Quite frankly, the pictures are horrifying.
Wildlife specialists hosing off oil soaked pelicans. Volunteers building protective barriers, ankle-deep in pools of shimmering slick. Minimum wage oyster shuckers, now unemployed, heading home to past due bills and hungry mouths. Humanity’s greed, tangible in the form of thick, black sludge, spewing from a hole in a pipe. An inky smudge on both a satellite photo and our history.
Sadly, we have been here before. And, unless there is a fundamental shift in all of us, we will be here again.
Now I am not an activist. I have never taken part in a demonstration. I have signed very few petitions. I don't rescue stray cats, although I liked the band. In fact, I regret to admit that I have rarely fought for anything other than my own selfish pursuits, my own short-sighted ideas of happiness, my own comfort. Beg me for spare change and most likely I’ll pass you by. Cock-block me on a Saturday night out, however, and we’ll have a problem. Much, you see, is backwards in my heart. I know it and I don’t like it. I have no doubt that most of you can relate.
As a Christian, and a lackluster one at that, I have long been told that this world is not my home, that I will one day wander streets of gold, the cares of today all but forgotten in light of eternity. It is a lovely thought if you think gold streets and mansions are neat , but as a number of Christian and secular authors today agree, there is a huge danger in this 'only visiting this planet' thinking, one that has allowed the wide-grinned snake oil salesmen we call politicians to rake in cash hand over fist for years with little or no accountability. These “God-fearing” men, as they claim to be, fight passionately against “key” issues like abortion, euthanasia and gay marriage, while they rape the earth - the very thing their God created and called good - with zero regard for its inhabitants. And for what? Money. The devil, it seems, may look more like an oil barrel or a fat Texan than a mischievous little fellow with horns, red tights and a Steve Buscemi mustache.
But it’s easy to pass the buck, isn’t it? Those bastards, we cry, disgusted.
In his oddly likable, haunting little ditty on Illinois' famed serial killer John Wayne Gacy Jr., folk wunderkind Sufjan Stevens offers this:
And in my best behavior
I am really just like him
Look beneath the floorboards
For the secrets I have hid
Interesting...and scary.
While the consequences of my actions rarely spread beyond guilt, a pouting liver and the usual two weeks of anxiety following an annual STD test, it is true that they pale in comparison to the current environmental catastrophe. But the question remains: am I really that much different than the inbred looking men in expensive suits from BP, Transocean and Halliburton, swearing in before the Senate committee? Is their desire for money and power really any worse than my own shopping list of wants? Is their corner cutting any different than mine, or do we, pardon the upcoming pun, share hearts that have become darkened and crude?
To be honest, I’m not sure.
What I am sure of though, is that I don’t like that question. And I don’t particularly like dead turtles and crabs and sharks and dolphins washing ashore on tides of black, the long-term consequences to be shouldered by my nephews’ generation. So what then are we to do?
A couple of things I guess.
First, we need to be vocal and active in putting an end to the things that make our stomachs crawl when we see them on the evening news. The time for sitting quietly by and allowing blood to be shed for the sake of oil, or kids to be raped at the hands of monsters in Cambodian brothels, or our poor and mentally-challenged men and women to be forced from their homes and into the streets in the name of gentrification is over. We need to get off our lazy asses and do something. Stand up for something. Fight for someone and something other than ourselves, no matter how busy the week was, or how comfortable the couch.
And second, we need to take an honest look inside. I’ve already admitted that I don’t like where my heart is at much of the time. Where is yours? Will I continue to be a hypocrite and crucify others when my heart is as unclean as theirs? I probably shouldn’t. Instead, I should sort myself out, and pray that the redemption in me might just help bring about the redemption of those around me, and then of course, if it's not too late, hopefully redeem the living, breathing planet we have been so very blessed and entrusted with.
No more ecosystems destroyed by corporate greed, unhealthy, government-sponsored dependancy on waning natural resources, or preventable disasters. No more water foul in need of a bath. No more oil spots on our legacy.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
A Good Story...
Inundated daily with sour tales of selfishness, greed and corruption, we are a people, a society, in dire need and want of good stories.
