RDJH - Reflections

The Objects of My Depression (Post-Feminist Is Not Post-Consumerist)

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Wed, 15 May 2013 16:17:00 +0000

(I've been away for awhile, going through a drug trial that proved way successful, but sadly I had to back off the drug once the trial was over and resume a standard anti-depressant, so just now I've gotten back to the point where I've got things to write, ironically since Nancy and I leave on May 20th to backpack for two months, so I doubt I'll be able to blog from the trail: my iPhone requires laborious typing. Anyway, this post has nothing to do with my depression . . . or does it?)

Our culture creates a gaze, a giant Eye, primarily through media but also through the way our media selects what stories or episodes of "human interest" to reflect, and our Eye has always been - though in the era of assertive feminism was slightly, significantly less - proudly consumerist. Now, when we read "our media" we are tempted to see "elite, rich, Liberal-North-East-educated," based on the success of right-leaning rhetoric, but that reflects the owners of our media rather than the consumers of our media. Instead, our media reflects what sells, and what sells equals what sells the most, and the most consumers are all the regular folks, the non-elites, the heartland-educated, the me's and you's of ordinary, everyday folk. And one primary consumerist strain - and since the primary consumer tends to be a man, the patriarchal strain - through the regular folk is this: men's bodies are private property, to be covered and respected and left alone, while women's bodies are public property, to be exposed for evaluation, respected only if they pass some standard of reproductive value = "hotness," and even then used as a commodity for whatever purpose men acquire them for. Don't believe me, look how universal standards of clothing - males in baggy shirts and pants and hats, females in tight, short skirts baring legs and arms and hair flowing free and heavily made up - appear not just among media-types - celebrities, athletes, video stars - but among college students, high school students, even - and here's the "get 'em while they're young" terror - among elementary students and kindergartners. The Eye consumes females - women and young women and girls - reflecting an unashamed Male gaze, and men in turn are encouraged to commodify women's and young women's and girls' bodies and, thus, women and young women and girls themselves.

I have had feminist tendencies as long as I can remember, primarily (I think) because for the first ten years of my life (before my Mom married my Dad) I was raised by frightfully independent and capable regular-folk women - my Mom and my Grandmother. This does not mean I'm innocent of joining rapturously with that Eye: I'm not, by a long shot. I remember when I was five and learning to draw, one of the things I drew was a naked girl chained face-down on a conveyor belt (I am not making this up, though I may be sharing too much information) because I got some kind of thrill (certainly not fully sexual at so young an age, but surely pre-sexual) looking at the Coppertone add (reputed to be Jodie Foster) where we see the cute little dog pull down the cute little girl's bikini bottoms (she wears no top, being pre-pubescent) at the moment when we get to see her shock and surprise and helplessness while getting to appreciate the marked tan lines that emphasize her bare bottom, and to this day I don't know where the conveyer belt came from except that in some way I realized even then, even at a young age, that I was drawing a product not a person. Now, you may say, "Jeff, from a young age you were creeping on women," and you'd be right. But I make a claim to feminism or at least the feminist impulse because of how ashamed I was of that drawing: I had a naggingly clear sense that what I drew was wrong, I just didn't know why. You see, feminism - or, if you want to be more universal, humanism - or, if you want to be almost as universal as you can get, beingism (gee, if I add non-beingism I'll reach the Tao) - speaks to that deep place where we know we shouldn't be made into a consumable so we shouldn't make anyone else into a consumable, and the place where all that starts is in how much we get to see of another person - whether their skin, or erogenous zones, or genitals, or even - and horror is never far from commodification - their blood and viscera. And all these little viewpoints - as feminism so rightly told us making us even more conflicted by strutting braless and proud and holy - add up to one big giant all-seeing Eye.

Years ago, before I had studied feminism academically and found my place there (ask me sometime about being the only male in a class on "Feminist Christian Ethics" and I leave it to you to speculate why I was the only male in the class even though it was while I was at Candler which some called a rather "liberal" school of Theology), I saw a perfect presentiment of today's Post-Feminist Eye that in the depths of feminist vigor I never thought I'd see return. Again, this is probably telling too much but if I've learned one thing being a feminist, it's that feminism needs male feminists to speak honestly about male conflictedness, so I'm willing to speak openly about maleness even if it's shameful. Around 1985, a good friend was getting married, and believe it or not none of the five of us had ever been to a strip club. So, after tucking into massive steaks and potatoes and drinks, we hopped down to a locally infamous joint to ogle the women, and we all - my four friends and I and everyone in the place - so vigorously ogled, but - here's an example of conflicted - surreptitiously, if you can believe it, glancing here and there, pretending not to see, or looking determinedly into a stripper's eyes instead of where we wanted to look. Except for this one guy, seated at the dance stage, an ordinary Joe telling by his dress - oops, clothes - but one willing to hold out a $20.00 bill to a woman dancing on the stage, holding out the bill until she had danced to his satisfaction, naked except for a g-string (sound familiar), and only after she had turned her back and done the splits two feet in front of his face did he nod without a smile on his face, signaling his hard-won approval, and slip that twenty into her string. I am so heartbroken today, because the Eye I experience - the pervasive, media-centric, consuming Eye - is the same Eye he wore in his hard, hungry face.

The Eye is Post-Feminist, not because women have gained a commodification-free autonomy so that the Eye has morphed into my Mom's tearful eyes as she gazed on my childish, "it's wicked and it's wrong" sketch of female bondage as commodity, but because though I can't believe I'm typing this twenty years after my feminist education the male objectifying gaze has snapped back with such fury not over the protest of women and young women and even girls, but because the Eye depicts women and young women and girls as happily complicit, willfully submissive, and it's all in good fun and body-forward and healthy (provided you're "hot"), though I know that can't be the truth, that no one really wants to be an object, a commodity, though our culture's assertion that we must "brand ourselves" and the fierceness with which so many of us (even me, I confess) uncritically adopt such language certainly questions my supposed knowing, and I find it's not just women, but it's men, too, men like me who seek attention and notice, and who want to parlay that into income, and fame, and brand-loyalty, Post-Feminist because I and us learned nothing from the Feminist movement (though it still lives, quietly), particularly Feminism's most humanizing lesson: we are in our essence free and beautiful persons, all of us, I and Thou, until one of us looks at another as a thing to be consumed, possessed, owned, then we both become objects of critique, and scorn, and assessment, and price, advertised in selfies and YouTube and Facebook and Twitter and the seemingly infinite ways we can take pictures of ourselves for another's appraisal, unwitting but still-for-some-reason-slightly ashamed parts-per-billion that make up that sleepless, unblinking, derisive, degrading, all-consuming Eye.

Med-Free Heaven On My Mind

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 16 Nov 2012 15:35:00 +0000

I've been coming off my meds because I'm taking part in a clinical trial of an enhancement to Cymbalta, an antidepressant that I've had good success with but that is too expensive for me since I do not have prescription insurance, and I have to dry out (as it were) from my old regimen before I begin the new. On Monday I begin taking the new meds, but today is Friday and I stopped taking meds last Sunday and on waking up this morning I could feel immediately the desperation that comes with being med-free, the frantic search for a mental place that doesn't hurt. Today is Friday: I dread these next several days. I hope writing about it will help.

What would heaven be like? I read people's posts on Facebook, hear people speaking about heaven after someone has died, and they don't speak of pearly gates and streets of gold. They don't speak of angels with wings and harps and St. Peter ("Saint Who?" says Butthead) checking off names. Instead, they speak quite simply of the grandest family reunion one can imagine, one where all the family attends, even back to those funny-looking relatives in the antique black-and-whites that used to hang on grandparents' walls, but really they're longing for more immediate family, usually grandparents and parents and themselves and children and, maybe, grandchildren. And they don't speak of doing anything together: simply being together is enough.

Funny thing, but our life here on the mountain comes close to that. My mom and dad, my brothers and their wives, my nephew, two sets of cousins, we all live together on the same ten acre plot. My daughter is nearby in Birmingham, my son was until this past June when he moved to Bronxville, New York. My grandmother was until she died in April at the grand old age of 95. We see each other every day, we eat together each evening, we watch football on Saturdays and Sundays and Mondays and this year sometimes on Thursdays, actually we can watch football every day but Tuesday (they re-run the Alabama games on Wednesday). So listening to and reading how a lot of folks envision heaven, you could say that up here on the mountain we've got a taste of heaven on earth.

But I've got two problems with that. First, I'm depressed, way depressed today, so I don't tend to see the good things right in front of me, I don't tend to give the good any lasting credence, as if the good is an aberration in an existence where bleakness is the norm, where gloom is palpable and real. I tend to see each relative and think, "How long until they die?" I watched my older brother yesterday walking his dog (a greyhound retired from the track) way across the field about to disappear into the path in the woods that leads down by the pond, his back to me and the dog sniffing the way, and I thought, "That's the last time I'll see him." My depression - and I can only speak of mine, no one else's - tends to neglect the present, no matter how good it is (and it is very good), and anticipate the inescapable future when I or they will certainly die. So I don't feel my life as a foretaste of that great gettin'-up mornin' soon to be.

Second, I don't believe in that heaven at all. Sure, it's a comforting thought that one day we'll be reunited with all our loved ones, this time never to part, always to be together, though I find such beliefs short on details on what we'll do with all our time together instead of just be. But I get the thought: that I'll see my grandmother again someday, not like the last time I saw her on her deathbed, but in her prime, sharp as a whip, I'd love for that to be. But I just don't believe it. I don't believe in an afterlife at all. So for this reason, too, I don't see our life here - good though it is - as a mild foretaste of that truer, eternal life that we will all someday share, a mere shadow, Paul says, of a greater reality. Instead, I see this as a brief time of intimacy, of sharing daily each other's life, that we live under a cloud of destiny that could descend on us any day now.

Nihilism is the technical term for what I feel (and my nihilism is more a feeling than a system of thought). "Nihil" means "nothingness, void," but nihilism tends to see our life here as ultimately mortal and finite, untranscendable, no afterlife or eternity or immortality, just a brief time of existence before which was nothing (excepting those mother and father parts that combined to make me) and after which will also be nothing (at least as far as "I" am concerned - my son and daughter will hopefully go on long after me). Same thing goes for this earth and all that is in it, for our sun and solar system, perhaps even our galaxy (though I have difficulty conceiving that such a huge thing can ever fully pass away). And I guess my nihilism takes the form of belief, too, like so many of our beliefs that grow out of feelings: I have no data to base it on, I just feel this way so strongly I have to think the world is made this way.

But being nihilistic doesn't mean I'm not faithful. Some folks have assumed that about me: since I don't believe in heaven, I don't believe at all. But that's not true at all. I do believe in God, I do trust that God loves me, I just don't think I get eternal life out of the deal. As a Christian, I do believe that Jesus accomplished something in his life that offers me a life of meaning and worship and service, a life that I can live in spite of my conviction that this life is all I've got, so that my life can be one of giving without expecting anything in return, of serving without expecting to be served. I guess you can call my nihilism a faithful nihilism, if that doesn't sound too contradictory. And I guess I have to ask you this question: if you did not get eternal life from your faith, would you believe?

There, I do feel better, much better than I did this morning while I was huddling in the bed gritting my teeth and flinging my head from side to side fretting that Monday will never get here (not to mention the lag between taking an antidepressant and having the benefits kick in, sometimes two weeks to a month after beginning though I hope I get a boost way sooner than that). The craft of writing helps: though this is only a small thing, writing so short a blog entry is really an act of creation in which I add something new to the world, and that helps. But the cognitive work of writing helps, too: to communicate to you what I feel and think means I have to feel and think through them, and it helps me to see myself type these things openly, to encapsulate these thoughts in letters and words and sentences. The process clarifies. And I'm not left only feeling nihilistic, I'm left feeling a little hopeful, too, feeling faithful. Thank you for reading.

Count Our Days Rightly

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Tue, 30 Oct 2012 16:15:00 +0000

"Teach us to count our days rightly, that we may obtain a wise heart." Psalm 90.12, TANAKH

I've thought a lot about this verse lately - what it means to count our days rightly, what it means to obtain a wise heart. At first blush, it reminds me of a science fiction story I read in high school. At a meeting of scientists, one of their number presents a device he invented that can identify the exact moment of a person's death. Being skeptical, the scientists ask for a volunteer to demonstrate the machine's capabilities. After assessing the volunteer, the machine returns a date in the near future for the volunteer to die. So the scientists table their meeting until the date predicted by the machine to see if the machine actually works. Sure enough, on the prescribed date the volunteer is killed. When the scientists reconvene, to a man they demand the machine be destroyed.

To count our days in this manner would mean living with a horrible truth. I often wonder how I would deal with such knowledge. Would I throw all caution to the wind and live hedonistically, trying every debauchery known, wallow in excess? Or would I have a wise heart, allocate my time intelligently in order to accomplish something meaningful? Or would I doubt the sum of days, deny that my time approached and die surprised? If it were possible to count up our remaining days, would we do so and face living a daily countdown to our demise, or would we run from this terrible knowledge and deny its hold on our lives?

Happily, knowing the moment of our deaths is impossible, so counting the days between today and that day is also impossible. The Psalmist recognizes this, so he (the Psalm is ascribed to Moses) offers instead of a particular count a generalized estimate of our life's span: "The span of our life is seventy years, or, given the strength, eighty years." Indeed, the Psalmist's estimate is good for men and (more so) for women in this country today: each of us, if we want to play the averages, can consider our total span of days to be about seventy-five years. By this estimate, I've got about twenty-two years remaining, so I could chart out a wise plan to spend these years well.

