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Slices
of the Psalms
To whatever
degree you are depressed ... or know someone who is depressed
... you have plenty of company in the Bible. Read the Psalms
if you doubt this. Start with Psalm 69:1-3.
Save
me, O God,
For the waters have come up to my neck.
I sink in deep mire,
Where there is no foothold;
I have come into deep waters,
And the flood sweeps over me.
I am weary with my crying;
My throat is parched.
My eyes grow dim with waiting for my God.
Or consider
the helplessness of Psalm 74:9-11:
We
do not see any signs;
There is no longer any prophet,
And there is no one among us who knows how long.
How long, O God, is the foe to scoff?
Is the enemy to revile your name forever?
Why do you hold back your hand?
Why do you keep your hand in your bosom?
Or listen
to the low self-esteem that drips from Psalm 22:6-7:
Or consider
the description of Barzillai, the Gileadite:
The
Sermon
Just the
other day, I happened upon a letter written by a colleague.
He didn't write it to me. He wrote it to his congregation.
At issue was the launching of an endowment fund. Which, given
tonight's auction, seemed timely. So I read it. Along about
the fourth paragraph he wrote:
Which
was a good letter. As to how much money it generated, who
can say? If I have any quarrel, however, it is with the overly
optimistic note of his promises ... especially the one which
reads: "No one who rejoices in God will ever be depressed."
For the fact is, lots of people are ... depressed, I mean.
And many of them rejoice deeply in God.
We have
talked of this before, you and I. You know, from hearing me
say it, that depression, as a malady, is as old as the Bible
and as new as this morning's message. Last year, nearly 18
million people were treated for some form of it, and many
of them worship in this sanctuary on a regular basis. But
they still feel isolated and alone ... even in church.
Which
is not to say that worship shouldn't be praise-filled and
joyful. Very few people would continue to attend a church
that left them feeling worse than when they entered. But it
is also true that people sometimes feel they must check all
negative emotions at the door in order to participate in the
singing of hymns, the saying of prayers and the hearing of
sermons. One of the contemporary hymns we love to sing features
the following lyric:
Why
so downcast, O my soul?
Put your hope in God, put your hope in God.
Bless the Lord, he's the lifter of my countenance.
Bless the Lord, he's the lifter of my head.
Which
is sage biblical advice, drawn from the 42nd Psalm.
But you can see how it could affect someone who entered the
sanctuary "in the pits," as they say.
A year
ago I wrote: "All of us get the blues from time to time.
Like when it rains ... or when the sun don't shine ... or
when our baby leaves us ... or when anything else leaves us
(like job or child, health or hope). `Sometimes I'm up, sometimes
I'm down' sings the hitchhiker on the Jesus chariot. And he's
right, of course. We all get `down' sometimes ... even we
who love the Lord. Sooner or later, all God's chill'un gonna
crash. But when we hit bottom and don't bounce, that's not
the blues. That's something deeper ... darker ... and decidedly
different."
What it
is, is depression. Which is no respecter of persons ... or
professions of faith, for that matter. Christians are not
exempt. Methodists are not exempt. Hard-working, Bible-carrying,
spirit-loving church members are not exempt. Preachers and
teachers are not exempt. I have friends in the ministry who
struggle mightily with this malady. A few of them, openly.
Most of them, secretly. Every time I call one colleague and
ask, "How is it going?", she responds: "We're
having fun." But the fact of the matter is, she isn't.
At least not so as I can see. Which we could talk about. But
we never do.
All of
which brings me to Susan Gregg-Schroeder. As you have noted
in Steeple Notes, she is among us for the next few days. I
look forward to lunching with her later this morning, hearing
her on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, and introducing her
to several of my clergy friends on Wednesday morning. In short,
she has come to tell her story ... much of which is personal
... some of which is painful. But her telling of it is profoundly
pastoral. Meaning that she will give us reasons for hope and
courage.
Susan
has been in the ministry for nearly 15 years after having
taught kindergarten for another 15 years. She serves on the
staff of First United Methodist Church, San Diego (where her
specialty is pastoral care and counseling). She is a published
author, including her book on grace in the midst of depression
entitled In the Shadow of God's Wings. Let me quote
just enough to whet your appetite, without stepping on the
hem of her presentation. She writes:
The
symptoms were there, but I didn't recognize what was happening
to me. Sadness and despair overwhelmed me. I felt disoriented
and disconnected from my feelings and myself. I did not
want to eat. I couldn't sleep. Nothing I did brought any
pleasure. I was simply going through the motions. All
I wanted to do was isolate myself from everyone. Any task
I attempted took great effort. I felt utterly hopeless
about the future. Soon I got to the point of believing
that life was not worth living and I developed an elaborate
suicide plan. Yet, at the same time, I couldn't concentrate
or think clearly. I felt as if I were falling into a bottomless
black hole and saw no way out. I avoided the people who
could help me most.
There
is much that led to that point. And much, much more that followed
it. Susan ended up hospitalized, although she secured a weekend
pass to participate in Sunday services at her church. That's
because the congregation did not know of her hospitalization.
