No one dreams of becoming a heroin addict when they are a child. I certainly didn’t. I wanted to be a Ghostbuster or Indiana Jones. I didn’t grow up in a home that would likely produce a heroin addict. My parents have been married for 40 years, I wasn’t abused, I always had a roof over my head, and I was and still am loved by my family. Certainly, we weren’t a perfect family. Like most, upon reflection and close examination, this fact is abundantly clear.

Was I genetically predisposed? Was I to pay a price for the sins of my father? Was it fate, karma, or something else? I thought about these questions for many years. Now, 39 days from 8 years of sobriety I rarely do, and this is one of the many impacts addiction had on my life.

I’m lucky to be alive. When you do heroin for long enough, the fear of death becomes a dull noise in the background of chaos. Now, from the outside looking in, I see how truly nefarious addiction is. Slowly or rapidly, the monkey on your back whispers in your ear as you march yourself to execution. What other affliction does this? It is from this perspective I can now see how precious life is.

What level of pain causes someone to become their own gleeful executioner? Be the trauma real or imagined, the results of escape via substance abuse are absolutely real. Further, the self-inflicted harm, like interest, compounds over time. “Jail, institutions, and death.” I know the pain that causes this. I’ve seen the rain bounce off the same square of concrete I was sleeping on. I’ve watched my family despair over their son’s whereabouts, well-being, and sanity. They watched me slowly attempt killing myself before their very eyes. To this day, eight years later, I still feel the pain of regret from my behavior. The pain is no longer crippling self-loathing. No, today it is a gentle angst that humbles me and reminds me of what exactly I have been saved from.

Perspective is a powerful tool. Like all tools, it can be used for good, or it can be used for abominable evil. The second greatest gift my addiction gave me is perspective. When you’ve been trapped in the darkest dungeons of evil, hopelessness, and despair, your perspective changes. Especially, when your situation is your own fault. This makes being a victim the parallel addiction. An excuse. If nothing is your fault, your genetics are bad, and the world is against you, you will never have to change. It is here where bitterness infects the blood and sickens its host. It corrupts, rots, and steals life. Over time perspective is warped so badly that the world is no longer recognizable, and neither are you.

When this perspective is flipped. Lives are changed and they are saved. This is where redemption is found. This is where we find forgiveness, love, kindness, and humility. It is from a renewed perspective that we can discover the antidote to victimhood, bitterness, and suffering. The antidote is gratitude.

When I first went to treatment for the last time, I often wondered where I would marshal the resources to change. How could I possibly be healed? After all, I truly believed I was born this way and had resigned to my imminent destiny.

This is where addiction truly touched my life in a way I still can’t really describe. This is the reason I found God. I really wanted nothing to do with God. Afterall, my superior intellect and spry mastery of the world had gotten my jailed, homeless, and addicted to heroin. There’s a nice quote, I don’t know who said it: “From the human heart hope springs eternal,” that’s the gist anyway. It’s a lovely sentiment, but it’s false. My human heart utterly lacked the resources, will, motivation, and perspective for hope. It was only when I surrendered my life to God that hope emerged and resides with me fully to this day. It is from this transcendent resource that a miracle happened in my life.

I have been sober nearly eight years and I give all credit and glory to God. That statement alone is the greatest gift I have ever been given. It is from the well of the eternal Himself that hope sprung and it is from that very well I drink from daily.

What Does the Bible Say?

Genesis 19:4-5 NKJV

"Now before they lay down, the men of the city, the men of Sodom, both old and young, all the people from every quarter, surrounded the house. 5 And they called to Lot and said to him, “Where are the men who came to you tonight? Bring them out to us that we may know them carnally.”

Matthew Henry - Reformed Baptist Minister 15th-16th Century England

That they were all wicked, v. 4. Wickedness had become universal, and they were unanimous in any vile design. Here were old and young, and all from every quarter, engaged in this riot; the old were not past it, and the young had soon come up to it. Either they had no magistrates to keep the peace, and protect the peaceable, or their magistrates were themselves aiding and abetting. Note, When the disease of sin has become epidemical, it is fatal to any place, Isa 1 5-7.

II. That they had arrived at the highest pitch of wickedness; they were sinners before the Lord exceedingly (ch. 13 13); for, 1. It was the most unnatural and abominable wickedness that they were now set upon, a sin that still bears their name, and is called Sodomy. They were carried headlong by those vile affections (Rom 1 26, 27), which are worse than brutish, and the eternal reproach of the human nature, and which cannot be thought of without horror by those that have the least spark of virtue and any remains of natural light and conscience. Note, Those that allow themselves in unnatural uncleanness are marked for the vengeance of eternal fire. See Jude 7. 2. They were not ashamed to own it, and to prosecute their design by force and arms. The practice would have been bad enough if it had been carried on by intrigue and wheedling; but they proclaimed war with virtue, and bade open defiance to it. Hence daring sinners are said to declare their sin as Sodom, Isa 3 9. Note, Those that have become impudent in sin generally prove impenitent in sin; and it will be their ruin. Those have hard hearts indeed that sin with a high hand.

Jude 5-7

But I want to remind you, though you once knew this, that the Lord, having saved the people out of the land of Egypt, afterward destroyed those who did not believe. 6 And the angels who did not keep their [c]proper domain, but left their own abode, He has reserved in everlasting chains under darkness for the judgment of the great day; 7 as Sodom and Gomorrah, and the cities around them in a similar manner to these, having given themselves over to sexual immorality and gone after strange flesh, are set forth as an example, suffering the [d]vengeance of eternal fire.

Isaiah 3: 9

The look on their countenance witnesses against them,

And they declare their sin as Sodom;

They do not hide it.

Woe to their soul!

For they have brought evil upon themselves.

Leviticus 18:22

You shall not lie with a male as with a woman. It is an abomination.

Ezekiel 16:49

Look, this was the iniquity of your sister Sodom: She and her daughter had pride, fullness of food, and abundance of idleness; neither did she strengthen the hand of the poor and needy. 50 And they were haughty and committed abomination before Me; therefore I took them away as [q]I saw fit.

Romans 1:24-32

Therefore God also gave them up to uncleanness, in the lusts of their hearts, to dishonor their bodies among themselves, 25 who exchanged the truth of God for the lie, and worshiped and served the creature rather than the Creator, who is blessed forever. Amen.

26 For this reason God gave them up to vile passions. For even their [i]women exchanged the natural use for what is against nature. 27 Likewise also the [j]men, leaving the natural use of the [k]woman, burned in their lust for one another, men with men committing what is shameful, and receiving in themselves the penalty of their error which was due.

28 And even as they did not like to retain God in their knowledge, God gave them over to a debased mind, to do those things which are not fitting; 29 being filled with all unrighteousness, [l]sexual immorality, wickedness, [m]covetousness, [n]maliciousness; full of envy, murder, strife, deceit, evil-mindedness; they are whisperers, 30 backbiters, haters of God, violent, proud, boasters, inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents, 31 [o]undiscerning, untrustworthy, unloving, [p]unforgiving, unmerciful; 32 who, knowing the righteous judgment of God, that those who practice such things are deserving of death, not only do the same but also approve of those who practice them.

1Corinthians 6:9-12

Do you not know that the unrighteous will not inherit the kingdom of God? Do not be deceived. Neither fornicators, nor idolaters, nor adulterers, nor [b]homosexuals, nor [c]sodomites, 10 nor thieves, nor covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God. 11 And such were some of you. But you were washed, but you were [d]sanctified, but you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus and by the Spirit of our God.

All things are lawful for me, but all things are not [e]helpful. All things are lawful for me, but I will not be brought under the power of [f]any.

1. In the original greek: arsenokoitai = homosexual

1Corinthians 6:18-20

Flee sexual immorality. Every sin that a man does is outside the body, but he who commits sexual immorality sins against his own body. 19 Or do you not know that your body is the temple of the Holy Spirit who is in you, whom you have from God, and you are not your own? 20 For you were bought at a price; therefore glorify God in your body [g]and in your spirit, which are God’s.

1 Timothy 1:8-11

But we know that the law is good if one uses it lawfully, 9 knowing this: that the law is not made for a righteous person, but for the lawless and insubordinate, for the ungodly and for sinners, for the unholy and profane, for murderers of fathers and murderers of mothers, for manslayers, 10 for fornicators, for sodomites, for kidnappers, for liars, for perjurers, and if there is any other thing that is [c]contrary to sound doctrine, 11 according to the glorious gospel of the blessed God which was committed to my trust.

Was I was born this way?

The short answer is yes, although not for the most commonly cited reasons. The answer is yes, because all human beings, regardless of genetic makeup and environment are born into sin. We've inherited this condition from Adam.

The most recent studies indicate there isn't a single genetic marker or "gay gene." However, much like alcoholism, there may be multiple genes which lead to a predisposition for homosexual attraction. This genetic predisposition, along with environmental factors, may be the cause.

So, we are faced with another question. If I'm genetically pre-disposed to behaving a certain way, is that sinful?

When I was addicted to drugs, I was dying for the answer to this question to be no. The problem was, my conscience wouldn't let me get away with that. I was not born into a Christian home, I had zero theological understanding, no relationship with God, and no desire to become religious by any stretch of the imagination. I had no framework for right and wrong, other than "be a good person." And yet, I still knew, at the deepest level, that my behavior was wrong. In order to avoid facing my wrongs, I did more things I shouldn't have. I did this long enough that I became addicted to doing things that were evil. I was physically addicted to drugs, and spiritually sick. I was enamored with sin. The progression was dark. Over time, it got worse, and worse, and worse. So it goes with sin, it compounds over time.

I had no real understanding of the evidence for my predisposition to addiction. However, I had heard enough rumors to consign myself to this fate. If my addiction was genetic, it wasn't my fault, and I needn't change. I was born this way.

I know what it means to believe something about yourself with every fiber of your being. I believed a lie about myself for many years. I used all of the celebrities who had died from drugs and alcohol as my heroes. I romanticized the idea of my tragic early death and my underappreciated talent.

Imagine now, if I was held up as a hero because of my behavior. I would have no incentive to change, and as a matter of fact, I would probably be dead, both spiritually and physically.

This comparison may seem harsh, but it is accurate. The parallels are there. When we celebrate sin, when we condone behavior that is expressly prohibited in scripture, we are not helping anyone.

What about the law?

Romans 10:4

4 For Christ is the end of the law for righteousness to everyone who believes.

Galatians 3:23-25

But before faith came, we were kept under guard by the law, [f]kept for the faith which would afterward be revealed. 24 Therefore the law was our [g]tutor to bring us to Christ, that we might be justified by faith. 25 But after faith has come, we are no longer under a tutor.

Ephesians 2:15

having abolished in His flesh the enmity, that is, the law of commandments contained in ordinances, so as to create in Himself one new man from the two, thus making peace,

Matthew 22:37-40

37 Jesus said to him, “‘You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your mind.’ 38 This is the first and great commandment. 39 And the second is like it: ‘You shall love your neighbor as yourself.’ 40 On these two commandments hang all the Law and the Prophets.”

The 10 commandments were a summary of all the Mosaic laws set out in the old testament. Many of the laws were to set apart the people of Israel from the rest of the world. Christians are not bound by these laws. However, 1John 5:3 says:

1John 5:3

For this is the love of God, that we keep His commandments. And His commandments are not burdensome. 4

James 2:14-24

What does it profit, my brethren, if someone says he has faith but does not have works? Can faith save him? 15 If a brother or sister is naked and destitute of daily food, 16 and one of you says to them, “Depart in peace, be warmed and filled,” but you do not give them the things which are needed for the body, what does it profit? 17 Thus also faith by itself, if it does not have works, is dead.

