Killing the savior

"The Zen Master warns: “If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him!” This admonition points up that no meaning that comes from outside of ourselves is real. The Buddhahood of each of us has already been obtained. We need only recognize it."

I am not Buddhist.  But I heard this saying back when I was in seminary and I've remembered it.  I won't attempt to interpret this from a Buddhist perspective.  But it causes me to think of  my own situation and experience of being bipolar, and stimulates yet another thought.  Perhaps the opposite thought.

"If you meet a savior within yourself, kill him!"

If there is one word that best describes my manic side it would be 'savior'.  It's wrapped in a sense of a holy calling, a mission to make a difference, a conviction that "I can fix that", and a sense that many depend on my fulfilling this purpose.  If I don't do it, who will?

"Who will?"

There's an obvious answer to that.  As a person of faith I believe deeply in the one and only One who is the Savior of the World.  

Believing this leads me to the conviction that whenever that savior mentality enters my brain, I must kill it.  I relate to John the Baptist's statement, "I am not the Messiah."  That is a confession of faith in the one who is.

Christmas Eve services.  Always a highlight of the Church Year.  Typically the largest attendance, and this held true for us as well.  But there was disappointment.  I have been experimenting with using Facebook advertising to try and extend the outreach of our little congregation.  Our invitation to Christmas Eve services went out to 1241 households in the Otis Orchards area.  1241.  Our attendance was 41. That's approximately double our normal attendance, fairly typical for a Christmas Eve service, especially when we know that some of our regulars are attending elsewhere with their families and others probably stayed home because of the icy roads.  But I must confess I had hoped that my efforts at outreach would have netted a lot more.  Especially because my family alone accounted for nine of those in attendance.  I dreamed of a standing room only crowd.  

Kill the savior.

This morning I'm thinking of a strawberry patch.  The thing about strawberries is that you can plant and nourish those first starts, but it is the strawberries themselves that send out the shoots that grow the patch.  I would say that we sow the seeds, but the growth comes from God.  But even that is too much.  The seeds of faith are sown by the Holy Spirit.  Not us.

Kill the savior.

In the end, faced with the decline of the Church in our country, and the challenges of growing my own little congregation, perhaps the most faithful response is simply to recognize that the responsibility for revitalizing the Church is God's alone.  God's alone.

There is no reason to get depressed about 'our failures', cause it wasn't our responsibility in the first place.  I would like to counsel God about a reasonable direction forward, and the need for real growth in our Church and congregation, but alas, God does not need my counsel.  Whatever God is doing, God is doing.  

Kill the savior, and let the Savior live.  

The "Being" and the "Doing"

One of the hardest lessons I learned in my first parish was the difference between "being" the pastor, and "doing" pastoral ministry.  I was the first full time pastor in Thompson Falls.  They had built a parsonage for  us.  We received a joyous welcome.  And I set about my work.

I interpreted that their investments toward attaining a full time pastor were all about their desire to receive full time pastoral ministry.  And I set about trying to fulfill that goal.  My goal was to fill the church's calendar with programs and activities, and so to justify my position.

What I learned from them was that it was actually more important that I simply be seen around town, at the post office, in the grocery store, walking my dog.  As for all my  programmatic activity, it largely failed.  They were simply concerned that I would "be" their pastor.  They were not nearly so concerned about what I did.  Yes, there were moments of intense pastoral ministry.  But for the most part, I was paid to be there when needed, and the rest of the time simply to be the pastor.  

I realize now that after nearly three decades in ministry I'm in the same situation again.  The only things on our calendar are Sunday morning worship, and an adult ed class afterwards.  Aside from that, the boy scouts meet weekly, and the council meets monthly.  I do some visitation, but not a lot.  And this seems to be more my need than theirs.  We decorated the church for Christmas, and had a potluck.  We will go caroling.

But for hour after hour I sit in my office and wonder what am I doing to justify receiving a generous salary package.  The answer is, I am "being" their pastor.  Its as though they are saying to me "Do whatever you feel a need to do, that's fine with us, just be our pastor."

The manic side of me is just not content to master the art of "being".  I want a quest.  I'm a bit like a border collie in that regard.  Either give me work to do, or I'll make up my own.  

