A Question of Depression

Since November of last year I have been taking a mild anti-depressant. Zoloft is its trade name, although mine is a fifteen dollar co-pay generic. 50 mgs. The smallest dosage. I was not "diagnosed" with depression. I did not visit a mental health practitioner. After finishing my Masters thesis I became increasingly lethargic. After writing a thesis full of poetry I found I could write none. I had earned the Masters, in part, in hope of teaching part time at the local community college. I thought this was a certainty. Every community college I knew was hungry for adjunct English teachers. I had put together an impressive resume. I had won awards and scholarships. I had been accepted to the prestigious Bread Loaf Writers' Conference. I delivered a paper at the Western Literature Association meeting. But the community college had no interest and after two years in the academic world I found myself back where I started. If the creation of a thesis can be thought of as gestation and birth, then perhaps I had a form of post-partum blues.

In November last year I attended a conference sponsored by my church's medical and pension department. This conference was designed for pastors in mid career and offered a complete "check up" of our physical, spiritual, vocational, and financial well being. The nurse on faculty suggested, upon hearing my story, that I see my doctor. She thought I might need "a little help" as I sorted through the various tugs and pulls of my vocational life.

So I went to my doctor to inquire whether he would recommend medication and he empathetically carried on for thirty minutes or more about these "tough times to be a man", including some personal revelations from his own life. I left the office with a prescription.

And I have felt better. I began work on some of my goals, such as this blog. I have written a fresh batch of poetry. I came off of the ledge somewhat to become a more patient and listening husband and father. So the medication worked. Right?

Not necessarily. At least not according to some things I have been reading. First came the New York Times' report on a study from the Journal of the American Medical Association that claimed anti-depressants are ineffective treatment for anything less than severe and chronic depression. Then came the March 1 issue of the New Yorker in which Louis Menand reviews recent publications on depression and its treatment. One author, Gary Greenberg, a practicing psychologist, believes that statistics concerning the number of depressed Americans are ridiculous. Not because people are not depressed, but because, in most cases, the depression is not a mental illness. It's "a sane response to a crazy world." Greenberg believes taht a pharmaceutical treatment for depression is a "conspiracy to paste a big smiley face over a world that we have good reason to feel sick about." Greenberg rejects the notion that depression is linked to an imbalance in brain chemistry (an idea my own doctor endorsed) and accuses the medical and pharmaceutical fields of taking advantage of the world's unhappiness to make money. As Menand writes, "They invented a disease so that they could sell the cure."

Writer Barbara Ehrenreich agrees. In her book, "Bright-sided", Ehrenreich argues that a conspiracy of "happiness" has been going on for some time in America, much to the misfortune of America. Ehrenreich analyses the "positive thinking" movement as it appears in business, religion, economics, and psychology. Ehrenreich's fear is that in demonizing any negative thought, and immediately trying to mask it with a feel good antidote, we lose the capacity to address what is fundamentally wrong and fundamentally unjust. Despair, she writes, is not the opposite of positive thinking. Ehrenreich argues for realism, a state in which we "get outside of ourselves and see things as they are, or as uncolored as possible by our own feelings and fantasies, to understand that the world is full of both danger and opportunity--the chance of great happiness as well as the certainty of death."

To further complicate the question, we have Kathleen Norris' book, "Acedia and Me". This memoir seeks to find a place for the ancient monastic term acedia amidst the various mood descriptions of the present culture. Acedia is a spiritual malaise, an indifference to the gifts and opportunities God has given. It can look and feel a great deal like depression. Norris admits the line between the two is hard to draw, but offers this possibility. "For despair, participation in the divine nature through grace is perceived as appealing, but impossible; for acedia, the prospect is possible, but unappealing." We should note that the book is also the story of how Norris' husband, David, suffered from severe depression and ultimately took his own life.

As do so many Americans, young and old, rich and poor, famous and unknown. Clearly the presence of suicide in our culture prevents us from too cavalierly dismissing depression as the invention of drug manufacturers. There is something to be said, however, for the role of grief and despair in our lives. It seems true that negative emotions are often the healthy and necessary response to life's situations. I recall an observation made by Scott Peck in his book "The Road Less Travelled". Life is difficult. And in quoting Carl Jung, "Neurosis is always a substitute for legitimate suffering."