18 But someone will say, “You have faith, and I have works.” Show me your faith without [f]your works, and I will show you my faith by [g]my works. 19 You believe that there is one God. You do well. Even the demons believe—and tremble! 20 But do you want to know, O foolish man, that faith without works is [h]dead? 21 Was not Abraham our father justified by works when he offered Isaac his son on the altar? 22 Do you see that faith was working together with his works, and by works faith was made [i]perfect? 23 And the Scripture was fulfilled which says, “Abraham believed God, and it was [j]accounted to him for righteousness.” And he was called the friend of God. 24 You see then that a man is justified by works, and not by faith only.

Being a believer, and a born-again Christian, is more than just an understanding of the Gospel. There must be repentance. A term which literally means to turn away from. Jesus says:

Matt 16:24-26

Then Jesus said to His disciples, “If anyone desires to come after Me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross, and follow Me. 25 For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it. 26

One way to look at this is to understand that there must be an outward expression of our inward transformation. Yes, we are not bound by the law any longer, but we musn't continue on in sin. This does that mean that we will never sin again. What it does mean, is that our relationship with sin will now change. We should no longer be enslaved by our passions and desires. Our desires will change. If you are anything like me, this is easier said than done. Nowhere in scripture does it say this process of sanctification is easy. As someone who lead a life of habitual sin, it took me years to change. I'm still changing. Christ is the only way the necessary permanent change can happen.

Jesus really zeros in on the condition of our heart. This isn't about following rules.

During the sermon on the mount, he really get's to the heart of the issue:

Matthew 5:27-28

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’[e] 28 But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart. 29

The old man, who we once were, must die. We must be born again. A new creation.

The Two Extremes

The Westboro Baptist Church comes to mind first. (And by no means is the Westboro church the sole perpetrator, they are just an easy and obvious target). I won't get into their background here specifically.

This group is a cult, but unfortunately, they've received a plethora of media attention, so they've been lumped in with 'Christians,' in general. They made headlines in the '90's and I still remember seeing their antics on the news.

Their slogans are too vulgar to repeat. Much of their rhetoric is directed at homosexuals.

Most, if not all of what they do and say is not biblical. They have taken the Holy Scripture and used it for evil. The consequences for this type of behavior are significant.

First, when non-believers see these people on the news, claiming to be Christians, what do they think? I can tell you, because I was one of those people who saw these so-called Christians on the news. I thought they were all nuts. Right or wrong, I used that same broad brush on my view of all Christians. Seeing and hearing these things did have an influence on my perspective.

Second, when a homosexual person see this, what do they believe about the people of God? About God himself? How must it feel to know there are entire groups who have devoted their lives to hating you? What if he or she wanted to change, where would they go? Going to a church would be the last place on the list! What an incentive to continue to live in the world. At least there it feels safe. Safer than the church!

We have to know what the bible says. Completely and fully, so that we might know our creator and grow in His image. However, when we twist God's word, and cherry pick verses to fit our biases, we are wielding a dangerous weapon and growing in the image of something truly dark.

What about the church that affirms the homosexual lifestyle?

Consider this, if a church were to affirm stealing, what then? Sounds ridiculous, but it isn't different. If we go back to 1Corinthians 6 Paul lists thieves as those 'who would not inherit the kingdom of God.' Right along with the homosexuals.

Now, if we follow his logic and a church affirms this lifestyle, are we not actively condemning our brothers and sisters by endorsing the exact lifestyle which would exclude them from heaven? And if they are excluded from heaven, where would they go? They would go to hell.

Take a moment to understand the gravity of this situation. If we, as a church, condone those lifestyles the scripture explicitly forbids, are we not then actively participating in the condemnation of souls?

Now, I don't mean to say we are wholly responsible. But, I would argue, the leadership would be doing the work of Satan himself. No different from the Westboro baptist church. I submit, the danger here is subtly catastrophic because of the ways sin corrupts from the inside out.

2 Corinthians 11:13-15

For such are false apostles, deceitful workers, transforming themselves into apostles of Christ. 14 And no wonder! For Satan himself transforms himself into an angel of light. 15 Therefore it is no great thing if his ministers also transform themselves into ministers of righteousness, whose end will be according to their works.

Conclusion

So what now?

This is the tightrope we must walk. The only way, you, I, or anyone else is going to be saved is by the blood of Jesus Christ. That is where any and all discussion must begin and end.

The only way we might be brought into right relationship with God is through Christ. No matter what your sin. Rejecting this fact is the only sin which will condemn you for eternity.

The gospel is the only way.

Freedom does not come from unlimited pursuit of any passion or pleasure. It does not come from lawlessness and conformity to cultural norms. No. It is how our faith and willingness to stand firm in the transcendent laws written on our hearts, delivered to us in scripture, work together hand-in-hand. One strengthening the other. This and the revelation that we are now freed from the bondage of sin and promised an eternity separated from sin, it is this gift, from God, through Christ, that makes us free.

Book after book in the New Testament is contains guidance, from God himself, on the Christian ethic, our attitudes, and our behavior. How we are to stand out, to be in the world, but not of it. We are commanded to be salt and light. Exemplars, however failingly, of our Lord Jesus. For two millennia Christians, for better or for worse, are known by their love, charity, and efforts to live differently than the rest of the world.

We do not live this way because it is easier. No, we live this way because it is right. It is right, and just, and true, and God our gracious Father in heaven, commands it.

As I reflect on my time in this community, I often wonder what others would think about it. I’m not even exactly clear how I feel about it. I can say a few things for sure. The time I spent in treatment and for a couple of years afterward changed the trajectory of my entire life. I learned valuable lessons, made lifelong friends, and became a Christian, (a miracle in and of itself). I learned about generosity and grace at an extraordinary scale. I learned empathy as I wept with those who were around me. I’ve seen firsthand the spirit of God sweep through a community and change lives forever.

I also witnessed how cults start. I have languished about using that word for literally years now, and for obvious reasons. I want to be as precise as I can, and all indications are yes, I did belong to a cult. It’s hard to draw a line between the treatment center and its culture, and the extension of that treatment center I belonged to after I left. For all intents and purposes, I don’t believe anyone tried to form a cult or hurt anyone, spiritually or otherwise, but there was a cult and people were hurt. Be it negligence, hubris, or naiveté, those are the facts. I believe one man was responsible. More on that later.

I saw many men get saved. Men who are still strong Christians today. I saw many men walk away from the faith. More realistically, I saw men confess what they really believed once the social pressure was lifted. Hundreds and hundreds of men went through this place. Many recovered, many did not, some died, and some are still lost as I write this.

The treatment plan was more like gorilla warfare. When I arrived, I had been through several other rehabs, and this place was like none of them. The overarching theme was that everywhere else had it wrong. They were keeping people sick. We had arrived at, “the Harvard of recovery centers.”

I heard that quoted more than once when I first arrived. Frankly, it filled me with confidence. There had to be some truth behind a claim like that, right? It is amazing what statements like that will do to a culture.

“My guys have more recovery in one year, than people with five outside of here.”

“You only have to do this one time right, and never go through this again.”

“I guarantee you’ll get better if you do what we say.”

Bold statements in an arena where the statistics were not in their favor. I think at the time, most treatment centers were wildly successful if they had a 20% success rate of five years or more of continuous sobriety. At the House, I was told there was almost a 90% success rate. I saw no evidence backing up this claim, but I believed it. It made sense. I needed it to make sense. I was desperate and willing to do anything to get better.

I think this is what made it easy to overlook some of the red flags that arose during my time at the House and afterward. To be honest, I was never looking for red flags. I trusted everyone completely. I gave myself over to the program and its leadership. My commitment only grew stronger as I got better. Even to this day, I don’t realize how crazy some of this sounds until I describe it to someone who wasn’t there.

There were a few things that filled me with dread. We had a group twice a week on Mondays and Fridays. It was officially called ‘Resentment Group.’ We called it ‘Group,’ and it was clinically noted as ‘Conflict Resolution Group.’

When you’re brand new, you are required to attend a tiny version of this group before you go to the big one. I think it was about two weeks. It is a well-known axiom in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous that “resentment is the number one offender.” Meaning, unresolved disturbances, grievances, guilt, bitterness, grudges, were the primary motivating factor when an addict or alcoholic picked up again. I couldn’t say if this was for certain, but it seemed logical. What is true, are men that ended up in this treatment center were not emotionally well adjusted. What’s more, and what I can say for certain, is many of us had resentments that were decades old, slowly eating away at our spirits. Were they the cause of relapses? I don’t know. Did they contribute to what created an alcoholic or an addict? Absolutely and without a doubt.

What is a resentment? I got many lessons.

“Anything you think about more than once.”

“Picture a soda bottle, with all the little, tiny bubbles. Each bubble is something small that frustrated you over time. More and more of them gather and pressure builds. Either one day the bottle explodes, or you can slowly open the lid and release the pressure.” Group was important. To release the pressure.

“Imagine you have a backpack on. And all day long you gather resentments in your backpack. Little pieces of shit. The bag gets so full that not only is it breaking your back, every time you turn around you smear shit on an innocent bystander.”

“Have you ever gotten up, and just started the day angry? Someone pisses you off, and it keeps getting worse from there. Then someone says, ‘good morning,’ and you hear ‘fuck you.’ That’s what resentments will do to you.”

These were the lessons I learned in my first two weeks. I would go on to hear them many many times while I lived there. I would teach those same lessons myself.

I remember my first Resentment Group. Someone yelled, “Everyone go to group!” All the guys got up and somberly walked down the driveway along the right side of the house out to the sidewalk. There we turned right and walked a short distance to one of the other Houses. This was another big Victorian. The colors were really just multiple shades of grey. Picture 50 men all in a herd going through a single doorway. It was a bit of a controlled scrum. There was not chatter. No laughing. Everyone was strangely somber. Serious. Over the threshold to my right was a staircase going up to the second floor. To my left was a huge living room. To the far left was the street side. There were windows across the front of the room. Couches lined the walls in the front. Sort of in a horseshoe shape. To the right was a large archway and in the middle of the room were rows of chairs. Cloth chairs with wood armrests and feet. Like 90’s conference room style. Lining the right wall were more chairs leading into a smaller entry to the kitchen. Lining the wall in front of the kitchen and the left side of the room were more couches.

I was directed to the front left couch with the other new guys. By this time, we had learned that the new guys had assigned seating everywhere. Everyone took their places elsewhere. The room was full. The wood floors creaked as everyone settled. The air was thick and heavy. No one really made eye contact. A sign in sheet made its way through the room. Someone yelled, “let’s pray in!” I don’t remember if it was the Lord’s prayer or the serenity prayer. And then we sat in the silence.

We were literally crammed in there.

The program director came in last. He bounded in and sat on the couch in the front of the room. Dead center. He looked over at us, the new guys, and individually asked us all:

“First time?”

We nodded.

“New guys are off limits.” He announced to the room.

I remember thinking that was a curious statement.

“Let’s do resentments.”

And it began. I was in shock.

It was an ordered chaos. Each man went and rattled off the things he was angry at.

“So and so, it pisses me off when you…!”

That was the format. I came to learn later, the general idea was to express what you were upset about and attach a specific feeling. It was clear, the resentments were usually directed at individuals. Some behavior, action, or statement. It was loud. Not everyone was loud. Some yelled. Furious. Others were more measured. It was scary. Somebody called me out for something. The director stopped him and reminded everyone that I was off limits. My heart was in my throat. I didn’t even know these people yet.

