The best drunks I ever knew

I’m a strange creature.  The people who impress me most are those who appear least impressive, but have been touched by the dust of eternity, people who most would assume as not worth listening to, but whom possibly God MOST esteems.

Those who have most impressed me in this life—those who’ve had some kind of ‘x’ factor—are those who quietly contain a wisdom that’s hidden until, like dainty flakes of gold, they’re seen shimmering as the flickering of light into a deep shaft reveals them.

These people can be summed up as drunks, or former drunks, but drunks all the same, because, while they transcended where they’d come from, they never forgot where they’d come from.

There’s something glorious about a person who’s been to the depths but has then emerged, able somehow to grasp a life beyond it.

It’s like Mick.  He was a big lad, with a big voice, but only when he used it.  He preferred to listen, having coached men in the ‘steps’ for a decade and more.  We sat at a park bench one chilly June night in 2004 and he was a life saver—a drunk and a life saver.

Or, like Charlie.  This man singlehandedly showed me how to deal with my anxious mind.  “How important is it, Steve?” he was frequently heard to say.  I’d come to an AA meeting all strung up with my upsetting concerns and he would sort me out in minutes.  A drunk without drink for seven years I think at that time—a man who had taken the AA program seriously.

Mark was different to Mick and Charlie.  He was abrasive, but not for selfish reasons.  You had to earn your way in.  Tall and angular, once I invested time with Mark, I found him to be one of the best drunks you could find—sober for 15 years.

Many of the best drunks I’ve known have dealt with trauma and grief that many ‘normal’ people cannot imagine, unless those ‘normal’ people are counted among the number of drunks who are still finding life impossible to manage.

Drinking problems, like drug problems, and every other problem that’s a problem, are genuinely problematic when life’s become unmanageable.

Thankfully, the best drunks I’ve known came to a place where they had to put down the drink and admit their lives had become unmanageable, and that they needed a ‘higher power’ to recover.

There’s nothing wrong with the drink if you don’t have a problem.  But as soon as a problem develops, watch out for that time when life begins to become unmanageable.  Then you might qualify to become of the best drunks ever—one who overcomes.

Photo by Marek Piwnicki on Unsplash

A good mate died today

Trouble is I’d only seen him about four times in the last ten years.  But in the 1980s and 1990s we spent a lot of time together, both as mates with another dear friend, and as fathers with times with our families.

And there he is, gone.

No matter how I play it, I can’t understand that he’s gone.

In the 1980s, we built cars, nice cars, back in the day, loved to drive them, and we loved to have a drink.  There was always so much laughter, and sometimes at our own expense.  We did some crazy stuff, as young people are inclined to do.  It gives me a sense of pride and joy now to think of the humour I provided my dear friend in goofing off—often very unintentionally.  “You’re a laugh a minute, Wicky” he’d say... we did a lot of things together, even golf!

In the 1990s, BBQs were the theme.  Family get-togethers, fun, food (seafood—he was a fisherman), music, even the odd drink.  We still had laughs and reminisced about what we got up to in the 1980s—including that infamous never-ending 4-kilometre drive at Millstream!  You had to be there.

Then my life fell apart.  I didn’t see it coming, and when my world turned upside down, much of what was my old life disappeared to make way for what would simply keep me alive—spirituality.  (It’s so sad now to recognise that there were many years in the past nearly 20 where we didn’t hang out.)

Skip forward to 2019, June 29.  The three of us catch up for a pub lunch.  I was sure it was 2020, but no, as I check the diary, what feels like it was last year was actually two years ago.  He looked the picture of health... no sign of the cancer that took him.

I still don’t know how to feel, not least for his family.  I can’t imagine their grief, even though my life, like yours probably too, has been touched by grief.

Grief is a most intangible thing.  When does it start in these circumstances and when does it end?  Loss by its definition is beyond resolution.  And even though he’s a friend from long ago, it’s not my loss anything like it’s his family’s.  My heart yearns that they’d be comforted.  

My friend will be sorely missed in the rest of my life. 

