To Be Here, or Not to Be Here

by Lenora Rand
From the Recovery Worship service on May 1, 2010


When evening came he was there alone, but the boat was already a considerable distance from land, buffeted by the waves because the wind was against it. During the fourth watch of the night, Jesus went out to them, walking on the lake. Matthew 14: 23-25


I don’t really want to be here tonight. Truth is, I never want to be here, totally. A huge, insistent part of me just really wants to be alone.

Does that surprise you?

Addiction is a disease of isolation. We’ve probably all heard that somewhere along the line. That’s what they say. Addiction is a disease of isolation. Often when we hear that, at least I know, when I hear that, I think, oh yeah, when I’m using my substance of choice, whether that’s food or alcohol or smoking or shopping or being right or overworking or fixing up everyone around me, I’m isolating. I’m in this little impenetrable bubble of my addiction and nobody gets in there with me. And it’s very hard for me to get out, to actually stop using long enough to connect in any kind of real way with another human being.

And I know that’s true. But I don’t think that’s the whole truth.

It’s the old chicken and egg thing. Do we isolate because we’re addicted? Or are we addicted because we isolate? Do we actually get into our addictions because we want to be alone, because it feels better, safer to be alone? Because some huge part of us feels deeply “apart” and deeply scared of the alternative.

Am I a compulsive overeater because in my heart of hearts I prefer the comfort of food, the easy, dependable, unsurprising, uncomplicated, undemanding, inhuman, comfort of food, rather than the company of another human being?

In the passage we just read, Jesus has just finished feeding 5000 plus people with a couple pieces of bread and a few little fish. And he’s gone off to be alone afterwards. Now you may think Jesus went off alone to have some direct one on one time with his dear heavenly father and thank him for all the good things in his life. And you are welcome to think that. The Bible doesn’t really give us a lot of details. But if I let myself believe Jesus was in every way human as we are human, I find myself imagining he went off to be alone because he was sick of hanging out with all these needy messed up people. In John’s gospel you get more than a hint of this possibility. The way John tells the story soon after the feeding of the 5000 incident, a bunch of people track Jesus down and when they find him, he actually sounds a little ticked. In John 6: 26 Jesus said to them, "You've come looking for me not because you saw God in my actions but because I fed you, filled your stomachs—and for free.” So maybe Jesus went off to be alone because he needed some distance and he just wanted to zone out for a while. At best. Or maybe, in his heart of hearts, he really wanted to chuck the whole “Son of God, here to save the world from itself” enterprise, he wanted to run the other way, and never come back.

Because let’s face it, people are disappointing. Vastly disappointing.
They don’t meet our needs perfectly. They don’t laugh as much at our jokes as we’d like. They don’t care as deeply about the same things we do. They don’t function in our lives as we’d like them to function. They don’t always say the right thing. Or look at us the right way. They very often don’t even dress the right way.

Like once, when my daughter Zoe was about 3 –she had recently started having strong opinions about her clothing choices. And trying to be a good mother, as I was, I mostly supported her by letting her wear what she wanted as long as it wasn’t going to be harmful to her—like she wouldn’t be warm enough or she wanted to go naked to school or something. But one time, I don’t even remember what the occasion was, I had an outfit I specifically wanted Zoe to wear. And she didn’t want to wear it. I knew I had no leg to stand on. This outfit had nothing to do with warmth or safety needs. It was just that I thought it looked cuter on her. It looked better on her than what she’d picked out and we were going somewhere in public where how she looked mattered to me. It mattered because I was was feeling insecure or whatever and felt how she looked could say something positive about me—as in, “Look, aren’t I great…I am a mother with a cute adorable kid who dresses well.” So I didn’t want to force her—I wasn’t that kind of mother afterall, but I thought maybe I could convince her. I was older, smarter, more manipulative…she had only been on the planet 36 months and wasn’t that savvy…how hard could it be? But I tried...suggesting, strong cajoling, subtle and not so subtle bribery. She didn’t budge. Finally, I pulled out the piece de resistance, the line that would in an indirect but clear way let her know how much she was disappointing me and which would hit the button that would make her want to scurry off to her room to change. I used a line which I’m sure my mother had used on me when I was growing up. “Fine,” I yelled in frustration. “Do what you want. I don’t care.”

To which Zoe responded, “Oh great.” Totally missing all my heavy-laden subtext. And she went on her merry way.

Yeah, so people are disappointing. They don’t meet our needs perfectly and completely. They annoy us. Piss us off. Don’t give us what we want. And many of us grew up in a family in which we were dangerously disappointed in how our needs were met. So being alone just makes a lot of sense. If we don’t need anything from anyone, or expect anything from anyone, they can’t disappoint us.

Of course, I also prefer to be alone because I’m afraid of being a disappointment to others. Because frankly, the more you know me, the less you’ll like me.

No really, you won’t like me.

I’m not that nice. Or smart. Or interesting. Or funny.

I’m secretly very judgmental and angry and insecure and unkind and suspicious and have I mentioned, not that smart, funny or interesting. So I like to hide that as much as possible. It’s easier to hide when I’m alone, but I can also be alone when I’m with people. By being quiet. Controlling my output. Being careful what I say and how I say it. Editing myself. I like to write things out—have you noticed?

One of the first things we have on record of God saying is “It’s not good for people to be alone.” He says it to Adam in Genesis, right before he makes Eve. But oh, he didn’t say it would be easy.

I went to my OA meeting this morning, the way I always go… with judgment and shame and fear. Fear of being stuck with all these people who won’t meet my needs, have nothing to give me and my fear of being found out, seen, known, being just another messed up, broken, imperfect person, who more often than not doesn’t get it right. We were reading the 2nd step together and it said something about how in meetings of OA we have experienced comraderie and comfort. And during the sharing time I told everyone the truth, that I rarely feel as much comraderie and comfort there as I do eating at home in isolation and yet I was there, trying to believe that someday I would. And a few people mumbled what they always do, which is "Thanks for sharing." And "keep coming back." And yes, I will admit, though it wasn’t great to be there, it was good. And sometimes good is good enough.

I think about Jesus, and how hard it must have been for him to keep coming back. Keep coming back to us imperfect messy human beings. I think about him walking out to his disciples on the boat that night and I think what a miracle. The walking on the water part was cool, but in some ways, it was the lesser miracle. The bigger one was the faith that even though it doesn’t always seem like it, it isn’t good for human beings to be alone. We need each other. And when we, if only for a moment, can trust each other, reach out to each other, it’s a good thing. And if we keep showing up, sometimes, it’s an amazing thing.

I’ve never actually, like Peter, tried to walk on water. I do though sing in our church choir. I’m not a very good singer. I am ok, I can sort of carry a tune and I really enjoy singing and what I lack in being able to read music I make up for in…well maybe I don’t completely make up for it…but I sort of make up for in love of the music. And luckily sometimes we do gospel music. Gary, as our director, is always, no matter what kind of music we’re attempting to sing, trying to get us to stop looking so much at the pieces of paper with the notes written on them and listen and look at him. But when we do gospel music, well, I’ve actually seen him rip the sheet music out of people’s hands. On a Sunday morning, while we were singing in front of the congregation. What he tells us is that in order to do gospel music right we need to let go of the sheet music, look at the director, trust the director, watch him, listen to and trust each other. So in choir we have a new saying: “Let go and let Gary.” And I have to tell you, sometimes, when I have been able to do that, when I’ve been able to let go of control and totally let myself become a part of the choir, listening and singing together, not feeling like I have to get every note right, trusting that the person next to me will hold me up at times and at times I’ll have the note and hold them up, keeping my eyes on the director and riding the wave of music…I’ve got to tell you, it’s amazing, it’s exhilarating, it’s like walking on water.

One of the things I’ve been learning in recovery is that you need to do the thing that’s hard for you to do. Where the fear and pain are, that’s where the growth is. And when all else fails follow directions. The direction I seem to be getting today is It’s not good for human beings to be alone. So I am here. In all my messiness and neediness and judgment and resistance. I am here.

When Peter got out of the boat, and started walking on the water toward Jesus, he got scared and started to sink, and he cried out, "Lord, save me!"

At the end of my OA meetings we all stand up and say this prayer together. It’s called Roseanne’s Prayer – not sure why it’s called that, I guess someone named Roseanne came up with it at some point.

I put my hand in yours, and together we can do what we could never do alone. No longer is there a sense of hopelessness, no longer must we each depend upon our own unsteady willpower. We are all together now reaching out our hands for power and strength greater than ours, and as we join hands we find love and understanding, beyond our wildest dreams.

And every time we read it I internally roll my eyes. I want to scream. It’s so stupid and corny-sounding and Yuck…but probably I also react that way, because it’s true. Because it’s what I need to hear. It’s what I need to say. And maybe it’s just another way of saying the prayer that Peter taught us that night out on the water. Lord save me.

I don’t really want to be here tonight. I would rather be alone.

Lord save me.

Falling in Lust

By Larry Reed
March 2010 Recovery Worship

Tiger in the Rough

I’ve always wanted to be in a Nike commercial, but never thought it would be possible until recently. I can see my role in that commercial now. The camera would zoom in tight on my face and I would say, “I am Tiger Woods.” Except I don’t think they’re going to be making any more commercials like that for a long time.

