The oddity of Altar calls

by David Tiesma on Monday, December 17, 2012 at 10:35pm ·

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If you have read much of my writings, it won't take too long before you bump into the fact that I am a follower of Jesus Christ. Yup, I grew up in the church and it has shaped much of the man I am today, both the good and the bad. However, my life has been turned on its head the last few years. Much of this is due to poor choices that I have made. It isn't all bad, many good things have happened as well. But it has been the difficult things that have forced me to re-examine so many of the things I thought I knew "for sure". 

I was raised in a solid, "Bible believing" church. I learned a lot there and much of that information was foundational to me. Years ago I would have been more than happy to engage you in a conversation regarding religion, but I didn't know much about spirituality. I thought I did, but I was wrong. Much of what I learned were the things I needed to do to be a good Christian. The things I needed to do to be spiritual and earn God's favor. And then life started poking holes and forcing me to take another look at beliefs I had held for most of my life. 

Examples? How and why we do church, The rapture, what it means to be a follower of Christ, how non-believers view believers, how often to attend church, and the reason for this writing- the best way for people to come to know God. And the worst way. 

Let me reiterate something I wrote a few weeks ago on Facebook. I think that anytime somebody draws closer to God it is always a good thing. God uses whatever he wants to use. Nothing is off limits to him. I have heard of people finding him (or better put, he found them) while they were on LSD, while they were drunk, partying and all other sorts of ways that wouldn't have fit very nicely into the tidy theology I held tightly to in my idealistic youth. Funny how often real experiences can dismantle untested beliefs. I have always told my kids that until you struggle with your faith, it isn't really yours. And here is a quick aside: if you go to a church that does nothing but re-affirm all the beliefs you already have, you are probably in the wrong church. When you leave every week and are even more sure that everything you believe is more right than ever, you aren't growing. You are hardening into religious concrete. You don't really want God to jackhammer you out of that. Cause he will. He loves you too much to leave you there. But you won't like it. This is partly why some Christians are the most miserable people you will ever meet. They have a form of godliness but none of the power of joy and transformation and wisdom. They have a formula and the will be damned if they will let anyone challenge their beliefs. To do so feels scary. They think you are criticizing God. They feel like they would lose themselves if even part of their carefully constructed belief system turned out to be erroneous. 

People, please listen. Truth is NOT fragile. God is much more interested in the holiness and salvation than you could ever be. Truth is eternal. You don't have to shelter your children from every "wordly" thing. There is much truth out in the world that doesn't necessarily cloak itself in the guise of the church or Christianity. If you don't let your children see it, they will find it later. And they will be angered that you hid it from them. Sadly, so very many of our youth walk away from their faith disillusioned when they find out that the walls that surrounded them, meaning to protect them, were made of fear, misinformation and old prejudices. And so they walk away from the faith of their parents, because it was never truly theirs to begin with. Their faith is tucked away in their minds, left behind like the toys from their youth. They outgrow a faith that never changes. One that is never challenged, for it has no strength. 

But I digress. 

Please allow me to preface my next comments a little more. I am profoundly grateful for many of the things I learned and for many of the experiences I had at the church where I grew up. But I also had much to unlearn. 

Every service ended the same way. Actually, almost EVERY service went exactly the same way. It was almost maddening in it's mechanical precision. 

Music playing when you walk in. (Praise music of course)

Opening with a welcome

Announcement

Offering- with the choir singing when those were popular in the 80's, more of a solo in the 90's

Praise and Worship- anywhere from 25-40 minutes, depending on whether the "spirit was flowing" or not- this was a contested matter from service to service. If the spirit didn't flow, it was often blamed on the worship team, the style of music, the lead singer or the song choices. Or the pastor would end the singing too early, thusly "quenching the Spirit". Some of you might think I am making up some of this. Others of you know exactly what I am talking about.

THE SERMON- the highlight of the service- the teaching, anywhere from 40-60 minutes. Anywhere from mind numbingly boring to incredibly inspirational.

And finally, after about an hour and a half, the reason for my writings today:

The altar call. This could last from anywhere from 10-30 minutes.

Seriously.

Now, some of you don't really know what an altar call is, so I shall explain briefly. In every good church service (or so I used to believe) the pastor would give an invitation for people to start a relationship with God. In the church of my youth, the pastor would speak in low compelling tones at the end of the service. Urging, sometimes pleading people to become aware of God pulling at them. He would then (almost always) ask people to close their eyes, because he wanted to respect their privacy as this was a private moment before the person and God.

Problem one. This was a lie so, so many times. You will see why in a second.

The speaker would then ask all those who didn't have a relationship with God and wanted one, those who could feel God in the room, to silently raise their hands. The reasons for this were varied:

So God can see your hand. (cause apparently he can't see in your heart and mind in that moment that you desire this)

So the pastor can see your hand and pray for you

Because it makes your decision more concrete.

Not in every church, and not always, but- a reason they normally don't tell you...

So somebody can count the hands. Because it will be up on a board in the hallway the following week.

Some of you are horrified reading that and others can't imagine why you wouldn't  do that. 

The speaker than asks those who raised their hands to stand. And to come forward. (Hence the implied lie that was so often told earlier in the altar call- this is private)

Once the people have come to the front of the church, they are asked to recite a prayer. The speaker says a few lines and the entire congregation is asked to repeat them, along with those who have gathered at the front. After this speak and response prayer, the speaker gets all the people to cheer and clap for those who have just found religion. In their own distinct flavor. Those who have gone up front usually find themselves surrounded by a bunch of "Prayer Partners". These would consist of a bunch of well meaning, seasoned and trusted people in the church to help guide these newly saved souls gently into the arms of Jesus. And then, in our church at that time, everyone at the front would be ushered out of the sanctuary and into a completely separate room. 

There have been many, many people who have started their relationship with God today. And many see that as a wonderful, warm experience. And there are many others who found it to be a bewildering, embarrassing, deceptive experience. And rightly so. For both of them. 

Where to begin...

