I was sitting in my home group last night when a woman with solid sobriety said something that stopped me. We were talking about the warning on page 85 of the Big Book: “It is easy to let up on the spiritual program of action and rest on our laurels.”

She said, essentially, “It’s not a matter of if. It’s a matter of when.”

I love that. She’s said it before and every time I am reminded of it, a chill comes over me because after all these years, I don’t need another reminder that resting on my laurels is possible. I need to remember that, left to my own devices, it is predictable.

At some point, I am going to begin thinking I’ve got this. At some point, yesterday’s spiritual experience is going to start feeling sufficient for today. At some point, I’m going to be tempted to believe that because I’ve been doing this for a long time, I don’t need to do quite as much today.

That doesn’t mean relapse is inevitable. It means complacency is always possible. And that is precisely why the Big Book gives us the warning.

My Problem Still Centers in My Mind

When I shared in the meeting, I tied that idea of resting on my laurels back to another statement in the Big Book: “The main problem of the alcoholic centers in his mind, rather than in his body.” For me, those two ideas are inseparable.

Resting on my laurels means I have become less diligent and less vigilant about the alcoholic insanity that still resides in my mind. That’s where the danger is.

My mind didn’t suddenly become a completely reliable instrument because I got sober and took the Steps. The Big Book doesn’t tell me that alcoholism used to center in my mind, and page 85 certainly doesn’t tell me that after enough years of sobriety I can stop paying attention.

In fact, I think one of the more dangerous things my alcoholic mind can do is use my recovery itself as evidence that I don’t need to keep doing the things that produced it. It probably won’t begin with something dramatic. It will begin with perfectly reasonable-sounding thoughts:

• I got this.
• I don’t really need to go to that meeting tonight.
• I don’t need to call my sponsor about this (he’s busy and I already know what he’s going to say anyway).
• I don’t need to pray about that.
• I’ve worked these Steps.
• I’ve been doing this a long time.

And that’s what makes resting on my laurels so insidious (something harmful, dangerous, or unpleasant that develops slowly and secretly without being noticed until the damage is done). It doesn’t feel like alcoholic insanity. It feels reasonable, earned, and it may even feel like maturity.

But little by little, I have become less diligent, less vigilant, less dependent upon God, less willing to reach out, and less willing to question my own thinking. And then something happens that should surprise absolutely no one: The alcoholic mind starts running the show again. That’s the progression I have to watch.

I don’t wake up one morning and announce, Today I think I’ll become spiritually complacent, I simply begin doing a little less. Then a little less. And somewhere along the way, without even realizing it, “God, I need You” becomes “I got this.” Think about the insanity of that.

I pray, work the Steps, go to meetings, help other alcoholics, take inventory, make amends, seek God, and live a life of service. My life gets better. Then my alcoholic mind looks at that improved life and says: “See? You’re fine now. You don’t need all that stuff quite as much anymore.” That is one hell of a magic trick. The very evidence that the program is working becomes the argument for why I don’t need to work it quite so diligently anymore.

What Exactly Are My Laurels?

I used to think “resting on my laurels” meant completely abandoning the program. Not necessarily.

• My laurels can be my sobriety date.
• My laurels can be the Steps I worked years ago.
• They can be the service positions I’ve held, the people I sponsor, the meetings I attend, the Big Book knowledge I’ve accumulated, or the spiritual experiences I’ve had.
• They can even be how many times I’ve read page 85.

The danger isn’t necessarily that I stop doing everything. The danger is that I begin believing what I did yesterday is sufficient for what I need today. That is a much subtler form of complacency.

I can still attend meetings while resting on my laurels, still sponsor people, can still talk about God, can still quote the Big Book, can look very active in Alcoholics Anonymous while quietly beginning to live on yesterday’s spiritual condition and without even seeing it, I’m dying on the inside once again. That scares me far more than simply skipping a meeting.

Yesterday’s Recovery Has an Expiration Date

Page 85 doesn’t merely warn us about complacency. It immediately tells us why the warning matters: “We are not cured of alcoholism.” There it is. Not cured. And then comes one of the most important sentences in the entire book: “What we really have is a daily reprieve contingent on the maintenance of our spiritual condition.” Daily.

There is an old AA phrase I’ve heard members say (not in our literature but I love it) that captures this beautifully: “I can’t stay drunk today on yesterday’s alcohol anymore than I can stay sober today on yesterday’s actions.” Think about that. If I wanted to stay drunk today, yesterday’s alcohol wouldn’t do me much good. I’d have to drink again today.

Why would I think recovery works any differently?

• Yesterday’s prayer was yesterday’s prayer.
• Yesterday’s inventory was yesterday’s inventory.
• Yesterday’s surrender was yesterday’s surrender.
• Yesterday’s service was yesterday’s service.
• Yesterday’s conscious contact with God was yesterday’s conscious contact with God.

All of those things helped produce the spiritual condition I experienced yesterday. But the Big Book doesn’t promise me a lifetime reprieve based upon yesterday’s spiritual condition. It promises a daily reprieve contingent upon its maintenance today. Not annual. Not based on years sober. Not contingent upon how many people know my name in AA. Not based upon what service positions I’ve held. Not because I once had an extraordinary spiritual experience.

A daily reprieve.

That means I wake up this morning needing God just as much as I did yesterday. Maybe more, because after enough sober tomorrows, I can begin forgetting how desperately I needed God in the first place.

It’s Not If. It’s When.

That’s what I loved about what I heard last night. I don’t have to pretend I’m somehow beyond complacency. I’m not. In fact, perhaps the longer I stay sober, the more sophisticated my complacency can become. After nearly four decades, I have accumulated plenty of laurels upon which I could rest.

But none of them can keep me sober today. I have spent far too much time working this program, experiencing freedom, building relationships, repairing damage, discovering purpose, and learning how to live to casually hand all of that over to something as insidious as my own untreated thinking.

So maybe the question isn’t: Will I ever rest on my laurels? I already know the answer. At some point, I will start drifting. At some point, I will become comfortable. At some point, my mind will whisper that perhaps I don’t need God quite as much today.

The question is: How quickly will I recognize it?

Resting on my laurels isn’t necessarily the moment everything falls apart. It’s the moment I stop doing the things that keep everything from falling apart. And what will I do when I recognize that happening? For me, the answer is the same one that has been there all along, return to the spiritual program of action, to the Steps, to service, to inventory, to prayer, to helping another alcoholic. Return to God because I can’t stay drunk on yesterday’s alcohol and I can’t stay sober on yesterday’s actions.

The Big Book doesn’t tell me that I achieved a daily reprieve thirty-eight years ago. It tells me I have one today. And tomorrow morning, God willing, I’ll get up and seek it again.

In love & service,