STONES

A group of people who I respect a great deal had an online conversation recently about water-boarding. Some of the folks were for it...some were against it. Some drew a political line in the sand proclaiming that one party had the bragging rights on the issue. I was impressed by the respectful way the conversation unfolded. Very few cheap shots were taken.  It was clear that there was a difference of opinion on the topic.

It got me thinking about torture in general...or “enhanced interrogation” as we are calling it these days.

I understand the need for information that will keep us safer. I get that sometimes people possess knowledge that could endanger or save the lives of 100’s maybe 1000’s of people. It is important to get that information. There have been occasions when “enhanced interrogation” has been effective in ascertaining important pieces to a particularly tricky puzzle of intelligence. There have also been occasions when the enemy has resisted the painful experience, and he or she has withheld the wisdom that is being sought.

I’ve heard a few folks argue that the interrogator needs to get “tougher” on their prisoner. I’ve also heard a few folks argue that this is why torture should not be bothered with in the first place. I confess, I don’t have the answer to which is right and which is wrong...and I don’t want to push my reader in any particular direction either.

What I am reminded of in this scenario is the time Jesus was sitting with a woman who was accused of adultery. It was a crime punishable by death. She was, in the eyes of those who had cornered her, an enemy of the faith. I’m guessing you remember Jesus’ response to this situation...he did not preach at the woman or her captors,...he made them an offer:

Whoever among you is without sin, feel free to cast the first stone.

My issue with enhanced interrogation comes out of my wrestling with that offer. I wonder if we are always in the right? I wonder if the enemy’s issue with us is always without virtue or merit? I wonder how we can feel outrage about the torture of our soldiers by the enemy, if we are engaging in torture? To take it a step more personal (and I do believe that war is personal, otherwise we would not have support groups for folks who are worried about their loved ones who are deployed or support groups for folks who have experienced so much trauma in war that they now have Post Traumatic Stress Response) I wonder how we can find it acceptable for the young men and women we pray for each Sunday in worship, to be subjected to “enhanced interrogation” if they were to be captured? Because when we agree as a country that it’s OK here...we imply that it’s OK over there. We’re all God’s creatures...right?

When I think about casting that first stone at one of the young people from Belchertown who are serving our country, I shudder.  It is not OK with me. I do not want to hurt them. I do not want anyone else to hurt them. I love them. I want them to come home to be with their families and friends. I want them to have as little to heal from as is possible in the midst of war. I am not naive. I know that there will be a lot to recover from; seeing people hurt, seeing people die, being on constant alert for the safety of your life. That is tragic enough for me. I also know that when they come home, if they come home, I will be there to help them (and their families) put the broken pieces back together again.

The thought of  adding  another stone to the heaviness of war is enough to sink my heart.

TREADMILL: PART 2

I love to dance. My wife and I can go for 2-3, maybe even 4 hours at a wedding reception. We kick up our heels, spin, laugh, sweat...make fools out of ourselves. It's a lot of fun. We usually come home from these sessions exhausted and happy.

I posted in an earlier blog ( TREADMILL ) about my struggle on the treadmill. Today I tried again. I started early in the morning before I had time to work up too much anxiety about it. I got on and started the music. Breathe, Todd. Breathe. I prayed for God to move the past out of my way with a bulldozer so that I could just enjoy myself, or at the very least, not feel shame from the exercise. As I walked, I could feel my blood pressure rise. I could feel my heart beating faster. I could feel the adrenaline pumping through my body. I kept on praying, "C'mon God...we can do this. This doesn't have to be terrible. There must be sometime when I get all worked up that doesn't feel awful to me. Help me to think of this like...like when I'm dancing with Martha!"

I smiled. I saw us whooping it up in our nice clothes. We were hot, and sweaty, and laughing and singing and swaying and...it was ok. And when a slow song came on I held Martha close and we joked about sticking together (ewwww). And I kept on walking. Song after song.  I even sang a little. It felt pretty good.

Somehow in my talking with God a shift happened. My anxiety diminished. A boulder moved. I was rocked and rolled. Perhaps that's how the boulder got moved away on Easter morning. Maybe Jesus said, "C'mon God...we can do this. This doesn't have to be terrible."

I wonder what kinds of shifts happen in your life when you talk with God? I wonder how the Spirit uses those conversations to leverage change that brings about wholeness?

It's been 3 hours since I was back on the treadmill. Still feeling pretty good. No shame. Kind of feels like Easter morning.
--todd

TREADMILL

I"m a survivor of abuse. Physical and emotional abuse as a child. Lots of it. It has left me with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I hate it. Recently I restarted therapy. The guy I'm seeing was on my previous therapist's "emergency" list...and since my previous therapist is dead, I guess calling this new person made sense.


My issue at the moment is paralysis. I am stuck. Can't move. Literally. Can't. Move. When I think about exercising or doing anything healthy for myself I seize up. I have a shortness of breath. My legs don't want to move. The muscles in my arms tighten up. It's not a good feeling. It reminds me of how I felt when I was being abused...


My new therapist and I talked about that yesterday. He suggested that I try to feel the tensing of the muscles, and push aside the panic piece of the equation, because I do panic when I feel this way. We did a short exercise and I had some success, but I knew I had to practice to get better at it.


Today I spent 3 hours in paralysis. I even created this blog as a way to avoid doing  a little exercise. By “a little” I mean, “20 minutes on a slow treadmill.” I think that is a little.


After eating lunch I was able to yell at myself loudly enough that I got on the stupid treadmill.


My muscles were tense. My head began to swim as I moved my feet on the belt. Breathe. Breathe. This is not that trauma. This elevated heartbeat is not “that” elevated heartbeat. This heavy breathing is not “that” heavy breathing. I put on some Mavis Staples walking music, and pressed “go.”

It was not too bad. I felt anxious a few times, and when I did feel the anxiety rising, I would pray, “God, this is not that time, help me to be here now. Help me to feel this as a good thing. Help me to know this is a good thing.” And I kept walking. And walking. And walking. When I finally stopped, I noted that I had been at it for 40  minutes. My breathing came back to normal. I had survived.






It was a couple hours later that the anxiety began to rise up again. I felt...ashamed. My body was translating the healthy activity as "trauma". I felt...angry that I felt ashamed. I felt frustrated that even though I was able to walk, the trauma was still able to change that good thing into something really horrible. My limbs started tightening up. My head started to swirl. “God, help me to remember the good that walk did for me. Help me to remember how I did not feel so terrible when I was on the treadmill and how I lost track of time because it was OK to be walking for my health.”


I am trying to be patient. I am terrible at being patient. I trust that God who saved me, delivered me, from my tormentors, will lead me through this wilderness. Like my spiritual forebears, I’m pretty sure that I will murmur until I reach the promised land As a wise doctor friend of mine once prescribed: one step today...maybe two steps tomorrow. I will try.
--todd