The Harsh Reality of Xmas

We live in a day and age of deeper and deeper still - personal lifestyle facades.  Facades that we work to constantly perfect to the point that we actually begin to believe they're our reality, and I suppose eventually a facade, if it ends up deep enough, will serve to replace reality itself.  Wait a minute, nope.  That's not possible.  Scratch that.

In the past, it was consumerism that fed this pursuit of lifestyle facade construction, but today, it's also social media and any / all forms of technology that serve to buttress our camouflage.

The end-of-the-year holiday season can serve to ramp up that work on said facades when in actuality, there's tremendous experiential pain going on behind the scenes.  I became aware of this as a teen right around this time of year when there presented itself a breach in my serendipitous reality one Xmas eve.  Read on.

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When I was a boy, my father spent Thursdays out of town (in the MS Delta) for business, and often wouldn't return home 'till late Thursday night.  On one particular Thursday night where he was absent from the homestead, my mother and I were spending the evening watching Christmas television programming in the den (or TV room).  The home in Madison I was reared within was +/-1,800 square feet, therefore like the abode I reside in today, a loud enough yell or scream would easily resonate throughout.  The den was on the east end of this ranch house with a "formal" living / dining room on the front (north side).  That "formal" room was always cordoned off since it was "reserved for social gatherings".

Our TV consumption was interrupted when we heard something that sounded like a knocking on our front door (which was only accessible through the living / dining room).  My mother noticed it first.  This motivated me to investigate.

I remember just as soon as I breached the "formal" part of our abode, I heard a very loud banging on our front door along with muffled cries from someone on the opposite side.  The solid core door had an arched glass window close to its head, but it was too tall to see out of.  Nor were there any windows within close proximity to peer through prior to opening the door.  I wasn't sure how to proceed so I hesitated.

I remember clearly the harsh white light streaming through that arched door window into the dark living / dining room.  The source of that light was the ground mounted PAR lamp out in front of our door.  This cheap lighting stunt was the typical suburban attempt to ring in the season by highlighting your home's Xmas entrance décor.  At this point in time, I found myself leaning against the back of the door attempting to hear more from the other side, wishing all the while that my father were home to handle this (more and more) frightening situation.

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So, I eventually opened the door, and what I witnessed changed my perception of Xmas forever.

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An athletically built white teenager was crouching on our stoop in obvious emotional and physical distress.  There was no doubt in my mind that he needed help, but in that moment, as we stared at one another, neither of us could even begin to fathom how best to clearly articulate anything of any substance.  Nonetheless, this strange teen he'd ended up at our door, and he looked to be on the run from something or someone.  And here I was peering out at him awestruck.

The next thing I remember was a station wagon coming to a screeching halt at the STOP sign in front of our house.  It slid to a stop due to the street being slick from an early evening rain.  When I attempted to take a closer look at it, despite the harsh glare of the floodlight, I made out the driver frantically exiting the vehicle right there in the street.  The man rushed around the back of the car before sprinting towards the teenage boy through our small front yard.

All the while, the boy was continuing to plead for help, but when he became aware of his impending doom, his pleas turned to stark panic.  At this point, time seemed to stand still, and I became frozen as I watched this bizarre scene unfold.

Within seconds, the man had the boy by the back of his coat, lifting him with ease off of our front stoop.  From there, he dragged him back to the station wagon prior to tossing him into the backseat.  The teenage boy went kicking and screaming all the way as the man repeatedly punched him in the head with his fist as he yelled obscenities at him.

Then I remember the car speeding away, but only after the man glared back at me right before opening the driver side door.  What little I could make out of his looking at me was a combination of both threat and satisfaction.

By now, my mother was also in our front room, standing silently not far behind.  From what I recall, she only witnessed what she could see from within the room itself.  Eventually, I turned back to her, and we found ourselves standing there in stunned silence for a few seconds wondering what exactly had just happened.

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This was no doubt a once in a lifetime event.  Madison, at the time, was countryside.  Few people lived there, and those that did were church-going, lower to lower-middle class folks.  Even today, I wonder why this boy picked our house to look for help, and of course, the greater question is why didn't I choose to respond in lieu of simply standing there like a pansy?  It would have been so easy to simply let him inside our house, locking the door behind us.  There was plenty of time for me to execute a rescue.

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My mother and I continued to look at each other without saying a word, and from there, both of us did the most shameful thing I care to admit to here.  We returned to the den on the east side of the house prior to locking the front door and settled back in to watching television on our 19" Toshiba CRT.  There was no telephone call to law enforcement.  No discussion regarding the incident with my father.  Nothing.  The event was treated by us as if it had actually only existed as part of our TV programming.

