Through the Red Door Blog

I've noticed lately that something in my ego bristles at the word “surrender.” I can't shake off the military connotations, and that throws my whole relationship with my Higher Power into an adversarial mode. Then, when I try to soften my heart and become willing to let go of my way, my will, I stubbornly don't want HP to have Her way, either.

But reframing the story in my mind, I feel the release and relief of a different kind of surrender. I can imagine being lost in a dark forest. Thorns and clinging vines block my passage, the sun's bright face is obscured by tall trees. I don't know what wild beasts or poisonous creatures are stirring, to my right and to my left. Darkness is coming and I am cold, hungry and afraid. In this situation, I would gladly surrender to anyone who could tell me which direction I needed to go. Thrashing around in an unknown place filled with hidden dangers doesn't usually lead to good outcomes.

If I was turning myself over to someone I know and trust, it would be an even easier decision. And I do know this Higher Power who demands my surrender. She is the one who fills my life with the tender love and care of my friends and family. My Higher Power offers me birdsong and flowers, sunshine and dramatic, sweeping storms. The third step invites me to turn my will and my life over to God's care, not to an indifferent commander of an opposing army.

Surrender itself is not the cause of my pain or discomfort. It's the resistance to surrender that makes every decision seem a burden, every step a hard slog. Giving up on having things my own way means difficulties begin to melt away and choices become more clear. When I let go of the idea that I am the sole keeper of life's answers, it is humbling – but it feels infinitely better than forcing my way alone through a hostile landscape.

Surrendering my own will and waiting for an understanding of what my Higher Power wants for me often seems an impossible task, especially when I view it over a period of weeks and months. On the days I have managed it with any kind of success, I have moved minute-by-minute in a careful dance of “do the next right thing.” Do the dishes. Call the doctor. Pay the bills. Take a nap. When I am able to trust my actions moment-by-moment, I build hours and then days on a foundation of God's will.

But moving forward, I can't always know that I am surrendered to HP. It is only looking backwards in time that I see how those “next right thing” moments stack up and offer me direction. It takes perspective to see the long-term fruits of the program. When I am surrendered, with a moment-by-moment dependence upon a kind and loving H.P., my program promises me a life filled with God's “ease, balance and grace.” That's something worth surrendering for.

-Karyn Zweifel

Our regular weekly noon discussion meeting of “St X. Noon” occurred this year on Memorial Day. We had finished the usual readings of the Steps and so forth and then the search for a topic raised its head. Identification of a topic is usually not a problem. Recovering alcoholics, it seems, don’t have any hesitation speaking out in an AA Discussion Meeting but for some reason the request for a topic this time fell on deaf ears. I’ve always thought that “Gratitude” was the final safety net for identification of a topic for discussion. So, I suggested it and we were “good to go.”

I had a couple recent occurrences for which I was very grateful: my brother-in-law reporting that just before Memorial Day he had been declared clean, if that is the right term, from the usually deadly onslaught of brain cancer. It has been several years since he started treatment which proved successful.

Another thing for which I was grateful was remembering on Memorial Day those in the Program who were the “old-timers”, those who were there when we finally showed up, usually last resort for us. They were there to provide aid, comfort, to keep us on the straight and narrow path — in some ways these folks were as important to us as the troops who paid the full price of a defense of our country. The old-timers assisted the resurrection of our being from that death spiral we were or would have been riding had we not walked in those church basement doors.

Bill and Dr. Bob told us that the Program was merely one drunk talking to another. That’s what we did at meetings. And so we moved from a selfish attitude toward life in general to one of empathy, a realization that the universe didn’t need us that much, that we weren’t the most important people in the scheme of things. We learned to appreciate our differences and to build strength on those differences. We learned others had trod the same path as ourselves. We also learned to emphasize with and remember those who didn’t make it. We ourselves had probably failed before so it’s no great surprise that others have stumbled. We don’t defile them, we comforted them — perhaps with some tough love, but at least with empathy and a hearty reminder that all of us had already played games with the Program at various levels of intensity.

