Fooling with the Handmaid's Tale, Episode 1 (Fooling with Scripture podcast)

In the new episode of Fooling with Scripture, David and Leigh take a first look at the uses and abuses of scripture in the dystopian sci-fi novel The Handmaid's Tale, by Margaret Atwood, now a popular TV series on Hulu.

In this episode -- the first in a series -- we look at some of the basics, like where the name "Gilead" comes from and what a handmaid is. We also talk about the difference between descriptive and normative texts and how the texts hint at a God who gives voice to the voiceless.




We hope you'll follow along with this series, either by reading The Handmaid's Tale, watching the show on Hulu, or both!

We mention the spiritual "There is a Balm in Gilead." If you're not familiar with it, here's a beautiful rendition by Mahalia Jackson:



David mentions the reference to Gilead in Jeremiah 8; Leigh refers to a story in Numbers 32 and a passage in Hosea 6. You can find the story of Hagar, Sarah, and Abraham in Genesis 16. The passage about Rachel and Leah, which is read to set the stage for the horrific "Ceremony" in The Handmaid's Tale, is in Genesis 30.

If you're interested in reading more about some of the topics we raised in our discussion of the handmaids, we recommend Just a Sister Away by Renita Weems and The Red Tent by Anita Diamant.

As we mentioned, Leigh and I will be at the Wild Goose Festival in July. We'll be doing a live version of Fooling with Scripture on Friday, July 14 at 9am -- joined by the fabulous Pat Dupont -- and I'll also be giving a talk on mental health and mental illness with an awesome artist and theologian named Mary Button! You can join the fun by being part of our audience. In fact, we can help you out on that. Just go to www.WildGooseFestival.org, and use the code GOOSECAST17 when you buy your tickets and you’ll receive a whopping 25% off!

Want to support this podcast and our other creative projects? Become a Patron!

Have a question, a comment, or a scripture passage you want "fooled" with? Email us!

Fooling with the Ascension (Fooling with Scripture Podcast, Season 2, Episode 2)

Check out the second episode of Fooling with Scripture, Season 2, in which we take a look at the surprising messages behind the spectacular story of the Ascension!

You can find the story itself in the first chapter of the Book of Acts.

Like this podcast? Want to support it? Check out my Patreon page! Patrons have access to behind-the-scenes updates and cool bonus content.


Have a question, or a comment, or a scripture you'd like "fooled with"? You can email me!

Want to hear me speak at Wild Goose Festival this summer? Fooling with Scripture will be in the GooseCast tent at Wild Goose on Friday, July 14th at 9am. You can use the promo code GOOSECAST17 when you buy your tickets for a whopping 25%! And let me know if you need a place to stay, as Leigh and I still have some spaces in our house.

Ok, enough yammering. Here's the new podcast -- stay tuned next week to hear Leigh and I talk about scripture in The Handmaid's Tale!

Fooling with Scripture is back!

Thanks to Leigh for the new logo design!

Hey all! The Fooling with Scripture Podcast is back for...hey, let's call it Season 2, why not.

You might remember I posted back in March about a bit of a mental health break I was taking, which included not doing new episodes of the podcast for awhile.

Now we're back in action, so check out this new episode of Fooling with Scripture for updates and some thoughts on waiting on the Spirit!



And just to share some info and links about things I mention in the podcast:

-- I've completed a first draft of my book, Christ on the Psych Ward! The book will be available in Spring 2018 from Church Publishing Group. If you want to stay up to date on the book, check out my Patreon site -- and become a Patron to get sneak peaks and special offers!

-- Leigh and I will be at the Wild Goose Festival in July. I'll be doing a live version of Fooling with Scripture on Friday, July 14 at 10am, and I'll be giving a talk on mental health and mental illness with an awesome artist and theologian named Mary Button! And you can join the fun by being part of our audience. In fact, we can help you out on that. Just go to www.WildGooseFestival.org, and use the code GOOSECAST17 when you buy your tickets and you’ll receive a whopping 25% off!

-- And stay tuned for the next few episodes of Fooling with Scripture, in which Leigh and I will be looking at the various ways scripture is used and misused in the terrifying dystopian future depicted in the new Hulu adaptation of the Margaret Atwood novel The Handmaid's Tale!

Grace is a Preexisting Condition

I don't want to write about Congress.

