Generational Gratitude

I was driving in my car and turned on the radio.
I caught the tail end of a Talk Back show on a local Christian station.
I did not get the context of the discussion or the name of the woman who was being interviewed.
What did grab me was a phrase she used.
I still do not know the crux of her discussion, but the phrase she used struck me.
I stopped the car and quickly wrote it down.

Generational Gratitude.

What did she mean?
I already had some preconceived notions.
I completed my car journey and sat with those words for a few days.
Pondered them,
shared the idea with friends.

Generational Gratitude.

It reminded me of ANZAC day and the modern resurgence of dedication and pride of our fallen and wounded from so long ago.
It was an attitude embraced by our old and young.
To feel grateful to the sacrifice, bravery and willingness of these men and women from a bygone era who did so much for our country.
It is a strong and gutsy emotion.
It tugs at our tears.

Generational Gratitude.

These words fell deeper within me.
It needed to express more.
And I began to see.
It is more than ANZAC.
It is about now.
It is a decision.
It requires awareness.
It needs to be learnt.
It needs to be shared.
It has no place for the ego,
but a clear awareness of this world,
and the people who inhabit this planet.
Everyone.

Generational Gratitude.

To be grateful to the people both here and forever gone who have trod this journey before us.
Not just those whom we glorify in extreme circumstances such as war and tragedy.
But who are heroes in the very process of living.
Those who were brave enough to live.
to keep going.
to not give up.
to be present.
to give until it hurt,
or took their last breath.

We need to stop and respect and acknowledge each other.
And be aware of those on whose shoulders we now stand.

We need to be grateful for:

• the mothers who do not eat to give their children the food they hardly have.
• the men who endure a boss' bullying to keep their job and provide for their family.
• the policeman who spends hours talking tough love to a teenager, then drives them home to ensure their safe arrival.
• to the teacher who keeps spare food in her drawer for the student who comes to school each day with nothing.
• to the checkout operator who puts the shortfall into the till out of their own pocket when a pensioner comes a few dollars short.
• to the parents who keeps watch at night over a feverish child.
• to the restaurant chef who dutifully feeds the homeless with the left overs from the day.
• to the lifeguards who never miss a shift.
• to the nurse who visits a patient out of hours to ensure they make it through the night.
• to the doctor who donates almost all of their salary and never tells a soul.
• to the grandparents who send a dollar they can't afford in a birthday card each and every year.
• to the daughters who gave up getting married or having a family to care for a disabled sibling.
• to the son who proudly walks his sister down the aisle in the place of the father they never knew.
• to the wives who hold the family together while the husband is in jail.
• to the devoted husband who holds her hand every day and lovingly sings to his sweetheart as dementia robs her of her dignity.
• to the faithful friend who drives them home at four in the morning - no questions asked.
• to the selfless neighbour who anonymously tends the widow's yard each week while she is at church.
• or the child who joyfully places three cents from a grubby hand onto the collection plate so Jesus can feed the poor children.

Every person has a story.
Each action we make will affect others in the large and small.
In the overt and unnoticed.
The sacrifice and care given freely and daily
without thought or regret
solely based on a deeper understanding
and an undying love.

We may think we are the first to walk these roads.
We are not.
They are treadworn and dusty and lined with blood and tears.
Deeply lined with the scars of the living.
We cannot hear the conversations or see the faces of those who were there before us.
We cannot feel their emotions and bear their pain.
We will not ever know their names.
We simply cannot comprehend the sacrifices those who walked before us,
known to us or anonymous,
have made for those they loved
but we live a better life because of these things
Here and now.

But this I do know.
We must take the time.
Yes, take the time,
for our own sakes.

to be grateful.

God,  how I need to be grateful.

A Change of Tides - Church after MROP

Taking stock of the immense changes I faced after doing the Men's Rites of Passage (MROP), I found the elements in my life fell into three categories:

Things either

• seemed almost new to me as I saw them now with a different set of eyes and heart,
• shifted in their importance depending on their relevance to me or my place in the world, or
• lost value as they were no longer essential to me as an initiated man.