Too bad, because I can identify with Tiger more now than I ever could before. No, I don’t have his fame, or his money, or his golf swing, and I may not share all his transgressions. But I could relate to something he said in the talk he gave a few days ago before he headed back into rehab. He said that he had learned growing up that “a craving for things outside ourselves leads to an unhappy and pointless search for security.” A lesson that he had forgotten as he grew rich and famous.

I can relate. Even without his money and acclaim I have let cravings for things outside myself lead to an unhappy and pointless search for security. There’s another word for that craving, and it’s one of the seven deadly sins – lust.


Let’s Talk About Lust

So, let’s talk about lust. What is lust, really, and is it always about sex? As the Catholic Church currently teaches the seven deadly sins, lust is excessive thoughts or desires of a sexual nature. But this wasn’t always the case. The list of the seven sins has shifted over the centuries in the church. The original word for this sin was luxuria and it dealt with a lust for more things than sex. We use the word both ways in English today – lust often has sexual connotations, be we also talk about a lust for power or wealth or food.

In my own life I recognize that my lust can have many objects. I can get just as lost in my desire for acclaim or exciting adventures or even electronic gadgets as I can in sexual fantasy.

And at its heart, that’s what lust is – getting lost, leaving the moment, escaping reality.

There is a twelve step group that identifies lust as the primary addiction for some people. While this group deals mostly with sex addictions, its description of lust describes many of the misplaced desires that I can struggle with: “When we try to use objects to reduce isolation, loneliness, insecurity, fear, tension, or to cover our emotions, make us feel alive, help us escape, or satisfy our God hunger, we create an unnatural appetite that misuses and abuses the natural instinct.”

Henry Fairlie was a journalist so well-acquainted with the seven deadly sins that he wrote a book about them. He describes lust this way: “Lust is not interested in its partners, but only in the gratification of its own craving, not in the satisfaction of our whole natures, but only in the appeasement of an appetite that we are unable to subdue. It is therefore a form of self-subjection, in fact, of self-emptying. The sign it wears is: ‘This property is vacant. Anyone or anything may take possession of it for a while.’”

This is what Jesus taught about the futility of finding satisfaction in earthly desires, whether it be sex, wealth, power or food. And this pretty well describes the people that Isaiah is addressing in chapter 57.

“Upon a high and lofty mountain you have set your bed, and there you went up to offer sacrifice. Behind the door and the doorpost you have set up your symbol; for, in deserting me, you have uncovered your bed, you have gone up to it, you have made it wide; and you have made a bargain for yourself with them, you have loved their bed, you have gazed on their nakedness.

“You grew weary from your many wanderings, but you did not say, ‘It is useless.’ You found your desire rekindled, and so you did not weaken.

“When you cry out, let your collection of idols deliver you! The wind will carry them off, a breath will take them away.”

These people sought after objects they could see and touch and control, and placed their trust in them instead of God. And they lie in ruin, unprotected and unsatisfied.

When we look at the end point of lust, it is hard to imagine how anyone can even start down that road. Why begin lusting in the first place, if the result is isolation and desolation?


Entering the Whirlwind

For me, the first step down that road starts like this. I am feeling uncomfortable, stressed. I may be afraid that something bad could happen to me or those I love. I may feel sad or angry, resenting how I’ve been treated by someone else. And like the Southwest Airlines ads, I want to get away. I look for some object outside of myself that will that will occupy my mind so fully that forget about myself. I may start researching what I would like in a new computer, or I may start fantasizing about a speech I want to give, or perusing catalogs of camping gear to find the right equipment for the camping trips I take once every decade. Or I may start looking at provocative pictures. My lust can take many forms, but they all have the same goal – escaping the discomfort I am feeling.

The problem is, I have to come back to reality. And when I do, I not only have to face the negative feeling I was trying to flee, I also now have to face the guilt about wasting all this time disconnected and isolated in my own world. I find reality and real people irritating, and I am left with more resentments and more uncomfortable feelings to escape. And so the addictive cycle begins. This is why Dante, in the Inferno, depicts those who suffered from lust as people caught in a whirlwind, never able to get free from the endless cycle of discomfort and desire.

So how do we get out of this whirlwind? How do we reconnect with God and others when we find ourselves isolated in a lust trap?


God-Given Desires

The last few paragraphs of Isaiah 57 show the way to come back to God and illustrate many of the principles found in the twelve steps of recovery. We have to come humbly and contrite, recognizing our powerlessness over the whirlwind. “I dwell in the high and holy place, and also with those who are contrite and humble in spirit, to revive the spirit of the humble, and to revive the heart of the contrite.” We need to recognize the true God as the Higher Power that is stronger than lust, and we need to ask God to save us each time we feel ourselves wanting to go away, to disconnect, to escape reality, “I have seen their ways, but I will heal them; I will lead them and repay them with comfort.”

For me, lust at its core is a combination of cowardice and mistrust. I am afraid to take on painful feelings, and I don’t trust that God will give me what I need in the moment to deal with the pain I am I want to flee. To get out of that cycle I need to connect with the depth and height and breadth of God’s love for me.

One way to do that is to begin with what John Eldredge calls the “desire beneath the desires.” The desires that lust objectifies are usually not bad things. They have their intended purposes. They go haywire when I make them my gods, believing that they can care for me in a way that God cannot. But those desires are also a sign pointing to something deeper, the desires at the core of my being, the desires that God placed in me, desires to be fully known and fully loved, to be deeply and intimately connected with other people, to feel significant. These are God given desires that God wants to fulfill in me through my relationships with God and the people God has placed in my life.

I recently had someone help me in a process of recognizing and supporting these true desires. The thinking behind it is this: when we can recognize our deepest desires and take steps to feed them in healthy ways, then we begin to see how God wants to gives us the desires of our heart. Our trust in God and in our own feelings grows, and we learn to connect with God and others in those times of discomfort when we want to get away.


Desires of the Heart Exercise

Take a little time to get relaxed. Put yourself in a position to listen to your heart. I will ask you a question and I want you to let your heart give you the answer. Your head might want to respond first, so you should let that pass and listen to your heart. Okay, ready? Here is the question, listen till you get the answer. “What is your heart’s desire?”

. . .

Once you have your answer to that question, I have a second question for you. It might sound familiar. Ready? “What is the desire of your heart?”

. . .

Now that you have answered those questions, look back at what you have written. For each desire you have listed, think of one action you can take on a regular basis, daily or weekly, to feed that desire. I’ll give you a couple of examples. The friend who took me through this exercise said that one of his heart’s desires was to learn how to love unconditionally. The action that he developed to feed that desire was to give money to people who were begging and would now show appreciation for it. By doing this he would learn to show love without receiving anything in return. Another person who did this was an unemployed man. His heart’s desire is to nurture his family. The practical action that came to him was to fix dinner for his family once a week. So take some time to write down practical actions that you can take on a regular basis, every day or every week, to feed the desires that you have listed. Again, your head might want to answer first, but listen to your heart.

. . .

When my friend did this exercise with me he had me list five desires of my heart, so you might want to take the time to list more desires and actions to feed them. When you do, go back over the list and look at the actions that you have listed. Make sure that they are reasonable things that you can accomplish on a regular basis. And then make a covenant with your heart and with God that you will do them.

Steven Covey says that trust begins by making and keeping promises to yourself. As you take time to keep your promises and feed the desires of your heart, you will come closer to the God who gave them to you. And in doing so you will learn to trust what is inside you, the feelings and desires that God gave you. And then when you feel the compulsion to get away, to lose yourself in things outside yourself, you will know that you can go deeper, go inside to the desire beneath the desire and know that God will meet you with all you need.

For all of us who have been trapped in lust, this is what the high and lofty One says who inhabits eternity, “I have given you the real desires of your heart. I dwell with those who are contrite and humble in spirit. I will not continually accuse. I have seen your ways, and I will heal you.”

-30-


Desires of the Heart

What is the desire of my heart?

1.


2.


3.


4.


5.



Practical action I can do to feed that desire

1.


2.


3.


4.


5.

The Red Boot Diaries

By Lenora Rand,
February 2010 Recovery Worship

"The religion scholars and Pharisees led in a woman who had been caught in an act of adultery. They stood her in plain sight of everyone and said, "Teacher, this woman was caught red-handed in the act of adultery. Moses, in the Law, gives orders to stone such persons. What do you say?"" From John 8:1-11, The Message translation


For my birthday recently a friend from work gave me as a joke—at least I think it was a joke—a copy of the National Enquirer. Not a magazine I buy for myself, I must say. Sure, I occasionally glance through it in the grocery store line, but that doesn’t count, you know, like how the bites you eat while cooking don’t really count in your total caloric intake for the day.

The cover story was “John Edwards caught cheating again!” Also on the cover in smaller type was a follow up on Tiger Woods latest indiscretions and also, in a totally unrelated story, a before and after photo of Cher promoting an article on how she got to look so much better in the after photo. I’ll just say right now, the Cher article wasn’t that helpful or enlightening. But I read it. Of course first I read the John Edwards article and the thing about Tiger Woods and I, along with a huge portion of the American public, wondered again how these guys could be so stupid. Could be such jerks. Couldn’t restrain themselves.

And all in all, it was a very entertaining read. I got the dirt and I got to enjoy my perch on the moral high ground.