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Strength that flows out of sadness, bringing peace to anger and calm to fear

“It takes strength to face our sadness and to grieve and to let our grief and anger flow in tears when they need to. It takes strength to talk about our feelings and to reach out for help and comfort when we need it.” 
— Fred Rogers

I see Fred Rogers as a paragon for peacemaking because he always strived to help people to respond to their emotions in ways that would neither hurt themselves or others, and peacemaking is exactly that — not attacking others or escaping from ourselves.

But there is a poignant truth upheld in the quote at top.

There is a reason why anger is such a big problem in our world and in our lives.  We resist feeling.  We avoid going to the very place peace would come in.  We’re fearful it would swamp us, or that we’d be called a sissy or that we’d feel that way.

Maybe we don’t have the faith that we could do it.  Perhaps we don’t want to feel weak.  Little do we realise that that’s where the strength is.

Never ever do we outgrow the need for nurture.  Even as a 230lb man, well into his 50s, I need nurture at times every month, and probably weekly.  Sometimes there are entire seasons when I’m down on confidence for some reason unknown to me, or where I’m staving off irritability or anger and don’t know why.

Yet, sadness and fear are inevitably at the core of it.  Grief from change, from loss, from things I find hard to accept.  Just existing is hard, let alone all the curve balls that come at us.

Going into my fear and into my sadness I’ve learned are not hard; they just involve awareness, then action.  To be vulnerable brings relief.  To reach out is a pressure relieving valve.  To pour our prayers and tears to God is healing, if not in the moment, tears of an evening are joy in the morning (Psalm 30:5).

So you can see that there is faith in tears, because as we weep in a figurative evening, it’s only a matter of time before the metaphorical morning arrives.

If there’s one life skill we all need, it’s this: to capitulate when our soul screams out for nurture; to know when to fold; to act in the moment of weakness by honouring it, which brings forth the fruit of the truth, that “when I am weak, then I am strong.” (2 Corinthians 12:10)

It’s right to hate sin, but what is sin?

“Sin is not what it is usually thought to be; it is not to steal and tell lies. Sin is for one man to walk brutally over the life of another and to be quite oblivious of the wounds he has left behind.”
—Shūsaku Endō, Silence

A lot’s changed for me in the past 12 months.  This time last year I had no desire to go back into my previous career, health and safety.  The fact that I’d applied for several roles was a leap of faith.  I didn’t want to ‘give up’ on the dream of full time pastoral ministry—a journey I’d grieved once it vanished in 2016.

Nowadays my work life is incredibly full and fulfilling, working in fire and emergency services, serving as I would as a pastor, though they see a health and safety professional.

I’m no longer working in the Christian environment, apart from my one-day-a-week role as associate pastor at my local church, which in all fairness is easily two-days-per-week.

No longer working in a Christian environment means I’ve pulled back on writing about God, because, let’s face it, I’ve got a lot of new friends who I’m focused hard on.  I want to find middle ground, so I’m focused on writing mental health.

But then I read this quote that Chuck DeGroat tweeted.  Instantly I thought nobody likes this idea of someone walking brutally over another, and completely ignoring the effect of that trauma.

When anyone imagines this scenario, immediately we think, “crime.”

It’s criminal to walk brutally over someone, but there might be recourse to forgiveness if only there’s acknowledgement, apology, making it right.

What makes the idea of someone walking brutally over someone else especially criminal is when they’re oblivious and don’t care.

We all owe a duty to our neighbour.  To treat them much the way we’d have them treat us.  Anything less than this is sin.  Might not be a great word for a non-Christian, but that’s what it is—a failure to do one’s duty of reasonable regard toward another, which means all others.

Fail our duty of care and we deserve the consequences.  Nobody has a problem with that concept.  It’s not the wrong that’s done that’s the game changer—it’s the idea that “I can sin [i.e., violate someone] and get away with it.”  This is not to be simply ‘forgiven’.  The law is designed to moderate society based on what is an ethical principle—that has always seemed to exist over the breadth of secular life.   Why? Because trauma hurts and it destroys lives.

Whether you’re Christian or not, one thing we agree on is it’s not good to violate people.