Why?

Because we were too busy existing within our facade, and what we had just been sucked into didn't "fit" within that artificial construct.  And this reflects perfectly of my entire growing up years and how shallow they truly were.  It was like living within a Norman Rockwell painting in so many ways.  A very deeply unoriginal Norman Rockwell painting.

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Xmas is a harsh, difficult, uncaring, brutally wicked time of year for so many folks, and all of these negative superlatives seem to only ramp up during the holidays in contrast to the traditional merrymaking.  But, this ugly truth is so often hidden from view until you have it show up on your suburban doorstep.

If this reality decrees itself within your world during this Xmas season, don't cower away as I chose to do.  Instead, come to the rescue of those in need.  Open the damn door, swing it wide, and let the suffering inside for safe keeping.  To hell with the devils of this world, but especially here at Xmas.

“They say, I’ve been masturbating to you all these years,” she says. “And you know, that’s a feat that I will be proud of.”

Sexual fantasy is sin.  If you're concerned about sin, you'll avoid sexual fantasy, but this is quite a difficult feat if your sexual fantasies were seeded within your childhood entertainment.

The link below should be clicked with discretion, but I felt compelled to include it here to sound a multi-faceted alarm.

https://nypost.com/2019/12/16/boy-meets-world-star-maitland-ward-i-make-more-money-doing-porn/

Firstly, many beautiful women are manipulated / deceived by the notion of their value being tied to the size of their breasts / ass and the subsequent reactions from flaunting said physical assets .  Despite this, they're no less excused from damnation to hell.

Secondly, boys are supposed to grow to become men, and it is their understanding / knowledge of their God-given sexuality through puberty that will assist them to mature into manhood (where boyish behaviors are left behind).

Thirdly, monetary wealth is the ultimate goal of most everyone on Earth, and the accumulation of it - so long as it's legal - is absolutely blind to responsibility relative to one's fellow man, society, culture, etc.

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If there were no Bible and therefore no knowledge of God other than through nature and our own internal "God compass", we could look at this story and perhaps laugh it off (maybe prior to getting off).

But there is God's word, and it's really clear relative to sexual sin.  Lust, fornication, homosexuality, adultery, etc.  All of these will land you in hell.  It's as simple as that.

Remember, Jesus talked about the "H word" more than anyone in Scripture, according to the gospels.

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Back when Angie and I were a young married couple, one of our Sunday School teachers likened being in heaven to having a continual orgasm for eternity.  He believed it would be that pleasurable.  Of course, that drew a number of awkward chuckles from our group.

What it left me to wonder about though was what hell might be like in turn.

God expects his children to grow up in their faith, leaving behind boyhood sin and embracing a trans-formative, new life.

Take a few minutes today to pray for Ms. Ward.  I have no doubt there's hope for her still.

Recommended Reading (From The Gospel Coalition)

https://www.thegospelcoalition.org/article/4-reasons-christians-ban-porn/

The Journey To Recovery (Authored by my old friend, Chris Inman)

All of us, at one time or another, entered into this journey we call recovery. We arrived at different times in our lives and under different circumstances, but we are here. But what does the recovery journey look like?

Thankfully we have the musings of Nate, Aaron and others on the Pirate Monk Podcast to help us consider how we can struggle well as we seek healing in our behavior and our hearts. But for those who are just getting started, or have lost their way along the journey, here are a few ideas about how to structure our lives as as we seek to recover from the brokenness of the past:

Community - The first place I found a safe and accepting group of men was during a men’s retreat in April 2012. I grew up the church and learned well how to play the religious game. On the outside I was a saint, but in my soul, I was ashamed of my sin. There was no safe place to take this shame, until my experience with male community. The freedom that I found there to be myself, without fear of shame or rejection, was exhilarating. (I hope all of you have had that experience.) After that retreat I thought I was healed — but that was just a feeling. What I missed in that first experience that I have since learned is that connection is not only the place we get well, but the place we stay well. I am responsible for my own life, but I cannot live as God intended alone. I need the fellowship of others help me own my journey. That is why many find the community at weekly Samson meetings so helpful. 