Nowhere is this desire more evident than ABC’s hit television show slash giant SEARS commercial Extreme Home Makeover, where for one week a community dons blue t-shirts and works its collective ass off to take care of decent men and women in less than desirable circumstances.
And so with misty eyes we watch as Ty and his quick-to-tear band of designers scurry here and there, trying to get their special projects just right. The fruit of their efforts drops our jaws: Hope, in the form of custom made homes erected from the ashes of former lives, giving independence to the disabled, sanctuary to the weary and strength to those who it often seems would have made it through whether a camera crew had ever appeared on their doorstep or not.
To be sure, it is a beautiful thing. Maybe even a glimpse of Heaven on earth. But there are many ‘angels among us’ whose stories are never told; whose sacrifices in the here and now are never rewarded with lavish backyards, luxury bathrooms and micro-fibre sectionals.
A recent Facebook message came from one such character.
I first met Darryl Thiessen in the mid 80‘s at Grant Memorial Baptist Church. Even then, he was an eccentric cat, his thick, unruly mane of hair often tucked into a bowler top hat, long before ‘seeker services’ made such a sight in church somewhat commonplace.
Almost a decade my senior, Darryl was the star sunday school teacher and camp counsellor, the first person we looked for upon entering the church for any reason. With him, the mundane and boring had a funny way of turning into a great time. For example, every friday night Darryl transformed the nicely paved church parking lot into a Formula One course, where, generally for the grand finale, he would pack us in to his ratty old Datsun, hit the gas, and see how much air he could get off the grass lip that separated the lot from the field. They were great days for a group of nerdy Christian teens scared of both “the world” and spending eternity in hell. With Darryl, our ragamuffin crew felt oddly cool and accepted.
While it is important for youth to feel this way, what separated Darryl form the rest of the pack was his genuine concern for us. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this is what defines him.
One glorious afternoon during free time at youth retreat at Bird River Bible Camp, my friend Trevor and I stumbled upon a black garbage bag, tucked lovingly into a rock crevice. Further inspection revealed that we had found the mother lode of all mother lodes: a stack of Playboy magazines - there was a God! That the magazines were from a decade before meant little to us. We were too distracted by the large breasts and thick disco bushes of pubic hair to notice.
Unable to keep our good fortune to ourselves, we figured we’d tell Darryl. After all, he was cool. He let us talk about sex, drugs and rock and roll in Sunday school. He occasionally said the word “shit.” Hell, he’d probably find it funny.
He didn’t.
Of course, he pretended he did. That is until we went for dinner and he retrieved and burned our prized find. Chuckling at our disappointment, he answered our queries about how he could do such a thing with a simple answer: “because it isn’t good for you to look at crap like that.” And with Darryl, that was the reason. He didn’t do it out of obligation to the camp, or the church. He did it because he genuinely cared about us. While Darryl knew the world in which we were growing and wrestling, and let us talk openly about it - for many of us it was the only unthreatening forum in which to do so - its tentacles would not touch us on his watch.
As the years went on, Darryl would disappear for months on end, planting trees in vast swaths of slash in northern BC. Other than a random surprise visit at the church here and there, Darryl, we eventually realized, was gone. He had moved to BC and left a huge hole in Winnipeg.
Nearly a decade and a few phone calls later, the world’s tentacles wrapped tightly around me, Darryl showed up in Whistler for a visit. At the time, I was an anxious mess. Thanks to a cocaine-fueled panic attack, I had recently quit using and was also working on abstaining from my other favourite vices: smoking and drinking, which no doubt put me on edge.
As it is with close friends, it was like time had stood still. We walked and laughed, sipped beers (abstaining didn't go too well) and had heart to hearts. Darryl, kind soul that he is, made it clear that he was OK with where I was on what he called “the journey”. And that I needed to be too. God had a plan, he always assured me. All was good.
Over the next year, Darryl - and his amazing crew of friends: Shane, Chuck, Kate and more families than there is room to list - quite simply held me up. They leant me their time, their ears, their homes, their advice and, most importantly, their unconditional love.