Two things I'm "doing".  First, I'm trying to see if I can get an AA meeting starting here in Otis Orchards.  There isn't one now.  The biggest challenge is where and how do you connect with people who are part of an organization that values above all else, anonymity.  Secondly, I am exploring how to use Facebook and my blogs as a means of evangelism, and an extension of my ministry here.

I've had 9,000 pageviews on this blog, and nearly 6,000 on my other blog, Wanderingsthroughtheword.com.  What amazes me is that I've had pageviews from every single continent, except Antartica.

Writing and posting is what satisfied my sense of calling while I was not in a parish.  Now, it fulfills my sense of call by giving me something to "do" in a parish whose primary need is for me to simply "be" their pastor.

That said, I find myself wrestling with the question of whether my drive to be doing something is symptomatic of my bipolar disease, or part of a genuine sense of call.  My bishop would probably say, "Well, yes, both."

I leave it at that for today, and get back to the holy work of being.

The lion sleeps tonight

In the jungle, the mighty jungle

The lion sleeps tonight

In the jungle the quiet jungle

The lion sleeps tonight

Near the village the peaceful village

The lion sleeps tonight

Near the village the quiet village

The lion sleeps tonight

Hush my darling don't fear my darling

The lion sleeps tonight

Hush my darling don't fear my darling

The lion sleeps tonight.

(Songwriters: HUGO PERETTI, GEORGE DAVID WEISS, LUIGI CREATORE)

     There is no lion's roar waking the primordial fears within.  Just the silent solitude of a world wrapped in darkness.  And a glimmer of light in the nighttime skies.

     Daylight savings time.  And then the return to normal time.  And the darkness of winter.  Perhaps I need a sun lamp, a full spectrum light in which to bathe.  This much I know-- that my sleep disorder doesn't adapt very well to change.  The rest of the world may "fall back" as daylight savings time comes to an end, but my system seems to be locked in.  My 8 pm bedtime is now 7.  And where I used to wake about 2 am, it is now 1 am.  

     Sometimes I'm able to return to sleep, or on weekends, nap.  Saturdays, after my rather busy week, I'm talking real power napping.  Actually making up sleep from the week prior.  I may have two, two hour naps by the time breakfast rolls around at 8 am.  And then, another after breakfast.  But the hours of my falling asleep, and rising, appear to be locked in now at 7 and 1.  

     Yet the "lion sleeps tonight".  No primordial fear.  The desperation and despair of depression are not present.  Neither is the drive and passion of mania.  Just the sweet solitude of the early morning.  

     Time alone used to be feared.  I was not a safe companion for myself.  Rumination ruled the restless hours.  Reliving a thousand times the lion's roar.  The soul shaking, trembling.  Precariously perched on the precipice.  (Hows my alliteration doing. . .)

     Rumination has given way to contemplation.  I write as in a journal.  You, even in silence, are my therapists.  Sometimes the train seems to pick up steam.  My thoughts turn to the saving activity of my manic side.  Most recently I've been seeking to actively use Facebook to promote the congregation I serve.  A boosted post, over 300 people reached, a dozen or more 'likes', a five star rating.  And I wait to see if this activity will mean visitors in worship.  Grandiosity knocks at the door.  And then fades again.

     Dreams have been interesting.  I seem to get locked into repeating over and over again a task at work.  Remaking the same part, time after time.  I wake sometimes, just to get a break from the relentless task that my dream world has taken on that night.  Ironic that the dreams that fill my sleeping are so filled with working that I need to wake in order to rest.  

     Another random thought from the silence of the night.  I've experienced in recent years significant hearing loss.  I wear hearing aids.  Without them there is a constant ringing in my ears.  But with them, the ringing, the tinnitus, subsides.  I need my hearing aids to listen to the silence.  Strange, but true.  

     Amid it all, the waking at night, my wife is concerned.  "How are you doing, emotionally?"  "Don't get up."  "See if you can just fall back asleep."  There is an understandable fear that the insomnia is a symptom of the return of depression or mania.  Could be either.  Except for the peace.  Quiet peace within.  And so I sing,

Hush my darling don't fear my darling

The lion sleeps tonight.

