led to some self-congratulations on how well we have been doing. At other times, it has led to divisive discussions that last through several months of group conscience meetings. One month, I brought up an observation about the group’s diversity. It seemed that fewer and fewer women were staying in our group. I appreciate the greatest variety of experience, including the female point of view, on staying sober and living life one day at a time. What I didn’t expect was that the conclusion drawn by the group as to why this was happening and what to do about it would feel like a major slap in my face.
The group concluded that women weren’t staying in our meeting because of the foul language bandied about among the men. This seemed ironic to me, since one of our worst offenders had, in fact, been a woman. Nevertheless, the group decided to add to our meeting’s opening statement a request that people please use polite language (whatever that meant).
I was outraged. To me, this smacked of censorship. I was also afraid that if we sanitized the meeting too much, newcomers might feel out of place and might not want to come back. I was mostly livid because it meant that I was going to have to change my behavior, when what I really wanted to change was all those people who voted for the proposal.
I had a choice to make. Either I could follow their edict or rebel and do things my way. I saw my ignoring the will of the group conscience as a form of counter vote. A minority opinion, if you will. This wasn’t without precedent in our group history. One time we had asked people to stop speaking more than once during a given meeting so that all would have the chance to share.
Evidently, some people didn’t agree and continued to share two, three, even four times in a single meeting, but there was nothing the group could do. We couldn’t make anyone conform (nor did we as a group want to—though I did). But when pondering the rebellion strategy, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I was afraid to disregard the group’s decision. Not because I was afraid of being ostracized, but because I thought about the humility I needed when I first got sober and how much that had served me in creating the wonderful sober life I have today. I wasn’t sure if my defiance would be an honest, concerned part of me seeking to correct a “wrong,” or my alcoholic denial and rationalization system back up in full swing trying to isolate me from the group through resentment and pride.
So I decided to give group will a try. Through gritted teeth, I began to censor my own speech in the discussions. Gone were the “f-bombs” and taking the name of some members’ Higher Power in vain.
I searched for new ways to express myself, my resentments, and my fears. The meeting began to sound a lot less like a bar and more like some sort of civic league. I was afraid we might be becoming too Pollyannish and the newcomer might feel like a fish out of water.
Slowly, I began to notice another change, not in the group, but in me. Eventually, I found it easier to avoid street talk. I guess it wasn’t as important as I once thought. But the biggest change came from being forced to talk about my anger and fears in new ways. Instead of just cursing, I had to explain how I felt and why.
This growing self-awareness led me to more fully understand the nature of my resentments and deep-rooted fears and how they form in my mind. It helped me get to the “stuff” behind the defects. I began to realize that the things I was angry at were really diversions from a deeper pain that often troubled me, and by getting into that, as opposed to covering it all up with violent language, I was able to face my “causes and conditions” (Big Book, page 64) and work through them. All of a sudden, I was once again experiencing that feeling I had as a newcomer of having my heart opened up and the contents lovingly exposed to the light.
I remembered when I was new and listened to other people share the truth of what they had experienced as active alcoholics. It had touched me deeply. It had given a voice to a pain that had been hammered down into my darkest places by my drunkenness. A place inside me opened up and received the grandest welcome home ever.
I remembered my first stumbling words when I tried to tell other human beings how I really felt on the inside. I kept looking at their faces to see if they were comprehending what it was I was saying. I was cracking my shell open to tell them what lay inside (they didn’t always understand, but they always smiled and listened to it all, anyway).
Loneliness has vanished. But this time, it’s not because I have people around me again, but because I have started to let them in, and I am letting them in through the language of the heart and not of the street. But I would have never known this if it weren’t for an expression of love that came through the group conscience.
Dan B.
Rochester, New York
Feed Them and They Will Come
February 2013
In my first year of being a GSR, my home group called a group conscience. The church we met in had recently made our meeting go non-smoking, which at that time cut our attendance by about a third. Then some good old-fashioned disagreements between members caused a split (all healthy of course), and suddenly we were down to six core members. The topic of our group conscience was whether or not we could keep our doors open. My sponsor said that the doors were open when he got here, and that as long as we simply stayed “in the books,” we would survive. We unanimously agreed.
We younger members were big on attendance and growth. One young lady suggested that we change our weekly speaker meeting to an “eat and speak.” Enthusiasm climbed as we talked of how great the idea seemed. Feed them, and they will come! All we needed to do was make sure that each of us brought an oversize dish to make sure we had enough to feed the crowds that would come. Oh, how we would grow.
My sponsor, the voice of wisdom on the previous matter, quietly sat back and listened as we bantered about the proposed opportunity for growth. Finally he spoke: “We’ve done this a couple of times before, and it’s always started out good, but eventually it ends up with just a few of the same people doing all of the work and leads to problems and resentments. If we just stay in the books, I’m sure the growth will come and we’ll be fine.” The vote went four to two in favor of the eating meeting. We set a date, and I figured we could carry the meeting without his help.
The day came, and just as we got started, my sponsor walked in and asked me to help him carry in an ice chest full of sodas, plus a large casserole and a peach cobbler. He showed up early and stayed late at every eating meeting we had. We lasted three or four months before the workload took its toll. He never once said “I told you so.”
When I asked him how come he went ahead and participated when he obviously didn’t agree, he simply said, “God speaks through the group conscience, and he knows better than me what’s best for us all.”
Hopefully, his example will always remind me to respect the group’s conscience—that his will, not necessarily mine, be done.
Harold C.
Nicoma Park, Oklahoma
When They Kept It Simple
February 2006
I belonged to an Eleventh Step group in a small village out in the country during my first year of sobriety. We met on Sunday mornings in the village grange, and the meeting was quite popular. We regularly drew about 60 people who came for our 10-minute meditation, followed by a speaker/discussion meeting.
The village was small and parking was tight, especially during the summer when tourists came to visit the surrounding countryside. Occasionally, the town’s police officer would come in during the meeting to say we had to move such-and-such car away from a driveway, or that we were blocking some important access. The group realized that we had outgrown our space and discussions began on finding a larger space with better parking accommodations. This may sound like a simple proposition, but it became a volatile issue.
Many people loved the grange, and felt threatened by the prospect of moving. The meeting had been there for many years and some of us believed the spirituality of the meeting had infused the cinder block walls with a special feeling.