For Jeff and I the words hung low over our heads like a smoky night sky with the sounds of whistling shells, periodic bursts of light and bone shaking blasts. The tension wound tight in our chests, and we were expecting something to drop on us with destruction and death at any moment.
"I will be sending two District leaders to discuss your future in the Salem (attach denomination here) Church." That was the sentence in the e-mail we received which told us that our District Supervisor was going to attempt to shut me down, and have me removed from the church.
Our counsellor from the denomination who followed us through the whole event, called immediately after I forwarded the e-mail to him.
"Phil, whatever you are going to do, Do it now."
We made appeals to the necessary people, but it was Friday, and no one would get this info until Monday or Tuesday morning.
Over my twenty years in the denomination, I had heard stories of District Supervisors coming to churches on a Sunday and taking over the services. We were meeting in the newly leased outreach center on Sunday evenings, and wondered whether this District Supervisor, who had shown no evidence that a decent discussion could be held with him would attempt to pull off one of these hostile take-overs.
It was only two days until Sunday, and after 5 months of struggling, we weren't up for a battle.
We talked to the church council, and came up with a plan. We called every person in our little church. We e-mailed those who had an e-mail addresses. On Sunday evening at 6pm, when we met for services, we posted someone at the door, just in case an individual was missed in our contacts.
Meanwhile like fleeing Waldensians, we found a cave in the hills and meet there for church. In truth it was Rennie's house, but she does live on a hill. About 35 of us were packed into the two rooms which made our catacomb sanctuary. We were seated on floors, and laps, and standing in the hall.
My old friend from California, Steve Maddox was there with some of his troup who came for the trip. This was adventure at its best: a sense of danger, and a need to hide from a stronger enemy. Is this how the first-century church responded to persecution? Is this how the Chinese church lived? Were we walking the path of the persecuted Waldensians? Okay, maybe not, but we felt the sense of danger, and adventure that night.
We were being a bit dramatic, but still we faced a very real threat of being shut down as a church, and our people were up for the adventure.
It might not have been the mountains of Northern Italy. We might not have been meeting in a cave, but we ran and hid to save our little fellowship that day.
The District leadership never did show up that Sunday evening, but the adventure was worth the effort. We discovered that we were a real church without that fancy old bank building.
If you are following this blog, you will notice that here, and at Square No More I will be retelling tales of our adventures last year. I am currently compiling information for a book proposal, and so any input you can give as I put small vignettes of our story together would be appreciated.
Showing posts with label Post Traumatic Stress. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Post Traumatic Stress. Show all posts
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Tragedy and Twitching
My buddy Forrest got out of the gate on Halloween morning. Some one left it open, and I did not see that the gate was not latched. He got hit by a car on North Street, and now he is in doggy intensive care.
He had one leg amputated, and another had some surgery. After all this work, we are not sure he is going to make it. So we spend a few hours each day sitting with him in the vet clinic.
This is the second dog in as many years to be hit by a car. Annie was killed right in front of me a little over two years ago.
When Annie died on the street as I knelt in front of her, I could not sleep for three days. Each time my eyes shut, and I began to fade off, the scene suddenly replayed in my mental vision so clearly that it seemed real, and I startled suddenly awake. Sometimes still I remember that event and I will quickly blink, or perhaps even jerk mildly.
This must be a mild version of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, or perhaps even Tourette Syndrome.
Forrest's recent tragedy has caused this response to increase a bit.
Bev and I have been crying periodically throughout the day, and are perhaps a little distant to our friends. I suppose that comes with the emotional, and financial stress of seasons like this.
I am twitching less over the treachery by my Christian brethren last year. I am sure that Suzanne Sataline and The Wall Street Journal Article about "Befriending Witches Still a Problem in Salem" was instrumental in helping that twitch, but now I have an old twitch renewed by a recent tragedy.
I hope that in Heaven there will be no more twitches, just as there will be no more tears.
