June 2024 – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

June 27, 2024June 26, 2024

Owning It

I was about to discover that stepping from the shadows makes room for Christ’s light to catch its best chance at bringing forward his healing work.

Venturing out of the murky fog of Shadowland into sunlight’s inviting glow calls for one-day-at-a-time intentional living. Gritty, practical tools – in the grip of a handful of desperate, like-minded companions on the way – came to prove priceless in making headway.

If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.

No truer maxim was ever cranked out when it came to my need for handles with which to navigate a viable pathway beyond broken sexuality. When a fellow is plagued by self-doubt and a sense of helplessness, he dare not (yet again) try to suck it up, marshal remnants of a fledgling willpower and soldier on.

Our evolving band of CPR brothers was supplying the flesh-and-blood community piece. And, the recovery program’s down-to-earth practices gave us those handles by which to prayerfully gain yardage.

On ‘Day One’ we went, each of us, to the mat to contend with a brutal concept. It was ours – within each of our own stories – to grapple with and embrace one harsh truth.

“We admitted we were powerless over our addictions and compulsive behaviors, that our lives had become unmanageable.”*

Reaching up with “quivering hand”, edging my protective mask of secrecy downward the few centimeters necessary to ‘come clean’, I drew a slow breath. From behind my eyelids, I felt the gathering of a tear. Maybe two.

June 20, 2024

Steps Forward

Sensing that another of life’s thresholds lay ahead for me – one of greater bearing than others – I texted my pastor, requesting a visit.

Not long after his ‘dumpster dive’ narrative (the lone part of the sermon I recall from that Sunday morning), Roger had begun laying the groundwork for a twelve-step venture fitting a specific niche of persons. Men serving in Christian ministry.

A Step program had already been serving our faith community for some time, yielding some beautiful fruit along the way. Through Bible-centered curricula facilitated by a compassionate, Christ-loving husband/wife team, Jim and Pam, a number of souls had – for their first time ever – drunk from springs of undiluted hope. The program, by now widely available and spreading, carried the label Celebrate Recovery (‘CR’).

Enter Roger, a “man the cloth”, who inserted a third letter, sandwiched between the C and the R. The result – a kind of hybrid version nicknamed ‘C.P.R.’ – the ‘P’ loosely representing the term ‘Pastor’.

Imagine. A recovery program concerned with hurts, habits and hangups of preachers, pastors, missionaries, youth ministers and the like. Remarkably (or not so remarkably), Roger’s CPR groups – the first followed by another, then another – never lacked for signups.

In a study spanning a recent calendar year Barna Research noted that 42 percent of pastors had considered leaving full-time ministry. While a combination of factors can give rise to such troubling data, a common theme has surfaced. A high number of leaders in the Lord’s work suffer from a sense of isolation.

Yet, men (vocational churchmen included) connecting routinely with other men in honest, redemptive dialogue are finding themselves ushered into a place of oxygen. A doorway of hope starts opening. Wounds get disclosed. Fears and hiddenness get unveiled. Healing enters. Recovery comes.

Jesus occupies such settings. Men know the empowering presence, in the company of friends. This became my story and remains so today.

By the time of my first interactive session with a CPR band of brothers, much water had passed beneath the proverbial bridge. Some with murky currents indeed. Here, in time, I would muster adequate courage to bring to light the account of a sexual assault, of unsavory influences, and a history of associated brokenness.

I was a child when *Lawrence took advantage. Hiddenness – my behavior default – had kept the incident sealed for beyond six decades.

I would learn afresh that from God there issues love that, as the hymn writer worded it, will not let me go.

June 13, 2024June 12, 2024

Silent Treatment

“Is he going there?” I thought. “Are there men here in the Sunday gathering (myself included) poised in this moment to witness the unveiling of a familiar elephant in the room?”

As with fingers at a dimmer switch, the pastor was advancing the dial. In the moments following, Roger sensitively and with great compassion teamed with the Holy Spirit in lifting the lights. Illumining a pathway in the recesses of some troubled minds.

A while back I had glimpsed a flicker of hope through my counsellor-friend Steve. He had graciously labored to assure me that I was not alone, that I did not have a corner on struggles over impure thoughts and lust. Now, taking in today’s account of a fellow brother in the faith – of his struggles and his ongoing pilgrimage into wholeness – I sensed a rare, near-tangible assurance . Could far better days lie ahead?

The era of my growing-up years – the 1950s and 60s – were those in the cultural landscape marked by imperfect ideals and role models, like the ‘strong, silent male’.

While the ‘strong’ piece of that phrase might have been in question concerning some, the ‘silent’ ingredient among men was often palpable.

It might have been normal to wax eloquent over Gurnsey prices down at the local livestock yard or contesting the preferred mode of transport (Chevy vs Ford), or debating which team in a league would make the World Series cut. But confiding about personal topics – struggles over addictive behaviors and so forth – was a practice entered into rarely indeed.

Thus, I had deduced from a young age, it was best keeping my personal concerns – disturbing as some might be – close to my chest. Better to trudge forward in the company of secrets than of shame.

June 6, 2024June 5, 2024

Dumpster Dive

Wherever you go, there you are.

The adage packs a punch.

When a person relocates (whether across town or time zones) he encounters a lot of “New”. Things about the place are simply different. New. The person himself, however – the relocated individual – has for the most part typically changed only a little, if at all. A hairstyle might alter, a wardrobe get tweaked, but the actual person at the core stays the same. We don’t get to don a sudden new-and-improved set of character traits in the way we might spring for an upgrade in workout sweats.

I had long ago ventured from Okmulgee County for employment in Cody, Wyoming. Afterward, accompanied by my young bride, I took up residence in far-off Africa. Decades later here I was, having landed on the campus of a local university. Still, the fact remained. In each instance I had brought “myself with me”. Jerry Lout – my cultural and character baggage (healthy and otherwise) moving about day by day in shoe leather.

But the tidewaters were about to change.

The routine Sunday morning found Ann and me at our usual place of worship. We had moved to a new church and had come to sense that we were home.

Stepping to the pulpit, Pastor Roger began his sermon. Minutes in, a delicate story of self-disclosure unfolded. This I had not expected, nor would have envisioned being shared within a Sunday morning sanctuary venue. Vulnerably but sensitively conveyed, the earthy account set a spark of hope flickering within me. For myself, a good serving of hope seemed overdue.

“Back when I was a teenaged kid in my hometown”, Roger began, “a buddy and I one day decided to go dumpster-diving. We came upon a Playboy magazine”.

The audience leaned in.