I’ve experienced some pretty intense humiliation in my life. I don’t know where my experiences fall on the spectrum of human shame, but I can say that some memories still provoke a strong physical response.
I’ve been publicly bullied and, at times, forced to defend myself against multiple aggressors. In high school, I contracted mono and had to stay home from school for a while. I made no arrangements to complete my school work from home. I failed every class that semester. I’ve walked away from college no less than 3 times without finishing my B.A. Struggling in school carries a big stigma, and it doesn't matter whether it's for academic or emotional reasons. I’ve been fired from jobs, both justly and unjustly. I’ve been falsely accused, lied about more times than I can recall. I’ve gotten really excited about a new idea, spoken about it too soon, and then not followed through. I've tried a lot of things and failed.
Let's not forget my love life. During those 40 years in the desert before I met Mignon, I was rejected by women countless times. Of the women whom I actually dated, most of them made a cuckold or fool of me at some point. I’ve confided in the wrong person and had all of my personal business broadcasted. I’ve been edged out of cliques. I’ve had to come to the slow, painful realization that some of those whom I had counted as dear friends, were actually my “frenemies” all along.
Once, in my 20s, my personal journal fell into the wrong hands after I set it down at a Bible study. Several people passed it around, read my deeply personal words and all had a big laugh. I think it took about a week for me to get the journal back. You should have seen the look on the guy's face who returned it to me. People never treated me the same afterward. There are many takeaways from that particular experience. For one, never write anything down that you don't want others to read. -wink-
Of all the indignities I've suffered, one type stands tall above the rest: being out of the loop. It's a lot worse than farting in a crowded elevator, I'll tell you that much. There's just something uniquely painful about being the last to know, especially when it's information that would affect the outcome of big decisions in your life.
Corey, right, in the Late Night Band at Healing Place Church c. 2003.
I was a part of Healing Place Church for about 17 years, from high school until my early 30s. I served mostly in a musical capacity, both as a volunteer and a freelance professional. It was a classic love/hate relationship. I loved the dream of one day thriving in that ministry, but I hated the day-to-day reality of being treated like a pariah. I withered on the vine at Healing Place while I watched my peers flourish.
I ended up leaving the ministry for good after news broke of a pretty big scandal involving the lead pastor and a young female staffer. However, it wasn't as simple as all that. I’d have to write a book in order to tell the whole story of my troubles at HPC. Some issues were petty, while others were quite serious. I’d like to tell you one particular story that I feel illustrates my point about being out of the loop.
In early 2010, everyone at HPC was clamoring for our new Arena to open. Along the way there had been endless talk of how much more functional and comfortable we all would be in our beautiful, spacious modern facility. Of particular interest to the band were things like stage design to allow for live guitar amps, a soundproof rehearsal space and a band lounge. We’d been plagued by theft and vandalism backstage for years and really needed a place for our things. The lounge would be private with lockers, and of course, food. The choir would have a space as well, though they were only around for a fraction of the time.
Our existing facility had one private room with food and a locking door. Unofficially, though, the room was sort of invite-only. You only knew that you would be granted access if a guard with an ear piece stepped out of the way as you approached the door. Other times the door was simply locked. Let’s just say, I didn’t log many hours in that room, though several of my band mates seemed to come and go as they pleased.
Once the Arena opened, facilitating church services became a much more glamorous affair - more so for some than others. The band didn’t get any of the concessions we’d planned for. Despite feeling like one of the ginger stepchildren, I was still pleased to find myself scheduled on the main stage just about any time the doors were open. On a typical Sunday, first call was at 7:15am, then line check, sound check and rehearsal, followed by 45 minutes or so of downtime leading up to first service. There would be a similar break between first and second services. During these times, people were free to occupy themselves as they saw fit.
For me, it was an opportunity to catch my breath and get some much needed nourishment. I was a professional musician, performing multiple dates per week in addition to freelancing for HPC. I was on the road every Saturday of the year. When load-out was complete around 3am Sunday, I would drive straight home through the night in order to complete my load-in at the Arena in time for first call. Sunday shifts at the Arena were 6-7 hours long. About half way through each shift, I would hit the 24-hour mark with no sleep, and would still have a few hours to go before I could leave. There was no opportunity for a meal until our first downtime, and by then I would typically be both delirious and famished.
When the Arena first opened, a top leader in the music ministry gave me express permission to use a discount code when dining at the Arena Café. I simply had to mention the code at the register and the cashier would discount my ticket. This was a nice gesture, but eating at the Café every week was still a bit expensive.
Eventually, word got around and suddenly every random person was trying to use our code. Before long the code privileges were revoked. Someone forgot to pull me aside and warn me, so I had a nice little plate of humiliation waiting for me at the register that week. The price increase made eating there that much more impractical. After some time, the code privileges were reinstated for a select few, and I was excluded.
So, there I was losing more ground. No practical options for a hot meal, no safe place to leave my belongings, no place to sit in peace, no place for the band to work out issues that came up during rehearsal, nothing. And so it was for our first year in the Arena. It was hard not to get bitter after a while, because I was dragging myself in there week after week, doing whatever it took to give my absolute best - to leave everything on the stage. I took it all very seriously, but no one seemed to take me seriously.
