[ I have to warn you: this blog entry is rather long. This entry is about me, my story, my journey, and thus is a very personal entry. The process of writing it took me from one end of the emotional spectrum to the other. And this is just part one. ]
Journey of One: Brotherhood
Wednesday, March 24, marked the fifth anniversary of my dad’s death. Five years. Doesn’t feel like it’s been five years since I last talked to my dad. The time has gone by so fast. Doesn’t feel like he’s been gone that long. But five years is a long time; at least, it’s long enough for me to have gone through three different jobs, enroll in graduate school, get married – and get divorced – and of course, join the glorious ranks of the blogosphere. Indeed, a lot has happened these past five years. I wonder what my dad would have to say about all of it.
Two years after my dad died, I lost my best friend to cancer. Steve and I met in fifth grade, became best friends, and remained closer than brothers ever since. We stood side-by-side like Tomax and Xamot (yeah, I totally went there) through junior high, high school and college. We were still really close even after college, but as each year passed, we grew further apart, both geographically and ideologically. In the late 90s we celebrated the fact that we lived close enough to each other after college that we could join forces and plan ministry events. He was a youth minister in Joliet at the time, and I served as the associate minister in Sauk Village ("Associate Minister" is the title given to the guy who isn’t the senior minister, who usually ends up doing youth ministry and whatever else the senior minister doesn’t want to do). But in August 2000 Becka (my first wife) and I moved away from the Chicagoland area, far enough away that my connection to Steve was reduced to the occasional telephone call.
As time went on, he and I spoke less and less. This isn’t to say that he and I were no longer close; Steve and I were just heading down two different paths. He shifted his Christian faith into high gear while I slowly came to the realization that I didn’t want anything to do with religion any more. Steve's hard work and determination led to much success for him, whereas I felt like my life was falling apart. Steve started his own church. Steve had an uncanny ability to achieve his goals. Whatever he wanted to accomplish, he'd set his mind to it and get it done. Steve had many supporters and even admirers, and after his death I saw his reputation escalate to near legendary proportions. I saw plenty of hero worship as approximately 4000 people attended Steve's wake.
And make no mistake: Steve was an exceptional human being who appeared larger than life. He chose to use that charisma and his exceptional qualities to promote Christianity. During a time when Steve seemed to be conquering the world, my life was falling apart. Becka and I separated in 2004 and divorced a year later. I wrestled with financial hardships due to the separation and divorce which only got worse when I couldn’t find a job. I spent a month or so sleeping in my van. I was depressed to the point of contemplating suicide. Steve, on the other hand (who had a strong family life with his wonderful wife and daughter, by the way), had the focus of a laser beam on the singular goal of building a successful ministry. Meanwhile, I floundered in a fog of confusion and conflicting emotions.
My “fall from grace” appeared all the more severe when contrasted with Steve’s life, and I bet plenty of church-going folks who knew us and our history as friends wondered why I wasn’t more like Steve. I’m also pretty sure some of them blamed my hardships on my apostasy. Again, contrasted with all of Steve’s success, my problems appeared all the more severe. Steve seemed to have all the blessings his god could provide. Certainly he was being rewarded for his faith. "If only Bud would turn back to the Lord, his life would turn around."
Then Steve discovered he had rectal cancer. After surgery, chemo, radiation, and drastic changes in diet and lifestyle, a year later he was gone. He died a few days before his 33rd birthday. "The Lord works in mysterious ways," they say. Mysterious enough to allow Steve to develop a rare form of rectal cancer that was impervious to all current cancer treatments.
Steve's death hit me pretty hard. Like I said, my dad died two years prior. Someone reading this might wonder why the anniversary of my dad's death makes me think so much about Steve. It's because Steve's death made me think so much of my dad. When my dad died, I flipped a switch in my mind that shut off my emotions. I knew I had to be the rock for my family. My mom and sister were emotional wrecks (and understandably so), and my sister's husband at the time was way too immature, weak and pusillanimous to be of much good to anyone. I felt I needed to step up and be the strong one for as long as they needed me. I figured I'd mourn later.
And I did. When Steve died, that switch in my mind flipped back on. Emotions locked away for two years came flooding in, and my heart became raw, like my dad had just died that day. I mourned the loss of my dad and my brother during Steve's funeral.
Emotions ran high. I saw so many people at the wake and funeral – people I hadn’t seen in five, ten, even fifteen years, and a few even longer than that. I saw people who are like family to me. I felt that sense of community – koinonia – that I hadn't felt since I was part of my church’s youth group in high school. And all around me, I could sense Steve: not in some goofy mystical Jon Edward sense, but just in the words of the people who were there. Steve left a lasting impression on everyone. We were in church – Steve's church – the day after the funeral for Sunday morning worship. I sat amidst friends and family, listening to songs of joy and praise sung with voices of sadness and loss. I saw the legacy Steve left behind, and caught in the shifting tide of emotion, I decided that weekend that I wanted to be a part of it. I wanted to pick up where Steve had left off.