Many dearly held beliefs and practices were casually set aside in the months and years after initiation.

The thing about MROP is that it doesn't do anything to you.
It is merely an invitation to change.
Nothing more.
MROP provides a man with the space and safety to fully embrace himself, turn around and begin again as the man God intended him to be.
The key to initiation is your response to this invitation.
I responded and I changed.
That was me.

Returning home, things seemed both the same and completely different.
A living paradox.
Within me, I had a renewed energy and joy which gave me vigour to bring the good news to my fellow men at my church.
We had been attending the same church for many years.
My wife and I were involved closely with the fellowship in both leadership and ministry.
My children were all involved and we were very much part of the furniture.
Perhaps THAT was the problem.

As the months went by, I allowed myself time to digest and absorb the things I gained from MROP.
It was not an overnight process.
But I had clarity, vision and some answers.
I had to share this with those we knew in our fellowship.
I rejoiced when, very soon after my initiation, the church announced they were starting a very much-needed Men's Ministry.
The first meeting was in two weeks.
I counted down the days.

When I arrived for the first meeting we were given name tags, even though we all knew each other.
We were handed a soft drink.
We spent the first hour talking and socializing - mostly about sport, work and current events - nothing about how we were, how we were travelling or what was happening in our lives.
They took a collection for the next meeting to fund the Barbecue.
We sat in rows.
Our speaker stood and spent twenty minutes discussing the new biblical role of men in a modern family, the history of men domineering females, the need to control our hormonal sin (his words) and ending in how we must go home tonight and apologise to our wives for our demeaning actions and attitudes to women.
Many men sat with bowed heads and looks of shame.
We said a quick prayer.
We bid each other goodbye.
We left in our cars.
I never went back.

It took me a while to work out what had happened that night.
The shift within me helped me see that I needed to sit with all of this for a time.
Listen to my heart and not condemn but to understand.
For months and months I went to church.
This was a difficult thing to do at the best of times due to my beautiful daughter and her special needs.
Week by week I would sit in the worship.
Initially I'd stand and sing and hold my hands up as before.
Slowly I stopped each one.
I ended up sitting and just enjoying the music.
Eventually I chose to come in after the worship was over.
Some weeks, I just sat in the car.

I was finding church an anomaly now.
It was essentially the same.
Each week I would be eager to fellowship and be part of the community.
And as the months went on, I found something quite unusual and profound.
I was feeling alone amongst the thousand or so people in the building.

I would be greeted at the door and be asked "How are you?".
I would sense the need to start saying how I was only to be moved on politely. It was just a greeting.
They didn't want to know.

I sat through many sermons.
But I began to feel bored with the message they were sending.
The words were fine.
The preachers skilled and Godly.
It was just the heart and depth of the sermons that made me feel alone.
I found myself reading scripture on my iPad during the message - much to my wife's disgust - and got a lot more out of soaking in the word of God.

I began to notice things.
Our church would sing choruses two or three times over. Repeating themselves in a beautiful rhythm. 
I couldn't wait for it to end.
The people in Worship ministry were all 'beautiful' and 'handsome' and very much looked all the same.
It was trendy worship.
And it made me feel hollow.

I saw people.
I suddenly began to be interested in the fringe people of our church.
The ones that didn't quite fit in.
The ones people overlooked.
The ones who were faithful in service;
who cleaned up at the end and directed the car parking.
The tired single mothers with overly-active kids.
The unlovely and the elderly.
I began seeking these people out and talked to them.
Some were so surprised that someone was actually interested in their story.
I was.
They were real people.
They had depth.
They were sincere.
They were flawed.
I began to love them.

Some days I would leave the service and end up sitting with the 'smokers' in the gutter around the back.
Their words began to be my sermon.
Their laughter, my chorus.

