Graceful Communion and the Alcoholic

A friend posted an article on Facebook yesterday on the history of using individual glasses for communion as opposed to all drinking from the common chalice.  The essence of the article was that concerns regarding the transmission of disease were one reason, and another reason was racism, that is not wanting to drink from the same chalice as black people.  The latter reason is certainly plausible, especially in places such as the deep South where separate water fountains, etc., were common place.  It would not have been the reason, though, in the many of the Lutheran congregations that adopted the practice for the simple reason that out on the prairies of the Dakotas and Minnesota the congregations were simply not in any way multiracial.  Simply a fact of history and immigration.

What it raised for me, however, is the issue of communion practices as it relates to people such as me who are alcoholics.  I wonder time and time again if people understand. 

Zero is zero.  That's the first thing one should know about alcoholics and communion.  There is not one chemical dependency professional, not one, who would suggest that consuming small amounts of alcohol is OK for an alcoholic in recovery.  Read the entire big book of Alcoholics Anonymous line by line and you will never find even a hint that would suggest that small amounts can be consumed without consequences.  Even non-alcoholic wines contain some alcohol.  Not good.  Zero is zero.

The issue is NOT that we can't tolerate alcohol.  Trust me, my tolerance for alcohol is sky high.  I built up a tolerance for alcohol over years of heavy drinking.  I could consume the entire amount of wine served on a typical Sunday morning without feeling a buzz.  Tolerance?  Hell, there is not a non-alcoholic out there that I couldn't drink under the table.  Tolerance we have.

And the issue isn't even withdrawal.  The amount of alcohol consumed in communion is not likely to produce in me withdrawal symptoms.  I may be wrong as I 've never tested this proposition.  But my gut says no, I wouldn't experience withdrawal after drinking such a small amount.  No shakes.  None of the other deeply troubling symptoms associated with detoxification. 

Well what is the issue then?  It is relapse.  You see, this is the way an alcoholic's mind works.  If I can drink a sip of wine at communion without feeling any effect, if I can do so and not experience any withdrawal symptoms afterward then I will convince myself to seek the limit.  Maybe consuming non-alcoholic wines and beers is OK even though they contain up to 1% alcohol.  And then, the next step is wondering if I can consume a beer or a glass of wine.  Hey, when I was drinking heavily beer and wine did nothing for me.  If it had no effect on me while I was drinking, would it harm me now?

The problem then becomes life threatening.  You see, alcoholism doesn't go away with sobriety.  It continues to progress.  If an alcoholic resumes drinking, even after years of sobriety, they do not revert to a time when they could drink moderately.  They will seek the buzz.  But the toleration is so high that a prodigious amount of alcohol is necessary to produce the feeling.  And even the smallest amount of alcohol can awaken the craving.

During my treatment they related the story of a woman in Coeur d'Alene who successfully went through treatment in her early twenties and went on to have a great career in business.  With 42 years of sobriety behind her she decided that having half a glass of wine with dinner would not harm her.  Eight weeks later she woke up from an alcoholic blackout in an Italian hospital unaware of how she got there.  She had been found, literally in the gutter, licking up the wine she had spilled when she opened a bottle by breaking off the top, and with significant lacerations in her mouth from drinking out of the broken bottle.  Point being, even after decades of sobriety even a small amount of alcohol can indeed hurt you.

Back to communion.  I can't drink any alcohol.  Some would say that I should be content with just the bread then.  That may work for some people, but for me, it just doesn't feel right.  I feel excluded.  It feels incomplete.  Our church has a historic tradition that says withholding the wine from the communicants is not OK, unlike the Roman Catholic tradition.  But most of all, when a church offers only wine and disregards the needs of the alcoholic, what it says to me is that I'm not welcomed and cared for in that place.  I will not return.  I get the message.  And if every Christian congregation had that practice I would simply not be Christian.  I will not compromise my life for the sake of insidious piety.

I don't mind that alcohol is offered at communion as long as there's a non-alcoholic option for me.  Ironically, I've found bars to be far more accommodating of my need for non-alcoholic options that some churches are.  But my alcoholism is no reason for others who are not alcoholic to refrain from responsible drinking.  I have the problem.  All I ask is that you understand that.

What can you do to gracefully welcome the alcoholic at the communion table?  Here is what has been helpful to me.

1. Offer the wine and grape juice in such a manner that I don't have to tell my life story to opt for the grape juice.  It doesn't matter if I'm pregnant (not likely in my case), or on medication, or alcoholic.  Just offer the wine and grape juice and let me make a choice.
2. Don't make me decline one to choose the other.  One server at my home church is so intentional in offering the wine, that he holds it out to me and has already started saying "the blood of Christ shed for you" before I have the chance to say "No" and move on to the grape juice.  
3. If you serve wine and grape juice in the individual glasses in trays, rather than the server taking the glass out of the tray and handing it to me, just let me (and all communicants) take the glass they prefer.  This avoids being offered the wine and having to say no, give me the other.
4. My Synod has started offering grape juice at a separate location.  That helps in that I don't even  have to smell the wine.  Not necessary, but helpful.  I will also note that many use this station even though they don't need the grape juice.  I don't feel singled out by the practice.
5. Make sure it is clear which is the wine and which is the grape juice.  If you are communing with red wine, offer white grape juice.  If you commune with white wine, offer red grape juice, and make it clear in announcements which is which.
6. Welcome the stranger.  I may be visiting in your congregation.  You don't know what I need.  In my current congregation our communion preparer has the tendency to set out grape juice for the specific number of people that normally use it.  Add plenty extra for the visitor.  Please.
7. And finally, glutton free bread should be offered for those who need it.  See all of the above.
8. There are some churches that offer only grape juice.  This certainly makes it easier for the alcoholic, but in keeping with the tenants of Alcoholics Anonymous, I do not suggest it.  Normal people shouldn't have to alter their life because of my problem.  Just allow for me.

In Luther's Small Catechism it is said:  "These words, "Given and shed for you for the forgiveness of sins," show us that in the Sacrament forgiveness of sins, life and salvation are given us through these words.  For where there is forgiveness of sins, there is also life and salvation."

When I am offered grape juice, I experience forgiveness.  When I am offered grape juice, I choose life over the death that alcohol threatens me with.  To receive the grape juice as opposed to wine, is salvation for me. 

When an alcoholic is welcomed at the table, it is priceless for them.  We are as a whole well aware of the sinfulness that dominated our lives during our drinking days.  Guilt is part of that, and our journey toward health requires that this guilt be dealt with.  We do it through the fourth and fifth steps.  The Confession of Sins and the Sacrament of Holy Communion offer to us the promise of God that goes beyond what the fourth and fifth steps offer.  This is pure grace.

Sobriety, Solitude, and the Holidays

I drank alone, alot.  Two major reasons for this were that I didn't frequent the bar scene, and my wife hardly drank at all.  Add to that the fact that I was drinking myself to sleep at night, and you end up with a lot of solitary time with a bottle.

And yet there were also those social occasions for drinking with some of my closest friends and colleagues.  A friend and I would get together once a week for a couple of Scotches and dessert.  And gatherings with my ministerial colleagues would almost always involve some down time, often in a hotel room, with an abundance of alcohol to fuel the conversation.