We have to remember that the Program tells us that the Steps describe us to take positive action on a variety of human levels — from our souls to our relations with others — and with ourselves.

So, next year, when Memorial Day rolls around, I’ll recall Bob, the Plasted Plasterer, Dr. Father Scanlon, Ladder Bob, and all the gang that was present when I finally decided to walk down those steps into the basement of the First National Bank for the regular Tuesday East One gathering of those seeking life’s comforts through the Program and sharing with newcomers what we had learned.

Jim A/ St. X Noon

How are Pentecost, the Birthday of the Church, and June 10, The Birthday of Alcoholics Anonymous alike?

They both begin a season of sanctuary. A time of love, acceptance, understanding and peace.

The message of Pentecost is very, very clear: speak in a language clear enough so that everyone can hear the message. The message? God is love. You are a beloved child of God.

The message of Alcoholics Anonymous is equally clear: speak your truth out loud so that someone else might hear the story. The story? You don’t have to drink: you can talk to me instead.

On the day of Pentecost the Good News of God’s love was spoken so people could hear it in their own language. They understood. They got it. They were safe, among friends.

How many times have we gone to an AA meeting and left with wonder, saying “That speaker tonight told my story…I am not alone…there is a way…”

AA is a practical guide to living a life of love. Recovery starts out with acceptance of who and what we are: alcoholics, unable to manage even our own lives. But through the power of AA, through the fellowship and the program, we learn to love ourselves. And then that love can spill out and we can start to love other people. We take responsibility for our actions. We learn that we matter. We learn that what we do and say and think affects other people and we decide what we want that effect to be. We have choices. We are free.

So what do I mean, “season of sanctuary?” What season? What sanctuary? The season is now. Now is the time when things are happening. Right now. This is the season of love.

What sanctuary? The halls of AA--the undercrofts and basements, the upstairs rooms and Serenity Clubs--the halls of AA are safe places. People can come and be accepted. People can come with all their sadness and anger, their restless, irritable discontented selves and they will be listened to. And they will learn to listen to someone else and in doing so, they will become human.

What sanctuary? The chambers of our hearts that are open to love. The real, tough love of accepting other people as they are, knowing that in God’s kingdom they are doing okay.

We work very, very hard to offer sanctuary--acceptance, love, peace, understanding--to whomever we meet, wherever we are. We respect the dignity and worth of every human being.

And we show that by listening. We listen. We honor. We accept.

We are sanctuary.

Christine H.

When I came into the program some forty years ago, I heard the then old timers say, “First, I came to the meetings; then “I came to believe in the program,” and then. “ I came to believe in a Power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity.” How cute! Oh, did I have a lot to learn.

I came into this program thinking I had so much to offer giving my background of having been a minister, a counselor. Yes, I had a lot to learn and a lot more to unlearn.

I sat in meetings judging people for what they were saying, the cheap clichés, the jokes, the drunkalogues. What was I doing with “these people?”

Thanks to my Higher Power and my arrogance I stayed around long enough to get sober. Initially I wanted to show my boss that I could stop drinking as well as show my Aftercare Counselor I was doing more work than those in our Friday evening group. In fact, all I was doing was going to meetings. When I look back at that time I realize, “I came” to the meetings and, what I heard was sinking into and changing my stinking thinking.

For almost five years “I came” to the meetings and that was it. Oh, I did “Do” the steps. In fact, “I finished them.” Then I had an experience that got my attention, that I needed help. Doing the steps, superficial as I was, was getting to me and finally brought me to the realization of my powerlessness

“I came to believe” in the program. Yes, no one could explain to me how or why it worked. It just worked. Go to meetings. Read the Big Book. Talk to your sponsor.

Then someone said to me that when I go to meetings, I needed to listen to what “those folk” shared and ignore the differences. I needed to Read the Big Book and apply it to myself. I needed to talk to my sponsor and also listen to him.