So when do we know we have a problem to be fixed? Or are we experiencing the inevitable dark night of the soul that comes with being keenly and frightenly alive?

There has always been a link between the creative artist and the shadow lands. Be they writers, painters, sculptors, poets--there is an obvious toll to be paid for living so perilously close to truth. Perhaps this comes from the ability to live inside so many different skins so convincingly. Can one remain sane while at the same time bringing to life such a depth of expression of the human condition?

In 2008 Johns Hopkins Press published a collection of essays entitled "Poets on Prozec". Sixteen poets wrote of their experiences with mental health treatment and the creative process. Without exception the poets reported being more creative while under treatment and yet there always was this pull back to a place of instability.

So all of this has been grist for the mill as I ponder what my future will be. My current prescription expires in April. Will I renew? I do not know. How can one know, precisely, what makes them the unique human creature they are? Those who take anti-depressants almost unanimously agree they help. But is this, as some suspect, only because we BELIEVE they will help, thus becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy? I have wondered whether the medication has been effective or, perhaps, it was the act of seeking the medication that was helpful. For to seek the help was a life affirming act, an act of self-love which may well have been the key to shaking off the doldrums and getting on with my life.

And what of the causes of depression? Menand writes that "virtually no scientist subscribes to the theory that depression is caused by a lack of serotonin, but many people feel better when taking drugs that affect serotonin. (My medication is serotonin based). Greenberg believes that depression is existential, the result of the collision between one's sensibility and the world. The result of jousting with mortality.

I am existential in my approach to life. I am burdened by a truth that I cannot, and would not want, to medicate out of my life. This truth is that the world is too complicated to be understood completely. That human beings understand this complicated world in ways which are, often, incompatible, which leads to conflict, war, and destruction. Love of neighbor, although ideal, is hard to achieve. Death claims us all whether we wish to dwell upon this or not. There are questions that have no answers, only arguments and assertions. Truth lives in science and in art. There is a place for faith and a place for reason. There is a place for God and a time to ponder the absence of God. There is choice. There is responsibility. There is happiness and there is sadness. There is a time for all things under heaven.

I think of Job. Would one of his friends have suggested an anti-depressant?

In "Poets on Prozac", poet Denise Duhamel writes of her struggles with anxiety and depression. She had a therapist, Rodney, who helped her a lot. From her description, I would have liked to have seen Rodney too. But it is the end of her essay I want to leave you with. Years after she stopped seeing Rodney, Denise learned that he was dying of cancer. She went to visit him and found him slim and emaciated lying on his couch. Rodney said he was mad at God, for now that he was dying he had met someone to love who loved him back. The phone rang. Rodney picked it up, listened for a moment, then set it back down. "Wrong number," Denise asked.

"A telemarketer. I'm dying--hey we're all dying--why waste even one syllable talking bullshit."

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Attending God's Piano Recital

The following is an edited text of a sermon delivered March 7, 2010 at the First Presbyterian Church, Salina, Kansas, as part of the church's celebration of 150 years in ministry.

Texts: Ruth 1:1-18; Mark 3:31-35

It goes without saying what a privilege it is to be here today, but I will say it anyway. It is always a wonderful thing to return here to the church that nurtured my faith and supported me in my growth from a four year old terror to a young adult. When I decided that I was called to the ministry, this congregation supported with generous financial assistance for which I remain grateful. I hope that that my ministry, first in New York and now in Nebraska, renders that gift a good investment.

I was last here in worship ten years ago this July. That was the occasion of my parents 50^th anniversary and we were on the way to Colorado to celebrate. I bring you my parents greetings on this day. As many of you know my parents health is not good. They are grateful for the prayers and support of this congregation of which my father speaks often very fondly and, I know, cherishes his role as pastor emeritus.

Ten years ago I spoke, with my father, about the role of the church in my formative years. I spoke of how the church was one of the few, if not the only place, in society where young people can mix so freely with adults who were not their parents who expressed care and interest in them. I feel that was an invaluable part of my development and still advocate for the role of the church in nurturing the young.

