Thom Hunter's Blog

Stumbling Toward Freedom from Homosexuality from Pure Passion on Vimeo.



So, I guess it's all settled. The United States Supreme Court "decided" gay marriage; the president rainbowed the White House and several desperate-for-dollars denominations cast aside the discipline of truth for the comfort of cant-we-all-just-get-along theology.

Marry who you want.
Do anything you want.
Believe anything you want.
It's all about you.
Except it's not.

Somewhere along the line, a lot of people have decided that it's not about you at all, it's about them, and until you align with them, life is going to be unpleasant, ever more so as we "progress." It's out with the outliers time. Or, shall we say, selective outliers. If you're a true believer in what the Bible says -- some would say a neanderthal -- you're an outlier. But if you are enlightened by the enveloping darkness of our cultural evolution, you're a hero.

It's not settled at all.

The reality is that people with core beliefs based on Biblical truth will go forth -- some boldly, some not -- and live their lives as best they can in a world more than ever definitely not home.  And, those who have not allowed Biblical truth to impede them thus far will continue on, reveling in their self-truths, looking for the next thing to define, grouping allies for the new cause, shaming anyone whose truth cannot be shaped to match their own. Those who had no clue what this was really all about will just do whatever popular thing tips the scales or whatever looks cool at the moment, like putting rainbows on their profile photos or ridiculing cake-bakers for actually having beliefs. The era of "don't judge" is extremely judgmental.

In fact, its more unsettling than ever.

The wishy-washy church -- that would be the biggest part of it -- may breather a deep sigh of relief that it is now more off-the-hook than ever. It will probably never be called on to explain why it remained so silent and non-responsive to those who struggled with unwanted same-sex attraction during the time when the struggle was at least somewhat recognized as real. We basically told them to go find themselves and many are more lost than ever. All those uncomfortable questions can just go away now and we can pretend our pews are not resting places for the brokenhearted who internalize and do their best to keep their secrets as they struggle on.

The church can go from tone deaf to totally deaf and wash its hands of the failure to confront in the early stages what will be one of the most defining -- there's that word again -- moments in our nation's history. That's not to say it is not right for some denominations, including the Southern Baptists, to declare they will remain defiant in the face of the Supreme Court ruling. Bully for them. That's the right stand. The problem is, stands are often too little too late.

Resolutions rarely resolve anything.

I'm not going to argue the cop-out capitulation of the SCOTUS decision or even the malignancy of the gay rights movement or the milquetoast fine-line walking of so many Christians who have been so fractiously careful to say nothing of credibility for so long that now there is no united credible voice to lift. There are plenty of others to debate all of these things. In a sense, many Christians are now looking at it as something that has happened and with which we must now figure out how to live. Oops. We missed the mark on this one, right?  Or, as Throne-Hopeful Hillary Clinton might say, "What difference, at this point, does it make?"

From a Christian perspective, it makes a big difference. Basically, our country -- well, our Court -- decided to eradicate a sin by making it contractual. If it's legal, it can't be a bad thing. Right? To be fair, it's regarded as a sin only by people who actually know what sin is, so, taking that into consideration, we see a great division between the love-wins crowd and the sin-wins crowd. Frankly, it's hard to stomach a love-wins celebrated with such hatefulness. Just ask Sweet Cakes.

Mercy . . . what's a Christian to do? Like the world, we descend into divisiveness. Some water down and others hunker down.

Lost in the side-debate as to whether the gay rainbow has one less color than the one God placed in the sky, is what shall we do about that unwelcome color of grey: the same-sex struggler? He never really fit anywhere before and he's the true outlier now.

What shall we do with the men and women who still struggle against unwanted same-sex attraction? They're not gay and they know it. They would no more marry someone of the same sex than they would marry a paint bucket. (Which may someday be legal?). But, the church, after all these years of bright shining light on the subject, is still ill-equipped to answer questions, provide support and hope and help them walk toward the freedom for which they long. Add to that deficiency on the part of the church the very real threat that such counseling on the part of a church could bring forth public ridicule, claims of backwardness and ignorance, and even the judgment of the gay community that you are driving this poor struggler into depression and perhaps suicide because you will not set him free to be what God intended. Indeed, such counseling is considered by many to be hate.

Except, of course, He did not intend you to be that way and you cannot be free in it. Only He can set you free and more and more He is finding little help from the church. The instrument is rusted.

The gay community ridicules the same-sex struggler.  They're the drivers of the rainbow bus and you either get aboard or it will run you down. The church should be the ones who pull the wandering and confused same-sex strugglers who are just trying to find the right road to walk on out of the way of the barreling bus. We should not be working side-by-side with gay activists to throw the struggler underneath it.

I know. It's not your job. Never has been, right? For years the church comforted itself by keeping an Exodus Ministries contact card in the card file so on the outside chance that a member of the church was brave enough to come forth for help they could refer him or her on. Good deed done. And thousands did find help there until Exodus, with Alan Chambers perched proudly behind the wheel, drove straight into a ditch and then hitched a ride on the rainbow bus themselves, leaving true strugglers on the side of the road like pitched-out hitchhikers.

Christians allowed themselves to become comfortably marginalized in the battle and are now comfortably settling in to the role as official reactors. Instead of preventing things, we just vent.

So . . . here's the point. You are surrounded by more people than you know who struggle with same-sex attraction. More than ever, they are challenged to wonder what is wrong with them and are pushed to accept those thoughts and feelings as God-given intent. They need your help. They need your willingness to listen. And they need to know that you know the difference between a nearly-naked pride activist parading down a street demanding your attention . . . and a confused searching Christian brother or sister who will never demand your attention, but so badly needs it, hoping you will help them stick with truth over convenience.

God apparently decided enough-was-enough for Exodus and took it out. But, if you are a struggler, or know one, there are alternative ministries who chose the better course of strengthening their Biblical beliefs rather than modifying them to fit more finely onto the rainbow bandwagon, as Exodus has done.

Desert Stream Ministries and The Restored Hope Network are among those who still stand by those who have the courage to swim against the cultural current.

Neither President Obama nor the Supreme Court or the LGBT-and-so-on community can redefine what God has first defined. There's still just one true Word on the subject.

Don't pride yourself on taking a personal stand against something that doesn't really bother you anyway. Reach out to those who are in the greatest peril: the strugglers. They're not really welcome anywhere now that all the tents have been pitched.

If love is truly to win, it needs truly to be love. Somehow we have to cut through the clutter of those who are celebrating a victory and those who are declaring the end of the world and see those in the muddy middle who are plodding along in a daily battle, more uncertain than ever as to whether any allies remain.

Let this not be the moment where we took a collective shrug.M2UT9HY4ND5C

Culture is becoming more and more chaotic, particularly in relation to gender identity. If you're confused about where society is headed, you're in good company. The good news is, truth does not change. Who Told You You Were Naked?The Counterfeit Compassion of Culture
by Thom HunterTruth
Hope
Faith
Grace

"Who Told You You Were Naked?" is for men and women who seek freedom through Christ from the bondage of sexual sin.

Thirsting for lasting freedom? Searching for truth? Crying out for uncompromised compassion? Yearning to move beyond shame and guilt? Ready for restoration?

Sexual sin -- whether it manifests itself as homosexuality, sexual addiction, pornography, lust, idolatry, or adultery -- wreaks havoc. It can destroy the broken one and devastate the lives of family members and friends close enough to feel the impact of the personal implosion.

Our 21st Century enlightenment leads us down a very dark path. In the interest of compassion, we re-define marriage, re-manufacture the military, re-shape education to focus on sexual identity, re-define the family, and refrain from sharing the truth. Christians are like the cowardly lion whose courage vanishes in the presence of a louder voice. As a result, Christians who struggle with sexuality either go into hiding or into the arms of the counterfeit compassionate culture. People who are not Christians, but are looking for answers to sexual problems, see the church as irrelevant, not as a place to find hope and restoration.