On one particular evening, having just finished what would be my last drug deal, my then roommate Mark and I accompanied Darryl to an after church shindig at someone’s home. About an hour in, Mark looked at me, his eyes filled with concern - which was odd coming from one of Canada’s most notorious bikers - and asked me if I was OK. Next on the scene was Darryl with a hug.
Whatever demon I was wrestling with that night was a tough as fuck. From the moment I arrived, I hadn’t felt right. I was tired and weak...and hurting. Tears rolled down my face. I had no idea where they were coming from. I just wanted to run.
When God chooses to reveal his face, it sometimes isn’t what you expect - for me he's even appeared as a golden retriever, but that's another story. That night, however, he looked an awful lot like Darryl, Mark and a bunch of ‘churchites’ I had long before vowed never to be like. I remember wondering what the fuck was going on. And then I heard the words, “let’s do communion.”
I don’t know who said it, but to this day, I’m glad they did, because I have always hated communion. It always felt forced. The super spiritual would cry while the rest of us would watch them, wondering what they have that we didn’t. Sometimes, much to the chagrin of my folks, I’d just plain refuse it. Why force it, I figured? It was a silly ritual. Manufactured emotion. That and it always added a half hour to a service.
On this night things were different. There were no ushers or little plastic cups. No emotion evoking worship songs or drawn out exegesis. There were simply a handful of good people, Darryl at the helm, passing the juice and bread around and then praying for me. Yes, praying for me.
The Facebook message I received the other day from Darryl said the same. “Hey Mighty, miss you, Bro,” it read, “hope everything is good in TO...I have your's & Sean’s [another good friend of ours] pictures on my prayer wall, praying for you regularly.”
Funny how some things never change.
You see, after BC, Darryl packed his bags and headed south to Chicago’s inner city where for nearly a decade he has lived at JPUSA, a Christian commune full of those set on acting out the biblical call to abandon self and take care of others. For Darryl, this doesn’t just mean the poor. It means the addicts, gang members and the mentally and physically challenged. It means everyone he meets, really, including the two roommates with whom he shares a tiny little living space (300 sq. ft small).
On a visit to Chicago a few years back, I stayed with my now long time friend and noted something interesting on a tour of the shelter: Darryl is still Darryl. No different than the guy I met in the 80s. He’s still eclectic, content and happy. And it’s infectious. The environment may be depressing, but faces light up when Darryl walks in the room, the way ours did all those years ago.
And in a way, there is humour in it all, as his Facebook message relayed something else, something that brings me to tears, because of its irony. “I got my Religious Visa,” he wrote, “so I guess I'm an official full time missionary.”
Darryl: You always have been, my friend. You always have been. And that is what makes yours a great story. One that deserves telling.
To launching a beat up Datsun off a grassy ramp, Christian metal concerts in roller rinks, deep dish pizza in Chicago's finest establishments and many more years of friendship: Here’s to you, my brother.
Congratulations on the Visa. I know how long you’ve waited for it.
Thanks to you, I don’t doubt that God has a plan. All is good.
Nowhere is this desire more evident than ABC’s hit television show slash giant SEARS commercial Extreme Home Makeover, where for one week a community dons blue t-shirts and works its collective ass off to take care of decent men and women in less than desirable circumstances.
And so with misty eyes we watch as Ty and his quick-to-tear band of designers scurry here and there, trying to get their special projects just right. The fruit of their efforts drops our jaws: Hope, in the form of custom made homes erected from the ashes of former lives, giving independence to the disabled, sanctuary to the weary and strength to those who it often seems would have made it through whether a camera crew had ever appeared on their doorstep or not.
To be sure, it is a beautiful thing. Maybe even a glimpse of Heaven on earth. But there are many ‘angels among us’ whose stories are never told; whose sacrifices in the here and now are never rewarded with lavish backyards, luxury bathrooms and micro-fibre sectionals.
A recent Facebook message came from one such character.
I first met Darryl Thiessen in the mid 80‘s at Grant Memorial Baptist Church. Even then, he was an eccentric cat, his thick, unruly mane of hair often tucked into a bowler top hat, long before ‘seeker services’ made such a sight in church somewhat commonplace.
