Teaspoon of Hell

The psychic fog has lifted quite a bit over the past week. It's all due to God's grace ultimately, but some of the intermediaries are the love, prayers, and patience of my wife, the sacrament of confession, the daily cycle of church services available to me, the familiar prayers of my prayerbook, the prayers of my spiritual father, sessions with a skilled counselor, SAMe, my own prayers, fasting, and to cover all the other countless things I don't know about: "the strong hand of God hidden in the shadows" (to steal a line from Mark Heard). I'm grateful for the return of energy and the respite from the hellish self-focus. BUT. . .now that the fog has lifted, I need to pull out of the rest area and get on with the road-trip. . .i.e. I need to get back to the work of repentance.

I had let down my guard over the past months, perhaps stretching back a couple years. Slowly by slowly I compromised on "small" things of "marginal importance". Like King David lolling about on the roof watching Bathsheeba bathe instead of being out on the battlefield with his men, I grew weaker and weaker until I slept with her and murdered her husband. Despondency, at least for me, is an "unpredictably manageable" glimpse of hell. The burning concoction of agitation, lethargy, fear, anxiety, hopelessness and loneliness, which eventually brings about physical changes in my body, is humiliating in its' ability to dehumanize me. This latest episode scared me and I hope put a little fear of God into me.

During the first confession I ever gave to a priest-monk, soon after coming into the Orthodox Church, I was told that the only cure for my inordinate self-love and pride was, "to taste hell by the bucketful." I didn't really comprehend what he was saying. I almost had the attitude of, "bring it on God. . .I want to be rid of these besetting sins." But after gagging on this little teaspoon of hell that God allowed me to swallow over the past few weeks, I realize that tasting hell by the bucketful would drive me insane for sure.

I Don't Believe in Chance

Last night I was browsing through our bookshelf and "happened" upon Interior Silence: Elder Michael, The Last Great Mystic of Valaam. My wife bought it before we were married, and by God's providence I had never seen it. . .before last night. I thumbed through it and even read some passages aloud to Macrina. It was obvious from reading just a little bit that Elder Michael was a very holy and wise man. He died in 1962. This morning I opened the book again to a section called "Brief Instructions". This is what I read:

Endure, and endure everything--all sorrows, all heaviness of labor, reproaches, slander, but most of all, fear depression. This is the most weighty sin. (emphasis mine)

There are two paths. One, the path of self-reproach and humility. And two, the path of self-justification and despondency. The first is the true path of contrition of spirit and repentance, and it leads to salvation and humility. The second is a path of pride, self-justification. Then no one can help, not my prayers, nor heavenly angels, but only the mercy of the Lord, and if it wouldn't be for the Lord, this leads to perdition.

No matter what temptation or fall one is assailed with, one must get up, not be despondent, and begin again. Labor upon labor is necessary. Unseen warfare is needed. Only for manly warfare are crowns given. There must be a war, contrition with sincere repentance, and firm hope.

Arm yourself and wage war, and everything else will be given to you by the Lord.

I don't believe in chance.

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On an unrelated note (I'm tired of all this introspection. . .and you probably are too). Props to Karl for a concise, albeit slightly cynical, view of the post-election landscape in Who Really Benefits From the Upcoming Presidential Election?

One Way Mirrors

As I've gone about the detective work of trying to get to the bottom of my current bout with despondency (that's Orthodox language for "depression"), I've been looking over all the usual suspects like a police lineup. They are a diverse and sometimes vexatious group of thugs. And yet, the more I pace back and forth giving them the once over through the one-way mirrors, the more harmless they all seem. Unlike an actual police lineup, I know most of their names: Genetics. Upbringing. Pop Culture. Junk Food. Circumstances. TV. Chance. Boredom. Technology. Responsibility. Duty. Urbanism. Suburbanism. Sectarianism. Nationalism. Fatalism. There are a few characters I can't quite make out because they're always looking down, shifting their weight from one foot to the other and wiping their noses. But it doesn't matter, because after reading A Serbian Grandmother on Confession I realize the criminal is on this side of the one-way mirrors.

The Flaw in Our Ability to Love

Andrew Salomon's opening statement from Chapter 1 of The Noonday Demon, which I quoted in my last post (Crumbs of Love), has been bugging me. . .

Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair

There's something true in what he's saying. . .but there is something untrue as well. It seems to me that perfect (i.e. healthy, or holy) love is able to withstand the grief of lost love without collapsing into depression. Depression, it seems to me, is the flaw in our ability to love.

However, it does bring up a question I wrestle with re: God's character. Has God somehow jeopardized his Divine health (i.e. His holiness) by creating beings with a free will? That is, when some of these creatures reject His care, and instead are ungrateful and become inflamed with their own self-importance which ultimately destroys them. . .how is it that God's heart is not broken? How is it that God doesn't get depressed? I must say it is beyond me. The only way I can understand it is to make God out to be callous. . .which every fiber in my being rejects. I simply don't understand God. . .which leads to a lack of understanding of love. . .which may explain some of my struggles with depression. Actually, it's not a question of understanding. It is a question of being-doing. I can articulate the concept of love in an abstract way. . .but living out a relationship of love with God, with my wife, my children, my family, my priest, my fellow parishioners, my co-workers, etc. . .well, that's what kicks my ass.

Crumbs of Love

I've been struggling with depression again lately. It's been a few years, but like riding a bike. . .once you've done it, you don't forget. It's probably no surprise to those of you who read my blog regularly. . .some of my posts of late have hinted at this and the drop in frequency of my posts is also telling. But I've decided to blog about this openly after reading this:

If you would be simple hearted like the Apostles, would not conceal your human shortcomings, would not pretend to be especially pious, if you would walk free from hypocricy, then this is the path. While it is easy, not everyone can find it or understand it. This path is the shortest way to salvation and attracts the grace of God. Unpretentiousness, guilelessness, frankness of soul - this is what is pleasing to the Lord, who is lowly of heart. "Except ye become children, ye shall not enter the Kingdom of God" (Mt. 18:13).

- Elder Leonid of Optina

I'm not claiming that blogging about depression meets all those requirements, but I am hoping to attract a little bit of God's grace. Besides, if I'm going to blog at all then I might as well be as transparent as possible about all aspects of my life.

I've never read a better description of depression than the following:

Depression is the flaw in love. To be creatures who love, we must be creatures who can despair at what we lose, and depression is the mechanism of that despair. When it comes, it degrades one's self and ultimately eclipses the capacity to give or receive affection. It is the aloneness within us made manifest, and it destroys not only connection to others but also the ability to be peacefully alone with oneself. Love, though it is no prophylactic against depression, is what cushions the mind and protects it from itself. Medications and psychotherapy can renew that protection, making it easier to love and be loved, and that is why they work. In good spirits, some love themselves and some love others and some love work and some love God: any of these passions can furnish that vital sense of purpose that is the opposite of depression. Love forsakes us from time to time, and we forsake love. In depression, the meaninglessness of every enterprise and every emotion, the meaninglessness of life itself, becomes self-evident. The only feeling left in this loveless state is insignificance. . .It can be described only in metaphor and allegory. . .Saint Anthony in the desert, asked how he could differentiate between angels who came to him humble and devils who came in rich disguise, said you could tell by how you felt after they had departed. When an angel left you, you felt strengthened by his presence; when a devil left, you felt horror. Grief is a humble angel who leaves you with strong, clear thoughts and a sense of your own depth. Depression is a demon who leaves you appalled.
- excerpt from The Noonday Demon

The demon who has left me appalled this time has been ruthless where it concerns my faith in God. The imp is suggesting that "Orthodoxy doesn't work either." The little brat has been poking fun at me and suggesting that I'm just one of those pathetic creatures who needs religion to protect me from "reality" and that my constant "conversions" from one "spiritual medication" to another isn't over. . .he's sitting back chortling with his pals waiting for me to make the "next move."

But in his self-congratulatory stupor, he's overlooking something. I've tasted something this time. My "religious experience" is not just in my head. I've felt my heart becoming warm towards God, towards my wife, towards fellow creatures in general. I know it is possible to love and be loved. I know the joy of Pascha. Even though I can't feel it at the moment, I am as convinced today that "Christ has trampled down death by death" as I was standing in Church at Easter. Maybe the wee devil will figure out a way to wrest even this from my weakened hands. . .I can't say right now. But if he does, he'll have to answer to Christ. The little crumbs of love I have tasted have fallen from the table of Orthodoxy. I may be depressed, but I'm not stupid. I'm staying put. If I starve to death, I might as well starve to death surrounded by beauty and peace.

