Something to think about before posting personal acidic assaults...
BLESSED ARE THE MEEK (Mt. 5:4)
Written by Father Paul A. Duffner, O.P
“It saves one from answering back quickly with wounding words, that afterwards one wishes had never been said. In a word, it enables one to endure affronts and injuries in a spirit of mildness dictated by reason enlightened by faith. In all such situations it drives the thought and inclination to revenge out of one’s mind and heart, thereby removing a key obstacle to the work of the Holy Spirit in the soul. “Do nothing to sadden the Holy Spirit with whom you were sealed against the day of redemption. Get rid of all bitterness, all passion and anger, harsh words, slander, and malice of every kind” (Eph. 4:30).”
We all should think about this,including myself,since we don’t know where another persons heart or journey is!
A lot of truth is in your post on humility.
However, one’s assumptions therefrom can go more than a little askew.
Certainly the Biblical exhortations are wonderful and true.
Too often humility and graciousness are equated with
wimpy passive softness, gentleness at all costs on all occasions in every context.
I disagree with those assumptions.
People often assume that becoming MORE LIKE JESUS
means becoming MORE MEEK, MILD, PASSIVE—OR AT LEAST NEVER VERY ASSERTIVE, GENTLE-AT-AT-ALL-COSTS, etc. etc.
However, MY JESUS IS ALSO
THE LION OF JUDAH.
There’s also implicit in your post the
‘requirement’
to be gentle-at-all-costs
because the other person may be
traumatized by being beaten by his/her spouse; just lost his job, dog or Mercedes; be choking with every cigarette afflicted breath; have been shredded unjustly by co-workers or in-laws, the highway patrol or tax accountant etc. etc. etc.
True enough we don’t know where other individuals precisely are in their hearts, minds, emotions, relationships etc.
However, on the open forum, the standard is . . .
if you can’t handle the heat—get out of the kitchen.
And one category of those one Scripture talks about being flushed by God along with homosexuals etc. are the . . .
cowards.
FROM: BRENNAN MANNING'S
Excerpt from pp123-130
. . .
Imposters in the Spirit always prefer appearances to reality. Rationalization begins with a look in the mirror. We don't like the sight of ourselves as we really are, so we try cosmetics, makeup, the right light, and the proper accessories to develop an acceptable image of ourselves. We rely on the stylish disguise that has made us look good or at least look away from our true self. Self-deception mortgages our sinfulness and prevents us from seeing ourselves as we really are--ragamuffins.
One of my inelible memories goes back to April 1975 when I was a patient at an alcoholic rehabilitation center in a small town north of Minneapolis. The setting was a large, split-level recreation room on the brown of a hill overlooking an artificial lake. Twenty-five chemically dependent men were assembled. Our leader was a trained counselor, skilled therapist, and senior member of the staf. His name was Sean Murphy-O'Connor, though he normally announced his arrival with the statement: "It's himself. Let's get to work."
Sean directed a patient named Max to sit on "the hot seat" in the center of the U-shaped group. A small, diminutive man, Max was a nominal Christian, married with five children, owner and president of his company, wealthy, affable, and giftwed with remarkable poise.
"How long have you been drinking like a pig, Max?" Murphy-O'Connor had begun the interrogation.
Max winced, "That's quite unfair."
"We shall see. I want to get into your drinking history. How much booze per day?"
Max relit his corncob pipe. "I have two Marrys with the men before lunch and twin Martins after the office closes at five. Then . . . "
. . .
. . .
. . .
A total of eight drinks a day, Max?" Murphy-O'Conner inquired.
"Absolutely right. Not a drop more, not a drop less."
"You're a liar!"
Unruffled, Max replied: "I'll pretend I didn't hear that. I have been in business for twenty-odd years and built my reputation on veracity not mendacity. People know my word is my bond."
"Ever hide a bottle in your house?" asked Benjamin, a Navajo Indian from New Mexico.
"Don't be ridiculous. I've got a bar in my living room as big as a horse's . . .
. . .
. . .
. . . The interrogation continued for another twenty minutes. Max fudged and hedged, minimized, rationalized, and justified his drinking pattern. Finally, hemmed in by relentless cross-examination, he admitted he kept a bottle of vodka in the nightstand, a bottle of gin in the suitcase for travel purposes, and another in his bathroom cabinet for medicinal purposes, and three more at the office for entertaining clients. He squirmed occasionally but never lost his veneer of confidence.
. . . "Gentlemen, I guess we have all gilded the lily once or twice in our lives," was the way he put it, implying that only men of large mien can afford the luxury of self-depreicating humor.
"You're a liar!" another voice boomed.
"No need to get vindictive, Charlie," Max shot back.
. . .
"Get me a phone," said Murphy-O'Connor.
. . .
. . . Murphy . . . dialed a number in a distant city. It was Max's hometown. Our receiver was rigged electronically so that the party dialed could be heard loud and clear throughout the living room on the lake.
"Hank Shea?"
"Yeah, who's this?"
"My name is Sean Murphy-O'Connor. I'm a counselor at an alcohol and drug rehabilitation center in the MIdwest. Do you remember a customer named Max? (Paus) Good. With his family's permission I am researching his drinking history. You tend bar in that tavern every afternoon, so I am wondering if you could tell me approximately how much Max drinks each day?"
. . .
"I have a signed affidavit. Shoot."
"He's a helluva guy. I really like him. He drops thirty bucks in here every afternoon. Max has his standard six martinis, buys a few drinks and always leaves me a fin. Good man."
Max leapt to his feet. Raising his right hand defiantly, he unleashed a stream of profanity worthy of a stevedore. He attacked Murphy-O'Connor's ancestry, impunged Charlie's legitimacy and the whole unit's integrity. He clawed at the sofa and spat on the rug.
