When I first saw “Survivor” last spring, a haunting feeling washed over me. It was eerie. The island on which those 16 castaways were foraging for food and shelter looked strangely familiar. The names and faces at the tribal councils were unknown to me, but as I watched them interact with each other, I was convinced I had been there before.
Was it a dream? Or a memory? In the recesses of my mind, I saw myself eagerly arriving in a new and unexplored location with a group of people who were convinced they had what it took to achieve what others thought unthinkable. We were all in this unthinkable thing together.
At first it was euphoric. Almost like a honeymoon. How grateful I was to arrive in this beautiful sanctuary, unlike any place I had ever seen. Against incredible odds I’d survived the process of being selected. The powers-that-be had chosen me.
I was ready to prove I could stand up against the challenges that were sure to come. Discomfort and deprivation and disagreements. Sleepless nights and a subsistence lifestyle. Feeling called and empowered, I welcomed them.
But then reality set in. My life was an open book. Every move I made was being watched, not only by team members with me on the island, but by everybody who had tuned-in to see if I could meet the challenge. It was truly intimidating.
I had seen the castaways on TV eating beetle larvae and rodents, but not me. I was having to eat crow. I wish I could say that it tasted like chicken, but it didn’t. Crow tastes exactly like Humble Pie. It was hard to stomach.
Members of the tribe were starting to complain about not being fed, and there was no convincing them that I was not the one to blame.
As time went on, more and more people left the island who were there when I arrived. Alliances formed among those who stayed, keeping certain people abreast of what was going on and keeping others at bay. The atmosphere was tinged with suspicion. Who could you really trust? We were assimilation deprived.
I was not sure from one day to the next where I stood. Some days they responded to my attempts to lead. Other days I was left in the dust. At times I was convinced of my ability to blaze a trail through unfamiliar territory to get the group to where we needed to go, but they questioned my competency.
Every week it seemed there was another contest for the purpose of leveraging power. Sometimes the rules were arbitrary. Like spinning in circles to see who can walk straight most quickly. Other times the games were flat-out unfair. Like digging up the most dirt on someone else in order to hold it over their heads. Or forcing someone who couldn’t swim to try to teach others how.
Day after day I did my best to survive. I knew there were some who were trying to get rid of me. In self-defense I made my own mental list of who I would vote against if given the chance. I felt increasingly alone even though everybody in the world was watching me day and night. Where was the joy I felt when I first arrived?
Was it all really worth the reward I’d been promised if I could just endure to the end?
And then came the immunity challenge. Apprehension hung in the night air. It became clear someone would be torched before the evening was over. I wondered nervously if it would be me.
We shared our concerns and hopes. We voted our consciences. The moderator seemed to take unusual delight in moving us through the agenda. He was committed to acting on what the majority thought appropriate as opposed to voicing his own opinion or standing up for the right (albeit unpopular) position.
Before I could find out if I had actually survived the tribal council, I was jarred from my sleep by the shrill ring of the phone beside my bed. It took me a minute to gather my senses. Where was I? What was I doing? Who was on the phone?
The voice was direct: “Pastor, one of the deacons saw your daughter at Barnes and Noble buying a copy of the latest Harry Potter book. Since the annual vote is this coming Sunday night to determine if your call will be renewed, you’d best call Brother Probst and explain.”
As I hung up the phone and sat up in bed, I realized that even though I had been asleep, I hadn’t been dreaming.
A pastor for 19 years, Greg Asimakoupoulos is now director of creative communication at Chapel Ministries in Carol Stream, Illinois. Awesomerev@aol.com
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