“I came to believe in a Power greater than myself.” Yes. I believed in God but, the God in which I believed was a vengeful one. My God was “out to get me.” I lived in fear of the God in whom I believed and prayed to. I knew there was a loving God and I talked about him/her. And then I read “create your own image of God.” This brought me far outside my comfort zone. Now, I needed to talk to my sponsor. I needed to talk to those who not only thought as I once did but also to those who thought differently from me and who could challenge me and my belief system; take a good look at step one again and ask myself, “Would a healthy person do what you did?” “Do normal ethical people do what you did?” The answer was staring me in the face; hit me on the back of the head like a hammer. My behavior was that of one who not only had lost his values but also insane. I had a difficult time in accepting that kind of insanity. “It wasn’t my fault. I just drank too much.” “I don’t remember that. I can’t imagine me doing that.” “I can’t imagine me saying that.”

“I came to believe in a power greater than myself that could restore me to sanity.”

That Higher Power helped me accept myself as a human being; as one with a disease called addiction; that I made, can, and will make, mistakes and I can now go on living. Sanity is accepting that I am not perfect in any form. Sanity is to be responsible. To be responsible is to be able to respond and not always react. To be sane is to have peace of mind even when I make mistakes. To be sane is to enjoy the here and now of living in the present.

In returning to Steps one and two I finally understood the process as I came to believe I had to work and live steps one and two before I could learn to trust self, others and the God I would call my Higher Power, and a Higher Power I can call God.

Sometimes before I turn out the light I ask Siri to tell me a joke. A part of my mind sneers at this, that I would turn to an artificial intelligence for company or solace. But the better part of me defends my little habit. It’s a random bit of self-care, virtual company as I whistle past the graveyard. Being alone at the close of the day brings up a sort of primordial fear in me: perhaps I’m afraid of being unconscious, unaware and undefended. That fear is something shadowy, lurking around the edges of my consciousness and nibbling at my sanity. It’s almost embarrassing to think about, but I am afraid of going to sleep. Or perhaps I fear the release that precedes slumber, the letting go of all the day’s plans and hopes and little failings.

Letting go means looking hard at the illusion of control. Although I may believe I have some control over other people, places and things, that’s usually false. I really only control what’s inside my hula hoop. When I do a tenth step at bedtime, it helps me sort out what bits of my day I actually had under my control. I have health problems, and sometimes those twist my day out of shape. But I have no control over my cancer, its symptoms and the side effects of my treatment. When I continue “...to take personal inventory and when we were wrong promptly admitted it,” it gives me a way to catalog my day, accept responsibility for my shortcomings, and let go of the rest.

Maybe it’s my expectations deviling me at bedtime. Perhaps I’m just clinging onto every day, unsure that there will be another. These are more manifestations of my inability – or unwillingness – to let go of what is not mine. Yet I have placed my prayer life and my recovery as the linchpin of each day; since I have been sincere in my efforts to pray for God’s will for me, then I can relax into the knowledge that She has never failed me yet. And if, in my stubbornness, I need proof, it is near. I have a safe place to live, the wind outside stirs the trees with an invisible hand, the birds sing, I am loved.

Remembering that I am exactly where I am supposed to be, that HP and I have been in good contact and I am actively working to stay in Her will, not my own – perhaps I need to remind myself of that at the end of the day. Or maybe I should let go of my sleep difficulties altogether. What does it matter if I sleep till noon? As long as I do not fill those damnable hours of midnight to dawn with recriminations, anxiety and fear. As long as my waking hours are productive (or mostly not counter productive) then what does it matter what time I sleep?

Today, I said my “morning” prayers at 4 in the afternoon. It will be dark soon. While that fear may return, I don’t need to know the origins of it, or know its shape or volume in order to contain it. I can simply give it away, ask my Higher Power to remove it. And while that removal is taking place, Siri can keep telling me jokes.

“Letting go means looking hard at the illusion of control.”

