Eric S. Fought

A prodigal misfit's journey.

The Journey Home

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The opening scene of the popular film Love Actually features footage taken outside of the arrivals gate of a busy airport. One of the characters narrates:

Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think of the arrivals gate at Heathrow airport. General opinion is starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed. But I don’t see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it’s not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it’s always there. Fathers and sons, mother’s and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. If you look for it, I’ve got a sneaking feeling you’ll find that love actually is all around.

Whether or not you’ve ever seen the movie, or remember that scene, you can probably relate to seeing folks reunited at the airport. Perhaps you’ve had the experience yourself of waiting for someone to get off the plane and turn the corner, making their way past security.

In late 2006 I traveled to Jackson Hole, Wyoming on a business trip. I was gone for several days, nearly a week. My partner, Hugh, and I were in the middle of what might be referred to as an epic fight. One for the ages. The argument began before I left and continued with angry phone calls from my hotel room. I don’t remember what we were fighting about exactly, but I’m sure that I was wrong.

At the time we lived in Lincoln, Nebraska, about an hour’s drive from the airport in Omaha. My plane landed late in the evening and I was planning on riding back to Lincoln with a colleague. However, as I walked toward baggage claim, I was surprised to find Hugh standing there, waiting for me.

He died about a year later. I still think of that moment just about every time I get off a plane, no matter where I land. As I exit the jetway, there is a part of me that hopes to be able to relive that moment, to be surprised by the embrace of unconditional love.

Unconditional love, whether from a partner, or a parent, or someone else, is unexpected. It catches us by surprise. Our minds tell us that we don’t deserve such love, and as a result, we never expect it to happen.

Rembrandt, The Return of the Prodigal Son

The younger son in the parable Jesus told the Pharisees (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32) was certainly not expecting the love he experienced. Perhaps he knew that his father would treat him with some degree of kindness. But robes and rings and a lavish feast? Surely he never expected any of that.

And that’s one lesson Jesus is undoubtedly teaching in this text. God’s love is just like the love of the father in the story. Lavish. Surprising. Unexpected. Unconditional.

We tend to focus on the son, connecting his prodigal journey with our own experiences, those times when we squandered what we had, perhaps burned a bridge or found ourselves checking Craigslist for hog handler positions.

We may enter the story there, as prodigal sons and daughters ourselves. But Henri Nouwen, the late priest, and spiritual writer and others encourage us to set our gaze on the father. Because that is where the love is.

Imagine the pain he experienced, the worry he felt each day that his son was gone. Those of you that are parents surely can. Some of us in his position would have simply moved on, heartbroken by the child’s selfish acts of disowning. And yet, there he waited, lovingly looking out onto the horizon day after day, eagerly anticipating his son’s return.

And the joy! The joy the father experienced as he finally set eye on the one he thought might be dead. Nothing else mattered. It was time to celebrate.

Perhaps we enter the story there, in the beauty of the reunion, the hope found in the reconciliation. But do we believe that such a love as expressed in this parable is possible for us? Maybe we can get there in our head, the idea that God might love us without condition. Maybe, but I doubt it. And, beyond an intellectual understanding, we certainly have difficulty believing that such a love is possible deep within us, in our gut, in our soul.

We have too many solid examples of conditional love, tapes of hurt and brokenness to play back in our heads. Of fathers who let us down and didn’t wait for us with robes and rings. Of partners or spouses who fell out of love with us. Of times when we put ourselves first, not sharing with others the love we so desperately sought and seek ourselves.

Because our human experience of love has so often let us down, it is nearly impossible to wrap our heads and our hearts around a God who loves us each and every moment of our days without condition.

And, because we believe unconditional love is so far beyond our reach, we seek out other ways to have that hole in our hearts filled. Henri Nouwen writes in his book, The Return of the Prodigal Son[i], “I am the prodigal son every time I search for unconditional love where it cannot be found.”

Some of us try to fill that hole with alcohol, or drugs, addictions that provide a fix that is not only temporary but which further separate us from God and God’s love for us. But even if you never pick up a drink or a drug, there are other ways to fill the hole. We become addicted to money, sex, food, work, things.