For an introvert like me, such occasions were deeply appreciated.

One of the things I looked forward to was having adult children who would drink with me.  This was, I suppose, a reaction to having a wife that never would. 

There were some opportunities to have my sons in particular as 'drinking buddies'.  A six pack on the golf course.  And then one infamous night at a hotel room somewhere in the middle of North Dakota when my son decided he'd match me drink for drink.  Ha!  He was drinking whiskey sours, I was drinking straight Scotch, and in short order he realized that he was blitzed and I was still going strong.  You'd think that perhaps I'd built up a significant tolerance. . .

When I went through treatment my family supported my sobriety by never drinking in my presence.  And to the best of my knowledge there has not been any alcohol in my house since that time.  I appreciate that.

In recent years, I have found that I don't mind being around people who are drinking beer or wine.  It's only whiskey's pungent odor that I react to.  I call it a "cravulsion", a simultaneous craving for and repulsion to the smell.

Last night, as we are all gathered for the holidays, a second gathering took place at my son's house.  No big deal and to be expected, afterall, there are now two Olson households in town.  My assumption is that a bottle of wine or a beer or two were shared.  Earlier we had enjoyed a prime rib dinner at our house.  There's part of me that wishes that they would feel comfortable now having a glass of wine with such a meal.  They chose to share one later.  That's alright. And truth be told, I'm such an early to bed person and an early riser that I'm not interested in much socializing late at night.  That said, it brings up an issue in our society for people such as myself who live in sobriety.

So much of our social interaction takes place around alcohol that it can be difficult to stay connected in sobriety.  Not impossible, just difficult.  I cannot imagine gathering together with colleagues in a hotel room while they drank heavily and I sipped on a juice or soda.  One thing is the reaction to the smell.  Another is that the company of those who are inebriated is just not enjoyable anymore.  Let's just say that contrary to a drinker's self perception, drunks are not nearly as profound as they believe themselves to be.  I speak from my own experience.

Yet there was an intimacy to those gatherings.  I do miss that.

Now, when I have gone to meetings of my colleagues in ministry I spend much time alone, either in my room, or in the lobby, waiting for someone sober to talk to.  There are not always a lot of options.

In our society a lot of social interaction takes place around alcohol.  Alcoholics in recovery are faced with choices.  Either they learn to interact with those who are drinking without compromising their own sobriety, or they gravitate toward a new group of friends who don't drink.  With family its a different matter.  Except for whiskey, I'm OK with moderate drinking in my presence.  What I'm aware of is that others are more uncomfortable drinking in my presence than I am having them drink in my presence.

The bottom line is that it is a balancing act.  On the one hand, no one else is responsible for my sobriety.  That is my responsibility alone.  I am the one who can no longer drink.  Yet those who have been considerate of my condition are greatly appreciated.  The only thing that is not appreciated is the solitude that comes as an inevitable result. 

And yet there is a more positive side.  I no longer sleep alone.

"Let it be with me according to your word."

"He has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant."

"My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect in weakness."

Discernment.  Would that the Devil were cloaked in darkness and red, and the Holy Spirit in light and a brilliant white.  Discerning the will of God and God's call would be easier.  Perhaps still not fool proof, but easier.

If there is an inherent weakness in being bipolar it is this:  that the extremes of one's mood swings are the Devil's playground.  One's hope in managing this disease is to silence both the manic convictions and the depressed resignation. 

This is a particular struggle in discerning one's direction in life.  And in my case, discerning God's call and where it is leading me in ministry.  My age is such that I believe I have one more 'call', one more chapter in my ministry before me.  And so the question is what might that call be, and where might it lead.

During the first few years of my dealing with this bipolar diagnosis I had become convinced that it was no longer wise for me to be in ministry.  Too many triggers.  Too many possibilities that the symptoms of the disease could become the fodder for failure.  Chief among these is the fact that at risk sexual behavior and exploits is a known symptom of manic episodes.  Incompatible with pastoral ministry for sure.  It's not that it's always a symptom of manic episodes, but it can be.  I became convinced that one of the reasons my medical team was hesitant to give me a carte blanche endorsement to return to ministry was that the possibility of sexual misconduct was sufficient enough that neither of them would want the liability associated with such an endorsement. 

Those concerns fueled a depressed resignation.  I would never be able to serve again. 

Yet treatment is real.  Brain chemistry can be altered.  Medications are effective.  And hope was reborn.

A year and a half ago I re-entered ministry, serving part time as a transitional minister.  It has gone well.  My status as a "transitional" minister means that I am serving first as an interim pastor, helping the congregation through a period of discernment regarding their future, but with the option that it could become a permanent call.  That possibility puts on the table the prospect that I am where I am intended to be and remain.  Or not.

Whether my future involves continuing to serve in my current call or not, there is a significant desire to be engaged full time in ministry, once again.  I have been combining my part-time call with work in a cabinet shop.  I find myself desiring more.  The cabinetry is not rewarding.  Let's just say that at the end of my career, I don't want to look back at the last ten years and know that one of the primary things I did was to make closet shelves for high end homes in the Bahamas.  There has got to be something more.

It is tempting to try and 'make it happen'.  And make it good.

I find deep meaning in the words from Mary and Paul.  The common theme is that our lowliness, our weakness, need not limit God's ability to work through us, but rather can clear the way for God's grace and will to be done, not our own.

Let it be with me according to your Word, for your power is made perfect in weakness. 

And so I find myself wondering where the Spirit will blow.  I look at the neighborhood around our congregation in Otis Orchards and see a new development that will bring hundreds of  new residents, 55 and older, right next door.  This presents a real and unique opportunity for developing this congregation's mission and outreach.  A worthy calling.

But there might also be other options that present themselves.  The future is not yet known. 

The bottom line is that I have come a point of determining that I will not live out my life as a willing victim of a disease that need not limit me.  I choose rather to trust in the grace of God to work through me, where ever and whenever God wills.  And I do so believing that perhaps I have grown through this whole process of confronting my weakness.  I now know more fully that who ever we are, where ever we serve, it is not about us.  It is not about me. 

Together with Mary, each of us in our own way are simply called to declare "Here am I, the servant of the Lord."

A Remnant Shall Return, A Shoot from the Stump of Jesse

I began my ministry with grand thoughts and great expectations.  The Lutheran Church in America, the American Lutheran Church, and the Association of Evangelical Lutheran Churches had just merged to form our current body, the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.  This was to be 'our Church', as opposed to our parent's church.  As young adults Karla and I had committed ourselves to service in this Church.  Karla also had the opportunity to work in the office of the Presiding Bishop of the American Lutheran Church throughout our seminary years and had a front row seat to witness and participate in all the details leading up to the merger.  My own goals were centered around being a mission developer in this Church, starting new congregations.  The future looked bright.

But the world changed.

