After sharing a bedroom for more than a decade, you could imagine my surprise when I received the phone call informing me that my brother did not remember me.
Not that I was a stranger to having my name forgotten. As the third of four brothers, my father often called me either Brad, David, Matthew, or Nancy (though I had no sibling named Nancy) before remembering that he himself had named me to begin with and that my name was actually Mark.
Of course, once he recalled the name, he would often forget why he was calling me in the first place and instead request that I put away his socks.
My brother’s, however, was a very different sort of amnesia. Dav (who has intentionally left the “e” off the end of his name for fifteen years) had been playing fl ag football at college in Oklahoma and was pummeled in the side of the head, a skull ramming his temple. He was down for about three seconds, then quickly leaped like a gazelle to his feet and huddled for the next play. His teammates were perplexed, but chose to assume the best. When the next ball was hiked, Dav ran down the field in the opposite direction, jogging pleasantly, as if needing to jaunt to the grocery. His teammates then hurried him to the emergency room. From that point, his condition continued to deteriorate until the phone rang, informing us in Georgia that he was in a hospital halfway across the country—and that he had lost his memory. Dav had a severe concussion.
Before my brother’s incident, my only association with amnesia had been its effective use as a plot device on television. Sitcoms had been my schooling in many areas. For example, it was in this specific pop-culture medium that I discovered the following life lessons:
• Neighbors eavesdrop on all conversations.
• Life is performed live in front of a studio audience.
• Parents out-of-town equals crazy party.
• All problems resolve in exactly twenty-two minutes.
• A conk to the head causes amnesia.
• A second conk to the head cures amnesia.
All of this memory-loss hyperbole ended up being a crock. I know this because in the second grade, I conked the two class bullies’ heads together in order to see if they would both forget who they were and suddenly become kind, upstanding young men. At least, I think they were bullies.
I don’t remember ever actually being tormented by them as much as I remember them smelling funny and bringing sandwiches to school that did not contain wheat. Neither actually lost their memory nor miraculously changed, but there was a lot of bleeding and wheat-free vomit, and I was punished by being forced to eat lunch with the fifth graders in the cafeteria.
At Clubview Elementary School, this was the equivalent of the third circle of hell. My tormentors (or victims, depending upon whose psych evaluation you lean toward) never bothered me again, and I was grounded for one week without my best friend: the television. Instead I sat adjacent to the screen (where I could not see the picture), staring at my own family as they laughed along with Laverne DeFazio. I never again attempted to willfully inflict a concussion.
Dav’s concussion, however, did not benefit from my awareness of comedy minutiae. For instance, the doctor chose to go against my recommendation to drop a brick on Dav’s skull to jog his memory back, having never seen it work on television himself.
As frightened as I had been by Dav’s malady, I was surprisingly disappointed when his memory came back before we had a chance to fly out to Oklahoma to be with him. Th ere had been an initial shock of his condition, but that was followed by a series of fantasies played out in my mind determining how I might maximize this memory loss for my own temporal gain. The next morning, Dav remembered everything. Evidently, all he needed was a little nap. Not quite a remedial breakthrough, but nonetheless effective. Th e experience had prompted my imagination: What memories could I not bear to live without? Which ones would I love to have removed forever? The scenario was scary and eye-opening—and, for a time, my only definition of the word concussion.
I did not realize at the time that in my own spiritual life there were two concussions. One involving my memory. The other affecting my ability to shatter and shake.
But, before I could uncover these personal issues, I first had to discover that a concussion had a second definition. A concussion could also be a noisy bout of pyrotechnics.
You see, my childhood saturation of pop culture came in handy as I eventually pursued a career in the fine arts and media. This, as should be obvious, includes stage shows that involve very large explosions.