The key of the altar call is to bring unbelievers into a relationship with the God who created them, loves them and dies for them. I still contend that that is a fabulous thing. I shudder to think where I would be without my reliance on God. It has saved me in more ways than one. 

But when done in a way so fraught with problems. It seems like the worst possible way to meet God. 

1. When you get into the psychology of how large groups work, there is a lot of power in the mob mindset. I genuinely believe that most of the speakers I have heard had (mostly) pure intentions. But they know how to speak to a crowd. They know how to work a crowd. This has been happening since the beginning of time. Some people are just more simple to manipulate in a group. The speaker is gifted in how to use volume, vocal inflection and word choice to sway the congregation. And they do. I have even been in services where the speaker has asked this "If you noticed somebody beside you raising their hand, please help them to come up here." So often the speaker would beg and plead and threaten and frighten those still sitting there. Especially if nobody raised their hands. Then he would pray against the enemy for deceiving the minds of those who were resisting. At times there would be talk of hell and eternal destinations and what happened when you resisted the tug of God. 

As if this was their absolute last chance to ever meet God. 

Remember, who is more concerned with a person's salvation? Do you really believe that if somebody didn't raise their hand in that ONE service that God was going to turn his back on somebody? Is it possible this was what was really happening? Extremely unlikely. 

And some of this would be more palatable without the next reason.

2. A sign of Success. I used to be a pastor. Twice actually. I wasn't very good at it. In churches that operate this way, the amount of people that respond are a sign of effectiveness. This sounds innocent enough on the surface, doesn't it? But when you dig as little deeper, the implications are scary. Even though it has waned a bit in light of all the scandals over the last 20 years, pastors and priests still hold much sway over a lot of people. Store that away for now. Also, churches cost a lot of money to run. Especially big ones. Don't ever be mistaken, churches are businesses. They have to be. You will hear that they are trusting in God for their finances. They trust he will bring in the needed funds. But Jesus doesn't sign the bills. 

Yes, I believe God provides. Tons of Scripture for that. 

But if we are trusting God so much, why are we having building and fund raising and debt reducing campaigns where we devote an entire services to them? And then we mention them every service afterwards? And send home DVD's explaining the importance of giving? 

Here is the dirty "secret" that is hiding in plain sight. Pastors need tithers. They need people to give. Otherwise the lights don't stay on, they can't pay their staff and ultimately, they lose their jobs. Their title. Their power. 

The pastor knows that only a percentage will give, so the more people in the pews, the better chance giving will go up. 

You are foolish if you think pastors don't think, talk and strategize about this. The conversation is enfolded with spiritual words: God's will, his providence, his provision, how getting people to give is good for them- they will get greater blessings if they do. 

But it is often so tainted. 

More hands going up means more Christians. More people responding means the pastor was effective. More people means more givers. Which means more money. 

I am not saying every pastor has this in the front of their minds when they give altar calls. Some do, I suspect. But almost every pastor would rather have a lot of hands go up than a few. And MOST of the motivation is for the right reason. Hopefully there are even some where ALL the motivation is always 100% pure. But when your very job, your livelihood is judged on how many people "get saved" every week??

Let's put it this way. Do you get more accolades and more money when YOU produce more at work? 

Of course you do. And please remember that pastors are just people. Same need for praise and accolades. Same need to be praised for their accomplishments. Maybe even more so. But that is a subject worthy of it's own separate writing. 

3. It isn't scriptural. I am not a biblical scholar by any stretch of the imagination, but I have read through it a few different times. I do not remember ever reading of altar calls anywhere. Ok. I concede that this is my weakest point so far. There are many things we do differently now. Cultures change and we have to adjust our tactics. The truth never changes but the presentation of it should. Paul taught us that quite clearly in some of his epistles. With the regularity this happens in some churches, you would think it would be all throughout the gospels. With the veracity it is defended, surely it is Scriptural, right? It just isn't there. It has become routine. 

4. It can feed an unhealthy view pastor's have of their own power and importance. There was a story my old senior pastor used to tell when he was asked why he always gave altar calls. When he was a younger pastor, he was speaking at a revival service. There were a few teenagers there that he noticed in the crowd. One was obviously really listening to the message but his friends weren't. For reasons I forget, he didn't give an altar call that night. The teenagers left, he never talked to them and tragically they were killed in a car accident leaving the service. From that point on he felt like he was always supposed to have altar calls. 

On the surface, this makes some sense. But you don't have to dig very deep before your shovel hits some dangerous perspectives and motivations. There is a subtle arrogance under this. To reference the point I made earlier, who is most concerned about a person's salvation? Not a pastor. Not a parent. 

Do you really mean to tell me that God is going to put somebody's eternal destination in the hands of one man? "Sorry you're in hell, kid. Remember that pastor that you were listening to right before you died? Well, if he would have been listening to God, he would have given an altar call. You would have had no choice but to respond because his message was just that good. You would have gotten saved and would be in heaven right now. Bummer, huh? Better luck next time. Oh wait. There is no next time."  

Ludicrous. 

Can you imagine living under that shame? For all those years? Puts a little bit of new light on the whole motivation piece, doesn't it? 

Perhaps many pastors do a great job of stripping the financial part of people responding to altar calls. But factor in this as a driving factor and what do you get? 

You know that there are non-believers in any given service. Statistically there are more in a bigger church. If you don't see hands... It could mean more people going to hell. Which can mean that pastors will try whatever they can think of to get people to respond. Almost anything is justified because it could mean somebody's eternal destination! Now THAT'S pressure. 

If this is the worst way to come to start a relationship with God, what is the best? Relationship. You get to know somebody. Really get to know them. You let them get to know you. You share life. You discuss things like faith and belief and doubt and pain. You share how you have handled and continue to deal with the tough issues in life. You be real. Be open. Be vulnerable. Admit to what you don't know or understand. 

God will let you know what to say and when to say it. I highly doubt you are the only voice in their life. This should be the most natural thing in the world. Perhaps it shouldn't be that different than a real birth in some ways. It should be private. Happening with the people in this world that are closer to you than any other. Of course you don't really need doctors or nurses there... it's not a perfect analogy. 