I made a lot of friends in that time.
The people no-one really knew.
I knew them.
I accepted them.
They slowly accepted me.

After a year or so, things began to get difficult for our family to go to church every week.
Some days, I would drive everyone there and my daughter and I would wait in the car park.
We would talk to the fringe-dwellers and they would make Sophie laugh.
She liked them.
They noticed her and spoke to her.
They knew how to relate to this precious child.
And I rejoiced in the fellowship I had found.

As months came and went, I lost interest in 'doing church'.
I spoke to my elders and pastors many times about all of this.
They were worried and concerned but had no answers for me.
They had heard of my involvement with some of the outer-edge people of the church and suggested I form a ministry for the poor and disadvantaged.
I was mildly upset with this.
Not for their recognition of my involvement, but for their idea of trying to formalise what I was doing.
They almost seemed guilty.
I felt in my heart that Jesus would have been wanting to hang out with me rather than be in the services.
And He was.

After nearly two years of 'struggling' with the dynamics of church, combined with the added exhaustion of finding a place for our family in the fellowship, I decided one day to stop going.
Nothing dramatic.
We just stopped.
Well, I stopped.

I had found a new kind of church.
It was called living.
My family and I found a more settled existence in our own home.
We clung to real, and got tired of the performance.
My wife and kids still went to various things in our fellowship.
And that was OK.
We never really left.
Just stopped.

I became more committed to my small men's group attached to Centre For Men.
It was there I had accountability.
I was listened to.
I was accepted.
Cared for.
Belonged.

THAT was church to me.
It still is.

Now please don't get me wrong.
I am not anti-church.
Absolutely not.
It just stopped working for me.
I sought authentic people.
I didn't want a parade.
I wanted connection.
I didn't need entertaining.
I needed to be in a safe place.
I didn't find that sitting in a pew.

I sometimes visit our old church.
I secretly like it when I get greeted at the door and am asked if "This is your first time visiting us?".
I usually look them in the eye and politely say "Yes" and find some of my old friends.
I'm still remembered there.
That's nice.
Some of them think I am this radical, off-the-rails, misguided soul.
A few recognize my journey and encourage me to keep moving forward.
I am.

Will I go back?
Perhaps.
Nothing's certain.
Most likely you'll find me at the back of the building with the other miscreants.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

And What About Church?......

Is there ever a question you avoid wanting to answer?

You know the one I mean.
You are visiting friends, at a get-together, bump into an old acquaintance, catch up over coffee, reacquaint yourself at a wedding or funeral...that sort of thing.
You chat politely and share brief biographies and current events.
What's happening with you, your spouse, the kids.
You cover work details.
Perhaps your health.
And then, quite casually, the conversation steers to the inevitable enquiry:

"So what church do you go to now?"
Toes slightly scrunch,
your smile remains but stiffens,
the brain searches quickly for your best pat answer....

Have you been there?
I have.
Many times.
It is a typical question you get asked a lot.
It is usually a simple ask.
No ulterior motive but to merely fill in another blank for the listener.
It helps put you into perspective for them.
It gives insight into where you are in your spiritual walk.
It is a plain question requiring a simple answer.

Frankly, it gives me the shits.

Now it is not the person asking that is the problem,
It is the global expectation that,
as a professing follower of Jesus,
we should be marginalised into expressing this devotion
by attending services, leading bible studies and being part of a home group.

When your answer to 'the question' is:

"Well actually, at the moment I don't go to church."

it is usually greeted with quiet taken-abackness and reserved pity.

Church-goers don't really know how to handle this revelation well.
"Oh, that's....ah....nice." would be their reply.
They are usually too polite to ask for the details.
Some will just assume the worst.
Others will mentally note you down on their prayer list.
Your committment, faith and occasionally your salvation is questioned,
but never inquired about.
This has become almost a taboo subject verging on shameful.
Treated as if, when you explain the circumstances,
the non-attendance virus will be passed on to the enquirer.
They don't want to be like that.
Like you.
So often times...
no one really asks.