Everyone in the room went. There was another theme developing. Everyone’s focus was directed at a single individual. This guy was getting called out by everybody. I felt so bad for him.

“So and so, it really fuckin’ pisses me off the way you act around here. You ain’t about shit!”

“…it seems like your building a case.”

“I got so angry when I tried to give you help and you battled me!”

It was strange the way they spoke.

These phrases were part of the colloquial vernacular there. They would become arrows in my quiver too.

Then everyone was done.

The director had chimed in at various times to prompt individuals to:

“Do some fucking work right now,” or,

“Time to get honest,”

“Get your shit above board.”

He asked everyone to take a deep breath and then it started again.

Only this time, the tone was completely different. The first guy stood up and began apologizing to each person who had called him out for something. It was so weird.

Never in my life had I heard a group of men be so honest with each other.

“I apologize for what I said to you man, the truth is I’m just really insecure and I was trying to get attention so I can feel better about myself.”

What! And so it went, all the way back around the room. Apologies. Honesty. It was remarkable.

You could feel the air in the room begin to lighten. Postures changed. The tension died down, and we were done.

I remember walking out of that house and reeling. I felt like I was on drugs again. I was sweaty and confused. I immediately did what I do, and retreated into my thoughts. We were walking to lunch, and as always, my thoughts were interrupted during our usual march.

The guy who had gotten absolutely lambasted by everyone in the room ran up to me. He was quite overweight. Hispanic. Brown hair and eyes. Apparently, he was ex-military. An Iraq war veteran who’s life had spiraled out of control when he came back from active duty. We had chatted briefly before, and he had shared those details with me. There were 100 or so guys there, and I’d only been on campus for two weeks, so I’m sure I didn’t even remember his name.

“Hey man, I wanted to talk to you about what happened in there.”

“Oh really, what about exactly?” I lied. I knew exactly what he was talking about. This was the pariah. I felt like I might acquire the scarlet letter just being near him. I knew he was an outcast. He wasn’t “about it.”

“I know you’ve never been to group before, so I wanted to let you know that those guys were helping me in there.”

He was trying to soften the blow, I thought. Trying to make sure I’m not scared away.

“I needed my brothers to point out things that I don’t see, they’re being my mirrors.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

I was completely uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I was even supposed to be talking to this guy. From what I saw, he was in serious trouble and I didn’t want anyone to think I was in cahoots. He continued as we walked.

“Sometimes you get a lot of help in group, everyone has a group like that.”

“Not a chance in hell I’m going through that.” I thought to myself.

Call it judgmental or mean. It was both. But, when you get into situations like these, you must learn the social structure right away. You must observe everyone’s behavior and catch on quick to what is and isn’t accepted, or your life would be miserable. In jail, you’d get beat up for breaking the social rules. On the street, you had to learn how everyone operated to ensure you got what you needed, and nobody was trying to come after you for anything. Call it a survival mechanism.

I asked him, “Why do you call it help?”

“Well, when your brothers are pointing out things to you, they’re helping you, giving you help.”

“Oh I see.” I said.

What I thought was, “got it, we call it help when you get yelled at.”

That’s exactly what it was. Sort of. Like many of the sayings, slang, idioms, etcetera, there was a well intentioned design behind it. “Help,” was supposed to be exactly that, help. However, as these things did there, it had a life of it’s own.

That is the crazy thing about social model and peer to peer feedback. Things would travel through the community. Jokes, sayings, slang, euphemisms, even actual physical behaviors. We had communal vocabulary.

There were many times, when you’d cross paths with someone looking glum and dejected, myself included.

“What’s up dude?”

“I got a bunch of help in group today.”

or, “I just got a bunch of help from the program director.”

We had many euphemisms for this process.

“Getting laced up.” One of my personal favorites, although it was discouraged by the staff to make a joke about getting help or group. It was a big no no. If you did, you were sure to get a bunch of “help.”

One common theme in this story, is this program was about as well-intentioned as one could be. Everything had a purpose. Was it all within the ethical bounds of counseling and the other regulatory bodies? Certainly not. That is where the tension lies. Was some of this over the top, too intense, did it cause problems? Yes, for sure. Did it help people? Yes it did. I’ll get into this more, but where it really got ugly, was when we were no longer in the confines of treatment. It was a weirdo socialistic spiritual commune, and it helped save my life and the lives of many others.

There were other groups on Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes, we’d have a “come above board group.” Those lasted for six to eight hours. We’d have to break for lunch and come back and finish. These groups were basically a giant confession. I won’t get into all the details, but some crazy crazy stuff would come up in there. People wanting to leave, sneaking into the office to call their girlfriend, the guys in second phase talked about porn and selfish desires.

Now, if someone else, “brought you above board,” the consequences were always greater. Secrets were treated like cancer. Straight chemotherapy. Nuke the system. If it was ever found out someone had secrets and others were keeping those secrets, there was hell to pay for that.

There was pressure on everyone to participate. If you didn’t have something to say, you’d better come up with something. Time to get honest. We all got pretty good at this after three or so years. Sometimes it was honest, and frankly, it was refreshing. It felt good to be free of all your secrets after so many years. Being honest about the day-to-day weirdo thoughts that go through your head as you recover generally get a good laugh.

It was in these groups that I saw the directors really do something special. I hated these groups. We all did. But, what I can’t get over was when someone would be honest, on their own, and would put it all out there, the directors would show them so much mercy. They wouldn’t yell, or embarrass, or shame. They’d simply relate, sometimes we’d all have a laugh, and move on. Don’t get me wrong, there would be consequences, but often they’d be mild, and the guy would be held up for his honesty. It always made me cry. I’d never felt safe to be that honest in my life. With anyone. Ever.

There were times when they’d embarrass and shame. That’s for sure. But never with the most damaged, weakest guys. They’d usually embarrass the heck out of the macho cocky guys. But the guys who were awkward, shy, and generally traumatized were handled with love and grace like I’ve never seen. It was so admirable.

The directors weren’t perfect. They weren’t particularly pleasant all the time. They made many mistakes, and were blind to many things. But the way they handled broken men was truly remarkable. I have great disdain for both of them, but often, [1]“the least of these,” were cherished and cared for.

[1] Matthew 25:40

This story is true. I've chosen to leave out specific details about the people involved to protect their anonymity. It should also be said that I was hurt by some of the people in this story, therefore, my recounting of the events is probably skewed. However, I've attempted to write the most objective story as I possibly could in all fairness to everyone involved. Mistakes were made. I cannot know a man's motives, his intentions, or his heart. Maybe I shouldn't, but I have and will attempt to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. This is a story about despair and hopelessness, salvation and redemption. It's about helpers and those who need help. I'm writing this story because I am looking to make sense of something that happened to me. I'm not out for revenge or retribution. I've been hurt, angry, and confused about all of this for years, and frankly, I don't know that I have really processed through this experience. Like many moments in my past, sometimes the memories haunt me and sometimes I'm filled with overwhelming joy and gratitude.

I was listening to the podcast: 'The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill,' and it was like someone opened up a faucet of thoughts, feelings, and memories. It all came rushing back. The specifics are almost entirely different, but not completely. The thing is, and maybe more will be revealed as I write, I can't quite put my finger on why my brain heard that story and immediately drew parallels, but it did. The only way I can figure it is best summed up by United States Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio: "...I know it when I see it." There are some personalities we cross paths with who are unforgettable. There are a handful of those in this story. One in particular, that to this day, I don't know if I respect or hate. I also cannot say if it was willful ignorance and good intentions, or pure evil I encountered. I know for sure I'm dealing with some level of 'Stockholm Syndrome.' It's confusing and strange. I can go from absolute anger and hate to a deep and true desire to reconcile.

There is a strange place I wandered into as a new Christian recovering from addiction. Somewhere between trauma and forgiveness; whilst knowing the depths of my own depravity, hypocrisy and sinfulness. In the pursuit of healing and clarity, the aforementioned characteristics make for confounding bedfellows. I've prayed and prayed for discernment and wisdom, and I'm not sure I've found either yet. Maybe that's why I was so compelled to write this. Then again, maybe it isn't.

It all seemed too good to be true. A year away from society would be a welcome respite from the world I was coming from. I traded the car I was driving to my drug dealer, packed my things into a couple paper bags, and slept on my parents' couch the night before I checked in. I was strung out bad this time. 31 years old and strung out.

I was thin. Emaciated. When I ate, which was rare, it was usually a scoop of peanut butter or a donut and chocolate milk.

As I write this, 7 years later, I still remember what it was like. The smells are still vivid. Cigarettes, stale meth smoke, and heroin lingered in the air like a putrid demonic stench. It turns my stomach to think about. I was barely human. It came out of my pores as I was sweating, trying to clean up my room. I was staying in a house a few miles from where my family lived. What was said, the timeline of events, exactly how it all went down those last couple days is a haze, but I'll never forget the smells.

I don't remember if I slept the night before I left.

I called a friend a few days earlier and he had sort of taken me hostage until I made it to treatment. It was very strange. I called him for help, and he just came and got me. He didn't leave my side until I was checked in to rehab. This man saved my life.

I was smoking meth off of a piece of tinfoil as we pulled around the corner from the rehab. I was in a strange place. I don't recall observing my surroundings in any real detail. All I remember was I'd never been to this city before, and I had no idea how we had gotten here. My brain was still sluggish from the heroin I had done earlier. It was a flurry of sound, and sweat, and anxiety. I was an absolute mess, but I was resolute in my decision to go into treatment.

I think it might be important to note I still feel utterly disturbed when recounting these last moments. However, I think it is very important to lay the foundation as to my state of mind when I went into this place. Although, it my be hard to read these ugly details, they are important. While I know these lines may be difficult to read, I promise they were far more difficult to write.

I wasn't drug tested when I arrived. Thank God for that. There was a standard, I learned later, that you had to 'test clean' upon arrival to treatment. This is because withdrawal from alcohol and benzodiazepines (Xanax) can cause serious seizures and be fatal. This treatment center wasn't built for that level of care, so most would need to detox before arriving. It was also used as a tool to test for willingness.

The scene was so strange. I don't remember how it all went down exactly, but I arrived with my bags in tow and was seated at a table bolted to a concrete slab. There were a row of these subway tables running parallel to the sidewalk. When I sat, the street was to my left. Across the street a group stood and smoked cigarettes and talked. To my right were various patio style tables and chairs scattered across the concrete. There were guys everywhere. It was like a little beehive. There was a flat wooden roof stretching over the entire concrete slab. Further to my right there was a black Labrador tied to one of the polls and a doghouse.

Then they started. One after another, introducing themselves, shaking my hand, "what's your name man?"

"welcome home," "you have everything that you need?"

Over and over and over, the same questions and statements. They all looked me right in the eye. Everyone seemed sincere. I was reeling from the drugs, and it all was quite a blur.

I feel the need to add another warning in here. There is cursing in this story. I am only going to use it when necessary, however, it is very important for the reader to get an understanding of the vernacular. There was a whole language of its own in this place, and cursing, was a part of it. I will not use it for dramatic effect, or emphasis, I only use swear words in direct reference to the way people spoke. I'm trying to paint the clearest picture I can while reflecting on the crazy psychology of it all. Language, behavior, thinking, speaking, everything had a life of its own. Frankly, the vast majority of the men there were from very rough backgrounds and swearing comes with the territory. When you're unhinged and addicted to serious drugs, living under bridges, in jails and institutions, you learn to express yourself like the trolls and demons. You become a creature, and creatures do not speak the 'Kings.'