But it shouldn't be so incredibly artificial. Stilted. Weird. 

Seriously. Take the 50,000 foot view of the whole process. if it seems normal to you it's because you grew up in it.

Have you ever heard of a birth happening before hundreds of people? 

If you want to have a relationship with God, I am thrilled. If you want to talk to me about it, I would love to have that conversation. 

5. It's a cop out for believers. 

"Listen Mr. Unbeliever, I would like you to have a relationship with God. it's really awesome and has completely changed my life. Now listen, all you have to do is come to church with me! We will sit in this big room with 500 other people you don't know. There will be some stuff going on that will probably make you uncomfortable, but just bear with me. Hopefully we sing the right songs and the pastor is "on" the morning you attend. You will listen to a complete stranger tell you how to live a better life. At the end, he will give all you sinners the chance to start a relationship with God. You raise your hand, go up front with a bunch of other people (hopefully). He will then have you repeat the magic words and BAM! You are good to go." 

One of the biggest problems with the church is that we get some of the scriptures backwards. We are called to be in the world but not of it. Instead the church has mostly been of the world but not in it. 

If you are a believer and don't have friendships with people outside of the church, with non-believers, what the hell are you doing? 

Please don't go out and try to "make friends" so you can get them saved. Or so you can invite them to church. Most of them don't want to go to church with you. And for valid reasons. Maybe some day they will get there. Maybe not. God will sort that out. He doesn't really need your help. BUT- he chooses to include you. Because it can be a beautiful thing to speak life into somebody elses existence. He wants to use you. The hard part is that it takes time. It can get messy. Will get messy. Just like your life is. And you might not ever be privileged enough to see them officially "come to faith". 

Another thing to remember- God has already started wooing them to himself. It's what he does. And he is far better at it than you are. It's not all up to you. But if you are fortunate and listening, He WILL use you. Even if you are not a great communicator. HE probably prefers to use people who aren't good communicators because more words rarely help anything. (said the guy writing the 1000 word essay)

6. It can do more harm than good. Picture it. you have attended a church service. Something completely unexpected happened. You responded to an invitation to get to know God. Something in the message, in the service really hit you. Before you know it, you have prayed a prayer, blurted your life out to a complete stranger in a little back room and left with a handful of brochures in a folder. You saw a lot of smiling people and were heartily congratulated. And then what?

You go home.

The rest of the day you are still trying to figure out what was going on. You feel like it is a good thing, probably. Religion has worked for other people, right? You just don't want to be a weirdo about it. 

Then you wake up the next morning and almost have a religious hangover. Did I really do that? Hoo boy. You live your life. It's the same life. You don't get magically promoted. Your mother still has cancer. 

If you are lucky you get a call a few days later. They are just checking in. Seeing if the whole God thing "stuck". Most never hear anything else. 

When somebody tries to talk to you about God in the future, you dismiss it. See, you tried the whole "God thing" and it just didn't work for you. 

Certainly this is not everybody's experience. I know people who got "saved" at an altar call and still have a vibrant, healthy relationship with God. But it happens far more than altar call advocates would like to believe. Because that is another problem in the church. We aren't honest about a lot of things. Don't believe me? Ever had a pastor leave the church because "God was leading them in a different direction" only to find out months later that the senior pastor and him had a shouting match? 

Or ever attend a church event that was a huge disappointment in terms of attendance or the way it played out? They talk about it at the next service and talk about what a "wonderful, blessed event" it was? 

Uh, excuse me? Were we at the same event? Cause the one I was at was a train wreck. 

It can be difficult to have real, honest conversations in the church. To present contrary, healthy arguments about how and why certain things are done. Way too often in churches, to challenge the status quo id to be un-spiritual. Don't be surprised if you are labeled as a rebel. And we all know that rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft after all. Salem witch trial much? 

It is easier to pretend everything is great. Easier to let the pastor deal with the hard work of helping somebody start a relationship with God. 

If we let it happen organically, through relationship, the follow up happens. You are there to answer questions. You walk beside them. When life hits hard, you help them understand how to rely on God. You explain what you have done in situations like that. Together you grow and learn. You bond and make a friendship that will probably last for years. 

That is how it should work, for many different reasons. It is the best way. 

You

All I can see is the storm. All I can feel is my heart breaking. The rain obscures my vision. The wind causes leaves and debris to blow into my face. I feel you slipping through my fingers. 

Once again, a person I value is getting distant from me. Another woman being removed from me. Only this time it is happening slowly. Like a bandage being torn from a not quite healed wound. I sense that neither of us want it to happen. Or am I the only one to feel this? 

Once again, am i playing the fool? 

No time, you say. Too much going on. You can't do it all. But all I hear you saying is that we can no longer be "us". 

I have to take a back seat. Or get out of the car altogether. You know I have needs and you say you can't meet them. 

I feel like a little boy once again. Watching my dad drive away early in the morning. Knew I wouldn't see him again for days. And when I did see him again, he wouldn't want to be with me nearly as much as I wanted to be with him. 

Ah, this feels like the curse. Wanting the other person more than they want me. Being too much, too needy, too much of damn near everything. But how can I be anything other than who I am?

As the relationship seems to die, the life of it flashes before my eyes like some kind of reel to reel black and white movie. 

I wish you'd stay. i don't want to let go. I want to hear your laugh. I want to know that that laugh was you reacting to something I did or said. I want to fill your life and heart with joy, like a scented candle fills a dark room with light and fragrance. 

You were my girl. You think I am handsome. 

We found each other limping along. Trying to make sense of the wrecks our lives had become. We took each other into each others hearts. We bandaged each others wounds. We taught each other how to smile again. 

you helped me to regain some of my stature. My confidence. Made me feel like a man again, in so many ways. 

Dear girl, how I want to continue to see that smile directed at me. I want to hold you in my arms and never let you go. 