Fine by me.

My story is simple.
I want people to know.
At the moment, I do not attend traditional church or belong to a denomination.
It was not a conscious choice.
It was never planned.
It just happened.

There are reasons.
Valid ones.
Mostly circumstancial.
Some personal.
I have thought the matter through.
Investigated numerous possibilities.
But for now,
I don't attend a church.

Are you interested in knowing why?
Read on.

For decades, my wife and I, and our subsequent children went to church.
We were as committed and involved as the next person.
Served faithfully.
Contributed well.
I occasionally was asked to preach.
We taught Sunday School.
Led overseas missions.
Tithed and served.
Prayed and worshipped.
It was how we were brought up.
It was what we wanted as a couple and as a family.

As the years went by, two major things happened.
We had our beautiful youngest daughter
born with significant disabilities,
and I went through the Men's Rites of Passage.

They just happened.
Life changing events.
Events that helped define me as a man today.
In their own, but different ways.

With respect to our child,
it was a matter of exhaustion and need for the support we didn't get.
To help sustain our huge medical and care bills,
my wife and I had to both work.
Demanding jobs, but flexible enough to allow us
to be with the children as much as possible.

Juggling a growing family, with the demands of a special needs child,
balancing time at home with carers and specialists,
it was (and is) a complex and whirlwind existence for all involved.
By Saturday, we had enough energy to catch up on the domestic needs set aside during the week, driving to venues for our other remarkable and active children, and if time, a few minutes left over for some alone time.
Our Sundays start at dawn.
The process of getting ourselves, our other children and our daughter ready and in the car for church by nine o'clock is a good two to three hour process.
I won't bore you with the details of our morning routines with Sophie,
or the taxing physicality of cleaning, dressing, medicating and getting her mobile.
Let me say that, for many years, after hours of hard work,
we would sometimes arrive at church
only to find the special needs carers were absent that day,
or the air conditioning in the church was broken
or the weather turned too nasty to get a wheelchair out and set up,
or someone parking inconsiderately in the disabled parking bay, 
or Sophie herself being unusually difficult to manage.
On many, many, many occasions I would end up just sitting in the car
so my wife and other children could attend the services,
and Sophie and I would be left to ourselves, engine running for the aircon,
and we would wait for the others to return.
It was what we had to do.
We found that as Sophie got older and her needs and level of care increased,
we could not attend as a family group any longer and
church to us now was a separate, isolated and usually stressful event.
We began to lose contact.
We began to get forgotten.
We tried, we really did.
But we finally realised.
we can't do it any more.

One day
I got up with the sun
as I usually did on a Sunday
and I just sat.
I let everyone sleep in -
No wake-ups,
no preparation,
no quick breakfasts,
no nappie changes and baths and
no struggles to get everyone into the car.
No traffic or stress.
Just sleeping and quiet
and peace.
We were all exhausted.
All of us.
And we really didn't realize how much.

I remember clearly seeing
that this was the space we needed.
Our home was of the Lord.
Our lives consecrated.
Our children blessed.
And very quickly I knew:
This was really our church.
Our home.
Our Family.
Our life.

Now I know some of you reading this will already have opinions.
That's OK.
You do not walk in our shoes.
How can you know?
Believe me, the process of not attending formal church was flled with
grief and relief and guilt and peace.
For months I anguished over the rightness of this decision.
It went against what we knew about the christian walk
and became an answer to our slowly depleting lives.
We didn't resign or notify our pastor or revoked our passports.
We simply stayed home.

We rested on our Sabbath.
We did family things.
We sat at our table in our pyjamas and ate and laughed.
We ended our weekend feeling refreshed
and ready to face the ensuing week.
And it was good.