I had been to treatment before. I had been to jail before. They are not the same, but they do have similarities. No matter where you wash up, you are kind of always ready for anything and on edge. This was all unexpected. I think the best way to say it is I was disarmed immediately. When one wanders amongst the monsters of this world, he so arms himself. Multiple personalities, defenses, hiding, secrets, pain, suffering, pure unadulterated terror, borderline psychosis, lying, violence, cowardice, and evil make up the armor we wear upon entering into new situations. I was disoriented, still intoxicated, and burned out, but I was still watching everyone closely.

Directly in front of me was the house. This place sits on an entire block with multiple buildings. We always called it 'the house.' The main house sat on the corner of a 'T' style intersection. From the front looking directly across the street was an incredible view of a harbor. It was quite literally a house. Two stories, white with blue trim. The concrete area was set in the back. I found out later this concrete patio gathering area was called 'the Pit.'

There was a short staircase leading up to the porch with railing that stretched the width of the building along the back. There was a white podium seated directly in the center of the deck area. Behind it was a bench. There were two doorways. One on the left and one on the right. Each doorway had a short staircase in front of it. Both had screen doors. I couldn't see the second floor from where I was sitting because the roof of the Pit blocked my view. I could see the stairs leading directly to the second floor to my right. It was an external staircase. It was obviously old. The paint was cracked and faded.

I was staring directly at the doorway on the left side of the house trying to get my wits about me, shaking hands, and responding as politely as I could to each man, when the screen door popped open and out came a man. He came down the short staircase as the screen door slapped shut behind him.

He was a short square man with broad shoulders and short arms. He didn't look very old. Maybe in his early forties. His arms were covered in tattoos. Back then I would have said he was 'sleeved out.' Meaning the tattoos covered his arms like shirt sleeves. I saw right away this was not professional tattoo parlor ink. It was prison art. Prison tattoos don't have any color. They have a greenish black hue. Usually, they have skulls, demons, nude women, and symbols. Again, "you know it when you see it." He had dark short hair, kept in a messy crew cut.

I watched him as he sort of bounded down the steps energetically. He came over and sat down directly across from me. He looked directly at me with cobalt blue eyes that didn't seem to blink. I remember thinking there was a familiar mischievous twinkle in those eyes. He shook my hand and introduced himself without breaking eye contact. I remember this moment clearly. Relief washed over me and I realized this person saw me as a human being. It was surreal and authentic. I wasn't a patient in that moment, or a client, I wasn't just another body to be cycled through in 30 days. This man looked at me like he cared, understood me, and was sincerely interested in what I had to say for myself.

I don't remember the details of our conversation. I do remember he never broke eye contact with me. I'm sure I lied about the details of my using, and especially avoided telling him that I had been doing so up to the moment of my arrival. He knew what was up.

He said, "So you'll probably be dope sick for a few days right? Like the flu."

I said, "yeah," not really knowing how severe my withdrawal would be.

"I don't want any whining, okay?"

I chuckled and agreed.

Then he laid out what my life was going to look like for the next 9 to 12 months.

"Alright, so the program is 9 to 12 months no contact; could be longer, could be shorter, depends on the person. No letters, emails, phone calls, visits, of any kind. Your family needs a break from you. We got you from here. You'll be up at six every morning and in bed at ten every night. There's no hanging out in your room and 'chilln,' no naps, TV, newspapers, no books except for approved AA literature. Everyday you'll have groups, classes, and 12-step meetings. This is a social model program with 100 men. If you can follow directions you'll be just fine. Can you handle that?"

"Sure," I replied.

He had one final question.

"Are you willing to go to any lengths for your sobriety?"

"Yes." I said solemnly.

He had me fill out some paperwork, I said goodbye to my friend, and I was in. That was January 7th, 2015.

I was in. Immediately, I was escorted into the House by a young man. He looked like he was about 17 years old. It was so weird. He told me that he'd be searching my stuff for contraband. I don't remember our conversation exactly, but I remember him telling me that he was an intern there. I thought that was interesting.

I had lost all real sense of personal privacy. I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I had to drug test in front of people, shared small rooms with criminals, been stripped searched, even my secrets didn't stay that way for very long.

After I was all searched and checked in, someone took my belongings to my room for me and I was sent to get a haircut. No long hair, no beards, no mustaches. I didn't know all of that when I sat down. They sent me to a house across the street from the main one. Another crazy looking Victorian. It had tall white pillars between the first and second floors and a string of windows along the bottom and the top. The building was white with blue trim and looked to be about the same age as the main house. As I walked across the street with my escort we went up a long wheelchair ramp along the right side of the building to a door. Inside we went and to my left was a hall. Along the right side of the hall were commercial grade washers and dryers. To the left was a long table. The hall lead into what looked like a living room. To my right was a small room with two windows and sure enough there was a barber chair right in the center.

My escort also happened to be my barber. He was different from the guy who checked me in. This guy had nautical tattoos on both of his forearms. They were not jailhouse or prison tattoos. He was shorter with blonde hair. And this dude had the craziest lazy eye I have ever seen. My barber. I pretended to ignore it and proceeded to describe how I'd like my haircut.

"Just leave it kind of long on the top and clean up the sides."

He only nodded.

I wasn't really watching what he was doing. But, before I knew it I realized I was getting a buzz cut. Number two all the way around.

I wasn't even mad. I realized it wasn't an accident, and I knew he heard every word I said. This was my introduction to "you ain't runnin' shit around here." Still makes me laugh to this day. He was a good guy and ended up being one of the faces that would appear in this place for treatment more than once.

It was a Wednesday. The handshakes continued, it was a warm and overwhelming experience. I asked everyone how long they'd been there. Some of the answers were unbelievable. Three years, two years, four years! I was shocked. I remember thinking that was probably a good thing.

Then, suddenly, someone yelled, "Primary, go eat!"

The sound of all the metal chairs on the cement was deafening. Everyone started to migrate towards the right side of the house down the long driveway to the sidewalk. There was someone by my side the whole time. Chatting me up.

We walked in pairs along the street. I don't remember who walked with me. The whole heard of men traveled down the street. To my right, were the harbor view properties. A sign hung from a two story house. That was one of ours. As we continued, we passed a Swedish church on the corner of the next block.

As we crossed the street towards another large single story building, I got an important lesson. My walking partner pointed to the stop sign on the right of the crosswalk and said, "always go around that stop sign, we don't cut corners." This would be one of many many rules I'd learn about here. My world was about to dramatically change, and I couldn't be happier.

I was dying for some type of structure and discipline. I welcomed all of the order and the rules. I was 31 years old and had been living in the middle of utter chaos for many years. I was exhausted. I had spent so many years aimless, without sails, rudder, or map; I was dying for some direction. My spirit was crushed, I was literally starving, for food and for friends. I spent years pursuing pleasure and my very own heaven-on-earth, that I ended up in Hell. This place was very strict, and it felt like heaven.

We walked up a narrow walkway lined with nautical style rope and post decorative garnishes. The building itself looked like an elementary school on the outside.

To the right of the walkway was an open space that was paved with bricks. It ran into a large wall with two cement seats against it. The wall was the back of an autobody shop next door.

The walkway took us through a rod iron gate where we hung a left and there were 2 coatracks on either side of the door. No hats allowed in the "Barts." That was the name of the large commercial cafeteria.

The floor was vinyl with huge round plastic tables scattered throughout. Chairs encircled each table. Everyone lined up on the right wall and waited to use the bathroom. We all had to wash our hands. At the end of the wall facing out was the serving window. There were a handful of guys in white t-shirts shuffled around busily. I remember the noise was crazy. Every one was chatting away happily. There had to be 60-70 guys in there.

When I came out of the bathroom, someone yelled, "new man to the front!" Everyone started clapping and pushing me to the front of the line. They were letting me eat first. I was mortified, and I'd never felt so welcome anywhere in my life.

After dinner, we marched a few blocks up the street to another building. Two by two. Everywhere was always two by two. This was by design. One was never left alone with his thoughts for too long. Those thoughts were out to kill us.

We marched up to an AA meeting. There were people from the outside there along with our group. We clustered together on one side of the room upstairs. The building looked like it used to be an old church. Everything was old and made of wood. There was a small kitchen where we could grab a cup of coffee.

Everyone milled about outside of the building, smoking, waiting for the meeting to start. It was here I was briefed.

"Best you just listen. This is about sharing experience, strength and hope, of which you have none, so keep your mouth shut and sit in front."

Fair enough. I didn't have much to say anyway.

I don't remember the meeting, but it was warm and by candlelight. The meeting ended and we marched back to the Pit. It seemed like all 100 men were there milling about, sitting in groups, talking, and laughing. Some guys were across the street smoking. I didn't really care to sit and chat at the moment, so I took my place at the driveway by the street, turned and faced everyone and yelled, "new man needs a ride!" My first few weeks I'd be on 'New Man Status.' Never alone, and if I wanted to go across the street, I was required to turn and yell for a ride. Boy was that humbling. That was the whole idea. This was another one of many lessons I'd learn there. If I didn't seek humility on my own, I'd be humiliated.

We all sat around and chatted. Someone yelled for clean up, and like ants, everyone grabbed chairs, tables, old cups, books, brooms, and starting putting everything away. We all circled up, and someone made a few announcements about the next days, things that needed correcting, and I don't remember what else. We all placed a 'foot in' for all the alcoholics and addicts still suffering. We said the Lord's prayer, and headed off to bed.

I was coming off a bad run doing heroin and meth for I don't know how many consecutive weeks. I was completely exhausted, my spirit was sick, my body was badly broken, and my mind was reeling. I'll never forget, that after my head hit the pillow, I slept the deepest dreamless sleep I'd had in years.

As I reflect on my time in this community, I often wonder what others would think about it. I’m not even exactly clear how I feel about it. I can say a few things for sure. The time I spent in treatment and for a couple of years afterward changed the trajectory of my entire life. I learned valuable lessons, made lifelong friends, and became a Christian, (a miracle in and of itself). I learned about generosity and grace at an extraordinary scale. I learned empathy as I wept with those who were around me. I’ve seen firsthand the spirit of God sweep through a community and change lives forever.

I also witnessed how cults start. I have languished about using that word for literally years now, and for obvious reasons. I want to be as precise as I can, and all indications are yes, I did belong to a cult. It’s hard to draw a line between the treatment center and its culture, and the extension of that treatment center I belonged to after I left. For all intents and purposes, I don’t believe anyone tried to form a cult or hurt anyone, spiritually or otherwise, but there was a cult and people were hurt. Be it negligence, hubris, or naiveté, those are the facts. I believe one man was responsible. More on that later.

I saw many men get saved. Men who are still strong Christians today. I saw many men walk away from the faith. More realistically, I saw men confess what they really believed once the social pressure was lifted. Hundreds and hundreds of men went through this place. Many recovered, many did not, some died, and some are still lost as I write this.

The treatment plan was more like gorilla warfare. When I arrived, I had been through several other rehabs, and this place was like none of them. The overarching theme was that everywhere else had it wrong. They were keeping people sick. We had arrived at, “the Harvard of recovery centers.”

I heard that quoted more than once when I first arrived. Frankly, it filled me with confidence. There had to be some truth behind a claim like that, right? It is amazing what statements like that will do to a culture.

“My guys have more recovery in one year, than people with five outside of here.”

“You only have to do this one time right, and never go through this again.”

“I guarantee you’ll get better if you do what we say.”