The Church stopped growing.  The steady expansion of the Church that had begun in the post war era was now over.  Major evangelism efforts had only the effect of curbing the losses, not extending the outreach.  One of the ELCA's goals, to become a more inclusive Church, hit one brick wall after another.  Little progress was made.  A goal that was envisioned to be attainable in ten years has not been even moderately achieved in thirty, in fact almost no progress has been made.  Major losses of membership occurred as result of Ecumenical agreements, and decisions regarding human sexuality.  But most of all, my parents generation simply died.  And my children's generation has simply not filled in behind them.  The denomination has declined by approximately 1/3 during the last three decades.

My manic side schemed and dreamed.

Two multi-congregational parishes were formed.  A  new congregation was organized.  A sister congregation in Russia became a focus.  And in my most powerful manic episode to date I saw senior housing as a tool to expand the Church's ministry and extend its outreach.  Luther Park at Sandpoint was developed.  And an even larger more ambitious project, the Beacon at Southridge, was conceived and pursued, only to become a victim of the economic collapse in 2008.  The hope was that these senior housing projects would provide the resources for expansion as well as the contacts with people and the opportunity for meaningful ministry.  The baby-boomers would return as we cared for their aging parents.

Didn't happen.

Mania gave way to depression, and unbridled optimism to a guarded pessimism.  My world collapsed.  Alcoholism had to be treated.  Bipolar disorder was diagnosed and treatment began.  I went on disability as I began to sort out my life and seek healing.

The vision is different now.

I believe that we are in a new era in the Church's life, an unwelcome chapter in our history.  The age of Christendom is over.  Secularism is the norm in our society.  I'm struck that I've never had the opportunity to welcome into the congregation's life any couples like Karla and I, young, enthusiastic, and chomping at the bit, ready to take the reigns and lead.  And we were not unique.  When I became the president of our congregation at the ripe old age of 24, I joined a cadre of other young leaders, some who had been doing the same thing since they had graduated from college.

9/11 was supposed to change things.

For a few weeks attendance was up.  But unlike the two world wars and a great depression that shaped my parent's generation and fueled the Church's expansion during the post war era-- 9/11 simply didn't impact our lives much.

I have come to the point of wondering if we are heading into a period of epic proportions in the Church's life.  How much more will the Church decline?  How many congregations will close?

The center of Christianity is shifting globally from Europe and North America to Africa and Asia.
In our country, even weddings and funerals are becoming a secular affair.

I feel deep within my soul that our mission today has much in common with that of the Israelites during the exile.  We are tasked with preserving the remnant of God's people from which the Church will be reborn after the necessary and inevitable dying occurs.  What I did not realize entering ministry when I dreamed the great dreams and envisioned this wonderful new Church, was that there would be a dying and much grief to experience prior to the rebirth and new life.  The soil needs tilling as well as planting.  There is a lot of ground to cover between seed time and harvest.

Now, I simply cling to the promise.  Even as I wonder how long this period of 'exile' will last, I remain convinced that God will not turn away from us forever.  And I  hope that when the Church rebounds it will become the more vibrant and inclusive body we have longed for. If we do our work well during this time of exile, perhaps the Spirit will guide our rebirth in such a manner that we might become that which we were meant to be.

Then, now, and always an alcoholic

I wasn't always an alcoholic, but I always shall be.  Not everyone will be an alcoholic, but anyone can be. These statements I believe to be true.

It's been over five years now, since I had my last drink.  Time to remember, reflect, and share.

Some people I know were out of control with their drinking from day one.  Not me.  It was probably harder for me to admit I was an alcoholic because I had thirty years or so of normal drinking patterns that seemed like evidence to the contrary.  For most of my adult life I drank an occasional beer, mostly during the summer months, during football season, and with certain meals such as pizza.  There were some occasions where I drank heavily, such as at the pastor's conference.  But most the time I drank no more than a beer or two.  And only occasionally.

Then life happened.

First I was prescribed Ativan for depression, insomnia, and anxiety.  It is a drug that works on the same receptors in the brain as alcohol, with effects so similar that it is also used to manage alcohol withdrawal symptoms in treatment.  I was told point blank at the time that I had to quit drinking.  My psychiatrist put it this way:  "I can't effectively treat your depression if you continue taking a depressant (alcohol).  No problem.  I just didn't drink.

What the doctor didn't tell me is that long-term usage of Ativan can produce "tolerance, dependence, addiction, benzodiazepine withdrawal syndrome, cognitive impairments, etc., which is why it is generally not recommended for use treatment beyond two to four weeks."  However, it is often prescribed for long term use.

After a number of years, a change of employment, a new home, I felt great and decided to cease treatment for depression.  My doctor, Brad, recommended I reduce the dose of Ativan prior to ceasing completely, and also warned that some people develop a drinking problem after going off of Ativan.  I was unphased because I had never had a drinking problem, and was quite confident I never would have.

Prior to ceasing medication I had begun to drink moderately, as in 6 to 7 fluid ounces of Scotch per week.  A couple of Scotch doubles, usually on the night a friend came over for dessert.  In spite of my doctor's warning, that drinking became a nightly affair immediately upon quitting Ativan.  My financial records of purchases confirm that I was now drinking 6 to 7 fluid ounces a day, not a week.

This is what I believe happens in the development of alcoholism.

First of all, a normal person has an adverse reaction to alcohol as a toxin in their body.  That's why it's called 'intoxication'.  Some people such as my wife so dislike this feeling that they will not drink enough to even begin to feel the effect.  Many people like the feeling of early intoxication.  That' why they drink.

When a consistent pattern of drinking develops, the body adapts to the presence of alcohol in the system, called 'habituation', and no longer has as strong a reaction against the alcohol as before.  The drinker who once got a buzz with the first drink now must drink more to feel the same effect.  Which if you are drinking for the effect means you will drink more.

The next stage is that as one drinks more and more to achieve the effect of intoxication the body adapts to the presence of alcohol to the extent that it now has an adverse reaction to the lack of alcohol in the system, that is withdrawal symptoms, not to the presence of alcohol in the system.  During a particularly stressful time in my life I stated to a friend that "It takes two drinks for me to feel sober."  I thought it was a joke but it was actually true.  I had to drink to feel normal.  At that point I had become an alcoholic, beyond a doubt.

Though an alcoholic probably doesn't realize this.  Toward the end, I was concerned that my congregation might smell alcohol on my breath Sunday morning, so I quit drinking Saturday night.  I got the shakes Sunday mornings as a result, though I didn't understand it to have anything to do with my drinking.  I couldn't pour the wine from the pouring chalice.  I didn't know what was happening but blamed it on stress, or something.  Only after treatment did I recognize I was going through detoxification.

If an alcoholic could simply manage by maintaining a base level of alcohol in their system at all times they would.  Anything to avoid withdrawal.  But the problem is with the habituating properties of alcohol.  It takes more and more to achieve the same effect.  But there is only so much of this toxin that the body can tolerate-- before it simply shuts down.  That shut down comes first as 'passing out'.  And then, the body's systems get so depressed they shut down entirely--that's called dying, by the way.

My rock bottom came in part because a doctor had prescribed Ativan again for me.  Circumstances at work sent my into a rage one afternoon, and after consuming a fifth of Scotch that afternoon and evening, I still felt I needed something and so I took Ativan.  The combination of the two almost killed me.

