Sometimes you don't really want the answers

As I alluded to the other day on my Facebook wall, I heard a sermon the other day that left me a bit rattled.
I intend to explore and explain this a little bit tonight as I write. It's a little strange, because I feel a little bit nervous to delve into this subject. Perhaps I am afraid of what I will find. Writing is one of the ways I process things. For whatever reason, sometimes difficult subjects open up before me like a folded road map when I write or talk them out. I think it's kind of a funny way to put it, but I consider my writing to be a silent form of verbal processing.
So, let's see how deep this rabbit hole goes...

But first, a little background.

 For those of you who don't know, I go to a church named "Solomon's Porch". The senior pastor is Chuck Swanson and he is becoming a good friend. It is part of my unique personality that I desire to know the senior pastor of the church I attend. Not sure what all the implications of that are, but I am sure there are a few.
When I first started attending the church, one of the initial draws was one of the pastors, Brad Gray. Brad is, quite simply, one of the better speakers I have ever heard. Having grown up going to 3 church services a week, I have heard quite a few different people speak.
But sadly, after attending for a few months, Brad decided to leave for another church. I was torn about whether I should stay or go. But as my friendship developed with Chuck, and as I got involved with a small group, I felt strongly that I was to stay. I have always found Chuck to be a decent speaker, but Brad is unusually gifted in this area, and cast a bright light that few others could stand in.
But...
Over the last few months, Chuck has really started to hit his "sweet spot". See, he was a counselor for many years at Cornerstone. And it seems that he has started to preach out of his core passion. And there is a marked difference. He knows people. Can read them well. It is an unusual thing to have a pastor's sermon be more of a group counseling station than anything else, but you know what? It works. One of his strengths is that he loves to hear other people's stories. Or at least he is good at pretending he enjoys it. 

No, I really believe that he does. 

Most of the time anyway. 

A man with knowledge, passion and something to say can be a dangerous thing. At least for complacency.

Which leads me to the point.

Sundays sermon.

Damn your Jedi mind tricks Chuck.

We are in the midst of a series where we are going through the book of Luke. On Sunday we hit an odd story. Luke 8:26.
I've read through it dozens of times, I imagine. Briefly, Jesus gets out of the boat after the night where he commanded the wind and waves to be still. The disciples have to be rattled already.
I can only imagine what they are thinking. "Who does this??"
They land on shore and are confronted by a man who is demon possessed. And not just by one or two. When Jesus asks for the demon's name, it replies "Legion". This is a Roman term, and it meant anywhere between 6000-7000 demons.
Indulge me for just a second.

How did they fit? Was he fat?
What incredibly awful thing did he do to permit that sort of take over???
How long had he been like that? Why did he hang out in the tombs?
What was the demons "end game"? Were they having a "demon party"?

Ok thanks.

What did THAT look like??? Sound like?

The demon(s) immediately cries out for mercy. Somehow being cast out of the man and being allowed to be sent into a bunch of pigs is mercy. Not sure why?

The man is immediately healed. Fully. Completely.
The people of the town come running out to see what has happened. Understandably, they are upset. Somebody lost a bunch of money when the pigs went all lemming like. A dude who was possibly one of the most insane men in history is normal. Seriously! The guy was able to break chains!
I wonder if he sang boy band tunes while he was possessed. Cause, you know...demons.
Sorry.

What a spectacle for the them to see. You know this guy was the talk of the town. EVERYONE knew who he was. And Jesus sets him free like it was NOTHING.

How long had he yearned for freedom? How many times did he try to get free from his enslavement? What did he lose to this bondage? Was he married? Did he have kids?

The town finds this man, sane, clothed, and sitting at the feet of a rabbi, who, oh by the way, just happens to be God.
Oh, did I forget to tell you that the guy was running around naked? I wonder what HIS dating profile would have read like?

Single Man. Likes the open country. Having a hell of a time finding a date. Not really sure if I need anymore company though... Looking for someone to howl at the moon with and hang out among the tombs. And I run around naked.