The real wounds to people are often not the initial hurt, but the compounding of hurt when the person won’t own up or be held to account.  This is the real wrong.

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You can’t shame away your pain

Guilt and shame have their momentary purpose when we’re in the wrong, but besides that, these are troublesome emotions that paradoxically ought never be judged but ordinarily are—hence the problem.

Our relationship with guilt and shame is usually very problematic.  In knowing how inappropriate they are, we shun them, but in inappropriate ways—shaming ourselves for signs of our guilt and shame, when instead, compassion ought to be extended.

This is a tricky exercise, especially when we’re not in touch with our self-talk.

Shame and guilt, the inner critic, judgmental thinking, projection, dissociation, addiction—all these and more are signs of the presence of pain that’s being masked.

You can’t shame away your pain.  This means we cannot deal with our pain by shaming ourselves, just as nobody will ever be a help to you if they’re shaming you.

The way we deal with pain is via touching it with compassion—being observational and curious with yourself with no hint of consternation.

We all carry the baggage of past pain in our experience.  We carry it with us.

Whenever we experience guilt or shame, we hide our pain.  It’s just good to know.  Put another way, you do nothing to heal your pain by shaming yourself.  Others also are no help to you if they shame you.

You can’t shame away your pain.  Only compassion deals with the kind of pain shame promotes.

If you want to heal the pain you carry, which you can see underlies your shame and guilt, and you don’t want to do counselling, catch yourself judging yourself and others.

Judging it a sure-fire clue to shame, and where shame flourishes, pain is denied.

When it comes to yourself and other people, judging less reveals more healing in the heart, i.e., less pain.

Catch yourself judging yourself or others, and without judging yourself because you’re judging, simply notice it with a smile.  It’s learning.  And when we notice the presence of guilt or shame or projection or dissociation etc, before you start to judge yourself, extend to yourself the hand of simply being without thought as much as possible, and as much as possible simple observation—without casting aspersions.

Try this out and see if you experience more peace and more freedom as a result.

You can’t shame away your pain, so try and identify when you do it—not if, because we’re all doing it.  Only compassion deals with the kind of pain shame promotes.

Photo by Ales Maze on Unsplash

Facing the Truths of Deconstruction and Reconstruction

Universal realities are in the field of the living, and loss is the bane of us all.  At least that’s how it feels. When you’ve plummeted into the realm of trauma, and you face a reality seven hundred times the worst stench of hell, you’re forgiven for hating the very notion of life.

But what if I said that at the end is the beginning—that heaven’s opportunity resides in the first step that is deconstruction.  “Deconstruction of what?” I hear you say.

Deconstruction of the SELF.  When I lost just about everything in September 2003, everything barring limited time with my precious daughters, I faced a time where I lost just about every hope, and I had little control over every facet of my own life.  Since then, there have been other times like it, but nothing quite as stark as that period.

Any of us and all of us, when we face that time of catastrophe, enter a time of deconstruction of the self that feels cavernously worse than we could’ve previously conceived.  We’re tempted to think, “Well, if this is the end, I might as well end it all,” and many of us have contemplated such an end.

When you’re in the place of a hell that feels disconcertingly like it will never end, you’ve got the opportunity of facing and responding.  I’d argue that in debilitating and soul scourging depression and fierce lashes of anxiety that affront us in grief and loss, we cannot help but face the dark night of the soul that has visited us.

And yet, every single one of us has been tempted to dissociate—to look away from our pain.  To ‘drug’ it away.  It makes sense to cite Dr Gabor Maté here:

“Your depression was a major success... addiction is a solution.”
— Dr. Gabor Maté

As you read these words, did your mind think, “What?!”  Just what is the Hungarian/Canadian physician saying?

Depression is that place where the defences are down, and it is therefore a gateway to the pain we perhaps have never before seen—that trauma we’ve never acknowledged or recognised was ALREADY part of us.   In such a place, addiction is a solution.  It provides short-term comfort and the ability to turn away from the cutting edges of anguish.

But we know that addiction only exacerbates the pain, longer term.

