A Quite Difficult Prayer

Yesterday's sermon was about aspects of the Bible that are offensive. It helps, from time to time, to say that out loud, or to write it for all to see. Parts of holy writ just don't sit well with me. I won't supply a list of examples here, but I'm sure that if you read holy writ--whether the Christian scriptures or something else--you suffer your own discomfort.

Here's the bit that's irritating me today:

"You have heard that it was said, 'You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.' But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes his sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and on the unrighteous."

Jesus of Nazareth said that. And it sounds wonderful and noble and generous, and usually I feel pretty good about these words.

But it occurred to me yesterday that the obvious enemy these days is more atrocious, more persistent, than anything I've heard about before in my life of nearly six decades. ISIS has become the enemy of just about every human on the planet. That's Enemy with a capital E or, perhaps ENEMY. This growing entity is fueled by the worst kind of fundamentalism; it claims to be the most pure form of Islam; its members commit atrocities and call them prayers (the systematic rape of "infidel" girls, for instance).

I am very nearly pacifist, am opposed to military solutions 99 percent of the time. But I have said to my husband recently that it seems the only solution to the ISIS problem is just to kill every last one of them. Yes, I said that. There seems to be no reasoning with such people. This is the type of organization that attracts people who are already imbalanced in some way--many of them are probably pathological to begin with--and there seems to be no rational way to reach them. The whole world is frustrated to the hilt with figuring out how to thwart the evil work of this organization.

Then I read Jesus' words, and I know what I must do, and it really pisses me off. I'm supposed to pray for the people who are involved with ISIS. I'm not obligated to pray for ISIS as an entity. But I must pray for the people within it.

I don't even know where to start with this. Am I a radical enough Christian to pray for the members of ISIS? To ask God to heal their souls and draw them away from their evil? I'd rather pray that God wipe them off the planet. Fortunately, I am not Jesus.

So, who is with me? Shall we actually pray for our enemies? Today? Now?

Why We Stop Talking about Our Depression

 After a point, with depression, you just stop talking about it.

After all, there’s no new information. You don’t want to remind family and coworkers that you are unhappy and you struggle to function. There’s little, if anything, they can do, so why burden them?

So when you return from possibly the most difficult vacation of your life, you say, when asked, that it was wonderful, and you show them the beautiful photos that represent the better 50-60 percent of what actually happened. You don’t tell them that you cried—rather, sobbed—nearly every day, or that the pristine forest around your cabin felt oppressive, or that most afternoons you hid in your room and alternated between sleep and panic.

You don’t want the people who shared the time with you to understand how difficult it was because then they would feel responsible somehow, or they would wonder why you took a vacation in the first place, if things were that bad. You don’t want to belabor the point that you scheduled events so that you would be on this new medication a few weeks prior to the trip, so that it would have time to take effect and thus allow a lighter, better you to step off the plane and into an enjoyable few days with loved ones.

How could you know that the medication would not work, that it would in fact backfire, making you jittery, robbing you of sleep, and turning mild habits into moderate compulsions? You did not plan to be so fidgety that you hoped no one at dinner would notice your legs bouncing rapidly, out of sight under the table. You did not plan to be exhausted by noon and then again by 8 p.m., even after spending most of the afternoon lying in bed and struggling for moments of calm. 

And you could not help that these days included events you could not control, such as the two military guys driving on the mountain illegally in an off-road vehicle and scraping the side of your rental car, even though you had pulled all the way over and come to a complete stop to let them pass—and then they had an attitude about it and made it difficult for you to get information, all the while claiming that it was a no-fault state and, well, they were the military so they had no insurance. Even in more normal circumstances, that would put a damper on the trip. But add to it your current state of mind, and then try to think of anything but that and try not to worry that you will end up stuck with a huge bill even though it was absolutely no fault of yours. Try not to spend the hour or two before you finally sleep obsessing over how you’d like to tell them off or track down their commanding officer (they refused to give you a name or the commander’s contact information) or even post photos of them and the accident on Facebook and Twitter and hope it will go viral and cause them decades of misery.