Karyn Zweife

“Next we launched out on a course of vigorous action…” page 63, The Big Book

It was Saturday, March 14. I was preparing to lead a day retreat the following Saturday with a local Matt Talbot group around the theme of page 63 from The Big Book. It was perfect timing for my recovering journey! I felt tired from the work I had committed to do as an interim minister and the people I was serving for the past 18 months. Every attempt to move forward with changes needed for them to become the change-makers seemed fraught with excuses and refusals. While attending my home group meeting early most mornings, my regularity had faded to 2 or 3 times a week, maybe. The group, a solid part of my recovering life the past 12 years, was becoming usual, predictable, and frankly I was bored … NOT a healthy place for this alcoholic to be! So, this retreat day would be the perfect foundation for completing another Step 4 and 5. And then …

COVID-19 changed everything! The retreat I was to lead was cancelled. Our diocese suspended all public worship, and I was plunged into the world of “virtual” worship each Sunday. Like all other gatherings, daily AA meetings were put on ice as well. Sure, I could reach out to my sponsor and other friends along the happy road. Sure, I could connect with one or more of the “virtual” AA meetings that quickly appeared. Sure, I could do SOMETHING about this needed step work. Sure I could, but getting traction on this was not happening. And then …

A friend from the rooms, who I also shared time with as spiritual director, began having spikes of fever, a general flu-like weakness, and then THE COUGH. He was referred for testing for the Corona Virus. The first was negative, then the second showed positive, and then the third returned negative. Since the medical world could not figure out what to do, they sent him home and said if it got worse, go to the ER. He called me immediately, feeling the need to work through his Step 4 & 5 in the case that he … The gift of his sense of life urgency cleaning his life and spiritual house gave energy for me to do the same. We covenanted to complete what we could in a week, and then meet on his deck at appropriate space with masks to share these steps with each other. By the time we met, his physical manifestations had settled, the coughing disappeared, and he was on the mend. He went first, I followed. Tears, laughter, comfort, and inspiration to move on to Step 8 and 9, to move forward in a time when nothing else was moving forward. It was truly grace, nothing else but grace. I hold this truth from writer and recovering companion Anne Lamott -- “I do not understand the mystery of grace -- only that it meets us where we are and does not leave us where it found us.” And then …

I received a text from the chair of our home group. He wanted me to know that the group was still meeting with appropriate limits. When a member anniversary was to be celebrated the group conscience agreed that the anniversary person would be specifically invited in these unusual times. So, on Saturday, May 23, I’ll be present at my home group with mask of face, a smaller group of my recovering friends, to give thanks for 23 years of recovering life. I could not do this without the grace of God, and the living, loving presence of my recovering friends in all the places I have traveled. And for this, I am grateful.

Paul G.

Newark, Delaware

In the first days of sheltering in place, I was an early if reluctant adopter of online 12 Step meetings. It took some time to iron out the kinks: finding the precise link, making sure your private chat comment was, in fact, private and, unsurprisingly, learning all over again how to raise your hand. Soon enough, like when I first came into the (in-person) rooms, my comfort level grew, and I looked forward to seeing my home group buddies in their little Brady Bunch boxes on my computer screen.

At some point in preparing to preach last Sunday, I began to hear the well-trod story from John 14 in a new way: in my Father’s house there are many dwelling places. Many, if not most, of us associate this lesson with funerals. Some of the commentators wrote something to the effect of “come on, lectionary, we’re in Easter. Why drag us back to the Last Supper? Bummer.”

Bummer, indeed. As these days of pandemic grind on, watching the news suggests a medieval text that lives still in the burial service of the BCP: In the midst of life we are in death. We are surrounded by death in a manner few have known. The mounting numbers are too much to wrap my brain around. Some days I’m just numb.

Then a colleague pointed out that the Greek noun for dwelling place is related to one of John’s favorite words, the verb for abide. Abide. Dwell. Stay. Remain. Abiding is profoundly relational. For those of us who deal with a disease of isolation, abiding with is essential. How often are we told that “this is a we program?” Our sponsors remind us that we are not alone, to stay in the middle of the pack. Recovery necessitates abiding with, staying connected to, each other, our sponsors, our Higher Power.

The number of deaths is still appalling and tragic, yet how blessed are we to have been offered new dwelling places in which to be faithful to our programs. For this addict, abiding with my precious companions in the Brady Bunch rooms of online meetings, I begin to see the promise of the Resurrection in new ways, that even in the midst of death we are in life.