While Christians debate whether it is too painful to be truthful or too compromising to be compassionate, culture doles out anesthetics and everyone goes numb or plays dumb. As a result, culture assumes the mantle of compassion and Christians seem loveless and fearful, judgmental and condemning.

"Who Told You You Were Naked?" reminds us that God restores and rebuilds based on His never-changing truth rather than by surrendering His people to the whims of ever-changing cultural chaos.

In the midst of all this chaos, there is truth, if we can find the courage to share it and the compassion to voice it. "Who Told You You Were Naked?" not only does that, but it shows the reader how he can as well. It will make a difference in the lives of men and women who want to be free from the bondage of whatever sexual struggle has enveloped them.

TO ORDER DIRECTLY AT A DISCOUNT OF $4.00 PER COPY off of the $9.95 Amazon list price, go directly to this website: Who Told You You Were Naked? When you order, enter this code: A794DEE5. 



ISBN/EAN13:1466493321 / 9781466493322Page Count:248Related Categories:Religion / Sexuality & Gender StudiesM2UT9HY4ND5C

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,and naked I will depart.The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away;may the name of the Lord be praised.” -- Job 1:21

No one really and completely succeeds at life. We navigate as well as we can, avoiding as many obstacles as possible, negotiating unwelcome twists and turns, hoping not to end up shattered on the jagged rocks at the eventual shoreline. At some point the journey ends and we are what we have become, in part because of what we have overcome.

Inevitably, as Christians, we are restored. As much as possible in this life; completely in the next.

My role through the here-unfolding restoration process is to sincerely seek it; God's role to graciously give it. My role to accept it; His to affect it. My choice to choose it; His to do it. My role to desire it; His to design it. His unmerited grace; my unending gratefulness.

I know that sounds simple, but it can be confusing. Sometimes we put a great deal of effort into self-restoration, as if we can plow through our closets and drawers and then stand in front of a mirror for thirty minutes and apply all the right cover-ups to be convincing. We wink and strike a convincing pose and switch off the flattering light to turn and face . . .  realistic life. Other times we turn the restoration over to someone else, an individual who seems to have it all together or a group that claims they can put it all together for you in 10 not-so-easy-almost-brutal-tough-love steps. Unfortunately, they may judge you more by your practiced poses of self-protection than by your plaintive woes of self-rejection. Depending on how they view you -- from behind masks of rigid self-righteousness or through hearts of tender brokenness --  they do a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, determining whether you are yet broken enough for their repair work to begin. As bad as you know you are, your acceptance of your badness may not look quite good enough for their goodness. Bless you later?

Bless their hearts. It's hard enough for people to deal with their own sins. Do we really have to do the hard work regarding the sins of others? Yes, and with long-suffering to boot. The problem is, most of us are not open about our sinful nature, so when it raises its ugly head, our gracious neighbors find themselves face-to-face with a threatening Cobra and do what comes natural: run for cover.

There's nothing much worse than for those who really know you to find out something really bad about you that they really did not know.

What we need is a bit of interim nakedness between the womb and the tomb. Post-discovery transparency is a great thing and certainly helps protect against continued falling, but coming clean beneath the bright lights of exposure can seem a bit late in the relationship-preservation game.

A few years ago ,when I was trying so hard to prove to everyone that I was "all better now," I focused so much energy on looking like things were all right that I had little energy left over to make sure they truly were. That's a surefire plan for relapse. Simply put, if being right for the sake of the ones around us was enough, we would never end up so wrong to begin with. Anyone who has a weakness for an addictive sin has an acquired immunity to those who rightly warn of impending self-destruction. Our yellow-brick road is just a little more yellow and becomes so bright it seems the only path available. Suddenly we're glowing road-kill.

How many times do we as Christians have to say to ourselves and others that God sees all, hears all, knows all before we believe all . . . that? Why do we relegate Him to being a God of retrospection? He has no need of hindsight.

Truth is . . . we're still naked as far as God is concerned. All those earthly shopping binges to wrap ourselves in the latest robes of life -- whether they be righteousness or wretchedness -- are for naught, if we don't come before Him, in a non-literal sense, disrobed. We might fool each other with the latest cover-the-fall fashions, but we'll never fool God.

At some point, most people who struggle with sexual or relational brokenness, reach a point where they desperately want to be transformed. Maybe the person they were intended to be has faded so far into the past they don't know even where to start looking. Maybe they have been so derided by people who have long since decided this dog won't hunt when it comes to true change that they have no one to turn to. Maybe they have fooled themselves too many times and spent every penny on tickets on the repentance merry-go-round and they just can't drag themselves into that again without some assurance that the ride might have a different outcome. Maybe, just maybe, they reach a point where it's all "You, God."

Good.

Of course we want things to be right with those we hurt and those we love and those we respect. Of course we want those who turned away to turn around.  Of course we want trust to replace disgust and our present sorrow to be gone tomorrow. Of course we want to count our losses, lick our wounds and come out healed. We want. Remember though, wanting is what got us into this mess to begin with, and, if we want restoration, but it does not come because we're expecting it from people who are not ready or able to give it, we can trigger new wants, born of rejection, a sworn enemy of transformation.

Before you start detailing the plans for all that restoration, remember, it's all "You, God." And He's ready, willing and able. Not only that, but God knows what transformation and restoration really look like. If it was up to me, everything I lost because of my years of bowing to sin would come back, just as shiny and new as it was before I tarnished it. As they say, however . . . perhaps "God has a better plan."

My struggle was a lengthy one and I received a lot of advice through the years, some from people who hadn't a clue what I was going through and some from people who had a clue because they'd been through it themselves. One piece of advice they often had in common:  "You just need to get your life right with God."

And the smugness in me might roll my eyes and declare that advice to be the epitome of dismissive triteness. When all else fails . . . honey . . . "get right with God."

That's awesome.

Or at least it is if you decide that before all others you're going to get right with the Awesome God who created you . . . knows you . . . loves you . . . wants you . . . forgives you . . . and will welcome you now and forever if you will only "get right" with Him. What's trite about that?

In the sense of eternity, everything is interim to Him. No matter what you did today, you're still the naked child in your mother's womb and you are already the one who will depart naked. He sees dust-to-dust all at one time, and that's a breadth of knowledge that can certainly see you through the whole journey if you will just . . . "get right with God."

No matter what you fill your life with -- from sin-driven debauchery to servant-driven self-denial -- there will be lonely times and uncertain times and longing times and hurtin' times. We look for places to go and spaces to fill and things to do that will make life more real. For some, life seems just a home-bound journey and for others of us, it works out more like a tumble through a brier-patch. He sees the beginning and the end, the slip, tumble and the struggle to stand.

And He loves you.