I don't to write about this latest horror show of a bill, a bill I won't call a "healthcare bill" because it is whatever the opposite of that is, a bill about not caring about people's health.

I don't want to write about the group of white men who just blithely voted to threaten my health coverage, while making sure to keep their own (taxpayer-funded, government-provided) coverage.

I don't want to write about the stunning hypocrisy -- frankly, that's too generous of a word, as hypocrisy requires some sort of consistently expressed set of values to violate -- of a party that's run on the image of "traditional family values," yet is just fine with defining sexual assault and domestic violence and postpartum depression as "preexisting conditions."

I don't want to write about any of that. It makes me sick, and other, more politically savvy people have already put out plenty of analysis.

What I want to write about is grace.

In 2011, when a doctor first told me that the awful experience I was having might be a mental illness, the diagnosis came as a relief. I am a person of words, a person whose purpose, whose vocation, has always been caught up in a love of words. I write stories, I sing songs, I preach sermons, I love theology -- theo logos, words about God. To hurt without words was, is, terrifying for me. Some people hate the label of a mental illness diagnosis, and I understand the resistance to a simple, narrow label. But me, I was relieved to have words.

There was, I know now, a naivete to my relief. I didn't know, then, that bipolar disorder constituted a "preexisting condition" which would allow insurance companies to categorically deny my applications for coverage. Over and over again.

Or don't, I'm getting bored with it. 

Of course, my prior indifference to this reality was privilege, plain and simple. The maladies considered to be "preexisting conditions" were -- and are again -- Legion, and innumerable are those possessed of them. I was shielded from this particular thorn in the side until my mid-twenties; most Americans are not so lucky.

I had a brief respite from this under the Affordable Care Act -- which, simultaneously, expanded Medicaid enough so that I was eligible for coverage under it while still a student -- but Congressional Republicans, apparently lacking any real guiding set of values, any real compassion, and secure in their own tax-payer funded, government-provided health care coverage, could not let such a thing stand.

But I don't want to write about that.

I want to write about grace.

Grace is the welcoming, the reconciling, the transforming love of God.

Grace is a preexisting condition.

Grace is prior to what we do and what we say.

Before bipolar disorder. Before words -- words about politics, words about mental illness, words about me. Before me. Grace is.

Grace creates us, grace forms us, grace breathes life into us. Grace is the original intention, the creative and unitive force, that goes before...everything.

We are breathed, formed, by grace. Nothing to be done about that. But what we can do, what we are in fact quite stunningly capable of doing, is getting in the way of grace, restricting and blocking the channels by which divine love flows in and through us.

Here's some ways to do that:

We can refuse to listen to people who are sick and suffering, people struggling with cancer and with mental illness and with diabetes. That is a way to block grace.

We can refuse to listen to the stories of those who have been sexually assaulted, raped, abused. That is a way to block grace.

We can shut down our inherent capacity for empathy and connection, can see people as problems to be solved, sickness as personal failure, suffering as moral inferiority. That is a way to block grace.

But people are not problems. Sickness is not failure. Suffering is not immorality.

When we cut off grace -- when we purposely block the preexisting rhythms of creation and compassion -- that is a problem. That is a failure. That is immorality.

That is sin.

Grace is a preexisting condition. Choosing to hurt people, to reject people's story, to refuse care for people -- that's a choice. That's us. We do that.

But we don't have to. We could make different choices. We were made for love, for empathy, for connection, for the sharing of stories. That's what we were intended for.

Because grace came first.

Perhaps Congress should remember that. Perhaps they should remember that their actions will be weighed on a cosmic scale. But my faith isn't in Congress, that is for damn sure.

In the beginning, before words, there was the Word, and the Word was Love. Grace is a preexisting condition.

--

If you found this post to be helpful, or inspiring, or interesting, then you might want to know that I'm working on a book that touches on a lot of these themes. It's called Christ on the Psych Ward, and you can find out more about it and pre-order it by visiting this page.

A naked preview of my book in honor of May Day

Ah, the ol' alma mater

May Day means different things to different people. For some, it's an international day of strikes and worker solidarity. For other's, it's a pagan celebration of spring. And for graduates of a little liberal arts college on the Eastern Shore of Maryland, the day will forever be associated with a whole lot of nudity.