Nouwen says, “Our addictions make us cling to what the world proclaims as the keys to self-fulfilment: accumulation of wealth and power; attainment of status and admiration; lavish consumption of food and drink, and sexual gratification without distinguishing between lust and love.” Nouwen continues, “In these days of increasing addictions, we have wandered far away from our Father’s home. The addicted life can aptly be designated a life lived in ‘a distant country.’ It is from there that our cry for deliverance rises up.”

Addicts and alcoholics refer to that cry for deliverance as a moment of clarity. That moment when you are in the middle of the pigsty, eating the leftover scraps. In desperation, you realize that you are not living the life that God or anyone else intended for you. You become aware that as you desperately seek fulfillment outside of yourself and your God, eagerly seeking out that next fix, there might, just might, be a different path.

Hopefully, the moment of clarity is long enough for you to take notice, and to begin the long walk home. It’s a path full of fear and anxiety and shame, but a path toward healing and reconciliation. And for me, and possibly you or someone you love, it can be a step toward saving your life.

The good news today is that such a path exists, a road back to the father who is waiting on the top of the hill for you. As he sees you turning the corner, coming closer and closer to home, he begins to smile. And as you come closer, he begins to dance and shout. For nothing, absolutely nothing will ever keep our God from jumping for joy at the sight of us.

If you walk that path, the path home to God’s unceasing and unconditional love enough times, eventually you begin to believe that love actually does exist. That doesn’t stop you from forgetting, but the road becomes easier to navigate.

And, by the way, it’s much easier to navigate that path when you are not alone, but in the midst of a loving community on the same journey. So, when you get to a place where you have come to know God’s unconditional love, and I hope you have or will, it’s up to you to bring others along. Whether they be in your midst this morning, or as you go about your days. There are so many people yearning to turn the corner, to approach the father’s house and see God jumping for joy. Be the guide they need.

 

 

 

 

[i] Henri Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son (New York: Doubleday, 1992) 42-43.

These Days Ahead

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I struggle with Lent, which is natural. It’s meant to be challenging, the invitation is to conversion, to change. And we all know change, even the idea of it, is hard.

But I also struggle with Lent because I know that for those of us that walk each day living with mental health conditions of various types, this season provides specific challenges.

The reality of suicidal ideation already places death front and center. The last thing many of us needs is a reminder.

Low self-esteem and feelings of worthlessness are not the result of a chosen path toward spiritual kenosis, but daily challenges to navigate.

For me, and perhaps for you, Lent offers the chance for a new perspective.

Rather than choosing to give up chocolate or pie or even cigarettes, I try to instead give up all that keeps me from living fully: crippling self-doubt, painful memories, fears and insecurities about the future, toxic relationships.

But—and this is important—I also remind myself that some, if not many, of these things are out of my control, symptoms of chronic illness rather than failures on my part.

Some things we can let go of, some things we can’t. Sometimes I can choose gratitude, some days all I can do is drink my coffee and put on my shoes and do the best I can.

Lent is a time to be reminded that it’s all part of the journey.

These days remind us not only of Jesus’ journey from death to new life but our own. Together, we walk through the many challenges of our lives mindful of the hope that Easter brings, and we do so amid a community of people walking the same path. Outside of the walls of our home or parish, we find growing division, and many people experiencing pain. This season prepares us to walk with Jesus into Jerusalem, through the streets to the cross and the tomb, and listen for the call to bring the hope of resurrection to a world in need.

More than anything, Lent reminds us of our humanity. To say that “we are dust” is not to say that we are dirt. It is a call to embrace who we are, to connect with others who share in the messiness, and to seek out our loving Creator, ever more mindful of that Creator’s invitation to be embraced by love, understanding, and life-giving water to stymy our dustiness.

Beautiful Boy

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I saw Beautiful Boy over the weekend with some good friends. It was tough to watch, but important to see.

Beautiful Boy is based on a pair of memoirs by a father and son, David and Nic Sheff, about Nic’s struggles with addiction, primarily to crystal methamphetamine. Steve Carrell and Timothée Chalamet star in the film, which is directed by Felix van Groeningen.

I don’t often talk publicly about the specifics of my addiction to crystal methamphetamine, which began nearly 10 years ago. Generally when I do share about my journey I do so in less specific terms, calling myself an addict and alcoholic. It’s a way of avoiding some of the shame, of which there is much. And yet I know it’s important for me to be honest in order to continue to recover.

My name is Eric, and I am a crystal meth addict in recovery today.