Almost a decade my senior, Darryl was the star sunday school teacher and camp counsellor, the first person we looked for upon entering the church for any reason. With him, the mundane and boring had a funny way of turning into a great time. For example, every friday night Darryl transformed the nicely paved church parking lot into a Formula One course, where, generally for the grand finale, he would pack us in to his ratty old Datsun, hit the gas, and see how much air he could get off the grass lip that separated the lot from the field. They were great days for a group of nerdy Christian teens scared of both “the world” and spending eternity in hell. With Darryl, our ragamuffin crew felt oddly cool and accepted.
While it is important for youth to feel this way, what separated Darryl form the rest of the pack was his genuine concern for us. It wouldn’t be a stretch to say that this is what defines him.
One glorious afternoon during free time at youth retreat at Bird River Bible Camp, my friend Trevor and I stumbled upon a black garbage bag, tucked lovingly into a rock crevice. Further inspection revealed that we had found the mother lode of all mother lodes: a stack of Playboy magazines - there was a God! That the magazines were from a decade before meant little to us. We were too distracted by the large breasts and thick disco bushes of pubic hair to notice.
Unable to keep our good fortune to ourselves, we figured we’d tell Darryl. After all, he was cool. He let us talk about sex, drugs and rock and roll in Sunday school. He occasionally said the word “shit.” Hell, he’d probably find it funny.
He didn’t.
Of course, he pretended he did. That is until we went for dinner and he retrieved and burned our prized find. Chuckling at our disappointment, he answered our queries about how he could do such a thing with a simple answer: “because it isn’t good for you to look at crap like that.” And with Darryl, that was the reason. He didn’t do it out of obligation to the camp, or the church. He did it because he genuinely cared about us. While Darryl knew the world in which we were growing and wrestling, and let us talk openly about it - for many of us it was the only unthreatening forum in which to do so - its tentacles would not touch us on his watch.
As the years went on, Darryl would disappear for months on end, planting trees in vast swaths of slash in northern BC. Other than a random surprise visit at the church here and there, Darryl, we eventually realized, was gone. He had moved to BC and left a huge hole in Winnipeg.
Nearly a decade and a few phone calls later, the world’s tentacles wrapped tightly around me, Darryl showed up in Whistler for a visit. At the time, I was an anxious mess. Thanks to a cocaine-fueled panic attack, I had recently quit using and was also working on abstaining from my other favourite vices: smoking and drinking, which no doubt put me on edge.
As it is with close friends, it was like time had stood still. We walked and laughed, sipped beers (abstaining didn't go too well) and had heart to hearts. Darryl, kind soul that he is, made it clear that he was OK with where I was on what he called “the journey”. And that I needed to be too. God had a plan, he always assured me. All was good.
Over the next year, Darryl - and his amazing crew of friends: Shane, Chuck, Kate and more families than there is room to list - quite simply held me up. They leant me their time, their ears, their homes, their advice and, most importantly, their unconditional love.
On one particular evening, having just finished what would be my last drug deal, my then roommate Mark and I accompanied Darryl to an after church shindig at someone’s home. About an hour in, Mark looked at me, his eyes filled with concern - which was odd coming from one of Canada’s most notorious bikers - and asked me if I was OK. Next on the scene was Darryl with a hug.
Whatever demon I was wrestling with that night was a tough as fuck. From the moment I arrived, I hadn’t felt right. I was tired and weak...and hurting. Tears rolled down my face. I had no idea where they were coming from. I just wanted to run.
When God chooses to reveal his face, it sometimes isn’t what you expect - for me he's even appeared as a golden retriever, but that's another story. That night, however, he looked an awful lot like Darryl, Mark and a bunch of ‘churchites’ I had long before vowed never to be like. I remember wondering what the fuck was going on. And then I heard the words, “let’s do communion.”
I don’t know who said it, but to this day, I’m glad they did, because I have always hated communion. It always felt forced. The super spiritual would cry while the rest of us would watch them, wondering what they have that we didn’t. Sometimes, much to the chagrin of my folks, I’d just plain refuse it. Why force it, I figured? It was a silly ritual. Manufactured emotion. That and it always added a half hour to a service.
