Authors: Note: This is not what I planned on writing at this point. I had no peace in my soul and that stopped me from posting what I planned. I sat on what I wrote for over two weeks and only just now deleted it all. And for reason that is beyond me, this takes its place. This is a continuation of my story, as best asI can remember it. However, it is not a linear and chronological history. I pray that the posts I write become “our story.” By that, I mean that you recognize parts of your story as you read mine. My story is not wholly unique. Others share it — or, at least, parts of it. And countless others deny sharing it, but do anyway. Maybe we’ll meet in the middle of the narrative.
If CPR is a picture of renewed life, then coughing up water to breathe is a picture of the act of forgiveness. That sounds backward. It feels backward. I need forgiveness. I don’t need to forgive. I am the guilty party. I betrayed my Ex, my kids, my supporters, friends, family, staff, and parishioners. Yes, I did. And still I need to forgive.
Alcoholics Anonymous gets this right. Alcoholics make amends in steps eight and nine:
Step 8: Made a list of all we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all.
Step 9: Made amends to those we had harmed, except when to do so would harm them or others.
Long before they get to those steps, they spend time figuring out who they need to forgive. They do that in steps four and five:
Step 4: Made a searching and fearless moral inventory.
Step 5: Admitted to ourselves, to God, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.
Recovering alcoholics discover that the exact nature of their wrongs is holding grudges and withholding forgiveness. They correctly believe that God forgives us the way we forgive others. So, we need to learn to forgive to experience being forgiven. This is consistent with how Jesus taught us to pray, “And forgive our sins as we forgive the sins of those who sin against us.”
I am amazed that the evangelical church that birthed and grew me never spent much time teaching this principle. To know forgiveness, I need to forgive.
When I did my fourth step, I wrote pages and pages of resentments. For instance, I acknowledged resenting the country of France and the French. It is almost funny that France is part of my fourth step. But France isn’t alone on the list. There are many other deep and dark resentments that I didn’t / I don’t want to admit: I have Polaroid images of my mother fingering my pre-pubescent genitalia in inappropriate ways… And, I remember my Dad leaving me with her for weeks on end while he traveled to serve God, who evidently needed him more than I did. I remember my angry, depressed mother who seemed to hate my brother and me for stopping her from enjoying the life she loved — traveling and ministering beside Dad — beating me with a belt. I remember my brother brutally beating me up every day, throwing me into walls and never getting caught. I remember the betrayal of a first love and then having to listen to her friend’s cutting explanation, “She broke up with you because you were afraid to kiss her.” I remember that same girl writing me a letter whilst I was in exile in England to get away from her, asking me if I heard Journey’s new song, “Separate Ways.” I remember the betrayal of my college fiancee and my brother, as we drove away from her house for the last time, stopping the car so I could throw up because I couldn’t handle the pain …
There are so many more vivid resentments I could name. Alongside them, I have 70 mm Dolby surround sound, 3-D film of every shameful thing I’ve ever done. I remember with too much clarity the things I did that made me want to crawl into a hole and die; the times there was no place to escape. I can remember all the times I let people down, disappointing them. I remember telling lies to appear bigger, smarter, faster, stronger, more, and more lovable than I knew myself to be. I remember getting caught in those lies and shrinking down smaller than I wa before they left my mouth. I remember shrinking as small as I could get and realizing that it wasn’t small enough.
I need to forgive the Country of France, and a bunch of others. But most of all, I needed to forgive myself. There are a few reasons for that:
1. I convinced myself that I was so bad I deserved the bad things that others did to me.
2. The feelings that accompany my shame are more powerful than feelings surrounding wrongs done to me. Though I feel both. Historically, I feel shame more viscerally.
3, As hard as I try, I can’t forgive myself. There is a spiritual power that needs to be broken down for me to forgive myself.
4. Until I forgive myself, I don’t know what it looks like to forgive others.
Forgiveness is a process. It is not a linear event that I pass through and then complete. It keeps circling back like Bill Murray’s character in GroundHog Day. As I go through life, I uncover more that I need to forgive. Like taking up my cross daily, true freedom requires daily forgiving myself and my world.
There is a downside to forgiving yourself, at least there was for me. As I began to forgive myself, I started to get pissed off. When I thought I was a P.O.S. I could excuse people for treating me badly. I didn’t deserve any better than I got. After being forgiven, I started getting angry.
Now, you have to understand, my parents didn’t allow me to feel anger. The only person who could be angry in our house was Mom. The only exception was that Dad would occasionally get mad at her to hold her in line. Mom and Dad proudly boasted that they had “beaten the anger right out of me.” I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anger. I still don’t do it well. My friends told stories about throwing things or having a tantrum, and I’d get jealous because I didn’t know how to do it. My anger came out as passive aggression. While I smiled sweetly at you, I’d stab you in the back and watch you bleed out without you ever knowing it was me who got you. Or, I’d escape into my double life because it was the safest place I could find.