Vulnerability - Growing up in a broken home, I was desperate for people to see me. I would do or say almost anything to get the approval of others. (That included lying to make my life look more significant — a habit I took into adulthood at great cost.) And while I longed to be known, I was never truly vulnerable. Would I overshare? Yes. Was I needy? Of course. But the truth was that while I longed for others to know me, I did not know myself. My efforts to be seen were a coping mechanism for a deeper wound. I wanted to be loved, just for who I was. It was not until I learned the value of being vulnerable in a safe place that I truly experienced love. As I share my broken parts, sometimes in detail, with another man who empathizes with me and reflects God’s love back to me, a little part of that lonely boy is healed. This happens over and over again as I sit with men on the recovery journey. And the more vulnerable I am, the more strength I have to walk the path. Jesus said that, not me. 

Structure - I love to fly by the seat of pants. Things just seem more fun that way. I know there are many who are terrified by that idea. But that’s how I roll. And that’s also how I struggle. Without structure in my life, I am prone to rationalizing my behavior, falling into destructive habits and overall wasting my time. I thought that getting a fulfilling job, or getting married, would give me the structure I needed stop my porn problem. I was wrong. Not that responsibilities and relationships aren’t helpful in some way. But they are only helpful after I  learn to establish healthy structures in my personal life. Nate shared recently about the structures his sponsor encouraged him to begin as he sought to walk his recovery journey. Keep a hour-by-hour schedule, vigorous exercise, self reflection through journaling, the daily phone call to a Silas, were all healthy habits he began when he got serious about recovery. I know in my efforts to ‘fix myself’ I never developed structures like that in my personal life. I am finding them so helpful now, not only in recovering myself, but also in staying sober. 

A final note on sobriety (a topic of discussion I hope you have had in your group) — it is impossible to maintain sobriety without recovery. Sure, you can ‘white knuckle’ your sobriety for a while, but the underlying habits and beliefs that lead to your addictive behavior are still there. Without walking the path of recovery, the old demons that lead to your struggle will inevitably return. We need a new way of living, a way of grace and the gospel of Jesus Christ, in order to heal. I pray you have begun to experience that in your recovery journey.

When The Unfathomable & Unnecessary Become Everyday Expectations / A Way Of Life (Give Credence To Your Heart)

Many years ago, I worked for the state of Mississippi, and at times during my tenure there, I'd interact with some of my fellow state employees within other agencies (relative to project management).  On one occasion, I met a young man who'd recently mortgaged a home within a small town outside of Jackson with his girlfriend, and the interesting thing about their situation to me was their decision to forgo a residence that had any climate control.  To be more specific, no central air or heat and no window A/C units.  Now, if Mississippi's weather was like that of southern California, I'd understand their rationale, but it isn't at all like southern California (climate or otherwise).

My great-grandmother lived in a dogtrot house in rural Humphreys county, Mississippi 'till her death in the late '70s, but even she had a couple of window A/C units within a few rooms, despite the fact that the hand built structure had what amounted to zero insulation.  Keep in mind though that she didn't hole herself up within those A/C rooms throughout the day.  Instead, most days, she could be found out of doors, swinging on her front porch.  Contrast this to my grandmother (one of her three daughters) who relegates herself to her tiny climate controlled home 99% of day, constantly complaining about the weather outside being either too this or too that for her liking.  To me, she's like a goldfish in a fishbowl submerged within the ocean depths.

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One of the identifiers for us as human beings is our ability to calibrate ourselves emotionally and intellectually to what we believe is most readily controllable.  I don't believe we do this instinctively, instead, as a stimulate to our grey matter - which due to the information age, is constantly being piqued.

As humans, we're designed to adapt well and to reap the hardships or rewards of that adaptation, but within our current modern-day environment, it is our minds that are consistently stimulated, and in turn it tends to govern our moves to calibrate ourselves relative to this culture of technological advances time and time again.

To calibrate is to "set your watch by" or "buy into" something in terms of your lifestyle routine, establishing it as your norm within your mind, and thereby receiving in turn instant gratification relative to your super satisfying decision.  Within the environment we live in, our daily routine(s) is more often than not mundane and repetitive, and this is the driver towards the brain calibrations we've culturally mated ourselves to.  Huge swaths of our global economy from entertainment to food & beverage to small appliances / electronics exist because of the normalization of this monotonous existence.

So, what gives us the impression of being most readily controllable...thereby stimulating our "bored-to-tears" brains?

Have you ever observed a child or teen eschew a touchscreen controlled device like a pocket or tablet computer, instead preferring to pick up a book?  Not likely.

Have you ever observed the machines at the gym collecting layers of dust compared to the free weights and benches?  Never.

Have you ever witnessed theatrical productions garner more interest than film?  Nope.

Machines, machines, all manner of machines!