God Bless,

Thom

(For more insight into sexual and relational brokenness, order  Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do , through Amazon.com, where all of my books are available.)M2UT9HY4ND5C

And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. – Luke 2:10-14 
I love Christmas. 
Granted, some Christmas Days turn out better than others and become more memorable, but all of them find their way into the memory bank. Somehow life takes us far too quickly from squirming in our beds in footy pajamas, one-eye-open, pledging to go sleepless and catch Santa in the act . . . to sitting cross-legged in sweatpants on the living room floor, both eyes bleary, yearning for sleep, fumbling in the act of being Santa . . . to rising for breakfast and a peaceful quiet morning with just our one true love again, Santa just a memory. 
The meaningful misery of Christmas mingles with the joy to become the memories which become treasures which last far beyond the gifts. In the meantime, our "little ones" become big ones and beget new little ones. 
Woven through our most treasured memories though is the impact of our own brokenness, a filter through which we cannot help but see the past in hues of selfness. Like Scrooge’s blindness to love of others because of his love of money, many still short of freedom, haunted by the ghosts of the past which remind them of the years they put their own pursuits of pleasure above the love of others, trading away the treasure of trust for something of so little value that it becomes only a plaguing memory and a nagging temptation threatening to rob them of further joy. 
As a result of past recklessness, some are very lonely on Christmas Day. Many long for a repair kit under the tree with which they can somehow magically reconstruct the relationships left in shambles by their past actions, ripped and strewn about like the paper and boxes of Christmas morning. Such a repair kit does exist and has since Jesus took His first breath among us. He came, you know, for the world, which was broken. He came, not because He wanted to rejoice with the got-it-all-togethers among us, but because He looked down and He saw the broken, which, as He knew, is all of us. 
No doubt some are more aware of their brokenness than others. On those days when it seemed I had made so many missteps that the slightest movement might make me shatter from façade to core . . . the breath of heaven gave me hope to try . . . to step . . . to dare to go forward. In truth, the angels who so rejoiced at Jesus’ birth rejoice today in our healing because it comes through Him. 
What joy is this? 
I will spend more time this Christmas, like other recent ones, feasting on old memories than I will in making new ones. Like that one last gift we search for when the space beneath the tree is bare, reconciliation and restoration with some of my children still eludes me. So I will treasure the gift of hope and remember what is worth hoping for. 
I remember one Christmas when our fourth son, Patrick -- he in the footed pajamas -- clearly confused about Christmas, ignored the gifts and toddled around the clutter clutching a banana he pulled from his stocking. Unable to open it and unable to get help from his wild-eyed older brothers or his blurry-eyed parents, Patrick sat down upon a package, chewed a hole through the peeling and sucked out the banana as best he could. Today, Patrick is a police officer with four children of his own. 
I remember a "very tight" Christmas -- remember a lot of those, actually -- when it became obvious to me that the presents we had to put beneath the tree for our five children just didn't balance out. It was almost 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve and all I could find open was a 7-11, which had a special display of baseball trading cards with an album book. I bought those for Russell and the balance was better achieved. He loved baseball cards, and we still have them here, stored in a cabinet. Russell is married now, with a little daughter of his own. 
I remember struggling to put together toys and bicycles with dawn fast approaching and hopelessness emerging, knowing that if my oldest son, Zach, would just stumble down the stairs with a nod and wink, he could put all those things together in the wink of an eye. But I couldn't wake him. I needed to be the best Dad I could be, almost all thumbs, but with a heart that wanted to give what I could give. Zach is all grown-up now, married with a son and two daughters . . . and he's a contractor. He really can build anything. 
I remember Donovan, the middle son, the hard-to-buy-for son, who never seemed to really need or want much, but was always happy with what he got. I feel a bit of guilt that it wasn't harder to put his gifts beneath the tree and wonder if they were just right. He was a giver himself. Donovan, a former Army Ranger and now a police officer, has moved from protecting us all in Iraq and Afghanistan to protect his wife and two little ones, which is probably what he always wanted to do.
I remember my only daughter -- Lauren -- being a blast to shop for at Christmas. I could wander the mall and find music boxes, plastic high heels, dolls and stuffed animals, and later perfumes and bracelets and trendy things . . . and even occasional pink. Most of all I remember how badly she wanted a set of Quints, tiny dolls all dressed alike and so girly. They were also so tiny they got lost in the Christmas wrapping on Christmas morning and never showed their tiny little plastic faces again. I hurt about that for a long time. No longer the little girl down the hall, Lauren traveled the world, lingered long in China and now works in a mental hospital where she is, no doubt, one of the cheeriest champions any of the patients will see this Christmas. 
I was myself a little one once. One of four in our family. I remember a lot of Christmases. One stands out because it contained all the emotions and angst of which we are capable . . . and proved love to be the greatest of them all. We were living in a very cheap apartment in Lewisville, Texas, falling just a mile or two short of making ends meet. My mother was supporting us as best she could, a stepfather out there somewhere but no longer of consequence, my real Dad only a short distance away in Fort Worth, but immeasurably distant from us as far as Christmas was concerned.  We needed a tree. Whether there would ever be presents placed beneath it was one of those bridges my Mother said she would cross later. We had no tree and that needed to be remedied above all. 
One evening, after working all day, my mother took the three of us -- my brother was living elsewhere at the time -- across the parking lot and down the alley to the grocery store, where she oohed and aahed over the scrawny trees leaning against the brick wall, ones rejected by all the other shoppers who had bought the best ones earlier. She found a $7 bargain, proclaiming that it fit within a budget we probably didn't have. We dragged it home, set it in the stand, pulled out the boxes of precious decorations, ate sugar cookies and decorated it to the hilt, drowning it in icicles. We stood back and surveyed our handiwork . . . and the tree took a quick bow . . . all the way to the floor. 
We were shocked . . . but she was Mother, undaunted. She stood it up, readjusted the stand, salvaged the decorations and ran a string around the tree, thumb-tacking it to the walls. We sat back on the couch, hot chocolate in hand, and -- smiles turning to shrieks -- observed the tree as it did a slow motion dive-bomb back to the floor. 
Our heads in our hands, we watched as Mother stood it up, peeled back the cheap carpet to reveal a hardwood floor beneath, took out a hammer and nails and nailed the stand right to the floor. Wow . . . Mom! Only a bit later, our hands covered with the stickiness of ribbon candy, we could hear the skritch as the small nails slowly slid free from the old wood of the floor. Tipping at first, the tree gently, like a too-gaudy ballerina, took a half twist, broke free and resumed its reclining position. 
This time Mother wept. But only for a moment. Within seconds, the lights were unplugged, her hands were around the trunk in a strangling motion, the front door was open and she was heading down the alley, dragging the evergreen ballerina behind her. We ran behind in horror, believing out lives to be as much in shambles as the shattered ornaments now tossed about in the parking lot. Someone is gonna' see. We followed the trail of icicles, yelling at our Mother to stop. "It doesn't matter. We don't need a tree!" She answered without stopping. "We need a tree . . . and we will have a tree." 
And we did have a tree. She dragged it right through the front doors of the grocery store, where she was spared having to offer any explanation at all. Her tears were overwhelming. She couldn't talk, and the manager of the store really didn't want her to anyway. The presence of coatless and barefoot kids behind her, our heads dropping almost to our knees, didn't exactly diminish the drama. The good people at the grocery store replaced our tree with one that had an actual straight trunk and that certainly cost more than $7. They gave us replacement decorations and plenty of icicles and even candy, which we ate around our new and truly beautiful tree, standing on its own. 
I don't really remember what I got for Christmas that year. Well, at least, what I got under the tree. But I do remember realizing that love can sure overcome a lot, pretty much everything, in fact. And I knew that my mother loved me beyond any humiliation. I still count on that to be true. 
Actually, I really don't remember many of the gifts I've received for Christmas through the years, though I loved them at the time. But I do remember the Christmases themselves and the people in my life that made them memorable. Sometimes memories suffice, girded by hope. Some of us just fumble through life causing harm here and there, creating our own chaos and hurt. But we also give and get a lot of love and sometimes we bring calm and healing. We remember the chaos and the calm, the hurt and the healing and as they wrestle within us, we become something different, and perhaps much better, through the process. But, it is a process, and, as wonderful as Christmas is, the day of peace is often just a bridge over which we cross into the continued work of healing. 
Even beneath the enveloping joy of the ever-present presence of the Savior, Christmas can be a tough time of year for some, a balancing act between cheer and fear as they reflect for just a moment on what life might have been if it had mapped itself a little differently, with fewer obstacles and errant turns. While we join with others in the “what-is-its?” of Christmas morning, shaking packages before we open, we also have our share of “what-ifs?” to deal with. It’s just a part of the package. The broken one. 
I bring you tidings of great joy. For unto you (the broken) was born that day, a Savior. 
May God’s true and abiding love for you make this Christmas truly joyful. 
God Bless, 
ThomM2UT9HY4ND5C

“Naked I came from my mother’s womb,and naked I will depart.The Lord gave and the Lord has taken away;may the name of the Lord be praised.” -- Job 1:21

I was reminded the other day that my role in the restoration process is to seek it; God's role to give it. My role to accept it; His to affect it. My choice is to choose it; His is to do it. My role is to desire it; His to design it. He imparts unmerited grace; I offer unending praise.