Damn the obstacles! The differences. The reasons not to be together. 

But I am not enough. Other things are more important. I see this. There is a logic to it. I see it! I really do. 

But it still hurts like hell. 

To know that I am not worth getting ready for. That I am causing more stress than smiles. That you have all the damn emotional equity. 

That 

I 

want 

this 

more 

than

you.

So, I retreat. I can't make you love me. I can't make you think I am worth it. That we are worth it. 

You will be fine. I will be fine. 

It's probably better this way, right?

We will pretend it isn't ending for awhile. Try and see each other when you will allow it. When it fits into your schedule. 

After some time we will stop pretending and allow the ashes that are left of us to fall to the ground and get blown away. 

In time, we will find anothers arms to be in. We will be a little more careful this time. Make sure we aren't so needy this time. Find a better fit. And the time where we were us will have faded into memory. The rebound relationship. But could it have it been so much more?

But life intrudes. 

Reality intervenes. 

Unhappy children. 

Mortgages.

Bills.

Jobs. 

Stress. 

Killing us as we really started to breathe. 

Goodbye dear one. 

The waiting room

by David Tiesma on Tuesday, July 24, 2012 at 10:05pm ·

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He stared down at the cheap vinyl flooring, not sure of where else to look. It didn't really matter what filled his field of vision because his thoughts were consumed by the tragedy that filled the entirety of his mind. There are many ways to deal with tragedy, but as varied as those experiences can be, very few are expressed in the waiting room of a hospital. In fact, if you have been unfortunate enough to have spent any length of time in a waiting room recently, I am sure you can attest to the fact that almost everyone in a waiting room acts the same. 

People speak in whispers, as if the sound of their voices could further damage the loved one they are desparately waiting to hear news of. The predominate feel in the waiting room is one of unspoken dread mixed with a strong desire to hope. There is uncertainty, fear, and often, silent tears. Even the most crass and insensitive of people usually instinctively know to be reverent in the waiting room. Nobody willingly enters a waiting room, because, well, we hate to wait. For anything. 

And yet, there are those times that the people sitting in these drab little rooms don't really want to hear the news at all. If possible, they would spend a much greater period of time there, as if not knowing the bad news somehow makes it not true. Hope survives in the uncertainty. 

The man's head snapped up as he heard the door open, oblivious to the fact that every other head did the same. A doctor had entered the room. There was news for somebody. The doctor walked towards me, for yes, I am "the man". My heart quickened as he neared, desiring information and yet dreading the worst. His eyes briefly met mine and I started to rise. He quickly broke eye contact and walked past me. The news was not for me after all. I realized I was frozen in a very awkward pose of half standing and sat down again. In any other circumstance I would have been embarrassed. Right now I couldn't care less what anyone thought of me. 

She was dying. I knew this. There didn't need to be a doctor to deliver this information to me, I knew it in my heart. My emotions were so mixed, so strong. I didn't want to be so torn up. After all, she divorced me. It had been a few years ago and I had worked very hard on putting her behind me. Put the hard work I had done turned out ot be nearly as effective as I thought it had been. But then again, we never know how strong our barriers are until they are tested by force. The counseling, the self-talk, the books and conversations I had shared; they were all for naught in the face of truly losing her. 

As I sat there, grappling with these surprising and unwelcome emotions, my mind snapped back to an image from the last time she was in the hospital. We were still married, but things weren't going well. We were both kinda trying, but in retrospect we were already on the slow, seemingly inevitable slide towards divorce. I still unapologetically loved her madly. She was my life. My everything. If she could read these words now she would accuse me of romanticizing things or misremembering, for as much as I know these feelings were true, she was unable to believe anymore. For all my demonstrations and pronouncements of love, my actions often completely contradicted them. 

I can still see her face in my mind. So clear. She had been so guarded towards me for so long. Keeping me away from her heart, refusing to let me in. And because of my out of balance dependence on her, i started to become more frantic in my efforts. The problem was that the language of my heart was different than hers. And, more importantly, she had stopped listening. She couldn't afford another betrayal. I had already cut her too deeply. Hope became a substance she could no longer afford. One of the Bible verses she used to quote was "Hope deferred makes the heart sick". You never hear anyone using THAT as their "life verse". But I couldn't get better. I was seemingly stuck in my addiction. 

The image I was recalling was from just after the surgery. The hysterectomy had gone fine, they said. She was still unconscious but would be waking up shortly. Her mouth was slack, as she was still very much out from the anesthesia. She would have been so embarrassed to be seen by anybody like that. It had been long time since I had seen the "real" Jen. And in her vulnerability, her complete weakness, she was completely beautiful to me. I wanted to hold her, to protect her, to do whatever it would take to win back her heart. It was so refreshing to really see her again. But you have to be genuine when you are completely vulnerable.  

Emotion fades, and even though I tried to use it as fuel to stay free, it proved to be as inadequate as everything else I had tried. Because I continued to struggle with my addiction, it probably seemed that I wasn't trying at all. But I was. Truly I was. But when push came to shove, i eventually caved in to the old, familiar darkness. It is tempting to go ahead and spell out the details of what i struggle(d) with, but does it really matter how you describe that which continually seeks to bind you? How can you trade diamonds for garbage? How can you repeat the behavior that has turned the one you love the most into an enemy? How can you not care? How can you be so selfish? And how can you be surprised when you end up so alone?

An empty bed welcomes me every night. It is a constant reminder of my failure. Of what I have lost. Lying next to the woman I loved was one of the greatest gifts i have ever known. Next to my best friend. 

That was over now! These thoughts, these emotions were unwelcome. I had not asked for them, wanted them and certainly didn't need them. What else can you do in moments like this? How can you not examine what was? 

Her heart had been giving her trouble for some time. Subtle signs had been present even during our marriage, but we mostly ignored them. She hated going to the doctor and hated admitting weakness even more. Her ready reply was "I'm fine". but of course we both knew better, but it was a truth we were not ready to embrace. It was going to have to demand her attention, and now it finally had. 