Ten years ago my daughter, Jamie, was two and spent the morning in the nursery. My son, Aaron, was not yet born. Today Jamie is 12 and Aaron is 8. As such, my views on the subject of “church family” have modified somewhat. So today is an interim report on that subject. Perhaps ten years from now you will have me back and I can reflect on the subject from the standpoint of the empty nest.

I receive and read this church’s newsletter and I recall that somewhat recently you engaged in a congregational study. If I recall correctly one of the identified needs of the congregation was to find ways to broaden and deepen the sense of community within the church. Welcome to the club. Our congregation in Nebraska has articulated a similar need. Our Session is currently at work trying to understand this new, post-post modern world with its resulting social networking, technology, and soccer games on Sunday.

In our church we have quite a few young families. But they don’t know each other very well. We get some on one Sunday and some on another Sunday and still another set on another Sunday. We had one young family join the church who told us that they were going to be good church members and come at least once a month. And they were true to their word. There is another family who, after attending and participating for some time, finally told us they wanted to join the church. We haven’t seen them since.

It is a fast, crazy world amongst the young. Kids are into so many things. When I was growing up here, as best as I can remember, there were school sports teams and little league baseball. Today there are school teams but there are also travelling independent teams in soccer, volleyball, softball, etc. This reality leads to the two most popular phrases in our church among the younger families: “we love the church” and “we won’t be here this weekend.”

An enduring metaphor for the church is that of family. Paul said we are the body of Christ but he was also fond of referring to the sisters and brothers in the faith. In fact, the word that is most often translated “family” in the New Testament is “adelphos”, which means brother or sibling, or fellow believer, or fellow countryman. The word is part of the city Philadelphia which means the city of brotherly love. Or maybe the city of family love? Is the church a place of family love?

As I said, ten years ago Jamie was two and Aaron wasn’t here. At that time I had no idea what was coming. Ten years ago if you asked me about family and the church, and you did, I reflected on my own childhood and my own experience in the church. Now the arrows in my quiver of metaphors has grown somewhat, thanks to the experiences with my own children. And I have an evolving idea of what it could mean to say the church is a “family”.

But first let’s take a moment to look at the images of family presented by our texts this morning. First we have the story of Ruth. Ruth is from Moab, where Naomi and her family fled during a time of famine. Now historically Moab is one of the worst enemies of biblical Israel. So the thought of a Moabite heroine takes some getting used to. But that is happening all the time in the Bible. Women from Moab become king David’s great-grandmother. Samaritans, another enemy of Israel, render aid. Ninevites, yet another set of bad guys, repent instantly when Jonah confronts them with God’s Word. In other words, the Bible is always turning upside down conventional understandings of the good guys and the bad, the in people and the outsiders, those who see and those who do not see.

So Ruth, the Moabite, when given the choice to return to her home where her security is more assured, chooses instead to follow her mother-in-law to Israel where her security is practically non-existent. Does she do this simply out of biological or national loyalty? No, because she is from Moab, not Israel, and she is an in-law not a blood daughter. Her decision to follow Naomi is rooted in a relationship that transcends biological or nationalistic terms. And this commitment, for that is what it is, sees only the love and not the peril. Now Ruth is a fairy tale, it is true, and they do live happily ever after. But at this point in the story, Ruth is saying yes when she has every reason to say no. That is the part we are to pay attention to.

Mark is even more explicit. Jesus has been traveling the countryside teaching, healing, and casting out demons. In short, making a real spectacle of himself. Apparently his family had seen enough, for they come to collect him and save he and they from further embarrassment. But when Jesus is told that his family is outside, he looks instead to those gathered around him and declares “whoever does the will of God is my mother, and brother, and sister.” My adelphoi. So what is the will of God? Mark, as well as Matthew and Luke take from sixteen to twenty six chapters to lay that out. John, in his gospel, is a bit more succinct. John reduces much of the detail to a single word—love. Now, back to my experiences in parenting.