The problem is, as a depressive, counting my days like this just leads to regret. On the one hand, I look back at over thirty years of being depressed without clinical or pharmaceutical relief (even today, I do not think I function as well as an undepressed person, I find myself limited and hobbled by depression) as time wasted, as life wasted by my not being fully functional. Each morning I wake up and find I have to spend another day depressed (I'm not depressed in my dreams), so I count another day until I can begin to live fully, wholly, then I look at my remaining twenty-two years and regret that I will probably spend them much as I've spent the last thirty, that I will always be emotionally crippled.

On the other hand, I don't really believe that I'll last another twenty-two years. Though I try to envision a new next thirty years, beginning today, if I'm honest with myself I expect I only have a couple of years left at most. While the women in my family usually beat the average (great-grandmother mid-eighties, grandmother mid-nineties, mother going strong at early seventies) the men don't do so well (grandfather mid-fifties, father mid-fifties). Further, I'm depressed, so I even fear that Nancy and I will buy it in a plane crash when we go see our son in New York in early December. Or I fear I'm harboring some undetected cancer, or West Nile virus, or some other disease that will spring one me fatally any day now. I wake up and count each day as my last, each day a depressed day like all those of the past thirty years, each day a day without redemption, and all this leads to a pervading regret for all the life I've missed.

All of the above are examples of counting our days in the sense of "numbering" them, of seeing our lives as having a particular sum of days and subtracting each successive day from that total. Numbering our days in this sense leads to a focus on the diminishing number remaining. And focusing on the total and our daily approach of one more day closer to it leads, as the Psalmist realizes, to a familiar feeling that even thirty years "pass by speedily, and we are in darkness." We've all felt that, haven't we? I just attended a thirty year college reunion, where it seemed not just to me but to those I spoke with that thirty years had passed in a blink, that it seemed like no time at all ago that we all were college students together. And though my peers seemed to take a lot of joy in reconnecting so effortlessly with one another, I was left with a feeling of bleakness, of "darkness" that even should I make another twenty-two years, they, too, will pass as speedily as did the last thirty.

Perhaps this is exactly what the Psalmist has in mind. The subsequent verses surely point to such a numbering when they demand the Lord turn and show mercy, when they beg the Lord to "give us joy for as long as You have afflicted us, for the years we have suffered misfortune." And though as a depressive I'm way sympathetic to this sentiment, yet these verses seem to result from miscounting our days, not from counting them rightly. The demand for God to "satisfy us at daybreak with Your steadfast love" so that "we may sing for joy all of our days," though an admirable ideal, seems to spring from an unwise heart, an immature heart, a heart that demands of God reassurance each morning that God loves us so that we can get on with our day. Again, an admirable ideal, but wouldn't a wise heart embrace God's steadfast love without needing such daily reassurance? Rather than demonstrating how a wise heart speaks, the Psalmist seems instead to show the demanding nature of the unwise heart.

Rather than "numbering," another way to "count our days rightly" has the sense of "account for our days rightly." Whereas numbering our days is impossible (its only possible to estimate our days remaining), accounting for our days is certainly possible: given that nothing is certain, that you or I could go out of this life unknowingly in our sleep, accounting for each new day we're given means seeing each time we wake up to a new day as a gift. And accounting for our days as gifts leads not to regret but to gratitude.

Now, I'm a depressive, so this is difficult for me. But recently I've been trying to wake up each morning thankful that I've woken up, that I have a new day in front of me. And even if this new day is my last day, nonetheless I'm so thankful that I have it. Further, I know I have it, I did not pass away unknowingly, I am not living this day oblivious to its graciousness. I am counting this day, too, like I'm trying to count all my days with humble gratitude that, even though I've been depressed, nonetheless I've had these days to live and breathe and work and play. To account for each day wisely, to realize each day is a gift, perhaps a gift from God, means to see a growing sum in the grace column of our balance sheet: countless days I've lived (unless I want to break out the calculator), and each one has been a gift.

Further, accounting rightly only begins with early morning thankfulness. Accounting rightly extends throughout the day. Today I shared breakfast with Nancy, saw her off to work, visited with my brother, get to write this blog entry, will have lunch with my mother and dad, will prepare a sermon during the afternoon, will share supper with my extended family, will watch "The New Girl," will cuddle with Nance before we drift off to sleep ("I pray the Lord my soul to keep"). Each breath may be my last, so each new breath is also a gift, a very gracious gift (what "right" do I have to live?). So I should greet each event in my day with the same gratitude I greet each new morning on waking up: accounting for such wonderful events in my life means I'm overwhelmed by gratitude, by wisely recognizing that God is indeed so gracious to give me this life.

To have a wise heart is this: to know we can go out of this life at any moment (we are like grass renewed at daybreak that withers and dries up by dusk, says the Psalmist), so we account for each moment we're given as a gift from God. Such counting is surely "living in the moment" and also living in gratitude. One day, our last moment will come, hopefully we'll recognize it when it does. And hopefully, after being thankful for each moment of each day, after counting our days rightly, our last moment will be filled with gratitude long-practiced and the darkness and bleakness of regret will be far from us. Then, truly, the "favor of the Lord, our God," will be ours. Thank you for reading.

Pain Tolerance

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Tue, 23 Oct 2012 16:42:00 +0000

I like to think I have a high tolerance for pain. When I was in junior-high and high school, I played football, a sport that demands a lot of pain tolerance: seems like every drill, every game includes pain that one must simply play through or else sit out on the sidelines. I've played through a lot of pain, even a broken hand (which I learned about fourteen years later when I re-broke it lifting cast iron skillets), so I tend to think I can tolerate quite a lot of pain.

Two events recently have made me question just how much tolerance I do have to pain. First, I ran out of Abilify. Since I'm unemployed and have no prescription drug insurance, my psychiatrist has been supplying me with Abilify through medical samples. A couple of weeks ago, I ran out and decided, rather than stop by my psychiatrist's office for a refill, I'd see how difficult my depression would be without Abilify. Whether because of how abruptly I stopped or the efficacy of the med, after three days or so I hit a disastrous low emotionally, so painful it seemed that I had actually regressed since my relapse a year ago, that I now hurt more than I did a year ago. I was able to tolerate this for only two or three days before I got more Abilify and, gladly, took it.

Then, the very first day of my and Nancy's backpacking trip on the Appalachian trail, as we were climbing five miles of uphill out of Davenport Gap, I pulled a muscle in my left hip. Now, I've pulled plenty of muscles in my life, not the least playing football for six years, so my pulling one hiking is not necessarily a sign of advancing age (as I seem to react much more often these days). And the palliative is pretty standard: give the muscle two day's of rest, then gradually work back up to full participation or, not having that luxury, take pain meds as much as needed. Sadly, Nancy and I had neglected to refill our supply of ibuprofen (good ol' Vitamin I) before we began, so we were without pain meds. On our second day, during an initial two miles of uphill, I simply couldn't go on, so we had to come off the trail (hiking an additional eight miles to do so, and being preserved from hiking an additional fifteen miles to the nearest town by the chance passing of friendly locals in a pickup truck, who drove us all the way to Newport).

So how much pain can I really tolerate? The question is important to me, because part of my depression is to imagine horrible ways to die - a slow, painful death by stomach or colon cancer being among those I fear the most. As I have romanticized my depression, I've seen it as training in pain tolerance: so much of my life I have lived in emotional pain - just as real, I assure you, as physical pain - I figured myself for one hardened and wizened, capable of bearing the most agonizing pain. Now, I'm not so sure. It's so hard to measure pain: did my pulled muscle hurt so bad that I couldn't continue to hike because it was, say, a seven or eight out of a possible ten (as I imagined it to be), or was it really a two or three and I was just weak? Same with my emotional pain: am I severely depressed, as I certainly felt once the Abilify had worn off, or only mildly depressed and simply can't handle a lot of emotional pain?

Ultimately, there's no comparing one's pain to another's: we each feel our own pain, and what feels bad really feels bad no matter any "objective" measurement. Our pain scales are always subjective: what feels like an eight is an eight for that day in those circumstances. But I fear that very subjectivity, I fear not really knowing what an eight feels like, and that some day I will truly and fully feel an eight, or a nine, or a ten. Perhaps my years of emotional pain have not hardened me to pain, but, like constantly worrying an open sore, have actually made me more susceptible to pain, less tolerant. As I try to imagine the next thirty years of my life, and my imagination does not include pain-free years, I would like to be able to imaging a life much less hobbled by pain than the last thirty years. If I'm growing more susceptible, then the life I imagine grows less desirable. Pain hampers my imagination. Thank you for reading.

To Live vs. Not To Die

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Thu, 04 Oct 2012 16:11:00 +0000

Look, I know the difference between living fully and trying not to die: in the former, I engage life in all of life's dimensions, experiencing life as fully as possible; in the latter, I hunker down in safety, not risking engagement in return for a potentially longer life. In experiencing life, I may indeed die prematurely due to accident or mischance, but I will have lived more than if I avoid life's risks and concentrate on safety and security even though I may actually live longer.

Take travel, for instance. Nancy and I flew to Spain and spent forty days walking the Camino de Santiago, five hundred historical miles across Northern Spain following in the footsteps of over a thousand years of countless pilgrims. Foreign travel is inherently more risky than staying home: the flights across the ocean, the prospect of being strangers in a foreign nation, anti-American sentiment, you name it. But the rewards, ah, the rewards: traveling through ancient Spanish villages, getting by with only a smattering of Spanish, meeting people from all over Europe as well as from North America, even traveling five hundred miles on foot, all of these enriched our lives immeasurably, we are better people because of them.

But depression, at least in my case, pushes me towards trying not to die at the expense of living, even when I am, in fact, living fully. For instance, Nancy and I are about to return to the Appalachian Trail to hike one hundred miles from Davenport Gap to Erwin, Tennessee. One could fairly call this "living." Yet I have been trying to feel anything but dread, steeling myself for the hike, remembering all too well how my depression came crashing back down on me while hiking on the Appalachian Trail in Main during 2011. Adding to the difficulty I'm having throwing myself into the hike, I'm out of one very helpful medication that my psychiatrist has been giving to me in the form of free samples because it's too expensive for me and Nancy to afford on our own, so my thoughts and feelings for the past several days have been bleak to say the least. I fear that I will hike these one hundred miles in an attitude of trying not to die rather than living fully, that I will look back having completed the hike and, rather than being enriched, I'll be entrenched further in doing my damnedest not to die.

Or consider the way Nancy and I live: we live in a very "green," five hundred square foot strawbale cottage that we built by hand, a way radically different from the norm. Nancy, I'm sure, takes great pride and satisfaction in the way we live, freely of our own volition: we don't have to have all the trappings of American excess, we have no debt aside from a small car loan, we can drop everything and go hiking for nine days because we live so inexpensively. But I find myself wanting a "mac-mansion," the status of big home-owner, the camaraderie of a mortgage, not because I value those things but because, in some way, I feel like a large brick house will be a more lasting testament to my life after I'm gone than a small strawbale cottage that will eventually, after we're gone and presuming our children don't want it, dissolve back into its constitutive parts and melt into the ground. I find myself overly anxious about cracks in the plaster, natural results of a new building settling but in my feverish mind evidence that our cottage is going to fall down around our ears. All of this is due to depression, specifically due to this last, dreadful year: before my relapse, I, too, took great pride and satisfaction in the way we live. Now I dread too much.

Here's the catch-22: even though I am living, I feel like I'm dying. Even though my life is full of promise and wonder, I feel as if I spend each day doing everything I can to stay alive, that all my energy is focused on delaying the inevitable instead of relishing the present. I know I'm living well: Nancy and I are still deeply in love with each other, I'm surrounded by my family who love and respect me, I get to spend my days in study and contemplation and writing sermons, good sermons, I'm extremely proud of my wonderful children - I could go on but it reads like I'm bragging. But one sad thing about depression is the way feeling drives thought, so my feelings of dread tend to push me to dreadful thoughts, and in that thinking I fail to feel alive. I am living, I know that; I just wish I didn't feel like I am dying. Thank you for reading.

Stuck

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 28 Sep 2012 16:14:00 +0000

The last couple of days I've been moving my office, combining my books and papers from two locations into one: whereas I used to have my desk and biblical studies texts in mine and Nancy's cottage and my organizational and leadership studies (less used than my biblical texts) in the workshop, now both are combined in my new office space in the building formerly known as my daughter's cottage. Next up, I'll go up to our storage facility and get boxes of goodies such as feminist studies and liberation theology, subjects I first studied in 1983 but have used little since, though I still have the (old and outdated now) texts and still display them proudly. I remember at my ten-year high school reunion (that would be 1988) how I delighted in shocking my old classmates with "liberation theology" and my plans to write a book about "Jesus the revolutionary." I'm looking at the shelf space I've reserved for those unused texts right now.

