer came back, the way it had a number of times before.
Not long ago, during a visit to Winnipeg, I stopped in at the church on a Sunday morning. Weeks earlier, Mrs. Dyck had been told that this time the chemotherapy, would be strictly for the pain. Essentially, that the end was near. That morning, as the congregation belted out worship songs, Mrs. Dyck, with that same great big smile I remember from my youth, reached over the pew that separated us and gave me a hug, telling me how good it was to see me there. For the remaining 35 minutes of the service, I literally fought back the tears, my stomach muscles sore when it finally ended.
To list the many reasons why that hug, in that environment, meant so much to me would turn this blog into a novel. Let it suffice then to say this:
I have always been hyper-aware of how I am seen, how I am perceived in that building. I have done my best to play the part of the rebel, strolling in fashionably late, often in the same outfit I was in at the bar the night before. I have long looked at the people around me and judged myself unworthy, having pissed my innocence away in what I now understand has always been a blatant cry for help to to the heavens. Surrounded by those who are able to find fun in board games and clean jokes, in car rallies and cream soda; beside those who don’t find enjoyment or self-worth in self-abuse, I feel lost and alone and afraid. It is there that I see the chasm between the man I have become and the man I should be...and so I hate the place. I hate the music. I hate the walls. I hate that I hate.
Somehow, in some way, if but for a moment, Lorna’s hug bridged that gap. A single, thoughtful gesture, offered by one who had so much more to worry about, had a profound impact.
Amazing Grace how sweet the sound...
A few weeks later, I added Lorna as a friend on Facebook and thanked her. There, over a few emails back and forth, she explained that over the years, and always from a distance, she had spent much time not only praying for me, but also, as she put it “hurting and rejoicing over your journey.”
That saved a wretch like me...
I asked her a few questions about her faith, and in what would be her last response, she responded by writing about being OK with having a “simple faith.” She also wrote about having watched Allan’s mom, a woman she offered “only had her grade 9, and weakly at that...,” work her way through book after book, wrestling with complex doctrines, all in an attempt to get to know God better. “I watched how it changed her into a person who was selfless and hated when she sinned because it caused a chasm in her ability to serve and to be with her Father,” Lorna wrote. “And that was what I wanted!!! I was jealous to have that in my life. I've spent my whole life, from the time I met her, in the same way: Loving to learn of my Father, because I could. In all the years I've been studying and learning and discovering my Father, I really only feel as if I'm scratching the surface of what there is to know.”
I once was lost, but now am found...
On the morning of Sunday, January 3rd, 2010, Lorna went to meet the Father she had spent her whole life trying to get to know. My parents called to tell me the news later on that evening. But for some reason I already knew. At around 3 o’clock in the afternoon, hung over and tired, I went to my room, and had, as one of my favourite writers once put it, “a colossial-fucking-go-to-pieces,” which is something I haven’t done in years. And I prayed...asking God why he would take so many good people - so many calls - when the world is in such dire need of good people, of good stories. Silence.
Laying there, my pillow soaked with tears, I remembered something. When my grandmother passed away, the pastor explained that while our memories of her should bring a smile to our faces, they should also act as a catalyst for us to live the way that she lived, to do things the way she would have done them, to touch others the way that she had touched us.
Was blind but now I see...
In Lorna, I met someone who, despite having every reason to be bitter at her circumstances and angry at God for setting the whole blasted thing in motion in the first place, chose not to get caught up in a pity party. Rather, she chose to draw as close to Him as possible, understanding that every moment was a gift and that true beauty lies not in a body that can turn against you in the split second, but in a heart abounding in love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, gentleness and self control.
God, may Lorna live on not only in our memories, but in our actions. Take care of your good and faithful servant. Give her a hug for me.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas
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.
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, 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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