Wikipedia's understated "May Day (Washington College)" page

(It should be stated that this was not what beloved professor Bennett Lamond had in mind.)

So I figured, in honor of this May Day, that I would offer a preview of one of the chapters I'm working on for my book, Christ on the Psych Ward. The chapter is entitled "Who Told Us We Were Naked?" It explores what a really old story about nudity, and shame, and vulnerability might have to say to those of us with mental health struggles.

I first started messing with these ideas in a sermon I gave at American University a while back -- with direct reference to the nudity-infused May Day celebrations at my alma mater, Washington College. Later on, I picked up on some of the same themes in one of my seminary classes, which led to both an academic paper and a song. That academic paper, in turn, served as the basis for this chapter in my book -- I'm still working on smoothing some of the seminary-ese out of this thing and making it a bit more readable and accessible.

This chapter is definitely a work in progress, so I'd be interested in your thoughts! And so, without further ado, an excerpt from a draft chapter of Christ on the Psych Ward:

---

          For centuries, Christian thought on the topic of sin has relied on a story that, despite its prominent place in theology and popular culture, is really rather odd. It involves a snake, and some fruit, and a God who is apparently in the habit of taking evening strolls. I am speaking, of course, of Genesis 3, of the man and the woman who eat the fruit that God told them not to. Biblical scholar Susan Niditch notes that it is difficult to present fresh readings of this text: “All too often readers come to Genesis weighed down by Augustine’s or Milton’s interpretation of the story.”[1] Yet it’s exactly a fresh reading of this text that is helpful in untying the threads of sin, shame, and suffering, and which can perhaps lay the groundwork for a destigmatizing theological understanding of mental health struggles.

In short, what if we were to read this strange little story, not as a story about “Original Sin” or “The Fall,” but rather as a story about the harmful effects of shame on our human need for connection and belonging?

As it turns out, none of the Hebrew words that are usually translated into English as “sin,” “transgression,” or “iniquity” appear in the Genesis 3 account.[2] In other words, the text in its original form, or as close to its original form as we can get, is oddly devoid of the concept of “sin.”  The interrelated themes of nakedness and shame, on the other hand, play a central role in the narrative.

“The man and his wife were both naked,” we are told, “and were not ashamed” (Gen 2:25). The stage is set for us with a depiction of two humans, innocent, unashamed, and most decidedly unclothed.

Then things get weird, and it all starts with a pun.

The Hebrew connection between the last verse of Genesis 2 and the first verse of Genesis 3 is obscured by most English translations. [3] The Inclusive Bible attempts to capture the segue:  “Now, the woman and the man were both naked, though they were not ashamed. But the snake was even more naked: the most cunning of all the animals that YHWH had made.”[4] The nudity of the humans is correlated to their lack of shame. The snake, on the other hand, is “even more naked.” Literally, the humans are “smooth,” but the snake is “smoother.”

Pretty smooth, right?

            By setting the story up this way, the ancient narrators center nakedness as a key component of the story. Whatever is about to happen next, it’s going to have something to do with nudity and shame. In fact, this story establishes shame as an early, repeated motif in the Hebrew Bible.[5]

As previously mentioned, Brené Brown’s definition of shame is an intense fear of disconnection, “the fear that something we’ve done or failed to do, an ideal that we’ve not lived up to, or a goal that we’ve not accomplished makes us unworthy of connection….Shame is the intensely personal feeling or experience of believing that we are flawed and therefore unworthy of love and belonging.”[6] Denise Dombkowski Hopkins and Michael Koppel echo this definition when they note that “Shame can be…negative in that it makes us feel deficient, flawed, and inferior – in short, not ‘good enough.’”[7] They also state that shame “can be positive by helping us to maintain boundaries for appropriate behavior.”[8] To differentiate these positive and negative aspects, Brown employs different terminology, using the term “guilt” to refer to the positive, behavior-influencing aspect and “shame” to refer to the negative, deficiency aspect.[9] Guilt, according to Brown, means I did something bad; shame means I am bad.[10]