While going through my papers, I came upon a poetry collection I put together 'way back in the Summer of 1982, the summer I spent in New Orleans with Nancy before my senior year in college, the summer I studied Old Testament and English Literature at Loyola, and Nancy and I played racquetball on Loyola's courts. I tried to get some poems published that summer, unsuccessfully, and eventually (by July, actually) I stopped writing and learned how to bake bagels and cook Chinese food. But today, re-reading those poems, I was struck by how similar one is to the one I posted here under the heading "Suicidal Tendencies," the older of which I reproduce for you exactly as I wrote it on 4-3-82:

i stand

from

a great height

staring

the ground

stiffen

slicing regretfully

through

the air

breaking and shattering

then die

i stare

the ground

from

a great height

and

a black

yawning

void

stared back

just as intently

If you can get past the presumptuous lower case "i" and the confusion of tenses in the second verse(?) ("stare" vs. "stared"), or the staccato line (what was I thinking?) or the question of whether this is a poem at all, I'm sure you'll recognize (a) the similarity to the more recent poem and (b) the same suicidal tone. I find it shocking to handle a piece of paper I typed on thirty years ago and find thereon evidence that my thoughts have changed so little in the interval. I get the feeling that I'm stuck in some way, unable to grow, like a bug in a piece of amber . . . no, that's not quite right. It's like I'm stuck in one of those snowglobes, in a makeshift office vignette, me alone at a desk made out of an old door, surrounded by amateurish shelves and second-hand furniture, pretending to work on astonishing, insightful prose, awash in academic excellence (Maryville, U. of Chicago, Yale, Emory, Princeton), when in reality I'm cataloging the same artificial snow flakes lying around in the same, predictable heaps, coating the scene unconvincingly in a faux romance. The truth is, I have not grown a lick in thirty years, I'm still just as stuck ruminating on the same existential issues in tired, trite verse and all my experience and education have not led me beyond a childish, "I don't want to die."

Look, depression engulfed me in 1979 and shook my world mercilessly, and the patterns of falling faux snow were new and intriguing, but bit by bit they grew too predictable as my world was shaken less and less, and less severely, so that today I feel like that globe is covered in dust, unshaken, sitting on a shelf somewhere little noticed with me inside railing repetitiously. Honestly, through this blog I'm trying to rock the globe (my little vignette, not the earth), to jolt it off the shelf so that it falls and shatters, even if that means spilling me stickily across the floor. Maybe I'm waiting on one of you to seize this tacky, nostalgic trifle and hurl it against a wall, daring to injure the occupant in setting him free. However it happens, I want to be free, not pain-free or depression-free (I'm resigned that I'll always be depressed) but stasis-free, alive and growing so that the next thirty years resembles the woeful repetition of these prior not at all. I find the thought horrible that I will be trolling the net thirty years hence and find my writing and thoughts as closely resemble those in this post as do those in these two poems. That will truly be a wasted life. Thank you for reading.

Is There Purpose?

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Tue, 25 Sep 2012 16:25:00 +0000

Is there a purpose to my depression? What's the reason I should feel so bad for so long? Rather than being a mundane, brain mis-wiring or chemical imbalance, does my being depressed serve some Higher Aim?

So many ways to begin to answer these questions. The agnostic empiricist in me warns that Life has no purpose, no driving aim or ultimate goal, no teleology in the classical sense, but that part of me is mistaken. Life, even in atheistic terms, does have a purpose (though I wouldn't call it Purpose): to make more life. From its single-celled beginning, struggling against entropy and disorder, Life presses and surges towards more life, more and diverse forms, utilizing mutations to fill unexploited niches, all without a Guiding Hand, you understand, but nonetheless subsumed into Purpose: Life swells and recedes, expands here and contracts there, but fills our globe wherever it may. And I'm sure we're not alone: this same, indomitable process is undoubtedly universal (we're hardly unique), part of the fabric of being itself, so Life will have grasped a toehold somewhere else, and there it will push for more Life just as hard as it does here.

In agnostic terms, then, my depression is anti-Life, for depression impels me to retreat from Life, to consider ending my part in it; rather than expand, to contract, to shrink until I have no part in Life's outpouring and bounty, so that I am reclusive, remote. Yet this negativity, too, can serve Life's Purpose, for Life's expansion is based on successful forms, and successful forms are those that lead to more Life. Given that all forms - successful and unsuccessful, and the agnostic empiricist in me names depression an unsuccessful life form - require resources, the depressive's retreat from life serves Life by freeing up space and place for more successful forms. I serve Life, for instance, by not serving a church, because my absence makes way for one better suited (read "not depressed") to serve that church. The unsuccessful retreats from resources on which the successful thrive.

Yet this is hardly satisfying, though one (perhaps me) may find it noble, provided the scale of justice, balancing success against failure, measures truly. It's also hardly complete, for I have more in me than an agnostic empiricist: I also have in me a faithful servant, one who is determined to serve the One author of all Life, even if my serving requires my not serving in the pastorate. So I have to restate the questions: Does God have a purpose to my depression? Why does God require that I should feel so bad for so long? Does my being depressed serve God in some way?

Immediately, faith retorts: God is not the author of suffering. Well, faith has not read Scripture. God punishes extravagantly in Scripture: read Exodus, or Jeremiah. Read Job, and find that God - going against God's own law - allows a truly righteous person to suffer for little more than a wager. Read Ecclesiastes, if you can stand such a stark, nihilistic depiction of the human condition, how God has made both days of prosperity and days of adversity. Read Mark, where God dangles the very Kingdom like a carrot predicated on how much one is willing to suffer, to take up one's cross like Jesus. Read Romans, where Paul argues that some are created as vessels to be destroyed just to show God's might and glory, where Paul argues we will share Jesus' glorification so long as we share his suffering. If God is not the author of suffering, God is at least a willful spectator, a monitor and scorekeeper, a judge who hands out rewards for suffering, which at least makes God complicit, at least according to Scripture.

So I have to say, yes, my depression may serve God in some way, that God may require that I be depressed, that God may have a purpose in my suffering. Maybe my faith is meant to be an example for others, that I am faithful even though I see no earthly rewards such as career, or possessions, or well-being, certainly a needed antidote to the prosperity gospel. Maybe my depression is punishment for my sins - God disciplines those that God loves - which gives it purpose, though for the most part my sins are ordinary and common and I can't help thinking God disciplines me too severely. Maybe my depression makes me holier, that I, too, may be a man of sorrows, acquainted with grief, which makes me similar (barely) to our Savior, so my depression may be the Spirit's work of sanctification, making me more Christlike with each day. Maybe my depression will lead me, finally, to a spiritual ecstasy, where I may shout Scripture with my whole being, "I have been crucified with Christ," and know on my final day that mine has truly been a cross-shaped life and, based on that form, truly blessed.

This all may be, but the wicked irony, the viselike catch-22, is that I cannot feel purposeful, cannot feel other than useless, lest I invalidate depression's meager purpose. I can think these things, but the surety of experience, the body-knowledge that comes from feeling the truth of the matter, escapes me. Rather than purpose, this all feels vain. Yet, still, I am faithful, and that counts for something. Thank you for reading.

Bodies

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 21 Sep 2012 15:31:00 +0000

I presume I have a different view of our bodies than most of you reading this: I do not believe that you and I have, encased in our mortal, physical bodies, in some mystical or metaphysical way, an immortal soul that holds the essence of who we are. Rather, I believe (and I do mean "believe" here: there's not enough evidence for me to think one way or the other) that you and I are just bodies, that all that we do and are as thinking, feeling, individual beings can be chalked up to physical processes - electro-chemical reactions, gene expression, firing neurons, autonomic systems, etc. In crass terms: we're all meat with no animating, eternal spark that usually goes by the name of "soul."

As you can imagine, my belief makes me ambivalent about my body. On the one hand, I'm fascinated by the complexity and intricacy of our bodies, that my thinking, creative, imaginative self is attributed to physical processes. On the other hand, bodies are fragile vessels to hold such wondrous individuality. Who I am as an individual is as much a result of my genetic complexity as it is of my upbringing and life experiences, of my inheritance from my parents as it is of my parents' raising me. But at any time during my upbringing and subsequent life, any of a myriad of possible and all-too-common mishaps could have quite easily ended my individual self for all time and space.

Scripture's testimony regarding bodies and souls is actually closer to my belief in a mortal body than it is to a more common belief in a body/soul duality. Whereas many people hold a belief in a "living soul" (the KJV's translation of the Hebrew nefesh chaiyah), they actually believe in an indestructible, immortal spirit that animates or gives the spark of life to a mortal body. The Hebrew Bible understands "living soul" to be a body made from the dust of the ground that in animated by God's breath, the breath or "wind" of life. On a person's death, God's breath leaves a person, leaving the dust behind. The Christian New Testament for the most part continues this conviction: only rarely does the New Testament speak of persons having an immortal soul (I challenge you to find such a reference), emphasizing, instead, the resurrection of the body (Paul's contention that "we will not all sleep, but we will all be changed . . . the corruptible will become incorruptible). Even in the New Testament, when Jesus dies on the cross Mark says he "gave up his spirit" or, more literally, "he expelled his wind" (the Greek pneuma translates the Hebrew ruach, both meaning "wind" or "breath" or "spirit"), pointing to a conservative, Jewish conviction that bodies are animated by God's breath. So if you take away God's breath (at least in a crass sense: I do hold a spiritual conviction regarding our animating spark, though that's in no way an immortal, individual essence) Scripture and I share body theory.

This belief certainly contributes to my depression, at least indirectly. Whereas Scripture's depiction of our delightful dependence on God's very breath for our very selves is in no way a depressive depiction, my convictions regarding the fragility of our mortal lives leads to some degree of stress thrumming through my daily life. For instance, the other day a mosquito bit me as I was sitting on our back porch, and my mind went immediately to thoughts of the West Nile virus and speculating whether that mosquito (which I wiped out of this life) had spent any time sucking on birds. The thought that I, too, in all my individuality can be wiped out by something as minuscule as a virus from something so innocuous as a mosquito bite lends an undue amount of stress to my life, as do so many similar and common maladies. And as I've written before, stress aggravates depression, so I concede that my belief in a "mortal soul" (another translation of the Hebrew nefesh chaiyah) - because of its low-level but pervasive stress - probably fuels my depression.

However, I do wonder whether our world would be better off if more people shared my belief. Take Middle Eastern, irate mobs for instance. A mob of bodies sharing one all-consuming anger is a spiritual matter, at the very least because the conglomeration of bodies share one spirit of vengeance and retribution. Further, a mob by its very numbers - or a protest or march or public movement of a large number of individuals - seeks not just to enact justice (so they think), but to instill in those observing the mob's behavior the same rage, the same "spirit." Too often, such violent mob action leads to death, whether by the mobs hands or by the hands of the authorities confronting the mob. I can't help but wonder whether the mob that killed our ambassador to Libya would have spared his life if the common belief among those mobsters had been more like mine than an Islamic body/soul duality. I wonder whether any murderer would have refrained from murdering if he or she believed that murder was not a matter of liberating a soul from its body but of eradicating totally an individual unique among all the many billions of our kind that have ever lived. Crassly, belief in an immortal soul means you can't really kill a person, just by killing them send them on to the next life, and that's not really death at all.

I will never kill a person, nor will I ever support killing a person in the name of justice (war is a different matter, but I think almost all wars are evil and not necessary evils either) because killing means, to me, obliterating a person's entire existence. I hate killing anything, even the pesky fleas that are leftover from our pet-sitting this past summer: in their own way, fleas are just as remarkably and wondrously made as am I, though I doubt they're individuals. I'm conflicted about eating meat, especially pork since pigs seem so intelligent and intelligence is primary prerequisite for individuality (if pork didn't taste so good I'd be less conflicted). In fact, because I do not believe that we humans alone of all creation have immortal souls I find a remarkable unity among all life: all of us, from the simplest plant to the most complex animal (which may not be us) share a remarkable, so-far-irreproducible marvelous thing called "life," a process still mysterious and, hence, mystical (or at least mystifying). To kill end even one life is to diminish forever life's marvelous complexity and unity. Thank you for reading.

"Why Me?"?

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Wed, 19 Sep 2012 15:50:00 +0000

As I reflect on these posts and, through the process of writing, on my thoughts and feelings regarding depression, I find that I don't ask, "Why me?" Oh, my posts hold plenty of self-pity, don't get me wrong, even though my self-pity may not leap off the screen: writing sympathetically rather than accusatorially about my illness implies a degree of self-pity, and that's a good thing. Initially evaluated "Why me?" sounds like a self-pitying question: "I hurt, so what did I do to deserve this?" "Why am I the one in pain, and not all these smiling, happy people around me?" And though the question, rightfully so, does hold a healthy and necessary sympathy for oneself, it holds much more.

To whom is "Why me?" addressed? Secondarily evaluated, "Why me?" sounds as if it is addressed to one's conversation partners, in this instance, from me to you, the readers of this blog. Or when we get down and honest with our loved ones and allow ourselves to be fully vulnerable (something I rarely do), we ask them, "Why me," because we've run out of answers or our own answers do not satisfy, or we need corroboration of our answers from a second, interested party. But whatever answers we get from our conversation partners, they will be deemed insufficient unless they address the real interlocutor, that One bigger than us all, whether that One is God or the Universe or Life itself.

Ultimately, "Why me" asks of the determining One the reasons for my suffering and, I might add, the reasons why other people do not suffer as I do. Further, it implies that my suffering is unjust in comparison with people worse than I am who apparently, even though they're scoundrels, don't suffer at all. "Why me," thus, is a question of justice and righteousness, a question demanding an answer from a God we consider just and righteous, or from a Life that has promised us that if we live right, work hard and play fair, we will succeed. And in this sense, "Why me" includes a positive self-evaluation: I don't deserve to suffer like this, I've done nothing to warrant this suffering, so why am I suffering? So "Why me" is, finally, an unjustly suffering sufferer's demand for justice from some greater entity that purports to be fair.