And the road itself—that narrow, winding mountain road with minimal grading and no guard rails—on this trip it becomes the focus of all your fear. The Road becomes a menacing archetype that might have been living inside your kinspeople for centuries but just now revealed its dark power to you, on this trip. Such a mountain road would likely make you nervous and extra cautious under “normal” circumstances, but people drive it all the time—mothers with carloads of small children drive it, delivery trucks traverse it numerous times a year—and if you were someone other than who you are right now, the Road would not possess you as it did for that entire week. Your imagination was on a loop the whole time, spinning images of every possible disaster, of every way the car could skid or slide or stall or get crashed off the mountain, killing all of you. Your breathing grew rapid hours before all of you made the trip down to the town to give the children an excursion into town. By the time you made the final descent, to a day somewhere else and then the airport to home, you huddled on the back seat, eyes squeezed shut, hands clutching as if you had already fallen over the cliff but found a tree limb to grab, and trying not to whimper with every bump or every sensation of turning. You cannot remember ever being as terrified as on that one twenty-minute drive. To be so overwhelmed by the situation has unhinged your sense of who you are.

In fact, you don’t even know who the real you is. Well, you do know, in that chemically disrupted part of your brain. You know that, really, you are weak and cannot manage your life, that you need to grow up and develop better coping skills. You need to pray more and trust God. However, you have tried to pray, and every sense you have tells you that God has gone away, ultimately and finally and with no regard for you or your suffering. You feel God slipping into absence and yourself slipping off the divine radar. You try various prayers and methods, hoping that something will break through that wretched barrier of desperation and despair. But nothing breaks through, and no relief comes. And you know the truth about yourself: you have failed at life and at faith.

You don’t tell friends or colleagues any of this, because you don’t want them to find out now, after all these years, that your spirituality and your life skills are variations of fraudulence. You would rather they not know the fragility of your belief or the depth of your emotional disability. You can still do your job; this is often true of someone who has reached a certain level of accomplishment and competence. You go to work and do your job well, and people may pick up on a strange vibe, but they see you functioning and leave it alone. You know that you function but at a great price. You do the same work you have done for years, only the energy around it is weakened and your passion for it muted.

Also, you do not reveal to others the horrible secret that your life is over, that you are sailing in a giddy fall to the floor of the world and just waiting to feel the impact of the crash. How would you communicate such a profound truth to people as they sit with you at lunch or share jokes during a meeting? You simply can’t. At least you finally understand that such things are impossible and should not be attempted.

We stop talking about our depression because talking uses up the power it takes to get out of bed and get dressed and walk, step by step and moment by moment, through a frighteningly ordinary day. We stop talking about our depression because we have nothing revolutionary or insightful to say about it. And we know that healthy people have low tolerance for this kind of truth telling. They stay close for a while but then feel the pull of negativity as they would discern an undertow and then hurriedly swim away.

I enjoyed spending time with family. I was able to enjoy good food. I hiked a mountain trail and got an infant to stop crying and smile at me. I read books and played electronic solitaire (another never-ending loop of compulsion). And I slid through an immense, deep gorge by train, focusing my gaze upon rocks and fissures and wildflowers and foamy river water. You see, much of what we call depression is not total. It is merely debilitating.

I publish this blog post knowing it is a risk. Who will find out this unattractive truth about me? Who will pass it on to others? Who, learning of it, will have it in their power to deprive me of respect or job security? Who will judge me as weak or hysterical and dismiss as self-indulgent these words upon words that I have drawn out of myself as though they were sharp threads twined and tangled up in my intestines and blood vessels?