I am not the individual who actually triggers the stage explosions. That would be the pyrotechnician. They do not actually allow me near gun powder. But I do write the words “insert explosion here” many times into each live theater script. In fact, just to keep it interesting, I tend to exaggerate the nature of the explosion in my descriptions each time a new instance is cited:
First occurrence: LARGE EXPLOSION HERE
Second occurrence: MAMMOTH TREMOR TAKES PLACE
Th ird occurrence: FRONT ROW MEMBERS’ EARS AND NOSES BLEED FROM SONIC EUPHORIA
Fourth occurrence: ENTIRE AUDIENCE SLIGHTLY CONVINCED JESUS HAS RETURNED
And on and on ad infinitum. I don’t know where this desire to startle people comes from, but it probably has something to do with the fact that I am what history would call an American Christian. Personally, I prefer to be called a “follower of Christ” as my desire is to pursue Jesus with my heart, actions, and habits. “Follower of Christ” and “American Christian” are supposed to be synonymous terms. Unfortunately, due to the behavior of too many men to count, they are not.
I have passions and goals that I constantly pursue in the firm belief that they are God’s plan for my life: to live a life with actions and words that points others to Jesus; to do so with relevance, creativity, and artistic integrity in my chosen field/calling. Mix a preacher with a comedian, and you get an addiction to shock value. That pretty much sums me up—give or take a dozen flaws and peculiarities that we will address later. But that does not yet explain my infatuation with the two concussions.
A pyrotechnic concussion is not an actual explosion. It is simply a deafening noise that sounds like an explosion. There is no actual visual when the device is triggered—no flame, no firework. And there is no damage. Just gunpowder making a boom with no bullet. This feature always astounded me. What good is a pyro sound effect with no pyro visual? That’s like thunder with no lightning. A good joke with no punch line.
Bluster with no proof.
So, one afternoon, in my ever-present pursuit of unnecessary factoids, I stumbled upon a piece of information that clarified why there would be a need for such a device.
There is a weapon used by our nation’s police force and military that is, in fact, not a weapon. It is a grenade, if you will. One that sounds off a resounding concussion—but the device in question also has a bonus, more perplexing feature: it emanates a stunning bright light that is not actual fire. In other words, our military utilizes a gadget that looks and sounds like devastation without actually causing any. An explosion but not an explosion. A distraction with no destruction. A big noise and a lot of flash that leaves no lasting mark.
It is called the flashbang.
The flashbang grenade is utilized in a situation where the illusion of an explosion is needed without the demolition. Where the show is more important than the reality. Where the first impression is made at the expense of the one that lasts. It looks, sounds, and feels like a grenade, but in essence does nothing that a grenade is supposed to accomplish in the long run. A few moments later, you would never even know the flashbang had been there.
So there is now an understanding of the two definitions of concussion:
1. A smack to the head that causes one to forget what should never be forgotten.
2. Th e sound of an explosion without the reality.
And I realize that my spiritual walk has suffered one concussion in order to cause the other.
You see, I have a passion. Whether or not you believe in Jesus, you more than likely share this same passion. It is the passion to move. To shake things up. To incite change. I see those around me who are hurting, and I want to be a part of their solution. Why? Because my heart breaks for them—or, at least, it did once.
I long to leave a residue. An indentation on this world. A scorched mark of what I believe and live on everyone and everything with which I come into contact. But, often, the light show and the bombast of my intentions move the earth but for a moment with nothing left to linger. Many times my attempts at leaving a crater of God result only in leaving a fading echo of my own voice.
My explosions have often been nothing more than flashbangs. How could this be if my intentions have been so honorable? Why are my concussions nothing more than noise? The answer is both simple and harrowing: because there has been another concussion at work in my mind—and I did not notice it was there.
I have either willingly or unwillingly slowly grown to forget the things that should never be forgotten. I daily allow the world to smack me in the head, knocking little fragments of proof to the ground, never to be noticed or regathered. And the further I get from remembrance, the less my actions have any true effect.