On this night things were different. There were no ushers or little plastic cups. No emotion evoking worship songs or drawn out exegesis. There were simply a handful of good people, Darryl at the helm, passing the juice and bread around and then praying for me. Yes, praying for me.
The Facebook message I received the other day from Darryl said the same. “Hey Mighty, miss you, Bro,” it read, “hope everything is good in TO...I have your's & Sean’s [another good friend of ours] pictures on my prayer wall, praying for you regularly.”
Funny how some things never change.
You see, after BC, Darryl packed his bags and headed south to Chicago’s inner city where for nearly a decade he has lived at JPUSA, a Christian commune full of those set on acting out the biblical call to abandon self and take care of others. For Darryl, this doesn’t just mean the poor. It means the addicts, gang members and the mentally and physically challenged. It means everyone he meets, really, including the two roommates with whom he shares a tiny little living space (300 sq. ft small).
On a visit to Chicago a few years back, I stayed with my now long time friend and noted something interesting on a tour of the shelter: Darryl is still Darryl. No different than the guy I met in the 80s. He’s still eclectic, content and happy. And it’s infectious. The environment may be depressing, but faces light up when Darryl walks in the room, the way ours did all those years ago.
And in a way, there is humour in it all, as his Facebook message relayed something else, something that brings me to tears, because of its irony. “I got my Religious Visa,” he wrote, “so I guess I'm an official full time missionary.”
Darryl: You always have been, my friend. You always have been. And that is what makes yours a great story. One that deserves telling.
To launching a beat up Datsun off a grassy ramp, Christian metal concerts in roller rinks, deep dish pizza in Chicago's finest establishments and many more years of friendship: Here’s to you, my brother.
Congratulations on the Visa. I know how long you’ve waited for it.
Thanks to you, I don’t doubt that God has a plan. All is good.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Telling Secrets...
A few years ago now, I submitted the following column to my editor at the Winnipeg Free Press, who politely rejected it, asking if I could submit "something a little more timely." To be honest, I was stymied. None of my other submissions had been rejected. And none of them had been timely either. (I'm not a fast enough writer to be timely... I need to wrestle before setting pen to paper.) There was something more, I figured, my sensitive ego bruised. After much consternation, I wrote it off to the fact that the word masturbation - see paragraph one - was probably banned from the faith page thanks to the paper's style guide, and as much as he had probably loved the piece, was under strict orders to turn it down. Silly, I know, but that rationale made me feel much better.
A few months back, a friend of mine gave me a fascinating coffee-table book entitled Post Secret, the spawn of a community art project that encouraged people to anonymously mail their deepest, darkest secrets to an address in Germantown, Maryland. For every comical admission - "I stole valium from my epileptic dog" - there are 20 heartbreaking ones - "I am in therapy learning to love myself for the first time...I am 26." To be honest, it is hard to make it through a few pages without tearing for two reasons: 1) The secrets are gut-wrenching and the brokenness palpable, and 2) shockingly, they are also your secrets.
While I have mentioned Buechner's Memoir, Telling Secrets in other posts, I believe that never have his words been more timely...making the column timely.
Telling Secrets
A number of years ago at Cornerstone Christian Music Festival, held just outside of Chicago, Illinois, Christian recording artist and Jesus People USA (JPUSA) member, Glen Kaiser took the stage and confessed to the thousands in attendance that he had a problem with “masturbation”.
According to a friend who was there when the word rolled off Kaiser’s tongue, an awkward silence descended upon the crowd, the numerous pairs of darting eyes confirming that no ones’ ears had betrayed them. In an instant, a spiritual superhero ‘became human, the line between rock star and fan erased by the honesty of a fellow pilgrim and the telling of a secret.
Understanding his influence, Kaiser could have talked about anything that night: the evils of secular music, the call to take care of orphans and widows, the benefits of communal living. He could have focused on walking the “unsaved” through the “sinners’ prayer”. Instead, he chose to be vulnerable, took ownership of what he considered to be a major struggle in his life, and ultimately established a seemingly uncomfortable yet solid common ground on which he and his audience could stand. An important talk about sex, lust, love and forgiveness followed.