I don’t know about you, but I grew up going to a church where sexual sin got top billing. Like if you’d asked me or anyone in my youth group to name the seven deadly sins, we could have easily named lust. And we would have named it first. The other six…I don’t think any of us were quite so clear on those. Greed? Maybe, murder? Was sloth on that list, whatever the heck sloth is? Oh yeah and gluttony made the list, right? Of course, gluttony was never preached against in my church—hard to preach on that with the kind of pot lucks we threw. The desserts at those things…gotta say. Sinfully good.

It’s funny because Jesus speaks about sexual sin only 4 times. And he talked about money more than anything else except the Kingdom of God. I read somewhere that 11 of his 39 parables talk about money. 1 of every 7 verses in the Gospel of Luke talk about money. We didn’t get a lot of Sunday morning sermons or youth group bonfire chats about our relationship with money either. Go figure.

I was one of the regulars in that little Southern Baptist church youth group, growing up. A good kid. Didn’t complain about having to go to church every time the doors were open. Didn’t drink, didn’t smoke, except for the occasional cheap cigars my best friend Sharon and I would smoke to be “wild and crazy teens,” driving around town in her car, dateless on a Friday night. I sang in the choir. Tutored underprivileged kids in a bad neighborhood after school. I didn’t have sex with boys. Or go too far with boys, even. The dateless part helped a lot with that.

I didn’t lie, cheat, steal or even gossip. Not that much, at least. I did have one big gossiping moment however, which didn’t go well for me. Sharon and I were walking out of our high school at the end of the day, in a crush of people all flooding toward the exit. I had heard a juicy bit of smack that day, and even though I really wasn’t someone who gossiped that often, I was excited about this, for some reason and wanted to pass it on. So I started telling Sharon about it. Started telling her about this popular girl in school we knew—smart, beautiful, rich, a regular in the Presbyterian youth group, and could you believe it? I’d heard she was pregnant! In the midst of telling this I saw Sharon’s face change from interest into something else, something more akin to panic. She started making faces at me, cringey kind of faces and shooting her eyes around like a monkey on LSD…until finally I got it. I glanced back. Right behind us in the swirl of people, I mean right behind us, well within hearing, was the girl. The nice, smart, well off Presbyterian pregnant girl. When I turned I saw her. I saw her eyes. I was 16 years old and I don’t think I’d ever felt so bad in my life.

I felt like I’d just committed a sin.

Which of the seven deadly sins was I committing in that little moment? All I know for sure is that pregnant girl was popular and cool and beautiful and rich and clearly was a person who guys were interested in and I wasn’t and I was glad that she was having troubles because in my mean little heart I was jealous of her, jealous of how easily everything seemed to come her way.

The John Edwards article and this lovely memory brought to mind the encounter in John’s gospel, between Jesus and the woman caught in adultery. The guys in this story, these big time scholars, brought this woman to Jesus, hoping to have their own National Enquirer kind of moment. Look at the scandal we’ve uncovered. Let’s all take a moment to preen ourselves on the moral high ground. And see if we can expose Jesus for a fraud or an idiot in the process.

Jesus wasn’t that interested. He seemed to be more interested in doodling in the dirt. I suspect if he’d had a cell phone at the time he’d have been texting or checking his friends’ Facebook status updates. Or possibly doing something with his sheep in Farmville. But when these guys pushed him and he finally engaged with them, he didn’t really play into their whole high drama around this woman’s sexual sin. He basically invited them all to do what in 12-Step Recovery circles would be equivalent to a 4th step, to start a “searching and fearless moral inventory” right on the spot. Anyone without sin, any kind of sin, he tells them, cast the first stone.

Any kind of sin. It’s all the same. Sin is sin, Jesus essentially says. And we’re all missing the mark.

All of us have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God, it tells us in Romans 3:23. Our lives are meant to be lived to the glory of God, but we’re not doing that, we’re doing the opposite of that, which is sin. I like how Rob Bell, in his book Velvet Elvis, puts it: Our job is the relentless pursuit of who God made us to be. Everything else is sin.

So when Jesus asks us to do our fourth step, what he’s asking is: are we relentlessly pursuing who God made us to be…in every area of our lives? Am I relentless pursuing who God made me to be in my work life? In my family life? In my creative life? In my (gulp) sexual life?

Of course if I start asking myself questions like that, I end up asking another question: what did God really intend me to be as a sexual person?

When I try to answer that, I find a lot of mixed messages out there. Chick movies and Glamour magazine portrays sex as the answer to everything, the way you feel worthwhile and of value, where sexual encounters are all in soft focus and your outfit can take the moment from ho-hum to a humdinger. From the nightly news to internet porn sites, to video games, sex is seen as an act of power, manipulation, and violence. If our advertising community is to be believed, sex is a commodity, a status symbol, something good to get, equivalent to a Big Mac and fries, or a new BMW. Of course, growing up in family and a church known for its strong and abiding belief in piling on the sexual guilt and in piling on seconds at big pot lucks, I’m not sure I got a very good answer to that question there either.

All I know for sure is that a lot of people are broken in this area, maybe all of us are. Some of us, more obviously than others. John Edwards, Tiger Woods—their brokenness shows up on the cover of the National Enquirer. Mine, not so much. Not so far. But it doesn’t change the fact that if I’m searching and fearless in my moral inventory I have to say I have fallen short of what God made me to be sexually. I have sinned and fallen short of the glory of sex as God created it to be

As a person who’s dealt with a huge nasty eating disorder all my life, who’s been fat more than thin, who’s envied the anorexics, it took me a long time to get the truth—that anorexia and bulimia are the same disease. When you’re the fattest person in the room or when you’re John Edwards, it’s clear you’ve got a problem. It’s clear that you’re not being who God made you to be, you’re not being everything God had in mind when you were imagined, It’s easy to get fingers pointed at you. It’s easy to point fingers at yourself.

But here’s the truth. Whether you’re the woman caught in adultery, or the woman caught sneaking fistfuls of cake in the middle of the night, or if you’re a person who runs screaming from Bavarian cream donuts or one who primly and quietly, and possibly with a headache, avoids exuberant physical intimacy--bulimic or anorexic, it’s all the same disease. In the church too often it seems we’ve been so busy figuring out who’s been overindulging sexually and throwing the rocks, that we’ve failed to look at what it might mean to take Jesus seriously when he said that he came that we might have life more abundant, a life which, last time I checked, includes our sexual lives.

Some churches, to be fair, have started talking a lot more about sexuality and trying to discover what it might mean to have a sexual life that is all that God meant it to be. Not long ago a church in Tampa challenged the married couples in their church to have sex every day for a month. And the singles to abstain from sex for 30 days, even if the singles were in committed relationships. Their stated goal was to help couples reconnect with each other not only physically, but emotionally and spiritually. And maybe underneath all that was also the desire to make some noise, to not let people outside the church own all the conversation around sexuality. You gotta love the billboard they planned for it, which by the way, didn’t pass the billboard company censors. Posting the 30-Day Sex Challenge Web site was fine. The message, "Are you up for it?" wasn't.

I applaud the efforts of those who are starting to talk about sex more openly in church. “We’re only as sick as our secrets” is something that I have found to be true, time and again in recovery. Too often in the church we’ve had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy when it comes to our sexuality. It was refreshing to me that this church said, “We need to have a conversation about this.” “We need to examine this together as a community.” And their challenge acknowledged two things. One, that married couples have frequently put sex way too far down the list of priorities in their lives, somewhere south of working a kazillion hours a week, getting the laundry done, watching TV, serving on the Elder Board at church and flossing. The second thing this challenge acknowledged was that singles in the church have sexual lives. Some are in committed relationships and sleeping with their partners. Some are in committed relationships and trying to remain celibate. Some are navigating the river rapids of dating today, and either having loads of great sex, loads of crappy sex or no sex. Depending on the week. Or who you talk to. And through whatever they’re doing, wondering if there is a place of sexual grace for them, if there is something other than anorexia or bulimia available to unmarried Christians, is there something other than being (as one of my single friends put it) either eternally celibate or abjectly promiscuous.

The good thing about this 30-day challenge, it seems to me, is that it was designed to make everyone uncomfortable, destined to expose the cracks, to reveal the hidden bruises, to pull our wounds and easy answers and silent sorrows out into the open. So who knows, a 30-day challenge might be good for all of us.

Of course,as someone who has been on plenty of diets throughout my life, the 30-day challenge approach, does feel like it could just become another version of Atkins, South Beach or the Zone. All of which you can lose weight on. If I’ve learned anything through the years, I have learned that you can change the weight of your body without actually learning to love your body. The poet Galway Kinnell once wrote, “Sometimes it’s necessary to reteach a thing its loveliness.” Ah… yes it is. And sometimes, for some of us, there’s not even “reteaching” involved. It’s all about teaching the loveliness for the first time. It’s all about learning that our bodies and food can be about pleasure and nourishment and exuberance and delight and health. And that sex can be too.

On the night of my recent birthday, my husband booked us a suite at a nice hotel downtown. King sized bed, Jacuzzi tub, a nice place for a night of exuberance and delight, if you know what I mean. For the beginning of the evening, however, we invited some close, long-time friends, another couple, to join us for dinner at the chi-chi hotel restaurant. Before we went to dinner we were showing off our equally chi-chi hotel suite to these friends and sharing a glass of champagne. I had dressed up a little for the evening. A nice shirt, my nicer jeans—and over those jeans, a pair of tall, high-heeled, pointy-toed, very red boots. As the four of us sat together in the suite, looking out over the lights of the city, sipping champagne, the man of the couple sighed at one point and said, loudly and with feeling, “Lenora, I just have to say. You, in those red boots—Wow. Sexy.”