The guy would do great on OKCupid.com.

Do you get the sense I am stalling? Maybe a little. Using humor to deflect the real issue. Even dark humor.

Some of you know where this is going. Some of you know my story.

What a beautiful ending to this man's story. Healed and set free. Did he get his life back? What did he do to deserve that? First the bondage and then the freedom.
Why him?

I have struggled with my own bondage for many years. Decades even. If you don't know I will tell you. I'm not shy about it. I have struggled with pornography my entire adult life. My own bondage.
So many things have been sacrificed.
My marriage of 21 years.
2 pastoral jobs.
Being able to live with my youngest children for almost 4 years now. FOUR YEARS.
I have missed so much.
Watching the love a beautiful young woman had for me slowly die and crumble into ashes.

So many people have heard my story. There have been hours of counseling. Do you know how many hours of prayer I have offered up? How many times at the altar? I have fasted, been through different ministries, been prayed over and even tried to have deliverance once. Been given lots of advice. Talked to a best selling author about it.

And the issue still seems to be here.

Completely free.
Healed.
Jesus entered the man's brokenness and healed it.

Why not me?
Of course, I blame me. I am not a victim. I chose my path and I have suffered the consequences. There have been so many stories I have heard about being set free. About how to be healed of the hurts others have done to you. But what if the hurts you have suffered are your own damn fault?

Wow. You have to be kidding me.
As I write I listen to music. I have dozens of songs on my "writing mix". Just as I am getting to the main point of all this piece, the heart, this is what pops up.

"Sigh No More" by Mumford and Sons.
Check out these lyrics:

Love that will not betray you,
dismay or enslave you,
It will set you free
Be more like the man you were made to be.
There is a design,
An alignment to cry,
At my heart you see,
The beauty of love
as it was made to be

Probably a coincidence, right?

See? That 's the point. I am tantalized by this idea of love, of freedom and being who I was created to be! It seems too sweet to be false. How can I doubt something this beautiful? It cries to the deepest part of me, and God help me,

something answers back. 

But it seems so fleeting, so hard to grasp, so unsubstantial.
HOW DO I ATTAIN THIS?
Why can't I live here?
Why have I chosen to go back to the shit so, so, so many times???

And here is the big question:

Could Jesus have set me free in such a way that I would have never desired porn again?

Can he ever supersede free will?

I know my mom was "delivered" from smoking cigarettes completely and at once. She never desired them again.
Couldn't he do that with porn?
Why wouldn't he if he could?

We have been talking a lot about the kingdom in church. The book of Luke is replete with ideas of the kingdom. One of the troubling questions Chuck asks is "What is the message of Jesus doing in you?" And "what does following Jesus cost you?"
Questions like that have a way of refusing to leave you alone. And I don't want them to.

On Sunday he addressed this idea of people who are set free instantly. Obviously God does this. But there are others where this doesn't happen. (I have my hand raised)
Chuck said that there are some people that God chooses to go down a more difficult path. I am not sure what that means entirely.

I own and realize that I have a will and I have made some bad choices. I chose to sin and I have borne the effects. And so have many of my loved ones. For this I am very sorry.

But, is it truly possible that Jesus could have set me free like he did the demoniac? In such a way that it would have not interfered with my free will? In such a way that I could have kept all I lost?

Do you see why this is such a dangerous question?

I could ask "was I chosen to walk a more difficult path?"
But I do not like the implications. It feels like playing the victim. It feels like placing the blame on God. And I can't embrace that. Can't believe it. He is not to blame. I am. I have to own my choices.
Or, it feels arrogant to say that I have been chosen to walk a certain path so I can be a voice for those who struggle.

I don't have the answers. But I am open to feedback. For any who actually read all this introspection.

But I do know that I still believe in total freedom.
I think I CAN be free from this garbage someday.
Something deep inside refuses to let go of this belief.
I can not doubt that my savior is good.
I have seen too much evidence to the contrary.