It's tempting to give Vonnegut's absurdist, nihilistic but zen-like Tralfamadorian answer, "Why you, why me, why anyone? The moment is structured so." But I find his answer's attempt to bypass authority or intentionality fails in the notion of "structure." And, actually, discussing Vonnegut at this point would do more, in my mind, to establish my literary hipness (though I'm actually poorly-read) than to get at an honest self-evaluation. It's avoidance of tough issues, nothing more. So forget this paragraph, if you will.

I do not ask "Why me" for a couple of reasons. First, and perhaps foremost, I do not believe God creates each one of us intentionally. Unlike Scripture's poetry, I do not believe God knit me together in my mother's womb, nor do I believe I am wondrously made (though I do wonder at the marvelous intricacy and uniqueness of each one of us). I do not believe God made me a depressive, I do not believe that Life or the Universe conspired to create me as I am, I do not find any intention in my being depressed. Rather, I think my depression is simply the way I am, resulting from a combination of genetic heritage and life experience, both of which are the result of this messy, disordered life we live rather than any intentionality whatsoever. I'm a depressive because I turned out this way, that's it.

But that's superficial. Actually, if I'm being really honest with myself, and this is getting down to the gritty, I suspect that I don't ask "Why me" because deep down I do think I deserve this. Ironically, my thinking I deserve this is not due to a low self-image: I have a high self-image, or at least hold extremely high expectations of myself. I think I'm brilliant, competent, extremely talented, more so than most everyone I know. I think I'm one of a kind, extremely rare, capable of excellence in diverse fields. But I have screwed up in my life, sometimes royally. I have hurt (so I imagine) everyone I love at one time or another, I have elevated myself over those with greater needs (even this blogging is, to me, a form of self-elevation). I have squandered all these talents and capabilities, I have accomplished nothing with so much that I've been given, so "Why not me" is a more apt, a more just and righteous question. If I were not depressed, then something would be dreadfully wrong with the world.

Lest you, dear reader, find this too disturbing, please know I do not stop with such a negative self-evaluation. Though I come off as the pharisee who prays, "Thank you God that I'm not like that publican over there," I'm actually more like the publican: though I cannot raise my eyes to heaven, I do pray, "Have mercy on me, a sinner." Embracing forgiveness, though . . . that's the subject of another post. Thank you for reading.

Self-Loathing

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Mon, 17 Sep 2012 20:02:00 +0000

As I read back over these posts on depression, I begin to suspect that I'm not the most objective observer of my own life. Rather than a fair, balanced, even-handed description of my depression, I notice places where I give a less-than-honest, unflattering depiction of my illness. For instance, when I write that my retrospective posture is a matter of choice, I imply criticism that I have not chosen a forward-looking posture, when in actuality grieving is an almost autonomous process that is rarely a matter of personal choice. Though I've tried to write honestly, I sense some degree of self-loathing creeping into my descriptions.

Being suicidal implies self-loathing. Though this is not true for many people, I suspect, my depression includes a degree of self-loathing, not just in terms of "I wish I was not this way" but in terms of "It's your fault for being this way" and "You should not be depressed, why don't you fix it." There's an accusation, you see, that this is my fault in some way, that I'm to blame not just for being depressed, but for letting depression go on for these thirty years or so, that if I were a better person I'd straighten up and fly right, I'd end the pity party and get on with living the last half of my life.

Now, on an intellectual level, I understand that self-loathing is simply one of many facets of depression, that just like depression self-loathing does not truly express who I am, my capabilities, contributions, etc. Like depression, self-loathing is not rational, so, whereas rationally, intentionally thinking differently can relieve me of feelings of self-loathing, rationality tends to be ineffectual in combating the effects of self-loathing. Without constant attention, the primary effect of self-loathing - self-denigration (a milder cousin to self-destruction) - creeps into many areas of my life.

For instance, I've been a minister now for sixteen years. The first nine of these sixteen years, I was a full-time, solo pastor, which means I preached about forty-six Sundays of the year. During my first year in the pastorate, I tried writing out my sermons, but found that I was unable to write the way I wanted to preach: rather than writing in a warm, accessible, conversational tone, I wrote in my academic, scholastic voice, which I did not find effective in preaching. So after that first year, I began writing just the outline to my sermons so that I could fill in the details in a conversational manner. These outlines were hand-written on small, five by seven note pads. Rarely did I keep an outline after I had preached it.

I remember clearly when I stopped writing even outlines: about four months into my second pastorate, during a sermon on the Spirit's coming on the first Sunday of Advent (that would be 1999), I left both the pulpit and my outline behind and preached from memory. On the one hand, you see, I became a much more dynamic preacher because of this move, so I don't regret it too much. On the other hand, I no longer wrote outlines; instead, I committed my sermon outline to memory then filled in the details during preaching. And that means that I have no copies of all those sermons, even the most recent one I preached: like champaign glasses smashed in the fireplace after a toast (I flatter myself), my sermons were singular events, one-time experiences impermanent as a mayfly. Though I do have some digital recordings, I find myself regretting that I have no record of all that work.

I could describe the same tendency in my scholarship, how early on in college I stopped taking notes in class, imagining myself smart enough to remember all the details. Or how I didn't keep papers I wrote or tests I took, telling myself that these were the works of an amateur, and that I would revisit these subjects later on when I was more competent, a practice I continued, get this, through my doctoral thesis. Same for all the hours of scholarship I accomplished in the practice of preaching, all those insights on Scripture, those particularly "Jeff" readings and interpretations, I've always denigrated in favor of some future work when I'll be truly competent. I could die today, and Nancy and Ian and Alexa sorting through my effects would find it difficult to convince a stranger that I've actually preached for sixteen years, nine of those full-time: there's simply no corroborating evidence, aside from personal testimonies.

Again, harking back to my initial post on depression, some would this behavior as arrogance ("He thinks he's too smart to take notes"), but I see it as self-loathing ("I'm no scholar" or "My notes are junk"). And while I am having success therapeutically countering feelings of self-loathing, I have hardly begun to counter the effects of self-loathing, the many obvious and subtle ways I undermine myself, my gifts and my ambitions (I don't sing, I don't preach, I don't lead, I don't perform, I don't do anything but sit up on the mountain and stew). For thirty years now, I've contorted myself to place my foot on my neck and grind my face in the dirt (self-loathing, you see). This is neither rational nor sane, and I want to stop. Thank you for reading.

Grief

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Sat, 15 Sep 2012 17:14:00 +0000

Recently, several people have told me how painful they find it to read my bloggings about depression. Honestly, I have little sensitivity for how my writing comes across: to me, this is just everyday stuff, no big whoop. But I'm beginning to recognize that you readers may not see it that way, that these entries are distressing. I want to say, hang on, I'll be writing about the upsides soon, and I will, but I've not gotten down to the depths I want to plumb yet so the upsides are yet a bit ahead.

As I mentioned in an eariler post, I grieve almost perpetually as one of the ways I feel depressed. To me, grief is a longing for something lost when I know it is irretrievably lost. That unrequitable longing expresses as a deep, thorough sadness, a lump in my throat and a propensity to weep, an vascilation between a desperate denial of loss and a self-loathing surety of loss that chastises me for my foolish denial. I am also helpless facing loss, which leads to a frustrated anger at time's remorseless march, at the fleeting nature of experience as time flows insensiate into the past. In grief, I am constantly looking to the past, longing for moments past, so much so that I have almost no expectations for the future, no excitement for upcoming events. Grief locks me in an eternal present that streams and tatters forceably away to the past.

I remember this grief from a young age. The summer between my third and fourth grade years was magical in many ways: the weather was perfect, I had discovered butterfly collecting, I had become a competent outfielder in baseball, even making the all-star team, I had learned how to yo-yo, I could go on. Suffice it to say I had matured to a point where I was capable of skill in several areas: I enjoyed being good at things. Yet during that summer, I found myself thinking about the nature of time, discussing time with my brother and neighbors, arguing about the possibility of time travel (like we saw on Star Trek), but realizing that the wonderful game of kick-the-can we played yesterday was forever gone, somehow destroyed by being past, that though we had indeed played and enjoyed ourselves, we could never get back to that specific evening, that particular game. I remember the sadness I felt, the frustration even then that I couldn't hold on to good times, to events and smells and tastes and feelings: all flow away never to return.

Here's where depression is not sane: I do not experience bad times the same way. When I am suffering, I do not realize that time flows the same for bad times as for good, I do not see grief as limited in duration simply because all events end as they move from present to the past. I should understand that my depression, too, can have an end, that I may well find myself in a present free from depression, that like all other things my depression has flowed into the past and has become irretrievable. To put this differently, I should be able to imagine a future where I stand in a present free from depression, I should be able to turn around and let time's wind blow through me forcefully, placing my hopes on my depression fraying and tattering simply because I can remember (vaguely now, but still actually) how I felt before I became depressed and I can imagine feeling that way again. This is possible: depression, too, can pass. But can I turn and refocus from the past to the future? Or, can I forget both past and future and focus on this eternal present, can I celebrate "now" as rich and vibrant, filled with both good and bad but all the more blessed because of it, varied and textured and always real?

Well, I'm not prepared to call myself "insane," though as a depressive I'd certainly not call myself "sane" either. My grief for the past does not relent, or I do not relent from my grieving. At some level, I do recognize that my posture, my attention is a matter of decision, that I am not helplessly posed in retrospect. Someday, I will reposition myself, I will turn and face a new direction. Sadly, today is not that day, not yet. Thank you for reading.

Suicidal Tendencies

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Thu, 13 Sep 2012 15:23:00 +0000

My depression at times has included suicidal impulses, periods when my uncontrolled mind would turn to thoughts of suicide impulsively. I'm not talking about casual "I could kill myself" or "I wonder how dying feels" thoughts, but about sometimes weak but sometimes quite strong impulses actually to do it. For instance, here's a short poem about a recent trip to Chimney Rock in North Carolina and my impulses at the top.

Up and Down Chimney Rock

After a slow, hard slog (I'm 52) of seventeen hundred steps

The stairway climbing over boulders sloughed from the cliffs above

Winding around sheer bluffs with granite pilasters

We summit the observation platform atop Chimney Rock.

I see the handrail jiggying in electric bas relief

Walk to it, grasp it with palms slightly slick

Magnificent view, but what grasps me is

Gravity's suction, drawing my eye downward

To the shearing cliffs and scrabbled boulders

Imagine climbing over the railing

Fearfully trembling, despairing,

Nancy rushing forward, begging me to come back

Let go and begin to lean outward, an inch at a time

Relishing the wind and sun and clouds and light

Leaning into the breeze, into rare space

Thinking, ok, let's do this

I pass the halfway point, surrender to the suction

Leap away, begin my last dive

Ramrod straight, arms wide in a swan embrace

Like I did as a young man

Soaring off the board in the summer before college

The wind growing suddenly harder as I try to

Slice its buffeting, rocks surging upward

In good form I close my eyes . . .

A cloud covers the sun and I blink

Self-consciously wipe my palms on my pants

Silently blaming the sweat on the climb

Step back from the rail, pose for a picture

Start the slow decline

Down the scarp and scree below.

I find these impulses especially ironic since I'm so sure there's no existence after death, so why would I want to rush my oblivion? Depression isn't rational, is what it is. And though, like most people, I've experienced instances, mere instances like being on a height (like the north rim of the Black Canyon, where you can look down 2200 feet to the Gunnison River) when I thought of flinging myself over the edge, I've also experienced two periods of prolonged contemplating death by my own hand.

The worst, by far the worst, was during the onset of my depressive episode of 2002. That winter, while we were building our log home (and sometimes I can't help but view the past ten years of building six buildings as anything but madness) I found myself trying to come up with a way of suicide that would foolproofedly appear accidental, accidental because I would never want my family to know I'd taken my own life. So I thought of having a car wreck (too chancy - I could end up paralyzed and dependent), or breathing a mixture ammonia and bleach (we were using highly concentrated ammonia, 27% versus the 4% stuff you get in the cleaning aisle at your grocery store) though my family would consider me too smart for such a blunder, you see, or simply disappearing and hoping no one ever found my body. But that hard winter, in the basement cutting indoor trim on my Shopsmith, I concluded the best way was an accident with the power tools, just a simple slip of the hand on the table saw and I could sever an arm, bleed out before I could get nextdoor (we built the log home on our ten acres next door to our current home) to get help.

I didn't do it, though I spend too much time staring at that saw blade and weeping. That period passed, and I didn't have another such sustained period until last fall, after my current relapse. This time, I didn't give so much thought to hiding my hand in the matter. My family are hunters, and my dad has about twenty rifles of various calibers. I found myself thinking about taking a rifle, placing it under my chin and ending this for good. Again, such thoughts are not rational, or, better yet, are not amenable to rational treatment. So strong were these impulses that I didn't hunt at all last season, simply refused to go into the woods with a rifle. Hell, I even avoided the rooms where my dad keeps his rifles, watching the football games in the living room rather than downstairs in my dad's man-cave in the basement. That period passed, too, probably by the time football season ended, this impulse simply faded away under the combined weight of meds and counseling.

I suspect that behind suicidal tendencies is a desire for rebirth, for starting over, for eliciting so severe a break in my life's continuity that I can begin anew without the limits of the past, without the mistakes and missteps, the times I did not take full advantage of opportunities, when I half-tried and left my future shallower than it should've been. Of course, without reincarnation suicide is no starting over at all, but an irrevocable ending, yet the impulse to suicide must be otherwise, or have a different dimension, since pure thoughts of suicide should send one screaming away. For me, suicidal thoughts feel similar to dreams I have about starting over, of returning to high school, of playing football, of being in college where this time I do things differently, I import the hindsight I've gained from half a century into a period that has no business having such wisdom, but I do it anyway (in my dreams) and now can look back on a different past from a different future. This isn't rational, either. Rational would be to take fair accounting of my present, see how depression has engendered in me a self-destructive tendency that has thwarted my ambitions at several key points in my past, then realize that I have engendered a break, a significant break in my life over the last four years, and that I am at a place where I can start a new future, that my path forward can be different than the self-negating path that has brought me here. I want this to be real. Thank you for reading.