Why does an alcoholic allow this to happen?  One of the reasons is that to the alcoholic it appears that they are in control.  I used alcohol to 'control' my moods, or so I thought.  This is one of the reasons people with mood disorders such as Bipolar Disorder often become addicted.  Alcohol gives them some control.  One drink, two drinks, three drinks, four, I knew what I was drinking for.  "I'm in control" means "I don't need help".  Do you have a drinking problem?  No, I have no problem drinking.

I avoided some of the pitfalls of drinking.  I sat out on my deck, drinking myself to sleep at night, but rarely drank out on the town, and did not drive drunk (well, not very often).  My heaviest consumption was when I was alone.  Most of the time I convinced myself that I was only having a couple of drinks, a nightcap, and that was not a problem.  At the end those couple of drinks averaged 9 to 10 fluid ounces a day of Scotch.  Bigger glasses, less ice, kept the 'drink' total at two.  The truth is that 9 to 10 fluid ounces is consider at the minimum, 7 drinks, some would consider it 10.  That sounds like heavy drinking.  And it was an average.

Now I'm free.  I've gone through detoxification, dealt with many of the issues that contributed to the drinking, and no longer experience cravings.  The smell of Scotch is repulsive to me, now.  I can be around people drinking wine or beer, just not Scotch.

I share my story hoping that it will not be your story.  Even a lifetime of drinking normally is no guarantee against developing alcoholism.  Some people are more prone than others, but it is possible, I am convinced, for anyone to become alcoholic.  No one is immune.  Especially vulnerable are those with other issues like bipolar disorder, depression, or other mental illnesses.  Genetics can also play a role.

I don't have a problem with  normal people drinking normally.  Some people drink for the taste, not the effect.  Some people drink occasionally, not consistently.  Some people will enjoy their last drink like they enjoyed their first.  But not all.  Remember that.

Forgetting Memories

One of the memories that stays with me is the comments made by my wife, Karla, following the birth of our first child.  It had been a difficult childbirth, for sure, complicated by preeclampsia.  When everything was said and done, her very serious comments were "Dave, we need to talk.  I can't do this again.  I mean it.  Only one child."  My response was that we'd wait more than a few hours before we take permanent action.  I believe God blocks the memory of mothers so that they will in fact consent to more than one pregnancy.  Otherwise, the human race might decline fifty percent with each passing generation.

Forgetting is sometimes essential to life.

It's been two weeks.  Two weeks ago you couldn't open a news page without seeing multiple stories on the church shooting in Texas.  I checked this morning.  Not one mention on CNN's home page.  One of the reasons we don't act in response to these mass murders is that we choose to forget them.  Life goes on.  To an extent, this is necessary.  It would be hard for us to function as a church if our members retained their memories of such tragedies.  They would become captive to their fears.  The new visitors would be looked at with suspicion.  Locked doors would become the norm. 

Sometimes we cannot allow ourselves to forget, lest life not  go on. 

I've enjoyed a number of years now of mood stability.  I still see my psychologist and psychiatrist regularly to help monitor my moods, and to maintain my medication regimen.  But on a day to day basis it is tempting to forget. 

Yesterday, as is typical on Saturdays, I napped most of the morning and even some in the afternoon.  With my current work schedule, leaving home at 4:30 am, getting home about 6 pm, with just enough time to eat and then head to bed, the weekends are makeup time.  I try to catch up on my sleep.

But I remember a time when being couch bound was not for the sake of making up on my sleep, but because of being in a deep depression and being incapable of generating enough energy to even get up and shower.  And then there were the manic times.  Generally, my manic phases were quite enjoyable.  The sky was the limit.  Unfortunately, they also came with a  cost.  The last major manic phase cost me about $60,000.  Now I have some great woodworking equipment.  Probably would have been wise to just have some 'good' woodworking equipment.  That pales in comparison to my senior housing manic phase.  Millions of dollars spent.  Not my money.  And we did get one project complete. 

I need to remember.  Bipolar people can ill afford to forget. 

The cardinal sin of being bipolar is to forget, to believe one is all better, and to cease all medication and treatment.  The result is not pretty.

It's not unlike an alcoholic that forgets what drinking really was like.  When an alcoholic relapses after years in recovery they discover that while they were sober, the disease continued to progress.  No amount of time cures alcoholism.  One doesn't get to go back to drinking the way one did early in one's life.  In fact the experience of relapse is worse than the original 'rock bottom'. 

That's my understanding of being bipolar.  You think your moods were unstable before being treated?  Well, you haven't seen anything yet.  Try going it alone, without treatment, and see just how high the manic phases are and low the depression can get.  Ceasing medication is the most sure fire ticket to hospitalization that there is. 

I appreciate my wife's help, here.  "Have you taken your pills?"  Thankfully, my psychiatric meds are all taken at bedtime, and without them I can't sleep, so I almost never miss a dose. 

Insurance companies can be interesting.  They like to question whether certain medications are really necessary.  I take eye drops for glaucoma, and will for the rest of my life.  "Is this really necessary?"  Well not if your willing to go blind.  Thankfully, they have never questioned my psychiatric meds.  Apparently they too remember.  The cost of hospitalization exceeds the cost of medication by a fair piece. 

Forgetting memories.  Sometimes it seems to be essential to life to let memories go and move on.  At other times it is necessary to cultivate those memories lest one repeat them.  Wisdom is knowing the difference.

Facing our Fears

 Fear is a funny thing.  Seldom are we afraid of that which threatens us the most.  Often we fear that which really is no threat at all.

I preached last Sunday about the Texas shooting.  Specifically, I see these too frequent instances of mass shootings as being just a tip of the iceberg.  Polarization, and the tendency to see others as an enemy, anger, and fear permeate our culture.  Certain individuals act on it, and the result is tragic.

Before I could even speak about it I was approached before worship about whether the doors should be locked during the service.  Security concerns.  When security trumps welcome the church has a problem.

Fear.  Fear of the outsider.  We cannot give into fear.

The truth:  The single greatest risk to one attending our church or any church is probably the drive in.  Much more likely to die in a motor vehicle accident than from anything else about church attendance.  This risk probably goes up astronomically when we attend Christmas Eve services, what with the tendency for people to drink and drive on holidays.

A second truth:  We fear the unknown, the stranger, when the threat is more often from those closest to us.  My understanding is that most of the time, gun violence occurs with people one knows, not total strangers.

And a third truth:  Domestic violence can touch the church.  The only situation where I can imagine posting a sentry at the church door is when there is a restraining order in place that affects our members.  When the church or its pastors support those seeking to escape domestic violence we may well become a target of that violence.

One of the things I've learned throughout this process of dealing with being bipolar is that emotions are not to be trusted any more than moods.  And fear is often the least trustworthy.  Perhaps our whole world needs a healthy dose of lithium or lamictal.

Life is going to happen.

We will not be able to anticipate most of the greatest challenges we will face in life.  The best we can hope for is the ability to deal with them when they present themselves.  I cannot begin to tell you how often I have imagined absolutely devastating consequences as a result of my being bipolar, only to discover they never materialized.  For example, I've gone bankrupt in my imagination many times since diagnosis.  Never happened.  Never missed  a payment.  Always had food on the table.