He had one leg amputated, and another had some surgery. After all this work, we are not sure he is going to make it. So we spend a few hours each day sitting with him in the vet clinic.
This is the second dog in as many years to be hit by a car. Annie was killed right in front of me a little over two years ago.
When Annie died on the street as I knelt in front of her, I could not sleep for three days. Each time my eyes shut, and I began to fade off, the scene suddenly replayed in my mental vision so clearly that it seemed real, and I startled suddenly awake. Sometimes still I remember that event and I will quickly blink, or perhaps even jerk mildly.
This must be a mild version of Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, or perhaps even Tourette Syndrome.
Forrest's recent tragedy has caused this response to increase a bit.
Bev and I have been crying periodically throughout the day, and are perhaps a little distant to our friends. I suppose that comes with the emotional, and financial stress of seasons like this.
I am twitching less over the treachery by my Christian brethren last year. I am sure that Suzanne Sataline and The Wall Street Journal Article about "Befriending Witches Still a Problem in Salem" was instrumental in helping that twitch, but now I have an old twitch renewed by a recent tragedy.
I hope that in Heaven there will be no more twitches, just as there will be no more tears.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Getting Past My Cochlea
These are the times I feel trapped in my body - or, is it that my body is trapped in my experiences, and unlike my mind and heart can not escape?
She talked along. She talked a long time. I listened. I am sure that I listened longer than she talked. She was having fun talking, and unknown to Einstein was the fact that fun is the ingredient which compresses time. Fear holds the power to stretch time - especially the fear of being trapped in a monologue disguised as a discussion.
Along came another talker. Different than the first, but not different enough.
Now I was looking out through my eyes. I listened, but I wasn't really hearing. The words which passed beyond the cochlea, and into my auditory nerve were random snatches of the monologue. "I'm having a hard time with...unfair to treat me...smells bad...don't you think?" I was thankful that monologues have rhetorical questions. If you occasionally nod your head, you can appear to be paying close attention.
Actually I wondered if I really appeared to be paying close attention. The monologue became white noise. The white noise became unsufferable. My whole body was screaming at me, and rebelling at the fact that I remained in the presence of this incessant static. I wondered if the screaming of my mind was visible on my facial expressions. How long would it be until my body started shaking? I was beginning to feel the subtle body quakes of pent up tension deep inside me.
Many people say I am a good listener. Why was my listening being shortened? Why was I unable to hear all that was being said? Is there something about a monologuer which compresses the listener in me, and shortens my patience? Or could it be that I am still struggling with the stress of past treachery? Could it be that the failed, and lying leadership I have had to submit to and endure has caused me to struggle with listening for this season while I recuperate?
This Why Man Blog is all about questioning these personal responses and asking myself how they relate to my experiences in the last year. The extension of this questioning is to ask how abusive leadership effects myself, and perhaps the church as a whole.
I know I am a good listener, but it is not as true now as it has been in the past. I am sure it will return. The stress of this season is the primary reason for the difference in my attention span and patience. So I ask myself, "Could it be that Christians are not good listeners because their leaders are know-it-all blabber-mouths who speak without knowing, and judge without inquiry? Do conclusion jumping Christian leaders bring stress upon the church? Does that stress create a congregation of bland-minded, short-tempered, poor listeners who can not handle anything which does not fit their enjoyment experience?
I feel less the listener today than a year ago, but I am committed to being a good listener. I know my mind will stop screaming soon enough, and I will begin to hear a large percentage of the words once again. My monologuer is not the problem. I am, but the problem I am has been stretched by the abuse we've endured. Or so methinks for now. If you disagree, I might not hear what you have to say for a few more months.
She talked along. She talked a long time. I listened. I am sure that I listened longer than she talked. She was having fun talking, and unknown to Einstein was the fact that fun is the ingredient which compresses time. Fear holds the power to stretch time - especially the fear of being trapped in a monologue disguised as a discussion.
Along came another talker. Different than the first, but not different enough.