Now I know that my husband thinks I look good in those red boots. But when my friend said that, I was flooded with a mad vortex of emotions. Happiness. Shame. Joy. Guilt. Adrenaline. Fear. I felt sexy, I felt alive, I felt valued, I felt…you know…HOT. And I also felt like I shouldn’t be feeling any of those things. I was being inappropriate, I was flaunting it, I was being a temptress, I was calling way too much attention to myself. I was being BAD. My good Christian mother certainly never owned a pair of sexy red boots, much less wore them in public. What was I thinking? What was I doing? And I found myself asking myself, what would Jesus do? Would Jesus wear the red boots?

In Overeaters Anonymous, you learn that abstinence with food is not something that someone else can define for you. One of the other lessons I’m learning in healing from my eating disorder, slowly, with halting moments of progress and nothing near perfection, is that denying myself food, starving myself, is not the way to keep from overeating. Dieting and starving or stuffing everything in sight into my mouth are both ways of going numb. Of not feeling. Not being present in my body. And alive to God.

If you go into the candy department at Macy’s you’ll find row after row of amazing looking and expensive little bits of sweetness and joy. However, give me a bag of Hershey’s chocolate kisses and I’ll be happy. In fact, sometimes, just one Hershey’s chocolate kiss, can make me happy. If I pay attention to it. If I am actually present when I eat it, if I savor it, instead of gulping it down. If I tell myself it’s OK to enjoy it rather than beat myself up for wanting it. One Hershey’s kiss, or even two, if you really take your time, if you really let yourself revel in it, can taste like heaven.

Jesus calls us to a searching and fearless moral inventory, not, I believe, because he wants us to feel bad, But because he wants us to actually start to learn how to feel good. He wants us to let go of our bulimia and our anorexia, let go of our sexual overeating and our sexual starvation, to let go of our limited, shut down lives and our “take whatever you can get” lives and begin to relentlessly pursue another way, relentlessly pursue who God made us to be, so that we can discover, every day, an abundant life and all kinds of tastes of heaven, not only the deep and sustaining bread and wine of communion, but also those sweet, sweet kisses, chocolate and otherwise.

So you wanna be great...

by Lenora Rand
For Recovery Worship, October 3, 2009

Jesus asked them, "What were you discussing on the road?" The silence was deafening—they had been arguing with one another over who among them was greatest. He sat down and summoned the Twelve. "So you want first place? Then take the last place. Be the servant of all." He put a child in the middle of the room. Then, cradling the little one in his arms, he said, "Whoever embraces one of these children as I do embraces me, and far more than me—God who sent me."

Mark 9:33-37 (The Message)

Sometimes I read stories about Jesus’ disciples and think, “What were they, 2nd graders?” I mean, come on. They’re walking down the road arguing with each other about who’s the greatest. I don’t think I’ve argued with anyone about who was greatest since…well since I stopped saying stuff like, “I can jump farther than you, poopy face, Na Na Na Na Na.” Do grown ups actually do that—I mean really—unless maybe you’re Muhammed Ali. Remember his poem about being the greatest: I'm the king of the world, I am the greatest, I’m Muhammed Ali. When Ali said that every major newspaper around the globe reported it. Because it was so audacious. Outlandish. Grown ups just don’t say that kind of stuff every day.

Out loud, at least.

Oh…but in secret. Inside our crazy little monkey minds…that’s another story. For me at least.

Like at work a couple weeks ago, this really became apparent to me, it got right up in my face basically. I work in advertising and we were preparing for a big client presentation. We were showing this client 6 or 8 new ad campaigns. The way this goes is, as a creative person, you come up with the ideas and then go to internal meetings with the creative lead and all these business and research and strategy types—we call them suits--where you present your ideas, get feedback and refine the ideas or the ideas get killed completely and don’t move forward to the client. This is a big part of what I do for a living, but this process is always hard, always painful for me, because deep in my heart, deep in that secret, not-so-evolved-place inside me, I want to be the greatest. I want to be the one who has the best campaign in the room. And I want to be the acknowledged King of the advertising world. Or Queen…whatever.

Not that I ever say any of this out loud, mind you. In meetings I am calm and thoughtful, and I’m rational and I nod my head calmly and thoughtfully and I dutifully take notes on how to change and improve my campaigns and I act like a team player and I’m supportive of everyone’s work …while secretly inside I’m comparing myself and my stuff to everyone else’s, I’m seeing how we stack up against each other, I’m checking to see who’s the greatest among us. Is it him? Is it me? I want it to be me. I work really hard for it to be me. I don’t sleep well at night going over how I can make my work better and how I can present it better just so I can be the acknowledged best in the room.

And as we were going through this campaign development stuff a couple weeks ago, I have to say, I didn’t feel like I had the best work in the room. And it was driving me crazy…I was feeling so bad about myself. Every day going into work I had to talk myself off the ledge. Not that anyone could see this of course. Outwardly, zen-like calm. Inwardly, gorilla jumping up and down, beating chest and screaming for more bananas. And I tried to medicate the feelings with food, of course. Because that’s what I do.

So on the day of the big client presentation there’s about 30 people gathered in a room and us creatives get up one by one to present our campaigns. The first guy got up to present—Dom—and I have to tell you, I think Dom is brilliant. He’s funny and clever and quick, and his campaign was good but he presents it so well and he’s so likable that whatever he does always seems even better. In contrast I always feel stiff and like, even if my ideas are good, I’m terrible at presenting them, I’m trying too hard and I’m boring and nobody likes me, everybody hates me, I’m gonna eat some worms. But this day Dom got up and presented his stuff and he wasn’t in top form, and the room wasn’t with him. Their body language, their lack of laughter, I could just tell, he wasn’t going over like gangbusters. He was maybe even slightly semi-bombing.

And you know what?

I was glad.

I was relieved and happy, outwardly calm and zen-like, sure, but inside leaping for joy, doing little cartwheels in my mind, full of glee and hope, because now maybe I had a chance, if not to be the greatest in the room, to be at least great-er.

So, yeah, I really wish I could tell you I am not like those disciples, those big babies arguing about who’s greatest. But I am ashamed to say, in my heart of hearts, I really am. And maybe the fact that I do it secretly, maybe that even makes it worse, meaner, nastier, deadlier. There’s that famous saying in recovery circles, “You’re only as sick as your secrets.” And my secret desire for greatness, my constant comparisons of myself with others, I’ve been coming to see, that is not only sick, but making me sicker. It makes me anxious, and sad and fills me with shame and makes me want to eat 3 lbs of chocolate and keeps me up at night and leaves me feeling very lonely.

This past week I was reading the 5th step in the brown book of OA—the Twelve steps and Twelve Traditions…and I came across this sentence that hit me right between the eyes: “Many of us have always felt we had to be better than everyone else or we were no good at all.”

First, I was happy to read: “Many of us…” in that sentence. Maybe I’m not the only one who is this sick and crazy. That was encouraging. And then the rest of it:“ Many of us have always felt we had to be better than everyone else or we were no good at all…” that felt like the truth, my truth at least. Right there on paper. I want to be great, I want to be the greatest because if I’m not that, I’m nothing. I am worthless, and unloved. And that’s why I spend all this emotional energy and physical energy trying to be great. But secretly. Not so it shows. I want my greatness to be discovered and praised. Praised a lot. Praised the most. Because if not, I am nothing. I’m no good at all.

And here’s the thing: even when I do get some praise and acknowledgment and approval, it never seems to be enough. I’ll always remember what Garrison Keillor said once in an interview. Someone asked him how he felt about all the acclaim he was receiving and he said something like, "Well, you know, it's not really enough. It's never really enough. What I want is to be WORSHIPPED FOR THE GOD THAT I AM."

Oh yeah, that’s it exactly. Whatever praise I get is nice, but not enough. Whatever success. Whatever approval. Because frankly, no one yet has worshipped me for the God that I am.

It's so strange that on the one hand you can feel like such a failure and slug and on the other want/imagine/desire to be seen as a God.

This is the exact nature of my disease, the exact nature of my insanity.

Now, I’ve read this scripture before and the answer I thought Jesus was giving in this story to all this insanity was simple “Stop trying to be great, and put yourself last, be a servant, be humble and be small, like a child…”

But looking at this passage carefully again, I realized that actually isn’t what Jesus is saying at all. First he doesn’t tell you to stop wanting to be great, or the greatest. In verse 35 it says “He sat down and called the Twelve and said ‘So you want first place?’” See he doesn’t say not to feel what we feel, he asks us just to claim it, admit it, stop hiding it. To say, yes, I may look like I’m Miss Zen-like Calm 2009, but inside I’m a little rat in a maze desperately wanting first place. “Yes, I do, I do want first place.”

So that’s the first step…to tell the truth, to let go of the secret.

And then Jesus uses a couple metaphors to explain how to be great. He starts by talking about becoming like a servant.

Now for any of us who’ve struggled with codependency or Al-Anon issues, this whole “be a servant” thing sounds scary, it sounds way too much like “be a doormat, take care of everyone but yourself,” which has made many of our lives unmanageable. And it’s hard to know exactly what Jesus meant by using this metaphor because I suspect being a servant in Jesus day meant something different than it does in ours. One thing I do imagine that was probably the same, though, whether you were a hired servant thousands of years ago or today: You’re not in charge, and you know it. All you really need to do is show up and do what you’re being asked to do. And that’s it. Until the next day, when you show up and do it all over again. You’re not in charge…and no one expects you to be, and you are appreciated not for being in charge, not for being God-like, but for being present and available and willing to do what you do best as a servant, whether that’s washing the donkeys down or polishing the BMW.