I know that sounds simple, but it can be confusing. Sometimes we put a great deal of effort into self-restoration, as if we can plow through our closets and drawers and then stand in front of a mirror for thirty minutes and apply all the right cover-ups to be convincing. We wink and strike a convincing pose and switch off the flattering light to turn and face . . .  realistic life. Other times we turn the restoration over to someone else, an individual who seems to have it all together or a group that claims they can put it all together for you in 10 not-so-easy-almost-brutal-tough-love steps. Unfortunately, they may judge you more by your practiced poses of self-protection than by your plaintive woes of self-rejection. Depending on how they view you -- from behind masks of rigid self-righteousness or through hearts of tender brokenness --  they do a thumbs-up or thumbs-down, determining whether you are yet broken enough for their repair work to begin. As bad as you know you are, your acceptance of your badness may not look quite good enough for their goodness. Bless you later?

Bless their hearts. It's hard enough for people to deal with their own sins. Do we really have to do the hard work regarding the sins of others? Yes, and with long-suffering to boot. The problem is, most of us are not open about our sinful nature, so when it raises its ugly head, our gracious neighbors find themselves face-to-face with a threatening Cobra and do what comes natural: run for cover.

There's nothing much worse than for those who really know you to find out something really bad about you that they really did not know.

What we need is a bit of interim nakedness between the womb and the tomb. Post-discovery transparency is a great thing and certainly helps protect against continued falling, but coming clean beneath the bright lights of exposure can seem a bit late in the relationship-preservation game.

A few years ago ,when I was trying so hard to prove to everyone that I was "all better now," I focused so much energy on looking like things were all right that I had little energy left over to make sure they truly were. That's a surefire plan for relapse. Simply put, if being right for the sake of the ones around us was enough, we would never end up so wrong to begin with. Anyone who has a weakness for an addictive sin has an acquired immunity to those who rightly warn of impending self-destruction. Our yellow-brick road is just a little more yellow and becomes so bright it seems the only path available. Suddenly we're glowing road-kill.

How many times do we as Christians have to say to ourselves and others that God sees all, hears all, knows all before we believe all . . . that? Why do we relegate Him to being a God of retrospection? He has no need of hindsight.

Truth is . . . we're still naked as far as God is concerned. All those earthly shopping binges to wrap ourselves in the latest robes of life -- whether they be righteousness or wretchedness -- are for naught, if we don't come before Him, in a non-literal sense, disrobed. We might fool each other with the latest cover-the-fall fashions, but we'll never fool God.

At some point, most people who struggle with sexual or relational brokenness, reach a point where they desperately want to be transformed. Maybe the person they were intended to be has faded so far into the past they don't know even where to start looking. Maybe they have been so derided by people who have long since decided this dog won't hunt when it comes to true change that they have no one to turn to. Maybe they have fooled themselves too many times and spent every penny on tickets on the repentance merry-go-round and they just can't drag themselves into that again without some assurance that the ride might have a different outcome. Maybe, just maybe, they reach a point where it's all "You, God."

Good.

Of course we want things to be right with those we hurt and those we love and those we respect. Of course we want those who turned away to turn around.  Of course we want trust to replace disgust and our present sorrow to be gone tomorrow. Of course we want to count our losses, lick our wounds and come out healed. We want. Remember though, wanting is what got us into this mess to begin with, and, if we want restoration, but it does not come because we're expecting it from people who are not ready or able to give it, we can trigger new wants, born of rejection, a sworn enemy of transformation.

Before you start detailing the plans for all that restoration, remember, it's all "You, God." And He's ready, willing and able. Not only that, but God knows what transformation and restoration really look like. If it was up to me, everything I lost because of my years of bowing to sin would come back, just as shiny and new as it was before I tarnished it. As they say, however . . . perhaps "God has a better plan."

My struggle was a lengthy one and I received a lot of advice through the years, some from people who hadn't a clue what I was going through and some from people who had a clue because they'd been through it themselves. One piece of advice they often had in common:  "You just need to get your life right with God."

And the smugness in me might roll my eyes and declare that advice to be the epitome of dismissive triteness. When all else fails . . . honey . . . "get right with God."

That's awesome.

Or at least it is if you decide that before all others you're going to get right with the Awesome God who created you . . . knows you . . . loves you . . . wants you . . . forgives you . . . and will welcome you now and forever if you will only "get right" with Him. What's trite about that?

In the sense of eternity, everything is interim to Him. No matter what you did today, you're still the naked child in your mother's womb and you are already the one who will depart naked. He sees dust-to-dust all at one time, and that's a breadth of knowledge that can certainly see you through the whole journey if you will just . . . "get right with God."

No matter what you fill your life with -- from sin-driven debauchery to servant-driven self-denial -- there will be lonely times and uncertain times and longing times and hurtin' times. We look for places to go and spaces to fill and things to do that will make life more real. For some, life seems just a home-bound journey and for others of us, it works out more like a tumble through a brier-patch. He sees the beginning and the end, the slip, tumble and the struggle to stand.

And He loves you.

God Bless,

Thom

(For more insight into sexual and relational brokenness, read  Surviving Sexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do , available at Amazon.com.)

M2UT9HY4ND5C

In this enlightened age when everything is open to declaration and constant re-clarification, sexuality has not become clearer; it's become more confusing and more conflicting than ever. If the conflict between your personal understanding of morality and culture's constant redefinition of morality is creating chaos in your soul and conquering you through internal division, you're not alone.



You never have been. And needn't ever be.



How can something so productive -- sexuality -- be so destructive?



For the past few years, we, as a nation, have been busy passing laws and changing rules to clarify sexuality and erase discomfort; to make all things right in our own sight. We seek to create sameness where it should not be, avoiding the reality of God's intended creativity.



Legal definitions change -- same-sex marriage for example -- but morality remains, and for Christians, the Word of God will always stand above the laws of man. His understanding supersedes all confusion and presents clarity, no matter what dimly-lit alley the world chooses to saunter down into darkness. We change our laws; He does not. We revise our words to suit the day; His have always suited every day and always will.



Don't go it alone.



Surviving Sexual Brokenness (Kindle Version)

Surviving Sexual Brokenness (Paperback Version)

Who Told You You Were Naked? (Kindle Version)

Who Told You You Were Naked? (Paperback Version)






M2UT9HY4ND5C

Stumbling Toward Freedom from Homosexuality from Pure Passion on Vimeo.

If you would like to comment to me directly by e-mail, please send your e-mail to th2950@yahoo.com.M2UT9HY4ND5C

I stumbled, fell and cried out but
my brother shied away

And I found myself alone in silence,
wishing he would stay.

He quickly turned the corner, as if
he hadn't realized,

I'd turned and looked to him in pain,
with pleading tear-filled eyes.

 

I saw my brother stumble so I
quickly looked away.

I'll ask him how he's doing on
perhaps a better day.

I heard my brother crying but I
quickly realized

He'd not be wanting me to see the
tears that filled his eyes.

 

So we're just keeping distance till
again it all seems right

And saying a little prayer or two
before turning in at night.

No reason now to get involved,
there's nothing much to say

Both blind; both fine; both better
off this way.