A few things happened after this.
Our weekly routine seemed easier.
We had space to just relax,
and no-one ever phoned or emailed or visited us to see why we had stopped going.
Not one.

It was not like we were hidden in our old fellowship.
We had been there for many years.
We were part of the church family and
it was our spiritual home.

And nobody seemed to notice.
No one did anything.

Imagine that.

In a way, it made things a lot easier.
We were not bitter.
we just saw what it all was.
Sometimes I think the church was probably relieved that we just stopped coming.
Our family circumstances were obviously challenging for all involved.
We didn't fit the 'normal' church-goer profile.
Our daughter was quite a handful and often was disruptive in a service.
The church was filled with really nice people.
Very nice.
But we didn't need nice.
We needed support,
connection,
respite,
care,
acceptance,
integration
and real.

We needed real.

We needed words of life.
We didn't need "You are so strong!"
We needed "I see your pain".
We didn't need "I'll pray for you!"
We needed "How can I help?".

Our church didn't do real very well.
Our needs were basic and raw.
Our daughter was real.
Our presence and differences were real.
It was just too hard.

So we stopped.
We just stopped.
No bitterness. No resentment. No disillusions.
No anger or criticism or spite.
Time led us to just stop going.
And here we are.

Would we go back?
Isn't there another place we could go?
Why didn't you try harder?
Don't you need the fellowship?
Could you give them another chance?
Start your own fellowship?
Seek out better support?
Pray?

Don't worry,
I have been through all of those questions and a hundred more.
For now,
we are good.
My wife, myself and our children have found people and places in the outside world
to fill in the needs the church couldn't give us.
We have accountability;
Christian friends to fellowship with.
Our own faith.
Each other.

The story of my change through the Rites of Passage
and how I began to see doing church differently because of it
is another conversation.
It is intertwined with this story you are reading
but from a wholly different depth and angle.
It will need more time and space than this page can offer.
Grab a coffee and I'll tell you about it.*
But not here, not now.

Don't get me wrong.
I believe in the fellowship of believers.
I will defend the notion of the Body of Christ.
I see the importance of a christian collective presence in the community.
And I am not for one moment blaming our daughter as the reason for our family being churchless.
She is a consideration of course.
Her disabilities are factors.
Our life is full of situations we cannot control.
But this is where the journey has taken us at this moment.
I feel close to God.
Very close to God.
I have found a good place.
Most of all,
I know that God understands all of this.

Will we go back one day?
That would be nice.
Have we given up on church?
No, never.
But for now,
it is what it is.

Thanks for listening.

















* the other story of my journey and church is told here

The Call To Rites - Part 3 - The Life After Death

Every moment and every event of every man's life on earth plants something in his soul. - Thomas Merton


Lazarus had it easy.
Everyone rejoiced at the miracle of his return.
Everybody would have known about it.
I am sure, although deeply changed by his resurrection,
He went back to his old life
His old ways.

Me? Not so.

Don't get me wrong.
Nothing crashed and burned on my return home following the MROP.
I was glad to come back to my family.
I had missed them
And they missed me.
I had come back changed.
But the changes were deep inside.
Unnoticeable but profound.
I was tired yet invigorated.
I feigned exhaustion
but truly I had come home simply quiet.

There was so much to process from that experience.
There were no words.
Simply no words.
My home life surrounded me.
I participated as I usually do.
But inside I was still.
Like rain on sandstone
The events slowly sank and were absorbed and trickled deeper and deeper within me.
I really couldn't say what they were.
They had no name.
All I knew was -
They were real.