But, now, after learning I could forgive myself, I was feeling it. In the furrow of my sin, people felt free to wrong me. My Bishop lied to cover his butt with his wife after my Ex retold the story to them. He said he hadn’t realized in ’97 that I’d had intercourse with prostitutes, even though I went specifically to him and others to confess that sin. He knew his lie wasn’t important. My sin superceded it. So he got away with telling it.
The leadership of the church in which I grew up decided it was wholly appropriate to not only read a list of my sins from the pulpit to shame me but to demand I write an explicit letter to my prayer and financial supporters outlining those same sins to them as well. Conveniently forgetting the rest of the New Testament, they intentionally shamed me because of their interpretation of the pastoral epistles. Later, they performed an exorcism on my brother and sister-in-law’s home because I stayed there a month. When it became clear that if there were demons in the home, they undoubtedly came from my brother, no apology was ever offered or considered. The pastor discovered he could get away with saying pretty much whatever he wanted to say to and about me, and so he did. It was reported to me that he made sure a local seminary refused me admission to their counseling program. I no longer had any grounds to disagree with or stand up to him. People in the church started and repeated fantastic rumors. A missionary friend saw me in Costco and asked if I really made my Dad move out of his house so that I could live there.
The leadership of my house church community thought they knew what they were doing, and in their arrogance demanded that everything be done their way. They chose my counselor and then didn’t like things he said and so demanded that I stop seeing him and find a Christian counselor (assuming he’d agree with them). Finally, when they disagreed with both my sponsor and new Christian therapist and discovered that I would not obey them, they asked me to leave the church altogether. So I did. I became an Episcopalian.
I knew that I needed to forgive these men and women for my sake rather than theirs. I didn’t want to, though. My hatred of them felt deserved. It felt good, and it held me captive. I was unwilling to give up my right to revenge. Judging them gave me solace in my despair. Even when you are at the bottom of the barrel it helps to have people that are easy marks for contempt.
Finally, after years (and that is not an exaggeration) of prayer for willingness to take action I asked my former Bishop to meet. We had coffee, and I told him that I forgave him. He asked me what he had done, and I said it was unimportant and bringing it to light again would probably create further damage between us. I knew I needed to let it go. I needed to give up any fantasy of revenge. I had to give up the right to judge he and his wife in the same way I had given up the right to judge myself.
However, I was still unwilling to forgive the pastor who read out my sins, blocked my admission to the seminary, didn’t stop rumors, and said hateful things about and to me that were untrue. Then one day, I walked into a pastors’ prayer meeting, and he was the only one there. As I walked across the room and sat down next to him, praying as I walked. I found that I held no ill will for him. I didn’t need to harm him. He was an old man, and God had my back. I didn’t need to judge him at all.
I wish I could tell you that once I gave up the right to revenge or to judge him –or anyone else, for that matter — all my hatred went away. It didn’t. There are still moments when I want revenge on that old pastor. I have to pray them away. There are still moments that I judge the hell out of the old bishop and his wife. That fact isn’t helped by her ongoing judgment of me and continued belief that she was correct in her assessments and actions, so I continually return to my knees and ask for willingness to forgive, and then I pray a simple prayer of surrender:
“Lord, I surrender my right to be angry with ________. Save me from being angry with them. Please give them _________ (whatever I want for myself right now). May I find in you, whatever my anger is giving me. Your will not mine be done.”
I pray that prayer until I mean it, which means I repeat it a lot. Some folk aren’t easy to love! But by praying, I take the Lord seriously, seeking the welfare of my enemies. And as I obey, the Holy Spirit slowly transforms and resurrects my heart.
“Listening” to the energy in my body as I wrote these words, I am very aware that I have more work to do. Though my resentments’ power weakens the more I pray to forgive, my resentments can still keep me awake. Their power and my powerlessness require me to rely on the Holy Spirit. He has to be actively involved because my resentments are too much for me. The good news is that he is willing to get his hands dirty with me.
Just so you know, because this post brought back a lot of emotion, I will be praying the above-cited prayer a lot in the next few days. If you haven’t already, I’d encourage you to join me in it — for your resentments, not mine.
The opposite of masculine rape culture is masculine nurturance culture: men* increasing their capacity to nurture, and becoming whole.
The Ghomeshi trial is back in the news, and it brings violent sexual assault back into people’s minds and daily conversations. Of course violence is wrong, even when the court system for handling it is a disaster. That part seems evident. Triggering, but evident.
But there is a bigger picture here. I am struggling to see the full shape emerging in the pencil rubbing, when only parts are visible at a time.
A meme going around says ‘Rape is about violence, not sex. If someone were to hit you with a spade, you wouldn’t call it gardening.’ And this is true. But it is just the surface of the truth. The depths say something more, something about violence.
Violence is nurturance turned backwards.
These things are connected, they must… (to see more click here)
Thanks Nora for such a beautiful and majestic piece.
Trying to explain my spiral into addiction is neither pleasant nor easy. In recent months, I’ve acknowledged that my “perfect” family wasn’t perfect at all. We had a dark side. My mother sexually abused me when I was young. I became a surrogate to her while my Dad traveled. (Maybe in the years that follow, sharing more details might prove helpful. For now, however, it serves no useful function.) It is hard enough to acknowledge that the abuse happened at all. By doing so, I violate my family’s rules. A Godly woman like my Mom wasn’t capable of such horrific acts. And yet, she was. It is important to say that the damage and debris left in the furrow of the abuse did not cause me to become a sex addict. It was my responses to the sexual violence that led me to addiction.