Bad Mood Blogging

For the 9 or so folks who were unfortunate enough to have read the post I spit up last night (I deleted it). . .I apologize. I was in a bad mood, and one shouldn't blog while in a bad mood because the mood gets communicated somehow. I actually stand by the content of what I wrote. . .but the tone was self-righteous, arrogant, and insensitive. I have learned through bitter experience, that the tone of a conversation (even one-sided ones like blogging) is equally, if not more, important than the words themselves. If the tone is right, most people can forgive inarticulate speech and half-baked thought. But the converse is not true. No clever combination of words can fix a self-important tone. So, go rinse your minds with the Psalter, and pray for me. . .a sinner.

St. Herman

Just thought I'd pass this on. . .it's a nice article from the BBC on Orthodoxy in Alaska. Religious legacy lives on in Alaska

The Demon of Noonday

I was waiting in a Doctor's office yesterday, and there was a bookshelf full of medical-related stuff. . .most of it diet and/or self-help type material. I'm pretty skeptical of that sort of pulp fiction, but one title in particular got my notice. It was titled, The Noonday Demon. Even without the subtitle, "An Atlas of Depression", I knew what the subject matter was. . .despondency. Here's what Abba Evagrius, an early Desert Father (4th Century) had to say about it:

The demon of despondency, which is also called the noonday demon (Psalms 90:6), is more grievous than all others. It attacks a monk in about the fourth hour (about ten in the morning) and whirls the soul round and round till about the eighth hour (two o'clock in the afternoon). It begins by making a man notice dejectedly how slowly the sun moves, or does not move at all, and that the day seems to have become fifty hours long. Then it urges the man to look frequently out of the window or even to go out of his cell to look at the sun and see how long it is till the ninth hour, at the same time making him glance hither and thither to see if some of the brethren are about. Then it arouses in him vexation against the place and his mode of life itself and his work, adding that there is no more love among the brethren and no one to comfort him. If in these days someone has offended him, the demon reminds him of it to increase his vexation. Then it provokes in him a longing for other places, where it would be easier to find the wherewithal to satisfy his needs by adopting some craft which is less strenuous and more profitable. He adds that to please God does not depend on the place; God can be worshipped everywhere. He connects with this thought memories of relatives and former well-being; and prophesies here a long life with the hardships of asceticism, and uses every wile to make the monk end by leaving his cell and taking flight from his career. This demon is followed by another, but not at once. However if a monk fights and conquers, this struggle is followed by a peaceful state, and the soul becomes filled with ineffable joy.

-- from E. Kadloubovsky and G. E. H. Palmer, trans., "Early Fathers From the Philokalia," (London: Faber & Faber, 1981)

I'm not a monk. . .but I know exactly what Abba Evagrius is talking about. I'm sure most of us do. What is interesting to me is that Abba Evagrius connects depression with losing the battle to stay put. Hmmm. . .I get the feeling I've been fighting the shadow of this demon rather than the imp itself. Tricky little devil.

Laughing at Ourselves

Sometimes you just gotta laugh at yourself and your life. I remember when my kids were little, that sometimes I would notice one (or both) of them working furiously on something terribly important to them. . .like building the largest lego dinosaur in history. It would start out as fun. Lots of energy, excitement, and scattered legos everywhere. We were willing to tolerate the damage to feet and furniture that errant legos can inflict because we wanted to encourage any spark of creativity. At some point however, things would sometimes turn "serious". The room would grow strangely silent, like the calm before a storm. . .a brow would furrow as "problems" appeared. . .a missing or wrong-colored lego. . .a top-heavy and unstable dinosaur. . .a big brother who liked to knock over half-finished dinosaurs. . .whatever. Finally, there would be an explosion of frustration. Great philosophical summaries of the situation would be issued by the kid like, "This is stoodpid!!!" or "Arghhhhhhhhh!!!" or "I hate dinosaurs!!!" It usually struck me as funny. It was all I could do to keep from laughing. . .which is something I learned from experience to suppress. Sometimes I could help. . .other times, they would fly outdoors to console themselves with fellow kid-sufferers before I could regain my composure long enough to offer a solution.