Which are by no means unique. Every parent has been there, grandparents too. Even Aunts and Uncles. We have been there at our children’s’ piano recitals. Or T-Ball games. Or pre-school Christmas programs. Or school plays. Or take your pick from your own experience. Have you noticed, while attending these special moments with your precious young person, that the general public is not there? Why are there only relatives at these events? Because free from the subjectivity of those who value the participant…they are really quite tedious. T-Ball is definitely a game only a parent could love. The stop and start and stop rhythms of the first grade piano recital are not the stuff of great music. The general public does not attend such events because they event itself is not the draw. The quality of the event is not the point. What makes these moments special and enduring and worth watching on video five years later is the relationship between the participant and the spectator—which, I dare say, is rooted one hundred percent in love.

We go to piano recitals and little league games in 80 degree weather and soccer games in freezing weather not because the event itself is dramatically important but because the participant is dramatically important. And what I am coming to understand about the church as family and about building authentic community in the church is that we need to think of church programming and even church worship to some degree not as an event of importance—as if we just got the elements right and the music in the right beat things would really take off—and think more about the people with whom we worship as dramatically important. We must not approach church as consumers, taking and leaving whatever appeals to us, and think more of valuing and honoring the diversity of interests and needs of the people around us.

In North Platte we have a woman who has come to find great spiritual value in walking a labyrinth. She was so moved by this ministry that she was led to ask the church to acquire a canvas labyrinth. She developed a labyrinth group around this and began to promote labyrinth walks. Few came. At a Session meeting where we were talking about community building this woman mentioned that no one comes to the labyrinth walks. Another of the elders responded, “well what is it? I don’t understand it. I don’t go to things I don’t understand.” And that is when the light bulb came on for me. You see, the labyrinth is not for everyone to be sure. But it was valued by this one person. And rather than dismissing it because “I don’t understand it”, why not take a moment to learn about it because she cares about it? Why not take an hour to walk the Labyrinth as a way of saying “I value you, and I will honor what you honor because of our relationship in Christ.” Isn’t that why we go to piano recitals? That is how we might think about our relationship to one another in the Church of Jesus Christ.

I have fond memories of this place. I have fonder memories of the people who made up the community of this place. I remember the church picnics at Sam and Terry Evans’ farm. I remember one Epiphany evening when we gathered around a roaring fire and celebrated the light. I remember little sacks of candy and fruit given out after the Christmas parties. I remember pot lucks in Blair hall and a Pepsi machine which dispensed bottles for fifteen cents. And in and through all of these memories are the people. The people who loved me and taught me how to love. That is what community is about. That is why we go to the piano recital. Not to value the event, but the person. That is why God comes to us in Jesus Christ. Because God values our personhood. Each and every one of us—the children of God.

Coming Soon To Your Kindle: Idiocy

Here in North Platte we have an annual event known as the Town Hall Lecture Series. Four times each year a speaker of some notoriety comes to town for an hour long talk followed by lunch with those who pony up the extra money. Over the years we have had some interesting speakers, such as William Buckley, Art Linkletter, or Dr. Joyce Brothers. We have also had some speakers of less distinguished accomplishment, such as the retired jewel thief or the security guard from a museum.

The other day I overheard one of the members of the selection committee referring to the upcoming season. She mentioned the U.S. Airways flight that landed in the Hudson River. "Wow," I exclaimed, "is Capt. Sullenberger coming?" No, it turns out we cannot afford him. Instead we are getting a guy that was on the plane. He will tell his story of, well, sitting on the plane while someone else landed it in the river and several other people helped get everyone off safely. We will pay him many thousands of dollars for his story of how he happened to buy an airline ticket on a plane that ended up in the Hudson and of how he was there when other people did amazing things.

And immediately I flashbacked to where I did not want to go. Now I do not mean to equate the U.S. Airways gentleman with any of the characters I am about to mention. I am sure he is a fine, upstanding citizen. (well, actually I have no idea whether he is or not. He is certainly an opportunist). But this story reminds me of a sad truth which has recently been played out again in our culture. The way to get noticed, the way to publish a book, the way to get notoriety, is quite often the result of doing some damn fool thing or worse.

I think of Amy Fisher--the Long Island Lolita--whose attempt at murdering her lovers wife led to the publication of her book "My Story".