The lesson I've learned is that we need to go on with our lives.  Responsibly.  Do what we can do.  Take each day as a gift.  And not let fear deprive us of life.  Think about that.

The greatest harm that could come from the Texas shootings may not be the immediate victims of that shooting, but the repercussions throughout our culture.  I'm not minimizing the loss of life that occurred, or the incredible tragedy of that loss.  But if fear grips the rest of us we will have all become victims.  All of us. And that would be tragic.

Who's crazy?

Time and time again when our country faces the aftermath of another mass murder you hear choruses of people blaming mental illness for the shooting.  "We don't have a gun control issue, we have a mental illness issue."  OK, well either way, we have an issue.

I've heard it said by military folk that "if you believe military weapons are available to the general public, you don't have a clue what the military has for weapons."  That said, some very impressive stuff is available to the general public.  Consider for example this Barrett Barr M107A1 .50 BMG Centerfire Rifle.

I picked this out because its the most expensive semi automatic rifle Cabelas sells.  A fifty caliber bullet.  Easily a quarter mile range, probably a whole lot more.  A price tag of $12,000.  I have the feeling that one would want to make sure one's tree stand is solid before letting off a few rounds.  There are probably some people crazy enough to take this on a deer hunt.  But it's not really a hunting rifle.  Let's be honest about that.

Now, personally, I think anyone who buys such a rifle for hunting IS crazy.  But such weapons are not of the type responsible, and normal, hunters buy.

But if you want to sit back and take pot shots at a crowd of people from a thousand yards this is your gun.  The question is who would want to do that.

Well, apparently a certain number of people would.  If we define a person who is angry enough to kill as mentally ill, then I suppose we can say that we have a mental  illness problem.  But to blame that portion of the population that has a mental illness diagnosis for the mass murders that are taking place is misguided.  The vast majority of those with mental illness are not a threat to anyone except, in some instances, themselves.  

We have a mental illness problem.  Yes, we do.  People don't understand mental illness.  One issue is that people don't recognize the difference between a rage, and mental  illness.  When people fail to deal with their anger issues in a healthy manner they can spiral out of control into a rage, a violent, uncontrollable anger. Yet that is different than being bipolar, or depressed, or schizophrenic.  

The real issue we have regarding mental illness is the availability of mental health care and affordability of the same.  It can take months to set up an appointment with a psychiatrist, and a single visit can cost upwards of $500.  That's a challenge, especially if one does not have insurance that covers mental illness.

Should the mentally ill be allowed to purchase guns?  I can speak for myself.  I got rid of my guns under the counsel of my doctors.  "It has been clinically proven that one is more likely to die of a self inflicted gunshot wound if one actually has a gun."  It's just not a good combination to be depressed and own guns.  But I was never a threat to anyone else.

What I think is insane is allowing weapons such as the .50 caliber piece above to be so readily available.  Who needs such weapons?

Hunters do not.  Even those who want to have firearms for self defense do not.  I cannot imagine anyone being able to identify a 'threat' at a thousand yards and legitimately kill them in self defense.  And one hardly needs a fifty caliber rifle to defend one's self against an intruder in your home.  

If you're a drug lord in Juarez you may have need for one.  I wonder how much they spend at Cabelas?

There is a reason these are called assault rifles.  And not 'defense' rifles.  Or 'hunting' rifles.  Or even 'target' rifles.  It's because the only legitimate purpose for them is killing at a long range.  With overwhelming force.

Are the mentally ill buying such guns?  Well, there is an easy solution if that's the problem.  Require someone to submit to an mental health evaluation before allowing them to purchase such a weapon.  It won't work though, because we don't have enough psychiatrists and because the people buying these weapons are not mentally ill.  My guess is that aside from drug cartels, most of the people  buying assault weapons are merely gun enthusiasts.  They think its cool being able to blow up a watermelon at a thousand  yards.  

These same people, could they afford it, and were they available, might like to collect Abrams M1A2 tanks.

But back to the issue.  Who is really insane?  A bipolar person who is struggling to maintain a balance in their moods?  Or an entire culture that insists on making available weapons that have only one legitimate purpose, and that is killing at an incredible distance? 

Crazy world we live in.  You can buy some pretty incredible weapons online.  It's like making LSD available as an over the counter drug.  And people think I'm the crazy one.

Sacred Time. Sacred Space.

Sacred time.  Sacred Space.

Jacob declared of Bethel, where God renewed the promise he had made to Abraham:

"How awesome is this place! This is none other than the house of God, and this is the gate of heaven."

Perhaps we don’t appreciate the sacred as much as we should.  Everything and everyplace is so ordinary to us. 

One of my favorite stories is about representatives of the Native American community that were constantly showing up at hearings and objecting to opening up more forest land with logging roads.

“This land is sacred to my people”, they would declare at each and every hearing.

“Is there any place that is not sacred to you and your people?” one logging company executive finally replied in exasperation.

“Now, Sir, you are finally beginning to understand my people”, was the response.

I’m thinking about the sacred these days. 

We have our sanctuaries.  And in time they become sacred to us.  The stairs at the entry are visibly worn from the flow of people in and out for generations.

When we traveled to Russia we were able to visit the Cathedral of St. Sophia in Novgorod which has been a place of worship throughout its 1,000 year history.  It is so ancient there are archeological digs within the sanctuary, revealing the original floor.

As is typical, the icons painted on the walls follow a progression from the earth below to the heavens above.  One cannot stand in such a place without having one’s head bend backward as your eyes are drawn up to the heavenly scenes above.

I think also of the little Egland Lutheran Church out on the prairie of NE South Dakota, near the farm of our family.

There, surrounding the church is the cemetery.  There we laid to rest one family member after another.

Grandma Louise played organ in that church for decades.  How many times “Holy, Holy, Holy” welcomed people to worship one can never know, but it’s as though the walls themselves could sing the song.

“This is the gate of heaven.”

My desk now sits in our living room, having been moved from its former place as we remodeled my office to make a bedroom for Dad.

And this morning, as I write, both Mom and Dad’s ashes are in the urn on my desk, waiting to be transported back to Kalispell, and then to the cemetery in Polson. 

I am anticipating moving my desk back to where it used to be, and reclaiming that room as my office.

And yet it has changed.

It has become a sacred space, for there, right where my desk will stand, my Father died. 

“This is the gate of heaven.”

There Dad came face to face with his Savior, and was drawn from this earth into the heavens above. 

And the Divine light will always cast a shadow on the walls.

Sacred Time.  Sacred Space.

The question was raised about whether we should scatter some of Mom and Dad’s ashes at their lake place in Elmo, MT.   I objected.

My concern is that the future of the lake place is still up in the air, and should we have to sell it, it will be much easier if it is not the place where our parent’s ashes are scattered.

Scattering the ashes creates a sacred space.

The irony is that my own home has become such a sacred space.

I anticipate the move back into that space in our home.

There I will study the word.  Sermons will be written.  And through the Word, Jesus’ face will be revealed.