When her veil of secrecy was finally shredded, more than one
parishioner said sympathetically: "We never knew. You
seemed so normal." Little did they know that the effort
it took to project an appearance of normalcy was so overwhelming
that she usually spent Sunday afternoons in bed.
It would
be nice to say that one hospitalization was all it took. Just
as it would be nice to say that one prescription was all it
took ... one visit to a therapist was all it took ... one
meeting with a support group was all it took ... or one evening
spent fervently in prayer was all it took. But it wasn't.
Susan
continues:
I
wish I could say that my depression magically left, but
I can't. It has been a continuing struggle with bouts
of depression as I have worked in therapy through difficult
childhood issues. I was not one of those who found the
right medication on the first try, and thyroid problems
further complicated my chemical imbalance. I was admitted
to the hospital twice more over the next two years.
Over
time I have come to understand that my depression is a
chronic condition. I have accepted the fact that I will
probably be taking medication for a long time ... if not
the rest of my life. But I have also learned the warning
signs of a downward spiral and have gained some coping
skills.
As to
the rest of the story, it is Susan's to tell, not mine. But
it isn't the first time I have heard it. That's because many
of you have lived it and have been willing to share it. Like
most amateurs in this field, I know that depression has many
origins. Some of them are situational. Others of them are
chemical. Situational depression is called "reactive"
... meaning that it comes in response to an identifiable event.
We sometimes equate this with feeling "down" ...
"blue" ... or "moody." When we connect
the feeling to the event that precipitated it, most people
understand.
Chemical
depression, however, is called "endogenous." It
often runs in families, makes its initial appearance in adolescence,
and is experienced at particular seasons rather than in response
to particular events. Sometimes it comes as the secondary
effect of another disease such as diabetes, chronic fatigue
syndrome, alcoholism or a hypothyroid condition. And then
there is biochemical depression that is linked with Mania
... often called Bi-polar Disease. Experts can help you understand
all of the above. Unfortunately, I am not one of them. So
I will stick to my territory, confident that they are well
versed in theirs. And the same can be said for treatment plans,
of which there are more and more all the time. Some begin
with therapy. Others begin with pharmacology. There is no
reason for anyone to feel hopeless in the face of a diagnosis.
No reason at all.
But there
are some things I can say that might not be said elsewhere
... things unique to my profession. Let's start with God.
More to the point, let's start where God starts ... which
is in the very worst places ... at the very worst times. God
never says: "Fight your way through the forest by yourself
and I'll meet you when you reach the glade." God is there
when the skies are dark, the trees are thick, and all the
animals (real and imagined) have voracious appetites. Which
is another way of saying that, even without a map, God can
find his way down deep valleys and dark alleys, not to mention
dead end streets. But then you know that, given your life-long
love of the 23rd Psalm.
But how
do I make that real to you? Fortunately, I've got Susan to
help me. In her book, she talks about one of her hospital
stays. Her spiritual director paid her a visit, bringing Holy
Communion with him. All of us know that the sacrament can
be celebrated anywhere. But on this particular occasion, there
was nothing in the bare-bones room to suggest a proper liturgical
setting ... no cross ... no candles ... no altar ... not even
a table. Looking around, they found a trash can. After emptying
its contents, they turned it upside down ... transforming
it into an altar.
What a
double-edged action. Would that we all could pitch the trash
before lifting the cup. But pitch it, she did. And lift it,
she did. There, with an upside-down wastebasket as an altar,
Susan experienced God's presence in one of the darkest and
most difficult hours of her life.
Once we
concede that God can meet us anywhere, we open ourselves to
the possibilities that God can heal us anywhere. But it helps
if we cut God some slack relative to what healing looks like.
On the cover of Steeple Notes, I alluded to the fact that
we Christians love dramatic victories. Cancer, gone. Crutches,
gone. Addiction and affliction, gone. Doubt and despair, gone.
Beaten back forever ... left in the dust ... never to return
again. Which is how it sometimes happens. Don't ask me why
it doesn't happen that way more often. Because I don't know.
I simply don't know.
What I
do know is that many of us fight against forces that are not
easily defeated. We beat them back. But we never quite leave
them behind. The more I thought about this, the more my thoughts
turned to the Apostle Paul and his much-debated "thorn
in the flesh" that he shared with the people of Corinth.
Three times he prayed urgently that it might depart from him.
But it never did. Whereupon he stopped praying for a once-and-for-all
victory and began trying to discern whatever blessings there
might be in the midst of his problem.
I spent
the last couple of days researching Paul's "thorn"
... wondering what it could have been that made him so miserable.
Everybody has a theory. Nobody has an answer. The ideas can
be grouped in three columns. The first column associates Paul's
"thorn" with the ongoing persecution he experienced
in his travels. Lots of it, physical. Some of it, legal. Much
of it, spiritual. Paul created tons of opposition and was
forced to pay for it. He was beaten, stoned, flogged and imprisoned.
And that was only the tip of the iceberg. Worse yet were the
number of people who heard the best that Paul could preach,
but turned a deaf ear and a hard heart. In short, he didn't
get through.
