The Mind Of Christ

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Everyone Can Be A Jerk...Right?

Why did I do it? Because I love a good project. Because love always hopes. Because Jesus was a friend to drunks. Because, as my friend and addiction crusader Bob Vann likes to say, “There’s a fine line between ministry and enabling, and only the Holy Spirit can tell you where to draw that line.”

I did it because all the king’s horses and all the king’s men kept promising me they had a 97% success rate. It took me 15 years to notice the amazing coincidence that my “Projects” were in the 3% non- success category 100% of the time.

I did it only to discover that all the king’s horses and all the king’s men don’t know a blasted thing about curing addiction, but they sure know a lot about marketing.

Did I say “treat” addiction? No, I said “cure”. Ironically, the priceless cure is much cheaper and quicker than the useless treatment.

Physicians often “treat” addiction by throwing pharmaceuticals at it. Such people are little more than respected drug dealers with the initials M.D. tacked behind their names. Obviously, God knew what He was doing when He oversaw the translation of the Greek word “pharmakeia” into the English word “witchcraft.”

Peace officers “treat” addiction by removing the party from the perp’s pocket and locking him up where he can’t get his hands on the stuff. Such people, God bless them, are merely doing their job, and curing addiction is not part of their job.

Many good-hearted Christians “treat” the addict by “handing him over to the Lord”—Creepianity’s sanctimonious lingo for washing its hands of a loser– or volunteering a weekly hour or two at a tidy ministry where people talk about hurts, habits and hangups. May God richly bless these people, too, but hardcore addiction is about as much a “hangup” as dying is a “bad day.”

Call me a slow learner, but it took me $700,000 and 15 years to get some of God’s best and richest promises hard-wired into the depths of my soul. Without all that tuition in the school of hard knocks, I would never have come to believe, irreversibly, that “It was good for me to be afflicted,” or that God is truly “close to the brokenhearted” or that “It is the glory of God to conceal a matter; to search out a matter is the glory of kings.””

As we begin this series of addiction-related posts, I’m just about bursting with both indignation and hope. The indignation arises from a deep resolve that most addicts are orphans. They’re not adorable and they’re not innocent, but any person who’s burned every last bridge on this earth is most certainly an orphan. The isolation and pain of the addict is a siren wailing “hypocrite” into my ear and the ear of anyone who knows perfectly well that “religion that God our Father accepts is this; to help widows and orphans in their distress.”

My hope for addicts is this: No matter what anybody besides God may say, addiction is a spiritual matter. It has been the glory of God to conceal the matter, and it will be the glory of God, along with those who diligently search out the matter, to solve it.

At the current rate of enlightenment within the ranks of believers, it‘s a safe bet that Christianity is now hot on the heels of that glory. That’s hope, and hope never lets us down.

(To be continued with Street Jesus, Sweet Jesus. To my dear and faithful friends who’ve been following this blog, you may be surprised or even offended that we seem to have veered off our usual course of fun. We’ll return to normal business soon, but for now, please be a Planter: If someone you know is tormented by addiction, these next few days could bring the hope they’ve been gasping for. Please copy liberally and forward with gusto!)

Everyone Can Be A Jerk...Right?

www.laymanator.com

(See more on life strategies at www.windriverstrategies.net)

About half the income that’s passed through my hands since 1996 has been spent fighting addiction. That’s about $700,000 thrown at an enemy who gladly took it, tossed it in the fires of hell and laughed as he watched it burn. The only thing missing from this twisted odyssey has been the peeled grapes.

Let’s pause for a moment to recall the infamous words of the penniless Lotto winner: “Some I spent on whiskey, some at the racetrack and some on wild women. The rest I just blew.”

Where did all my money go? What became of that small fortune which, had it been invested with worldly wisdom, could have funded my early retirement?

Some went to secular rehabs. Some went to Christian rehabs. Some went to physicians, some to psychologists, some to counselors, some to social workers, some to the pharmacy and some to the meth clinic.

Some went for fines, some for restitution, some for probation, some for collect calls and some for that little cart they push around in jail with the $8 cigarettes and $3 Honey Buns.

Some went to hospitals, some to do-it-yourself drug-tests, and some to beggars on the off-ramps and sidewalks and shoulders of this great nation.

The lion’s share of that Fat Stack went to Western Union and pawn shops and Buy Here Pay Here lots and cabs and weekly motels and loans to well-meaning addicts who never repaid a single dime. Within a 10-mile radius of my home, it would be hard to find a single sleazy business that has not received a goodly chunk of my hard-earned money. And no, I’m not trying to be funny.

On occasion, I’ve even gone so far as to buy my own stuff back from drug addicts. I’ve found you can get some great deals when you cut out the pawn shop and deal directly with the thief. OK, now I’m trying to be funny, but truth is the core of the joke.

The rest I just blew. Can you say, “enabler?” I knew you could.