Crossing Mt. Madison

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Wed, 12 Sep 2012 14:36:00 +0000

Stress exacerbates depression. I had gotten my depression under control by reducing my daily stress, first in 2005 by exchanging a solo pastorate for an associate pastorate, then by retiring from full-time pastoring in 2008 in order to build straw-bale cottages for my brother and sister-in-law and for Nancy and me. This and good therapy allowed me to stop taking meds and counseling in 2007, so that by the time Nancy and I began to hike the Appalachian Trail in June of 2011 (we started in New York and headed north) I had managed my depression med- and counseling-free for four years. I thought I was cured.

Long-trail backpacking places great demands on one's body. To hike twelve miles with a thirty-pound pack daily stresses one's body in various ways, not the least of which is one's dietary requirements. Simply to maintain one's body weight at that level of demand requires 4000 calories per day, an amount impossible to get in the back country. So in addition to the raw, physical demands on one's muscles and joints, a backpacker is constantly hungry and losing weight. By the time we entered New Hampshire's White Mountains, Nancy and I had been on the trail for seven weeks and had lost almost all our body fat: we had trail legs for sure, but we had almost no energy reserves in our bodies. I was down to 160 pounds from my pre-hike weight of 180. I was starving all the time.

We left the Mt. Madison hut - one of eight or nine hiking hostels scattered along the AT through the Whites that offer bunk beds and hot meals to short-term hikers but that also let through-hikers "work for stay" - on a morning of steady, fifty-mile an hour wind and dense fog that reduced our visibility to about thirty feet. Though the hut is only at 4000 ft. or so, this far north it's just in the tree-line: the AT immediately leaves the tree-line on its way up Madison's side. The AT climbs rocks and boulders for the next half mile, gaining about 1000 feet in altitude: hikers describe this rate of climb as going "straight up." The wind made climbing (and that steep a grade was more climbing than hiking) difficult, especially as it increased the higher we climbed. The fog (we were in the clouds, actually) made finding the trail a matter of stopping at one rock cairn and squinting and pointing until we had spotted the next rock cairn, usually twenty to thirty feet further along the trail, then trying to keep the second cairn in sight as we climbed between the two. Slow-going, you see.

By the time we summitted (it probably took us an hour to climb that half-mile), the wind was steady at 90-100 mph (we subsequently learned) and gusting higher. Nancy was having a hard time keeping her feet. Madison's summit is a smallish cone, maybe ten feet higher than the mountain's shoulder, so I hollered to Nancy that we could skirt around the cone on the leeward side and get a break from the wind. As we climbed around to the far side, we found we were not alone: an older couple (in their mid-sixties) from Kentucky whom we had met last night at the Madison hut was just summitting, and though he was holding his ground pretty well, all 95 pounds of her were struggling to stay upright through the wind.

I'm a paternalistic hiker: I tend to feel responsible for those we're hiking with, even though, like Nancy, they're quite capable of hiking on their own. Honestly, I was having little problem with the wind or the visibility: I'm built stocky and short, with a high body mass and strong legs. A gust of 120 meant I'd have to hunker down low and grab a boulder, but the steady wind, though tending to force one off one's direction, was no problem. Yet the progress of our new group - being in what most hikers would call a dicey situation, we'd automatically coalesced into one group of four - became painfully slow: I'd move forward about twenty feet, then turn and point out the best (in my opinion) route to Nancy, I'd wait until she had caught up, then we'd both wait until the Kentucky couple had gotten close enough to see us move on. All the while the wind was howling and the fog impenetrable.

On the north side, Madison descends in a series of step-like plateaus - maybe a hundred feet or so long ending in a steep downhill of thirty to fifty feet - that follow the knife-edge point of a ridge. The wind was coming at us from the northwest, that is, perpendicular to our route, constantly trying (and succeeding) to blow us off our feet and, I feared, off the ridge. The cairns were getting harder to identify, as if the clouds were thickening, and all the time I'm hoping it won't start raining: the one piece of good luck we had was that the temperature was in the mid-fifties - great for hiking so long as we stayed dry, but if it began to rain potentially dangerous. We slowed to a crawl, struggling to stay on our feet, the Kentucky gentleman seeming more interested in keeping up with me and Nancy than ensuring his wife, who was lagging behind, made it safely. After the third or fourth plateau - each one teasing us with a downhill section that ended in another plateau instead of continuing directly to tree-line, where I was sure we'd get a break from this wind - as I'm crouching forward waiting for the three to scrabble their painstaking way among the boulders, anxiously feeling the wind for the first pinpricks that presage rain, all my attention was suddenly focused on one thought: I could leave these people.

Of course, I didn't leave them, but I thought it, and one of "them" was Nancy. Stuffing that thought back into my head, I returned to my self-appointed guide duties, redoubled my efforts to ensure we were all together and moving purposefully, and by two or three more plateaus we caught a glimpse of the tree-line through a break in the clouds: actually quite a majestic sight, we could clearly see the ridge descending to a thick blanket of trees no more than half a mile away. Rejuvenated, we climbed down through lessening wind and longer breaks in the clouds, so that by the time we made tree-line the wind was a mere whisper and we were shedding clothes to cool off in the sudden heat. As we shared lunch, the Kentuckians and we celebrated our successful crossing and made plans to ride together (they had a car parked at a road crossing nearby) into town and share supper together.

Six days later, crossing into Maine, I warned Nancy that I was getting depressed. Two days after that, I was doubled over on the trail, weeping and unable to continue the hike. At a road crossing, we hitched a ride into a town eight miles away, spent the night at a hostel and called a friend of Nancy's from Portland, who came to pick us up and take us to the airport. As soon as we got home, I got a prescription for antidepressants from my primary care physician and scheduled an appointment with my psychiatrist. And my four years of being "cured" were over.

Looking back, I'm convinced the stress of crossing Mt. Madison brought on my relapse. Again, I was depleted, almost no body fat, no reserves of energy, and I'd never been in wind that severe before. Worse, at the moment I felt most responsible for three people I thought of leaving them behind and getting myself safely down the mountain. And even though we took two days to recover in town, eating extravagantly as only through-hikers can, all too soon we were back to our fourteen mile days, back to our hunger and deprivation, back to backpacking's daily stress on body and soul. Like the wind on Mt. Madison, since last August my depression has been unrelenting. Thank you for reading.

Mind Control

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Mon, 10 Sep 2012 15:06:00 +0000

I've seen the same psychiatrist since 2002, almost exclusively to prescribe meds to treat my depression. But meds alone are rarely sufficient in treating depression. One also needs counseling, to put one's mind out there for observation and critique with the goal of asserting some kind of control over one's thoughts and feelings. Often, this control depends on uncovering the roots of depressive thoughts and feelings, of getting down to the bottom of things and facing things unfaced before. And successful delving depends in turn on honestly speaking about oneself and trusting the counselor's ability to sort through misleads and avoidances until both arrive at some degree of truth.

My first counselor, 2002 - 2003, helped identify a main root of my depression but did little to stem my self-destructive behavior. He said he was frightened of my intellect, though that may have been a counselor ruse. Yet he did seem nervous about speaking, worried that I was critiquing how well he spoke or formed his thoughts into words. I enjoyed our weekly meetings, enjoyed spending an hour talking about nothing but me, but apart from getting to that one root, we were not that productive together.

My second counselor, 2003 - 2007, was much more effective in helping me live more positively, even to the point of my living med-free from 2007 until 2011. He was older than my first counselor; in fact, he retired in 2007, one of the reasons I stopped seeing a counselor. One of the best things he did with me was to practice EMDR therapy (google it) to help assuage my emotional responses to certain thoughts. He was not afraid of me in any way, was not reticent in challenging me in many areas. Under his care, I came to see depression as primarily a way of feeling - I was going to feel bad, but that was ok - and found the strength to defuse those feelings, so that I considered myself "cured."

My third and current counselor (2012 - ?) holds a PhD and specializes in cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT). Together we develop disciplines to control my thoughts and feelings, which is actually quite difficult as I'm sure you know. For instance, currently I tend to have distressing thoughts and feelings about my soft and squishy organs, 'cause I'm absolutely certain they're whats going to kill me some day. If I let my mind go, I tend to seep sweat over pancreatic and esophageal cancer, both hard to diagnose early and, consequently, both extremely deadly. I tend to see every headache or dizzy spell as signs of inoperable brain cancer, and find my self terrified by the certainty that I'm going to hear a doctor soon say, "There's nothing we can do for you." I find myself wishing I was a spider-like creature, with a hard, hard carapace or exoskeleton, impermeable and cold, with a pendulous sac holding all those soft, squishy, swampy and vulnerable organs, and that by some miracle or special spider ability I could slice away that sac, watch it fall away forever, and survive as a hard, spindly, cold and rigid being with no softness (read "weakness") whatsoever. CBT helps me first to turn such thoughts off, to think instead about all the good things my innards do for me (giving me life among the most significant). Then, CBT helps me to face the scary feelings, to experience them, to realize that feeling them is not killing me and, so, to defuse a lot of their power.

Mind control comes hard to us, so we all live at the mercy of our minds. For most of us, our minds rule benignly, but for depressives, our minds are vicious despots, out to get us at the very least, suicidal at the worst. What control we have is tenuous, susceptible to accident, or illness, or changes in life circumstances, or media, or diet. My control unraveled after summiting Mt. Madison in late July, 2011, but that's the subject of another post. Thank you for reading.

Better Living Through Chemistry

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 07 Sep 2012 14:57:00 +0000

2001, my grandmother home from the drug store with an armload of prescriptions, sitting at the kitchen table with the little week-long, seven cubicle old age aid to dosage regularity, putting one pill in each cubicle from prescription after prescription, so that they're bulging out of the little tops so that she has to force the lids down, hoping they'll catch and stay closed, then at dinner she's gulping them down even the horse pills, taking them with little bites of applesauce all the while grumping that they cost about $400.00 a month even with insurance, but her blood pressure's good, her heart strong, no dizziness, better living through chemistry.

2003, my first taste of antidepressants, Zoloft or a generic equivalent and, mmmmmm, suddenly I'm feeling real good walking to the mail box, realizing I'm not sad and I don't hurt, mmmmmm, I could like this, I could smile like this, hell, is this how normal people feel all the time? Feel the sun and the breeze, see the green of the grass and the blue of the sky, the white house with dogs capering in the front yard, the driveway warm under my bare feet, straighten up, shake off the gloom, see a future different from the hell of the last year, who cares that my pecker's numb, worthy trade-off, better living through chemistry.

2007, had enough of these damn pills, tired of taking them each day, dependent, weak, junked-up fuzzy thinking, need clarity now more than relief, need to write and think, argue my point, dissertation, after all depression is a feeling, I feel a certain way, just a way of feeling and I can tolerate, realize that the feeling is not the sole reality, bye-bye shrink, ink on the arm to celebrate, I am my family - A lexa, N ancy, I an, ani means me, hey for Hayes, bye-bye Cymbalta it was good to know you, now just me and MY brain chemistry.

Today, one year in and eight meds down after running home from the AT and straight to the doctor to get the meds again, the good ol' meds, but not Cymbalta 'cause it's $12.00 a day with a catastrophic illness insurance policy so the drugs are full price, try the generics the cheap ones, one year on and tricyclics do the job, like Zoloft only instead of welcome to the monkey house numbness I've gained a middle-aged prostate needing some of my dad's Flomax, fair trade-off, thinking about feeling again, just a feeling, thinking about working again, hating the thought of taking meds each day for the rest of my life, my life insufficient without aid, my life halting and spare, ill like my grandmother was (may she rest in peace), each year the pills will multiply, someday I'll have my own week of cubes with pills bulging out the top and from now to then each day is a medicated day, a weak day, but better living through chemistry.

Bleakness

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 31 Aug 2012 14:59:00 +0000

Thank you all for your responses to my first post about being depressed. In that post, I discussed the cognitive side of my depression; today, I want to discuss the emotional side.

Every once in awhile, someone will ask me how it feels to be depressed, and I try to convey how bleak things feel. Perhaps two stories from my childhood will help. When I was six or seven, I watched "The Greatest Show on Earth" on TV with my mom and brother. When we came to the scene where the trapeze artist tries a quadruple flip without a net but misses the bar and falls to the ground, for some reason the finality with which he thudded to the ground gave me for the first time an almost instantaneous surety that my mom was going to die someday, so I start crying really hard right in the living room and my mom has no idea what is wrong with me and I don't tell her because I'm not sure she knows she's going to die. And this surety hits me so hard and fast at such a young age that it's like I'm clay and it's a chromium stamp and forever after I can't look at my mom without thinking, "She's going to die someday," and I know there's nothing I can do about it. For awhile after that evening, I would imagine our house being surrounded by rising flood waters with me, my mom and my brother trapped on the shrinking roof and I'm growing more frantic because I doubt my mom is a strong swimmer and I know I can't swim so how am I going to save her? I will fail and she will drown (my brother, I figured, could fend for himself cause he could swim at this time).