May you and I be able to walk whatever paths we are walking with honesty, integrity and a passion for holiness. A passion for Him who created us and walks with us no matter what path we choose. Who loves us the same no matter where we go.
But most importantly, will always try to guide us down the path that leads to him.

I want to fulfill who I was meant to be. To reach that potential. I hope I can make strides to reach it. And I hope you can help me. For that is truly what friends are for.
And I hope I can help you reach yours. 

The Last Words (this was written by my daughter when she was 14)

It died today
He walked away from me forever
Each foot
stepping stepping stepping
like a hammer to my head
pounding pounding pounding
Each step echoing
through the darkness
that now fills my heart
I called his name 
yelled
screamed
but he did not flinch
did not turn till 
the end
When he looked back
at me
and I at him
and he
spoke spoke spoke
the words that burned in me forever
"I loved you"
"I Love you"
I cried
Love Love Love
"I still love"
He looked again
into tear stained 
eyes
"I don't"

Grandma Dixie

I still remember Grandma Dixie's wake, I've never really known anybody to die before. I was at the precarious age of 14. Too old to feel comfortable with the term "child" and too young to feel like like much of a teenager. The rebelliousness I was supposed to be feeling during those turbulent times had not, and quite honestly, never really did surface. It was an awkward time, as it is for most at that age. I was discovering that there were things that I actually liked, just cause I did. Certain songs started to catch my ear, certain girls made me turn my head. Shockingly, I discovered that I didn't always agree with my mother and father anymore. Of course, being a fairly agreeable (and smart) boy, I rarely if ever actually let them in on this fact. 

Life seemed so complex then, but in retrospect it was all quite simple. My mind was occupied with school, girls and any and all Detroit sports teams. I knew what death was, or at least I thought I did. How often does a 14 year old boy really have to face the disturbing concept of mortality? I was much more content to focus on things that made me happy. Call me shallow, but that's how it was. 

As usual, I got off the bus after school and walked for 2-3 minutes to my house. I think I remember it was a warm day. School was winding down for the year and we could all taste the excitement of summer as it slowly and ponderously worked it's way closer. I opened the door and yelled "Mom! I'm home!" just as I did every other day. I'm not sure why I did that. My mother certainly did not have any problems hearing. I'm sure she was aware I was home by the sound of the door opening, the dog barking excitedly and by the fact that I came home at exactly the same time every day. And yet I felt for some reason that I must announce my entrance into the home, for surely my mother rejoiced to have her favorite (and only) son in her home once again. 

This Thursday afternoon though, there was no response. "Mom?" I shouted again, mixed with a slight twinge of confusion. My mother and I had something of a ritual. I declared I was home, and she always welcomed me home with her standard "Oh, hi honey. How was school today?" To which my reply was "Fine". I didn't really want to go into detail of how my day was. I was done with school and there were very few days that I wanted to immediately rehash with my mom. What I really wanted to do was to forget the day, eat a snack and see what my friends were up to. I didn't want to tell her anything about my day, but I did like that she asked. 

Today the routine was broken. "Mom?" I yelled again, now slightly concerned after twice not getting any response. 

"In here, honey" I heard her muffled voice from behind a closed door. It sounded... strange. Her words seemed a little forced and laden with emotion. It entered into my prepubescent mind that it sounded like she was crying. 

14 year old boys are not normally comfortable with crying women, especially when that woman happens to be their mother. Suddenly I felt a little alarmed and a lot awkward. I quickly walked up to her bedroom door and pressed my ear against the door. I thought I could her some sniffling and a few quiet sobs. 

"Mom, are you in there?" It really wasn't the most intelligent question I could have asked. I'm not sure who else I expected to be in there since I had just heard her voice coming from behind the door. "Can I come in?" I gently asked. 

"Yes."