Facing the truth of DECONSTRUCTION means going inward into the rawness of the pain knowing that if you’re already broken by FACING, you won’t break any more, and you’ll process and head ultimately into the opposite outward reality—facing the truth of RECONSTRUCTION.

Reconstruction is the reality of coming closer to the authentic person you’ve always wanted to be—the REAL you.  But you can’t get there unless you’re prepared to go back, have the inauthenticity taken off (the purpose of deconstruction), to be reconstructed in what you’ve learned.

That’s the purpose in suffering.  And if you’re suffering and you can’t change your reality, you’ll take what you can get—especially if it’s the hope of becoming something you’ve always wanted to be.

Deconstruction is a great learning curve.  It feels worse than death—a living hell—but every form of hell in deconstruction suits the purpose of moving through and beyond it.

Somehow—from the vantage point in deconstruction—you’ve got nothing more to lose and all else is gain.  You face a revenant experience.  Out of death comes life.

THIS is what deconstruction is, using biblical JOB as prooftext: it’s suffering that has nothing to say, that sits and faces the awful reality, in faith that simply FACING will prove the way through it.  Of course, having empathetic friends and mentors makes it easier; something Job didn’t have.  Sackcloth and ashes, a rich Old Testament tradition in lament.

In deconstruction, you don’t have the answer.  Yet, in being still in that reality is the ability to process. Acceptance can only be reached when we try it on in deconstruction.  In FACING this awful reality, in resisting the temptation to turn away and dissociate, we see what’s truly INSIDE us, and that’s the CAPACITY to bear such a burden!

Seeing yourself demonstrate courage in bearing the pain through facing means something infinitely deeper when you know the Presence and Spirit of God is with you—the God of the universe testifying to your courage.

In the very moment—and it can be a SINGLE moment of realisation—you face your pain courageously, sitting still in it, weeping authentic tears, you realise you can do it—be truly real in such a raw state of deconstruction—where there is nothing left to separate you from your authentic self.

Deconstruction is the pathway to authenticity.  It only comes when strength is gone.  Yet, there is accessed a strength we never thought we had access to—in this, the seeming end of all things.

Facing the truth of your deconstruction then tends to be a season of life.  Nobody is ever released from their pain immediately.  Life doesn’t work in instantaneous change.  To learn anything about deconstruction, you must be immersed in it for a relatively long time.  But early on there’s confidence that you know what to do.  So you just keep doing it—showing up, day after day, suffering, lamenting, in faith for something better, courageously.

Most encouragingly, reconstruction begins to occur somewhere in the deconstruction phase, almost as much as a reward for simply having the courage to go into deconstruction.

Facing the truth of deconstruction proves courage.  Courage enough to go into the hell of the nothingness of self is the golden key that unlocks one’s authenticity.

Authenticity is the gold of reconstruction.

Photo by Patrick Tomasso on Unsplash

It’s yours to share... or NOT... the whole idea is, it’s up to you

One of the privileges of my life is when a person opens up and trusts me with their story, their truth, their existential experience, their solemn account of things.  It’s an honour to be trusted in the silent, quiet, even secret spaces of another person’s life.

Conversations as these are, many going deeper than we plan or could have imagined, there are also times when it’s not the right time, or there’s not the space, or that I’m not the right person.  If and as the other person discerns it.

Each of us has the solemn right to share or not share, and to dispute this concept is an abuse of the soul of the person—verily, that’s a kind of spiritual abuse.

Yet, we’ve all had times when someone has tried to force us to share, and especially times we wanted to share but either had nobody to listen or nobody was interested.

This article is more about feeling free to NOT share.

There are many reasons why you mightn’t share your heart or your real thoughts on a matter.  The person, the energy, the space, the opportunity; all these need to be right for the occasion—far too often we’ll perhaps commit to sharing when there’s some level of inner reluctance, and then we feel we’re betraying ourselves (and possibly others) as we speak forth our truth.

Very often we withhold our thoughts and feelings because we know they won’t be appreciated, or worse, we know we’ll be punished for holding these views.