I quit the ministry, left the church, and discarded the "Christian" label in 2004. My questions and doubts concerning Christian faith continued to grow till I reached a point in which I could no longer with a clear conscience continue to claim belief in the doctrines of Christian theism. I acknowledged and embraced agnosticism. This was around the time my marriage to Becka collapsed and she and I separated. The next four years presented to me a series of obstacles, problems, set-backs and trials. During this time, I spent many moments thinking that I had no way to overcome the difficulties of my life. I felt trapped, stuck, and completely powerless. I saw no light at the end of the tunnel, no silver lining in the dark clouds. I was overwhelmed with sadness, despair and feelings of defeat.
When I describe this period of my life, I usually explain that I was a little too low on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs to think seriously about philosophy or religion. While I became (or, rather, admitted to myself that I was) an agnostic in 2004, I didn’t have much of an opportunity to explore the implications of this epistemic view. I still believed in god, but I knew I was done with ministry, I felt like going to church was a waste of time, and I no longer adhered to any particular theological position because I simply didn't know what was true. Once I would debate and defend such doctrines as the Trinity and the divinity of Christ, but no longer. Beyond that I didn’t think too much about it, primarily because I simply didn’t know what to think. I had too many problems on my mind. I spent most of my down time distracting myself with music, movies, games, girls, and alcohol: all the pleasures I had denied myself when I was a Christian. I realized these "vices" weren’t so bad after all.
Of course, as the head of my martial arts school says, "anything without discipline is bad for you." I admit, there were times when I indulged to the point of excess. I had my share of crazy moments. I don't feel guilty about this. If anything, getting a bit wild was necessary for me. I was a Christian all through high school. I didn't party. I didn't drink. I never "experimented." I somehow maintained my virginity through high school and college. I entered into paid ministry when I was 20, after leaving Bible college. Becka and I got married in February 1997 when we were 22 years old, and we had our first child that same year. All I wanted in my 20s was to be an "adult". I wanted to be respected as good Christian husband, father and minister.
The consequence of this attitude is that I lived my 20s like they were my 30s (or 40s). I wanted so badly to be seen as an adult. Becka and I separated a few months before I turned 30, and this marked the beginning of drastic changes in my life. I went a little wild (relatively speaking, I guess). I went to my first house party. I tried marijuana for the first time. I became a social drinker, and would even get drunk on occasion. I started smoking. Swear words became incorporated into my vocabulary and (worst of all) I slept in on Sundays. Nothing too crazy (except for the occasional drunken bottle rocket battle), but if I lived my 20s like they were my 30s, I most definitely made up for it by living the first few years of my 30s like they were my 20s.
If anyone in the Christian bubble ever saw me as the prodigal son (and I’m sure many of them did), they definitely did after Steve died. Spending the weekend of Steve’s funeral surrounded by old familiar faces in old familiar places took me back to a time when life was simpler, when I still believed the Bible was true, church was my second home, Thursday Night Youth Group was the highlight of my week and I still felt called by god. The sense of community I felt there – along with my love for Chicago and her surrounding region – compelled me to stay. I didn’t want to drive back to Springfield. I felt at home in the midst of old friends.
Still, something – rather, someone – was missing. The last time I saw Steve alive was about a week before. His wife Candy sent me an email to let me know that Steve wasn't doing very well, and if I want to say my goodbyes, I'd better do it soon. I took a day off work to drive up to his house. Candy warned me that Steve didn't look so good. She didn't want me to walk in unprepared for what I would see.
Most of the time I spent at Steve's house, he was asleep on the couch. The emaciated figure I saw only bearly resembled the man I knew. Last time I saw Steve before this moment was less than a year prior. He looked healthy, strong, big. Steve loved to lift weights and wrestle. He stood over six feet tall and weighed a solid 250 lbs. All of that was a memory now, as I looked at what the cancer did to his body. When I first arrived, he woke up long enough to say hi, and that was about it. Steve didn't wake up until several hours later, as I was preparing to leave. He lifted up an arm to hug me. "Love ya, man." "I love you, brother." Those two statements are all Steve and I said to each other that day. Those were our final words to each other.
While Steve slept, I spent most of the time talking with his mom and dad, who were like a second set of parents to me growing up. Steve's dad Bob baptized me and my dad when I was 13. He was the minister of our church, and the man who encouraged me to consider preaching as my vocation in life. Steve and I followed in Bob's footsteps when we went to Lincoln Christian College (now called Lincoln Christian University), Bob's alma mater. The day after Steve's funeral, Bob and I talked for a while. He encouraged me to consider moving back to the Chicagoland area, and getting involved with the church Steve built.
I couldn't help but wonder whether god's providence had anything to do with this. Before talking to Bob, I already began developing a strong desire to return to the region, and even get involved with Steve's church. Then to hear Bob's words echoing my own thoughts, well... I became convinced that it was exactly what I needed to do.
I talked with Jon, who was the associate minister of Steve's church, and also a former classmate of ours at Lincoln. He agreed that I should move back and get involved. I talked with Candy on the phone a few times and told her my plan. I talked to my mom and my friend Clayton about my plan. I was so excited that I even started doing some preaching again in a church that didn't have a minister and needed someone to fill the pulpit on Sundays. This decision would eventually cause my excitement to be replaced with a sober acknowledgement of reality.
