On Being a Pirate (part 1)

I’ve been meeting with a group of guys for a year now. 

We call ourselves the Greensboro Pirates – our merry band of miscreants grew out of a great book “Samson and the Pirate Monks” by Nate Larkin (for more on Nate’s story, click this link)

That, in and of itself, may not sound remarkable but was is remarkable is the raw honesty with which these guys share their struggles.  We talk about addiction, infidelity, anger…Jesus.  

And while the suggested topic may change from week to week, what doesnt change is the opportunity each man has to bring his crap to the circle and, without being judged or fixed, let the destructive nature within him be exposed to a few brothers.

Below is a note from one of our brothers in Georgia – just one of many meetings of the Samson Society that take place all across America. 

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On Monday nights, I learn how to die.
Sometimes that tiny room in the church feels like an old-time surgery auditorium: the light harsh and unforgiving, the table alone in the center of the room, the overhead windows crowded with faces. I climb up on the hard table.
When I ask after the surgeon, a faceless nurse presses the scalpel into my hand. “I’m afraid it’s you, sir. Good luck.”
I hate Monday nights.
“Welcome to this meeting of the Samson Society,” someone intones.  This weekly ritual has become a lifeline for me and my friends, for that is what we are, friends bound not by strength but by weakness. We have all said, “I never knew what friendship was before this.”
Our Monday meetings began as a few square feet of sanity in a life that felt out of control. Mine is not the “worst” story in the room but trying to categorize our lives in terms of best and worst is an exercise in futility. One of the cardinal truths of this group of men is that we are all broken, we have all wandered, we all hang by a thin thread.
I love Monday nights.

We have learned together that this thread is a cord stronger than anything we imagined for the gospel occupies center stage. Together, we experience life as it should be this side of Golgotha. We confess our sins, let other men know our weaknesses, and hear not advice or admonition, but just “thanks.”
It may sound like the stuff of nightmares. In one sense, it is my nightmare. I lay open my chest and expose my heart—fierce, fragile, faithless—to other men. After the time we’ve spent together, they see through my charades. Still, they are kind, understanding. They smile and nod when it’s my turn to talk.
I need Monday nights.

 My life doesn’t revolve around our meetings but they provide a touchstone, a waypoint for my journey through life. I have forged friendships with traveling companions too and they constantly remind that no matter how dark my path, I am not alone.  For all this, I’m more grateful than I imagined possible. I can’t imagine what my life would be like without the men in that group, and the Monday nights we’ve spent talking and listening to one another.
It’s Sunday as I write this. I dread Monday nights.

I want Monday nights. On Monday nights, I remember how to live.