Me Too

It's hard for me to fathom, and it was one of the hardest things for me to admit, that I was a victim.  The abusive relationship took place beginning the summer following fifth grade, and the relationship lasted through my sophomore year in college, though the abuse had waned sometime before that.  It took another twenty years for me to recognize those experiences as abusive.  Rape would have been easier.  So obvious.  Recognizable.  Help would have been sought out.  And received.  It wouldn't have lasted.  And I wouldn't have been as consensual.

I listen to music on my way to work.  Jesus Christ Superstar has been on my playlist this last week or so.  I love that musical.  I love the music.  And then I remembered that the original album that I had was a gift from Tony.

That summer, a year after we had arrived in Irene, SD I had become close friends with the next door neighbor boy, Jimmy F.  We were pushing the limits.  Some of the adventures I remember:  Accidentally breaking the flagpole at the city ball park and sneaking out at night to dispose of it on the roof of the gymnasium; attempting to break into the City Bar where we hoped we might get a six pack or two; and getting picked up for shoplifting at White Drug in Yankton.  This last episode caused the wrath of my parents to rain down on me, resulted in my terminating any further relationship with Jimmy, and resulted in my being emotionally isolated and alone.  (I remember the night following the arrest.  We returned home from the police station and my older brother was home from Augustana Academy where he attended high school with a couple of friends- Mary Harum and her brother.  Mary went on to become Miss South Dakota, and  eventually Mary Hart of TV fame.  That my moment was witnessed by others added to the shame.)

Enter Tony.  Tony was a Sicilian from Long Island.  How he had ended up at Dakota Wesleyan University, nobody knows, including him.  But now he had been hired to be our new band director.  My desperate need for a friend found its fulfillment in him.  One of the first things that I had shared with him was my shame at what had happened the last summer.  He laughed.  My father had declared that I would forever be tainted with a criminal record.  Tony laughed it off.  It was an absolution.  And I knew right there and then that I had a friend.

"Laugh In" was the rage.  Tony invited me to watch it with him.  Every Monday night.  Lily Tomlin was his favorite.  He even went so far as to attempt to get her to come to Irene for our Pop Concert.  I'd sit at Tony's side during those episodes.  Shortly, the physical contact began.  He was Sicilian, he would explain.  Craved physical contact.  And so his hand would find its way to my belly, skin to skin.  I felt a bit like a puppy, getting petted.  It was a small price to pay for the friendship I so desperately needed.

We became inseparable.  One of the things Tony set out to do was fatten me up.  I had sprouted about 6 or 7 inches that summer between fifth and sixth grade, but hadn't added any weight.  Monday nights, after eating a full meal at home, we'd eat again.  Tony was obese.  And short.  I was neither.  And the T-bone steaks he fed me did little to add to my weight.  As a special treat, I would make Rhubarb Delight for us, a rich custard and meringue desert.  We'd finish off a 9 x 13 pan in an evening.  He'd gain weight, me, not so much.

He switched me from playing Baritone Horn to Tuba.  I just wanted to please.  So I took on the challenge.  He would take me to the neighboring town for lessons.  When everything was said and done, my efforts to please him resulted in my being selected for All State choir four times, Honors Choir my senior year, and All State Band three times.

On the weekends we would venture out to Sioux Falls where he often had to go to the music store.  Movies were the treat.  He took me to "Straw Dogs", "the Graduate", the "Exorcist", and "Clockwork Orange", to name a few.  I also was given a monthly copy of Playboy, and what more could an adolescent boy want.  It was 1969.  One of the pieces of pornography he gave me was titled simply '69', the content of which you can imagine.  He also "educated me" about sex, including what women like, etc..

I learned to drive his Pontiac Grand Prix, when that was a individual luxury car.  Leopold he had named it.

And we sat watching "Laugh In".  It was during one episode, after he had questioned me about whether or not I was circumcised, that his hand slid down my belly where it often was, into my pants to feel my genitals.  "Yup, you are!"  "You fag!  You Queer!  I'm telling my Dad and you'll lose your job!"  An apology and a defense.  I let it go, his friendship being so important to me.