Well folks. . .when I step back and look at myself and my reaction to my problems. . .even the ones that may involve life and death. . .it all looks a little familiar. Maybe that's one reason God made us capable of having and raising children. Maybe the reflection of ourselves we see in our children can help us actually see ourselves with a better perspective. . .a more heavenly one. Maybe it's OK to laugh at ourselves.

Returning the Corner to the Icons

I've got to do a little furniture re-arrangement this Labor Day. It's been bothering me for sometime. You see, a few months ago I decided I needed a better place for working on songs. Up to that time I'd been working in a little corner of our bedroom. I needed to spread out. Besides, our priest's bedroom is right underneath ours, and it's hard to record a song late at night in whispers. So, I needed to find some other spot in the apartment where I could put a chair, music stand, guitar stand, a couple pedals and a small table big enough to hold a multitrack workstation. My wife and I live in a two-bedroom apartment which is the second floor of an old Victorian-era house just over 100 years old. It was not designed to be broken up into 3 dwellings, so finding a little niche for my guitar stuff hasn't been easy especially since my wife has already staked a claim on the best spot for her pottery studio. No, I'm not bitter.

Anyway, a few months ago we decided the only spot left was our icon corner. So I arranged everything and set up shop there. I've never been easy with it however. It just felt disrespectful and something at a slightly-less-than-conscious level has been scolding me ever since. But like the good materialist I still seem to be most of the time. . .I ignored the promptings from my spirit. But today I'm going to give the corner back to the icons. Or rather, to the Lord, the Theotokos, and all the other Saints those icons represent. They take better care of the corner than I do. I feel better just thinking about it.

P.S. Here's a link to an account of the meaning of icons in pre-revolutionary Russia. Reading this clarified the promptings coming from my conscience.

You Don't Smile Enough

One of the advantages of being married more than once (Ed. note: I'm being a little ironic here. . .believe me, whatever advantage there is, it is violently outweighed by all the confusion, pain, and openings for demonic invasion a divorce causes in most cases. However, I do acknowledge and understand that there are times when a divorce is the lesser of two evils.) is that you get the chance to compare notes from two very different spouses about your behavior. It's humbling to realize that the problem wasn't/isn't "her". A consistent piece of feedback I've received is that "You don't smile enough." or something along those lines. (That observation has sometimes been phrased a little, uh, less diplomatic at times. . .but this my blog.) Years ago I bristled at that comment. . .then over time I started seeing it as true. . .and now I tend to just sort of drop my head and ask God, "What the hell is wrong with me?" I read something today that shed a little light on the subject, and I wanted to share it with anyone else who suffers from a melancholic nature. Once again, it's taken from the Road To Emmaus interview with Fr. Artemy.

When our Lord says that we must become like children to enter the kingdom of heaven, this means that we are really to be child-like: joyful, modest, hopeful, radiant with love, not weighed down or grimly burdened, because it is not by our merit that we have the grace of our Lord, but by His mercy. We are unworthy, but nevertheless grace is present. We are to be serious in only one aspect; how to preserve this grace, how not to lose it. When we come to know how to cry out like a child before the face of our Heavenly Father, we will understand what it is to be joyful in Him.

The demons are very serious in their attempt to ruin us, and we should oppose them by the spirit of blagosushestvovanie: by being calm and radiant, hopeful and peaceful, content and grateful in our inner feelings of total dependence on God. As He is the Most Wise, the Most Loving and Strong, who can hinder you from saving your soul? No one. Just as we are to be tolerant towards other's errors and shortcomings, we are also to be patient with ourselves. We are not to require too much from ourselves. We should know our possibilities and be sure that we are not omnipotent. We are weak; the only thing we can really do is to want to be saved, and to pray to God. . .The demons' intention is to make a person aspire to impossible heights, so that he does not value his real place and forgets to be grateful to God. In this constant seeking for a higher place you can become the slave of pride, which St. John of the Ladder says, 'raises you up to heaven and dashes you to the abyss.' (my emphasis) It is a sign of spiritual maturity to have this peaceful humor. It has nothing in common with earthly irony, or cynical boldness, but is the manifestation of inner spiritual treasure hidden deeply in a pious praying heart.

May God grant it.