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Rob's (Adolescent) Self-Pleasure Hidey Hole

You've heard the trope.  "I'm taking / claiming sanctuary / asylum here within the church house".   

During the previous US President's administration, a number of illegal immigrants took this approach (as a last resort to being deported).  

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When I was in high school, my family faithfully attended First Baptist Church Jackson.  At this time (1989-1990), the church had just completed a massive Fellowship Hall / Sunday School classroom addition.  This was a multi-story building (5-6 floors) which served to (architecturally) completely fill the urban city block (immediately to the east of the State Capitol Building) the church resided within in downtown Jackson.

Oftentimes, on a typical Sunday morning, I would drop my parents off at one of the church's many covered drop offs prior to parking their car (in light of us inevitably running late).  We lived in Madison (in the country!) in an average-sized ranch house, therefore the drive to our downtown Jackson church was a very repetitive (boring) +/-25 minutes.  

All of my peers that were also - for the most part - faithful churchgoers (11th / 12th grade Sunday morning) went to other schools than I did.  And these schools weren't just different than my own, they were far better (academically superior) than my own.  

I especially loathed arriving on-time to Sunday School and having to endure the dead space prior to the class starting.  For everyone knew each other from their school(s), therefore in spite of their late-night grogginess, small talk came easily for them.

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At this time, I knew I wanted to pursue architecture as a college degree / career field.  As such, this interest empowered me to explore buildings with an "eye for design" / out of curiosity.  

Not long after the massive Sunday School / Fellowship Hall addition was occupied by the church, I took the time to explore it from stem to stern.

This afforded me the opportunity to find some "off the beaten path" one-hole restrooms that were perfectly suited to steal away to.

And this became my cathartic routine.  Every Sunday morning.  Prior to Sunday School.  

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This was me rebelling against a situation that I felt powerless against.  Having to repetitively face the uncomfortableness of Sunday morning (high school Sunday School) stood in stark contrast to my budding desire (as a new believer) to learn about God's word / be at church.  For I had no doubt that I had been positioned well, particularly at that age, to reap tremendous spiritual growth via First Baptist Church Jackson.  

To expound on that word powerless, let me offer up the following.

My parents were attending this church, at this particular time, due to their fierce loyalty to it.  This loyalty was borne out of the love and care they experienced whilst being ushered / invited into this fold as a (very) young (not at all locally sourced) couple.  From there, just a few years passed before my dad found himself as an (very young) ordained deacon.  This too solidified their place amongst the Protestant throngs within this thriving '80s mega-church.

I wasn't about to complicate the situation / rock the boat by voicing my frustration related to one dumb weekly hour of Sunday School.

Yet...

each rebellious sexual-fantasy-fueled act seeded my Sabbath day conscious with immense guilt.  And even though I would regularly find myself consistently tardy to my assigned high school Sunday School class (way up on the 5th floor), no one seemed to notice.

For I was Rob Turner.  That effeminite-acting (gay?) kid from Madison who went to that outlier private school.  

Who sincerely gave a shit about him anyway?  Especially amongst the dressed-to-the-nines northeast Jackson throngs.

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Fast forward to today.

Angie and I attend Lakeside Pres.  Of note, for almost four years, I facilitated an in-person Samson Society meeting there on Saturday mornings.  It was a wonderful opportunity that's imbued a tremendous amount of loyalty of my own towards that church.  The facilities at Lakeside Pres are lackluster.  Hence, there's simply not enough church building to properly accommodate the church body (I am keenly aware of this due to my background as an architect).  It's the exact opposite of what Angie and I experienced at First Baptist Church Jackson (growing up) where space was plentiful / thoughtfully designed to accommodate / serve that '80s church.

I really enjoy Bible study.  Sunday School is one of my favorite ways to delve in.  The class we've been attending for a few years now found its origin as an offshoot of a much larger class.  Today, this class is bursting at the seams (considering the room we're assigned to).  Plus, it's simply starting to feel stale / repetitive in spite of the quality teaching / friendliness of the group (Rob's blue ocean itch).

Yesterday, Angie and I agreed to take a bit of a sabbatical from Sunday School (only) in order to think through and pray about where God might lead us next relative to Sunday morning Bible study.  

Within this class, we're very well known.  And mostly due to how unabashed I am at providing commentary / asking questions.  Therefore, it's become a very, very comfortable experience amongst very familiar friends.  

But, it's important to remember that God is good and effectively orchestral.  

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I workout at the Y twice weekly.  The facility I frequent typically hosts middle to Medicare-aged folks (relatively speaking).  Over the past few years though, there've been a handful of high school boys who've become faithful gymgoers.  This generational variety has been welcomed wholeheartedly.  

Presently, one young man has been very regular for close to one year.  

I introduced myself to him late last year, and from there, it's been delightful to know him on a first name basis (though we rarely speak if he's there with his posse).

A month or so ago, I overheard that he was slated to move away, and I confirmed this with him last week.  

My heart hurts for him.  I can't imagine having had to start fresh as an 11th grader in an entirely new place / setting.  Particularly where he knows no one.

I had him try on my workout gloves this past Saturday in hopes that my size would fit him too.  It didn't.  

I have two unboxed pairs (my size) at the house, and I'd hoped to gift him one - as a wellwisher gift.  

Unfortunately, this particular glove is no longer made, therefore purchasing a smaller size - for him - is off the table.

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Powerless is a feeling that I keenly sympathize with.  In fact, I'd argue it's a bit of a theme of my life that's rooted squarely in my teenage years.