When I later described my experiences with a psychologist, he classified much of what I experienced as 'grooming behavior'.  It would have escalated.  But Tony moved on.  I'd travel to his new home so that I could take Tuba lessons in Sioux Falls, which he had arranged.  Then came college, and a distancing.

I met Karla during the summer following my freshman year in  college.  Our romance flourished long distance, and I arranged to transfer from Augustana to Pacific Lutheran for my junior year.  At the end of my sophomore year I called Tony to let him know I was leaving.  He came to town, we went out for dinner.  I had grown my beard, a goatee at the time, quite scraggly, and he was not happy.  "It hides your cute face!"  I've never shaved since, and never will.

The last I heard of Tony was about 1990 when my sister had informed me that he had died from complications of his diabetes.  It was at that moment I realized that our relationship had not been healthy.  And yet at the same time, I had received so much affirmation and affection.  Abuse is the price those starved for intimacy are willing to pay.  What tipped me off to the abusive nature of the relationship was when I realized that I would kill anyone who did that to my children.  Well, at least press charges.

I set out on a crusade.  During our time in Gig Harbor my pastor confessed to sexual misconduct.  Though he had been my closest friend since Tony I saw to it that he was defrocked.  I was suspicious of my internship supervisor, merely red flags going off.  As a young pastor, the concern continued.  The most important sermon I preached during my first parish ended up opening the door for a woman to leave her abusive husband of twenty five years and become free.  Venturing into dangerous territory I hoped that I could save many more.  My manic side had started to kick in.

At one time I became convinced that healthy intimacy, with God, self, and others, was the key to freeing people from abuse.  When sex is used to achieve intimacy, as opposed to being the result of proper intimacy in an appropriate relationship, abuse is the potential.  I would write the definitive book.  In retrospect, my deepest fear in ministry was that my own brokenness might result in my doing harm to others.  Though I've never had sex with anyone but my wife, I've been concerned about my need for intimacy, and the potential that the quest itself might have been abusive.  I hope not.  But it is a fear.

I wonder about the long term impact of these experiences.  To what extent might they have shaped my psyche?  One clinical psychologist suggested that the harm caused by long term moderate but chronic abuse was potentially greater than that which results from more intense and acute but short lived abuse.  One of the reasons is that often the victim doesn't realize the abusive nature of what is being experienced, and so willingly accepts it, leading eventually to even greater shame.

I didn't deserve it.  No child does.  Recognizing this was important for healing.

But believe me I understand why gymnasts would tolerate the abuse of an Olympic doctor.  Small price to pay for the opportunity to wear gold around one's neck.

It is not good for the man to be alone.  Loneliness, deprivation of health intimacy, a deep need to connect, also pave the pathway to an abusive relationship.  Its one of the reasons so many victims are unable to leave.  The affection, even when accompanied by abuse, is better than the isolation, especially because at this point one is most often not at all at peace with one's self.

The one thing I continue to resist is having my life defined by the abuse I experienced.  I can affirm that I am more than a victim.  Yet, at the same time, those experiences are part of the fabric of my life.  One of the things I am most angry about, deep within, is that my father's stern warning that my shoplifting had permanently damaged my character had created within me the circumstance that made me ripe for an abusive relationship, and that, is what truly damaged my soul.

Those years of adolescence were formative years.  They impacted me.  Sometimes in the aftermath one can only hope for healing and resilience.

Holy Ground

"Come no closer! Remove the sandals from your feet, for the place on which you are standing is holy ground."

I sit at my keyboard this morning in the spot where a few months ago my father breathed his last.  My desk fills the space where his bed once stood.  Here in this spot, inconspicuous though it may now be, heaven's portal opened and received my father.  What that moment was like for him remains a matter of faith and hope for us.  I've often wondered.  Were there angels in this place?  Or simply the hand of Jesus lifting up my father as his body slumped down.  Whatever else might be said, I am convinced that from this place my father saw the face of God.  Holy Ground.

A friend, a colleague, a dear person transitioning from emergency room care to hospice.  I cannot help but believe that she is standing upon Holy Ground and entering a Holy Time.  How long she will remain in that Holy Space is not for us to know.  I remember Bob, another dear friend and colleague, who got kicked off hospice after a while.  He didn't die according to schedule, and no longer qualified for hospice care.  So who knows?  And yet there is the voice of God saying "Remove the sandals from your feet."