There in that space that Dad saw Jesus face to face, I too will encounter my Savior.

There Angels will ascend and descend on the stairway to heaven, messengers speaking the Divine Word into our ordinary world.

That place where I have often wrestled with God through times of depression and despair will now be a sanctuary. 

No, I don’t plan on erecting an altar there.  There are other places for that.

But I will remember.

I will remember that for one brief but shining moment, it was there that my Father saw the face of God.

I find myself wondering about the future.

Will one day a bed be made there again, only this time for me as I take my final breaths on this earth?

Only time will tell.

For now the Sacred will be found in the ordinary.

A few feet away from that holy space where Dad died, is our dining table.

There we break bread together.

There we gather with family and friends.

There we teach our grandson to pray.

And there amid all that ordinary stuff, we encounter the hidden God.

And the angels sing “Holy, Holy, Holy!”

Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.

5 Years, 60 Months, 1,827 Days, 43,828 Hours, but who's counting?

It was not pretty, five years ago.

I had been treating my undiagnosed Bipolar Disorder with significant amounts of Scotch.  The last year I averaged 10 fluid ounces a day.  "Just a couple of drinks, mind you!"  A fifth of Scotch was not particular challenge to consume on those days that I didn't have to work, and when my wife wasn't around.  And, if I must say so myself, I was quite functional.

I used to joke that it took 2 Scotch doubles for me to feel sober.  I've since learned it was not a joke.  When one is advanced in alcoholism, one's system requires a sufficient level of alcohol to be present to feel normal.  Alcohol initially intoxicates people, and many enjoy the buzz.  As time goes on, it merely staves off the unpleasant experiences of alcohol withdrawal.  And numbs you.

For the most part I didn't drink Saturday nights, lest I smell of whiskey on Sunday mornings.  I developed the shakes Sunday mornings.  I couldn't pour the wine from the chalice for communion.  I didn't know what was happening.  Now I do.  My restraint on Saturday evenings was causing detox symptoms Sunday mornings.  Vanity is a strange thing.  I was so concerned about smelling of liquor that I didn't drink, and then detoxed in front of my congregation.  Uffda!

To a certain extent, alcohol gave me control of my moods.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, three drinks, four.  A calming of anxiety, a lightening of mood, a drift into melancholy, sometimes depression, at other times mania, but most often just sleep.  That was one of the main motivators.  Sleep.  "Passing out" is what my doctor insists on calling it.  I insisted that passing out was only when your face planted in the mashed potatoes.  I went to bed.  She would insist however, that there is a difference between sleep and an alcohol induced unconsciousness.  What does she know.  She's only a psychiatrist with a specialty in chemical dependence. .  .

There were warning signs.  A colleague, Gail, watched me down two hefty Scotch doubles during happy hour, order a third for dinner, and then as we walked from the bar to the dining room she commented, "Dave, if I didn't just watch you down those drinks, I'd have no clue you've been drinking.  What's that all about?"

I was a 'professional drinker'.  Amateurs are actually the ones who couldn't handle their drinking.  Given the choice, I'd rather ride in a car with an alcoholic with a .20 alcohol level, than with a amateur drinker with a .08.  Habituation has its advantages.

The problem is that the toxicity of alcohol remains even though the symptoms of  intoxication diminish with habituation.  I could drink a fifth of Scotch and never feel 'the buzz' that I craved.  The problem for an alcoholic is that the alcohol remains toxic, even when it is no longer intoxicating.  It'll kill you.  An often does.  It almost did me.  Though I'm quick to point out that five years ago, last night, it was not just the alcohol.  I violated one of my rules and took Ativan in addition to a fifth of Scotch.  Against Medical Advice.  To say the least. By the grace of God I survived the night.

I no longer crave the drink.  When I smell Scotch, what I experience is what I call a 'cravulsion'.  At one and the same time triggers the appetite AND produces the most repulsive reaction possible.  A simple solution is to simply avoid the smell.

One would think that sobriety would immediately impact the externals of one's life.  That sober one would prosper in ways not possible drunk.  Well, not yet, is my reply to that.  My recovery has been complicated by being Bipolar.  The first thing that happened is that a major manic episode was triggered.  That resulted in my resignation from my call in ministry, and investing $60,000 or so in woodworking equipment for my new business.  Bottom line, I'll not be able to retire as soon.

Every step of the way, just when we think that our financial situation has stabilized, another shoe drops.  I lost my disability, but found a job in woodworking.  Karla received a raise.  Then, a part time call in addition to Karla's job, and my woodworking job, was going to solve our problems.  Then Karla lost her job.  More recently, Dad moved in with us and the income we received from caring for him was going to stabilize our situation.  He died a few weeks later.  The loss of him is the only real significant issue.  But the reality is that it leaves us once again scrambling.

Sobriety is sometimes 'marketed' as a way to move from life in the gutter to life in the stars.  I am of the belief that such promises don't always materialize.  Sobriety, though is its own reward.  Oh, and yes, I'm still alive.

Five years later I mostly wonder what the next five hold for  me.  I'm deeply grateful for many things.  Like life, a family that I didn't lose, and that one way or another all bills are paid and current.

One of the struggles is that my measure of a return to normalcy is actually affected by my being Bipolar.  I was capable of things during my manic phases that still surprise even me.  That hyper functioning set the bar high.  Now, with my moods controlled by medications, I doubt (I hope?) I'll ever again experience those manic highs.  To an extent, that's depressing.  But due to the medication, not too depressing.  Its just that one must adjust to a new normal, that is neither lived at the summit or the deepest darkest valley.

Some friends will join our family to celebrate my fifth birthday of no 'fifths'.  It'll be a good time.  I'll be sober, as will they.  I do not have a drink in my plans for today.  One more day.  Number 1,828.  But who's counting.

Necessary Suffering

In "Falling Upward" Richard Rohr speaks about "necessary suffering" apart from which we may never move beyond the false selves that we have created throughout the first half of life to the true self and the spiritual maturity that awaits us in the second half of life.  I've thought a lot about this, and reflected on my own experience.  Rohr is, in my opinion, a true theologian of the cross to the extent that he recognizing that the suffering which threatens to destroy us, may in fact be that which redeems us.  But in the end, we'd still rather read a self help book than experience the depth of human experience, and the necessary suffering that is part of life.

I preached a sermon about this a couple years back, and in the congregation was a woman whose husband had died following a long bout with cancer.  The reaction was understandable.  If losing one's husband is part of the 'necessary suffering' required to move toward a more mature spirituality, she would much rather remain forever spiritually immature and have the companionship of her husband.  On the other hand, there is an existential tension in play here.  On the one hand the one thing we never want to suggest is that God imposes suffering on us to to make us better people.  On the other hand, at the end of one's life, looking back over all that we've experienced, it is often the 'necessary suffering' we've endured that has done more to shape who we are than anything else.  

There is part of me that would will that Bipolar were a disorder for which there was a test to diagnose it from the beginning.  Would that a simple mental health screening could identify any such disorder and allow for treatment from the start so that we avoid the suffering that too often is the defining characteristic of the disease.  And yet, another part of me recognizes that apart from the suffering that the disease causes, treatment would never be embraced, and in the end we would be destroyed.

