Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you…
“How do I find naked pictures?”
“Where do I find naked images of women online?”
…For everyone who asks receives; the one who seeks finds…
“What sites have nude pictures of *********?”
“Are there topless images of *******?”
…and to the one who knocks, the door will be opened.” — Matthew 7:7-8
“How do I erase pictures from my computer?”
“How do I delete my search history?”
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I do not think this is what Jesus had in mind as He spoke these words, but this was me, earnestly seeking. I was not seeking answers from God as to how to love my neighbor as myself, but I was seeking information from askjeeves.com as to how find porn en masse, how to find porn in regards to a specific person, and then how to cover my tracks.
Growing up in church, I learned about sin. I learned about how it made God angry, and I learned about the consequences of sin.
Spoiler alert: It is Death, which sucks… especially when you’re 11.
I grew up in a Christian household, and I went to a church which, explicitly or implicitly promoted a Shame/Punishment context in regards to sin. The emphasis lay on how not to sin, rather than the Confession and Grace that is an inevitable part of a person’s Christian walk.
Grace is new every morning because sin is new every morning.
However, this truth was not what I heard growing up. I heard that if I was sinning, there would be punishment, so do not sin. Just stop it.
But I could not stop. I would read the Bible, and I would want to stop, but I could not. I would not look at porn for days, and then I would look again. I would listen for the sounds of people close to the room, for the sounds of footsteps, for the sound of the doorknob turning and opening.
All I knew was that I could not stop.
All I knew was that God did not love me because I was sinning and could not stop.
All I knew was that if anyone found out, my family would disown me and no one would ever love me for the rest of my life.
All I knew was that I was sinful, and therefore ugly, and therefore broken, and it was all my fault.
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I put years into creating my own cycle of addiction, guilt and shame. I worked hard to craft and maintain an image of someone who did not sin. Yes, I believed I loved God, but the voice of guilt attacked my love as counterfeit.
If you love God so much, how come you keep looking at porn, you sick freak?
If anyone knew what you did when the door was closed, they’d hate you.
You’re worthless. No one loves you. There’s nothing to love about you.
I kept my actions to myself because I did not feel like I could tell anyone. Maybe I believed in Grace for other people, but not for me. I refused to believe that forgiveness could extend to me. I had lied to too many people for too long. There had to be some kind of punishment for what I had done.
Rather than believe in any notions of Grace and Forgiveness, I believed the lies of addiction—that I am alone because of what I have done, that I am weak because I cannot stop, and if I tell anyone about it, I am only going to wind up lonelier, more hated than ever and forever relegated to shadows and darkness.
Not until turning 24, and not until my brother called and told me I was going to be an uncle, did I take the step of public confession.
“My name is Dominic, and I’m an addict.”
I started attending a men’s group organized in part through the church I was attending, and in part through XXX Church. They were most famous a while back for the “Jesus Loves Porn Stars” slogan, and the Q&A’s with porn star Ron Jeremy.
And here, in slow, painful turns—I experienced a miracle. Not a miracle in the singular, fixed moment sense of the word, but a multi-faceted, continually echoing and resonating miracle:
The miracle was of seeing myself as more than my addiction. It was of acknowledging that my identity, both as a Christian and as a man, rests outside of the works—good, bad or otherwise—of my heart. Learning to own and be at peace with words like “addict,” “sobriety,” “acting out,” and “healing”. It was of confessing sin—boldly, humbly—to other believers and receiving grace—again and again—again and again.
Thank you for sharing, they would say. Thank you for sharing. Like a hallelujah chorus, like the lost sheep found, like the Prodigal son coming home. Thank you for sharing.
When Christ asks the blind man, “Do you want to be made well?”, the blind man does not get to specify how he heals him. Christ spits on the ground and rubs mud over the man’s eyes, then he can see again.
When Christ asked me, “Do you want to be made well?” He put me in the exact position I thought would result in my banishment. But instead of rejection, I felt welcome. Instead of darkness, I was embraced in light. Instead of loneliness and shame, I experienced communion.
My sobriety is my choice, every day. Every day, I am with Christ, and He asks me, “Do you want to be made well?” When I answer yes, sometimes the working out of the miracle occurs without much discomfort or cost. Other times it hurts like a son of a bitch. Other times it costs a great deal.
But the miracle, in all of its mystery and vibrancy, continues. It continues to surprise me and teach me about myself and others. It places me in concert with other healed and confessing hearts. The miracle enables me to see my heart and hands as fearfully and wonderfully made. As I have pursued health and sobriety, I have come to know the truth that I am forever home in the hand of God, forever abiding.
My name is Dominic, and I am an addict, and I am made well.
This is my story, and this is my song. These are my hands, and this is my heart.
I am made of love, made with love, made for love.
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—Photo Credit: Flickr/Lwp Kommunikáció
This is a very well written piece on a topic that the Church does not talk about at all, even though it infects a majority of believers male and female. Thank you for sharing.