I think of Monica Lewinsky, whose first book I believe is out of print but her follow-up--and I am not making this up--is still available. It is entitled "Monica Speaks! Genuine Pearls of Wisdom from America's Most Famous White House Intern".

But the worst has to be O.J. Simpson, whose most recent atrocity "If I Did It-Confessions of the Killer" is still available through Amazon. And did you knpw that this book is available as a paperback, hardcover, audio download, audio CD and a Kindle edition?

All of this comes back to me as I watch cable news "journalists" unanimously decry the recent attempt at a health care conversation as "shameless television". The opinion of pretty much everyone seems to be "staged political event" or "Boring". And this from the people who brought us wall to wall coverage of Michael Jackson's funeral.

What has happened to the spiritual, moral, and intellectual life of our nation when any attempt at something as significant as the justice of health care is labeled "boring" and "shameless" while you can download "If I Did It" to your Kindle and be reading it in minutes? What does it mean that we can't even HAVE honest and caring discussions about health, war, economics, justice, etc.
Ok, I know the horse is dead.

But I don't think I will spend forty five dollars to hear someone tell me about how they happened to be on a plane while other people did amazing things. But I will offer you this.

I have survived an earthquake, a tornado, and a blizzard. All in one lifetime. And I will tell you about it for the bargain basement price of five thousand dollars.

Hey, its cheaper than the guy on the plane.

There's No Pleasing Some People

So my daughter says to me, "You're the poet. (although she is the only one with a published poem) I need a limerick for school.

So I offer:

There once was a monkey named Tony

Who like baking bread with baloney.

The rest of the group

Preferred to eat soup.

So Tony ate lunch all aloney.

She looked at it and said, "Thanks anyway, dad."

Sheesh.

A Little Humor

Not feeling all that bloggy today but do have a joke to share.... invented by my 8 year old son.

What do you call a scientist who goes to the store?

A buy-ologist.

Now doesn't that just make your day?

Going Home

This Sunday I am preaching in my home church. I grew up in this church from age 4. My father was the Senior Pastor of this church for 22 years.

According to the gospel of Luke, when Jesus went home to preach he was well received. At first. But when he started to make it clear that his work was not "all about them", the mood changed. In fact, the locals tried to throw Jesus off a cliff. But Jesus escaped. Luke, who is a master of the poetic and multivalenced phrase, says that Jesus "passed through the midst of them" and went on his way.

I doubt the locals will try to throw me off the cliff. I am not that important.

I have very fond memories of growing up in this church. My memories surround the people. I have no idea what I learned, if anything, in Sunday School. But I remember the people who taught me. I recall nothing of my confirmation class experience, but I remember the communion I was a part of on Maundy Thursday, my first. I have no idea what turmoil, deceit, politics, or conflict may have been happening around me. I remember being loved and valued by adults who were not my parents.

And I still believe this is the great gift the church has to offer. Beyond doctrine and morality, beyond right belief and right behavior, there is love. In Greek the word for love is agape. It is the hallmark and the definition of the community Jesus left behind. It is this love that the church is meant to offer, especially to children.

Where else in society do generations have an opportunity to meet and share on such a regular basis? Where else will children encounter adults who take and interest in them, spend time with the, are glad to see them?

School? Not to hear my children tell it. According to my daughter she is not in middle school but in the gulag, Now she has a tendency to exaggerate. But it is true that the school environment is too structured, too chaotic, to allow teachers to show the individual support and encouragement that children benefit from. Or maybe its just our schools where this is the case.

Athletics? Perhaps. But athletics are competitive. The point is to win. If this environment nurtures it tends to nurture only the select few.

The church should be a place where the old embrace the young and the young appreciate the old. It meant a great deal to me in my formative years that I knew there were adult men who looked forward to seeing me, shared an interest in my interests, and supported me for who I was.

This week I am going to talk about what it means to be the family of God. My thoughts on the subject have changed over the years, as first I had children and then my children grew older. But one thing remains unchanged. The church must welcome the young person. There is no greater calling for an adult in church than to spend time affirming and supporting the young. Jesus said, let the little children come unto me and do not stop them. Nothing stops them quicker than a cold shoulder. Nothing discourages them from coming like not being there to greet them.