And that, in and of itself, is kind of a relief, isn’t it? It is for me, because when I get into the whole “I have to be great or I’m nothing” mind swirl it’s about trying to do stuff right, it’s about trying to take charge of the situation so I look good and so people will like me, approve of me, love me. But when you’re a servant, it’s very clear. You’re not in charge. So you might as well stop trying to control things or manage things or get on top of the situation. Because you’re not really in charge.

This whole “what does it mean to be a servant” question also reminded me of a story Jesus told which we often call the story of the Prodigal Son. Though it could also be called the story of the Amazingly Forgiving and Loving Father. Or the story of The Hired Servants Who Are Well Taken Care Of. Remember, when the lost son of the story comes to his senses he thinks, Wow I should just go home. My father takes care of his servants so well, they’re doing so much better than I am, I’d be happy to go home and just be one of them.” So, that’s a little different view of servanthood, isn’t it?

It’s like Jesus is saying, “You want to be great? Then be like one of my servants who I feed and clothe and give good beds to and give good work to do, be like one of my servants who people actually envy, because I don’t expect them to be in charge and because I take care of them so well.” It’s a picture of servanthood that isn’t about being a doormat or being responsible for everyone’s happiness. It’s a vision of servanthood that’s about being well provided for, well cared for.

The other metaphor Jesus uses to explain how to deal with our insanity around trying to be great is that of holding a child.
37He put a child in the middle of the room. Then, cradling the little one in his arms, he said, "Whoever embraces one of these children as I do embraces me, and far more than me—God who sent me."

You want to be great? Jesus asks. Then embrace the children. As I do. When you do you will be embracing me and the God who sent me.

One day soon after we had our big client presentation, Gary and I met for lunch one day. Our waitress was in her late 20s and cute and kind of funny and joking around with us and we got started talking—she found out we had kids and she was saying how she didn’t know if she was ready for kids yet, but she didn’t want to wait too long either. And I told we’d waited until we were older and we were happy we did, I basically told her not to worry. And then she said something, kind of off-handedly, about how what she really needed to do was quit partying so much and get her life more together, and she laughed, but beneath the laughter there was the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, shining like a tiny gold nugget, small, but hard to miss…a glimpse of her brokenness and need and fear…and it got to me. She walked away to keep doing her job and I almost cried. I thought about trying to say something to her—have you thought about joining a recovery group, for example…but I didn’t know if I should, I didn’t want to be weird or preachy or shaming. Anyway, after we were all paid up and we stood to leave she was just standing there and so I went over and hugged her. I embraced her, I held her like she was my own child, or like my favorite niece or something. And that hug, in that moment, felt like a prayer, it felt like me embracing her not just with my arms, but with God’s arms too. I have no idea what she took from that hug—when it was over she kind of laughed and said, “Oh, you’re so sweet…” but I know what I took from it. In that moment I felt…great. Great, not as in brilliant or funny or the best at something. But deep down great, connected to God, filled with love.

You want to be great? Jesus says. Then embrace the children.

Jesus says to feel valuable you might want to stop trying to do it yourself. Stop trying to pump yourself up with the trappings of greatness. Let go of the illusion that you’re in charge and that if someone pronounces you the best in the room, then you’ll feel loved. That you will finally love yourself. And you’ll finally feel loved by God.

The problem with trying to feel great by being the best in the room is there’s always a Dom in our lives, always someone who seems greater than us, no matter what anybody says. Someone who’s skinnier or smarter or funnier or more talented, or who has a cleaner house or more together kids… As Sarah McLachlan said in one of her songs, “There’s always one reason to feel not good enough.”

So really, Jesus says, to get that feeling of connection and love you want, you might want to stop worrying so much about whether you’re the best, which is really about separating yourself from others, pulling away, standing out. You might want to stop that crazy swirl and look up and notice we’re all just big babies around here, we all just need someone to embrace us. So instead of holding your breath, and holding all the judgments and comparisons and shame, you hold out your arms and you hold all those children around you like Jesus did. You hold them in your arms and your heart.

And you do the same for yourself.

I used to think that when Jesus picked up that little kid in this story, he was telling us to be like a child who’s small and unimportant and knows it but it doesn’t matter—the child just has fun and doesn’t care who’s the best or not. But then I actually had children. And I realized practically from the word go they are in competition with each other, seeing who’s fastest, who has the most toys, who’s first in line, saying I’m better than you poopoo face…it’s amazing how non-angelic the little angels can be. They want to be the greatest, just like the rest of us big babies.

But maybe there is one difference between little kids and us. They let Jesus pick them up and embrace them. When my kids were little and sometimes even now, when they felt bad about themselves they would crawl into my lap and let themselves be loved.

That’s all Jesus seems to want from us. Not for us to pretend that we’re something we’re not. Not to be ashamed of our desire to be noticed and approved of and praised. You want to be greatest? Sure you do. I do. And It’s OK. We’re all big babies around here. Mostly we all just want to know we’re loved.

I think I might be starting to get it. At least a little. At least. just for today. as they say. You want to feel great? Embrace the big babies all around you and the big baby that lives inside you. Embrace them like Jesus does. Like Jesus wants to do with all of us right here and right now.

Just crawl into that lap, and let yourself be loved.

Who do you trust?

By Lenora Rand
From the August Recovery Worship service.

“Don’t let your hearts be troubled. Trust in God, and trust also in me.” John 14:1

Ok, I'll admit it…I have a few tiny trust issues. I don’t believe generally that things are going to turn out well for me. I tend to anticipate, in fact, that things are going to go badly. Possibly very, very badly. In my heart of hearts I believe that the world is a deeply nasty, unsafe place and though my life has not been too bad so far, no major huge successes or windfalls certainly, but no major disasters really, it’s only a matter of time before the worst happens.

To celebrate our first wedding anniversary, Gary and I decided to travel to Maine for a summer vacation. While there we camped in this beautiful state park out in the middle of nowhere. We were young and poor—we had only a miniscule borrowed pup tent to sleep in, which we pitched in this idyllic remote area, nothing around but the bugs and the birds (and possibly some bears lurking behind trees, stalking us…). We also had a little axe luckily, so we could cut up enough branches and fallen limbs to have a small fire. So on our first lovely Maine night in the woods, we sat by the fire, surrounded by a chorus of nature, until bedtime. At that point we crawled into our pup tent. And Gary quickly went to sleep. I did not. I lay there listening. Considering the possibility of bears. And snakes. But trying to talk myself off the wall of my fear. I was a city girl and not a nature girl but I told myself many other people had survived nights out in pup tents so I should just calm down. I was beginning to relax a little when I suddenly heard some other noise—not bug-related or bear-related…no, it was the noise of a truck or a car somewhere in the not too distant distance. And that’s when major panic hit. What about axe murderers????? There could be axe murderers in the woods. And we were so far away from civilization how easy would it be for them to creep into our campsite and murder us in our sleep? Possibly even with our own axe, which we’d probably conveniently left for them next to the fire pit!

I nudged Gary awake and asked, “What did we do with the axe, where did we leave it?” He said something along the lines of “What are you talking about? What difference does it make?” So I explained to him my whole theory about the axe murderers and my strong sense that we should have the axe in the tent with us, both so they wouldn’t kill us with it, and possibly for protection in case they’d brought their own axe. We’d only been married a year, remember, and we were still getting to know each other and I’m thinking at that point Gary was wondering if an annulment was still a possibility. He kept reassuring me everything was going to be all right and told me just to go back to sleep and I told him I really thought he should go out and get the axe and then I would sleep a lot better. But he wasn’t budging…so finally, now with fear and fury, I crawled out of the sleeping bag and the tiny tent, by myself, got to the fire pit, retrieved the axe and squirmed back in. I tucked the axe under my pillow and, no thanks to Gary – Happy-frigging-Anniversary—finally, finally got to sleep.

So yeah, trust has been a bit of an issue for me. And I’ve tended to self-medicate over the fear—with food mostly but with whatever is handy truthfully: cigarettes, alcohol, shopping, working…which has led to a lot of addiction issues I’m slowly, slowly recovering from.

And because I don’t trust, I’ve tended to try to take matters into my own hands as much as possible. Get to the axe before someone else does, so to speak. Which has led to a lot of attempts to control people and situations, tendencies toward perfectionism. And then the exhaustion from trying to be so perfect and to control everything has often led me to just want to throw up my hands and go off somewhere and be alone for the rest of my life. The problem is where would that be? Not out in the backwoods of Maine, certainly…!

The disciples in the story John tells in John 14 had a few trust issues too. Philip and Thomas in particular. They are clearly caught up in a crazy mind swirl in this story. Trying to figure out how they can possibly trust God. And how to trust Jesus, who never gives a straight answer it seems, who’s always talking in metaphors and symbols and pushing them to step outside of their regular ways of seeing things and doing things. Which is really quite annoying. It doesn’t take much imagination to hear their annoyance and frustration in this passage. And reading between the lines, you can almost even hear them saying a few choice words that John didn’t record for posterity.