I slowly opened the door, really not sure what to expect. My mother sat on her bed, holding a kleenex in one hand while the other wiped away tears. Her eyes were swollen and red. She had been crying awhile. Oddly enough, my first thought was that I had done something to upset her. My mind did a quick, yet thorough, inventory of my actions from the previous week to see if perhaps there was something that might have caused this level of emotion from her. This self-examination quickly faded as I starting feeling something toward my mother I had never felt before: compassion. 

I was embarrassed as I started to feel tears welling in my own eyes. I didn't even know what was wrong and I was about ready to start crying myself, like a little girl. I gulped the sadness down angrily and maintained control. I felt a new emotion starting to rise within me. Fear. What could make my mom cry? She was a tough woman. I had never seen her cry before. Anger was an emotion that was pretty familiar from her, but not tears. Not even when my dad left. This was a woman who had things under control. She always had a plan, liked things just so, but also had a quick and ready smile for her children, especially me. 

It was with a bit of trepidation that I asked "Are you ok? What's wrong?". Again, my mind whirled, trying to decipher what could possibly make her cry. Was she sick? Whatever it was, it had to be serious. 

"My mom died today." she said in a low whisper which was immediately followed by two fresh paths of tears. They quickly ran down her face and fell onto her blouse before she could wipe them away. 
She quickly added "Your Grandma Dixie, my mom, she passed away this afternoon." Apparently she thought I might have forgotten who her mother was. I kept this thought to myself and wondered why such a stupid thought had even entered my head. Truthfully, it did take a minute for her first comment to register. I sometimes forgot that my mother was a regular person. Not that she was unusual, but it seemed strange to me that she had a mom and dad. She was my mom, it's the first role I knew her as and the one I felt most comfortable with. 

"Oh. I'm sorry." This will sound terrible to you that love their grandmas or na-nas or nonnies or whatever dumb names kids call their grandmothers, but I was not sad that Grandma Dixie had died. She was not a grandmother that one nicknamed with anything cute. The fact is, I didn't really like her. She scared me. She was a very stern, harsh lady. I didn't really understand what an alcoholic was, but I knew she was one. I also knew that being an alcoholic did not make you a very nice person. 

I saw Grandma Dixie a few times a year. Every once in awhile we would go over to her house for dinner. Grandpa Henry had died when I was just a little boy and I had no memories of him. I sometimes thought maybe he died on purpose just so he could get away from her. She never hurt me or anything like that, but she didn't need to. She was not a big woman, quite the contrary. She couldn't have been more than 5 foot something and weighed less than 125 pounds. Apparently the mix of vodka and Pall Malls really helps keep the weight off. 

At first glance, you might think a strong gust of wind would be enough to knock her over. At least until you got to know her and you realized the wind wouldn't dare. It has always fascinated me how such a small woman could control so many people. One look into her eyes and you knew that Grandma Dixie did not suffer fools lightly, in fact, she didn't suffer them at all. If they were stupid enough to stick around her, she made them suffer with her acerbic tongue. I'll never forget the first time I heard the word "bitch". I overheard my parents talking a few years before dad left. He said "I'm pretty sure the word "bitch" came around because God knew one day your mother would be born, and no other word would describe her so well." Mom didn't like that so much. I didn't realize it was a bad word until I called my sister one a few days later. I thought it was an appropriate usage but my parents did not agree. 

Looking at my mother sitting there, I didn't know what else to say. I wasn't sorry she was gone, but I was sorry about how it was making my mom feel. I remember being a little confused. I didn't want Grandma Dixie to die, but it wasn't a sad thing. I knew Grandma Dixie had caused my mom a lot of grief over the years. Why was she so sad? 

"Why are you crying?" I innocently asked her. 

She looked up at me with her red eyes and the corner of her mouth twitched upward in what was almost a slight smile. "Because, peanut, even though she was a difficult woman, she was still my mom." She gently patted the bed next to her, inviting me to sit next to her. I really didn't like it when she called me "peanut" anymore, but I didn't seem to mind right now. 

She poked me in the side as she said "Wouldn't you cry if I died?" I still remember the playful twinkle in her eyes as she said that. I sat right next to her and told her I was sorry she was sad. 