Sometimes we hold back because we’ve shared with a person or in a particular situation before, and we’ve felt betrayed or let down in some way.  It can take courage to commit to sharing again, or wisdom to show continued restraint.

Indeed, a lot of the time when our words are stopped it’s because of wisdom, where the inner voice says, “Not now... not with this person... not in this situation... hold your peace.”  And it’s always good to ask ourselves why, so we can gain the awareness of insight.  Even if we don’t know why, we should still give ourselves permission to withhold from sharing if it doesn’t feel right.

A lot of the time it can be because we don’t want to be vulnerable—or can’t be.  It is, however, a great blessing to be vulnerable, but only in those places that are safe and with people we can genuinely trust.  It’s appropriate to protect ourselves when we feel unsafe.

Just as it takes great faith to share when we feel we can trust the moment, equally it takes great faith to let it go when you’ve invited someone to share, and they’ve declined.

It’s a temptation to become offended that they won’t trust you, but we must dignify the person’s experience—they should never be expected or forced to share, just invited.

To invite someone to share, and to be declined, is still a precious offer and a blessed opportunity to show graciousness.

The opposite to this scenario is when someone opens space for a person to share into.  They remain silent enough to hear what a person wants to say.  This space held open is for the person sharing to share into.  They feel safe to share because they own the space—because it’s given to them by the person holding that space open.

But the trustworthy person doesn’t compel anyone to share—on the contrary, a person shares because they’re free to share or to not share.

There is also no judgement attributed to what a person shares, which really means that the one sharing doesn’t feel judged.  This is sometimes hard for the person listening because they won’t always agree with everything shared.  Theirs is trust that direct intervention may not be required.  They listen, they wait, they trust, they simply hold space.

The one listening and holding space serves the person sharing.

The person sharing needs the space to share into, but the person who doesn’t want to share needs the space closed.  They need to be allowed to remain in superficiality.  They need that protection.  It isn’t yet safe enough for them to share.

There is a time for depth and intimate sharing, just as there is a time for superficiality and distance.

Although everyone needs safe spaces and places to share, equally everyone needs the freedom to refrain from sharing.  One of the best ways of building trust is to allow a person’s “no” to be “no”.

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash

Listening to anger to understand anxiety

Unconscious anxiety, I’ve found, has often been buried deep beneath anger, whether it’s visible frustration with myself or irritability with others or just a general distress.  I see it in myself and others when there’s no time to be gentle and kind toward others and ourselves.

I see it when I respond unkindly (usually and mostly in the home), and every time I analyse why I’ve been grumpy, it’s always because I have a concern or worry or fear or sadness that I can’t do anything about.  The anxiety has a helplessness about it.

A lack of gentleness toward others is a clue to me that I’m not being gentle with myself.

In sum, emotional intelligence is the capacity to be gentle and kind with ourselves and others.  If we’re gentle and kind with ourselves it works out that others are treated well.  Real emotional intelligence is achieved when we can be gentle and kind with others who aren’t, without being their doormat to the extent that they walk over our boundaries.

Real emotional intelligence is standing firm with a smile.

But anger is a shameful thing because it’s evidence that we’ve lost control.  No thinking, feeling human being is comfortable spilling their vitriol over others, just as nobody ought to use their anger against themselves.

When someone does spray their bile at us, and they cannot and will not see the error of their way, they turn away from their own healing, because frankly they’ll not be interested in your healing, if they’re not interested in their own—they mock the concept of seeking healing as a weakness.

If only they knew that their denial is the truest form of weakness because it’s encapsulated in fear.

No, those who behave with narcissistic intent (with entitlement to exploit with no empathy) are set on the goal of destruction.  Their number one weapon is unmerited, unrepented anger, and wherever a target is hit, anger always ends up being a boomerang.

Nobody should be demonised for their anger, for that only makes the shame worse.  If someone won’t do something about their anger, let them face the natural consequences, but the person who does do something to face their anger will see the engine room of anxiety powering the negative emotions underneath.

Every emotionally capable person deals with anxiety.  It’s nothing to be feared; on the contrary, anxiety is truth’s invitation to face it, learn from it, reconcile it through apology, to cope beyond it, and grow in humility accordingly.