Bold statements in an arena where the statistics were not in their favor. I think at the time, most treatment centers were wildly successful if they had a 20% success rate of five years or more of continuous sobriety. At the House, I was told there was almost a 90% success rate. I saw no evidence backing up this claim, but I believed it. It made sense. I needed it to make sense. I was desperate and willing to do anything to get better.

I think this is what made it easy to overlook some of the red flags that arose during my time at the House and afterward. To be honest, I was never looking for red flags. I trusted everyone completely. I gave myself over to the program and its leadership. My commitment only grew stronger as I got better. Even to this day, I don’t realize how crazy some of this sounds until I describe it to someone who wasn’t there.

There were a few things that filled me with dread. We had a group twice a week on Mondays and Fridays. It was officially called ‘Resentment Group.’ We called it ‘Group,’ and it was clinically noted as ‘Conflict Resolution Group.’

When you’re brand new, you are required to attend a tiny version of this group before you go to the big one. I think it was about two weeks. It is a well-known axiom in the rooms of Alcoholics Anonymous that “resentment is the number one offender.” Meaning, unresolved disturbances, grievances, guilt, bitterness, grudges, were the primary motivating factor when an addict or alcoholic picked up again. I couldn’t say if this was for certain, but it seemed logical. What is true, are men that ended up in this treatment center were not emotionally well adjusted. What’s more, and what I can say for certain, is many of us had resentments that were decades old, slowly eating away at our spirits. Were they the cause of relapses? I don’t know. Did they contribute to what created an alcoholic or an addict? Absolutely and without a doubt.

What is a resentment? I got many lessons.

“Anything you think about more than once.”

“Picture a soda bottle, with all the little, tiny bubbles. Each bubble is something small that frustrated you over time. More and more of them gather and pressure builds. Either one day the bottle explodes, or you can slowly open the lid and release the pressure.” Group was important. To release the pressure.

“Imagine you have a backpack on. And all day long you gather resentments in your backpack. Little pieces of shit. The bag gets so full that not only is it breaking your back, every time you turn around you smear shit on an innocent bystander.”

“Have you ever gotten up, and just started the day angry? Someone pisses you off, and it keeps getting worse from there. Then someone says, ‘good morning,’ and you hear ‘fuck you.’ That’s what resentments will do to you.”

These were the lessons I learned in my first two weeks. I would go on to hear them many many times while I lived there. I would teach those same lessons myself.

I remember my first Resentment Group. Someone yelled, “Everyone go to group!” All the guys got up and somberly walked down the driveway along the right side of the house out to the sidewalk. There we turned right and walked a short distance to one of the other Houses. This was another big Victorian. The colors were really just multiple shades of grey. Picture 50 men all in a herd going through a single doorway. It was a bit of a controlled scrum. There was not chatter. No laughing. Everyone was strangely somber. Serious. Over the threshold to my right was a staircase going up to the second floor. To my left was a huge living room. To the far left was the street side. There were windows across the front of the room. Couches lined the walls in the front. Sort of in a horseshoe shape. To the right was a large archway and in the middle of the room were rows of chairs. Cloth chairs with wood armrests and feet. Like 90’s conference room style. Lining the right wall were more chairs leading into a smaller entry to the kitchen. Lining the wall in front of the kitchen and the left side of the room were more couches.

I was directed to the front left couch with the other new guys. By this time, we had learned that the new guys had assigned seating everywhere. Everyone took their places elsewhere. The room was full. The wood floors creaked as everyone settled. The air was thick and heavy. No one really made eye contact. A sign in sheet made its way through the room. Someone yelled, “let’s pray in!” I don’t remember if it was the Lord’s prayer or the serenity prayer. And then we sat in the silence.

We were literally crammed in there.

The program director came in last. He bounded in and sat on the couch in the front of the room. Dead center. He looked over at us, the new guys, and individually asked us all:

“First time?”

We nodded.

“New guys are off limits.” He announced to the room.

I remember thinking that was a curious statement.

“Let’s do resentments.”

And it began. I was in shock.

It was an ordered chaos. Each man went and rattled off the things he was angry at.

“So and so, it pisses me off when you…!”

That was the format. I came to learn later, the general idea was to express what you were upset about and attach a specific feeling. It was clear, the resentments were usually directed at individuals. Some behavior, action, or statement. It was loud. Not everyone was loud. Some yelled. Furious. Others were more measured. It was scary. Somebody called me out for something. The director stopped him and reminded everyone that I was off limits. My heart was in my throat. I didn’t even know these people yet.

Everyone in the room went. There was another theme developing. Everyone’s focus was directed at a single individual. This guy was getting called out by everybody. I felt so bad for him.

“So and so, it really fuckin’ pisses me off the way you act around here. You ain’t about shit!”

“…it seems like your building a case.”

“I got so angry when I tried to give you help and you battled me!”

It was strange the way they spoke.

These phrases were part of the colloquial vernacular there. They would become arrows in my quiver too.

Then everyone was done.

The director had chimed in at various times to prompt individuals to:

“Do some fucking work right now,” or,

“Time to get honest,”

“Get your shit above board.”

He asked everyone to take a deep breath and then it started again.

Only this time, the tone was completely different. The first guy stood up and began apologizing to each person who had called him out for something. It was so weird.

Never in my life had I heard a group of men be so honest with each other.

“I apologize for what I said to you man, the truth is I’m just really insecure and I was trying to get attention so I can feel better about myself.”

What! And so it went, all the way back around the room. Apologies. Honesty. It was remarkable.

You could feel the air in the room begin to lighten. Postures changed. The tension died down, and we were done.

I remember walking out of that house and reeling. I felt like I was on drugs again. I was sweaty and confused. I immediately did what I do, and retreated into my thoughts. We were walking to lunch, and as always, my thoughts were interrupted during our usual march.

The guy who had gotten absolutely lambasted by everyone in the room ran up to me. He was quite overweight. Hispanic. Brown hair and eyes. Apparently, he was ex-military. An Iraq war veteran who’s life had spiraled out of control when he came back from active duty. We had chatted briefly before, and he had shared those details with me. There were 100 or so guys there, and I’d only been on campus for two weeks, so I’m sure I didn’t even remember his name.

“Hey man, I wanted to talk to you about what happened in there.”

“Oh really, what about exactly?” I lied. I knew exactly what he was talking about. This was the pariah. I felt like I might acquire the scarlet letter just being near him. I knew he was an outcast. He wasn’t “about it.”

“I know you’ve never been to group before, so I wanted to let you know that those guys were helping me in there.”

He was trying to soften the blow, I thought. Trying to make sure I’m not scared away.

“I needed my brothers to point out things that I don’t see, they’re being my mirrors.”

“Oh, okay,” I said.

I was completely uncomfortable. I wasn’t sure if I was even supposed to be talking to this guy. From what I saw, he was in serious trouble and I didn’t want anyone to think I was in cahoots. He continued as we walked.

“Sometimes you get a lot of help in group, everyone has a group like that.”

“Not a chance in hell I’m going through that.” I thought to myself.

Call it judgmental or mean. It was both. But, when you get into situations like these, you must learn the social structure right away. You must observe everyone’s behavior and catch on quick to what is and isn’t accepted, or your life would be miserable. In jail, you’d get beat up for breaking the social rules. On the street, you had to learn how everyone operated to ensure you got what you needed, and nobody was trying to come after you for anything. Call it a survival mechanism.

I asked him, “Why do you call it help?”

“Well, when your brothers are pointing out things to you, they’re helping you, giving you help.”

“Oh I see.” I said.

What I thought was, “got it, we call it help when you get yelled at.”

That’s exactly what it was. Sort of. Like many of the sayings, slang, idioms, etcetera, there was a well intentioned design behind it. “Help,” was supposed to be exactly that, help. However, as these things did there, it had a life of it’s own.

That is the crazy thing about social model and peer to peer feedback. Things would travel through the community. Jokes, sayings, slang, euphemisms, even actual physical behaviors. We had communal vocabulary.

There were many times, when you’d cross paths with someone looking glum and dejected, myself included.

“What’s up dude?”

“I got a bunch of help in group today.”

or, “I just got a bunch of help from the program director.”

We had many euphemisms for this process.

“Getting laced up.” One of my personal favorites, although it was discouraged by the staff to make a joke about getting help or group. It was a big no no. If you did, you were sure to get a bunch of “help.”

One common theme in this story, is this program was about as well-intentioned as one could be. Everything had a purpose. Was it all within the ethical bounds of counseling and the other regulatory bodies? Certainly not. That is where the tension lies. Was some of this over the top, too intense, did it cause problems? Yes, for sure. Did it help people? Yes it did. I’ll get into this more, but where it really got ugly, was when we were no longer in the confines of treatment. It was a weirdo socialistic spiritual commune, and it helped save my life and the lives of many others.

There were other groups on Mondays and Fridays. Sometimes, we’d have a “come above board group.” Those lasted for six to eight hours. We’d have to break for lunch and come back and finish. These groups were basically a giant confession. I won’t get into all the details, but some crazy crazy stuff would come up in there. People wanting to leave, sneaking into the office to call their girlfriend, the guys in second phase talked about porn and selfish desires.

Now, if someone else, “brought you above board,” the consequences were always greater. Secrets were treated like cancer. Straight chemotherapy. Nuke the system. If it was ever found out someone had secrets and others were keeping those secrets, there was hell to pay for that.

There was pressure on everyone to participate. If you didn’t have something to say, you’d better come up with something. Time to get honest. We all got pretty good at this after three or so years. Sometimes it was honest, and frankly, it was refreshing. It felt good to be free of all your secrets after so many years. Being honest about the day-to-day weirdo thoughts that go through your head as you recover generally get a good laugh.

It was in these groups that I saw the directors really do something special. I hated these groups. We all did. But, what I can’t get over was when someone would be honest, on their own, and would put it all out there, the directors would show them so much mercy. They wouldn’t yell, or embarrass, or shame. They’d simply relate, sometimes we’d all have a laugh, and move on. Don’t get me wrong, there would be consequences, but often they’d be mild, and the guy would be held up for his honesty. It always made me cry. I’d never felt safe to be that honest in my life. With anyone. Ever.

There were times when they’d embarrass and shame. That’s for sure. But never with the most damaged, weakest guys. They’d usually embarrass the heck out of the macho cocky guys. But the guys who were awkward, shy, and generally traumatized were handled with love and grace like I’ve never seen. It was so admirable.

The directors weren’t perfect. They weren’t particularly pleasant all the time. They made many mistakes, and were blind to many things. But the way they handled broken men was truly remarkable. I have great disdain for both of them, but often, [1]“the least of these,” were cherished and cared for.

[1] Matthew 25:40

I had a vision

I think He mixed my minerals different.

Paranoid schizophrenic, I think this is his religion.

I feel it in my body, feel it fuse in my physics.

Mistakes in this business: wishes and timid decisions

My demons are deceitful

A love affair with a needle caused the people closest to me to believe that I was evil

And it was trials tribulations evolution situations

And the money seems to fuel the negative confrontations

Chains and Straps

I think my brain just snapped

I'd rather go out with a bang, then just fade to black

I struggle and strain against the buckles and chains

I fell in love with the pain

But still the struggle remains

He looked into his sons eyes and held back tears as he knelt by the little bed.

The machines chirped.

"Where am I going when I die dad?"

His atheism had been a badge of honor until now.

Tears streamed uncontrollably now. He began to tremble.

"Heaven buddy."

The soil is still frosted.

It was the winter nobody wanted.

Demons are deceitful.

A love affair with a needle, the world said was freedom.