Meeting my "John"

It was four years ago that I was in treatment for depression and alcoholism.  I was able to resume my ministry for a while, beginning with the third Sunday in Advent.  This is the sermon I preached on my first Sunday back.

This was preached prior to my diagnosis as being bipolar.  I find it interesting that within the sermon I speak about my experiences that would later be diagnosed as manic and depressive, though I didn't recognize them as such at the time.

Advent 3, 2012

Luke 3:7-18

Grace to you and Peace from God our Father and our Lord and Savior, Jesus the Christ.  Amen

“Come, Lord Jesus!”

Come, Lord Jesus!           We pray.

But first, it is John that we must see.

First it is the Baptizing firebrand of a preacher,  

                Calling the nation of Israel,

                                That enters into our life.

And so it must be.

You see the Messiah cannot come,

                Until the prophet prepares the way.

John calls us to repentance.

His is a ministry of truth telling.

The truth telling that is repentance is not

                The harsh words of a wild haired preacher

                Declaring “you brood of vipers.”

The truth telling of repentance is what happens

                In that moment when we look into the mirror

                And we can no longer pretend.

It is that moment when we see ourselves

                For who we actually are,

                                Not for who we wish we might be.

Such truth telling is painful and frightening.

So much so that many of us spend our entire lives

                Running from the truth,

                And creating a virtual palace of lies

                                Within which we live,

                                And with which we will die.

Unless we come to meet, John.

I have been gone for awhile, now.

                Perhaps a few of you noticed!

My first reaction, coming back to preach today, and seeing that the Gospel lesson began with John’s exhortation “You brood of vipers!” was that there was no way in the world that I would return to preach on this text.

But then, on Friday I realized that there was no more appropriate text for me to wrestle with.

For me, these last two months were a wilderness experience.

Like the Jewish people in John’s day, I was led into the wilderness to encounter John,

                But more importantly to come face to face

                                With myself and with the truth.

I have struggled with depression since my youth.  The one symptom that has been continuous since my adolescence was insomnia.

15 years ago I was first diagnosed and entered into treatment.  I went through about four years of counseling, detailing about every experience of my life.

And yet, I realize that in a very profound way, none of that truth telling was in fact the truth telling that really makes a difference.

During that time we explored:

·         My childhood and the lack of affection shown by my parents;

·         A relationship with my band director and the affection that was abusive

·         The deep hurt experienced when a pastor and father figure was involved in sexual misconduct;

·         The feeling of betrayal and abuse that I have experienced from the Church itself;

·         And many other issues.

There was a lot of truth in all of that.

But John was not there.

There is no value whatsoever in confessing other people’s sins.  No redemptive value whatsoever.

It’s not that those things didn’t impact my life, they clearly did.  And, the truth is that

·         Children need to know they are loved

·         Young boys should never be abused

·         Pastor’s should not engage in sexual misconduct

·         The Church should be a place of love and forgiveness, not betrayal and abuse

These things, are in fact, all true.

True, but irrelevant. 

Recognizing past wrongs,

                Confessing other people’s sins,

Only creates a sense of being helpless victims

                Or a false sense of self righteousness.

And when we do that, we are merely adding to that palace of lies in which we live and with which we will die.

But then there is John,

                Calling us to a rigorous honesty,

                Calling us to repentance,

                Calling us to lives changed, and  renewed.

These last few months I have been in conversation with John.

My John the Baptist was not a first century prophet,

But a twenty first century Psychiatrist.

What they have in common though, is that sitting face to face with them, one can simply no longer lie.

One must finally, face the truth, not about others,

                But about ourselves.

The truth is not easy to acknowledge.

The hardest words that I have ever heard were:

“Dave, you are an alcoholic.”

And a thousand times harder than hearing those words, were saying to my wife, “I am an alcoholic.”

Back in ’97, when I began treatment for depression,

In addition to an anti-depressant, I was prescribed Ativan, an anti-anxiety medication that also helps one sleep.  And sleep I did.  For the first time since adolescence I was able to lie down, go to sleep, and remain asleep for 7 to 8 hours.

What I didn’t know then, was that Ativan is highly addictive and habituating; AND it works in the brain very similar to alcohol.