Anger needn’t be the huge issue we make of it if only we can be humble enough to say that it’s there, it’s real, it’s harmful to relationships when it’s not reconciled.

All anyone needs to do about their anger is just be honest; “Look, I don’t know why I’m angry at the moment, but I do know it’s founded in the anxiety in me at present.  Please forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

Listening to anger to understand anxiety is a true concern for the real cause of the anger.  Only when we listen non-judgmentally to our anger are we open to learning about our anxiety.

Photo by Zoltan Tasi on Unsplash

Church, survival hinges on lament, repentance, reconciliation

I was heartbroken to hear the story of the seven fallen feathers—a story of seven young indigenous Canadians whose lives were heinously cut short.  But this story is merely the tip of the iceberg.  The full interview can be heard here.

This is the story of Roman Catholic Indian Residential Schools across Canada and the stolen generations of social genocide that bears the scars of between 10,000 and 70,000 fallen feathers—children that were killed through a racist system propagated by the church.

Poignantly, at Saint Joseph’s Indian Residential School in Thunder Bay, Ontario, many children never came home, as the plaque reads:

“The memorial is placed here to Honour all the children that attended St Joseph’s Indian Residential School. As a Nation we must not forget the children who attended the school but never made it home. Let us honour the stories of the Survivors who are still with us and listen to their stories to be sure this does not happen again.”

Yes, this was a CHURCH school.

This is the problem with the historical church—at its worst, I mean—as it’s always fallen horizontal into bed with tyrannical colonial powers.  In the land grab, too often the church has enabled and even cavorted with the tyrannical colonisers.

The problem we have is not with an institution with the word “CHURCH” painted across it, but it’s anywhere there’s a system of tyrannical powers that seek to cavort with larceny and control with an iron will—where the church says, “Go right ahead, we’ll aid and abet you!”  Such a church is antichrist.

In too many instances, that’s the church—men actually, or a system of ‘powerful’ (power hungry) human beings, rather than a benevolent God, and people walking in that stead.

Think of the relevance of this wisdom from Wade Mullen:

“The abuser comes to steal, not usually by force, but by clever strategies of deception that trick you into voluntarily giving over what the abuser secretly wants to possess, not for your good, but for your destruction.”

The colonisers only interest at all costs is and was the land—possession was always the aim, and deception is always the way.

We live in a world that romanticises concepts of kindness, but it’s a world where far too often it’s the exact opposite that wins the romance of the heart in the powerful.

Then there’s the lazy dolour of a church that panders to governments of the day because governments insist on lording it over society and using the church as one of its prime vehicles to procure the tyranny it wants.

The Way of the Future

Here is the way of the future of the church. Before God, it must become the institution of God, and therefore execute God’s mandate.  This we might see, first and foremost, in its response to the sins it has itself committed. It doesn’t matter if one church sees itself as having not committed the sins—as if one individual body were free of blame.

Society everywhere is looking for the church to live as if it abhors the sins of the stories of historical abuses, and THEN to do something noteworthy about it.  But far too many churches and Christian bodies ignore these sins and instead point the finger at other moral issues—looking externally when it should be taking a hard look within.

It’s time for the church to go to confessional, but not just leave it there in a fake repentance.

There’s a role for lament that underpins the repentance, that also motivates an attitude of unstinting passion to reconcile with those it abused, broke, and even murdered, and with the rest of the anguished and enraged world, via a mode of ongoing repentance.  It’s time to lament forever what was done as impetus for ongoing and compelling action of restitution (make things right as much as they can be).

The fact is there’s a reason why Jesus said, “Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.” (Matthew 5:7) And indeed, all the Beatitudes (verses 3-12) refer to the heart that ought to reflect the church, at any given time, especially when it has procured reprehensible tragedies on societies that relied on it.

One thing as a church we must always reflect is humility—the capacity to value others (yes, even the rights of one harmed individual) above ourselves.

Where the church fails one life it fails Christ.