My brother and I were rambunctious, at the very least, so my mom had trouble finding after-school care for us. When I was in the second grade, we were staying with an elder lady around the corner and up the hill from us, who did her best to keep us out of the house so we wouldn't wreck the place. One afternoon, John and I were out in the backyard "working" on this old dog house she had though the dog was long gone. She had given John a hammer (her only one) and me a butter knife so we could nail some nails. I was up on the roof, trying to nail a nail with that flimsy butter knife, and John was about fifteen feet away dancing around with the hammer, flaunting the fact that he had it and could nail anytime he wanted to but wasn't going to until he was ready. In anger, I rose up and flung that butter knife at John, and just at the most perfect moment he dodged right into it so that the knife caught him right in the nose. At first, I was amazed both that I had actually hit John with the knife and at the amount of blood pouring out of his nose. But our caretaker, after putting a washcloth on John's nose and calling Mom to come get us, said, "What if you had killed your brother?" And at that moment, I felt as if I had actually killed him, so close did that knife come to hitting him in the eye or temple, so like John I began crying and wailing and didn't stop until Mom got there to take John to the doctor's office for stitches. But that feeling stayed with me: someday, I'll screw up and, because of me, someone will lose an eye or die.

Feeling depressed, for me, is a gut-wrenching helplessness to thwart a multitude of deathly possibilities and sureties. Feeling depressed is living in grief not just when something terrible happens, not just when someone dies, but all the time. Think back to your last grief response, the feeling of being punched in the gut so that all your air is gone, the wailing despair that washes over you, the feeling of unreality and desperate, futile hope that it can't be real: that's what depression feels like to me. Each day, I wait to get the phone call that my son or daughter has been killed, that Nancy has been splattered across the interstate, and horror and bereavement strike me as if these terrors have actually happened. Even when I'm not thinking such grisly thoughts, my baseline is one of bleak certainty that, if not today, surely one day these possibilities will become actual, surely one day these will happen.

And even if they don't, each day I face the certainty that I, too, will die. The cognition, the bare fact of this is not so terrible; but the feeling of despair, of dread imagining my last moments is almost unbearable. I lie awake at night with my heart thudding, quite afraid, and I concentrate on each heartbeat, realizing how tenuous a heart is, how fleeting a beat, and as I feel each one all too easily I can imagine it is the last one, and I wonder what I'll think or feel between the space of that last heartbeat and my losing consciousness for the last time. I hate the thought that I'll come to my end and all I'll feel is regret, regret not just for all the stupid, insensitive things I've done, but regret that I'd spent so much of my life grieving that very moment instead of living joyously that I was alive at all. Scripture says, "So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom," but all I've gotten is a heart of grief.

When I was in college, I was proud to swear that no matter how bad I felt, I would never cop out and adopt some belief system that would make my life-dread go away. I was proud and young and stupid. Now I'm older, much older, and tired, worn out, beaten and looking for release. And though I haven't been given a belief in immortality, I have taken refuge in medication - though I'm not particularly proud about it - sweet, soothing meds that dampen dread and, just a little bit, remind me how I felt as a carefree child before all this terrible knowledge and certainty. What I'd give to feel that way again. Thank you for reading.

Arrogant Depression

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Wed, 29 Aug 2012 15:22:00 +0000

I'm not arrogant.

I get this rap because when I meet people I haven't seen for a week or three decades I don't glad-hand slap-back cackle and gush. I don't hug and ask after one's family and whatnot. Instead I nod my head, grin slightly from one side of my mouth (the right), say hello only, real laconic which can be experienced as ironic, showing no emotion whatsoever, which I'm sure is usually taken as stand-offish at best and don't care shit at worse. But I don't respond this way because I'm arrogant. I respond this way because I'm depressed.

Now I am stupid, in so many ways. That charge I accept, because I didn't really understand that I am depressed until 2002 (a decade now), while my first major depressive episode happened in the Fall of 1979. Back then, even though I had taken Intro to Psych the previous Spring, I never considered the mental anguish that suddenly crushed me halfway through Fall quarter to be depression. I just thought it was angst.

I was taking Intro to Philosophy that Fall, along with New Testament Greek and Creative Writing. For both Philosophy and Writing I had to journal daily (I've never been able to do anything daily), so I've got a lot of records from that time in a box somewhere if I want to check. But I remember pretty clearly. I remember one morning waking up in bed with several suspicions crystallizing into conviction, the conviction that ultimately everything gets annihilated - me, my family, Nancy (whom I had just started dating), this planet and all life on it, even everything that exists, all ends in annihilation. And when I said "annihilation" I meant and still mean a complete cessation, a complete end, in personal terms a total stoppage of all thought, mind, memory with nothing left over, nothing personal persisting after death. The same goes for human culture in cosmic terms, that the day draws daily nearer when our lovely planet and all on it will be consumed by the swelling sun as it transitions into its red giant phase, wiping off all trace of our long history. The same goes for the universe itself, whether with a bang or a whimper. Everything ends in death, and life will never conquer it.

With life vanquished, there goes any possibility for meaning. I lay in bed convinced this was Truth that Fall, and from then 'til now my conviction has rarely wavered: I've rarely seriously doubted it. That Fall, I resolved to stay in bed, just not get up and so starve or waste away, to give up entirely (of course, residence hall staff would have come looking for me eventually, Nancy first of all). I lasted a couple of hours before nature's call grew too insistent, so I got up to go and decided that I might as well stay up as long as I was up, and I've stayed up ever since.

Or at least partly up: for a year now, I've been pretty debilitated by a severe depressive episode, which makes it real hard to write this entry. But apart from the last year, if I look back honestly (and by "honestly" I mean not through depressed eyes, as much as that is possible) to 1979, I've lived my life as an expression of that root conviction: this is all meaningless. College was meaningless, so I dropped out after that Fall quarter and moved home to live with my parents. None of us realized I was seriously mentally ill. My relationship with Nancy was meaningless, so I rarely wrote or called or worked too hard on our relationship (that we're still together is so much a testimony to Nancy's graciousness). Church was meaningless, so I only showed up to sing (I can still sing, but even now I'm not convinced singing is not meaningless, so I don't pursue singing). College was still meaningless when I went back in 1981 and graduated in 1983, so I gave it half-effort (maybe I am arrogant: since my half-effort was so good, I wonder how my full-effort would shine) . . . well, I don't want to recapitulate in detail, but trust me, I've struggled all the years since (which includes four degrees, twelve years of ministry [and I will write later on faith and theology] and my current four years and growing hiatus) between my conviction that all this is ultimately meaningless and the assurance that such a conviction is the surest sign of my mental illness.

Depression is a mental illness. Next time I see one of you, remember: he's not arrogant, he's just depressed. Ten years of therapy and drugs shows how tenacious depression can be, at least in my case. Look, I know I should doubt my convictions, and I'm working real hard to do just that. I try to imagine the day when I wake up and experience, feel that life and love are meaningful, that annihilation does not conquer them, that the now overrides the then. Cognitively, I tell myself daily, "You might be wrong," and try really hard to believe that. I see the joy everybody else seems to find in life and I want that, I truly want to feel that way, too. Because if my convictions are right, tragically and ironically, mine is a dreadful way to live the one life I will ever have. And it's dreadful to inflict my convicted life on those I love.

OK, I must be arrogant after all, because finally I think I'm right about life and death when 95% of all people who are or ever were know I'm wrong. But that's mental illness, right there: stubbornly holding one's convictions in the face of all evidence to the contrary. I accept that. So I need your help. Next time you see me, tell me I'm wrong. Better yet, tell me how I'm wrong, tell me how you find meaning in life, how you stare down death, how love lasts beyond all mortal flesh. Testify bravely, boldly, knowing that under this wry, dismissive exterior lives one who wants a new life so badly, who wants your joy and hope and anticipation for tomorrow. Thank you for reading.

Someone Else's Words

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Sun, 30 Jan 2011 05:09:00 +0000

This posted by PaulDavisTheFirst on the website for the Anchorage Daily News, in a comment in response to a rant by Paul Jenkins on January 29th:

the last time a president tried to tell it like it really is (carter), the country thought he was being a real downer. congratulations for all those who couldn't take the advice to wear an extra sweater or turn down the thermostat - you've basically made it impossible for any president or national elected leader to realistically describe the country to itself.

you want reality? we live in a country that has outsourced its manufacturing capacity, wildly redistributed wealth toward the top 5%, promoted a consumer culture that has been powered by credit, failed to enact a health care system that stands any real chance of bringing our costs into line with other industrialized countries, launched a series of massively expensive wars primarily in defense of our interests in the energy resources of the middle east, failed to significantly develop alternate domestic supplies of clean energy, failed to maintain our physical infrastructure, created a culture that is endlessly focused on our lives as consumers when most of us spend more time as employees and citizens, semi-consistently cut taxes to the wealthiest people (in marked contrast to what has been done during the most economically productive periods in US history), deregulated industry after industry out of some naive and historically absurd notion that they will police themselves in accord with our national interest, sold our political system to the highest bidder (which these days can legally be a corporation), stood by as political gerrymandering and absurd senate rules drain the vitality our government's decision making processes ... the list goes on and on and on.

What do you think you'd feel about a president who said all that?

Read more: http://www.adn.com/2011/01/29/1674405/americans-grow-weary-of-political.html#ixzz1CUZ85RCJ

I like how thorough he is in describing our country's economic policies.

A Stupid Economy

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Tue, 25 Jan 2011 18:29:00 +0000

I have heard that President Obama will focus on the economy during tonight’s state of the union address, purportedly because the economy is the number one issue concerning the majority of Americans recently polled by some polling organization or another. Harking back to President Clinton’s 1992 internal campaign motto, “It’s the economy, stupid,” our president seems to be focusing his address on the economy in an effort first to address a public concern and second to bolster his political well-being. That our people care deeply about the economy, according to this brief analysis, is a persistent trend.

And I get this. Abraham Maslow famously presented a pyramid of needs, on the bottom of which are life necessities rising to a crown of spirituality concerns, and argued that before a person can address more lofty or spiritual concerns (those on the top), she or he must first satisfy everyday concerns (those on the bottom), like having enough food to eat, having clothes to wear, having a place to live. After those bottom conditions are satisfied, a person can begin to consider one’s purpose and calling, or theological and philosophical questions. So our emphasis on things economic points to a pressing need to meet these basic necessities for our citizenry before we move on to a public concern for “intangibles” such as justice, and mercy, and compassion.

When President Clinton focused his successful 1992 presidential campaign on the economy, the unemployment rate in the United States was 7.5%. Today that rate is 9.5% or thereabouts. So I can understand 9.5% of those polled listing the economy as their number one concern: they’re unemployed, looking for work in a weak economy, probably looking at their unemployment compensation ending soon. I get this, too: I’ve been unemployed since June of 2008. Even though my wife and I live in such a way that being unemployed is a choice I’ve made rather than a predicament I’m in, I still feel at times useless, frustrated, unwanted, underutilized, simply because I’m not bringing home a regular paycheck.

What I don’t understand is why so many besides those of us who are unemployed would say the economy is their number one concern. This month, the Rasmussen Reports found that 87% of those they polled listed the economy as “a very important issue,” highest of ten pressing issues. So if I subtract 9.5%, representing those unemployed whom I consider have pressing reasons to list the economy as their number one concern, that leaves 77.5% of those polled who are concerned about the economy. Presumably, those 77.5% are employed, though I cannot speculate how well employed, if they have a crushing mortgage, if they’re uninsured, etc. But being employed, why is the economy still their most pressing issue?

Perhaps poverty plays a role here. According to the U.S. Census Bureau, the poverty rate rose to 14.3% in 2009 (which, interestingly, is 8.1% lower than it was in 1959, the year I was born), poverty being (a) a threshold of $22,000.00 in income and aid per year for a family of four and (b) certainly representing a much higher degree of material well-being in comparison to poverty in other nations, particularly in the two-thirds world. So, let’s add this percentage to that of the unemployed, ignoring any overlap that surely exists, and subtract 23.8% representing those who have righteous reasons to list concerns about our economy as number one from the 87% of all of us and that leaves 64% of us who are employed and not impoverished (even by Western economic scales) yet who still list the economy as their number one concern.

And I still don’t understand this. That 64% of us live in a staggering degree of comfort, unseen in all previous millennia. Almost every person in this country has a refrigerator and air conditioning, television and internet, at least three rooms per person in our houses, almost one car, and at least some form of assured retirement income (at the least, Social Security). And that 64% of us still are most concerned about economic issues.

Look, Maslow was right, but he didn’t extend his analysis far enough. He limited his analysis to necessity instead of perception. If a person does not have the necessities covered – housing, food, clothing – he will never rise to consider more spiritual matters. But as we see daily in our country, if a person does not wrench his perceptions away from having more and more food and clothing and housing, having more opulence, he, too, will never rise to consider more spiritual matters, such as truth, and beauty, and justice, and compassion, and love. And in this country, in our culture, you and I are convinced we never have enough, even when we have so much. So how can we expect our polity to step above this crass consumerism and commercialism to a higher plane where we actually advance our morals and ethics, our philosophies and theologies?

Sadly, I do not expect too much out of us: I know us for the shallow breed we’ve become, a breed that exalts value over principle, whose main sense of worth comes from purchasing, bred carefully through many generations to consider economics of prime importance. Of such creatures, one cannot expect more than ravenous consumption. But I do expect more from a leader, especially from our president. I fully appreciate that followers make leaders in their own image, but leaders, dammit, LEAD, they don’t simply follow their followers. I want our president to give us a good spanking, to tell us to stop whining about getting more and more stuff and to stand up and be adults for once instead of the spoiled children we’ve become, to show us how we can be a better commonwealth, not in terms of wealth, but in terms of common dignity and decency and compassion. I’m tired of bottom dwelling. Let’s rise. Thank you for reading.