Before going on to discuss the suicide of his father and his daughter’s nearly fatal battle with anorexia, Presbyterian minister and author, Frederick Buechner, says this in his frighteningly potent memoir, Telling Secrets: “I have come to believe that by and large the human family all has the same secrets, which are both telling and very important to tell. …They tell what is perhaps the central paradox of our condition – that what we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often what we fear more than anything else.”
In November 2006, Ted Haggard, then the pastor of New Life Church, a mega-church located in Colorado Springs, Colorado and the leader of the National Association of Evangelicals was removed from both positions having been accused and eventually confessing to both purchasing drugs from and having sexual relations with a male prostitute.
A vocal opponent of homosexuality and same sex marriage, Haggard’s fall from the pulpit to the motel room became fodder for liberals and gay rights activists, his hypocrisy yet another stain on the already discoloured history of Christianity. “…There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I’ve been warring against it my entire life,” he wrote in an apology letter to his congregation.
Was there any way this fiasco could have been avoided?
What if, like Kaiser, Haggard had have been able to admit his struggle, if not to the congregation, to the board, his wife, or even just a trusted friend? Would such a confession have led to personal healing (I do not mean from his homosexual tendencies, but rather from the internal torment and guilt of not being fully known and therefore living a double life)? With such knowledge, would his confidante(s) have been able to help him remain accountable? Most importantly, would such an admission have fostered an atmosphere of love, accountability and healing for those with similar struggles?
Christianity has long been marked and marred by the poor choices of its leaders. In fact, I suspect many of the biblical characters (both the leads and extras) would blush were they to see their stories nicely laid out in print for the world to read. But on which and from what do our priests and pastors reflect and draw their Sunday morning sermons? Quite often it’s the colossal screw-ups.
As one that messes up constantly, I find great hope in the fact that shysters like David and Jacob somehow found favour with God. I also take comfort in the fact that God can take my mistakes, my secrets, and use them for good. Why then is admitting them to both others and myself so hard? And why, like Adam, do I continually try to hide things from the only One who truly knows everything.
This is the tension in which we live: wanting to be known and accepted in our completeness, but afraid of the rejection that might accompany such a complete understanding.
And so, in an attempt to avoid the potential rejection, like Haggard, we live secret lives, hiding behind various masks fabricated to win the approval of others, or at least give the impression that everything is ok. In doing so, however, we run a very serious personal risk: “It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are,” Buechner offers later on, “even if we tell it only to ourselves – because other wise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly-edited version which we put forth in the hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing.”
Despite what they say in Las Vegas, from what I’ve seen, Johnny Cash is correct when he growls “As sure as God made black and white, what’s done in the dark will be brought to the light.” Like it or not, God uses secrets. A host of 80s televangelists can attest. What I’m now coming to understand is that the sin may lie as much in the concealing as in the doing. And if that is the case, I suspect it would be a lot easier to volunteer my darkness than have it dragged out of me.
Could God’s greatest elixir lie in our telling of the truth of our lives? Is the un-edited version of us the only version that God can truly use? If so, who are we to keep secrets when withholding them, it seems, only does more damage than good?
A few months back, a friend of mine gave me a fascinating coffee-table book entitled Post Secret, the spawn of a community art project that encouraged people to anonymously mail their deepest, darkest secrets to an address in Germantown, Maryland. For every comical admission - "I stole valium from my epileptic dog" - there are 20 heartbreaking ones - "I am in therapy learning to love myself for the first time...I am 26." To be honest, it is hard to make it through a few pages without tearing for two reasons: 1) The secrets are gut-wrenching and the brokenness palpable, and 2) shockingly, they are also your secrets.
While I have mentioned Buechner's Memoir, Telling Secrets in other posts, I believe that never have his words been more timely...making the column timely.
Telling Secrets
A number of years ago at Cornerstone Christian Music Festival, held just outside of Chicago, Illinois, Christian recording artist and Jesus People USA (JPUSA) member, Glen Kaiser took the stage and confessed to the thousands in attendance that he had a problem with “masturbation”.