What would have happened if she hadn't been in the hospital when she collapsed? For a woman who didn't like going to the doctor, it still amuses me that she wanted to work in the medical profession so badly. I can't tell you how many stories we have all had to hear of her medical adventures. I can tell she is trying to gross me out. That used to work when we were still married. She would watch one of those crazy shows that showed real operations, and I would run far away. I have been watching "The Walking Dead" for the last few years so now I am immune to her petty stories of gore. 

She worked in the ER as a phlebotomist. She was about ready to draw blood from a patient when she collapsed and instead became one. 

I got the call at work. From my oldest daughter. I knew right away that something was wrong when I heard her voice. 

"Dad, please answer, It's mom, she's in the hospital..." was her message. What a terrible moment. How fast your mind runs while you dial. Thinking of all the possibilities, hoping it's nothing, knowing that it's not.

And so I sat there. In the waiting room. Struggling with this maelstrom of emotion. And HE was there. Of course he was. I shouldn't have hated him, but I did. He hadn't done anything wrong. Except become the best friend to her. Except he replace me. Maybe not in her bed, but in her time and attention. HE now received those smiles that used to belong to me. 

There should have been some consolation that she did not love him. In truth, I kind of felt sorry for him. Poor guy, he was madly in love with her and she saw him as a father figure. I laughed when she told me how she made him repeat "You are not my girlfriend". And yet he got to eat up all her time and the little affection she had left to give. He had been chasing her for a few years now. he moved in pretty quickly after he met her. He didn't seem to think the 13 years that made him her senior should matter. It was obvious to everyone that he wanted so much more than a relationship. She pretended to, or refused to, see this.

Who could blame him for being there?

I could.

Even if it didn't make sense.  

We didn't speak to each other. Hell, we had only had the minimal amount of conversation that polite society required in normal times. Of course we ran into each other a few times. He would sometimes be there when I dropped off or picked up the kids. I took more glee than i should have in the fact that my kids didn't like him. I liked hearing that. he may have taken my place in my ex-wife's life but he would never have my kids hearts. Those he couldn't steal. 

His eyes were red and he looked terrible. It was obvious that his heart was as broken, no, almost as broken as mine. After all, was he there when her 3 children were born? Did he hold her after the miscarriage? After the death of her mother? He didn't grow up with her like I had. He had no right to be more brokenhearted than me. He didn't know the pleasure of being her lover for 15 years. He didn't really know her. Not like I did. Used to. And I hated him that it was past tense, because he was her present tense. 

It took the second time for the doctor to say her name before I caught my attention. He was already half way to the doctor before I ever even got up. I quickly made up the ground and got to the doctor a half step behind him. 

"She is stable and it looks like she will be ok. There might be some damage to the heart, but it is too early to know for sure. She wants to see you."

And he looked at me. 

The weightiness of words

by David Tiesma on Thursday, October 4, 2012 at 12:34pm ·

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Throughout my lifetime, I have had a somewhat voluminous amount of jobs. Certainly more than the average guy. Perhaps I have vocational ADD? Considering that I am still a fairly young 45. Here are a few of the jobs I have had over the years: Pest Control Technician, flower delivery guy, banker, bank manager, garbage man, sales rep over the phone, pastor (twice), home renovator, door installer, warehouse employee, truck driver, custom machine builder and rodeo clown. 

Ok, so I was never a rodeo clown, but the rest are true. 

Probably one of the most unpleasant jobs was when I was a garbage man. I was in my early 20's and was trying to support my young family. We had a baby on the way and life was exciting. I was young, idealistic and not sure of what I wanted to do with my life. However, I was very into my church and thought it a sin if someone: drank alcohol, swore, smoked and didn't attend church every time the blessed doors were open. And I was more than willing to argue these points, so passionately did I feel about them.  It's hard not to be a little embarrassed by my naivete and stark view of the world. I had yet to discover what pain and disappointment really were. I thought I knew of course, but you can't really know them until you have swam in those waters. You can dip your toe in a pool to try and ascertain the temperature, but you don't' really know until you jump in. 

We are all young once and there is no other way to go through life except one day at a time (unless you are The Doctor), there is no use apologizing for youth. 

When I was a garbage man, or as we preferred to be known "sanitation engineers", I met some interesting, ah, shall we say politely, characters. 

There was the one guy who came back to the shop every day with his truck full of stuff he had found in the garbage. Apparently his family had one of those "eternal garage sales" going. Every day he would find new stuff to sell and he would dutifully bring it home. 

There was my friend Fred, who helped me get the job. I liked Fred and thought he was a good guy. However, since I knew him from church, I was disconcerted by the fact that he would use profanity sometimes. I knew he loved God, but apparently he hadn't achieved the level of holiness where such worldly habits die off. 

And then there was Ken. Red haired, uber hunter, incredibly foul mouthed Ken. Of course I had heard people swear before. I didn't have virgin ears, but if you have read anything else I have written, you know I grew up in a very religious church. Such things were not practiced by "good" Christians and we were not to hang out with those who transgressed in these very important areas. We prayed for them. And witnessed to them. 

Ken did not profess to be a Christian. At least not one like I understood  and in that day the only people i thought were serious Christians believed like we did. Every morning we would arrive way too early in the morning at the "office". In reality it was a big garage with part of partitioned off for the one secretary we had. 

I had started this job in the late fall so every morning we sat around a little space heater and waited for our trucks to warm up. Then we would venture out in to the world to rid it of it's unwanted refuse. You might be shocked to learn that I didn't exactly mesh with most of the guys in our little circle of sanitation experts. They liked to hunt. A lot. I have never hunted a day in my life. (except for the ladies...) Dear God, it's all they seemed to talk about. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have suggested we start a book club. And I know I shouldn't have suggested we all watch Star Trek together. Live and learn. It's not like I was used to being popular anyway. 