Stiff Hands

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 05:48:00 +0000

I reached to touch you
And found my hands clumsy
As if a mannequin’s
Or artist’s model
All carven oak and metal joints

Hands remember
Grasping where one should not
Remember textures that
Make one shudder and squirm
Because they violate
So nerves grow stiff and senseless
And tendons petrify
And fingers pose slowly
And wrists and joints creak coldly

Sand my hands
With finest grit
Finish them in shellac and lacquer
Till all is sealed and sleek
Lest my splinters
Pierce and pull your tender skin

Virginia’s Damn Moth

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Sun, 16 Jan 2011 03:20:00 +0000

Let us postulate
Two powers, two principalities
Engaged in endless, insensate contest
Purposeless, goalless
Simple consequences from initial conditions

On this hand, life
Boiling, roiling, seething
Bursting into new paths
When another becomes resolutely blocked
Evolving new forms
Without preference, pragmatic
Impelled in the process
Midges teeming from a drying slough
Grasses sprouting in lava flows

On that hand, death
Staunch, resolute, adamant
Impeding, depleting,
Grasping with enormous, weighty hands
Dragging, exhausting
An insensate, clinging giant
Thoughtless, slow, entropic
Inured to forms
All alike like sputtering candles
In a damp and musty tomb

In this demonic trial
Everyone I know, everyone I love is
One of Virginia’s damn moths
Feeble but defiant
Collateral damage on the windowsill

Second Amendment Economics

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 16:51:00 +0000

Whatever else we might say, our United States seems of two minds regarding people murdered by other people wielding firearms: we deeply regret the lives lost to lunatics shooting semi-automatic weapons but we reiterate that such tragedies do not override Second Amendment protections of the liberty to keep and bear arms. I say “we” because, first, we have a broad and successfully organized lobby for not only preserving but advancing Second Amendment rights, a lobby that certainly contributed to our Supreme Court’s recent decision interpreting the Second Amendment to provide an individual’s right to keep and bear arms regardless of any civic interest (the first time in our long history the Supreme Court has found such an unrestrained individual right to keep and bear arms in the Second Amendment).

I say “we” because, second, recent polling data describe the majority of those polled as favoring more government regulations on the sale of firearms and the types of firearms available for purchase. Please note: this is a temporary majority whose numbers usually spike after some seriously deranged person takes up arms and murders a bunch of people, as recently happened in Tuscon (and Tuscon brings to mind Virginia Tech and UT Austin and the Amish schoolhouse, remember that one?). But so far, this majority has not organized their convictions (and, again, their convictions waver far more than those of gun rights advocates) to a politically persuasive extent. A subset of this majority has mobilized and organized, have called for tighter regulations and have had some success – the Brady Bill comes to mind, though that bill was signed into law by President Clinton twelve years after John Hinkley shot James Brady along with President Reagan and two others, hardly a speedy success.

Finally, I say “we” because you and I – assuming neither you nor I are members of a gun rights group or have been polled – hold private convictions on the matter, convictions we’ve generally kept to ourselves or at most have posted online in the form of “what a shame” or “this is tragic” or a link to an article that does express a strong opinion, for or against. Most of us – and the unpolled and unaffiliated form a sizeable majority, a vast majority – swing emotionally from one argument to the next, feeling that our Constitution does guarantee us rights that are important, feeling horrible about such senseless killings, feeling either emboldened or repulsed by vocal advocacy groups such as the NRA, but we haven’t taken the time to think through the issues and, having thought, to contact our Representative and Senators about our opinions. We in the vast majority are buffeted to and fro by the winds of our shifting public discourse, but usually, if we have an opinion, we keep it generally private.

So we – all of us in this great country – share responsibility for our current predicament: our governments allow each of us, provided we are of sufficient age and pass a computerized background check (with all the shortcomings and strengths of computerization), to bear firearms of astonishing power, capacity and efficiency, even firearms that seem to be designed primarily for shooting other people (for instance, semi-automatic handguns or armor-piercing ammunition). And I realize it’s hard to speak about “we” in meaningful ways since “we” in this instance refers to our United States. Yet our Constitution does just that, beginning “We the people of the United States,” and even though our Constitution’s ratification did not depend on every citizen eligible to vote voting “yea” (ours is a republic, not a democracy), our Constitution represents all of us through the medium of our elected and appointed representatives. So by using “we” I don’t mean to speak about each and every person in this country, but about a public consensus of “we,” representing the media and debates and governments and laws and opinions and spokespersons that our citizenry exude like will-o-the-wisps over sloughs and swamps, that fleeting, shifting, miasmical “we” of representational public discourse.

I find it difficult to avoid the conclusion that “we” have adopted a cost/benefit approach to our stance regarding our firearm predicament: though we’re horrified, the number of people killed by other people using firearms, even the particulars about those so killed (for instance, a nine year old girl or a septuagenarian shielding his wife), have so far not risen to a level that would make us willing to curtail a constitutionally protected freedom. If this is the case, why don’t we try a little thought experiment. Let’s ask ourselves this question: how many murders through use of firearms would it take to make us willing to curtail Second Amendment freedoms?

If we answer anything other than “it doesn’t matter how many people are murdered using firearms: a right is a right,” then we demonstrate that it is possible for a certain number of murders to make us reevaluate our convictions regarding the Second Amendment, that is, “we” will preserve and protect the right to keep and bear arms lightly fettered (current regulations, the NRA’s rhetoric notwithstanding, are truly light fetters) provided not too many of us are brutally, senselessly murdered. And whether that number is fifty thousand or one hundred thousand or one million over a one-year period, or if it is just one poignant tragedy (all are poignant, but Nickel Mines comes to mind as especially so), if we’re using a cost/benefit approach our reasoning is morally suspect: we subsidize the constitutional right to bear arms on the people that have been murdered by other people using firearms, and not on thoughtful considerations or patriotic convictions regarding constitutional rights. Bottom line: there haven’t been enough murders for we the people to amend our constitutional right to bear arms.

As for me, I hope and pray that our answer will never be, “it doesn’t matter how many: a right is a right.” Such absolutism hides too many other issues – firearm culture, sports enthusiasm or last-ditch security against encroaching government militantism among them – behind a blanket assertion of constitutional rights. And I find it more frightening if such an answer is honest, if nothing else is on the table except constitutionalism. Such an answer grants way too much foresight to our well-intentioned founders - foresight they undoubtedly would not claim for themselves – and privileges their supposed foresight over all our subsequent history. If we say “a right is a right” we portray the most inhumane brutality, not just to those six murdered in Tuscon, but to every person murdered in every city and home for whatever reason, and to every survivor of attempted murder, and to every person related to or friends with a murder or attempted-murder victim, hell, we portray the most inhumane brutality to everyone, victim or not, including you and me and “We, the people”: all our lives are found wanting when weighed in the balance against Second Amendment rights.

Please, let’s you and I say it is possible for there to be so many murders by people using firearms that we’d seriously consider changing our interpretation of the Second Amendment’s right to keep and bear arms, that you and I would encourage our elected Representatives and Senators to amend the Second Amendment. Let’s pick a horrible number of murders – say, one hundred thousand in a calendar year – and say that once we reach that level, we’ll do something about regulating the purchase and use of firearms more stringently. Once we’ve set that number, then we’ll see how cheaply we hold all those lives that fall short of our arbitrary number, and rather than weighing all of us against the Second Amendment, we’ll see how we weigh even those tragic victims – real this time and not speculative, with names and histories and birthdates and deathdates – against the Second Amendment and find them, too, wanting. Perhaps then we, the people, can move from two minds to one: no right is worth this. Thank you for reading.

Getting Attention

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Sun, 09 Jan 2011 18:39:00 +0000

When I was studying pastoral care at Columbia Seminary, the instructor assured all of us fledgling ministers that dying people want to be remembered more than anything else, and not in a grand, universal way but in an up-close, person-to-person way. Shortly after, while I was a chaplain at the Veterans Administration Hospital in Decatur, I told a dying person that his family and friends – and even I – would remember him always. He cried and cried, telling me I was one of the good ones (the good ones being his family and friends and their attention).

I attended to his needs, my supervisor told me, challenging me not to be proved a liar. I remember him right now – Vietnam veteran, incurable staph, no memory of combat but combat veteran – so I guess I was truthful. Though he fought on an international stage, when his dying time came the attention he needed most was local and personal - I just happened to pass through his life at its very end, and was fortunate to be invited to share it. To attend: civilly or courteously caring for another person. Respectfully sitting in an audience, “attend” recalls most polite aspects of our culture, and politeness is the eternal root of politics.

You and I share a basic need for attention, of being noticed sympathetically or memorably. I am blogging right now, partly because I crave your attention. This morning, I researched Phyllis W. Schneck – 79 year old shooting victim in Tuscon, life-long Presbyterian, mother of three, widowed for three years, knitter and volunteer – so that I could post a memorial to her and not to a federal judge or nine year old girl, though they need our memories as much as Mrs. Schneck. Though I do want us to remember those not famous as well as those who are (famous being a function of attention, and we do lavish attention on those who are judges and politicians more than we do on those who are retired widows), I also wanted your attention, your noticing that I was sharp enough to post from a different, perhaps even unique angle on yesterday’s tragic event.

To get attention among so many people, to have even a tiny fraction of the world’s eyes turned to us, has always required notability, either great beneficence or great malevolence. Both hold their own distinctions. One who accomplishes something of great benefit attends to others' needs and wants, who in turn give attention (accolades, honors) to the accomplisher. Call this reciprocity, civil reciprocity. We attend concerts, recitals, speeches, performances with respect and attention because we’re being served and so should be appreciative, polite, politic. And those we honor do well to drop the head and lower the eye and give us the “aw shucks” of humility. And I’m not arguing that benefactors serve solely for the accolades, just that the accolades are always a part of beneficence.

The other, malevolence, holds a great irony. A drive for attention seems also to be an inseparable part of great (and lesser) malevolence: a lunatic kills six people in Arizona from motives we know not what, but in public, in broad daylight, attention must be a factor. Our eyes are riveted, pulled to the scene, he gets our attention even though his act holds nothing of civility, or courtesy, or even politics (to our current knowledge). Sadly, such malevolent acts are not the sole attractors for our attention: even speaking malevolently can draw our eyes and ears more quickly than speaking benevolently. Praising someone gets little noticed, deriding someone gets instant airplay. Deep in us, all of us, lies a greater propensity to notice danger than succor, to attend to the warnings more than the assurances, to mark the enemies more easily than the friends.

And that’s one hulking challenge of our times: we have so much info, so much media, so much data that for one to get another’s attention - globally, mind you, not locally - consistently leads to an escalating criticism, an escalating disparaging of the two’s adversary. So politics – ironically, sadly ironically the practice of living together – becomes wildly divisive, media becoming fascinated with this “vitriol,” and you and I can’t tear our eyes away from such a malevolent display. And it's a slippery slope, pot to heroin, once we get used to a certain noise level the only way a voice can stand out from the cacophony is to get louder, so it’s pedal to the medal, accelerate manfully, shoot ‘em up cowboys, cat-fights galore, “liberal” and “conservative” and “traitor” and “liar” and “they should be executed” and look at me, at me!

I am just like that, sadly. I want you to notice me, to pay attention to me. Oh, I’m not so desperate that I’m going to go out and murder people, perform some atrocity. But I do know that many of my efforts, even posting this post to this blog, stem from that deep, human need for attention. You’re this way, too, we humans all are this way. And public notice is so much more efficient (we think) than private: I can do this, and these many eyes will see me. Particularly in this time, in this culture, you and I can instantly appeal for another's, for many others' attention just by posting on Facebook, on blogs, on web pages. We all know how easy this is, and given how much quicker we notice threat or danger or malevolence, any person wanting you and me to post about them on Facebook, etc., knows that the quickest way to do so is by saying or doing something fearful, or horrible. After all, that I'm writing and you're reading this blog marks you us a correspondents in our global discourse: we're the target.

Enough. I for one need to turn my eyes from the global to the local, from memorials for six people killed in Tuscon, good folks all, to helping close a grave at the local cemetery this afternoon with my dad and the other "gravehands." I need to refocus my gaze on those here up on the mountain, on those here at home. I certainly don't need to forget the international scene, to ignore it, but I do need to balance my attention between the global and the local. And given the great ease with which we notice threat or danger or malevolence, I should intentionally refocus, constantly refocus my attention on acts of kindness and goodness, of simple pleasures and dignities, of such inanities as being polite to each other, of remembering each other, of always remembering each other, since memory is the goal of attention. We, you and I and our public discourse, need this balance desperately. Thank you for reading.