She wrapped her arms around me and gave me a tight squeeze. As a 14 year old boy, I was not a big fan of "mom hugs" anymore, but I offered no resistance. I realized that she was not hugging me because she thought I needed it, she was hugging me because she needed to. I hugged her right back as hard as I could and whispered to her "I love you, mom". 

For some reason this caused a new wave of tears. She put her hands on my shoulders and held me at arms length, gazing at me lovingly through liquid filled eyes. "I know you do sweetie. You're a great kid." I gave her one of my embarrassed smirks and looked away. 

When I got home the next day, my mom told my sisters and I to get ready. I was confused, because I couldn't fathom where we would be going on a Friday night. When I asked where we were going, my older sister Samantha gave me one of her famous "I'm shocked you have managed to survive this long since you are such an obvious retard" looks, or at least that's what that look meant to me. Even though she was only 2 years older than me, I'm pretty sure she thought she was at least twice my age in maturity. 

"We have to go to the viewing, for Grandma Dixie." my mother replied. Of course, she was already set to go. "Hurry up now, and NO jeans." 

"Aw mom," my younger sister Jasmine whined, "do I haaaalfta go?" 

"Yes, you "halfta go."" my mother replied. Her voice carried the tone that told us all she was in no mood for arguing. 

Awesome. I wasn't exactly sure what a viewing was, but it didn't take a whole lot of imagination to figure out what the evening entailed. Not only was I not going to have ANY fun tonight, I was going to have to dress up on a warm day and behave, all while we were in the same building with a dead person. 

Suddenly, I felt a little queasy as I remembered that Grandma Dixie was going to be the dead person. I had never seen a dead person before, except on TV. And not even that too often, as mom didn't want us watching "that violent garbage". Did I have to look at her? What were the rules? How long would we be there? I didn't know how it was supposed to work and was not interested in gaining this knowledge. And yet I knew by the end of the evening I would have had a new experience, no matter how much I didn't want it. 

Even stopping at McDonalds for dinner was not enough to turn my mood. Normally this would have been a treat that would have turned any mood, however dismal. My cheeseburger and fries were fairly tasteless, not carrying the normal McDonaldsy goodness. To make matters worse, I forgot to tell them to hold the onions. I tried to scrape the little buggers off, but I knew from past experience that their mere presence would continue to haunt the taste of the meal. Not for the first time I wondered how anyone could like these little white pieces of nastiness and why they had to cut them into the size of molecules. Ha. I bet Grandma Dixie liked onions. She probably ate them raw. 

As I chewed my tainted burger, I couldn't help think of what lay in store for me. I was nervous. I wondered if Samantha was nervous, but didn't dare ask. I sneaked a peek over at her. She looked fairly normal, but I thought that I could discern a touch of unease. For some reason this made me feel a little better. Jasmine, however, was clueless. She was totally enraptured in the cheap piece of plastic (or as some would call it, a toy) embedded in her Happy Meal. She danced her little Barbie on top of her nuggets. Jasmine had arranged her nuggets across the table as if they were rocks in a pond and Barbie was having a great time jumping from nugget to nugget. 

"Jazz! Hurry up and eat. No playing! We need to get to the funeral home." My mother looked very tense and unhappy. Another omen for a miserable evening. 

We ate the rest of the meal in silence and were soon bundled back up into the car. I gazed out the window as we drove along, and way too quickly we were pulling into a parking lot. 

"Alright kids, I really need you to be on your best behavior tonight." Mom said this while simultaneously straightening Sam's hair, smoothing my dress shirt and wiping a bit of dried ketchup off Jasmine's mouth with a saliva moistened napkin. 

"Oh God, I need a drink", I heard her mumble as we walked in. 

As we entered the building, I immediately wanted to leave. Everyone looked stiff and uncomfortable. The few people that were present were all dressed up. Now I understood why my mother had forced me to wear what she did. At times I thought she made decisions just to inconvenience or maybe even to torture me. As we stood in the entryway, it dawned on me that maybe there were actually reasons why she did some of the things she did. Still, I do think there were times she just wanted me to suffer. This was not one of those times. 