For some reason I thought cursing was kind of like drinking alcohol. Most people didn't do it in the morning, you worked your way into it. Not Ken. he bathed in the f-bomb. If you peppered your food the way he peppered swear words into his EVERY conversation, pepper would double in price. He broke it open every the morning like a fresh package of Folgers. And of course most of them smoked as well. It was like my own little version of hell. And honestly, I figured that was most of their destinations anyway. 

You would most likely be proud of how long I held my tongue. My ears were daily blistered by Ken's daily dose of verbal garbage. I usually stayed quiet and stared at the floor and tried to doze a bit. The way Ralphie describes his father in "A Christmas Story" works nicely: "He worked in profanity the way other artists might work in oils or clay. It was his true medium; a master." Ken and Ralphie's father would have gotten along famously. After a few months, I finally had to speak up. I could not tolerate this obvious sin any longer! It had to be addressed as I'm sure you understand. 

"Ken, why do you swear so much?"

"What the *#(% do you mean?"

"Well you seem to paint the air blue more than Jesus would appreciate."

"They're just *^%& words"

Ok, so that's not verbatim, but it went something like that. 

I know that I have painted my self to be a bit self righteous  and I was. But even then I could not believe the stupidity of Ken's words. Just words. This conversation has stayed with me for a long time. I have thought about it a lot. 

Just words. Hardly. 

With words we commit ourselves to be bound to another for life. We swear oaths in court. Those we love know how we feel because we tell them. Novels have been written that have heavily impacted the world. Wars have been started and ended due to words. 

Words are powerful. 

Words are weighty. 

Words matter. 

We have all felt the sting of words directed at us. There are few things more painful than words. I would rather lose a finger than ever hear"I don't love you anymore" again. I don't like those words. 

Or for a child to hear their parent berating them, criticizing them. With words that etch themselves into their subconscious for the rest of their lives. 

Don't tell me words don't matter. Sorry Ken, but you were very wrong. It was a foolish thing to say. 

Sadly, Ken died years ago. Apparently he was part of a drug deal gone sour. I was very sad and shocked to hear this story on TV years after I had left there. 

Words have always been important to me. It is why I love sermons and good writing. Words move me in powerful ways, and I love to impact others with my own words. They can be woven together like a beautiful tapestry, or braided together like a whip. 

God uses words. It is his primary way he has chosen to speak to us. But as I alluded to earlier, we often get His words a little twisted. It is much easier to try to trap God with his own words. We want a nice tidy little religion. If we do this- than God has to do that. It is wrong for me to do something, therefore it is wrong for everyone to do that. 

Sorry- have to qualify. I am not saying that everything is relative, but I am saying that there is a lot more gray to the world than I had ever believed. Right and wrong are very real, I do not believe truth is relative. We once had an evangelist come through our church who hated TV. He preached a blistering message against the evil of TV. After the sermon, many repented and a surprising number of people literally threw out their TV's or turned them against the wall. I guess they were a little less convicted and wanted to give God time to change his mind if he wanted to. Almost every family that did this went back to watching TV within months, if not weeks. Perhaps God had told this man to stop watching TV- but he determined that the message was meant for everyone. 

If we choose our words well, and sprinkle in some Scriptures, we can get people to do about anything. 

Again, words are powerful. And anything that is powerful can be dangerous. 

Last Sunday we had to say goodbye to one of our pastors. Brad Gray is leaving for a church in his community. he is one of the better speakers I have ever heard and I will miss him. He uses words very well, to instruct, to teach, to inspire. And as he left us with a few final words, I will end this with a thought from his sermon. All throughout the Bible, especially the Old Testament, it talks about the "law".  

What do you think of when you hear the word "law"? 

What do you do when you see a policeman while you are driving? I check my speed! Every time! Uh-oh, am I doing something wrong? Shoot! Am I going to get caught? 

When I hear the word law, I think of rigidity. I think of punishment. I know it is there to protect me, but I know that sometimes I transgress the law. And I know if I get caught I will pay. 

Who gave us the original law? Well, God did of course. And what does that tell us about Him? About his character? About what he expects from us? What does it say about how he feels about us? Why did he need to give us "law"? And then Jesus comes along and seems to be not very "law-ish" at all. In fact he seems to almost contradict some of the law. And yet he said he came to fulfill the law?? This confuses me, but I accept it as one of those things that are over my head, as many things are. 

One word that has so many connotations. Law. A powerful word.

But...

What if it's the wrong word? 

The actual word in the original language is "Torah". God gave us "Torah" which often is translated into "law". 

But do you know what a much better translation of Torah is?

Instruction. Teaching. 

Let that sink in. 

Feel the difference in tone, inflection. 

Consider what that word implies about God. 

Not law. Instruction. Teaching.

How much warmer! How much more loving! Of COURSE God gives us teaching! It is still in our best interest to adhere to his teaching and instruction. There are still consequences when we don't.

But it is so much warmer and inviting to follow instruction rather than to "obey law".

To me, this speaks volumes about God.

Subtle but significant.

Sorry Ken, words DO matter.  

Descent

by David Tiesma on Thursday, December 6, 2012 at 4:35pm ·

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It started easily, simple even. Nothing to be alarmed of. No, it would take awhile before any type of internal or external alarms were activated. But how often is this the case? Easier to pretend that the pain inside is just a passing thing. How many times have you had that happen only to have it go away a few days or weeks later? Most of us have embarrassed ourselves by forcing a visit to the doctor or med center, thinking something serious was happening only to find out it wasn't anything that required immediate, or any kind of real concern. No real harm done. Except for the slightly patronizing look from the doctor and the not very well concealed condescension in his voice. Let's face it, if you have ever left a doctor and all he prescribed was a hopped up version of Tylenol, you probably should have stayed home and saved yourself the time and the co-pay. 

To phrase it another way, have you ever thought you smelled smoke? And you look everywhere for it, your sense of panic fighting with your logic that it is probably nothing? For there seems to be something in us that craves the spectacular. Of course, we don't actually want a fire, but what if there was? We would have to act quickly and decisively. We would step up and do what needed to be done to extinguish the fire or even worse (better?), we would have to save lives by getting everyone out. Don't pretend you haven't. 