About Meaning

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Sat, 01 Jan 2011 04:49:00 +0000

I look for meaning

In an instant
As each moment I stand myself up against
The tick-marks on the doorjamb my hand marking head-high
Looking down and up and measuring

In a day
I lay me down to sleep and did I
Advance any skill or craft or goal that will
Keep my soul ‘til tomorrow
That should I not wake would this day serve my final testament

In a week
House at 7:00
Glee at 7:00
Supper at 5:30 so Mom can get to church
Bones at 7:00
No date night this week
Football all day
Don’t go to church
The week a wheel with a busted spoke da bump da bump da bump da bump

In a month
Four and a half rows of seven blocks stacked up
Each block startlingly empty (mostly)
Maybe a meeting here or there maybe one Sunday gig
But mostly blank like next year’s month instead of one just past
Knock them down and start stacking again, mostly empty

In a year
Just last year I protested all years all time keeping
As tyrannical artificial circular medieval reductionist superstitious shallow infantile
Stomping my foot holding my breath protesting
Just one more game I promise a quick one
Before nap time

In a life
Astounded at fifty-one and what have I done
Just to sit and remember each year if I can and
See if I can account for each one’s landmarks and passing
Are they distinct or have they molded together inseparable and confounded
Like different colors of playdough hastily pushed into tubs and forgotten
Maybe I could pry them apart
All dry and crumbly glued

In the future
Will I be remembered in a year or a decade or a century or am I
Truly anonymous except to parents and children and siblings and wife
Who don’t seem to count as much as peers and
Public acclaim being satisfying justifying
One’s rep stepping down the block the kids oohing and ahhing and stepping back
More gratifying more lasting in a moment than lineage or descent

In eternity
That my life should reverberate down all ages and eons
Past all human history when every achievement has eroded
Become sediment and rock and cut to make pavers and bricks for
Alien streets and monuments that erode and crumble and blow dusty on fading solar wind
Even to the last dying spark of starlight when light itself
Becomes absolutely cold and still and dark
And yet my echo whispering in that searing void

No less than this is meaning.

Thank you for reading.

About Jesus' Birthday

noreply@blogger.com (Jeff Hayes (RDJH)) — Tue, 28 Dec 2010 22:52:00 +0000

Here’s a surprise: I don’t like Jesus’ birthday any better than my own, but for an equal and opposite reason. On the one hand, I don’t like my birthday because birth and death are enmeshed, but on the other hand, I don’t like most churches’ celebrations of Jesus birthday because they separate his birth from his death.

First, to review, I don’t like my birthday because it dredges up birth/death dread and, purporting to celebrate the day of one’s emergence, as it surely does in one’s early years, while the years mount one’s birthday becomes a grim countdown toward the last one, and no one ever talks about this other side of birthdays though birthday humor – and sometimes humor is a last-gasp honesty – usually points to it: you’re growing old, you’ve got grey hair (my friends sang this to my before I was ten) or numerous birthday cards that remind you of that inverse rule of aging: the more years the fewer functions, especially those functions one most wants to carry undiminished into one’s dotage (cards addressing these, though addressed to a sextuagenarian [say that fast and hear the irony] or septuagenarian, often feature someone young, nubile and half naked). Birthdays seem dishonest with a frosty, sugar coating: yay, another year, may be your last.

Now, to Jesus’ birthday: I see churches celebrating Jesus’ birth with no mention of his death. Good god, the horrors I’ve seen: come worship the Christ child, come kneel at the manger, come welcome the Babe (not the babe on the birthday card). And the pageants, excuses to parade the church’s children around in ridiculous costumes (if you were ever a sheep in one of these you know what I mean) and have them recite a conflation of Matthew and Luke with a little of John’s prologue thrown in (mercifully, Mark has proven particularly resistant to this harmony). The whole season of Advent I find particularly foolish, like Jesus is going to be born again (I love that theological irony) and surely not that Jesus is actually going to return some day ‘cause that would be way too eschatological for the mainlines (churches who look fervently for the Lord’s return usually don’t celebrate Christmas at all, at least in worship). This whole season reminds me of a medieval passion play for illiterates – the people could never understand the Scriptures so we’ll put on little vignettes to help them - and last time I checked most of us church-goers are literate enough to text or email each other though not so much with the Scriptures (so maybe this mess is a good thing after all), cause if we did understand the Scriptures we’d never sit still for so much of this nativity nonsense.

Now, after that rant I hope you’re saying, “Ok, wise guy, you tell me what the Scriptures say!” Oh, I’ve got you now, and I dare – I triple-dog dare you – not to admit even grudgingly when I’m through that I’ve got a point. If you have even a shred of self-respect you’ll concede now.

Ok, to the Scriptures. Jesus’ birth is mentioned just about exclusively in two gospels, Matthew and Luke. I think we can leave the prologue to John’s gospel and the couple of places where the epistles speak of Christ’s pre-existence out of the discussion, though those scriptures, one may easily argue, invariably include Christ’s post-existence, i.e. the descent and ascent of the divine-human figure. Matthew and Luke have explicit stories of Jesus’ birth, on which the churches base their Christmas services. My thesis: Matthew and Luke entwine Jesus’ birth inextricably with his death. Let’s start with Matthew and for ease of reference I’ll quote from the NIV.

Mary is found to be pregnant so Joseph is going to divorce her but sleeps on it and has a dream, one in which an angel visits him, and here’s what the angel says to Joseph and, concurrently, here’s what the narrator says to us readers:

“Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins.”

Now, I want you to set aside all your long theological or ecclesiastical training in how Jesus saves us from our sins and stick with Matthew’s gospel. Taking this last clause – “he will save his people from their sins” – how does this birth announcement enmesh Jesus’ birth and death? (You see it already, don’t you?) Note also that, aside from the narrator’s quote from Isaiah (which is actually kind of contradictory to the angel’s message, unless you can tolerate Jesus having two names – Jesus, which means “the Lord saves” and Immanuel, which means “God with us,” the latter name closing the gospel with Jesus telling his disciples “I am with you always,” which actually argues against the divine-man’s descent and return to heaven, since Jesus doesn’t go anyplace but stays here forever, see the problems with harmonizing?), this announcement and a brief sentence (“But he had no union with her until she gave birth to a son”) are all we’ve got from Matthew about Jesus’ birth (please don’t get me started on “We Three Kings from Orient Are”). So you may be saying, “Jeff, with so little to go on, how can you argue that Jesus’ birth and death are inextricably entwined?”

I don’t want to go into great detail here, and am confident my short explanation will suffice to make my argument, but I do suggest you spend some time concording the words “save,” “people” and “sin” in Matthew’s gospel. I’m using Schmoller’s “Handkonkordanz zum griechischen Neuen Testament” primarily to intimidate you with German, though it’s way handy and fairly exhaustive as a pocket-sized concordance to the Greek NT. But using a concordance you’ll find these three words – save, people and sins – grouped in Matthew’s unique usage (I’m discounting here those places where Matthew explicitly uses Mark, since the author’s creation is usually more indicative of her intent than her quotes from other sources) in two places. The first, at the last supper, when Jesus describes a blessed cup of wine as “my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” – and, remember, we’re talking a heavily Jewish context so you’ll have to read up on the use of blood in forgiveness of sins in the Hebrew Bible, as well as Passover celebrations, etc. This gets close to Jesus’ saving his people from their sins, though the reference to “many” is not so explicitly a reference to Jesus’ “people,” but you see where I’m going, right: those churches that celebrate the Lord’s Supper on Christmas Eve are heading in the right direction.

But that’s not the best part in Matthew. I encourage you to read up on the narrative use of irony in the first century and in Scripture, because the second, sure, rock-solid tie in between the angel’s telling Joseph how to name Jesus and the entwining of his birth with his death comes in the scene before Pilate. Pilate – a classically ruthless bastard to his subjects and a sycophantic suck-up to his superiors – asks the crowd of Jesus’ people – Pilate’s Jewish subjects – a question impossible to answer: “Which one do you want me to release to you: Barabbas, or Jesus who is called Christ?” Remember now – “Christ” is a pre-Christian term meaning “anointed one” and was used to refer to deliverers or kings, so I imagine Pilate just itching for the crowd to shout for a messiah so he can retaliate, “Oh, yeah, I’ve got your messiah right here!” I also imagine the crowd is way too smart to fall for such an obvious trick. And though the author seems apologetic for Pilate, ironically things are quite different. Think about the redemptive power of blood in Jewish sacrificial theology as you read this:

“When Pilate saw that he was getting nowhere, but that instead an uproar was starting, he took water and washed his hands in front of the crowd. ‘I am innocent of this man’s blood,’ he said. ‘It is your responsibility!’ All the people answered, ‘Let his blood be on us and on our children!’”

You will call his name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins. Jesus saves from sins through the covenant (no mention of a “new” covenant in Matthew), in which his blood atones. Pilate says, ironically, tragically, as do all who do not see both our complicity and blessedness in Jesus’ death, “I’m innocent (!) of his blood.” And way more tragically, this redemptive cry, “His blood be on us and our children,” rather than affirming that for its first century the Jesus movement was mostly a Jewish movement, led in later centuries to the Church’s persecution of Jesus’ own people. Call him Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins. And lest you wish to argue that it is Jesus’ resurrection that saves his people and not his bloodshedding death, read this, unique to Matthew, from Jesus’ crucifixion:

“And when Jesus had cried out again in a loud voice, he gave up his spirit. At that moment the curtain of the temple was torn in two from top to bottom. The earth shook and the rocks split. The tombs broke open and the bodies of many holy people who had died were raised to life. They came out of the tombs, and after Jesus’ resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many people.”

You see, at Jesus’ death, the resurrection – the final deliverance from our sins – begins.

Now, I don’t want you to get hung up on whether Jesus actually saved his people in subsequent history. My point is the author of Matthew inextricably links Jesus’ birth with his death, so I don’t think the two should ever be separated (no Christmas without Easter, no Easter without Christmas, though I have serious reservations about the ways we celebrate both Christmas and Easter). And you may not find my argument about Matthew very convincing (remember: this is shorthand for a lot of scholarship that you can address with your own concordance and some basic exegesis). “Jeff, that’s a lot of words, they can mean anything, so what.” Sure, so let’s turn to Luke and address images instead of words.

Ah, Luke. Here’s where we get so much of our Christmas pageants – angels and shepherds and mangers and starry nights and noels. I want to concentrate on these verses from Luke’s birth narrative (I challenge you not to think of Linus as you read these):

“While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.” (Ok, Linus was reciting from the King James version and I said I’d stick to the NIV, so the two are different enough that you may not have heard Linus at all).

Now, you and I are probably heavily influenced by Western European culture, especially in so traditional (meaning – straight from the Old Country) a matter as Christmas, so you’ve probably got in your mind a picture of your parents’ crèche from when you were young, which probably looks like a barn of some kind straight out of Germany or Scandinavia: wooded sides, thatched roof with the baby Jesus lying in a wooden feed trough. The author of Luke would never have had that image in mind, because it’ constituent parts would not exist for, I don’t know, a millennium or so. Indeed, if the author is telling the truth in the introduction, she has compared sources and “investigated everything from the beginning,” so she knows something about inns and mangers in Bethlehem of Jesus’ day (and actually for centuries thereafter), and the facts are these: wood was scarce, so was hay and wheat therefore so was thatch. But caves are abundant, especially in Bethlehem, they’re dry and cozy and they’ve made great homes from Jesus’ time to ours. And since we’re not talking housing standards such as we have in the U.S.A., but much smaller and simpler dwellings as humans have used well until very recently, and drawing on good archaeology from Bethlehem, the customary family cave had two main sections, one for people and the other for animals. Contrary to our expectations, the front of the two sections was reserved for people, the back for the animals (usually not very many animals) and, get this, the word usually translated “inn” (bringing to mind hotels and motels and quaint English inns, all anachronisms) means actually “higher room” or “upper room” (both Mark and Luke use this word to refer to the place Jesus ate his last supper!) and actually referred to the room for people (often a step or two higher than the deeper, lower room further back in the cave), so Mary and Joseph and the baby found no room in the people area (too many people in town because of the census) of a local family’s perhaps relative’s cave home and had to go further back in the cave.

So get this image in your mind: a cave with a trough hewn out of rock, Mary wrapping up Jesus with cloths and laying him down in it. The author wants to make sure that we remember this image, because she repeats it three times (“she wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger . . . this will be a sign to you: you will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger . . . so they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger”). Now ask yourself where else in Luke’s gospel do we see a similar scene. Remember Joseph (there’s that name again) of Arimathea:

“Going to Pilate, he asked for Jesus’ body. Then he took it down, wrapped it in linen cloth and placed it in a tomb cut in the rock.”

The wondrous sign the shepherds saw – and all signs make us wonder not just about their magnificence but about their meaning – was a baby appearing as one entombed. I imagine that besides being inconvenient, using a manger for a crib would also bring a bit of superstitious creepiness to Jesus’ parents, like our using a baby’s casket for a bassinette. But the author understands – and wants us to understand – that, at least looking back, we cannot understanding Christ or what his life means without keeping both his birth and his death united. In neither Matthew nor Luke are we considering history: the actual events of Jesus’ birth are wrapped so completely in theology that Jesus’ history is unrecoverable. But the mere fact of Jesus’ being born is trivial and ordinary, in spite of those who claim there’s no proof Jesus ever existed. So is the mere fact of his being killed. What is important, ecstatically important, is that his birth and death and all they encompass are immensely meaningful, that Jesus in his life – birth, living, death – did all that was right, was always about God’s business, fulfilled God’s plan and, following the analogy from a prior post, changed the course of human history, including my own.

For one like I, so caught up in wondering if what I do with my time and life will ever mean anything, Scripture reminds me that Jesus’ life has great meaning and that, by joining my life with his even though that means a cross in my future, my life can mean something, too. But Scripture offers this hope through the conviction that from the very get-go Jesus’ death was foreseen and embraced, even in the earliest moments of his life, not as a problem to be overcome or an outcome to be avoided, but as a redemptive conclusion without which his saving life would be incomplete. Our celebrations of Jesus’ birthday are surely incomplete when we forget this. Thank you for reading.