But I draw out the words because, although I might stop talking about my depression because it seems to me completely useless, I will perhaps create, with this post, a place in which other depressed people can pause. Perhaps they will recognize this experience and understand that they are not alone and that the experience—even at its most delusional—is painfully and empirically real. Many of us stop talking about it, but the phrases are always there, however silent or invisible.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Living with Two Black Dogs

I have lived with one black dog most of my life. He’s not noisy or rude, just ever present. He dogs my steps—yes, I intentionally use “dogs” as a verb. If you’ve ever had a dog who has taken possession of you, you understand precisely how your every step is accompanied. You are dogged, every hour of every day.

This non-noisy, ever-present black dog has become such a familiar presence that I feel at home around him/her. I can assign no gender to this black dog, which has no physical manifestation other than my aching bones and labored steps. The invisible black dog—yes, he/she is black although invisible and non-material—manifests through my own body. I sense the breath of this black dog nearly everyplace I go and in most breaths I take and in my trudging steps and in that dizziness of heart and mind that can lap over my day. Black Dog pants right next to my face, as though to take the air that is meant for me. Black Dog constantly paces and frets, as though to use up every cell of my energy.

No matter what other people think of me or how many of them gather round, Black Dog is right next to me, closer than them all. No matter what I accomplish or how many blessings fill up my days, Black Dog stands over the entire collection, ominous and quiet, legs and chest set firmly to establish ownership of my everything.

Black Dog tries to assure me that this is companionship. But I have my doubts.

The other black dog who lives with me has only been in the house a few months. He is quite physical and vocal—with his love and with his complaints. And he follows me everywhere. He is also demanding—walk me, feed me, pet me, feed me, pet me, pet me, pet me, walk me. Now that he is in the house, my husband and I realize that we share ownership of ourselves with this beautiful beast (his name is, after all, Beau).

Yet, Beau the black dog does not dog me. His presence lifts rather than presses upon me. When Beau Black Dog is in the room, my heart feels lighter, and I breathe more easily, and I laugh often. Whereas the ever-with-me Black Dog takes away my words, even my thoughts, Beau Black Dog inspires all sort of words and thoughts. Black Dog takes away my life, and Beau Black Dog infuses it with more liveliness.

I am in love with Beau Black Dog, and I cannot imagine life without him.

However, I struggle to exist with Black Dog without resorting to hatred or despair or violence.

Really, it is a shame that Black Dog is a term applied to depression. In a way, it fits—the ever-presence, the dogging of steps, the dark and silence and lurking. But the actual dogs I have known stayed close without suffocating me. They gave and gave and gave. Black Dog takes and gives nothing in return.

Very soon I will visit a doctor and hope for a humane way to eliminate Black Dog from my life. I feel apprehensive about this. Will I still be myself, with that lifelong presence gone? Will I know how to walk through a day lightly, without that constant pull at my steps? Will I miss the company of the dark and quiet and sense of everything lurking? We’ll see.

Conversation with Jesus on the Cross

I get off the bus at the wrong stop

and walk two blocks of tough neighborhood,
see you tied to a post in a vacant lot,
I can’t help it—come up close
to see if you’re dead.
You are not dead, but only God knows
what they’ve done to you;
blood still seeps, some of it sticky in your hair.
Your eyes are open and see me.
 
“Did you ask to be here," I ask,
"on this spot, or here in general? I mean,
is this precise torture part of the plan?
Was this a mistake?
Is it what you wanted?”
I ask questions because I cannot
figure out how to free or comfort you.
 
You answer, “Why not here, and now?
I entered the fray, this glittering life
that moans and mourns.
Why are you here?
You could have kept walking.”

I say, “All of it feels wrong.
Atonement, propitiation—what do they mean
and how could they be necessary?
This is no formula of sin and hope, but nonsense;
it is—pardon the expression—overkill.”

Your gaze burns though I know you are dying,

slipping while I watch, leaving without anxiety
as though turning loose of a handrail to get a better view.
I throb with rage you seem to have missed;
are you not violently disappointed
that this death has not stopped all others?
Are you not disturbed
that the world’s architecture is destroyed,
its virtues twisted like melted beams
and its straight, tall doors torn agape
at the vulnerable space of death?