Now I was looking out through my eyes. I listened, but I wasn't really hearing. The words which passed beyond the cochlea, and into my auditory nerve were random snatches of the monologue. "I'm having a hard time with...unfair to treat me...smells bad...don't you think?" I was thankful that monologues have rhetorical questions. If you occasionally nod your head, you can appear to be paying close attention.
Actually I wondered if I really appeared to be paying close attention. The monologue became white noise. The white noise became unsufferable. My whole body was screaming at me, and rebelling at the fact that I remained in the presence of this incessant static. I wondered if the screaming of my mind was visible on my facial expressions. How long would it be until my body started shaking? I was beginning to feel the subtle body quakes of pent up tension deep inside me.
Many people say I am a good listener. Why was my listening being shortened? Why was I unable to hear all that was being said? Is there something about a monologuer which compresses the listener in me, and shortens my patience? Or could it be that I am still struggling with the stress of past treachery? Could it be that the failed, and lying leadership I have had to submit to and endure has caused me to struggle with listening for this season while I recuperate?
This Why Man Blog is all about questioning these personal responses and asking myself how they relate to my experiences in the last year. The extension of this questioning is to ask how abusive leadership effects myself, and perhaps the church as a whole.
I know I am a good listener, but it is not as true now as it has been in the past. I am sure it will return. The stress of this season is the primary reason for the difference in my attention span and patience. So I ask myself, "Could it be that Christians are not good listeners because their leaders are know-it-all blabber-mouths who speak without knowing, and judge without inquiry? Do conclusion jumping Christian leaders bring stress upon the church? Does that stress create a congregation of bland-minded, short-tempered, poor listeners who can not handle anything which does not fit their enjoyment experience?
I feel less the listener today than a year ago, but I am committed to being a good listener. I know my mind will stop screaming soon enough, and I will begin to hear a large percentage of the words once again. My monologuer is not the problem. I am, but the problem I am has been stretched by the abuse we've endured. Or so methinks for now. If you disagree, I might not hear what you have to say for a few more months.
Monday, July 10, 2006
Bland with a B and the Creation of Brainless Christianity
I continue to have periodic attacks of bland moments. You know - my brain goes into that gelatinous, tasteless time warp. I had to add the word tasteless, because grape, or lime jello might actually be a cool thing to get stuck in for a few moments. So it happened again while I was looking at agent B's reply to my last post. I stared at a spot on the screen, and went blank. I think that I was staring at a little button on the blogger screen. I am certain it wasn't agent B's fault. I don't think that his writing has that effect on people, but then you'll have to check out his blog, and find out if it does that to you. Perhaps Mike of Earthsea could discover if agent B is a Jedi Master. Then I will know that I am being intellectually infiltrated by the undercover operatives from Abilene. Agent B does reference Obi Wan in his blog of July 8th, but then perhaps I developing paranoid moments along with my Bipolar/PTS/Autistic/Bland moments - and any other symptoms of stress I have not yet identified but may manifest like demons in a corny episode of Charmed. Oh right, there are no non-corny episodes of Charmed.
Well, back to my blandidity (which is cooler word than blandness.) I want to experiment with writing about what actually goes on in my mind in those blandiditynesses (which is now a really cool new word.) I was staring at the screen, and now I will write the thoughts that came to me while I looked at what I think was the "Save as Draft" button. This is what was in my mind for the those brief 5-7 seconds:
"hmmmm."
The end.
I think that this writing may have been more meaningful than the last. Last time I only thought "bug." Hmmmm may be pregnant with potential thought. I think. Then again maybe I didn't think. My wife was saying at church that scientists have proven that the mind is never in neutral. I'm not so sure after experiencing blandidity, because there truly was some blank space before and after hmmmm.
hmmmm....
Okay that was a thinking hmmmm, and so I added the elipsees.
Is it possible that the manner in which heavy-handed Christian leaders abuse their flocks actually creates brainless Christians? My experience is that after having been treacherously treated blandidity (my cool new word for which I am really proud of myself) sets in. It attaches itself like that huge blob of tar which got stuck to our tire a few days ago.