And the people closest to me believed that I was evil.

The Cherry Blossoms cautioned against the most auspicious malestroms.

Who would be the winner?

This most underappreciated winter.

Pessimists thrive in disappointment and pallor.

Shadowed a color the same pigment as valor.

Where does it begin.

Where does it start.

I wish winter would forget its measured icy pleasure.

And leave matters scattered to pitter patter of hearts.

This story is true. I've chosen to leave out specific details about the people involved to protect their anonymity. It should also be said that I was hurt by some of the people in this story, therefore, my recounting of the events is probably skewed. However, I've attempted to write the most objective story as I possibly could in all fairness to everyone involved. Mistakes were made. I cannot know a man's motives, his intentions, or his heart. Maybe I shouldn't, but I have and will attempt to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. This is a story about despair and hopelessness, salvation and redemption. It's about helpers and those who need help. I'm writing this story because I am looking to make sense of something that happened to me. I'm not out for revenge or retribution. I've been hurt, angry, and confused about all of this for years, and frankly, I don't know that I have really processed through this experience. Like many moments in my past, sometimes the memories haunt me and sometimes I'm filled with overwhelming joy and gratitude.

I was listening to the podcast: 'The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill,' and it was like someone opened up a faucet of thoughts, feelings, and memories. It all came rushing back. The specifics are almost entirely different, but not completely. The thing is, and maybe more will be revealed as I write, I can't quite put my finger on why my brain heard that story and immediately drew parallels, but it did. The only way I can figure it is best summed up by United States Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart in Jacobellis v. Ohio: "...I know it when I see it." There are some personalities we cross paths with who are unforgettable. There are a handful of those in this story. One in particular, that to this day, I don't know if I respect or hate. I also cannot say if it was willful ignorance and good intentions, or pure evil I encountered. I know for sure I'm dealing with some level of 'Stockholm Syndrome.' It's confusing and strange. I can go from absolute anger and hate to a deep and true desire to reconcile.

There is a strange place I wandered into as a new Christian recovering from addiction. Somewhere between trauma and forgiveness; whilst knowing the depths of my own depravity, hypocrisy and sinfulness. In the pursuit of healing and clarity, the aforementioned characteristics make for confounding bedfellows. I've prayed and prayed for discernment and wisdom, and I'm not sure I've found either yet. Maybe that's why I was so compelled to write this. Then again, maybe it isn't.

It all seemed too good to be true. A year away from society would be a welcome respite from the world I was coming from. I traded the car I was driving to my drug dealer, packed my things into a couple paper bags, and slept on my parents' couch the night before I checked in. I was strung out bad this time. 31 years old and strung out.

I was thin. Emaciated. When I ate, which was rare, it was usually a scoop of peanut butter or a donut and chocolate milk.

As I write this, 7 years later, I still remember what it was like. The smells are still vivid. Cigarettes, stale meth smoke, and heroin lingered in the air like a putrid demonic stench. It turns my stomach to think about. I was barely human. It came out of my pores as I was sweating, trying to clean up my room. I was staying in a house a few miles from where my family lived. What was said, the timeline of events, exactly how it all went down those last couple days is a haze, but I'll never forget the smells.

I don't remember if I slept the night before I left.

I called a friend a few days earlier and he had sort of taken me hostage until I made it to treatment. It was very strange. I called him for help, and he just came and got me. He didn't leave my side until I was checked in to rehab. This man saved my life.

I was smoking meth off of a piece of tinfoil as we pulled around the corner from the rehab. I was in a strange place. I don't recall observing my surroundings in any real detail. All I remember was I'd never been to this city before, and I had no idea how we had gotten here. My brain was still sluggish from the heroin I had done earlier. It was a flurry of sound, and sweat, and anxiety. I was an absolute mess, but I was resolute in my decision to go into treatment.

I think it might be important to note I still feel utterly disturbed when recounting these last moments. However, I think it is very important to lay the foundation as to my state of mind when I went into this place. Although, it my be hard to read these ugly details, they are important. While I know these lines may be difficult to read, I promise they were far more difficult to write.

I wasn't drug tested when I arrived. Thank God for that. There was a standard, I learned later, that you had to 'test clean' upon arrival to treatment. This is because withdrawal from alcohol and benzodiazepines (Xanax) can cause serious seizures and be fatal. This treatment center wasn't built for that level of care, so most would need to detox before arriving. It was also used as a tool to test for willingness.

The scene was so strange. I don't remember how it all went down exactly, but I arrived with my bags in tow and was seated at a table bolted to a concrete slab. There were a row of these subway tables running parallel to the sidewalk. When I sat, the street was to my left. Across the street a group stood and smoked cigarettes and talked. To my right were various patio style tables and chairs scattered across the concrete. There were guys everywhere. It was like a little beehive. There was a flat wooden roof stretching over the entire concrete slab. Further to my right there was a black Labrador tied to one of the polls and a doghouse.

Then they started. One after another, introducing themselves, shaking my hand, "what's your name man?"

"welcome home," "you have everything that you need?"

Over and over and over, the same questions and statements. They all looked me right in the eye. Everyone seemed sincere. I was reeling from the drugs, and it all was quite a blur.

I feel the need to add another warning in here. There is cursing in this story. I am only going to use it when necessary, however, it is very important for the reader to get an understanding of the vernacular. There was a whole language of its own in this place, and cursing, was a part of it. I will not use it for dramatic effect, or emphasis, I only use swear words in direct reference to the way people spoke. I'm trying to paint the clearest picture I can while reflecting on the crazy psychology of it all. Language, behavior, thinking, speaking, everything had a life of its own. Frankly, the vast majority of the men there were from very rough backgrounds and swearing comes with the territory. When you're unhinged and addicted to serious drugs, living under bridges, in jails and institutions, you learn to express yourself like the trolls and demons. You become a creature, and creatures do not speak the 'Kings.'

I had been to treatment before. I had been to jail before. They are not the same, but they do have similarities. No matter where you wash up, you are kind of always ready for anything and on edge. This was all unexpected. I think the best way to say it is I was disarmed immediately. When one wanders amongst the monsters of this world, he so arms himself. Multiple personalities, defenses, hiding, secrets, pain, suffering, pure unadulterated terror, borderline psychosis, lying, violence, cowardice, and evil make up the armor we wear upon entering into new situations. I was disoriented, still intoxicated, and burned out, but I was still watching everyone closely.

Directly in front of me was the house. This place sits on an entire block with multiple buildings. We always called it 'the house.' The main house sat on the corner of a 'T' style intersection. From the front looking directly across the street was an incredible view of a harbor. It was quite literally a house. Two stories, white with blue trim. The concrete area was set in the back. I found out later this concrete patio gathering area was called 'the Pit.'

There was a short staircase leading up to the porch with railing that stretched the width of the building along the back. There was a white podium seated directly in the center of the deck area. Behind it was a bench. There were two doorways. One on the left and one on the right. Each doorway had a short staircase in front of it. Both had screen doors. I couldn't see the second floor from where I was sitting because the roof of the Pit blocked my view. I could see the stairs leading directly to the second floor to my right. It was an external staircase. It was obviously old. The paint was cracked and faded.

I was staring directly at the doorway on the left side of the house trying to get my wits about me, shaking hands, and responding as politely as I could to each man, when the screen door popped open and out came a man. He came down the short staircase as the screen door slapped shut behind him.

He was a short square man with broad shoulders and short arms. He didn't look very old. Maybe in his early forties. His arms were covered in tattoos. Back then I would have said he was 'sleeved out.' Meaning the tattoos covered his arms like shirt sleeves. I saw right away this was not professional tattoo parlor ink. It was prison art. Prison tattoos don't have any color. They have a greenish black hue. Usually, they have skulls, demons, nude women, and symbols. Again, "you know it when you see it." He had dark short hair, kept in a messy crew cut.

I watched him as he sort of bounded down the steps energetically. He came over and sat down directly across from me. He looked directly at me with cobalt blue eyes that didn't seem to blink. I remember thinking there was a familiar mischievous twinkle in those eyes. He shook my hand and introduced himself without breaking eye contact. I remember this moment clearly. Relief washed over me and I realized this person saw me as a human being. It was surreal and authentic. I wasn't a patient in that moment, or a client, I wasn't just another body to be cycled through in 30 days. This man looked at me like he cared, understood me, and was sincerely interested in what I had to say for myself.

I don't remember the details of our conversation. I do remember he never broke eye contact with me. I'm sure I lied about the details of my using, and especially avoided telling him that I had been doing so up to the moment of my arrival. He knew what was up.

He said, "So you'll probably be dope sick for a few days right? Like the flu."

I said, "yeah," not really knowing how severe my withdrawal would be.

"I don't want any whining, okay?"

I chuckled and agreed.

Then he laid out what my life was going to look like for the next 9 to 12 months.

"Alright, so the program is 9 to 12 months no contact; could be longer, could be shorter, depends on the person. No letters, emails, phone calls, visits, of any kind. Your family needs a break from you. We got you from here. You'll be up at six every morning and in bed at ten every night. There's no hanging out in your room and 'chilln,' no naps, TV, newspapers, no books except for approved AA literature. Everyday you'll have groups, classes, and 12-step meetings. This is a social model program with 100 men. If you can follow directions you'll be just fine. Can you handle that?"

"Sure," I replied.

He had one final question.

"Are you willing to go to any lengths for your sobriety?"

"Yes." I said solemnly.

He had me fill out some paperwork, I said goodbye to my friend, and I was in. That was January 7th, 2015.

I was in. Immediately, I was escorted into the House by a young man. He looked like he was about 17 years old. It was so weird. He told me that he'd be searching my stuff for contraband. I don't remember our conversation exactly, but I remember him telling me that he was an intern there. I thought that was interesting.

I had lost all real sense of personal privacy. I wasn't embarrassed anymore. I had to drug test in front of people, shared small rooms with criminals, been stripped searched, even my secrets didn't stay that way for very long.

After I was all searched and checked in, someone took my belongings to my room for me and I was sent to get a haircut. No long hair, no beards, no mustaches. I didn't know all of that when I sat down. They sent me to a house across the street from the main one. Another crazy looking Victorian. It had tall white pillars between the first and second floors and a string of windows along the bottom and the top. The building was white with blue trim and looked to be about the same age as the main house. As I walked across the street with my escort we went up a long wheelchair ramp along the right side of the building to a door. Inside we went and to my left was a hall. Along the right side of the hall were commercial grade washers and dryers. To the left was a long table. The hall lead into what looked like a living room. To my right was a small room with two windows and sure enough there was a barber chair right in the center.

My escort also happened to be my barber. He was different from the guy who checked me in. This guy had nautical tattoos on both of his forearms. They were not jailhouse or prison tattoos. He was shorter with blonde hair. And this dude had the craziest lazy eye I have ever seen. My barber. I pretended to ignore it and proceeded to describe how I'd like my haircut.

"Just leave it kind of long on the top and clean up the sides."

He only nodded.

I wasn't really watching what he was doing. But, before I knew it I realized I was getting a buzz cut. Number two all the way around.

I wasn't even mad. I realized it wasn't an accident, and I knew he heard every word I said. This was my introduction to "you ain't runnin' shit around here." Still makes me laugh to this day. He was a good guy and ended up being one of the faces that would appear in this place for treatment more than once.

It was a Wednesday. The handshakes continued, it was a warm and overwhelming experience. I asked everyone how long they'd been there. Some of the answers were unbelievable. Three years, two years, four years! I was shocked. I remember thinking that was probably a good thing.