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I've been an automobile aficionado most of my life.  I find the auto industry fascinating to track, research, and ponder on.  Obviously, the basic automobile was perfected long ago, and of course our country embraced it wholeheartedly.  So now, what we're faced with is an industry that's constantly looking to create a car that seems to be an extension of its specific owner relative to his / her comfort, communication, and mood / experience.  And every manufacturer is heading in that direction despite their different user base and branding, though I would argue they're each becoming more and more alike with each passing year.

Subsequently, for me, cars are no longer about beauty / style.  Instead, it's a race to hand seemingly more and more control over to the owner, giving him the impression that he's no longer been gifted a motorized steed but actually somehow instead been born into his own personalized mobile cocoon.

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Have you ever watched / listened to someone tell you about their decision to forgo something that everyone else assumes is impossible to live without?  Like my A/C example earlier in this piece?

The first time this happened to me was in church, and it was a guest preacher who openly criticized cable television during his preaching.  And he wasn't referring to a specific television program either.  Instead, he was referring to the entire cable television industry as something only imbeciles invested their time in.

Now that got my attention due to the fact that preachers are typically only concerned with one underlying thing:  man's heart.

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Growing up in the '80s (the decade of the shopping mall), I clearly remember the edification of consumerism through the experience of shopping.  To be human in this era meant you were a consumer (by right!), therefore what you consumed and where you consumed it from synced up precisely with who everyone was meant to be by definition during that era - a consumer!  And the same could be said for entertainment during this era which included music, film and television.  Our culture during this time over produced everything (that cannot be emphasized enough), and in turn, due to the novelty shock to our systems, we bought into it hook, line, and sinker.  Momentum from this era continues to reverberate today despite it being translated into seemingly endless digital means of "user experience customization" which essentially is just over-produced calibration to the nth degree.

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We've known newlyweds who've forgone television during their first year of marriage.

I've known men who've relinquished their smartphones for dumbphones.

I've read about couples who've downsized into smaller homes in order to live cheaper.

I know of a couple who only has one automobile.

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Adaptation works on man's heart, and this is the portion of ourselves that God is most concerned with.  But, adaptation is hard to experience within a world that elevates / normalizes the notion of our having a right to brain stimulation through calibration.

Therefore, make a point going forward to upend who's / what's being catered to as you consider your whole self.  Intentionally diminish hierarchically the value of your brain today by forgoing opportunities for it to be appeased (as detailed above), and in turn, give credence to your heart!  Give credence to your heart!  Give credence to your heart!  For it's all that matters in the grand scheme of things.

Privilege(d)

I worked at Chick-Fil-A in NorthPark Mall in high school.  I applied as a 15 year old, soon after acquiring my driver's license.  There were two black women, both much older than me, that had worked there for some time and everyone else was like I was, a white high school / community college student.  Each of these older women typically opened the restaurant in the mornings with one other employee (for a total of three).  At this time, breakfast at the Chick wasn't nearly as popular as it is today, therefore it didn't take too large of a crew to serve those ubiquitous, greasy chicken biscuits.

Keep in mind that the year was 1988.

I'd never been around blacks at all up to this point in time.  My 'rents paid for me to attend a local private academy, therefore there were none there, and we lived in the suburbs far from the blacks who lived in the city of Jackson.  Therefore, I have to admit that they definitely intimidated me out of disassociation despite the fact that they were very friendly.

One disclaimer here.  My 'rents weren't racist.  Never did I hear derogatory comments about blacks, Hispanics, Asians, etc. for which I'm very thankful, but they had lived through integration.  Thusly, they were pulled out of the public schools within the Mississippi Delta as upper elementary students and relocated to the private academies that sprung up overnight as a result of the DOJ rulings.

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As Chick-Fil-A is today, the restaurant was closed on Sunday, but I can remember on one occasion having to report to the Chick for some formal training (w/ the entire crew) on the sabbath.  We each sat within the dining room for this training which consisted of the Operator passing around a freshly unboxed 3-ring binder in order for each of us to take a turn reading instructions on how to grill chicken filets (versus fry).  What surprised and saddened me was what happened when the binder made its way to these older black females (who I'd come to respect a great deal and befriend).  My heart sank due to the awkwardness as they stumbled through their few paragraphs that had been queued up for them to orate.  And I literally mean stumble.  From what I recall, neither of them had a reading aptitude that was anything above a second or third grade level.  It was shocking to me as a then 16 year old white kid.

Oh, how I wished these ladies hadn't been exposed like this!  What could be done to leverage this situation in their favor?