One of my most pronounced manic episodes saw me pursue senior housing as a strategy for extending the mission of the church.  I had significant success, and also failure.  After it all was over, and I was experiencing the depression that naturally follows a manic episode, I turned to my bishop for counsel and advice.  One of the things I told him was that I'd be just fine if I could have one major project after another to throw myself into.  This was prior to diagnosis.  What I was basically asking for was the opportunity to live my life in a perpetual manic state.  If one could maintain that state, and channel it, there's no telling what might be accomplished.  Necessary suffering came into play, however,  in the form of a healthy dose of reality that tempered the unbridled optimism of a manic high.

There is a problem with trying to maintain a perpetual manic high.  It's not unlike a race car.  A normal car with typical use can go for 100,000 to 200,000 miles without major breakdowns.  Racing cars are different.  In our personal vehicles we typically operate them at about 2 to 3 thousand rpms.  This they can handle indefinitely.  Racing cars, by contrast, are pushed to the limit and the engines have an extremely short life expectancy.  If not replaced, they at least have to be rebuilt for each race.  Such is the toll of the extreme conditions under which they are operated.

The problem with attempting to sustain a manic state is that it is like running an engine at 6,000 rpm.  You can get by with it for a while, but not for long.

For me, depression was the necessary suffering that in the end freed me from being consumed by the effort to maintain mania.  Not only did it force an end to the manic pursuits, but it paved the way for treatment and yes, a healthy balance and new experience of my own spirituality.  To use Rohr's frame of reference, I had built my 'false self' around a manic perception of my identity and it was only the suffering of depression that was able to shatter this self image and open up the possibility of a healthier spirituality.  

As the title of the book suggests, Rohr calls this movement 'falling upward'.

But it doesn't happen without a fight.

I still find my self desiring to tap into the energy of a full blown manic episode to advance my sense of purpose and accomplish my goals.

Currently, I'm a bivocational person, working 36 hours a week as a cabinet maker, and 25 hours a week as a pastor.  This involves getting up at 3:30 am so that I can be to work at the cabinet shop in Hayden by 5:30 am, where I work until 12:30.  From there I travel to Otis Orchards to do the pastor thing.  The commuting adds about 2 1/2 to 3 hours to the work day.  In order to really pursue the mission developer work required by my parish, I need more time available in the evenings when people are available.  Where does one find the energy to really have at it?  The exhaustion I now experience would not be there were I in a manic episode.  

My current schedule leaves me thoroughly exhausted at the end of the week.  Saturdays involve marathon napping.  

Some would say I'm doing too much.  My perspective is that I've done far more.  Mania brings with it a capacity for engagement that is, well, shall I say, impressive.  Yet a race car engine can only sustain 6,000 rpm for a short while.  This I know.  

The struggle is to let go of the self identity shaped by mania.  And perhaps bipolar people are the only one's who fully understand this.  One's true self is not shaped by the disease.  And yes, it is often the suffering that reveals this.  

Theologically, and spiritually, I understand that my true self is defined not by the disease but in relationship with my God.  What I don't know is whether I've suffered enough yet to fully embrace this true identity, or if I'm still building my own castle and kingdom.  Time will tell.

The True Self

As one who is bipolar there is an underlying question of identity.  Its not dissimilar to the "I am" of Alcoholics Anonymous. "My name is Dave, and I am an alcoholic."  The honesty of claiming that identity, of stripping oneself of all pretense of denial, is key to healing.  Yet it raises a greater question of identity.  Are we to be defined by our disease.

I am bipolar.  A statement of identity.  To know me, is to know this.

Or not.  Perhaps to know the true me you must see beyond the disease.  

I have been open about my disease.  Part of that is to deny shame a place in my experience.  I should be no more ashamed of being bipolar than I am of having had to have my mitral valve repaired.  It is simply a medical condition that needs to be treated.  It has been.  It continues to be.  But it is not me.

Or maybe it is.  

One take on this condition is to understand being bipolar as being one who is capable of experiencing a broader range of moods from the norm.  We all experience highs and lows.  Its just that one who is bipolar experiences higher highs and lower lows.  Another aspect of being bipolar is that the transition between the highs and lows can be, for lack of a better word, violent.  And uncontrollable.  Not that we don't try to control it.  We do.  I self-medicated with alcohol for a decade or so, and that worked until it didn't.  Alcohol gave me some sense of control.  I knew how I would feel after one, two, and three drinks.  If I were depressed, a Scotch lifted my spirits.  During manic phases, it calmed me.  And then it didn't work anymore.  I was drinking myself to death in a vain effort to find the relief that now alluded me.

Thankfully, the crash that followed created the opportunity for diagnosis and treatment.  Better living through chemicals.  A more stable existence follows.  The goal is to achieve a functional stability. The problem with experiencing the highs and lows of manic and depressed phases is sustainability.  And durability. One could die.  That last point is important to remember.  One could die.  

But there remains the question of identity.  Who is the true self that the "I am" refers to?

My wife would tell you that she is thrilled to have me back again.  When my bipolar disorder was becoming increasingly pronounced life had become a rodeo.  One moment I was riding high on top of the beast, and the next moment at danger of being trampled.  Rodeos are entertaining unless of course you love the rider.  Two thousand pounds of bull crashing down on someone you care for is terrifying, not entertaining.  So it is with being bipolar.  

And yet there remains part of me that feels that with the stabilization of my moods there also came a diminishing of my capacity.

When I explore vocational options with my pastor, who tries very hard to understand my condition, his response is frequently to raise the flag of caution.  "Is this wise?"  Rightfully there is a reason for caution.  Accepting a challenging position could easily trigger a manic episode, and adversity is prone to trigger depression.  How much does one trust the safety net of the psychiatric meds?  

And yet the purpose of those meds is to enhance one's life, not deprive one of life.

Somewhere within the mystery of all this lies the true self.  The person God created me to be.  The person that is both loved, and capable of loving.  

Finally the "I am" is not a reflection of the disease, but of the divine.  And for now, it is best to simply leave it at that.

Sacred Vocation or a Fool's Pastime

There is a bipolar nature to ministry itself.  An ebb and flow from the heights to the depths.  At one end of the spectrum is a conviction that this vocation is a most sacred calling.  At the other end of the spectrum is a depressing thought that perhaps ministry itself is but a fool's pastime.  As a sacred calling ministry taps into the manic side of our existence.  As a fool's pastime there is nothing but despair and an overwhelming sense of irrelevance.

And it all hinges on the question of life, truth, and that which is of ultimate importance.  And it is a question of faith.

God either is, or is not.

The Gospel either is a matter of ultimate importance, or it is not.

These questions confront us more and more as the culture in which we live drifts toward an increasingly secular society where faith in God is either non-existent, or a matter of little importance.  "When the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?"  (Luke 18:8)

Because of this many of his disciples turned back and no longer went about with him. So Jesus asked the twelve, "Do you also wish to go away?" Simon Peter answered him, "Lord, to whom can we go? You have the words of eternal life. We have come to believe and know that you are the Holy One of God."  (John 6:66-69)

This is the thing about ministry.  We are caught between these two poles.  At one end of the spectrum we are confronted with a world that increasingly has no faith.  At the other are those who cling to our words as the way of eternal life.  The ministry we share as the Church is either the highest of callings, or a pitiful excuse of a way to live.