The Chosen’s Jesus is a Peacemaker

“Have the courage to be disliked.”  When I read it from a Christian site, I recoiled.  I know what it’s saying.  “Don’t be afraid of upsetting people if you have to.”  I agree to that end.  Try not to be upset if you upset people, because some people glory in controlling others through being upset.

But, of course, there’s more.

I want to use The Chosen’s Jesus (played by Jonathan Roumie) to describe a better way.

The Chosen’s depiction of Jesus is that he’s neither afraid when people are upset by who he is and what he does, nor is he intimidated to the point of meeting aggression with aggression.

He stands his ground but is still very much 
committed to the person and the conversation.

The Chosen’s Jesus does this in the latest episode (Season 2, Episode 7) when Jesus is hauled before Quintus, the Roman Praetor in Capernaum, and everyone fears for what might happen—everyone but Jesus.  Of course, any of us who know the Bible narrative know it’s far too early for any harm to come to Jesus—and besides, from The Chosen’s viewpoint, there’s over five seasons to run—that’s 41 more episodes to come to be exact.

Jesus sits in the room with powerful Quintus and doesn’t just put on the guise of calmness.  He IS calm.  In a situation that would either intimidate anyone enough to shrink in cowardice or inspire a foolish fit of rage, Jesus calmly owns the moment—neither with even a hint of snarkiness, nor with any sense of anxiety.

Jesus stands his ground but is still very much committed to the person and the conversation.

Both things—standing our ground when we’re aggressed and staying in connection with the person aggressing us—are very hard for us to do, and to do them simultaneously is doubly hard.  THIS is peacemaking.

The trouble with “Have the courage to be disliked” is we use such an ethos to inspire more than courage because it’s almost impossible to not flip straight from submitting to the aggressor to meeting their aggression with our own aggression—usually through passive aggression (which is still aggression).

We want people to prove how we’ll not put up with their nonsense anymore, so when we do end up displaying courage it inevitably goes beyond assertiveness into aggression.

In the first season of The Chosen, the third episode in fact, Jesus’ character alone in the wilderness is depicted, as well as his prayerful relationship with and dependence on the Father.  It’s a striking episode.  This episode also features a band of children who stumbled across Jesus’ campsite, visited with him, helping him, and are then discipled by him.

There is a teaching that occurs around justice and forgiveness, where Jesus commends the children to be peacemakers.  A situation around conflict emerges, and in context of ‘An eye for an eye’ Jesus tells the children, “You’re to act differently than others.”  The Chosen’s Jesus says, “What if how we’ve been told to behave and to treat one another are wrong?”

At this point, the children, as do we here, sit up to attention.  Different?  We’re to be different?  How so?  It comes from the ancient teaching, “Vengeance is mine, says the Lord.”

“Maybe we let God provide the justice, huh?” says Jesus.  “Do not expect Messiah to come into Jerusalem on a tall horse... but he will be most pleased with the peacemakers... this is my reason for being here.”

Jesus wants us to be peacemakers, just as he was a peacemaker, making peace between us and God on the cross.

Years ago, this wasn’t a revolutionary truth—to leave justice to God—but nowadays in much of Christian faith it is.  I myself, have fallen into this error.  It’s okay to be wrong.

Have courage to disliked, sure, just respect those who might be upset because of it.

Where Jesus is really radical is he believes in everyone, and even where they prove obnoxious, he believes in their potential to change.

Think about it.  If we have such a regard for people—viewing them as 10 out of 10, just like God does—we’re more likely to be able to behave like peacemakers because we’re not intimidated by people when they behave abysmally.

You might think, “Well, that’s a waste of time!”  Treating people as we’d want to be treated is more about protecting our heart than it is about the other person.  This is about, “Guarding your heart, for it is the wellspring of life.” (Proverbs 4:23).

The only way we protect our heart against hurting others is to not allow others to hurt us.  Even when people do hurt us, we don’t need to submit to the desire for revenge.  We overcome others’ evil by responding in the good.

There’s no super power like being beyond the carnal need to get back at someone.