The more I preached, the more I realized why I left the church in the first place: as much as I'd like for it all to be true, I simply can't bring myself to believe the tenets and doctrines of Christian theism. As much as I wanted to once again be a part of the community of believers, the truth is that their community is based on their shared Christian faith, and while I still believed in god at this point, I couldn't say I believed what the Bible teaches about god and maintain my integrity.
In the end, I realized that I wanted to be a part of Steve’s church because that church was a part of Steve. It was to me the only physical connection I had to the man I considered my brother. When the torrent of emotions that overpowered me subsided, I realized my cognitive dissonance. I wanted the community the Christian bubble provides while ignoring the fact that I don't share the same beliefs. I tried to convince myself that the claims of Christianity are true when I could no longer ignore my non-belief, since having "proper belief" is the only way my Christian friends would accept me. But such attempts were in vain.
I grew angry. These people - many of whom I've known since childhood - won't truly accept me unless I once again agree with them about god. If I dare have a differing belief, then most of them will reject me as though I've done something wrong. All I have done is be honest. All I have done is want to understand. All I want is the truth, whatever that happens to be. I realized that, for me to reclaim the koinonia I once had, I would have to turn my back on my values and principles. I knew then that I wasn't going to move back to Chicago - and if I ever did, it would not be for the purpose of joining Steve's church. I refused to sacrifice my soul.
I began blogging a little over a year after Steve's death. By this time I knew I wasn't going to be a part of Steve's church. I was still preaching, however, and had just enrolled in graduate school. I got remarried in October 2009, so I wasn't planning on leaving Springfield any time soon. After a semester of graduate school and having experienced blogging for the first time, my thought process matured. I wrote an entry for Dead-Logic in December 2009 titled, Reflecting on the End of a Semester, which I'd like to share here, since it shows the evolution of my thought process from the time Steve died to that moment:
Reflecting on the End of a Semester
The last time I was a student (i.e., a person paying a lot of money to an institution in exchange for an attempt at education), the year was 2002. Not long after that, I went through what I consider to be the depths of despair, hopelessness and (in my estimation at the time) failure. “Rock bottom” is the appropriate colloquialism here. Now, with my life mostly back in order, I have returned to school to pursue the dream I have had for years. I returned to formal education a much different person than I was before. Given that during my time of personal struggle I was a little too low on Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs to spend much time in serious philosophical inquiry, returning to school - taking Philosophy of Religion as one of my courses - forced me to inquire, thrusting me back into the habit of the examined life, and thus face myself as I am now. This rattled me, to say the least.
I fought depression through most of this semester, compounded by my ignorance with computers and the frustration that arose by taking my first online course. The last time I called myself a student I was an ordained Christian minister finishing my B.A. in theology at a Christian college, and wrestling with questions and doubts the entire time. I ran a website devoted to Christian apologetics and was even considered among the ranks of the Christian Cadre, a group of self-appointed Internet defenders of Christian faith. All the while I hid my true thoughts, repressed my doubts, and when I could repress them no longer I’d cry out in my proverbial closet of prayer, "Lord, help my unbelief!" All I received was silence. Such silence from heaven became for me the only significant religious experience I have ever had.
I wrote my paper on the Cosmological Argument because it served as the final pillar upon which I continued to accept my belief in god as both rational and warranted. For years the Cosmological Argument stood alone amidst the rubble of other pillars which had collapsed under the weight of scrutiny. I wrote the paper in order to test the strength of that pillar. This was a test I had been afraid to conduct before.
That none of the students in my Philosophy of Religion class changed their most significant beliefs is no surprise. Worldviews don’t change suddenly, nor should they. Considering the arguments and evidence is quite a process, as is recognizing and learning to overcome one’s bias and preferences, and many people never allow themselves to even begin such a process. My own journey through this semester has brought me beyond depression to an acceptance of where I stand on certain issues, and precisely how ignorant I am on many things. The more I learn the more I recognize how little I know. The journey continues.
The journey did indeed continue. I kept writing, and continued to understand who I am and where I stand on the issues of god, faith and religion. I learned to accept myself for who I am. I mourned the loss of my best friend, and learned to move forward. I accepted that Steve and I had different outlooks on life. Steve, just a few days before his death, created a video recording of himself in which he encouraged everyone who could hear his voice to continue doing the Lord's work, and continue the ministry at his church. This video was played at his funeral. These were his final words to the world.
I'm sorry my brother. I love you with all my heart, and I wish you were still here, but I can't go down the same road as you. I have to be true to myself.
Steve already knew that, though. That's why we drifted apart the last few years of his life. Even though we had all this history together, and even though we still shared many of the same loves - pro wrestling, zombie movies, Star Wars, Firefly, old kung fu movies, comic books, music, basketball - we no longer shared the one thing that mattered most to Steve. Our bond of brotherhood had been weakened by his unwavering Christian faith. Steve remained a part of the Christian bubble, and I did not; consequently, he and I would never be the same again.
Dead-Logic.com