“You have undone everything,” I say,

but my tears betray bone-deep relief.
My hollow places ring dark praise.
You smile through blood and broken teeth.
My knees buckle and I kneel, resisting,
on the stained grass.

“It needed undoing,” you say,

then cry with me quietly, so lovely.
I grasp your swollen purple hand and say,
“Thank you.”

—VHWright, 11/11/11, revised 4/7/14

Lost Weekends and Rage in the World

I've gone a long stretch--since before Christmas, really--of missing weekend time off. When I say "time off," I, the classic introvert, mean "time when I don't have to be with people or go to any appointments or events." I enjoy the holidays in spite of their lack of solitude because my family is easy to be with and I can almost completely relax on those visits. Just almost.

The holidays fill all spare time with preparation for the cooking and the eating and the shopping and gifting, and I have learned to do so much but no more. I expect those lost weekends and evenings.

But someone close to us was in the hospital over the holiday, and I will write more about this at another time. But after the New Year, matters worsened. During the last weekend of January, she died, and the first weekend of February we buried her. Of course I would not have been any place else in the world than at the hospital and the church and the cemetery.

Then freelance projects ran late; if you are a freelance writer or freelance anything, perhaps you understand that it is impossible to relax completely when deadlines are looming and especially when they are past due.

Then speaking engagements, it seems they came every other weekend. I enjoy those events and hope to keep helping others do their writing workshops or their prayer retreats. But to fly to another state and be on task and surrounded by people for one or two days, and then have to deal with flights and connecting flights to arrive home Sunday afternoon or evening . . .

Suddenly it is spring, and this past weekend was the first that felt like a weekend in a long time. I allowed myself to sleep a bit longer. The pets and I went outdoors for awhile because the sun was out and the temperature not warm but getting warmer.

Still I face lists of undone tasks and at least half of them should have been accomplished but aren't. The weekend zipped by and left me feeling pitiful and a bit resentful.

Then I remembered that so many people never have weekends. They work two or three jobs or they live in a country or situation that never lets up on its demands. They don't get weekends, and their weekdays are a lot longer than mine. They go months without feeling rested; some of them probably go years without feeling rested and relaxed.

When I consider how cranky I become when I miss a weekend, when I think of how, lacking that rest, I go into the workday without my best energy and go into my problems and trials with depleted resources, when I consider how the absence of rest and true relaxation compromise me on so many levels, it helps me understand a little bit better why there is so much rage in the world.

When people are weary and see no end in sight, they find it easy to despair, to resent those who have what they do not, to drag through their days half-heartedly and anxiously. When people are weary, the whole world changes for them, and not in a good way.

God, please help us give to one another the means to sit down, be quiet, take some deep breaths, feel relief, sleep an hour longer, do less, and hope more.

Faith's Shadow Side

I read a long article in the Atlantic recently, about what ISIS really is about. If you're interested, here's the link: http://www.theatlantic.com/features/archive/2015/02/what-isis-really-wants/384980/

It took awhile to read, and probably I will read it again because, as a Christian, it's important for me to struggle at understanding this. The writer makes a good case for saying that ISIS is in fact rooted in Islam, and its motives are not just political but quite religious. This organization does not represent most practicing Muslims, but its philosophy--and yes, there is a philosophy here--relies on a certain interpretation of certain passages of the Quran.

Does this sound familiar, Christians? Members of ISIS believe that the time has come for the world to return to a state in which the caliph rules, and this rule includes vanquishing the enemies of the Prophet. This rule would take the world back to an earlier time and a system of law as it was in the days of Muhammad.

Again, I ask, does this sound familiar? How often do I hear certain Christians who speak as if what they really want is for the whole world to revert to Old Testament law? In their loyalty to, say, the demands found in the book of Leviticus, they support capital punishment and oppress homosexuals. They try to keep women in their proper place. For some reason, they don't try to go out and buy slaves. And, unlike ISIS followers who are trying to fulfill a very similar kind of system, they don't seem to condone cutting off the hands of thieves. Selective reading, I guess.