Abide. Hang out. Hang on.

Paul J.

May 2020

Maybe it’s because of my work as a drug and alcohol therapist or maybe it’s in there, but I couldn’t help but read the gospel in this week’s lectionary and not hear the voice of someone in the pre-contemplative stage of change denying their need for help from their addiction. Allow me to expound on this. How many times have we heard (or said ourselves) to our spouse, to our parent, to ourselves: I’m ok, I’ve got this? I can do recovery on my own terms. Meetings, therapy, detox isn’t for me. I can do this.

Very truly, I tell you, anyone who does not enter the sheepfold by the gate but climbs in by another way is a thief and a bandit. 

So what if trying to get in the sheepfold by climbing in another way is a sure fire way to set ourselves up for another relapse? What if the sponsor or the therapist or the certified recovery specialist is the shepherd? The shepherd is already in the fold (maybe has been in our shoes before) and if we follow the sound of their voice it’s possible they may lead us where we didn’t even know we needed to go. Because left to our own devices… Well, I think we all know how it ends when we are left to our own devices.

The one who enters by the gate is the shepherd of the sheep. The gatekeeper opens the gate for him, and the sheep hear his voice. He calls his own sheep by name and leads them out.

Because life on life’s terms, right? And maybe not by using in order to cope for the first time ever. And realizing that we may have been our own worst enemy and going in the back door we miss unpacking all the junk that got us here in the first place. Because the junk has to get unpacked and we have been unable to do it on our own this whole time. Why should this time be any different? So maybe we admit our powerlessness, make the appointment and go to the meeting through the front door.

They will not follow a stranger, but they will run from him because they do not know the voice of strangers.

And then this verse right in the middle of the gospel lesson…Jesus used this figure of speech with them, but they did not understand what he was saying to them.Yep, this definitely sounds like someone in the pre-contemplative stage of change. Or any stage of change. Or anyone at all!

Then a whole lot of hope begins to emerge.<</p>

We stop letting our emotions make our decisions. We get a 30 day chip. We begin to build up enough muscle and have enough tools in our tool belt, when we drive past the place where we used to shoot up or see our dealer’s car in town, we don’t even recognize it. If we’ve done enough work and spent enough time with the shepherd. We turn from the voice of the stranger even though it might be our own. We are led into the sheepfold. We are on our way to a meeting. We are on our way to having life and having it abundantly. 

 So again Jesus said to them, Very truly, I tell you, I am the gate for the sheep.  All who came before me are thieves and bandits; but the sheep did not listen to them.  I am the gate. Whoever enters by me will be saved, and will come in and go out and find pasture. 

Now doesn’t that sound like a good place to be?

Deborah M, LPC
Lancaster, PA

“The moment you surrender to love and allow it to lead you to exactly where your soul wants to go, you will have no difficulty.” Neale Donald Walsch

I often hear the slogans “Fake it until you make it” and “Acting as if” in the rooms of 12 Step fellowships. The idea behind these slogans is to develop a pattern of behavior that mirrors a recovered lifestyle. I think of it as a way to develop spiritual muscle memory by repeating the actions of a person in recovery.

While the intentions of these slogans are admirable, it is always good to see these slogans as mere placeholders on our recovery journey. They are stand ins until we begin the process of surrender. In reality, it is possible to not act out with our drug of choice and still not be sober. That is the difference between surrender and submission for those of us in recovery.

Surrender involves acceptance of the reality that life as we have lived it has only resulted in our own self destruction. We can’t lie any more to ourselves, to others, or to our Higher Power. Surrender always erupts from the fountain of rigorous honesty. It requires the rejection of denial and a commitment to reality at all cost. Surrender requires making peace with our character defects. When we surrender we realize that our addiction, be it to alcohol, drugs, sex, compulsive lying or whatever are just symptoms of a spiritual dis-ease of our egos. Surrender is the foundation upon which true recovery is built.