What's worse, smelling smoke that isn't really there? Or NOT smelling it when everyone else does and it really exists?

The fire is creeping towards, you, growing in intensity. You have a vague idea that is there. In fact there are times you are terrifyingly aware that is engulfing you. But try as they may, nobody can save you. And you can't save yourself. 

Oh, to be young again. To be filled with such...certainty. Youth does not generally trouble itself with things like frailty and finality. It is a wondrous landscape with options and promise aplenty. It is all laid out in front of you and it all seems so attainable. Just pick a path and go live an incredible life! 

I remember what it was like to see the elderly and infirmed and for it to be so far off that it can't begin to encroach on your consciousness. Or for that time that it was just a distant future and not a stark reality. 

it was a brown mouse. why was he here? such a cute little thing. i wanted to pet him so bad. he looks so soft, but he is too quick.  i hope momma doesn't see. you know how upset she gets when she sees them. plus she wants them dead. i don't like seeing them dead in their little traps...

Forgive me. It appears I don't have much time left. Or maybe I do. It is hard to tell. Please know I am trying to hold on as best I can. Do you have any idea how frightening it is to lose your sense of where you are? Your sense of who you are? How damn terrifying it is to lose you? God forgive me. I am not a man given to profanity. It feels as foreign to my mouth as a grain of sand. 

It seems almost close enough to touch. When I was young and full of vigor. It's funny, I always knew that this time would come. Knew there would be a time that I would look back on my life as an old man. Of course everyone knows this, but I felt it. Thought about it. You know when this struck me the most? When I would look in the Saturday paper and see the anniversary pictures of the couples who had been married for100 years or so. Frequently they would show their wedding picture from 1940 or something crazy like that. The look in their eyes... so full of promise, potential and excitement. So young. And right next to them, a picture of what they are now. Still the same people? Yes, in many ways. In many ways, no. Until you have lived 85 years you do not know how it affects a person, the body, the mind, the will, the... you. 

I am not the man I was 40 years ago, heck, I'm not the man I was 2 years ago. So much has changed. 

One of my first realizations of the gravity of aging came from my grandmother. She and I were close. My mom's mother. I remember her house always smelled of food. Good food. Your mouth would water before you ever got in the front door. I think it started when we pulled in the driveway! She was always old to me. It's how I remember her. When I look at pictures I can see that she certainly aged during my life. But there is a constant image fixed in my brain when she walks into my thoughts, sometimes invited, sometimes not. It's funny how memories operate. Some come when they are called like an obedient dog. Others intrude like somebody breaking into your house, others won't answer their summons until they slip away completely like a tired man slowly slipping under in deep water. There was never even a trace they were ever there. 

One time grandma and I were talking about aging. I was in my 20's. She was normally quite a cheerful woman. She loved to laugh and I can still hear her high pitched laugh when I want to. I do not know if this is due to hearing it whenever we watch old family videos, or if I truly remember it. Even so it is something I hold onto tightly. Something precious. To lose that would be to lose another piece of me. 

I do not remember what preceded her comment, but her comment stuck deeply into me. 

"When I look into the mirror, I do not know the woman in the mirror. I just see an old lady." She said this with a wistful, almost confused look on her face. As if her mirror was somehow able to trick her in some cruel way. She went on to explain that she did not picture herself this way. She still mostly thought of herself as a young woman. 

This seemed a little bit absurd to me. How could you picture yourself other that what you are? How young I was. How naive. Understanding of this is now something I have purchased. This knowledge can only be obtained by longevity on the Earth. It is not something the young can hope to achieve, nor would they even want to. it is not really helpful knowledge. 

Still, I took this comment from my grandmother and stored it away. Or perhaps it stored itself away. At times during my life I would wrest it from the place where it had settled in my memory and examine it. Looking at all the different facets of such a statement. Turning it over and over. Wondering what it would feel like. Trying to put myself in that place, finding it impossible to fully comprehend the feeling. Knowing that such a day was coming for me. When you are young there is so much ahead of you. Everything is possible. You are young, strong, healthy and you have time to do explore all the things you want to do. 

In the anniversary pictures, the people look so old. Their lives spent. Not much left in front of them. Most of their existence is memory now. There will be few, if any new treasures to store. Yes, yes, there are still moments of joy, but they are now the exception. You can feel life slipping away. You know there just isn't the time anymore. The scariest part? That it isn't a disturbing thought anymore. Where a younger man fights and kicks or just refuses to think about his mortality, you start to welcome it. Waiting for it like the end of a long journey that has taken the full measure of who you are and there is not much left. 

You learn to treasure the memories. You still yearn to make more. But now your life is full of the smell of disinfectant, piss and mustiness. There are medicines to be taken, plans to be made, and too often, funerals to attend. Why do you think the elderly love it so much when you come to visit them? It is like a living memory. A distraction from the sameness of so many of our existences. Something new. A new memory formed to join the collection of the ones that have been handled so many times before that they have been worn smooth with use. They are shiny and sharp and not affected by the process of time. For all memories are prone to rot. The wise know this. Even those with the strongest memories can't help but remember the way they want to remember. The way it could have been, should have been. And when you are as old as I am, you start to combine stories at times. Or insert what you have always wanted to say to that old boss. Or taken that chance you didn't take. They warp. Time is like water dripping on a table. Warping and distorting. 

And that is the damnable part of all this. With age, so many choose to live in their memories. They float away in them, enjoying reliving them over and over. It is preferable to their present. We have certainly trained ourselves over the last few decades that we just HAVE to be entertained at all times, right? And when you can't read, or hear the TV, and you don't understand what they are talking about anyway; there are the memories waiting, almost seductively, to embrace you. Happily enfolding you into their soft, familiar embrace. 