It gets even scarier. Christians who are rooting for a "back to the O. T. basics" sort of faith are generally the same people who pledge their support to Israel regardless of how its government behaves. They are waiting for a literal fulfillment of history as found in the book of Revelation. In fact, they long for the Apocalypse because it will bring Jesus back in triumphant glory. It's quite interesting when we try to shape the world--and foreign policy--to fulfill to the letter not only ancient law but also a highly symbolic mystical vision.

ISIS longs for the Apocalypse because it will bring back the rule of the Prophet once for all. In fact, Jesus will help the prophet in this final, horrible cleansing and reaping of the world.

This is a shadow side of religion, and it's dangerous no matter whose religion we're talking about. When believers focus on a few sacred texts and ignore the rest, when they refuse to listen to the counsel of those who disagree with their interpretation, when they decide that God is on their side and only their side, and when they believe that the real answer is to kill off all their opponents--well, what should we expect?

We Christians should read our Bibles thoroughly on a regular basis. We should know what passages we are choosing to follow--and acknowledge the ones we conveniently ignore. We need to wrestle with the difficult words until we understand how they express the heart of our faith. Ignorance and denial will not help us. And digging in our heels will only make things worse.

As a follower of Jesus, I understand that he said some very weird things, and he made some statements I may never understand. But the heart of his message is that we are to love God and our neighbor. Everything else must be measured against that standard. Otherwise, I might swerve off into some shadowy place in which my faith warps into something else and I end up hurting others. When belief is not tempered by love, anything can happen.

Functioning While Fragile

Recently I led a women's retreat that began Friday evening and ended Sunday mid-morning. The theme, chosen by the women of this particular parish: "Reflect, Refresh, and Rejoice." I arrived at the retreat center prepared, on time, and ready to be the person at the center of attention. A retreat leader really does not want to be the center of attention, but you are, at least at key moments when you're trying to read the room, establish the direction of things, and set a tone that will make or break the experience.

But prior to my arrival, early Friday morning when my husband was driving me to the airport, I wept in the pre-dawn darkness. I was prepared to do the work commissioned me, but I was not well. I had not been sleeping. A freelance project was running late, which is a huge failure in my book, never mind that there were reasonable causes. Another project was exploding in my face, thanks to a seeming disconnect between the agreed-upon concept of a book I had written and the new editor's reaction to it, including a tone of e-mail messages that came across as abrupt and simply mean.

A mere three weeks before this, we had buried an eighteen-year-old, a young woman not my daughter but with whom I had been involved in several capacities for more than a decade. I had not had the time or space to grieve--in fact, I still haven't.

And so I arrived to function as a leader of sorts, knowing that I was quite empty and unable to recharge any part of myself. I did not feel that I was overflowing with good gifts for these women. I hoped that the gifts would come from elsewhere and maybe travel through my body and voice.

It's best to come clean in these situations, if you can do so without blurting out all your personal angst. In the initial meeting Friday evening, I gave the group very basic information about my state but added that this was probably to their advantage. When you are hurting and tired, your ego is less likely to drive the agenda. You rely on grace--I mean, really rely on grace--because you know you can't pull magic out of the air or fabricate wisdom and poise you do not have.

Maybe we should feel our fragility more often and more acutely. I do my best to come to these events well-rested and well-nourished, so that I'm in a good place physically and emotionally, capable of listening and being present. Sometimes my best efforts fail and yet I face a room full of people who hope I can encourage them, inspire their wisdom, and help their prayers. What's wonderful is that I do those things. The work happens, and because I feel how fragile I am, my faith in the wonder and the work is probably more authentic than at any other time.

The weekend went very well. I returned to Chicago and the missed deadline and the other stresses and the brutal absence of a person I wish had lived until old age. I returned to more winter and to endless tasks running late and hurried. Still fragile. But still intact.