I long to translate real truth, to communicate the big ending, to pass on God’s plan. I long to prompt others to action, to affect, to SHOCK! But, in many ways in as many days, the mark I leave withers away. I splash with smoke and mirrors without leaving a permanent indentation of the truth.
And I glance around at the mess those who believe have made, and I cannot help but wonder if I am not alone. So many explosions abound. So few craters are left behind. Instead, those who believe as I believe tend to bear the horrid marks of forgetfulness:
• Life-altering decisions are realized but not lived.
• Epiphanies become regular rituals only to be eventually abandoned.
• Marriages become stale.
• Prayers become repeated incantations stated from memory without thought.
• The world alters us more than we alter it.
• Old sins habitually rear their ugly head.
Jesus Christ has proven to radically change that which seemed unchangeable for two millennia and beyond. In fact, nothing else has proven more effective than God’s power to produce legitimate change. This faith is one with verified substance. So, why do we struggle in our own lives to see evidence remain? If the problem is not in the electricity itself, then the weakness must be in the conduit through which the power travels. Any way you slice it: that leaves you and me.
Like it or not, we have a severe concussion.
The stark reality is that Jesus holds the power to change this world, but this world is seeing less and less of Him through the people who bear His name. We have developed the worst kind of memory loss. We do not remember what needs to be remembered, and we try to ignore what should never be forgotten. As a result, when we finally do make a noise, it leaves nothing real in its wake. It is obvious to all who hear that the explosion was a fraud.
If, indeed, the world and this nation have become places that we condemn and criticize more than affect, something is drastically wrong with the example we are living.
This is what I discovered when I took a long look in the mirror. This is why my attempts at true change were falling flat. So, I dug deeper into a few key questions:
How do I remember what I should never forget?
How do I stop standing in the way of Jesus?
How do I make my explosion matter?
In Ezekiel 36:21, God says: “Then I was concerned for my holy name, which had been dishonored by my people throughout the world” (NLT).
I must hold immense influence on this planet that the turns and tides of God’s impression upon mankind are held in the balance by my words, deeds, and actions. And here, I struggle with thinking I am of no value. God makes it clear in this concern that He is not referring to evil or unbelievers smearing Him. He is talking about us. That those who say, “I follow Jesus; follow me to Him,” while not being responsible to actually live the truth consistently are in essence leading mankind somewhere else that God did not intend. This concerns Him. And it should very much concern us. We must realize that our everyday decisions matter. We must make an eff ort to remember. We must stop being flashbangs:
• Choosing style over substance
• Communicating truth by false means
• Impersonalizing our faith
• Living by rules we do not take the time to understand
• Looking for the perfect thing to say instead of the right way to live
T e day I discovered these realities were part of my methodology was startling. Because the moment one accepts that this is possible truth, one realizes that all the while he thought he was effective, he was actually just pretending.
To this end, the following two-hundred-or-so pages chronicle the nonlinear dissection of my life up to now to discover what has gone right and what has gone wrong. Where did I take the left turns off the straight-and-narrow? And what can be done to set the path straight again?
As I have dismantled my personal history, I have come to the realization that I have stood in the way of Jesus quite often. In revisiting, I have been reminded. Reminded of six terms that tell the whole story (if the reader will be patient):
1 flashBANG
2 teethMARKS
3 dumbSHOW
4 spitTAKE
5 bloodLETTING
6 slapHAPPY
These six will eventually tell the story of how I remembered what I should never have forgotten.
The story of how I left the flashbang in me behind.
And the story of how I got over myself.
Keep in mind that I am a storyteller, not a philosopher, and that comedy tends to be my language of choice. The escapades are true—or mostly true—and living them has allowed God to open my eyes to the message that lies underneath. The stories are both reflection and hope. The thought that all that pomp and circumstance will somehow lead to very real change.
Somewhere in my life, there has to be an explosion that could truly leave a crater.
NEXT: Continue reading Mark Steele’s “Flashbang: How I Got Over Myself” with (1i): THE STONES