 

-- Thom Hunter

 

Carry each other's burdens, and in
this way you will fulfill the law of Christ. -- Galatians 6:2

 
"Imagine,
if you will," comes the Rod Serling voice, "A church in the middle of
a very ordinary town, with stained glass windows, cushioned pews and friendly
faces at the door.  We've arrived on a very ordinary Wednesday night, just
in time for the pre-prayer-service meal.  Elaine sits in her usual place
in the middle of a long table, in the middle of the fellowship hall . . . in
the middle of it all."



"Did you hear about  . . . . ?"
said Elaine, her voice trailing off a bit as she lowers it, looks side-to-side,
and begins to share the news with those in hearing range.  Her fork is
poised in the air over a plate of ham, sweet-potatoes, peas and carrots and a
buttered piece of bread.  Elaine is one of the best of the best when it
comes to church gossip and ears quickly bend her way.



"Elaine, you're just like a dog returning to
its vomit, I see," says the pastor in a calm and steady voice as he
approaches her table.



Elaine stops, puts down her fork, squirms in her
seat a bit, gathers her plate and purse and moves on down to another table.



"Well . . . I never!" she says.
 "Did you hear what he said to me?  You will never
believe."



Again, the voice interrupts:
 "Elaine, you gossip because you think it is fun, but you're just
like a dog returning to its vomit."



Elaine, now in shock, sits, ponders, sets her fork
gently down beside her plate and says "You're right, Pastor.  I
confess to the sin of gossip and I ask for your forgiveness and help in
repentance."



"Sorry, Elaine," he answers.
 "This has gone on too long. You've confessed before and here you
are, at it again.  I don't think it is possible for you to ever stop
gossiping.  And, while I say this completely out of love for you, I think
it's best for all of us if you just leave and not come back. We'll vote on it
Sunday night, but basically, I think the tribe has spoken."



So Elaine puts out her torch, which means in this
case, stifles her tongue, and leaves immediately.  Life goes on,
post-Elaine.



Obviously, this is a greatly-exaggerated account.
 Sin is more subtle; response more nuanced. The Elaines among us are not
that blatant in their sin; the pastors not that direct in dealing with it; the
church members not that silent an audience.  But, in real life, there is a
great deal of confusion about how to deal with sin among the believers,
particularly when the sin seems to have so firm a grip and especially when that
sin is something that we can not easily dissect or dig down to the root cause.
We see it flourish and, like a weed among the flowers, we want to pluck it out.



Of course the pastor does not intervene and Elaine
is not removed.  She finishes her pie and her story with a flourish,
confident that her words will be repeated by others, giving her a sense of
belonging she can't seem to find any other way.  She keeps on top of all
the latest because she needs to be needed and knows no other way. Her sin is
gossip; her fear is loneliness.  We should start with her fear.



Andy gets antsy about halfway through the prayer
meeting, looks at his watch and yawns.  The pastor noticed Andy was pretty
bleary-eyed already when he came into the church, but Andy just explained that
he'd been glued to his computer all afternoon, trying to get a big project
done. Andy was anxious to get home and finish the project in his home office:
 feasting on XXX pornography over the Internet.



Like a dog returning to its vomit?  Perhaps.
 Extending a season of fun? Maybe. More likely feeding a secret addiction
that has wrapped itself so tightly around Andy that most of life has now been
squeezed from him and he is bound to meaningless images and fantasies that
strip him of any dignity and slowly drain from him all the sensitivity he once
had toward his wife and children. 



Lindsey is 17.  As usual, she has worn her
favorite long-sleeved turtle-neck pull-over to church and sits in a silent,
pouty position at the far end of a back-of-the-room pew.  She is listening
in, but looking down as she rubs her arms and twists her hands, fighting back
tears, but smiling weakly whenever she's approached.



"Are you okay, honey?" a sweet voice
asks.



"I'm fine," she answers, mustering her
familiar weak smile, her bangs hanging over her dark eyes.



"Well, of course you are, sweetheart,"
comes the reply.  "And God loves you just the way you are."



Lindsey will cut herself in the bathroom when she
gets back home, inflicting another physical scar for the pain she feels inside
and can't reveal.  And then she'll give her mom and dad a peck on the
cheek and lay in bed wishing for sleep, longing for peace.



Terrance skipped church altogether on this
Wednesday night and is walking along the trails of the city park a few blocks
from his home as the sun slowly dips behind the trees.  He collapses on a
wooden bench and puts his head in his folded arm, looking every bit the part of
a breathless runner who has pushed himself to the limit and needs to rest.
 He is at his limit.  He hates himself because he is not
like the other boys at his high school and he doesn't know why and he's afraid
to ask himself or anyone else.  The dark descends like a comfortable
blanket, hiding him.  He wants to cry. 



"If I'm gay, I may as well just kill myself
before my Dad does."



Prayers are wrapping up in the comfy sanctuary.
 All the pending surgeries have been covered. Missions have been
blessed.  Traveling mercies extended.  All have confessed their
weekly falling short, and everyone is ready for a little free time in front of
the TV.  The DVRs are getting full and need relief.



Elaine and Andy and Lindsey and Terrance are
sinners, awash in their own shame, hardened by the indifference of the
Christians around them, those who are to be known by their love.  All four
need surgery.  They're all a mission.  They're traveling . . . and
they really need some mercy.  Their lives are playing out like the
scripted dramas everyone is rushing home to submerge themselves in . . . but
they're real.  And they're Christians . . . and God does indeed love them
just as they are.  But if He loves them too much to leave them there, why
don't we? If he can acknowledge their sin and respond with His grace, why can't
we? If He can look straight into their hearts, why are we looking over their
heads?



Maybe they should come out of their closets?
 Elaine should just confess that she's a sad, lonely and empty woman who
wants attention so badly she will spin tales for it.  Andy should just
come clean and tell everyone that instead of having real relationships, he
slips himself into naked fantasies, in vulgar opposition to the life he models
in his deacon role.  Lindsey should explain that she is punishing herself
at 17 because at 16 she gave her body away to a 19-year-old who said he loved
all of her . . . and then left her to go love all of someone else.  And
Terrance?  Terrance should share about his self-hatred, acknowledge the
sense of rejection that triggers his misguided search for his masculine
identity through improper same-sex interaction and his concerns about an
eroding resistance to temptation.



Unsaved?  Not Terrance.  Not Lindsey . .
. or Andy or Elaine.  Precious ones, never alone in their sin, but
accompanied by a Savior who knows Elaine could spread blessings instead of
gossip, that Andy could live and love in reality, deleting the addictive
fantasies that have claimed his mind, that Lindsey could forgive herself and
wash away the mistakes of her past, that Terrance could see himself as God sees
Him, instead of seeing himself as the broken one with no choice but to submit
to the world's definitions.



Christians all, but guarding secrets in what
should be the most loving and healing environment on earth, the church.
 These four represent so many Christians who struggle in secret with the
things of this world, surrounded by people who should be safe and welcoming,
known by their love, pouring out forgiveness, willing and able to hear the
confessions, extending grace, offering a shoulder for comfort, a hand for
support, a word of encouragement and a pledge of accountability through the
walk of repentance. While he should be hearing "come on out," the
sinner in the secret closet sees himself more like the spider who tiptoes
through the space below the door only to find someone waiting with a broom and
a dustpan on the other side.



For most sinners, the fear of what will happen if
they emerge from the closet is greater than the fear of the sin locked inside
there with them. In my decades-long struggle with homosexuality, habitual
cover-up had a greater hold on me in some ways than did my habitual sin. The
what-might-happen seemed more threatening than the what-was. I would do almost
anything to keep from being discovered . . . and eventually I convinced myself
that exposure of my sin would harm more people than the practice of it.
Suffering through the struggle in silence was better than the risk of real-time
retribution. In time, all of it -- the secrecy and the revelation resulted in
an avalanche of epic proportions and seemingly uncountable victims.  There
was no longer enough room in my closet for all the junk I accumulated. It was
spilling out the door, leaving a trail of sinful crumbs down the hall. 