But now... The memories are not content to stay in their places. They have taken on a will of their own. I have always taken pride of my ability to be in control. Not needing help. Not getting sick. In fact, for a man in his 80's, I do remarkably well. Yes, I have been blessed in many ways. I am not unaware of this. When we do something wonderful, or something awe-inspiring or even awful happens to us, it creates a memory. That memory settles into our minds. Some are never called upon again and seem to fade away forever. Do they really? None can tell for sure. For some reason, even mundane, simple things can lodge in our minds, carrying weight and significance without us being readily available to explain why. They are not unwelcome, but they also don't seem to be noteworthy. Yet there they are. 

All relationships are based on memory. Friendships are based on the memories of pleasant shared experiences. These are the stones of a relationship. The fun times you have had together. The desire to create more stones, to build the relationship even bigger, to make it more significant. Sad times, shared difficult times, where you are both on the same side, ah, these are the mortar for relationships. A strong wind will blow over a friendship built on happiness, but it takes something monumental to topple a link forged with this kind of bond. 

why is he angry again? i think he knows what I did. i must hide. he will know. i don't want him to kno. he will be unhappy with me again. i don't like that. if i am gone for awhile maybe he will forget. just get away. loudness. why must he yell? doesn't help. no. i will be quiet and nod. it will be over soon buddy. it will be over soon. i will promise to be more better next time. i'm sorry daddy. i will try not to cry. i won't be naughty anymore. i sorry. so sorry. 

It is happening more frequently now. I still can tell when it happens. It just takes me a little longer each time to know when it happens. I seem to revert to different times in my childhood. As I said earlier, this...slippage, seemed to be such a simple thing at first. Getting up and going into a room and not knowing why you were there. Funny, right? This is a universal experience for anyone over 30. 

When does it start to frighten you though? Is it when you are driving and you don't know where you are or why you are even driving in the first place? Or how about when you are in the store and realize you don't remember if this was the store you used to go to when you lived in Kansas? Or the one here in Michigan? Or when you have a sudden rush of panic in that store because you can't find your 4 year old daughter you thought you were just talking to? Is it scary then? 

It goes from funny to aggravating. There are the cards on your birthday about forgetting. About getting old. Getting black balloons when you are 40 or 50. So many think that is funny. Cards joking about incontinence and even death. The grim reaper. When does that cease to be humorous? Not many 80 year olds get presents like that, do they? Unless your family has quite the macabre sense of humor. No, this is not funny for most. Death is far too close of a presence in the room for that to cause much laughter. It is easier to joke about what is distant. 

Then you start to get on people's nerves. You can see it. You realize you are telling that story again. You swear it is the first time, because you try to be a careful communicator. You only try to tell relevant stories, because you remember when that old person in your life did that to you. You yourself participated in the gentle mocking behind their backs. "Can you believe Dad told the story about the raccoon again???" 

And you laugh along. But after awhile you stop laughing. It isn't funny anymore. You can see them slipping away. You can't stop it. You pray, you seek medical help, medicines are prescribed. Despite all this, the slow slide continues unabated. 

Now imagine this is happening to you. You laugh with everyone else at first. It IS funny. Silly old grandpa. I'd forget my head if it wasn't attached! 

Then they don't laugh with you in the room anymore. They think you don't hear the whispers, but you do. That's when the first trickles of worry enter. the first inklings of the possibility of losing you. The thought that memory could be an enemy. The past becoming quicksand that eventually swallows you up, making you oblivious to the "now" you still desperately want to exist in. Even if it is mundane. For you want to keep your memories under your control. Just like your body and your life. 

The next step is the worst. They give you the look. It's a queer look, hard to describe. But it is the feeling that you have just said something very wrong. No, not wrong, something...off. Not fitting. The look in their eyes is one of concern, fear, and most disturbing, immense sadness. And it is directed at you. Oh, it's quick. Always fleeting. The look cannot be sustained. No, that is against the rules. But you know. It happened again. you slipped. It happened again. But you don't remember where you were. And you don't remember what you were supposed to be talking about. 

You try so hard to keep it all straight. But it seems like so much. Like somebody has asked you to name every piece of hay in a haystack and gets upset when you can't remember them all. As these episodes occur more and more to me, they last longer. I feel like a man underwater at the end of them. I know I am somewhere where no one else is. At least, no one real. I can see the surface near the end and struggle for it. I emerge and am the only person in the room dripping wet. Dripping with the shards of the receding memory, embarrassment and shame. 

I know who I am. I am a compilation of my experiences and thoughts and relationships and desires and dreams. All this and more makes up ME. When is the last time you fought for your life? Ever? I feel like I am in such a battle as that. WHO I AM is slipping away. It feels slippery now. There are times I have it, know that I am grasping it firmly... and then there are the other times. Again, getting far too frequent. I can feel who I am slip away. Out of my control. Even though the present isn't always exactly what I want, it is real, it is now. And I so desperately want to be present in it. Especially when my loved ones are near. The chance to experience the NEW. Another chance to evoke laughter from the mouths of my children. To illicit that certain smile on the face of my daughter. To hear the strong opinion of my son and to be able to engage him in conversation. '

But to see the sorrow in their eyes when they look at me, the embarrassment. I am weak before them and can no longer hide it. I feel like a small child that has just had an accident and isn't old enough to know how to cover it up. I have wet myself and everyone knows it. And I know everyone knows. 

What is going to happen to ME? The me that I know? That I have grown comfortable with? What happens when that is gone? Where will I be? Who will I be? When the tenuous cord that ties me to the present finally snaps, do I get to decide which memories I relive? I would guess not. Or is this to be some type of strange collage of past experiences? Or a strange type of purgatory where I relive all the past pains I have tried so hard to forget? If I do have to go through those unwanted memories, is it part of my punishment for banishing them to the cellar of my mind for so long? Is this their chance to get equal time? 

Who can tell?

There is one redeeming side of all this. The tenderness. The warmth. The ones who love you the most no longer to seem to get annoyed. I like the warmth of this. it makes me feel good. i am happy. c'mere boy. it's ok. i won't hurt you. i wonder of mom will let me keep you? i sure hope so! i always wanted a dog. lets go. is it ok if we are friends? good. i think we are going to have lots of fun together...