Submission however, allows us to do the right thing with the wrong motives. Submission is best illustrated by the imagery of a Prisoner of War. Someone in compliance with the orders of their captors who follows the rules of the overlord while inwardly plotting his escape from captivity. Some of us in recovery see the program as a burden, we are sober but by God we are not happy about it! I always laugh when someone who is in submission to the program reads the sentence“…if you want what we have…” Thank you but I will pass.

Artist and creative Sissy Gavrilaki reminds us, “Sometimes, it ’s not the times you decide to fight, but the times you decide to surrender, that makes all the difference.” How true this is in recovery. When we not only decide to give up fighting but also make peace with our enemy (ourselves) we absolutely experience freedom from our addiction, find release from the shame which motivates us, and undermines our negative core beliefs. The result is true peace and serenity and the gratefulness both for my recovery and my addiction. 

That is something I will go to any length to experience.

Digging Deeper

1.      How would you describe the difference between surrender and submission?

2.      In what ways have you ever been resentful of your sobriety or recovery?

3.      Why do some people in recovery talk about being grateful for their addiction? How are you grateful for your own addiction? What gift has it given you?

4.      What role does denial play in understanding the difference between surrender and submission?

5.      Matthew 5:3 (The Message) tells us,  “You ’re blessed when you ’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.” How can being at the end of your rope (hitting bottom) result in the type of surrender being discussed here?

6.      Describe a time when you reached the end of your rope and we able to surrender. How did that feel? What was different? How has that impacted your relationship with your drug of choice?

 -Shane M

“Now with the pandemic, everyone is having to live like an alcoholic in recovery: one day at a time,” said a wise woman at a meeting last week.

So what does it mean, to live one day at a time? It means not getting too hepped up about what might happen or what should happen or even what has happened. It means stopping and breathing, looking around, and saying, “Oh, okay, my Higher Power and I can handle this.”

I want to be perfectly clear that I do not always remember that.

I found myself two weeks ago not getting anything completed, not remembering what I had started, not remembering what came next. I was busy-busy-busy all the time, but I was frenzied. I had stacks of things to read, reports to write, laundry to fold, letters to answer. No stack ever reduced in size. And other stacks were born. And multiplied.

I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I was sober. I was grateful. I read my morning pages. I wrote in my journal. I attended one or two Zoom meetings a day. I chatted with my partner and FaceTimed with my children and grandchildren. I said my prayers and offered to help.

But I was running around in circles and I knew it. I was chasing my tail.

And then a friend said, “That’s anxiety, Chris. You’re anxious.”

I gasped. I caught my breath and I stopped. It all made sense. I was anxious.

I thought I was just disorganized.

I had been refusing to admit that this pandemic, this COVID, this social distancing, this uncertainty—on top of dealing with my beloved’s serious illness—had really really been stressing me out.

I had thought that I was protected by my (many) years of sobriety in Alcoholics Anonymous--my working the steps with sponsees, my calling my own sponsor, my Twelve Step life, the Promises--and my Episcopalianism--attending virtual services at the National Cathedral and in my own parish and diocese, my prayers and supplications and creeds and spiritual communions.

But I am human. And I can be sober and stressed. I can be a faithful communicant and anxious. I can have faith and fear at the same time.

So what does that mean? Our rector said in a sermon recently that the opposite of faith is not doubt—the opposite is certainty. Faith means believing in something you can’t quite define, you can’t quite label, you can’t quite grasp. Faith is a deep knowing, an ineffable relationship. And like all knowing, it comes with unknowing. With all relationships, there are times of miscommunication and misunderstanding. Nothing—no amount of faith, churchiness, sobriety or 12-stepping—can stop me from being human. From forgetting that I am connected and held and cherished.

I would be out of touch with reality if I didn’t admit that uncertainty and global change is scary. I was out of touch with reality when I was convinced that my frenetic busy-ness was just an attempt to get myself organized and not a desperate shield to keep my worries buried.

Fear: Face Everything and Recover.

By labeling what I was feeling—anxiety—I could then look it in the eye and say, “Oh, you! I know you. We have been together before. You better come out in the open and get some light on you so I can see you clearly. Here, let’s invite our friend Faith in and the three of us can chat.”

Christine H.