We stood there, just inside the door as if we had entered the wrong building. My mother had just stopped. She seemed unwilling to take another step. It was as if she thought that if she took another step, it would only confirm the loss of her mother. 

Sensing hesitation from my mother made us all feel awkward. She was not prone to indecision or weakness. It was not a state I enjoyed seeing her in. For a second, her emotions tried to transfer to me. I could almost palpably feel a strange sense of panic and even the desire to flee the building as if it were on fire and we needed to escape with our lives. I struggled briefly against this odd wave of emotion and was successful in quieting it. 

Then I did something that was so simple, so natural, yet it was a turning point in so many different ways. I reached over and grabbed my mother's hand, holding it firmly. She was still a few inches taller than I was so she slightly bent her head to look at me. 

"It's going to be ok." I told her. And then I gave her hand a little squeeze. "C'mon. Let's go. It's ok."

I will never forget the way she looked at me. In her eyes I saw a wide range of emotions. I saw surprise, thankfulness, a little determination, and best of all, respect. It may sound silly, but I believe that in that moment, I became a man. At least it was the first time I ever felt like one. It still fascinates me how in that moment, when my strong mother was so fragile, that something innate within me rose up to protect that weakness. 

I would love to tell you that after that I always acted like a man, always rose up to defend the weak. It would be great to tell you that my older sister, who only seemed to have scorn for me, saw this and started treating me differently. Not so much. Life continued on. The significant moment in the rushing torrent of time, as they all are. It may have been lost, but it was stored in my memory. 

The moment was broken as my mother stepped forward. She seemed strong again, it was that quick that she regained her sense of who she was and what she was there for. Her fragility was only displayed for a second before she packed it up and stored it away, like winters gloves and boots, stored away when spring comes. And yet I noticed she had not released my hand. 

We were greeted very formally and politely by an older man who introduced himself to us as one of the directors of the funeral home. I still think it is odd that they call it a funeral home. It's not like anyone lives there. There are people that actually HAVE homes attached to the funeral home, or funeral parlor as some call it. To me, that's all kinds of messed up. Mr. Funeral Home Director offered us his condolences on the passing of our loved one. I wasn't really sure what condolences were, but it sounded like a nice thing to say. I hate to admit it, but Mr. Director looked like he was going to be needing his own services fairly soon. 

As we walked into the viewing room, I noticed a few people that I recognized. My 2 uncles were there and one of my aunts. There were also a few people that I knew I had seen before but could not remember who they were. I figured that I should know them since they were probably family and I would be required to converse with them at some point in the evening. 

"Sam!" I whispered. "Who's that?" I cocked my head subtly in the direction of an older man wearing a gray suit that was just a few shades darker than his hair. The top of his head was bald, but he had let the back grow out and had tied his hair into a ponytail. Do they still call it a pony tail if it's on a man? I imagine that ponies everywhere would feel insulted if we did. 

"That's great uncle Frank. You probably haven't seen him since you were a baby." 

Reality's Terms

by David Tiesma (Notes) on Monday, January 28, 2013 at 8:56pm

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Too often do I fantasize and idealize reality. 

It is easier and safer to view the world the way it should be, at least as it should be through the filter of my eyes, my life. There are too many unknowns, too many risks to fully enter in as it is. Like a pool of cold water, I am only willing to enter in to a certain depth. I must not, can not let it chill me for it may kill me. 

There is no guarantee of the outcome. It is all muddled and confused. 

So through music and entertainment mixed with my own thoughts, I think of the world and relationships as I would deem them to be. 

But to do this has it's own cost, as do all things. 

I am a fly, crashing into the glass, over and over and over again. Not trying to get out, but trying desperately to get in.  Real life is being lived inside. I can see it happening, but I am obstructed by the glass that has been formed by my own will and decisions.