Nothing.  What was done was done.

Needless to say, the restaurant Operator never put us through that exercise again.  From that point forward, all training was executed via watching VHS videos, and usually during our breaks.  And this was the right thing to do in order to not single anyone out.

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A sizeable portion of who we are as human beings and how we live out our lives has to do with attitude.  Attitude is essentially perspective, whether it be first or third person (or some combination of the two).  If it's first person, you're like me and have such a difficult time not seeing oneself as the center of the universe, experiencing life - mostly - with zero frame of reference.  On the other hand, if it's third person, there's always a point of reference (your true, unadulterated self) to consider, which I believe, can result in life lived far from the vacuum of existing solely within one's head.

Samson Society has introduced me intimately to more men than I ever dreamed I'd have the privilege to know intimately as a late 40 year old white guy.  Now, I'll admit that in terms of racial diversity there's been much less available than I'd like, but relative to story, backgrounds, demographics...it's been quite rich.

I recall the very first meeting I attended in Jackson back in 2014, hearing stories that in so many ways mimicked my own, but easily within the first 6 months of my tenure within that group, I witnessed the distinct details of who each man was.  Most of which in no way cross pollinated with my own, and some of which were dramatically different overall.

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Rarely, if ever, do circumstances lend themselves for men to celebrate - literally - their weaknesses, failings, flaws.  And why should there be?  What good is this to any man?

The good that comes from it is the reorienting of one's perspective - from first to third.  But this takes quite some time to accomplish.  I've literally been involved in Samson Society for 5.5 years and only now am I beginning to see my own perspective change.  That's much longer than I'd like to admit to, but it's the truth.

Our culture / world celebrates arrogance and pride, and this is built on a first person (privileged) view.  This perspective sees life sans one's own self (story), and it is constantly biased towards being either highly critical / complaining or aloof and insular due to the fact that you're rarely if ever taking / utilizing your story as a point of reference.  This is the perspective we're born with, which typically reaches its natural peak during adolescence as children experience all the inevitable growing pains that come with that season of their lives.

So again, I ask the same question.  What good is this to any man?

For me, it's served as a proving ground to make peace with my own self, and in doing so, given me courage to look my own life in the eye and no longer be ashamed whatsoever.  That's privilege, and it's one of the greatest gifts Samson Society has provided me.

How did this come about exactly?

By finding comfort and support from within a community of men, some of which I've befriended deeply and yet today have little to no consistent contact with.  The comfort piece, for me, has been learning to see myself within this community as a true brother AND NOT as an anomaly.  The biggest boost to me in this regard has been involving myself within the Samson community outside of Mississippi which has allowed me to meet men from around the country.  And, of course, that's made possible by being involved in the annual retreat and from there, continuing to communicate with these men after the fact.  That in itself has expanded my horizons, validated, and excited me more as I've sought to drop the "d" from privilege, and subsequently change my perspective / attitude from first to third.

"I'm Not The Problem. You Are."

"You don't even know who I am."

To me, as a Samson Society facilitator as well as a Silas to numerous men, when you hear, either directly or indirectly, these aforementioned phrases from another Samson Society man, it's likely you're at a stalwart or about to witness platonic implosion.

We're a world built, literally, on criticism and complaints.  As a culture, we are pedigreed to critique and constantly turn our attention towards everything BUT ourselves, and a huge swath of the Internet is geared towards nothing more than that.

Samson Society isn't a social club.  It can become as such, but that's not what it's mission is.  It's a place where men can find healing and recovery, and if that recovery requires they go beyond The Path of Samson Society (trained therapeutic counseling, for example), it needs to segue there.  Otherwise, it's not following the natural progression of its mission.

But, man oh man, it's hard to find the humility to step into that paradigm.  I can speak to that personally due to the breadth of professional counseling I've received over the years - from both PhDs and licensed therapists.  Nevertheless, it's been worth almost every private session of the 5 counselors I've talked to over the course of my life.

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When you spend months and months, if not years walking alongside another man within the Samson Society paradigm, for me at least, there becomes a familiarity to that man.  Patterns become apparent, and from there, you either see maturation forward or cycles of inner circling.  And regarding the latter, the illicit behaviors may have ceased, but the man simply isn't changing inwardly.  And from there, it's obvious to me that there's more work to be done that Samson Society simply cannot help with (explicitly).

That's what catches my attention, and usually when I speak up.

Friendships, from there, either accelerate forward hand in hand or come to a screeching halt.  All depending on how that Samson guy reacts.