In 2003, I was feeling so good that I decided to go off all of my medications, including Ativan.

What happened was that those receptors in my brain that had become addicted to Ativan sent off an alarm, which basically said:

                “If you’re not going to give us Ativan, you better come up with another alternative.”

Al most immediately I went from an occasional drink to needing two Scotch doubles a night just to sleep.

Throughout the first twenty five years of our marriage I had drank alcohol only occasionally.  Most of the time we didn’t have any at all in our house.  I would have beer in the heat of the summer, and perhaps into the football season.  I never consumed hard alcohol.

This last spring as my depression worsened, a new psychiatrist changed the antidepresent and put me back on Ativan, despite knowing that I was still regularly consuming alcohol.  That is a potentially lethal combination and could have cost me my life on October 14^th.

The time had come and I had to face the truth.

I am an alcoholic.  I am powerless over alcohol and my life had become unmanageable.

John the Baptist calls us to such repentance.

And my John the Baptist is known as “Dr. C.”

Would that that truth was the only truth I had to acknowledge.  It has taken a life time to build a palace of lies, and such self deception doesn’t go away over night.

One of the reasons my depression has been worsening relates to my hopes, dreams, and sense of calling in ministry.

When I entered ministry, it was with the most deep seated hope and conviction that if I were a faithful pastor, hard working, creative and caring, and one with a heart for mission and ministry—then the Church would thrive and nothing would be impossible.

When I came to First Lutheran I shared with the council that though the worship attendance had been on the decline since 1986, I was absolutely committed to changing that, especially because Sandpoint was a growing community.

Growing it was, but not in worship attendance or Church membership.

That decline in worship attendance that I noted in 2000 has continued.  And the only thing that has changed is the color of our hair, or how much hair is left on some of our heads.

And so I found myself being quite jealous of my father’s generation of pastors.  Pastors such as Bob Nale who entered ministry after WWII and saw the Church thriving and growing during the post war years of the fifties, sixties, and seventies.

And the more I thought about it, the more depressed I got.

The truth that I must now face, is that my own grandiose thoughts about how far my faithfulness and hard work could take the Church were really delusional. 

And my depression is the dark side of that delusion.  To allow myself to feel responsible for the decline of the entirety of Christianity in our country, and to beat myself up for my failures, is in the end, to fanaticize that if I had just tried harder, I could have accomplished what in fact only God can accomplish.

In this John the Baptist gives us an example for living.

“I am not the Messiah,”  he says, “but there is one who is coming.”

And so we pray “Come, Lord Jesus!”

And Jesus will come.

But first we need to have a frank, honest, conversation with John the Baptist.

We need to acknowledge that we are powerless and in bondage.

Our confession of sin says it this way:

“I am in bondage to sin and cannot free myself.”

In Alcoholics Anonimous this truth is reflected on page 60 of the big book, words that are read at the beginning of each meeting:

            (a)    That we were alcoholic and could not manage our own lives.

            (b)   That probably no human power could have relieved our alcoholism.

And then, comes the promise:

            (c)    That God could and would if He were sought.

Personally, I wish John the Baptist were not part of the picture.

I would prefer to simply have Jesus, a child lying in a manger, and one to save me from my sins without having to face the demands of John  the Baptist for repentance.

I would prefer not to have to face the truth about myself.

But it is only in truth, rigorous, painful, truth, that we are prepared to receive the Messiah.

If we confess our sins, God who is faithful and just will forgive our sins and cleanse us from all unrighteousness.

God could and would if he were sought.

The bad news none of us wants to admit is that we need a savior.

The good news is that he was, he is, and he is to come.

And so with the Church of every time and every place we pray

Come, Lord Jesus.

Come.

Do Not, I repeat, NOT, engage. . .

It happens so quickly.  

A simple request was made.  I said, "Sure."

And I stepped on someone else's toes.  Feelings were hurt.  Offense was taken.

Nothing was intended.

Ah, but then the cogs start turning within me.  Defensiveness.  Anger.  Despairing over the reality of dealing with people in the Church.  Questions of "Why?"  "Why this?  Why now?"  "Is this really necessary?"