Maybe we should  all   come out of our closets?  We who accepted the
sacrifice of Jesus so we would not die in our sins.  We who praise Him for
His love and hoard our own, as if He could not provide it amply to extend to
others.  We who mutter "there but for the grace of God go I" and
then stand by and watch others go there.  We who crave mercy but are too
distracted to share it.  We who are so clean, washed as white as snow,
startled into silence by the stains of others.  Snug in our eternal life,
we watch others die around us.  We who walk in the light, but quench it in
our closets of comfort.



Do we, for some reason, think our callousness
about the ravaging toll sin takes on our brothers and sisters somehow shows us
to be strong . . . because we are unwavering in our righteousness . . . and our
determination to keep our hands clean?



God knows what the Elaines and the Lindseys and
the Andys and the Terrances are going through, how they got
there, and when and if they are going to get through it and beyond it. And He
also already knows how He will use their struggle for His glory and to
accomplish His will. Maybe they're not so happy about the journey on which He
has allowed them to embark, but he knows how long the tunnel is and who can
help them make it through. He also knows already whether you are going to
respond or reject. He knows whether you will venture out of your safe closet to
help them clean up theirs.



If "they," the observant non-believers
-- whoever they are and we really should want to know -- are to know us by our
love, then we may never be known.  Not if we cannot bring ourselves to
embrace the broken ones that Christ has placed within easy reach:  the
Elaines, Andys, Lindseys and Terrances that pull themselves together enough to
come into this place in hope there will be more than peas and prayers.



We can only blame it on culture for so long . . .
and then we need to unfold our shoulders and bear the load.  We need to
stop giving in, declaring hopelessness, wagging our heads with faces curved by
condemning grimaces, removing the sins that might taint us by driving the
bearer from our midst.



In truth, some Christians do reflect the love of
God and display His grace . . . but they need some reinforcements. The
ever-increasing wounded who can only be healed through the love of Christ,
shared without restraint by the redeemed.



As imperfect as our church may be, these sinners
will not find something better beyond our walls. They do not wash away sins
"out there," they celebrate them and proclaim them as identity,
taking pride. If we see our brothers sinning, but dismiss even the slightest
hint of a true desire to repent and fold our arms in front of us in  in
defense instead of wrapping our arms around their shoulders, it is we who have
surrendered, not they.  Will it be warmer out there around the fire of
distorted acceptance?  Shall we just wish them "god speed," and
give them no reason to even continue to believe there is a God . .
. who lives inside us?



Come out of the closet.  Andy's pornography
addiction will not defile you when you make a plan to call him up and check on
him and set up some time to get together for healthy distraction.
 Lindsey's past looseness will not topple you from your purity when you
listen to her cry and tell her that not only does God love her, but you do too
. . . and that you will stay by her side as she walks out of her past. You will
not become gay by standing with Terrance as he searches for the person God
created him to be and walk with him through the trials and struggles of seeking
wholeness. You won't lose your reputation by loving Elaine and listening to the
truthful needs of her heart as she shifts to sharing blessings. Your love might
be one she shares.



Jesus was a gentle savior who reached out his
hands to those in pain, who knew the secrets of the strugglers and did not turn
away, who stooped down to lift up, who risked his own reputation to help others
build a new one. He knew how to love . . . and He told us to be like Him. 



We're so often not.  Maybe that's why we're
in the closet.



In His pain, he freed us all.  In our pain,
we bind others up in theirs.  Unable to share our own failings, we hide
them behind our holiness and increase the intensity others feel by comparison.
In the light of our inflated righteousness, their wretched sinfulness
retains a greater grip on them as they strive to keep it from being seen. In
the discomfort of our own cover-ups, we overcompensate in pointing at others
when their covers are pulled back. We didn't want to know . . . but well . . .
now that we do . . . we've go to do . . . something.


But the fruit of the Spirit is love,
joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and
self-control. Against such things there is no law. -- Galatians 5:22-23 

In our closets, we store the fruit -- love, joy, patience,
kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control -- that would
nourish the broken souls that wander around the door.



God must surely wonder how we can be so blessed
and so bereft of sharing it.  The abundance is unimaginable, but we bury
it instead of investing it. Do we for some reason believe He can't handle all
of this?



Some are in closets of cloistered
Christianity.  Others are in closets of condemnation. Whichever closet you are in, there is no reason to be there.  Not
with overflowing grace, unlimited forgiveness, boundless mercy, unfathomable
love, enduring healing, eternal peace.



Please come out.  Someone stands at your door
and knocks. 



Give Elaine something to really talk about.

 

(Do you need encouragement in dealing with your struggle? E-mail me at th2950@yahoo.com. Also, please consider purchasing a copy of "Who Told You You Were Naked?" or "Surviving Sexual Brokenness." I think the insight and the experience s I write about in my books will help you.)

 



M2UT9HY4ND5C

 



And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring
you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. – Luke 2:10-14



 



Don’t we wish we had been there on that night?



        With
them.



        Hearing
directly from an angel, straight out of
heaven.



        Having
all fear set aside.



        Being
the first to hear good tidings.



        Experiencing
great joy.





But we are here.



        Sometimes
very alone and unsure.



        Wishing
for a good-news-angel instead of a newsman on the TV.



        Having
our fears compounded.



        Longing
for good tidings.



        Searching
for joy. 



The shadows of Newtown and Sandy Hook eclipse the brightest lights of
countless trees this Christmas time. The silent nights ahead for those who have
kissed their little ones and loved ones for one last time take the color out of
Christmas present and to come, leaving comfort only in Christmas past for
families so in need of an angel. We are reminded that evil avoids no
opportunity and honors no holiday.



Yet . . . the angel said the new-brought joy was for all people. Even as he spoke, the angel
knew that on that silent night, cries of despair and weepings of sorrow were
also likely heard in Bethlehem. And as sure as one was born, others were dying.



It is difficult to live in a world where joy and grief run parallel;
where good and evil co-exist . . . life and death . . . the hearse on its way
to the cemetery sitting at the same light as the young couple on the way to the
maternity ward, both waiting on green.



It’s a broken world that spits and sputters into dimness, yet
sparks and ignites into brightness at the same time.  



He didn’t come just to fix the world; He came to save it.



And you.



And me.



Indeed, good tidings of great joy.



…..

 

(And now I’m going to share what I shared
last year at this same time. I remain hopeful that perhaps next year, some
great measure of joy in my life will add to my personal Christmas story.)



Christmas comes as close as anything can to suspending reality;
though sometimes life is just too real for any wrapping to give it glitter. Somehow
life takes us far too quickly from squirming in our beds in footy pajamas, one
eye open, pledging to go sleepless and catch Santa in the act . . . to sitting
cross-legged in sweatpants on the living room floor, both eyes bleary, yearning
for sleep, fumbling in the act of being Santa . . . to rising for breakfast and
a peaceful quiet morning with just our one true love again, Santa just a
memory.  The meaningful misery of Christmas mingles with the joy to become
the memories which become treasures which last far beyond gifts.  In the
meantime, our "little ones" become big ones and beget new little
ones. 



I will spend more time this Christmas, like other recent ones,
feasting on old memories than I will in making new ones. Like that one last gift
we search for when the space beneath the tree is bare, reconciliation and
restoration with my children still eludes me. So I will treasure the gift of
hope and remember what is worth hoping for.