“No, we don’t (insert swear word) know, Lord,” Thomas said. “We have no (insert swear word) idea where you are going, so how can we (insert swear word) know the way?”

But Jesus tells them, Look, I know it’s hard to trust in God because you haven’t seen God—but you’ve seen me, you’ve known me, and so you’ve seen God. I am your best picture of God.

What Jesus seems to be trying to explain to Philip and Thomas is that he understands that their ability to trust God, to turn their will and their lives over to a power greater than them, is very dependant on their picture of God. The picture of God they’re carrying around with them. And that’s the message I think Jesus is tryng to communicate to us too.

Zoe, my oldest daughter, has been taking driver’s ed this summer. And part of the deal is that we, her loving parents, need to go out and practice driving with her. For hours. There are many advantages Gary and I have discovered about having children later in life. But I have to say, being in the car with your kids who are learning to drive…at our age…heart attacks are not out of the question.

AND now that I’m watching Zoe drive and in the habit of screaming when she gets too close to parked cars, or flailing my arms and stomping on imaginary brakes when we come speeding up behind other cars at a stop light…I’ve also started noticing how Gary drives. And he does some things…now that I’m paying attention…that are pretty scary too. But the thing is, I am not generally screaming or flailing while riding with him. Because I trust him. I trust that he knows what he’s doing. So he can be going at the exact same speed as Zoe while approaching a stoplight and with him, I’m perfectly relaxed, but when Zoe is behind the wheel, I’m going: “Slow down, slow down, slow down….BRAKE! BRAKE! BRAKE!”

Now, I’m sure you’ve heard someone talk about how surrendering to God or your Higher Power is like letting God be in the driver’s seat. And I have to say whenever anyone suggested that sort of thing to me—Oh Lenora, you’ve just got to take your hands off the wheel--I’ve kinda wanted to slap them. And I think that’s partly because I’ve been terrified. Because I’ve got two pictures of God I’ve been hauling around with me all my life. One of them is the picture I carry in my mind, the one that says God is good and kind and loving and wants the best for me. That’s the Senior Class picture of God, the official, retouched photo that goes in a frame and sits on the piano. The other picture is the one I carry in my gut, the picture taken when no one was prepared, no one was smiling for the camera, my secret picture, the one that actually affects the way I act and live every day. That one isn’t so pretty. In that picture, God looks judgmental and mean, or totally checked out and uncaring, or too busy to bother, or like he couldn’t care less what is best for me—I am just a speck of dust and he’s got more important things to deal with. It’s not the official photo I show when I’m talking about God. But it’s the one that I carry closest to my heart. And the way you get to see this picture of God is in how I act. That’s the God I’m picturing in the driver’s seat when I’m into my addictive behavior. When I’m trying to fix, manage and control.

I have been in years and years of therapy. And I mean that literally. Frankly I could have purchased a small house for the amount I’ve spent having my head shrunk over the past 25 years…or even a large house in some sections of the country. Maybe two houses in Arizona these days. Most of that time I have been seeing a psychiatrist, Jeff, who has always sort of reminded me of Yoda of Star Wars fame. Full of annoying bits of wisdom, he is. Speaking in metaphors a lot, he does. Jeff has this habit, like Yoda, and frankly, now that I think about it, like Jesus, of suggesting you do things the opposite of the way common sense would tell you to do things. Like when you get angry with Jeff he says thank you and acts like you’ve given him a gift. Or when you complain to him about someone who has yelled at you or called you a loser or something along those lines, he’s been known to suggest you thank that person for saying out loud the messages you’re usually spewing at yourself secretly inside your own head. Or when one member of your family is causing “problems” he might suggest you be grateful to them for carrying the pain and anger of the whole family. Weird stuff, it is.

One of the other weird and wonderful things Jeff has done is helped me begin to get a new picture of God. To replace, at least sometimes, the picture I usually have imbedded in my brain, with a better one. Like Jesus said to his disciples, my therapist has said to me, “What if God actually looked a lot more like me—doesn’t it seem like I want the best for you? Doesn’t it seem like I find you fascinating and strangely adorable and worth my time and attention? And what about Gary—what if your picture of God looked less like a pissed off police officer and more like your husband when he’s laughing at something funny you’ve said, or rubbing your back when you’re sad? Or your children—have you ever imagined that God could love you so unconditionally? Or what if God looked more like your therapy group? Or your best friend? Or your church choir singing together on a Sunday morning?”

When I was growing up we used to sing this old hymn called “Trust and Obey.” Maybe you know it. The chorus goes: “Trust and obey. For there’s no other way. To be happy in Jesus, but to trust and obey.” I used to hear that song and think, “Well I’ll never be happy in Jesus then…’cause (insert swear word) if I’m ever going to trust and obey." I couldn’t hear “Trust and obey…” meaning, “Relax, you don’t have to be in charge here. You don’t have to worry yourself to death. I’ve got you covered. I love you and I’m taking care of you.”

No, those words, “trust and obey” sounded to me just like another way of saying, “Shut up and do what I tell you.” “Quit whining and pretend to be happy.” Because that’s all I could hear my picture of God saying to me. So I guess it’s no wonder that I’ve spent a good portion of my life, flailing around and screaming Brake, Brake, Brake. Or sleeping with axes under the pillow.

But lately I’ve sometimes been able to catch a glimpse of a different sort of God. One who is looking out for me. Who wants good things for me. Who has my best interests at heart. I’ve been trying to do what Jesus suggested to his disciples, looking at him when I think about trusting God, looking at how he treated people, how Jesus asked questions more than he pronounced judgments, how he gave 2nd and 3rd and 4th chances, how he never cast the first stone, how he touched the untouchable, and healed the ones everyone else had forgotten, how he believed in people more than they believed in themselves.

But unlike Philip and Thomas, I don’t have Jesus standing right in front of me every day. Sometimes it’s hard to get a clear picture of him too. So I’ve also been working on changing my picture of God, the one that I carry in my gut, by looking at the loving, kind, caring trustworthy people around me. At the people who believe in me, and care for me, and want to be with me, who forgive me and give me another chance, and another, and another.

One of the things they say to people coming into recovery who are struggling with the whole idea of a Higher Power is that you can think of your 12 step group as your Higher Power. What if we really did that? What if, instead of looking at the often distorted snapshot of God we have inside us, we took a look around this room, and we looked in each other’s eyes? What if we allowed ourselves to see the compassion there? What if we allowed ourselves to see, in these eyes, delight in us? Forgiveness for our failures? Understanding of our struggles? A desire for us to do well, to succeed? What if we saw the love? Imagine what we might do. Where we might go. What we might accomplish if we could really see what’s right in front of us. And imagine what might happen if we could actually trust that.

Keep Coming Back

By Lenora Rand
for the May Recovery Worship Service

Luke 18:1-8 (New Living Translation)
1 One day Jesus told his disciples a story to show that they should always pray and never give up. 2 “There was a judge in a certain city,” he said, “who neither feared God nor cared about people. 3 A widow of that city came to him repeatedly, saying, ‘Give me justice in this dispute with my enemy.’ 4 The judge ignored her for a while, but finally he said to himself, ‘I don’t fear God or care about people, 5 but this woman is driving me crazy. I’m going to see that she gets justice, because she is wearing me out with her constant requests!’”
6 Then the Lord said, “Learn a lesson from this unjust judge. 7 Even he rendered a just decision in the end. So don’t you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off? 8 I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly! But when the Son of Man[a] returns, how many will he find on the earth who have faith?



We have a screened in back porch that we added on to our house. It’s beautiful out there in the late spring and summer when the weather finally warms up. We love it out there, Gary and the girls and I. Our cats also love it. They are indoor cats so when we let them out on the back porch that’s as close as they get to being outdoor cats and it’s exciting for them, let me tell you. They strut around, keep a close watch on the birds and rabbits and squirrels and the random stray cats from the neighborhood who occasionally wander into our backyard. They get up on the table out there and pace on it and perch on it, they make it their vantage point from which to rule the kingdom. All they need is the Lion King soundtrack behind them. In essence being on the back porch for a couple of indoor cats is as right as it gets.

There’s a window in between the kitchen and that back porch and we don’t have a screen on it so we can just open it and the cats can hop out onto the porch easily. We do have to open the window for the cats however and that’s where we sometimes have an issue. We, their humans, are not always ready to drop whatever we’re doing to let them out. But when they want to go out they want to go out. And they have ways of making us do their bidding. They have a stool next to the window and they sit on that and tap on the window. Then they scratch on the window. Then they start meowing loudly, overly dramatically, endlessly.

We especially have problems when the weather changes and it’s suddenly cold…they are cats of little brain and so we let them go outside and then they want to come back in (tapping/scratching on the window) in mere moments. Then they forget that they hated it and want to go back out a couple minutes later. Which drives us all nuts. Or recently, we had some broken screens out there, we couldn’t let them out until we got them fixed…that was a very sad time in their pathetic little lives. And they let us know about it. The sitting on the stool scratching at the window and meowing was totally annoying. Why you may wonder didn’t we just remove the stool so they couldn’t do this? Well we tried that. But if you remove the stool what they do is just hang on the windowsill by their fingernails and meow, looking back over their shoulder at you to make sure you aren’t missing their horrible predicament.

Like the widow in our Scripture reading, being annoyingly persistent ultimately pays off.

But it’s not a pretty picture, really, is it?