The film accurately portrays the experience of powerlessness, the unceasing power of the drug, and its effects on all aspects of the addict’s life. It also shows the ways in which meth addiction not only destroys the life of the one addicted to it, but impacts the lives of all those around him.

I’m grateful to be clean today. And these I’m holding in prayer all of my friends who have walked the same path, with an open invitation to help as I can.

And, I’m mindful of all those who have been by my side, through all of the ups and the downs, even when they needed to detach in order to help me find clarity. Thank you, and I love you.

An Untitled Prayer

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O God, your people are hurting. Many feel lost, afraid, ready to give up.

Bring us back to a place where we seek authentic community, where we long to understand each other, especially those that come from differing places and views.

You call each of us to reconciliation. Give us the strength and wisdom and temperament to get there.

For those that have died, we pray for a peaceful rest. For those who have been abused, we pray for healing and forgiveness. For those who seek to do evil, we pray for a change of heart. For those who are weary and ready to give up, we pray for courage and strength. And, for a world in need of joy, we pray for voices that laugh and sing and shout.

We ask this in the name of our loving, liberating and life-giving God, Father, Son and Holy Spirit.

Recovery from Perfection

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God willing, this month I will mark another year of continuous sobriety from alcohol and drugs.

Such a time as the period before and after a sobriety anniversary welcomes a great deal of introspection, hope and fear.

It is good to celebrate such milestones. Not so much to pat oneself on the back, but to show others on a similar path that long-term sobriety is indeed possible. And, in my case, there is no doubt that I can say without hesitation, if I can do it, anyone can.

But the reality is that I am sober today, not so much because of what I did, but because of what I stopped doing.

Certainly not picking up a drink of whiskey or a hit of crystal methamphetamine—my drugs of choice—has been a helpful daily decision.

However, even more critical has been my decision to stop trying to be perfect. In the end, such a goal, the goal of perfection, is about as achievable for me as running a double marathon on a hot August day.

It’s just not going to happen.

I drank and used drugs because I was led to believe that in order to be successful, in order to fully participate in the life of this world, I needed to be perfect. And every day, when I fell short, I drank and used to console the disappointed and devastated ego within.

Even more difficult for me to endure was the fact that people around me were never going to be perfect either, no matter how much I wanted them to be. My expectations of those people in my life always led to bitter disappointment and pointed to my own failures and imperfections.

So, in isolation, away from all of the imperfection that surrounded me and found within me, I sought a way out. And in the end I was nearly successful.

I made the decision to go to treatment and seek help.

But today, as I look back, I believe it wasn’t a decision I made on my own. It was made as the result of a nudge from God and the Holy Spirit at work in my darkest days. God was at work, in spite of the fact that I was so bitter and angry and alone. God was at work even when I wanted to have nothing to do with anything spiritual or even helpful.

There is a great disconnect in the way we as the church view perfection and the way God does.

Somehow, Christianity has become the ultimate training ground for those who seek to become as perfect as possible. We have been led to believe, and many of us have taught for too long, that imperfection is not a Christian virtue. We’ve been taught the only way to live an authentic Christian life is to pick up the pieces—day after day—and try to get perfect tomorrow.

Such an obsession with perfection has made all of us sick, and it is time for us to come clean.

Throughout Scripture, we read stories of imperfect people being chosen by God. Sometimes those men and women do extraordinary things as a result of that call; sometimes they simply continue to live authentically imperfect lives, affirmed by the knowledge that God was on their side.

Indeed, Jesus had little interest and gave little time to those who viewed perfection as their goal in the life.

His view of religious and societal expectations should give us pause in an ecclesial environment so focused on doing things right all the time.

Through the years, headlines have been full of Christians who have fallen into scandal as a result of falling off the pedestal of perfection.

Each time it happens—from righteous televangelists to upright members of Congress—we are surprised and feign outrage. Yet, deep down we know we are just as imperfect and are ashamed to admit that their failures are just like our own.

Many Christians find it difficult to hear stories of the darkness of addiction like the life I experienced for many years. It is human nature to judge, and judgmentalism is often an unfortunate characteristic of the Christian life.

But in the end, I believe that it is difficult to hearabout the poor choices and failures of others because it points to the darkness in each of us, no matter how that darkness is revealed.

I’m grateful to have a different perspective about perfection today.

I find comfort in the grace I receive from sharing my story about trying to live authentically.