And all too quickly there may be two of us constructing mountains out of molehills.  

For one who is bipolar, the instinctive responses of fight or flight take on manic/depressive tendencies.  The fighter in me goes manic.  The depressed side of me just flees into that cavern of woe.  

And then the Voice cries out in warning.

Do not engage! 

Just because someone has a problem doesn't mean you have a problem.  Let them own their own problems.  

Do not be baited into an engagement in a battle that need not be fought.

We have limited resources for warfare.  Don't bankrupt those resources on meaningless battles.  

Would that I'd learned that lesson years ago.  

There would have been a lot less bloodshed.  A lot more would have been left in the tank for dealing with issues that really matter.  

Do not engage!  Do not let others take control of your psyche.  Do not empty your soul over that which doesn't matter.  

Let them be.  Move on.  

Tomorrow someone else will make a request.  A response will follow.  And perhaps yet another persons nose will get bent out of shape.  But that's their nose, not yours.  And its not your job to straighten other people's noses.  Nope.  Not at all.

Do not engage.  

Election 2016, Good Medicine

No use belaboring the point.

No need for a well thought out argument.

Sometimes things are just intuitively obvious.

For those such as myself, who have been diagnosed with a mental illness such as bipolar disorder, this election is good medicine.

"Heavens!" you say,  "Pray tell, what could you possibly mean?"

Given the insanity that has been paraded before us throughout this election, I'm convinced that my own insanity is minor.

And a little bit of medicine takes care of my condition.

Would that the country could just take a pill and be restored to sanity.

Alas, that's just wishful thinking.

The first step in the healing process for a bipolar person is the recognition that the condition exists.  

And then, taking the pill, doing the therapy, being cautious and aware of the moods one is experiencing.

And though life continues to have its challenges, it levels out.

A nation that is bipolar.  At one point convinced it can solve every world problem.  At another point, depressed about whether even one problem can be solved.

Would that we could see this.

Would that there was a pill.

A little balance would be good.

Yup, there is a solution to my malady.  

Not so sure about the nation's.

Where can I flee from your presence?

Psalm 139:7-12

Where can I go from your spirit?

Or where can I flee from your presence?

If I ascend to heaven, you are there;

if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there.

If I take the wings of the morning

and settle at the farthest limits of the sea,

even there your hand shall lead me,

and your right hand shall hold me fast.

If I say, "Surely the darkness shall cover me,

and the light around me become night,"

even the darkness is not dark to you;

the night is as bright as the day,

for darkness is as light to you.

Would that we might always have the perspective that time's passage affords.  There would be less despair, little doubt, more comfort, and the assurance that God is there.  Yet such an awareness awaits the morning sun.  When one is in the thick of it, one's perspective is obscured.

As one who is bipolar one learns to loathe both the height and the depth  of our experience.  Soaring with a manic euphoria is to be feared.  And the descent into the depths brings despair and a sense of abandonment.  In the name of a healthy balance these are shunned as an aberration of a disease.

And in doing so major segments of our lives are dismissed as symptoms.  Successful treatment is measured in the degree to which one maintains the healthy balance of the center.  Yet I would not be who I am were it not for the highs and the lows that have defined my existence.  This is the other balancing act.  On the one hand we yearn for that blessed normalcy that health brings.  Yet on the other, there is a recognition of the presence of God in both the heights and depths of life's experiences.

When I have been in the midst of a manic phase the presence of God was palpable.  Too much.  A delusion?  Neurons misfiring in the old noggin.  

And as darkness covered me like the night a powerful sense of being forsaken by God took over.  Where was he?  And how could he just let me descend to such depths?  And how long could I endure the awful silence of God?

It is only with time that the Psalmist sings of God's ever present love.

As those who have come out of the abyss, who have ascended to the heights and leaned over the precipice, yet survived, there is a holy calling to bear witness to the loving hand of God that sustained them.  And so, today, I'm at a place that I can sing the song.

And perhaps it will be that song that sustains a fellow traveler on this  bipolar journey until they too, can hum the melody.

It's not just that God brought us through the heights and the depths of our existence, it is that God was present in those experiences.  Would that we could only see it at the time.