I hate being an annoyance. I hate being intrusive and obnoxious and pesky. Which this widow, and my cats clearly, are. I also hate being that obviously needy. You know, what I mean? Neediness is embarrassing. We live in a society that’s all about self-reliance and pulling yourself up by your own bootstraps—whatever the heck that means…it sounds a little painful, actually. But being needy…even the word kind of makes us cringe. Someone says, “Oh, she’s so needy.” And that’s code for, “keep your distance, she’s very high maintenance.” Or “He’s so needy,” is code for stop dating him, he’s going to turn into a stalker. Who wants needy friends? Needy neighbors? Needy co-workers?

Being needy has a bad name. Being persistent in our expression of need just isn’t cool. And I sometimes feel like I’d rather die than embarrass myself like that.

And then I realize, I have almost died. I have almost killed myself with cigarettes. And with a raging food addiction. I have sucked back all my fear and shame and anger and stuffed all my sadness and hurt and real wants for years, rather than embarrass myself with my neediness.

Here’s another thing that really annoys me. In recovery groups they have all these expressions like “one step at a time” and “It works when you work it” and “Keep coming back.” “Keep coming back,” is something that’s said at the end of meetings and sometimes I really hate hearing that. I hate it because it’s a slogan and it feels so cult like and both silly and scary at the same time. I grew up going to a church that got a little too close to being a cult for comfort at times and so that kind of lingo sort of freaks me out.

But I also hate it and maybe hate it most because it reminds me that I need to keep coming back. That recovery is an ongoing process for all of us. That the life of faith, of becoming whole is an ongoing process. That I’m not done yet. And I really really hate that.

The widow in the parable Jesus tells is definitely someone who keeps coming back. Every day she hauls herself into court. She pleads her case. She cries out for attention, help, justice. People stare. Look down on this pushy widow. Want her to just shut up and give up and go away, but she doesn’t. And finally the judge gets worn down, worn out, and he gives in and helps her. Not because he thinks her cause is righteous. No, just to get rid of her. Just to make this obnoxious crazy lady go away.

And yet this obnoxious crazy lady behavior is exactly what Jesus is recommending to us. Promoting. Applauding, in fact. Hurray for the obnoxious crazy lady who keeps coming back! Who’s angry, who pounds on the door with her demands, who says what she wants loudly and clearly, who isn’t afraid to let her neediness show or her tears flow in public, who doesn’t give up until her pleas, her prayers are answered.

OK, so here’s another thing I hate. Not getting what I want right away. I know in this parable we’re dealing with an unjust judge. And God, who, the Bible says is so much better than this judge, will definitely hear us and answer our prayers. “So don’t you think God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night? Will he keep putting them off?” it ask us in verse 7. Then in verse 8 it says, “I tell you, he will grant justice to them quickly!” But, wait a minute, which is it? Is it about us crying out day and night for as long as it takes? Or is it about a quick response? How is Jesus defining quickly, you’ve got to wonder.

When I was about 12 years old, a friend of our family was getting married and we were all going to the wedding. So my mom took my sister and I out to shop for dresses to wear to the event. My sister who’s a year older than me, found a cool dress that looked good on her right away. Everything she tried on seemed to fit her fine—it was just a matter of picking the dress she liked most. I, on the other hand, didn’t have the “anything you try on fits fine” kind of body. I was not skinny. Not horribly fat, but I was chubby, husky, as it was sometimes called back then, a husky girl, as if we had an outer husk, except that hidden inside this husk was actually an acceptable-sized person, versus an ear of corn. So we searched and searched for a dress, something that fit me and also didn’t look totally stupid or like an old lady dress. Something cool. Hours and what seemed like hundreds of dresses later we finally found one that had the cool factor and it also fit. Well, it almost fit. It was just a little snug. We asked for the larger size, but unfortunately the store didn’t have it. So we struck a deal, my mom and I. I would try to lose a little weight before the wedding, which was 2 or 3 weeks away. It wouldn’t take much. And we bought the dress.

Fast forward to the night before the wedding. I tried on the dress again, and guess what, I hadn’t really lost any weight. Or if I had, not enough. The dress was still too tight, way too tight, and I looked terrible stuffed inside it, like a sausage coming out of its casing. But what could I do? The wedding was tomorrow and I had no other dress to wear.

So I lay in bed that night and prayed. Cried out to God for help. Couldn’t God just take ten pounds off me during the night?. Couldn’t the God who parted the Red Sea, the God who could make frogs rain down from heaven, who could make the blind see and the lame walk, couldn’t that God give me what I needed, give me the thing that would make everything all right for me?

I woke up in the morning, with hope in my 12 year old heart. Then I put on the dress.

That may have been the first time I pleaded with God to fix my body, but it wasn’t the last. I prayed it every time I started a new diet. Started a new exercise program. And when I walked into an Overeater’s Anonymous meeting 20 years ago, I walked in with that prayer again. Fix my body, God. Help me lose weight and stop being insane about food. When, a few years after that, I walked into the office of a therapist who specializes in helping people with addictions, I was praying that prayer again. God fix my body. Fix my relationship with food.

I’m here to tell you tonight, that the prayer I prayed when I was twelve and have been praying ever since, the prayer I prayed, twenty years ago, when I found my way to a 12 step meeting, that specific prayer, has not really been answered, at least not in the way I hoped it would be. My relationship with food and with my body, is not all better. It’s not all fixed.

But I can say this: because I've kept coming back, because this addiction stuff keeps bringing me to my knees, because I’ve kept pleading with God for help on this issue, because I’ve kept showing up with that prayer for help, I've gotten so much in all kinds of other areas of my life. Every day I deal with my food addiction and learning to love my body. But along the way, I’ve gotten so much that I didn’t expect or imagine.

You’ve probably heard that famous quote: Eighty percent of success is showing up. One of the things I’m learning in recovery is also that 80% of healing is showing up. 80% of growth is showing up. And as the widow teaches us, continuing to show up. By showing up and crying out for help, I’ve gotten help for things I didn’t even realize I needed help with. Help in being a good parent. In how to be a healthy person in a marriage., how to be a healthy person in my job, in my church, with my friends, in the greater world.

Asking for what you want and believe you need is a tricky business. Because sometimes what we think we want and need isn’t really what we want and need most. I didn’t get what I asked for when I was 12 years old, I didn’t get the quick fix I was hoping for, but as someone once said, if I’d gotten what I prayed for I would have shortchanged myself.

I am beginning to think this is true of all our prayers, all the things we keep coming back to God asking for help with. God does answer our prayers, maybe just not always the prayers we’re praying out loud. Because on some level we don’t always know what we really need. We’re just scratching the surface most of the time. And the point is to keep showing up, like the widow in this parable did.

And maybe, just maybe, the act of continuing to show up, continuing to ask, day after day, continuing to nail our demands on God’s door, to be angry with God and obnoxious and pushy with God, to get in God’s face, and say I’m here, and I’m not going away until you answer me…maybe that is the quick answer Jesus was promising. Us showing up, coming back, pleading with God, yelling at God, maybe that is what God wants. And maybe that is what we need, most of all.

I don’t know whether showing up will get you the outcome YOU want. But I do believe that “God will surely give justice to his chosen people who cry out to him day and night.” I don’t know whether it will change the situation you’re hurting in, the way you expect it to, or change the addiction you’re struggling with, in the way you envision it, or change the relationship you’re trying to navigate, quite the way you want it to. But I do believe it will change you. And God will give justice. Justice, which means putting things right. Right in our world. Right in our own lives. To have justice is to have things working the way they should. The way things are meant to be. Not out of whack. Not all screwed up. When we ask for justice, will God keep putting us off? “No, I tell you, God will grant justice to them… quickly!”

So be obnoxious. Be annoying. Be persistent. Be needy. Hang on the windowsill by your fingernails if you have to. You want God to make things right, really right, more right than you could imagine? Bang on God’s door. And keep coming back.

Following Orders

By Lenora Rand
From February Recovery Worship Service

I don’t like being told what to do. I don’t handle it well.

Gary, who has been married to me for a very long time now, will attest to this fact. But early in our marriage he hadn’t learned this yet…and would occasionally try to tell me what to do. Like one night we were preparing dinner together, chopping up vegetables for a soup or something. We each had our own cutting boards and we were both hard at work when Gary glanced over at my chopping area and said in the nicest possible way that I was doing it all wrong. “You’re supposed to cut vegetables on an angle like I’m doing,” he told me, “That’s how you get the most nutritional value out of them. So start cutting them like this not just straight up and down like you’re doing it..”

When he finished speaking, Gary continued chopping carrots in his own merry and correct way, but I became very still and very silent. I’m not sure how Gary interpreted this stillness and silence. Maybe he thought I was thinking about the wisdom of his words. Maybe he thought I was thanking God that I had been enlightened. Thanking God I was lucky enough to be married to such a wise and knowledgeable vegetable cutting expert.

I wasn’t. I was the stillness and silence of a grenade which has just been dropped on the ground, in that second or two before it explodes.

I did explode. It wasn’t pretty. What I said came out of that dark hole inside me that contains all the stored-up rage and hurt of a lifetime. The kind of stuff that is more like the growls of a cornered animal than anything else. If I had been a cartoon character you would have seen steam exploding from my eyes and nose and ears. Needless to say, we had a big fight. Luckily we put down our knives first.

But I think Gary got the message that day. I don’t like anyone to tell me what to do. Even if they’re right.

Which brings me to our scripture for today, John 15: 9-17.