At times of deep depression, when faith eludes me, I sometimes view myself and my life as that of a modern day medicine man, leading the tribe in the ritual of the Ghost Dance, clothing them in the Ghost Shirts in the vain effort to protect them from all evil, and yet, unable to stop the bullets from penetrating.

At times of deep faith there is a sense of walking with my people from the cradle to the gates of heaven.  In these sacred moments there is a recognition that this ministry we share is an integral part of God's redemptive work for all creation.  That the Word we are called to proclaim has the same power as the Word God spoke at the beginning of time-- the power to call forth life itself.

What is truth?

It is either one or the other.  There is no in between.  The faith we hold dear is not just an icing on the cake, a sweet topping to make life more palatable.  Either God is or is not.  And that makes a difference.  It makes a difference in the way we live.  It makes a difference in what is of ultimate importance.  Or it is a fool's pastime.

What song shall we sing?

Living Icon

May it be found, when my time on earth is done, that in some way my life has made a difference.

And may that difference be a bit more substantial than, and perhaps even justify, the carbon footprint that my mere existence has left behind.

This quest to find purpose and meaning in life has captivated my soul for a long time.  It drove me into the study of theology and philosophy during my collegiate years.  It affected my decision to enter the seminary.  And it underlies every decision that I have made regarding call and vocation.  

One of the  struggles I've had with my 'alternative vocation', that of being a woodworker, is that I've rarely found the meaning and purpose that I crave.  This hasn't stopped me, mind you.  One of the lasting legacies I have left in many of the parishes I have served are the woodworking projects that I undertook while there.  

And yet that is unfulfilling.

In contrast to that are the words spoken to me by a parishioner that I did not previously know, that was cleaning St. Elizabeth's Lutheran Church in Ekalaka when my wife and I arrived there to deliver the chancel furnishings I made for their new building.  When I first served St. Elizabeth's they were a preaching point out of Plevna, and on a given Sunday there might be ten in worship.  One of the highlights of my ministry happened on Easter Sunday, when we baptized nine people, including three generations of one family.  I'm not sure what I did other than trying to faithfully preach the Word each Sunday.  Before I left we were able to organize St. Elizabeth's into a congregation of the ELCA.

It was over ten years later when Karla and I returned with the altar, baptismal font, credence table and pulpit.  But when we did, this woman, new to the congregation since I left, was there at the church when we arrived.

"You are a 'living icon' around here."

Those words touched me.  

I've thought about them since.  And what they must mean.  An icon.  A picture through which one looks to see the Divine.  In the truest sense of the word, a living icon is not simply one who is greatly admired, but one through whom people were able to see something greater beyond.

"Sir, we wish to see Jesus."

That is the hope, that somehow as people look not at us, but through us, they might see Jesus.  And in that, I, and I would imagine every pastor, find meaning and purpose.

At my current congregation in Otis Orchards I've been experimenting with using Facebook to reach out into the community and share the Message.  Boosting a post typically yields about a thousand page views, many likes, and even a few shares.  But with it also comes some interesting comments.

"F____ off!" was the comment.  I deleted it, and banned the sender (both to prohibit such comments on my post but also to prevent my posts from being sent to him, which he clearly didn't appreciate.)  But then this morning, he somehow was able to post another comment:  "Again I say, f____ off!"

I was taken aback by the comments.  I'm not here to offend.  Or maybe I am, if the Gospel so offends.

What I've been thinking about this morning is that perhaps my words that elicited such a response from this young man, had more of an impact on him than they do for a parishioner whose response is often a simple "Nice sermon, Pastor."  And perhaps banning him and his comments was not the right thing to do.  Perhaps attempting to engage him might have been better.

But in the end, it will not be my efforts that make a difference in this young man's life.  I can only pray that the Holy Spirit may use the message he heard which elicited such a strong response, to make a difference in that young man's life.  That would delight me.  But I'm not overly optimistic.  

"You are a living icon around here."  And  "F____ off!"  

Well, in the end I guess that is what we can expect.  Deep gratitude for our ministry and outright rejection, sometimes, at one and the same time.  

The Risk of Flying Solo

An opportunity has presented itself to me in my ministry at Peace in Otis Orchards.  Later this summer there will be a training event to equip pastors for redevelopment work, something my congregation is desperately in need of having happen.  This plays right into my goals and aspirations with respect to the ministry there.  The truth is that I am more committed to the redevelopment of that congregation that probably anyone else I've encountered, within the congregation or without.

Part of my drive stems from my experience early in my adult years when my wife and I were part of the development of a  new congregation in Gig Harbor, WA.  Agnus Dei Lutheran Church was just the right place at just the right time for my wife and I.  When I entered seminary one of my major goals was to be a mission developer pastor and perhaps recreate that experience for others.

And so an opportunity presents itself late in my career to do redevelopment work in Otis Orchards.  

One of the struggles is that there is little if any support available to cover the cost of the training event.  The congregation has limited means.  There is no support available from the national Church.  And our Synod is dealing with the reality of limited resources as well.  The question put forward to me last night was whether I had the personal commitment level to fund the training myself.  This would involve the cost of the training, airfare to Denver, lodging and some of the meals while there, and losing a week's salary from  my secular employment.  All this taken into consideration, there remains a cost/benefit analysis to do regarding the opportunity.  If having the training does in fact give me the tools to successfully redevelop the congregation, then its all worth it.  If  not, it's merely throwing money at the wind.

What I struggle most with, as a bipolar person, is evaluating such an opportunity and discerning whether this is an opportunity and call coming from the Holy Spirit, or whether it simply plays into the symptoms of my disease.

Manic thought patterns make one prone to careless spending habits, grandiose schemes, and high risk business ventures, just to name a few.  And this is the thing, any consideration of such an 'investment' has to be tempered with serious caution as to whether this is a good as it seems.  When I'm in a full blown manic episode I can make a good case for selling ice to an Eskimo.  Personal discernment is not a strong suit for a bipolar person.  That's the problem.

It is especially a problem when I'm left to my own discernment.  

One of my most successful efforts in ministry was also the result of one of my most manic episodes, the development of Luther Park at Sandpoint, an 87 unit senior housing project.  When the dust settled on that one my biggest disappointment was that in the end the congregation did not see Luther Park as its ministry, but rather as my baby.  That's the danger of flying solo.  It can all be about fulfilling personal dreams and aspirations with little buy in from the larger community.

Where I'm at in my discernment and thought processes this morning is that pursuing this opportunity cannot be simply a individual quest of my own.  There has to be some buy in from the Church, the local congregation, the Synod, and/or the national Church.  If those three do not see the value of such an endeavor, then I must seriously question whether the value I see is genuine, or fantasy.  

This is what I'm learning as I continue to work on managing my disease.  Every aspect of discernment has to be, simply has to be, confirmed by others.