If the nakedness of the woman and the man is linked to their being without shame, and we understand shame not as the feeling that I have done something wrong but rather that I am somehow deficient or fundamentally flawed, then the character of the “even more naked” snake takes on a different dimension. Rather than the tempter of traditional interpretation, the snake is the voice of shame which points out deficiency: “God knows that when you eat of it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil” (v.5). Once naked and unashamed, the woman now has a sense of lacking in something, something that could be gained by eating the fruit of the tree. Brown calls this the “shame-based fear of being ordinary.”[11] Interestingly, she notes that when humans experience shame, “we are almost always hijacked by the limbic system…that primitive fight-or-flight part of our brain.”[12] The snake, then, stands in as an expression of the “reptilian brain” that tends to dominate our responses to shame.[13]

             Once the man and the woman have eaten from the fruit of the tree, the first thing they notice is their own nakedness, and their first act is to cover themselves (v.7).  No longer oblivious to their nakedness, the human beings are also no longer unashamed. When they hear God taking a daily stroll through the garden, they hide. At which point, of course, God finds them and condemns them for their disobedience.

Right?

Well…not exactly.

God’s first words to the humans are not a condemnation, but a question: “Where are you?” (v.9). This open question gives the humans the ability to take responsibility for their actions or to share their feelings. Throughout the Hebrew Bible, humans have a particular response to being addressed by God. The word hineini, which means, “Here I am,” is uttered by priests, prophets, and patriarchs when God speaks their name. Responding with hineini can indicate “the ability to be present for and receptive to the other (Gen. 27:18), the readiness to act on behalf of another (Gen. 27:1), or the willingness to sacrifice for someone or something higher (Gen. 37:13).”[14] But the man in the garden does not say “Hineini.”[15] Instead, his answer centers around the realization of nudity and fear – a newfound sense of what Brown calls “excruciating vulnerability.”[16]

If the motif of nudity-shame is central to the story, than God’s next question – “Who told you that you were naked?” – takes on an importance that is often eclipsed, in more traditional readings, by the question that follows (v.11). We can reimagine this encounter, not as one between an angry father and disobedient children, but with the voice of God’s heartbreak over the damage shame causes. “Who told you,” God’s voice shakes, “that you were anything but beautiful and good?” The question, “Who told us that we were naked?” is of vital importance. What are the voices that tell us that we are lacking, that we are deficient, or that we should be ashamed and afraid?

Jan Richardson, pastor, theologian, and artist, tells a story which to me perfectly sums up the primordial voice which whispers to us of our nakedness:

In one of my earliest memories, I am perhaps five years old. I am standing in my parents’ bedroom with a stack of my artwork. Drawings in pencil and crayon, paintings in tempera and watercolor and finger paint: these are the pieces that my mother has gathered up and saved. The entire collection. And I am systematically tearing up each one. The most vivid part of the memory is when my mother walks in. I have made it nearly to the bottom of the stack by this point. Horrified to see the pile of shredded paper, she asks me why I have done this. “Because they weren’t any good!” I tell her, amazed that she can’t see this for herself. I don’t know where I got this idea; it didn’t originate at home, where my family valued and supported creativity. Call it a precocious inner critic.[17]

“A precocious inner critic,” is what Richardson calls this voice, which by she says did not come from critical parents or teachers. There is a primal tendency we inherit as humans that predisposes us toward this “They weren’t any good.” It’s the whisper of the snake – though the snake in the story is clever, smooth, naked enough to disguise the message, selling it as “You could be like God.” Why settle, then, for just being loved?

Of course, our lives are full of external forces that amplify this voice, from advertisements, to hierarchical power structures, to concrete experiences of shame. Brené Brown reports that in 85% of the interviews she conducted in her research for Daring Greatly “the men and women we interviewed…could recall a school incident from their childhood that was so shaming, it changed how they thought of themselves as learners.”[18] These early experiences of shame are particularly detrimental in the arena of creativity: “[In] approximately half of those recollections….research participants could point to a specific incident where they were told or shown that they weren’t good writers, artists, musicians, dancers, or something creative.”[19]  

We are now getting closer to a deep, rather than a shallow, view of the tangled connections between sin, shame, separation, and mental illness. Mental illness is not a sin. It is not the result of bad behavior or a lack of faith. But mental illness is one of many things that can amplify or conduct the voice of the snake, that primal voice of shame that whispers, “You are naked. You are not truly loved. You are lacking in something. You are not enough.” This is a shared human experience, but it is exacerbated, broken open, by the pain of mental illness. If sin, at a deep level, is about alienation rather than simple wrongdoing, then the suffering of mental illness can bring a person face to face with the deep reality of sin in the world.