The crux of the passage is in this verse, John 15:12 "This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”
Now I’m all for love. I mean, who isn’t? And if we had to take a vote today and I asked for a show of hands, all in favor of love, I figure there wouldn’t be many of us clutching our hands in our laps. Maybe none of us. What’s not to love about love, right?

Except of course, when you actually try to love. That’s where it gets tricky. It gets tricky when you’re commanded to love the boss and the company that’s just “eliminated your position,” i.e. fired you. When you’re commanded to love the parents who abused you or the children who can’t forgive you and don’t want to have anything to do with you. When you’re ordered to love the significant other who doesn’t seem to give nearly as much as you do, or the friends who don’t seem to have any time for you. Or how about this—how does it feel to be commanded to love terrorists who fly planes into buildings? Or leaders whose greed and short sightedness have given us a world in a financial abyss? And sometimes hardest to deal with of all—how do we respond to the command to love, when it’s ourselves we need to love, and when all we feel is screwed up and contemptible and unworthy of love?

"This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

When you think about it, this scripture is not easy. Not simple. Not clear. And as much as we all love the idea of love, when you put it like this, I command you to love, you may, as I do, feel like growling back at God from that dark hole of rage and hurt inside you, “Don’t tell me what to do.”

Of course, most of us here come from a country founded on rebellion against authority. A country that said to its mother England, don’t tell me what to do. And our heroes are people who win mostly by not following the rules…think about the popularity of Bruce Willis in movies like Die Hard, Die Hard with a Vengeance, Live Free or Die Hard… I can’t help but notice that Bruce never made a movie called Die Hard And Follow Orders Politely.

And those of us who struggle with addictions …many of us come from families with addicts and various kinds of dysfunction, families where we learned early on to distrust authority, where we learned that the orders we received from our parents weren’t necessarily for our own good, or to enhance our lives. Our families were focused on their next fix rather than on caring for the real needs of their children. Or their commands stemmed from a desire to take care of their own need for the family to look good and to keep us kids from getting in their way and bothering them too much, rather than out of any real concern for our growth and well-being.

I had this figured out in my family by the time I was four years old. I remember one day being asked by my next door neighbor Tony, who was about my age, if I wanted to go with him and his dad to his grandfather’s farm for an hour or so. The farm was close by and Tony told me we’d get to play in the grain silos, which sounded incredibly cool to me. So I went into the house and asked my dad if I could go. And my dad was busy doing something, and just seemed annoyed by my interruption and said, No. Told me I couldn’t go. When I questioned him, I got yelled at. NO discussion. But I decided not to follow his orders, and I went anyway. I really can’t remember anything that happened at that farm, I have only the vaguest memory of those grain silos, but I do remember coming back home, bracing myself for the trouble I was going to get in because I’d disobeyed. But I got home and my Dad was still inside, involved in whatever project he’d been doing before I left and he hadn’t even noticed I was gone! Which seemed to my 4-year-old self like total confirmation of my decision to not follow his orders. It seemed like complete confirmation of the suspicion that had been growing in me for some time which was that I was more committed to taking care of me than my parents were. My parents weren’t really in my corner, on my side, looking out for my welfare. They were lost in their own stuff and I was basically on my own. I grew up in the days of the TV show Father Knows Best. But I decided at an early age, that I couldn’t trust that. I came to believe that Father Knows Best was a lie and I knew best.

Walking around with the belief that only you know best and that nobody is going to look out for you but you is certainly one way to live your life. It’s a way to live that can cause you a few teensy problems however. Or a few major ones. For me it has had a lot to do with my story as a compulsive overeater. I didn’t trust the rules about what was best to eat and how much and when. Three meals a day? Healthy snacks? Eat your vegetables? Drink plenty of water? Oh man, give me a break. That sounds awful. So I ate what I wanted to when I wanted to. I defied the commands of the food pyramid, frequently and mostly secretly. But then I felt bad afterward. Not just “bad” with a small “b” but BAD, all caps, morally bad. In order to take care of myself, I felt like I had to break the rules. Which made me a bad person, an outlaw. And I felt sad and lonely being a bad person, which of course, led me back to food for comfort and care. A vicious cycle.

Since I’ve been in recovery one of the shifts I’ve been making—and it’s been a hard one for me to make, it’s a one moment at a time, kind of deal—is rather than seeing myself as a bad person in need of punishment, I’m starting to see myself as a sick person in need of healing.

So instead of being the outlaw in a black leather motorcycle jacket, thumbing my nose at authority and riding my Harley off a cliff in heroic defiance, I am learning to envision myself as an adorable child in one of those hospital shifts with a little too much southern exposure, propped up in a comfy bed, being visited by caring friends bringing me flowers and cards and DVDs and who aren’t there to judge me or arrest me, but are just there to sit with me and hold my hand or plump my pillows.

It makes a difference. Whether we define ourselves as outlaw or sick child, makes a difference. And what I’ve been learning about that in recovery made me want to take a second look at what John might have been trying to say in this scripture. So I started with that word I hate so much: commandment.

The dictionary definition of commandment is “an order or injunction given by authority.” I guess part of my problem is, when I think of an order from an authority, the first picture that comes into my head (other than seeing my own father, probably) is of getting orders from a military commander. I see one of those mean staff sergeants yelling at the recruits. I hear drop and give me 20. I imagine endless marches through the rain and darkness and cold all to satisfy the power-hungry whims of some petty jerk. A good thing I never joined the Army, huh?

So when I hear “This is my commandment, that you love one another as I have loved you,” I’m coming to realize, on some level that is also how I’m picturing God—the power-hungry, petty jerk, jerking me around to satisfy some need of his own without regard for what might be good for me. And I feel like, yeah, loving one another sounds like a good idea, in theory, however… I can’t imagine it working out so well. There probably won’t be an upside for me in this.

The funny thing about that definition of commandment-- an order or injunction given by authority—military guys aren’t the only authority figures out there giving orders. As I get older I have found myself spending a lot more time in doctor’s offices, leaving with a tote bag full of prescriptions. Leaving with doctor’s orders. These days, my doctor has me taking a smorgasboard full of vitamins and mineral supplements and medicine of various kinds. I feel like I have to allow an extra half hour to my morning routine just to get down all these pills. And I don’t always do it. I don’t always follow my doctor’s orders perfectly. Some mornings I take only a couple of the pills, the ones I deem most crucial. But here’s the thing. When I skip my pills I don’t feel like I’m being morally bad as much as I feel like I’m just not able to take care of myself as well as I could today. Because I see my doctor’s orders as something that comes from a desire for me to be well and healthy and happy, I see them as life-enhancing, I see them as good for ME.

That shift in thinking has been huge for me.

And, I’ve begun to think that maybe it’s no accident that sometimes in the Bible, Jesus would refer to himself as a physician. (And never referred to himself as a staff sergeant.) And so maybe, in John’s gospel, when Jesus commands me to love he’s not putting a gun to my head and saying do this or else, rather he’s handing me a prescription…he’s saying, do this and you’ll feel better. You’ll be healthier. Happier. You’ll become whole. You’ll be well.

Does this make it any easier to figure out how to love? How to love the boss who fired us, the so-called friend who hurt us, the spouse who doesn’t support us, the ones we call enemy, whether those enemies are people we work with or people in countries across the globe? Does it make it any easier to figure out how to love ourselves?

Maybe not. But it does give me motivation. It does help me see that if I don’t try to love, I may be missing out on something really good for me. It does make love something I want to try to figure out. With this new way of seeing, figuring out how to love myself and others seems like the way to life, the way to abundant life.

In the therapy group I belong to we have a ritual that has developed over time. This group is made up of people in recovery from all kinds of addictions—food, alcohol, relationships, debt, workaholism, perfectionism—you name it. And toward the end of every session one or two, or sometimes everyone in the group, will ask our psychiatrist for a prescription. What’s my prescription? We’ll ask. And then wait, like little birds in a nest, hungry for Mom to give them their bug or their worm. Or like people in a communion line on a Sunday morning, mouths open, ready for the bread of life.

This ritual in my therapy started probably because at one point some of the members of the group were taking anti-depressants and they needed a refill or a change in their medication. And the therapist would get out his prescription pad at the end of the session to write that for them. And some people got jealous. Wanted a little something to help them get through the week, too. Their own prescription. These days, no one in my group is taking actual medication but people still ask for prescriptions at the end of the session because what they are asking is for the doctor to tell them what to do. They are asking for a soul prescription. What would be good for me to do this week? How should I behave this week so that I will feel better? What should I do to love myself and others this week? Tell me what to do to have life and have it more abundantly.

And I’m right there with them. Asking for my prescription. Yes, even me, the person who never wants anyone to tell them what to do, I’m finally, day by day, starting to get it. Starting to get it that God is not the staff sergeant putting a gun to my head. Starting to get it that God is the doctor, with a steadying hand on my arm. God isn’t barking orders at me for his own agenda. God is actually good and loving, and looking out for me. And God is handing me a slip of paper and written on it are the words of life.

This is my commandment, that you love, Jesus said. I am finally beginning to hear this, I’m finally beginning to hear Jesus saying to me, saying to all of us sick little kids sitting in our hospital beds in the children’s wing, “You want to feel better, you want to really live? This is my prescription: love. Love each other. Love yourselves. Live in my love and love this whole beautiful, aching world. Just love.

That is the way to life.”