Then, suddenly, someone yelled, "Primary, go eat!"

The sound of all the metal chairs on the cement was deafening. Everyone started to migrate towards the right side of the house down the long driveway to the sidewalk. There was someone by my side the whole time. Chatting me up.

We walked in pairs along the street. I don't remember who walked with me. The whole heard of men traveled down the street. To my right, were the harbor view properties. A sign hung from a two story house. That was one of ours. As we continued, we passed a Swedish church on the corner of the next block.

As we crossed the street towards another large single story building, I got an important lesson. My walking partner pointed to the stop sign on the right of the crosswalk and said, "always go around that stop sign, we don't cut corners." This would be one of many many rules I'd learn about here. My world was about to dramatically change, and I couldn't be happier.

I was dying for some type of structure and discipline. I welcomed all of the order and the rules. I was 31 years old and had been living in the middle of utter chaos for many years. I was exhausted. I had spent so many years aimless, without sails, rudder, or map; I was dying for some direction. My spirit was crushed, I was literally starving, for food and for friends. I spent years pursuing pleasure and my very own heaven-on-earth, that I ended up in Hell. This place was very strict, and it felt like heaven.

We walked up a narrow walkway lined with nautical style rope and post decorative garnishes. The building itself looked like an elementary school on the outside.

To the right of the walkway was an open space that was paved with bricks. It ran into a large wall with two cement seats against it. The wall was the back of an autobody shop next door.

The walkway took us through a rod iron gate where we hung a left and there were 2 coatracks on either side of the door. No hats allowed in the "Barts." That was the name of the large commercial cafeteria.

The floor was vinyl with huge round plastic tables scattered throughout. Chairs encircled each table. Everyone lined up on the right wall and waited to use the bathroom. We all had to wash our hands. At the end of the wall facing out was the serving window. There were a handful of guys in white t-shirts shuffled around busily. I remember the noise was crazy. Every one was chatting away happily. There had to be 60-70 guys in there.

When I came out of the bathroom, someone yelled, "new man to the front!" Everyone started clapping and pushing me to the front of the line. They were letting me eat first. I was mortified, and I'd never felt so welcome anywhere in my life.

After dinner, we marched a few blocks up the street to another building. Two by two. Everywhere was always two by two. This was by design. One was never left alone with his thoughts for too long. Those thoughts were out to kill us.

We marched up to an AA meeting. There were people from the outside there along with our group. We clustered together on one side of the room upstairs. The building looked like it used to be an old church. Everything was old and made of wood. There was a small kitchen where we could grab a cup of coffee.

Everyone milled about outside of the building, smoking, waiting for the meeting to start. It was here I was briefed.

"Best you just listen. This is about sharing experience, strength and hope, of which you have none, so keep your mouth shut and sit in front."

Fair enough. I didn't have much to say anyway.

I don't remember the meeting, but it was warm and by candlelight. The meeting ended and we marched back to the Pit. It seemed like all 100 men were there milling about, sitting in groups, talking, and laughing. Some guys were across the street smoking. I didn't really care to sit and chat at the moment, so I took my place at the driveway by the street, turned and faced everyone and yelled, "new man needs a ride!" My first few weeks I'd be on 'New Man Status.' Never alone, and if I wanted to go across the street, I was required to turn and yell for a ride. Boy was that humbling. That was the whole idea. This was another one of many lessons I'd learn there. If I didn't seek humility on my own, I'd be humiliated.

We all sat around and chatted. Someone yelled for clean up, and like ants, everyone grabbed chairs, tables, old cups, books, brooms, and starting putting everything away. We all circled up, and someone made a few announcements about the next days, things that needed correcting, and I don't remember what else. We all placed a 'foot in' for all the alcoholics and addicts still suffering. We said the Lord's prayer, and headed off to bed.

I was coming off a bad run doing heroin and meth for I don't know how many consecutive weeks. I was completely exhausted, my spirit was sick, my body was badly broken, and my mind was reeling. I'll never forget, that after my head hit the pillow, I slept the deepest dreamless sleep I'd had in years.

The good thing about being a victim is, I never have to change, ever.

We’ve all been buried in headlines. Opinions. Perspectives.

How, in fact, could we flesh out our own perspective?

It appears the prolific political pundits, candidates, incumbents, media, newspapers, blogs, vlogs, and podcasts, all have the clearest perspective.

The protesters know best, the church pastors and their congregants all know the best perspective, academics, CNN, Fox News, Trump, Bernie Sanders, Joe Biden, they all know what is best.

And we all need to make a comment.

If I might make a comment.

Your thoughts, my thoughts, his thoughts, her thoughts, I just thought, you know what I thought, here is a thought, some food for thought.

Defund the police, black lives matter, trans black lives matter, Marxists, evangelicals, Trumpers, Never-Trumpers, conservatives, liberals, progressives, gay, straight, black, white, intersectional, democrats, republicans, libertarians, Latinos, Filipinos, Chinese, Sudanese, Taiwanese, novel disease, read a novel, run from the disease.

The voices are many.

This is wrong, that is wrong, you are wrong, cancel culture, apologies, kneeling, raised fists, graffiti, CHOP, CHAZ, neo-Nazi’s, far right, leftists, racism, don’t sing in church, wear a mask, don’t wear a mask, COVID-19 is a flu, people are dying, surges, spikes, ventilators, close the economy, the beaches, gyms, bars, restaurants, 6 feet apart, sanitize, wash your hands, isolate, facetime, ZOOM, work from home, alt-right, far-right, my rights, it’s not right, you have no right, bar fight, privilege, economy, lobotomy, autonomy, ferocity, monstrosity, curiosity, philosophy.

Start conversations not solutions.

I am glad this opened a conversation about nothing, except for our opinions.

Impeachment, Russia, China, North Korea, eating bats, nooses, the 1619 project, you’re racist, systemic racism, police are bad, liberals are bad, hate, fight, spit, spew, vitriol, venom, vicious, voracious, pandemic, crisis, financial downturn, depression, anarchy, fires, riots, unemployment, payroll protection, elites, working class, evictions, homelessness, addiction, abortion, pro-life, pro-choice, social justice, justice, the oppressive patriarchy, equality of outcome equals equality, insensitive, sensitive, fair, unfair, hire more women, more black people, qualifications don’t matter, go to college, go into debt, get a credit card, take out a car loan, pay interest, don’t save, get sick, get medical bills, be homeless, go to treatment, go to jail, non-violent offenders, stimulus, where’s my stimulus, 40 acres and a mule, genocide, homicide, brutality, non-lethal, murder for hire, Candace Owens, Hollywood, history, no history, 1984.

Slaves in Africa, remember Exodus? Then, African slaves, Chinese sweatshops, sex traffickers, how about minimum wage during a Pandemic?

People need Starbucks.

What about ISIS, the Taliban, North Korea, Boko Haram, Polygamists, cannibals, Muslims, Christians, Jews, Nazis, Navient, American Express, Visa, and Capital One?

The Jews wanted Jesus Crucified and the Romans facilitated it.

Jesus was a Jew.

So, the Jews had the Romans do their dirty work.

But what about this? Check out this video.

Gotcha!

Liar, hypocrite, stand up for churches.

What about the oppressed?

I’m listening, you’re not listening, I hate you because you disagree with me.

The intellectual dark web, 1st amendment, 2nd amendment, life liberty, justice for all.

Burn the flag, keep the confederate flag, shame, young people are getting sick, old people are dying, the governors are bad, republicans are evil, stand, sit, black square, cancel, boycott, batter, bruise, belittle, belligerent, befuddled, baffled, busted, bewilder, BLM, bad, best, do better.

Public shame, outcry. Woke, mob, anti-Semite, Zionists, ’phobes, sports without fans, basketball bubbles, sanitizer, grub-hub, stub-hub, crooked, order weed for delivery, wear my mask alone, in the car, panic buying, no concerts, no airplanes, travel bans, border walls, border security, law and order, I can’t breathe, no for real, y’all are suffocating me, proper, pronouns, cis, gender, identity, man, woman, not a man, biological, dysphoric, dystopian, dysfunctional, disintegrating, denial, demonic, different, dogmatic, disputed, kids in cages, Iran, Israel, Palestine, Syria, Saudi’s, oil, gas tax, income tax, death tax, sales tax, blue, red, battleground, warzone.

Apparent narrative with zero comparative variables to help sort out the merit.

I just feel like it is true.

Autonomy equals “self-law.”

That sounds good.

If it feels good, do it.

Maybe you are, or could get sick and infect your elderly parents or coworkers. Maybe you have already been sick. Maybe you get sick, like catch it, but don’t actually get sick.

Whatever you do, do not go to the beach.

But hey man, we know what is best.

Pivot. Do not admit you are wrong.

Never have humility.

Fake it and grovel if your reputation is at stake. But never really admit you are wrong when it matters.

Oh yeah, say you are sorry if there is a chance you will not continue to get paid. Right.

Every sin you have ever committed is on the record and defines you right now. People don’t change. I mean they do; boys can be girls. Sorry means, you will now agree with us. That is how you apologize.

Whatever, wear a mask. Masks don’t help. Wait, yes, they do. Cancel 4th of July. Cancel America. What does the data say? Fox data or CNN data? Because nobody lies. I want it right down the middle.

Racism is bad. As if we need to be reminded of that. So is stealing, murder, looting, rape, infidelity, and lying. Of course, that all depends on your definition of bad, I guess.

You are bad because you don’t agree with my idea of goodness and badness.

You must vote for him because you are Christian. You should not vote for this guy because you are Christian. Stand with conservative republican values. Or is it, conservative Christian values? What are those? Are they what Jesus said? Or are they your interpretation over a modern perspective mixed with an innate bias, resentment, fear, and sin condition? Submit to authority? Only sometimes? Only when it is fair? Love your enemies? Are my enemy’s democrats, non-Christians, Christian democrats, Calvinists, Baptists, Lutherans, Pentecostal, devil worshippers, General Lee, communists, or gay people?

But hey, it’s the system and we are all victims.

Persecution, prostitution, revolution, restitution, prosecution, rush hour traffic, human trafficking, panic, pornography. It’s life or death out here.

Liberal social justice is important. Communism is good. Like in Russia, under Stalin? Or in China?

Which time is communism good?

Or wait, greedy capitalism is bad, no liberal hippies are bad, pull up your bootstraps and get a job.

Opioid epidemic incited by people who make medicine to help sick people?

Why does the Mayor live in a mansion? I thought he was a servant.

Also, I will not let my child, adolescent, teen, pre-teen, drive, drink, vote, carry a weapon, go anywhere without a permission slip, track them on their phone, and monitor their grades, but I will allow them to change their gender.

We need to have a conversation about mental illness. We need to have a conversation about racism. We need to have a conversation about: guns, violence, abortion, war, peace, love, hate, passion, crime, punishment, justice, right, wrong, good, bad, evil, marriage, Buddha, Mohammed, L. Ron Hubbard, Indiana Jones, Paul the Apostle, Martin Luther King, Martin Luther, John Calvin, Hitler, Jeff Bezos, Elon Musk, the internet, twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

If you commit a sin I disagree with, you are worse than me. No matter what. You are the worst. You are the reason things are bad.

Hey man, all religions lead to God. Buddhism has no deity, Hinduism has millions. I mean, essentially, it’s whatever you think is best.

Which makes you God.

Isn’t that nice!

If I am God, then the solution is in me…right?

The answers? Where are they?

Why does it all feel like a ship without a rudder, a compass, a crew, no anchor, and a hole in the hull?