I remember one Christmas when our fourth son, Patrick -- he in the footed
pajamas -- clearly confused about Christmas, ignored the gifts and toddled
around the clutter clutching a banana he pulled from his stocking.  Unable
to open it and unable to get help from his wild-eyed older brothers or his
blurry-eyed parents, Patrick sat down upon a package, chewed a hole through the
peeling and sucked out the banana as best he could.  Today, Patrick is a
police officer with three children – Layni, Hadley and Tate – and a fourth on
the way.



I remember a "very tight" Christmas -- remember a lot of those,
actually -- when it became obvious to me that the presents we had to put
beneath the tree for our five children just didn't balance out.  It was
almost 11 p.m. on Christmas Eve and all I could find
open was a 7-11, which had a special display of baseball trading cards with an
album book. I bought those for Russell and the balance was better
achieved.  He loved baseball cards, and we still have them here, stored in
a cabinet.  Russell is married now, a leader in the Abolish Human Abortion
movement, and has a daughter, Melian. 



I remember struggling to put together toys and bicycles with dawn fast
approaching and hopelessness emerging, knowing that if my oldest son, Zach,
would just stumble down the stairs with a nod and wink, he could put all those
things together in the wink of an eye.  But I couldn't wake him.  I
needed to be the best Dad I could be, almost all thumbs, but with a heart that
wanted to give what I could give.  Zach is all grown-up now, married with
a son, Ty, and two daughters, Rylee and Avery . . . and he's a
contractor.  He really can build anything. 



I remember Donovan, the middle son, the hard-to-buy-for son, who never seemed
to really need or want much, but was always happy with what he got.  I
feel a bit of guilt that it wasn't harder to put his gifts beneath the tree and
wonder if they were just right.  He was a giver himself.  Donovan, a
former Army Ranger and now a police officer, has moved from protecting us all
in Iraq and Afghanistan to protect his wife and two little ones,
Samuel and Addison, which is probably what he always wanted. 



I remember my only daughter -- Lauren -- being a blast to shop for at
Christmas.  I could wander the mall and find music boxes, plastic high
heels, dolls and stuffed animals, and later perfumes and bracelets and trendy
things . . . and even occasional pink.  Most of all I remember how badly
she wanted a set of Quints, tiny dolls all dressed alike and so
girly. They were also so tiny they got lost in the Christmas wrapping on
Christmas morning and never showed their tiny little plastic faces again. 
I hurt about that for a long time.  No longer the little girl down the
hall, Lauren traveled the world, lingered long in China and now helps manage a mental hospital
where she is, no doubt, one of the cheeriest people any of the patients will
see this Christmas.  



I was myself a little one once. One of four in our family.  I remember a
lot of Christmases. One stands out because it contained all the emotions and
angst of which we are capable . . . and proved love to be the greatest of them
all.  We were living in a very cheap apartment in Lewisville, Texas, falling just a mile or two short of
making ends meet.  My mother was supporting us as best she could, a
stepfather out there somewhere but no longer of consequence, my real Dad only a
short distance away in Fort Worth, but immeasurably distant from us as far as
Christmas was concerned.



We needed a tree.  Whether there would ever be presents placed beneath it
was one of those bridges my Mother said she would cross later.  We had no
tree and that needed to be remedied above all.  One evening, after working
all day, my mother took the three of us -- my brother was living elsewhere at
the time -- across the parking lot and down the alley to the grocery store,
where she oohed and aahed over the scrawny trees leaning against the brick
wall, ones rejected by all the other shoppers who had bought the best ones
earlier.  She found a $7 bargain, proclaiming that it fit within a budget
we probably didn't have.  We dragged it home, set it in the stand, pulled
out the boxes of precious decorations, ate sugar cookies and decorated it to
the hilt, drowning it in icicles.  We stood back and surveyed our
handiwork . . . and the tree took a quick bow . . . all the way to the floor.



We were shocked . . . but she was Mother, undaunted.  She stood it up,
readjusted the stand, salvaged the decorations and ran a string around the
tree, thumb tacking it to the walls.  We sat back on the couch, hot chocolate
in hand, and -- smiles turning to shrieks -- observed the tree as it did a slow
motion dive-bomb back to the floor.



Our heads in our hands, we watched as Mother stood it up, peeled back the cheap
carpet to reveal a hardwood floor beneath, took out a hammer and nails and
nailed the stand right to the floor.   Wow . . . Mom!  Only a
bit later, our hands covered with the stickiness of ribbon candy, we could hear
the skritch as the small nails slowly slid free from the old wood of the
floor.  Tipping at first, the tree gently, like a too-gaudy ballerina,
took a half twist, broke free and resumed its reclining position.



This time Mother wept.  But only for a moment.  Within seconds, the
lights were unplugged, her hands were around the trunk in a strangling motion,
the front door was open and she was heading down the alley, dragging the
evergreen ballerina behind her.  We ran behind in horror, believing out
lives to be as much in shambles as the shattered ornaments now tossed about in
the parking lot.  Someone is gonna' see.  We followed the trail of
icicles, yelling at our Mother to stop. "It doesn't matter.  We don't
need a tree!"



She answered without stopping.



"We need a tree . . . and we will have a tree."



And we did have a tree.  She dragged it right through the front doors of
the grocery store, where she was spared having to offer any explanation at
all.  Her tears were overwhelming.  She couldn't talk, and the
manager of the store really didn't want her to anyway. The presence of coatless
and barefoot kids behind her, our heads dropping almost to our knees, didn't
exactly diminish the drama.



The good people at the grocery store replaced our tree with one that had an
actual straight trunk and that certainly cost more than $7.  They gave us
replacement decorations and plenty of icicles and even candy, which we ate
around our new and truly beautiful tree, standing on its own.



I don't really remember what I got for Christmas that year.  Well, at
least, what I got under the tree.  But I do remember realizing
that love can sure overcome a lot, pretty much everything, in fact.  And I
knew that my mother loved me beyond any humiliation.  I still count on
that to be true.




My mother would be the first to tell you that no matter what is
going on in your life, you can find joy. 




Anyway.



Actually, I really don't remember many of the gifts I've received for Christmas
through the years, though I loved them at the time.  But I do remember the
Christmases themselves and the people in my life that made them memorable.
Sometimes memories suffice, girded by hope.



Some of us just fumble through life causing harm here and there,
creating our own chaos and hurt.  But we also give and get a lot of love
and sometimes we bring calm and healing.  We remember the chaos and the calm, the hurt and the healing and as they wrestle within
us, we become something different, and perhaps much better, through the
process.  But, it is a process, and, as wonderful as Christmas is, the day
of peace is often just a bridge over which we cross into the continued work of
healing.



Even beneath the enveloping joy of the ever-present presence of
the Savior, Christmas can be a tough time of year for some, a balancing act
between cheer and fear as they reflect for just a moment on what life might
have been if it had mapped itself a little differently, with fewer obstacles
and errant turns. While we join with others in the “what-is-its?” of Christmas
morning, shaking packages before we open, we also have our share of “what-ifs?”
to deal with. It’s just a part of the package. The broken one.



I am prepared for a tinge of sadness with the sunrise next Tuesday morn. But I am ready for joy . . . anyway.



I bring you tidings of great joy. For unto you (the broken) was born
that day, a Savior.  



May God’s true and abiding love for you make this Christmas truly
joyful.



God Bless,



Thom



(Thom Hunter is the author of Those Not-So-Still Small Voices, SurvivingSexual Brokenness: What Grace Can Do, and Who Told You You Were Naked?,  available through Amazon and Barnes
& Noble, in print and e-reader versions for the Kindle, Nook or other reader.)
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Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid. -- John 14:27


"It takes time."



Of all the words meant to express comfort and hope, these have always been and still are my least favorite, to the point of my almost never using them when people's lives crumble in the many ways in which they do.