A fiance who betrayed me with another man only served to compound the marring of my soul. The memory of my brother and I driving away from her house after collecting the ring I gave her is still vividly horrifying. My brother pulled over so I could dry heave on a dark, deserted highway. In the weeks and months following the dry heaves, my fantasy life grew dark and violent. I couldn’t pretend to be pure and naive any longer. I became monkish, not trusting the opposite sex. For the rest of my college career, I avoided relationships with women to the degree that some of my friends thought I was gay. It took over a year and a half for me to allow my InterVarsity staff worker to try to set me up with a girl from Michigan State. Though we were both interested, it never panned out. As a result, I stayed happily single, masturbating to erotica, pornography, and violent fantasies of sexual revenge against my ex. At this point, sex didn’t feel like a big deal to me. It didn’t consume me. Masturbation was merely something I did — didn’t everyone?
After graduating, from college, I moved to Ann Arbor, to work with InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. I still remember walking into my temporary housing and running into a drop-dead gorgeous brunette who introduced herself as a member of the performing arts, evangelism team I was to lead. At that moment, we both knew that there was an undeniable spark. Eventually, we started dating. She was fantastic and was everything that I ever wanted in a life partner. She wowed me, and I was madly in love with her.
I transformed my appearance and demeanor; I grew my hair long, into a fashionable late 80’s style mullet and began sporting a close-cropped beard. I pierced my ear and wore a dangly silver cross earring in the style of George Michael. Every Wednesday night I went to a pub on Main Street, across from campus talk to people about Jesus. I reveled in the fact that the people didn’t understand what a pastor was doing in a pub, drinking beer, talking with them about Jesus. I was having a blast, living a dream. Noting this, is important because my dream life wasn’t enough. Indeed, it underlined my fears that I would never be enough.
A major event that few people know about occurred in 1989. I traveled home to Portland for a short break, My appearance had changed so much that my family and friends had a hard time recognizing me. I found considerable freedom in anonymity. One day I met a friend near Portland’s red light district. Afterward, I drove a few blocks and picked up a prostitute. It was surreal and completely caught me by surprise. I didn’t have any physical contact with her; though I thought I was going to when picking her up. I couldn’t. Rather, I pulled over, shared the gospel with her, gave her a tract and let her out, saying, “God bless you,” As she walked away, I shook in my boots, asking myself and God what was going on. I had no idea. I was so scared that I called my girlfriend and told her what I did. At her urging, I talked to the leadership at my church, being careful to “spin” my struggles in a way that I could get help and not get fired. They loved me and promised to pay for counseling.
When I got back to Michigan, I found a Christian therapist. I stayed in counseling for three years. Therapy wasn’t the answer, though. My sexual behaviors grew progressively worse during those years. I knew I was an addict, and yet I still couldn’t admit what that meant. Nor could I do anything about it; because no one in evangelicalism seemed to know what to do.
Soon thereafter, I discovered legal businesses; that offered illegal sexual practices. Behind their legal facades, they are ostensibly brothels and leading players in the sex trafficking industry. Though I found them innocently, entering their doors for legitimate reasons; following my discovery of the sexual acts offered, I became a regular customer; my sex addiction was spiraling out of control.
I never had sexual intercourse in any of these establishments. Indeed, I didn’t have intercourse before getting married. That was always a badge of pride for me. Being “technically pure” allowed me to rationalize away my behavior. After all, I was only as sexual as President Clinton had been with an intern. However, I spent more money than I possessed to feed my addiction. Even the sexual release I achieved wasn’t enough, though. I soon began experimenting with progressively riskier behaviors.
I knew I was rapidly descending into hell when I acted out with a strung-out woman in a dangerous Detroit back alley, on the heels of teaching about “Sex and being Single,” at a large singles conference. The woman, the alley, and the act all disgusted me. It wasn’t pleasurable. The only “hit” I got was the adrenalin hit of having taken another step toward death. I made another pledge not to act out sexually again. In this particular instance, I kept it for many months. Then I passed one of those neon signs that lit up the night inviting me back in. A siren song beckoned, and I couldn’t say no. I slipped right back into the familiar rhythms of adrenalin, escape, and pleasure. I didn’t know or care at this point how much my addiction was costing the women I was paying to gratify me, All I knew was that I couldn’t stop. I was an addict. I knew it and didn’t know how to admit it.
I lived a double life — no one knew about my behaviors. Unless you’ve done it (or are doing it), you can’t understand what that means. If you are in it, I know the hell you are in, because I visited and even bought a tee shirt while I was there.
Truly, when I was in my role of campus pastor and evangelist, I was unaware of the man who acted out sexually in secret with trafficked women. When I was cruising or acting out, my life as a pastor and evangelist didn’t matter one iota. I disassociated. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde‘s story was my story. I was truly lost.