Then, in an incredible coup de main he immediately regained his composure . . .
"Have you ever been unkind to one of your kids?" Fred asked.
"Glad you brought that up, Fred. I have a fantastic rapport with my four boys . . . Two of my sons graduated from Harvard . . . "
"I didn't ask you that. AT least once in his life every father has been unkind to one of his kids. I'm sixty-two years old and I can vouch for it. Now give us one specific example."
A long pause ensued. Finally, "Well, I was a little thoughtless with my nine-year-old daughter last Christmas Eve."
"What happened?" "I don't remember. I just get this heavy feeling whenever I think about it."
"Where did it happen? What were the circumstances?"
"Wait one minute!" Max's voice rose in anger. "I told you I don't remember. Just can't shake this bad feeling."
Unobtrusively, Murphy-O'Connor dilaed Max's home town once more and spoke with his wife.
"Sean Murphy-O'Connonr calling, ma'am. We are in the middle of a group therapy session, and your husband just told us that he was unkind to your daughter last Christmas Eve. Can you give me the details, please?"
A soft voice filled the room. "Yes, I can tell you the whole thing. It seems like it just happened yesterday. Our daughter Debbie wanted a pair of earth shoes for her Christmas present.
On the afternoon of December 24, my husband drove her downtown, gave her sixty dollars, and told her to buy the best pair of shoes in the store. That is exactly what she did.
When she climbed back into the pickup truck her father was driving, she kissed him on the cheek and told him he was the best daddy in the whole world. Max was preeening himself like a peacock and decided to celebrate on the way home.
He stopped at the Cork 'n' Bottle--that's a tavern a few miles from our house--and told Debbie he would be right out. It was a clear and extremely cold day, about twelve degrees above zero, so Max left the motor running and locked both doors from the outside so no one could get in. It was a little after three in the afternoon and . . . "
Silence.
"Yes?"
The sound of heavy breathing crossed the recreation room. Her voice grew faint. She was crying. "My husband met some old Army buddies in the tavern. Swept up in the euphoria over the reunion, he lost track of time, purpose, and everything else. He came out of the Cork 'n' bottle at midnight. He was drunk.
The motor had stopped running and the car windows were frozen shut. Debbie was badly frostbitten on both ears and on her fingers. When we got her to the hospital, the doctors had to operate. They amputated the thumb and forefinger on her right hand. She will be deaf for the rest of her life."
Max appeared to be having a coronary. He struggled to his feet making jerky, uncoordinated movements. His glasses flew to the right and his pipe to the left. He collapsed on all fours and sobbed hysterically.
Murphy-O'Connor stood up and said softly, "Let's split."
Twenty-four recovering alcoholics and addicts climbed the eight-step stairwell. We turned left, gathered along the railing of the upper split level and looked down. No man will ever forget what he saw that day, the twenty-fourth of April at exactly high noon.
Max was still in the doggie position. His sobs had soared to shrieks. Murphy-O'Connor approached him, pressed his foot against Max's rib cage and pushed. Max rolled over on his back.
"You unspeakable slime," Murphy-O'Connor roared. "There's the door on your right and the window on your left. Take whichever is fastest. Get out of here before I throw up. I am not running a rehab for liars."
The philosophy of tough love is based on the conviction that no effective recovery can be initiated until a man admits that he is powerless over alcohol and that his life has become unmanageable. The alternative to confronting the truth is always some form of self-destruction [Qx emphasis]. For Max there were three options: eventual insanity, premature death, or sobriety.
In order to free the captive, one must name the captivity. Max's denial had to be identified through merciless interaction with his peers. His self-deception had to be unmasked in its absurdity.
Later that same day Max pleaded for and obtained permission to continue treatment. He proceeded to undergo the most striking personality change I have ever witnessed. He got honest and became more open, sincere, vulnerable, and affectionate than any man in the group. Tough love had made him real and the truth had set him free.
. . .
The rest of the chapter is also moving. I encourage folks to read the book if they have not:
A year of my PhD training was running groups at an alcohol center somewhat similar with an AA person a co-leader. Our classic case was the fellow court-ordered into our program on his 8th or 9th DWI/DUI arrest. At least one of the other incidents/arrests had involved hospitalizing a mother and children. Another had caused him to have serious medical problems. The first words out of his mouth in our group are:
"I don't need to be here. I don't have an alcohol problem."
Sometimes the truth is VERY DIFFICULT to arrive at--particularly with addictions--whether that addiction is to a RELIGIOUS INSTITUTION, A FANTASY, AN IDEAL, A LIE, A DREAM, A JOB, A REFERENCE GROUP, AN "IN-GROUP," A BOTTLE AND/OR A DOGMA.
Jesus did not come to earth to GIVE US RELIGION . . . and certainly not an addiction to a human institution whether RC or Proddy. He came to give us THE FATHER AND US TO THE FATHER, WASHED IN HIS BLOOD . . . HIS BLOOD ALONE.
Denial of those truths does not change THE TRUTH.
I've been a gunner for denial a long time. I play for keeps.
Results are Holy Spirit's business. I just do what I can, by His Grace. By His Grace, I pray He continues to give me grace, energy and consciousness to continue.
Excellent reminder. Thanks for posting.
Thank you SFA. Some on this Forum seem to have an uncontested right of passage to make acidic personal assualts to their hearts' desire. They can post personal acidic attacks (#1429, #1537) in large letters, vibrant colors and explicit personal context and the Religion Moderator will say nothing. Frankly, I don't even bother with the RM any more precisely for that reason.
Clearly, the purpose of such acidic personal attacks is to make them about another FReeper, to inflame, provoke, bait, etc. I will not diginify such gutter material with a reply no matter what size font or color they use.
Thank you, again, for caring.