Still . . . some things do . . . take time. Often, perhaps, even more than we imagine we will have, although, in the truest scope of time, we have no less time now than we ever had. Still, accepting the fact that some things may only reconcile somewhere in the vastness of eternity is not as easy or as comforting as we may think when we tell someone first that "it takes time" and then follow up with "if not in this life then in the next." The eternal one . . . which is actually this one already if you are in Christ. Time is then, without end. Wouldn't it be nice if our patience for change and restoration could align with that timeline?



I started "Signs of a Struggle" about three-and-a-half years ago, fueled by an inner tantrum, an odd mix of selfish expression and selfless desperation. I wanted my heart to be heard and my pain to be released and I especially wanted -- desperately -- some way to communicate what I believed God had done in response to my cries of despair. I realized that years of deception had closed the doors to speak to those I love the most -- my children. I thought perhaps, though deaf to direct attempts, they would read the words I wrote in this blog and see them as a true description of what it means to be granted freedom from the darkest pit of life. In expressing remorse, confessing hurt, pursuing repentance and marveling at the grace of God, I hoped they would see and trust a new me. That was the selfish part: I wanted my family restored.



The selfless part? I knew I was never in the pit alone, but that many stumbled around the darkened depths, feeling blindly for some way out. I thought perhaps in sharing transparently my own struggle I might accomplish two things: encourage fellow strugglers to persevere and pursue restoration and encourage those who love them to be more hesitant in leaving them, believing in the hope of Christ to heal and the power of grace to restore.



A Christian who struggles with sexual brokenness struggles from the point where he first encounters Christ and realizes he is out of sync with God's plan for his life. Much of that struggle takes place in secret torment, wrapped in fear of revelation. That was my case for decades, until, in 2005 -- seven years ago now -- the battle emerged onto a public battlefield, and, in the freedom of that revlation, I was able to enlist re-enforcements and benefit from the insight and input of those who had traveled a similar road to freedom.



In 2009, due more than anything to the crippling consequences of a false accusation leveled at me by someone close and dear but deeply deceived, I began to write, partly out of a crippling fear that I had perhaps lost hope, and partly out of righteous indignation that I had traveled so far only to be sideswept and blindsided. I had not lost hope of change, for that was already well underway, but I had lost hope of restoration, as self-defined. It seemed that loss was to be my prevailing lot in life. It was becoming more and more difficult to balance the columns of loss and gain. Oddly, in the days when I had buried a deep secret, I seemed to have it all. A wonderful family -- great wife, four outstanding sons, an amazing daughter -- a great job, perhaps undeserved but the cherished respect of friends and peers, a fairly stable and predictable future, a nice and comfortable home. The clarity that had emerged in the years after 2005 careened into chaos in 2009 with an attack that overwhelmed everything that had come before, seeming to heave the healing that had taken place into a heap of meaninglessness. Abrupt, unwelcome and untrue now and forever, the accusation was clearly a flexing of Satan's muscle, something I have seen take place in others who find their recovery assaulted by Satan's refusal to let them go. He will use anyone and do anything he can when he sees the work of goodness freeing anyone from his snares. Breathless and bewildered, I began to see everything slipping away.



As many fear -- "If you only really knew . . ." -- became skewed reality. Those who had been unaware of my past struggles, including those with whom I worked, now knew not only about the real ones of the past, but viewed them in light of the false accusation, resulting in an end to my career as a respected executive. Consequently, each of the cherished things slipped away: my children, the respect of others, the seeming stability of life that had been assured by the cozy executive position.



It seemed only two things remained and both are examples of the extreme strength of love: God and Lisa, the only two things I have ever been "one" with. I am in Him and He in me. I am one with her. Had God not demonstrated the strength of those bonds, I would have welcomed the temporal soothing the world always seems to offer at our most despairing or bewildering moments. He was so faithful. And, Lisa, who had stared down my own unfaithfulness, continued to demonstrate hers.



I have, for the past three-and-a-half-years, traversed the paths of brokenness and come to love those who traveled there with me. The fuel of anger was slowly spent, though I railed at what I saw -- and still see -- as an indifferent church which blames its losses on culture instead of its own neglect to address the emerging needs of fellow saints, those who survive momentarily by pretending to be what they hear they should be instead of reaching out for help from those who pretend to be what they are not. The church needs far fewer words and less glorified insight and far more action and a sincere desire to engage in the fights that are ravishing the flock.



That is not to say that there is not desire on the part of some within the church to help those who struggle. For the past several years, I've written regularly for SBC Voices on the subject of sexual brokenness and -- at least in the comment section - it appears the message reached some church leaders. I also joined with others who have a heart for those who bear the burden of sexual addiction within our churches, handing out thousands and thousands of copies of resources to pastors and leaders at the annual Southern Baptist Convention. I pray that some took it to heart, though the evidence is underwhelming.



Within the "ministry" itself, I benefited in my own battle through healing involvement with First Stone Ministries and through the insight and truths shared through Exodus International and Desert Stream. Still, it was heartbreaking to see the split develop within Exodus, thought it did make my own resolve -- to address each person's burden individually within the landscape of their own trial -- and not to get pulled down by distracting disagreements while the puzzled perish.



I pray that the work of the determined individuals prevails even as the ministries attempt not to derail.



How does a tantrum give way to a sigh?



I slowly have come to the realization that consequences are not always erased by grace and that restoration is not always a mirror of the dashed past. Just as battlefield injuries leave the soldier forever changed, perhaps with a prosthetic leg and a deep facial scar that all can see and wonder about, so does that battlefield of a consuming inner war leave us forever changed, perhaps with some scars that do not completely fade, but do close tight around the original wound. That does not mean we default from the race or turn from the mirror. We are different, but not indifferent.



There are types of sighs.



Sighs of resignation.

Sighs of sorrow.

Sighs of indifference.

Sighs of regret.

Sighs of exhaustion.

Sighs of surrender.



It appears to me that it is time to, at the very least, pause in the writing of the blog. I am not doing so out of resignation --- though some of the things I hoped for are unresolved. I am not doing so out of sorrow -- though some of the things unresolved do sadden me. I am not doing so out of indifference -- I am as determined as ever to do as much as I can to help others free themselves from Satan's grip of sexual brokenness. I do not do so out of remorse . . . for I am forgiven and have walked through confession and repentance. I do not do so out of exhaustion . . . though I am dismayed that  the enemy has made so many gains in this battle and that Christians seem to wander further into apathy about how to fight against the consuming of so many. And, I definitely do not pull back on this blog out of surrender. Indeed, I am prayerful that another door will open.



In the days ahead, I believe that we will see more and more people, perhaps exasperated by the complexities of too-bureaucratic churches and denominations and too-entrenched ministries may find that God will continue to do what God has always done: use us each and everyone to reach out to our brother and sisters and walk with them, at their side, through the trenches we have ourselves endured.



What an honor that will be, changing lives one-on-one. So Christlike.



So, I do sigh. But it is a sigh of peace. Much like sitting on a porch as the seasons change and the trees drop their leaves and leave us longing for what we know will be a gorgeous spring, once we have endured the calloused winter. A bird crosses the sky, just below the low hanging clouds and a train whistles in the distance . . . and there is a peace that makes you want to linger. But there is much to be done, and there is peace in knowing that. It is the promise of enduring.



No doubt I will venture back here on occasion when I feel like God is nudging. In the meantime, I hope you will explore the older posts and reflect on my journey in the hopes you will see glimpses of your own and find encouragement. The books -- Surviving Sexual Brokenness and Who Told You You Were Naked? The Counterfeit Compassion of Culture --  will always be available and, if you think you or someone will benefit from my attempts to fill them with truth, compassion and realistic encouragement, I hope you order them..



Thank you for reading and traveling with me. God has been so good and I am so thankful that I am not who I once was.



In Him,



Thom




























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