I’ve learned how to find the perfection in my imperfection, and I pray all Christians might find a path to embracing themselves as they do the same.

As Bells Ring, Remembering a Peacemaker

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On a recent Thursday morning the bells that hang high above the Abbey Church of Saint John’s Abbey in Collegeville, Minnesota awakened me. Normally I pay no heed to the bells, which ring at regular intervals marking the hours of the day. But on this day, at that time, they rang and kept on ringing. 70 times, to be exact.

abbeybannerIt was 8:16 a.m. on August 6 and the bells rang out to mark what had happened exactly 70 years before, the bombing by the United States on the Japanese city of Hiroshima.

The campus of Saint John’s University, where I am a graduate student, was quiet. Summer classes having concluded, most students and faculty have departed for a few weeks before the crisp autumnal air welcomes a new academic year.

As I began to wake, it didn’t take long for me to think of Ivan Kauffman. A year ago, Ivan and his wife Lois would likely have been at Morning Prayer in the Abbey Church on that August day. And Ivan would have been pleased to know that the Abbey was setting aside time intentionally to pray for peace.

Kauffman, an acclaimed journalist, author, peace activist and organizer died on July 15. He considered himself a Mennonite Catholic, one of the founders of Bridgefolk, an international movement of Catholics and Mennonites, which encouraged and brought about dialogue between the two churches.

When I came to Collegeville in the fall of 2013, Ivan was one of the first people I met, introduced by a friend and classmate of mine. Ivan and Lois lived nearby in a house of hospitality, the Michael Sattler House, established to welcome Mennonites and people of all Christian denominations and other faiths to campus and the area.

I was drawn to Ivan and his perspective on justice issues immediately. It was clear that he had been on the frontlines and wasn’t someone who just talked about the common good, but was bringing it about by bringing people together.

In the days following the release of the U.S. Catholic Bishop’s pastoral letter “The Challenge of Peace” in 1983, Ivan was deeply moved. Raised in the Mennonite tradition, absolute nonviolence was at his core. Now a Catholic, he found a voice to his own experience as he began to write a weekly syndicated column for diocesan newspapers titled “Making Peace.”

Two years later he found himself among a large delegation organized by the National Council of Churches visiting the Soviet Union. He went along as a journalist and wrote openly of the realities that he found in a region seized by violence and despair.

In late 2012 Ivan would recollect in an essay published by America magazine that “the consensus position in the liberal community had been that the Soviet Empire was here to stay, and the most we could hope for was to get along with it.”

As we all now know, the Berlin Wall fell in 1989, after dividing Germany for 28 years.

Justice, and the peace that it affords, does come, even when we don’t expect it.

In recent years, Ivan turned his focus more and more toward finding peace in the church and its many forms. He remained a devout Catholic with Mennonite roots. Because of such a unique perspective he was an irreplaceable force in the ecumenical dialogue that at once, like the fall of communism in Europe, seemed impossible.

Ivan and Lois left Collegeville this past spring, after being an integral and treasured part of the wider community for a number of years. In the days prior to their move to Philadelphia they graciously invited me to join them for a casual lunch.

We chatted about many things that afternoon. However, the bulk of our conversation centered on the many lessons to be learned from the Mennonite-Catholic dialogue of which Ivan and Lois engaged.

We agreed that there was little hope for any sense of renewal or reconciliation in Washington, as polarized and dysfunctional as it has become.

But Ivan had great hope for the possibility of renewed dialogue within Catholicism and other Christian denominations themselves. Here he often spoke of the need for our churches to model the dialogue that we seek in the world, and the peace that would follow it.

Again, writing in America, Ivan noted, “There are three options open to us, not just two—left, right and Catholic. The options offered by both the left and the right are based on ideology. The Catholic option is based on realism—the careful and patient discovery of facts and the search for policies based on both facts and on the Catholic imperative to preserve and enhance the common good. Catholic and centrist are not the same; we do not achieve the common good by splitting the difference between competing ideologies. We achieve the common good by finding and advocating solutions to the real problems of real people living in the real world.”

There is no doubt, Ivan Kaufmann’s life was full, rich and grace-filled. Much more can be said about that amazing journey and the many lives he touched. As for me, I am grateful for the inspiration and the hope found in his witness, as I continue to seek to be a part of a Christian community that works for peace inside and out.

Rest in peace among the peacemakers, good and faithful servant.