A week later I met with a friend who had been on the MROP with me.
We spoke very little about it.
But strangely,
when our eyes connected,
we began to laugh.
Just laugh.
It sounds odd.
It was.
But we laughed.
What was that?
He had been through a similar transformation.
He also had no words.
So in pure fellowship,
we laughed together.
Years later I saw what it was.
Like an innocent child not knowing the world it has been born into.
Spontaneously breaks into gleeful laughter.
For the child it is natural and deep and innocent and flowing.
For us, my friend and I, it was pure joy.
Real joy.
Coming out in the expression of laughter.
An honest and simplistic response.
It was clean and it was free.
I had forgotten what that could be like.
And I now had it back.
It's funny how these things happen.
We laughed because we were free.
Oh, how I enjoyed that.

The changes were in many forms.

There were the immediate and obvious transformations.
I felt better about myself.
I seemed settled.
I began to enjoy my life.
I was more aware of others.
I slept incredibly well.
I was slow to react and quick to love.
I was thankful and showed respect.
I was even a more courteous driver - THAT one threw me!
It was all so unexpected and spontaneous and good.
I was becoming a more decent person.

Inside.
In my hidden man.
I saw the changes reaching deep.
I was a 'beloved Son of God'.
I knew who I was.
I was happy to be me.
I began to listen.
I felt connected.
I knew it was not about me.
I was sitting still.
I went outdoors.
I could see the sky.

In living,
I knew that there was a lot of work still to do.
The changes were also only beginnings.
I was not a 'new' man
but a broken man.
A broken man who is loved.
And I could see things developing within
that were truly gifts from God.
I felt compassion
I saw people's hearts
I sat in silence before my God
I became angry at injustice
and intolerance of ambition
I felt the need to give and was so grateful to receive.
I sought out the lonely and the hopeless
and I valued the lost and the unloved.
Aware of my own mistakes, I judged less and embraced the sinner.
As the days, weeks and years flowed by,
I could see the changes move me away from the world
and into life.
I was alive.

These things I know
As an initiated man.
I am broken and I am healed
I am limited and I am unlimited
I am connected and I am alone
I am nobody and I am God's son.
I am whole and I am imperfect.
My existence is a paradox.
At times it doesn't seem fair.
It surely doesn't make sense.
My ego often craves what my spirit rejects.
It is a constant fight within.
Some days one or the other surfaces
to influence my mind and thoughts and actions.
It is not a battle.
It is a co-existence.
It is being fully human.
Being 'not of this world' and fully present in the world.
It is theologically rich and it is simplistically pure.

So here I am today.
it has been many years since I took those first steps
on the journey called the Men's Rites Of Passage.
I guess I look the same - albeit a little older, a little greyer.
I haven't changed jobs or run off to a monastery.
I still have the usual issues with life as we all do.
When you see me - I hope I will look you in the eye and say hello.
I am sure to give you a warm and honest hug.
I am a man.
No better no worse.
but I am more.
I am now not lost.
I am connected.
I am open to your heart.
I make mistakes.
I feel.
I sit.

And most of all
I hear you.








For further reading on MROP, check out Richard Fay's blog here

The Call To Rites - Part 2 - The Process

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” - Rumi

The bus left the station.

It was nearly full.
Men of all ages, creeds, colours, ethnicity.
From all around the country.
We were strangers.

We travelled onwards to the forest wilderness near a dam.
It was out of the way and beautiful.
There were cabins.
Thank God.
Some form of civilisation.
I didn't really care.
There was a sense of nervousness and quiet among the men,
hidden within their loudness and light-hearted, masculine banter.

The journey had begun.

My thoughts were wild and yet calm.

I knew I was about to face some deep and serious stuff.
I wasn't really ready - but no-one ever is.
Everything was unfamiliar and tentative.
But….
the moment I breathed in the freshest of air,
was surrounded by the greenest of trees,
stunned by the absence of city noise
and silenced by the amount of stars I could see in the open night sky,
it was so very clear to me
that this was a safe place.
A place to meet myself.