The second
column identifies physical difficulties. I've read well-reasoned
arguments that Paul suffered from epilepsy, migraine headaches,
irritable bowel syndrome, or a speech impediment. As a preacher,
I can't imagine having a speech impediment. Maybe Paul stuttered.
And at the bottom of this column is the suggestion that Paul
was less than pleasing to look at ... meaning that he was
ugly. Perhaps there was some disfigurement which hindered
him in his work.
The third
column veers in the direction of a moral or spiritual problem.
A favorite view in the Middle Ages was that Paul suffered
the torment of sexual temptations. Luther, himself, believed
this. And none other than Bishop John Shelby Spong of the
Episcopal Church (who is both radical and inflammatory, but
far from stupid) has suggested that Paul's sexual temptation
had more to do with men than women. Whatever be the strength
of these arguments, it is clear that some unresolved aspect
of his nature led Paul to feel both incredibly unworthy and
unredeemably guilty.
Ironically,
there have even been suggestions that Paul suffered from states
of depression. Given the Pauline mood swings between mania
and melancholy, it is not totally beyond the pale to ponder
Paul as bi-polar.
But all
such considerations aside, Paul believed that God's strength
was sufficient for his weakness ... that God's grace was sufficient
for his guilt ... and that God's presence was the one thing
necessary to ensure his contentment. Which, when you hear
Susan's story, will resonate with some of the things she will
say. Her depression has not been defeated. But neither has
she been defeated. Lessons have been learned. Blessings have
been found.
- A
friend she wouldn't have met otherwise.
- A
truth she wouldn't have learned otherwise.
- A
creativity she wouldn't have uncovered otherwise.
- A
sensitivity she wouldn't have developed otherwise.
I am sure
she will tell you that this is not the ministry she felt called
to ... dreamed of ... trained for ... or entered. But this
is the ministry into which she has grown, and who can count
the number of lives it has touched or changed? She writes:
Most
people view depression as something to "get over"
... something to conquer as quickly as possible. As insurance
companies try to become more cost effective, they cover
less and less mental health care. The emphasis is on short-term
therapy as a way of moving people through the system as
quickly as possible.
Yet
depression is not something to overcome, conquer or defeat.
Making depression our adversary sets up a confrontation
where there is a clear winner and loser. In my experience,
whenever I adopt a "battle mentality," I feel
more disconnected from myself ... and, consequently, become
more depressed.
Which
is not to prohibit asking God for help in defeating this.
After all, Paul gave it a trio of tries. But then he changed
the question, asking what he and God could accomplish through
this ... whatever "this" was.
Today
is Choir Recognition Sunday. And we are incredibly blessed
with the quality of the music we experience on a weekly basis.
I can never remember whether music is supposed to soothe the
savage beast or the troubled breast. I suspect it does both.
There is no record of anybody singing to Paul. But there is
a clear record of David playing for Saul. And whatever the
demons were that possessed Saul by day, they seemed to slip
back into the woodwork when David played for him by night.
I pondered
having us sing the hymn I quoted earlier in the sermon. But
I feared it might trivialize the very thing I wanted to say
... namely, that the "downcast soul" properly belongs
in the sanctuary and can be offered to God just as it is ...
apart from the assumption that God will immediately lift or
change it. I like the hymn. But we'll save it for another
time.
Instead,
we will close this morning's service with one of my all-time
favorite hymns, "Spirit of God, Descend Upon My Heart."
I find the language of the second verse absolutely incredible.
I
ask no dreams, no prophet ecstasies,
No sudden rending of the veil of clay,
No angel visitant; no opening skies,
Just take the dimness of my soul away.
Emotionally,
I am one of the even keel ones. I seldom get terribly high.
But, then, I don't fall terribly low, either. As to whatever
chemistry there is in my brain, it seems to work ... praise
God. But I had both a father and a sister who died from "dimness
of soul" at age 57 and 45, respectively. To be sure,
that's not what the coroner reported. And there were a host
of contributing factors, much too long to go into here. But
over the last five years each of them lived, I watched their
lights dim until there was barely 15 watts' worth of illumination
in their respective souls. Then there were none. And the fact
that I regularly preached the one who John says is the "world's
true light," couldn't make up for the darkness that was
consuming their lives.
The hymn
writer, George Croly, was not looking for dramatic interventions,
descending angels or darkness-shattering explosions of glory.
Instead, he was simply offering his "dimness of soul"
in prayer, asking that (in the midst of it) God might do with
it whatever could be done. I don't have the faintest idea
whether God "took it away." But God unlocked the
creativity that gave us a wonderful hymn. Sing it with me.
*
* * * *
Note:
As acknowledged in the sermon, I am indebted to Susan Gregg-Schroeder's
book, In the Shadow of God's Wings: Grace in the Midst
of Depression. As concerns my understanding Paul's "thorn
in the flesh," I consulted a number of textual commentaries.
But the most exhaustive treatment of the subject was offered
by Victor Paul Furnish in his Anchor Bible volume, II Corinthians:
A New Translation With Introduction and Commentary.
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