Early in our second year at the Arena, we hosted a conference. This meant that some musicians were required to be in the Arena practically all day. One morning we had some downtime, and one of my friends asked me if I was hungry. He was one of those guys who always seemed to be in the favor of the king. He suggested that we “go upstairs” and scrounge up some snacks. Seeing the look on my face, he said, “You’ve never been up there? C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.”
My friend led me to a stairwell that I’d never used before. As we started climbing, it occurred to me that there was also an elevator nearby. Ever since the Arena had opened, I’d always noticed a little clique of people disappearing into that elevator after sound check. They would eventually return, and since no one ever talked about where they were going or what they were doing, I never thought to ask. There is a restroom backstage, but it’s not very discreet. Honestly, I thought maybe there was simply a second restroom upstairs. I was so naïve.
The first thing you come to at the top of the stairs is a set of private restrooms. No big deal, right? As I entered the men’s “restroom” I was gobsmacked. Inside was a new treadmill, elliptical machine, wall-mounted flat screen, real wood NFL styled built-in lockers, restroom stalls, private showers and spacious vanities.
Around the corner from the locker rooms was a longish corridor, decorated like a hall of fame with murals and photographs. There were two to three storage and mechanical rooms on the left. At the end of the corridor on the right were a set of double frosted glass doors, a few other doors, then the corridor continued to one final room.
My friend only let me into certain areas. As I walked through the double doors and entered the room, the first thing that struck me was the sheer size of it. It had to be 800-1,000 square feet or more. It was full of ultra modern furniture, a huge high definition display, special edition XBOX and Wii consoles and a full kitchen stocked with food.
The one-wall kitchen featured granite countertops, a stunning glass mosaic backsplash, upper and base cabinets, all stainless steel appliances and a fancy coffee machine. All of the finishes in the room were upgrades. Directly adjacent to this room was something they called a Family Room. To this day I’ve only ever seen people slink in and out of the door, being careful not to reveal what’s inside. Make no mistake - these were our missing band and choir rooms.
The last thing that my friend let me see was the pastors' suite at the end of the corridor. All I remember about that room was that it put the first room I’d seen to shame. This room also featured a full kitchen, but in place of minimalist décor, it was trimmed out to the max. It looked like Z Gallerie had thrown up all over it. We didn’t linger. He said that one staffer’s only job was to be the Rizzos’ personal chef and prepare fresh meals for them in that very kitchen. We grabbed a few crumbs from the table and got back downstairs.
After I had some time to get over my initial shock, a new feeling began to wash over me. It started in my skull and trickled down into my chest cavity where it slowly sank deep down into my bowels. While I had been downstairs every week for the past year, wandering around like a displaced zombie, dealing with all this petty nonsense, the leaders of my team had been selectively inviting people up to an exclusive party in the penthouse. There they were, enjoying the ultimate in privacy, comfort and style while I was downstairs standing in line for the privilege of squabbling over a 15% discount on some overpriced donuts.
I just could not begin to process how far out of the loop I was. They had kept this wing of the building under wraps for so long. All this time, I thought that they just didn’t have it in the budget to allow the band to have somewhere to go, when they had obviously just repurposed our lounge into some sort of giant luxury green room for visiting VIPs. If you think it couldn’t get worse from there, you would be wrong.
It was right under my nose...
At some point in the future, a headset girl gathered everyone together and announced that Pastor Dino had "invited the choir" to enjoy the lounge when they were on schedule, which was twice a month. The band was there 2-3 times per week, but I guess we weren’t on Dino's radar. As an afterthought, he decided to let the band tag along. However, musicians were not allowed in the room at any other time. The doors to the lounge would remain locked, despite already being located in a restricted area.
Keep in mind that the entrance to the lounge was not that far away from the entrance to the Rizzo’s private suite. Also, keep in mind that according to my inside source, the Rizzos kept someone on the payroll for the sole purpose of preparing hot and fresh meals for them. Well, there’s nothing discreet about frying up a big platter full of delicious bacon. The aroma would permeate the entire area like a dense fog and linger for hours every Sunday.
Now picture yourself climbing up those stairs, totally running on empty, knowing that you’re only being allowed into this area by default. When you get to the top of the stairs, every time like clockwork, you are knocked down by the strong aroma of bacon hanging heavy in the air. You can smell it, almost taste it, but you can't see it. It's being kept in a special room for special people.
As you file into a crowded lounge to grab your hand fruit, you glance down the hallway. There you see a security guard wearing an ear piece (and, most likely, a concealed weapon) guarding the door of the special room just to keep riffraff like you away. You think to yourself, “Man, the President must be in town.” Then you remember, “Oh, no, that’s just my pastor.”
In the end, I say shame on me. I should have known that I wasn't going to thrive in that type of environment. The writing was on the wall long before the Rizzo scandal broke. I had been through enough heartache by then, and I'm not talking about the petty, low level favoritism described above. I'm talking about some real $#%. Next time I'd really like to share an incredible epiphany that I had after the Rizzos resigned - something that put my entire 17-year experience into new perspective.