The Rites of Passage was a five day voyage

Each day was planned and arranged for the men.
You only had to be present.
For a person such as me who made control an art form,
this was more difficult than I thought.
Although I was a member of this large group,
I was also given the space to be by myself.
It was not a collective experience,
But a gathering of men,
Each on his own course
Each one, there for his own reasons.
Each one with his own baggage.
It didn’t matter who we were
Where we had come from
What we had done.
We were encouraged to leave our life at the gate
And just be ourselves.
It was an amazing thing to experience
I was anonymous,
I was unjudged,
I was unconnected,
and yet I belonged.

This was a sacred place.
The Rites - a sacred process.
The wilderness -  a sacred space.
To honour this sacredness,
I cannot say what happens in the MROP gatherings.
It is too personal and important.
Having gone through this journey,
I need to honour this process.
It is for each man to discover.
when he too, enters this road.
So what I can say,
Is what I felt, sensed, related and experienced.
I am sure you will understand.
It may seem cryptic,
but the emotions and thoughts are real.

The process of the Rites does many things to a man.
It reaches deep within
If you let it.
The only thing it requires of you is a willingness to trust and a decision to receive.
Easier said than done.

My greatest fear
above all things,
was that my deepest, darkest pain and grief
would surface for the world to see.
It had to.
It was hidden from view,
But I knew it was there,
and it was too dark to touch.
My fear was that once released
this pain and anguish,
which for most of my life defined and controlled me,
would burst forth
leaving me an empty shell
a whimpering mess
and so depleted
that there would be nothing left of me.
To face this was to face a sort of death.
A concept not easy to accept or allow.
But this was my only real chance.
To be free of these black dogs.
It was going to be dark and loud and agonising.
It was full of anger and resentment.
Rejection and regret.
Lonliness and isolation.
I knew it was going to be messy.

And I was wrong.

Like the injured man on the road to Jericho,
too damaged to move,
expecting the Samaritan to sink in the boot,
I was lifted up in my pain and hopelessness,
unexpected and relieved,
and the emptying and the healing happened.
and it was calm
and silent
and deep
and cleansing
and real.
there were moments for tears
of course
natural responses.
There was a mourning and a sort of death within me.
But instead of being crushed
as I expected to be.
I was raised
and released
and forgiven
and connected
and made whole.

No trauma.
Only grace.

I didn't see that coming.
Could it be that simple?
I remember feeling stunned.
Was that it?
The agonising process I expected
came forth as a calm and silent resting.
Instead of being battered and bruised,
I was bathed.
On the third night, I slept right through - without the nightmares.
Solid and at peace.
Something I had never known before.

I learnt many things in that week.
I learnt to be silent
I learnt to surrender
I learnt to be authentic.
To belong
To beat a drum as an act of worship.
To listen and to be listened to.
To know who I am - who I REALLY am before God.
To be connected to other men as brothers and in brokenness.
I stopped the grip of control.
I stopped the self-hate.
I stopped the excuses.
the lies
the avoidence
the fear.

I was a man
simple and flawed.

And that is a good thing.

There were two moments that stand out for me on the Rites of Passage.
Above all else.
One, a sacred experience.
The other, quietly personal.

The first had me standing before another brother in the sacred space,
his hand on my chest
and in compassion and strength
be told who I was as a man before God.
To be acknowledged and bestowed.
in honesty and reverence.
I was reconnected to my life
my old life
my true life.

The second was more private.
I was alone.
I stood at the sink
I had just brushed my teeth
and then I stopped and realized...
I suddenly realized
I had been looking at my face
directly
with unbroken gaze
I was looking deep into my own eyes
deep and hard
for the longest time
and I stared
and I wondered
and I saw within
and I was unafraid.
I saw myself.
The solid man.
the man who bore my face
looking directly back at me
into my eyes.
not blinking
not flinching
not fearing or loathing.
I just saw.

And as I kept staring, silently looking for the longest time...

I began to smile 

Feeling overwhelmed with warmth and gratitude,
I greeted the man I saw before me.
And invited him to journey with me.

 
........to be continued in The Call To Rites - Part 3 Life After Death







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