Nonetheless, God is good and effectively orchestral.  I believe that with all my heart.  

Feeling powerless doesn't mean we necessarily are.  God is good and effectively orchestral.  He is always advocating on our behalf as his adopted sons.

That being said, especially whilst considering our inner child, those negative feelings can effectively disrupt / hijack our intentions if opportunity presents itself.

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Growing up Southern Baptist, I recall vividly (as a teen) one particular pastor chiding us parishioners (First Baptist Church Jackson) from the pulpit with, "Do you know that you know that you know?" 

He was referring / speaking to what he considered to be the Christian imposters, sitting there amongst the throngs (or perhaps the Christian amnesiacs?).

It was a question that was laser-focused on his listeners' personal profession of faith, but via wordy distortion, it instead landed underneath the umbrella of emotional petulance (angst).  And as a result, most every mature adult (had they been honest) simply wished to stand up and walk out due to how patronizing (& cultish) it sounded. 

I believe it's important to note that this nagging orator not at all looked the part of Southern Baptist pastor.  And I recall distinctly that his voice was incredibly baritone and therefore rich (& chocolatey)-sounding.  Perhaps that was what served to soft-land his stupid pitch?  For this repetitive verbiage was his mantra.  No matter the sermon, it would be repeated ad nauseum (mostly at the tail end prior to the altar call). 

In a nutshell, whilst looking back, this pastor had a distinctly inaccurate view of our Heavenly Father that he'd perpetuated in line with his own identity.  In short, I have to assume that he felt that it suited him specifically, therefore he allowed its credence to shape / instruct / inform who he was outright as a preacher man.  As a result, this distortion resulted in his reliably odorous pulpit delivery.

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Anyone who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eye are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye.

There are a lot of low intelligence individuals in Mississippi.  I've said this before.  

Here's the sad truth:

Low intelligence folks are hard pressed to live their lives beneath the banner of delayed gratification.  This combined with the inability to analyze their familial history / narrative constructively (if at all), leaves them like cultural "sitting ducks".

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Okay, having written those two sections, I'm going to attempt to tie all this in a neat bow by focusing on the sometimes-difficult coupling between both of these: delayed gratification and analytical skills (assuming moderate to above-average intelligence).  From there, I want to explain what I sometime see happening when we allow our fundamental desire for a stark / distinct / foundational identity to take precedent over process.

If you're a southern boy in lieu of a Midwesterner or out-westerner, community standards aren't going to scream ONLY EXCELLENCE RESIDES HERE.  That "low bar" combined with haphazardly "knowing" how to analyze versus taking the needed time to do so (well / thoroughly), can result in an identity that's an identity for identity's sake.  As a result, I would argue, individuals end up much worse off - in the long run - cross eyed.  

And this is because those identities are false.  And yes, even if they're off by just one degree, they're still false.

The preacher / evangelist I cited earlier had an identity rooted in a Jesus that simply wasn't the Jesus of Scripture.  Yet, he pressed on with his dumbass message in light of the obvious, all the while confusing / frustrating the masses every time he opened his big mouth (in spite of that rich voice).  

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There are plenty of teens who stay frustrated with their family of origin.  And oftentimes, this frustration is justifiable.  Families aren't perfect.  They disappoint.  They fall short.  Sometimes they do terrible things that result in tremendous hurt to the everyone (w/ the concentrated hurt falling on the children).  

And none of this should be ignored.

But if an adult child has the intelligence to respectfully / historically analyze (perhaps with some therapeutic assist), having lived through it, I would argue that in due time (sometimes taking FAR LONGER than one cares to commit to), clarity can be had.  

Answers to questions such as:

-  Who exactly are my individual family members?

-  Who were those who influenced them?

-  What role did I play within the family dynamic?

-  How will the answers to the first three questions within this list play a role in my own identity?

-  How do I see myself, going forward, as I continue to mature forward into adulthood?

-  What can my family look like in spite of my upbringing?

These are a great analytical jumping off point.    

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I look at friends of mine who've established a false identity (for identity's sake), and I so often cringe at the informalness (not at all striving for excellence) approach to living out (a portion of, if not most of) their lives.  

And this approach can, depending on the individual, perhaps only "infect" certain areas of their identity.  Maybe it's their job or their relationship with their spouse that's at the mercy of this biased (false identity) approach. 

Speaking personally, I believe I've been able to spot this approach with ease due to a deceased uncle's tragic legacy within my own family.    

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How do you know if you fall into this camp (harboring an identity for identity's sake)?

I have to believe that (taking into account those of us who're blessed with ample grey matter) it's not genuinely satisfying to live a life that's half baked.  Just as it's never going to be permanently affecting preaching a gospel that's distorted and pushy. 

And I realize that some individuals simply refuse to fully process the tremendous hurt they experienced as children, therefore they rebelliously build their identity on that shaky void.

Nonetheless, it's foolish for anyone with half a brain (& an assumed healthy mental state) to buy into this half-assed, discounted settling.  For it's a settling that perpetuates generational failing forward.  

Remember, you can't hide true intelligence.  Therefore, if you're a Christian as well, and fall into this camp, I would argue that in many ways, you're actually worshiping an internal idol.  An idol of false identity that likely moved in during a season of your development (adolescence?) where it's tangibleness seemed to do far more regarding your need to heal than it actually was / ever could.  

Be encouraged to evict it today and seek out the help you need to do the necessary analytical work to find your true identity (in Christ).  And please, for goodness' sake, be patient with the process.  

You will get there eventually.  And perhaps Samson Society can help.

Lagniappe

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