Barefoot.  Touching the ground upon which God stands.  Feet are sensitive.  Highly sensitive.  Probably an evolutionary necessity of balance.  And to touch one's feet is a moment of intimate connection.  Too bad we have not retained the fine art of footwashing, it probably should be a sacrament in the Church.  We fear such intimacy, though.  Remove the sandals from your feet.

A prairie church.  "Holy, Holy, Holy" is playing on the organ, as it always was.  One person after another climbed those well worn stairs to the sanctuary.  There they had baptized their children.  There they had buried their dead.  White steeple soaring high above the graveyard surrounding the building.  "As a called and ordained minister of God, and by his authority, I declare to you the entire forgiveness of all your sins."  This is my body.  This is my blood.  Holy, Holy, Holy.  There in that place, they saw the face of God.

There are moments in our lives that transcend the mundane reality of earthly life, but often they are hidden moments, recognizable only in the rear view mirror.  The most heartfelt prayer I ever offered is this:

Hold me tight, most precious Lord,

                That I might follow you.

Grant me grace to live each day,

                May I be born anew.

Lift me up whenever I fall,

                And never let me fade

From the grace filled light

                Of your own sight

                That turns the night to day.

"Lift me up whenever I fall. . ."  I vaguely remember falling that night.  As I lost my balance I reached for the bedpost but missed.  It was my wife, and a couple of close friends who nursed me through the night, who stopped the bleeding, who watched for signs of concussion, and most important, woke me periodically to insure that I was still with them.  Then came the humiliating reality of morning, the journey to the hospital, and four weeks of chemical dependency treatment.  And new life.  Amid the ugliness of this world's worst, a Holy Time, a Holy Space.  Behold the salvation of your God!  The hand of Jesus lifting me up.  

Russian sanctuaries are visually stimulating, almost to the point of wearing one down.  So much to see and comprehend.  But there is one common feature of them all, they are so conceived as to draw one's eyes up from the earth below to the heavens above.  Holy Space.

We don't know for sure what to do with Sacred Space.  Preserve it just as it was?  Or adorn it to resemble the glory that for the moment was associated with it?

Sacred Time.  I am convinced that one of the reasons I cannot sleep through the night is because this time has become for me, holy.  Amid the silent stillness of the dark night, I hear the voice of God.  And who can sleep?  I write.  Sermons flow.  Meditation is focused.  My time in the presence of God.  And so I keep my vigil.  Interesting to me that the most restful sleep I experience all week is Saturday mornings, after I have spent the night writing my sermon.  

There are times when I wonder why, after all I have experienced at the hands of the Church, that I remain there.  It has been for me both a place of healing and wounding, of belonging and being cast out, of living and dying.  In the months following my collapse, and getting sober, and dealing with the conflict that had arisen within the congregation, I began going to another congregation for worship.  Every Sunday, for months, I would experience a partial complex seizure during worship.  Perhaps it was a reaction to the 'unrighteousness' of the Church and my experience that provoked the seizure.  Perhaps it was my own unrighteousness in the presence of the Holy One that caused the uncontrollable shaking.  But there I was.  Shaking in the presence of God and receiving from his hand grace and mercy.

I saw a vision of the new Jerusalem.  John's Words.  Every word spoken there, a song of praise and worship.  Open gates.  Golden streets.  And the home of God is among mortals.

"You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in You."

There will come a time when we will each sing our "Komm, süßer Tod",

Come, sweet death, come, blessed rest!

Come lead me to peace

because I am weary of the world,

O come! I wait for you,

come soon and lead me,

close my eyes.

Come, blessed rest!

And my heart goes back to my Father, and his last moments, here in this spot.  94 years of living in this world, and then heaven's portal opened.  We do not know how many steps each of us will take on this journey of life.  I anticipate many more in my own.  For all I know, I may have yet forty more years of wandering in the wilderness.  Along the way there are those Sacred Moments, Holy Spaces, and Beacons of God that lead us onward with all the other pilgrims.  And then the hope, that one day, one holy day, we will see the face of God.