Authoritarian Christian leaders creating brainless Christians through subtle abuse - is it possible?
hmmmm....
or was that hmmmm?
Well, back to my blandidity (which is cooler word than blandness.) I want to experiment with writing about what actually goes on in my mind in those blandiditynesses (which is now a really cool new word.) I was staring at the screen, and now I will write the thoughts that came to me while I looked at what I think was the "Save as Draft" button. This is what was in my mind for the those brief 5-7 seconds:
"hmmmm."
The end.
I think that this writing may have been more meaningful than the last. Last time I only thought "bug." Hmmmm may be pregnant with potential thought. I think. Then again maybe I didn't think. My wife was saying at church that scientists have proven that the mind is never in neutral. I'm not so sure after experiencing blandidity, because there truly was some blank space before and after hmmmm.
hmmmm....
Okay that was a thinking hmmmm, and so I added the elipsees.
Is it possible that the manner in which heavy-handed Christian leaders abuse their flocks actually creates brainless Christians? My experience is that after having been treacherously treated blandidity (my cool new word for which I am really proud of myself) sets in. It attaches itself like that huge blob of tar which got stuck to our tire a few days ago.
Authoritarian Christian leaders creating brainless Christians through subtle abuse - is it possible?
hmmmm....
or was that hmmmm?
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Bland Leading the Bland?
My buddy Allan loves to use this quote which he picked up from his days working with YWAM. "It's the bland leading the bland." I'm sure it is a reference to non-pentecostal, unemotional worship found in many churches, but I am thinking that it might be a reference to my frame of mind from time to time.
Over the last three months I have been writing snippets of my story in experimental prose. I have attempted to write in such a way as to portray my thought life as outwardly unemotional and simple, but inwardly tumultous and confused - like a child with autism, because that is how I was feeling at times. With less success I have written stories in an attempt to portray the emotional rollercoaster of being bipolar. The same experiment was given to Post Traumatic Stress with greater success.
But what does one say about feeling like nothing?
I have been having a writing cramp. No, a full brain cramp. No, something more than that.
The church has been doing well. We have quite a few new faces which have appeared over the last couple months, and they are a really colorful bunch, who love being together - those who have met Jesus, and those who are only just discovering that He still hangs around humans in nearly tangible presence.
Despite this season of blessing, I could get stuck staring at a wall with barely a thought for extended time periods. What does one compose about these bland moments? I suppose I could fill a page with phony references to transendental states of consciousness, but the fact of the matter is that I am occasionally frozen in the present as though time became gelatin, and I was swimming deep in a flavorless vat of it. I suppose I could write about the things which I end up staring at, and the thoughts which fill my mind. Okay so the following is my first experimental attempt to write about my bland state of being, and my captivity in the object of my vision:
bug.
Over the last three months I have been writing snippets of my story in experimental prose. I have attempted to write in such a way as to portray my thought life as outwardly unemotional and simple, but inwardly tumultous and confused - like a child with autism, because that is how I was feeling at times. With less success I have written stories in an attempt to portray the emotional rollercoaster of being bipolar. The same experiment was given to Post Traumatic Stress with greater success.
But what does one say about feeling like nothing?
I have been having a writing cramp. No, a full brain cramp. No, something more than that.
The church has been doing well. We have quite a few new faces which have appeared over the last couple months, and they are a really colorful bunch, who love being together - those who have met Jesus, and those who are only just discovering that He still hangs around humans in nearly tangible presence.
Despite this season of blessing, I could get stuck staring at a wall with barely a thought for extended time periods. What does one compose about these bland moments? I suppose I could fill a page with phony references to transendental states of consciousness, but the fact of the matter is that I am occasionally frozen in the present as though time became gelatin, and I was swimming deep in a flavorless vat of it. I suppose I could write about the things which I end up staring at, and the thoughts which fill my mind. Okay so the following is my first experimental attempt to write about my bland state of being, and my captivity in the object of my vision:
bug.
