Written By Pat P.
I was in an Area Service meeting not long ago when a long-time member—someone I’ve known for two decades—decided it was the perfect time to publicly assassinate my character. No warning. No gentle lead-in. Just a sudden, full-volume, room-wide announcement that I was “a bully” for making a Fifth Concept statement.
I’ve been in Cocaine Anonymous since 1994. Thirty-one years sober. I’ve had three fantastic sponsors—real elder statesmen—who drilled into me the importance of putting “principles before personalities.” But let me tell you, it’s a lot harder to keep that principle front and centre when you’re being blindsided in a room of twenty-five people by someone you once shared a cigar with.
This guy—thirty-seven years in CA—decided Robert’s Rules of Order didn’t apply when it came to making sure everyone could hear his personal review of my conduct. He ignored the sanctity of process so he could swing his verbal bat in public. And after dropping the grenade, he left the meeting early. A real mic-drop moment.
Here’s the thing: I knew him when he was an elder statesman. Back then, he served without making it about himself. He had a calm way of reminding us the group’s Higher Power was in charge. But somewhere along the way, the elder statesman became the bleeding deacon. I’ve seen it before, and I know I’ll see it again, because it’s not rare.
In CA, a bleeding deacon is that long-timer who thinks the group can’t survive without them, resents change, and fights the group conscience instead of serving it. The roots are usually the same: stagnation, no new service commitments, no fresh challenges, no growth. They stop being accountable to a sponsor—or they have one who won’t call them out. Their minds close. “I know best” becomes the guiding principle. And any new idea is treated like a threat instead of an opportunity.
This guy’s service résumé lately? Shows up to one meeting a week. Recently took a GSR position for the first time in over a decade—not to carry the message, but to argue about updated bylaws. That’s not service. That’s politics.
We say alcohol is like truth serum, but anger works the same way. Not the whole truth, not God’s honest truth, but their truth—the one they’ve been nursing in silence, sometimes for years. When he blew up at me in that meeting, it wasn’t about my Fifth Concept statement. That was just the trigger. The real stuff—the long-stewed resentments, the unspoken judgments—came rushing out.
I’d love to say I responded with perfect restraint, but that’s not the truth. In that moment, with twenty-five sets of eyes on me, I felt like I’d been sucker-punched. My first reaction wasn’t serenity—it was fire. I raised my voice. I called him out for being out of line and out of order. I felt attacked, and I met attack with attack. Later in the meeting, when I had the floor again, I did what my sponsors taught me. I made amends to the group for letting my emotions get the better of me. I didn’t excuse my part just because “he started it.” I owned it. That’s the work—not that we always stay calm, but that we clean it up when we don’t.
My first three sponsors were the opposite of this. They had the ability to let go of something they’d helped create so it could grow. That’s the elder statesman’s gift—to be able to step back without resentment and trust that the fellowship will be guided by a Higher Power, even if the new direction isn’t the one they’d choose. It’s not easy. It requires humility, trust, and the willingness to be uncomfortable. It requires keeping our own spiritual house in order so our service is about the group, not about our identity.
The sad truth is this isn’t just about one man. He’s an example of something that happens in every fellowship: members with decades of sobriety who stop being challenged. No more deep Step work, no more serious sponsorship. Their world shrinks to one meeting a week, same people, same topics. And when change shows up? Rage. Rage against the dying of the light. It’s a spiritual sickness, plain and simple. Our literature warns that “we are never cured of our addiction.” That doesn’t just mean the drugs—it means the defects that drive it. If we’re not growing spiritually, we’re going backwards. And the longer we’ve been around, the easier it is to coast—until something threatens our comfort zone.
One bleeding deacon in a service body is bad enough. But stack up enough of them, and you’ve got a slow-motion collapse on your hands. They feed off each other’s resistance to change. They’ll kill a motion before it even hits the floor, drive away new servants, and argue over bylaw punctuation while the newcomer meeting across town folds for lack of support. Give them long enough without anyone speaking out or holding them accountable, and the Area will die—one meeting at a time, until there are none left.
This isn’t about shaming anyone. It’s a mirror. Because here’s the truth: I’m capable of becoming the same bleeding deacon if I stop doing the work. If I stop seeking guidance. If I start thinking CA needs me more than I need CA. That’s why we rotate service positions. That’s why we stay active in sponsorship, keep going to different meetings, and keep learning. My sponsors drilled it into me: service without the Traditions and Concepts becomes politics. Recovery without service becomes selfishness. The elder statesman keeps both in balance.
The fall from elder statesman to bleeding deacon doesn’t happen overnight. It’s death by spiritual neglect—and it can happen to any of us. The cure isn’t complicated: keep working the Steps, stay accountable to a sponsor who will call you out, stay willing to be uncomfortable, and let go when it’s time to rotate out. We keep what we have by giving it away—and that includes power, control, and the need to be right.
As for my old cigar buddy? I’ll leave his name out. That’s what “principles before personalities” means. But I’ll tell the story—because CA needs to remember that elder statesmen don’t just appear. They’re built, one day, one meeting, and one humble act of service at a time. And if we stop building, we start bleeding.