According to a friend who was there when the word rolled off Kaiser’s tongue, an awkward silence descended upon the crowd, the numerous pairs of darting eyes confirming that no ones’ ears had betrayed them. In an instant, a spiritual superhero ‘became human, the line between rock star and fan erased by the honesty of a fellow pilgrim and the telling of a secret.
Understanding his influence, Kaiser could have talked about anything that night: the evils of secular music, the call to take care of orphans and widows, the benefits of communal living. He could have focused on walking the “unsaved” through the “sinners’ prayer”. Instead, he chose to be vulnerable, took ownership of what he considered to be a major struggle in his life, and ultimately established a seemingly uncomfortable yet solid common ground on which he and his audience could stand. An important talk about sex, lust, love and forgiveness followed.
Before going on to discuss the suicide of his father and his daughter’s nearly fatal battle with anorexia, Presbyterian minister and author, Frederick Buechner, says this in his frighteningly potent memoir, Telling Secrets: “I have come to believe that by and large the human family all has the same secrets, which are both telling and very important to tell. …They tell what is perhaps the central paradox of our condition – that what we hunger for perhaps more than anything else is to be known in our full humanness, and yet that is often what we fear more than anything else.”
In November 2006, Ted Haggard, then the pastor of New Life Church, a mega-church located in Colorado Springs, Colorado and the leader of the National Association of Evangelicals was removed from both positions having been accused and eventually confessing to both purchasing drugs from and having sexual relations with a male prostitute.
A vocal opponent of homosexuality and same sex marriage, Haggard’s fall from the pulpit to the motel room became fodder for liberals and gay rights activists, his hypocrisy yet another stain on the already discoloured history of Christianity. “…There is a part of my life that is so repulsive and dark that I’ve been warring against it my entire life,” he wrote in an apology letter to his congregation.
Was there any way this fiasco could have been avoided?
What if, like Kaiser, Haggard had have been able to admit his struggle, if not to the congregation, to the board, his wife, or even just a trusted friend? Would such a confession have led to personal healing (I do not mean from his homosexual tendencies, but rather from the internal torment and guilt of not being fully known and therefore living a double life)? With such knowledge, would his confidante(s) have been able to help him remain accountable? Most importantly, would such an admission have fostered an atmosphere of love, accountability and healing for those with similar struggles?
Christianity has long been marked and marred by the poor choices of its leaders. In fact, I suspect many of the biblical characters (both the leads and extras) would blush were they to see their stories nicely laid out in print for the world to read. But on which and from what do our priests and pastors reflect and draw their Sunday morning sermons? Quite often it’s the colossal screw-ups.
As one that messes up constantly, I find great hope in the fact that shysters like David and Jacob somehow found favour with God. I also take comfort in the fact that God can take my mistakes, my secrets, and use them for good. Why then is admitting them to both others and myself so hard? And why, like Adam, do I continually try to hide things from the only One who truly knows everything.
This is the tension in which we live: wanting to be known and accepted in our completeness, but afraid of the rejection that might accompany such a complete understanding.
And so, in an attempt to avoid the potential rejection, like Haggard, we live secret lives, hiding behind various masks fabricated to win the approval of others, or at least give the impression that everything is ok. In doing so, however, we run a very serious personal risk: “It is important to tell at least from time to time the secret of who we truly and fully are,” Buechner offers later on, “even if we tell it only to ourselves – because other wise we run the risk of losing track of who we truly and fully are and little by little come to accept instead the highly-edited version which we put forth in the hope that the world will find it more acceptable than the real thing.”
Despite what they say in Las Vegas, from what I’ve seen, Johnny Cash is correct when he growls “As sure as God made black and white, what’s done in the dark will be brought to the light.” Like it or not, God uses secrets. A host of 80s televangelists can attest. What I’m now coming to understand is that the sin may lie as much in the concealing as in the doing. And if that is the case, I suspect it would be a lot easier to volunteer my darkness than have it dragged out of me.
Could God’s greatest elixir lie in our telling of the truth of our lives? Is the un-edited version of us the only version that God can truly use? If so, who are we to keep secrets when withholding them, it seems, only does more damage than good?
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Sexual cycles and the big picture...
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.
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.
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.
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