Monday, May 01, 2006
Is this What a War Veteran Feels Like?
I wrote my e-mail response quickly, and nervously. I glanced over my left shoulder with a quick, jerky movement. Over my left shoulder is where I can see people coming in the front doors.
Although I wrote quickly, and nervously, it took me a long time. The more hurried I became the longer it took. I always mess up my typing if I am going too fast, and words like "concern" look something like "cnecrn."
I glanced over my left shoulder again.
I finished the first paragraph, and stopped. I reread it quickly to look for places which could possibly be misconstrued. I decided that I did not like what I wrote. I deleted a sentence, and changed the other 3, but then I removed 1 more sentence, and quickly added a new one, which I removed as soon as I had finished it. I reread it slowly trying to concentrate on the words, but they went past my eyes like tracer rounds in the night sky.
I rubbed my forehead and eyes with my hand. I twisted my head and neck trying to release the tension, and there were little cracking sounds, but they were not fully satisfactory.
I glanced quickly over my left shoulder.
After repeating the same process for four short paragraphs, I saved the e-mail as a draft.
"Should I send it to Jeff?" I asked myself. I am getting tired of sending everything to Jeff, but who else can I ask for advice on how to say this?
I did not send it to Jeff this time. I just saved it to think about it.
I will come back and read it again, and send it to Jeff after I have my thoughts together more clearly.
Is this what a war veteran feels like? I have heard tales of men coming home from war, and walking around the perimeter of a parking lot, to keep their backs against a wall. It's safer to walk around the edges, that way you only have to monitor 180 degrees of vision, and nothing can come up from behind.
I glanced nervously over my left shoulder again.
(In dealing with a series of false accusations, I have had many vacillating emotions. This is a part of considering how those emotions mess with the human psyche. Otherwise, I suppose I am as messed up as I sound. Well, not really, I'll survive. No, wait, I do believe in the sinfulness of humanity - though not in the strict Calvinistic sense, so I guess I am really as messed up as I sound, but don't get big headed over it. So are you.)
Although I wrote quickly, and nervously, it took me a long time. The more hurried I became the longer it took. I always mess up my typing if I am going too fast, and words like "concern" look something like "cnecrn."
I glanced over my left shoulder again.
I finished the first paragraph, and stopped. I reread it quickly to look for places which could possibly be misconstrued. I decided that I did not like what I wrote. I deleted a sentence, and changed the other 3, but then I removed 1 more sentence, and quickly added a new one, which I removed as soon as I had finished it. I reread it slowly trying to concentrate on the words, but they went past my eyes like tracer rounds in the night sky.
I rubbed my forehead and eyes with my hand. I twisted my head and neck trying to release the tension, and there were little cracking sounds, but they were not fully satisfactory.
I glanced quickly over my left shoulder.
After repeating the same process for four short paragraphs, I saved the e-mail as a draft.
"Should I send it to Jeff?" I asked myself. I am getting tired of sending everything to Jeff, but who else can I ask for advice on how to say this?
I did not send it to Jeff this time. I just saved it to think about it.
I will come back and read it again, and send it to Jeff after I have my thoughts together more clearly.
Is this what a war veteran feels like? I have heard tales of men coming home from war, and walking around the perimeter of a parking lot, to keep their backs against a wall. It's safer to walk around the edges, that way you only have to monitor 180 degrees of vision, and nothing can come up from behind.
I glanced nervously over my left shoulder again.
(In dealing with a series of false accusations, I have had many vacillating emotions. This is a part of considering how those emotions mess with the human psyche. Otherwise, I suppose I am as messed up as I sound. Well, not really, I'll survive. No, wait, I do believe in the sinfulness of humanity - though not in the strict Calvinistic sense, so I guess I am really as messed up as I sound, but don't get big headed over it. So are you.)
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