The Chosen is accessible FREE through the App—Google it.  Watch it straight away, but start from the beginning. #ComeandSee

Image: from The Chosen.

Stepping back 20, 30, 40, 50 years

In a little over a week, COVID-19 lockdown permitting, we get away on a holiday that will be our first substantial holiday since our honeymoon in May 2007.  We’re going to my hometown of Karratha.  I grew up in Dampier (1969 – 1974) and Karratha (1976 – 1988) before returning to Karratha (1991 – 1996) to start a family.

My early upbringing was simple.  Dad, Mum, and my two brothers.  We lost our sister, Debra Leanne, to stillbirth in 1973.

Dad worked for the mining company, Hamersley Iron, my brothers later did apprenticeships there, and I worked there as a mechanical tradesperson in my adult years.  The work was hot and dirty, but I loved it.  So many great memories and my only regret was we never took photos back in the 1990s like we do today, so all I have is my memories.

I reminisce now because there have been significant changes for my parents negotiating the ageing process—and it’s dawned on me afresh that they won’t be around forever.

The trip north will be an emotional homecoming.  It’s 18 years since I visited the region every few months for work to do safety audits of fuel and oil distribution operations.

My life and my entire person, who I am, is completely different to that day—18 years ago.  It’s like I had my childhood, my first adulthood (1986 – 2003), and now I’m on my second adulthood.  Think of it this way.  When my daughters to my first marriage had basically grown up (21, 18, 15) we had our son.

Philosophically there’s a lot of difference between who I was and how I lived life in 2001 compared to who I am and how I live in 2021; though in essence none of us change that much.

For our trip north, we’re driving and towing a trailer we’ve fitted out for camping.  It’s been a lot of fun.  My father-in-law has helped us with the electrics, and I’ve ensured that mechanically it’s sound for the 3,000 km round trip.  We’ll be camping at one of the caravan parks I often frequented when I was a young adult in 1987-1988.

Back in those days, life revolved around getting wasted, drinking on weekends, parties, laughter, muscle cars, great music.  In so many ways, I’m thankful for all these experiences, the friendships, the laughs, the stories—it was a completely different time back then.

I’ve found since turning 50 that I no longer worry about certain things.  I’m also a lot more reflective regarding the early years of my life—actually, I’m reflective about all aspects of my past, all time periods... even those of the relatively recent past.

Going north will be a three-day trek as we camp at Geraldton, then Carnarvon, before arriving in Karratha.  I can’t wait to reacquaint with dear friends, Steve and Bec, up there.  It’s been so long since we sat and chatted and laughed.  I’m so thankful for all the stories that makes up our history together.

One of the biggest highlights, being a person of place and country, like my Aboriginal brothers and sisters, will be visiting the houses I grew up in and lived in as an adult.  I wonder if I knock on those doors whether I might be able to get myself invited to have a look around?  I’m one of those people who is prepared to risk a ‘no!’  Don’t know if you don’t ask.

Those houses in Forrest Crescent, Dampier, and Clarkson Way, Hunt Way and Walcott Way in Karratha.  Even significant friends’ houses.

There are also the gullies and streets I used to roam.  The football and cricket ovals I played at.  The schools I went to (though one has been demolished and the other is completely remodelled).  There’s the Light Industrial Area (Industrial Estate) that doesn’t look like it’s changed—I spent four years (1984 – 1987) doing my apprenticeship there.  Then there’s places like the Harding River Dam and Millstream I’d be tempted to visit, but probably won’t have time.

I’d like to get some time to walk around town—including Dampier, Wickham, Roebourne, Point Samson—especially the places that were significant.  Pegs Creek Oval, Bulgarra Oval, Windy Ridge Oval, Dampier Primary School (looks almost unchanged structurally since 1973 when I started), Karratha’s Radio Hill.

The emotional part of all this is obvious.  So many memories.  So many periods of time and places I’d just love to go back to, even for five minutes.  So many opportunities to slow down and ponder walking those streets 20, 30, 40, 50 years ago.

What about you?  Where did you grow up?  Do you have a hankering to go back and revisit early childhood, adolescence, young adult years, early career, etc?