But you cannot make any laws unless you have kept them all, at least the ones that I agree with, or made up. Because I am sinless and have never made a mistake. Oh, wait, no I mean, I just know what is best. It’s common sense, right? Don’t steal. Unless there is a good reason? Violence is bad. Unless it is to win a war, or I have a good reason. And we know all the good reasons.

You better believe it.

We complain about the state of the world as it devolves.

As we circle the drain, we breathlessly encourage each other towards the answers, which we, the causers of the problems, have so thoughtfully thought up.

At least I am not as bad as the Nazi’s.

They were all born that way. Not me. I know what is best. I am not capable of evil. There is evil, but it only exists where I say it does.

Basically, if it hurts my feelings, or I don’t like it, it has got to be evil.

I mean, it’s all so obvious.

It is all so obvious we should all agree.

Is it America or is it me?

Oh, my! What a world we are living in. It seems like we should have seen this coming. Shouldn’t we have known?

Who will save us?

Identity politics, gender identity, sexual identity, self-made, self-care, self -expression, self-actualization, self-help, self-esteem, me, me, me, I, I, I.

The same people who created the DMV also provide “sex education.”

For crying out loud. What do I make of all this?

We can legislate, debate, argue, deflate, persecute, protest, riot, battle, argue, scream, weep, scorn, preach, wax poetic, profane, proselytize, make new laws, remember old laws, elect new leaders, ask old leaders, interview celebrities, ask the queen of England, pray in school, don’t pray in school, go to church every Sunday, don’t go to church, ever. Evangelize, plagiarize, pulverize, prioritize, monetize, demonize, realize, immunize, exercise, or deputize, until we are blue in the face.

The question really is. Can we change humanity?

Can we legislate a moral answer to a spiritual problem?

Wait, wait, wait.

What is our problem?

Do you know what your problem is?

How about WWI, WWII, Vietnam, Iraq, Iran, the French Revolution, the French and Indian War, the War of 1812, the Armenian Genocide, the Final Solution, war camps, concentration camps, internment camps, operations, missions, the crusades, the KKK, Civil Rights, and Human Rights? What about Stalin, Genghis khan, Pol Pot, Hitler, Mussolini, Kim Jong Un, Obama, Reagan, Washington, Jefferson, Billy Graham, Mother Theresa, Gandhi, and Livingston.

Couldn’t they change human hearts.

Some of them made huge positive contributions to this world.

Others, weaponized what we all know to be true. The deepest of Truths. The human heart is violently wicked, selfish, and brutal.

This, of course, does not preclude us from doing good. From helping. It is not that man is not capable of doing good. It is that he is inherently corrupted. Our natural instinct is to preserve ourselves.

Understand, the Nazi party, and those who worked within it, were just regular folks. Trust and believe, they were not, as a group, especially more evil than you and I. Hitler himself, maybe. But we cannot encompass that entire group and surmise them as all born entirely more evil than ourselves. No, they are all as equally evil as you and I.

They had no identity. No real identity.

We must understand this. We must come to know who we are. Without identity, we are lost.

Who are we?

Are we our political leanings? Our sexual preferences? Our ethnicity? Skin color? Gender? Are we our belief system?

Or are we children of the Living God? Wholly corrupted and completely redeemable.

Where should we be aiming? Democrat, Republican, Libertarian, Democratic Republic, Dictatorship, autocracy, meritocracy, theocracy? Which one of these will cure me? Catholic? Lutheran? Baptist? Presbyterian? Reformed? Orthodox? Do these systems hold the key to our redemption? Do these, man-made designs hold the key?

If they do, what’s the problem then?

Why is there still suffering? Why is it so bad? What do we do?

Why can’t we fix anything, ever? For all of history. We have never fixed the problem, the simple fact, that anything that involves any humans whatsoever, no matter how well intentioned, no matter how well-thought out, no matter the funding and support, no matter what it is or who it is, it will always fall short. It will fail. It has failed.

Or, it will be successfully evil, catastrophic, and terrible.

As we continue to comb through, and examine each other’s histories, and tweeze out the errors of their ways; as we gaze down from our ivory towers of scorn, judgement and supreme knowledge of what is right and what is wrong; as we consider each other’s sins, take inventory of the worlds flaws, failings, unfairness, fickle, frivolous, fallacious, hypocritical, hypothetical, hysterical, unhinged, heretical, half-hearted, hogwash, it becomes clear.

I’ll never have to look in the mirror and get to the root of the problem. I’d rather spend hours waxing poetic about the innate sinfulness and frailty of every other human but myself.

From sea to shinning, see?

Is it America or is it me?

Nonsense. What could ever restore us. What do we do?

The answer is not WHAT but WHO.

It’s all nonsense. I wish we could all hear ourselves.

I feel like such a sucker for feeding into this madness.

I’m just as guilty for listening to all of you in the first place.

This letter isn’t to excoriate the reader. No, it’s a confession, observation, and expression thereof. It’s a letter to Christians, Americans, non-Christians, atheists, anyone who likes to read.

I’ve fallen into the gossip, fear-mongered, paralytic, opinionated, furious, unforgiving, cold-hearted, unloving, confused, bitter, back-biting, salacious, sycophantic, sour, simple, soggy, spindle of complete and utter bull like everyone else.

Maybe we should all reflect on what unconditional love actually means.

Maybe we should consider the fact the one of the most obtuse cesspools I’ve ever witnessed was on a Christian’s Twitter feed.

What happened to being a peacemaker? What happened to living a quiet humble life, minding our own business.

What happened to living a life that shares the gospel. The resurrected life. As a new creation. Why are we all mixed up in the nonsense?

I’ve been to jail, the psych ward, treatment, I’ve slept outside, I’ve hurt people, criticized, drank too much, lied, stolen, cheated, blasphemed, I’ve worshipped other Gods, namely myself, lived like a heathen, was selfish, self-centered, and completely hopeless.

Jesus was the only thing that has ever helped me change. And change me He did.

Thankfully, there is the Christ. Even Christians can’t ruin him.

The supreme differential between the secular and the religious is that those in the secular world believe that we, as a society, have the minerals to fix this world and re-make Eden. The fix, itself, is society. How counterproductive.

We attempt to solve “the problem or problems” with that within which the problem lies.

How could we possibly represent that the community will be saved by those who have made idols of themselves?

Whole swaths of the country retain groups who’s sole purpose and function is to glorify “self.”

We are taken by the hero mythology. The entertainment industry has made countless millions retelling the hero myths. Good vs evil. The unsung, unexpected hero.

The Hero Myth is not a myth. That’s what changed the world. Evil was defeated. It still exists, but things that are defeated don’t disappear. Losing does not eviscerate things from being. It just makes them the thing that has lost to that other thing.

Jesus is the materialization of the Hero. The carpenter. God incarnate.

The reason the bible stories are profound is because they’re true.

Forgive me, but the old testament Jews are illustrated thusly: the escaped from slavery, then went to wandering in the desert for 40 years, all the while it, (the bible), shows God's chosen people as ignorant, immature, violent, and unsophisticated.

What’s more, is that they, the Jews, wrote the story about themselves that way.

In my eyes, this lends credence to the biblical stories.

The ultimate Truth. The ultimate wisdom, is that said truth and wisdom itself, or the source thereof, lies outside of humanity. The biblical stories are about those who have tapped into this source. They pursued, or were given access to the source itself.

My wife often reminds me not to think in absolutes. I have a tendency to do this. If I were to narrow down what I thought was absolute truth it would be that God is real. Jesus was God. The bible is true.

Everything else is up for grabs. That includes the interpretations.

Truth, demands specificity. It has to be specific and exclusive otherwise it is just an opinion.

Can we discover truth if we act out the manifestation of our God given design?

Is that design to bring chaos into order as God did in Genesis? Is it to defeat evil?

And as a result of defeating evil do we utilize the fruit borne of evil defeated to do good for the world at large?

Doing good is active. It is more than just not doing evil.

Diving into these ideas provides a terrific benefit.

A great friend of mine struggles, as we often do, with the idea of the “work” being the salvific event vs the death burial and resurrection. I shouldn’t say the wrestling match is rooted in salvation. I would say it’s more like a battle with conscience. The battle produces guilt, doubt, and pushes back around to faith.

I wonder if, in fact, because we feel this conflict within ourselves, if it should manifest in some way outside. Maybe we should not only be confronting evil, but be at war with it ourselves. Even though the battle has been won, it isn’t over. We are right in the middle of it.

I won’t even try to lay out specific actions we should take to act out this design. No, that’s up to the individual.

And you should be armed before battle.

Jordan Peterson makes some very interesting points about how it is imperative for a man to carry a burden. To take on some kind of responsibility. What if man's responsibility is that he should bring order out of the chaos and defeat evil?

Of course, we’d then need to look at what “order” means, and “chaos,” “evil,” and “Good.” This is not simple and we should not treat these ideas as such.

Where do we look to define these words? The best source would be a transcendent, omnimpitent, omnipresent, prescient, and good Creator. A source, that is itself, Truth.

If we don’t study the truth. Have a deep relationship with it. Desire to know it’s innermost workings. Then, I would argue, we don’t have a relationship with Christ. We cannot be armed for battle against evil, and just as much as we don’t know Truth we can’t recognize evil either. As such, we become chaff.

Or, we fall prey to the delusion that the divine is us. That we, are the Source of Truth. We needen't look outward and upward for Truth, no, we need only look in the mirror.

Frankly, I'd rather give that responsibility to God. I know He can handle it.

I didn't cry for 3 years after you died.

I was living with Christine when my brother called to tell me the news.

I remember being in shock. I was sitting on the small balcony outside of our apartment, smoking a cigarette.

I remember knowing. I knew I was partially responsible.

Do you remember those nights when we'd sit on the curb outside my house and talk?

I remember when you went in for a heart transplant and I had to hug you goodbye in the street between our houses. I thought that was going to be the last time I saw you.

It wasn't.

I'm sorry I let my addiction swallow me up. I'm sorry for giving you drugs. I'm sorry I never tried to help you. I couldn't even help myself.

I was a poor excuse for a man those last days.

We were in kindergarten together. We grew up together.

I think about you every 4th of July.

I was still using heroin the first time you overdosed. You were in a coma and I'd go and sit with you in the hospital until I had to leave to get my next fix. I tried to be there, but I couldn't.

When you woke up, you weren't the same. I wonder if you tried to overdose that time too.

You always looked up to me.

Remember when your mom threw us in the backyard and told me to beat you up?

You deserved it, but I couldn't do it.

I still talk to you from time to time.

I became a christian and changed my life 6 years ago. I can't believe it.

I went and saw your parents and apologized for the terrible friend I was.

They were so kind and forgave me.

Remember when we were kids? I do.

My fondest memories were summer days terrorizing the neighborhood with you and the other kids. Mitch, Garrett, Kevin, your brothers, and mine.

I often wonder why God took you and not me. There were lots of times I wished I would die.

Your mom would always tell that story about your open heart surgery as a todler. You woke up from surgery and told everyone, "God said it wasn't my time."

Before you even knew who God was. I know you're with Him.

I'm married now.

We're moving in September. Out of California. Her name is Lori and she's from Romania. Can you believe it? I have a good job, we go to church, have a business, and we're trying to start a family. It's a miracle.

I saw your brother, Kenny, and your mom and dad at Tyler's wedding. It was so good to see them.

It always reminds me of you.

I hope you know I miss you and you'll forever be a part of my story. Even though much of it isn't pretty and I'm not proud of it.

We went through a lot together.

I miss you dude.