---

[1] Susan Niditch, “Genesis,” in Women’s Bible Commentary, 3^rd edition, edited by Carol A. Newsom, Sharon Hi. Ringe, and Jacqueline E. Lapsley (Louisville: Westminster John Knox, 2012), 31.

[2] Barbara Brown Taylor, Speaking of Sin: The Lost Language of Salvation (Boston: Cowley Publications, 2000), 47-49. The three root words that Taylor explores are chatah, avah, and pasha: “But nowhere in this [Genesis 3] story is the word “sin” mentioned, much less the phrase “original sin.”

[3] Rober Alter, Genesis: Translation and Commentary (New York: W.W. Norton and Co., 1996), 10-11.

[4] The Inclusive Bible: The First Egalitarian Translation, The Quixote Center Collective (Lanham, MD: Sheed & Ward, 2007), 6. Emphasis added.

[5] Denise Dombkowski Hopkins and Michael S. Koppel, Grounded in the Living Word: The Old Testament and Pastoral Care Practices (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 2010), 42.

[6] Brown, Daring Greatly, 68-69.

[7] Hopkins and Koppel, Grounded in the Living Word,  41.

[8] Ibid.

[9] Brown, Daring Greatly, 71.

[10] Ibid.

[11] Brown, Daring Greatly, 22.

[12] Ibid., 76.

[13] Rachel Ternes, one of the students I worked with at American University, informed me when I first presented this idea that a, would like me to point out that the “reptilian brain” is not actually synonymous with the limbic system, which is more accurately paleomammalian; however, she has granted me absolution and the permission to continue with my metaphorical wanderings.

[14] Hopkins and Koppel, Grounded in the Living Word, 46; with reference to Norman J. Cohen, Hineini in Our Lives: Learning How to Respond to Others through Fourteen Biblical Texts and Personal Stories (Woodstock, VT: Jewish Lights Publishing, 2003).

[15] Interestingly enough, while up until this point the woman has been the protagonist, it is now the man who answers God. The introduction of shame into the story almost completely silences the woman, except for her later participation in the “blame game”; and the later consequences of v.16ff reinforce this patriarchal norm.

[16] Brown, Daring Greatly, 5.

[17] Jan Richardson, “In the Presence of Angels,” 5 Sept 2010, available online: http://paintedprayerbook.com/author/janrichardson/page/22/

[18] Brown, Daring Greatly, 189.

[19] Ibid., 190.

A Holy Bipolar Week

It's such an obvious connection that it's hardly worth writing about, but the highs and lows of Holy Week provide plenty of resonances for the bipolar believer.

A week that starts with "Palm / Passion Sunday," a liturgy designed to take the gathered faithful (who, the church seems to suspect, are not quite faithful enough to show up to the rest of the week's activities in droves, and therefore might miss out on the suffering) from the peak of celebration to the valley of betrayal and death, cannot help but have a manic depressive tinge to it.

And so we swing wildly about.

But for me, this year, it isn't the mirroring of my own experience that catches my attention, nor, necessarily, this little "Lithium for Lent" project that I've pondered over the past few weeks. This year, it's the "hosannas" that draw me in.

"Hosanna," which the gathered disciples shout as Jesus enters Jerusalem, is not a synonym of "Hallelujah," and so the oft-repeated trope that we should not skip over the rest of the week, from the "hosannas" to the "hallelujahs," is, while not wrong, perhaps a bit over drawn.

"Hosanna" means "save us," or "God save us." And so it is not so much that the "hosannas" fade over this week, as the tone of them changes, and that, by the end of the week but before the beginning of the next, they have become quieter, more muttered, more like whispered prayer than shouted acclamation.

"Save us" -- this week, and this month, and this year, give us plenty to shout "save us" about.

I have kept meaning to write something, anything, about this or that horror, this or that atrocity, that has been projected on the global screen these past weeks. I can't keep up. Save us, God, from sarin gas and murderous dictators who don't hesitate to use it; from long-range missiles and trigger-happy demagogues who don't hesitate to use them; and from all of our refusals to learn the ways of peace. Save us, God, from the blood shed when profits are more important than people; from the murderous rage directed against those made vulnerable by their difference; from callousness and evil at the highest levels and antipathy and nihilism at the lowest. Save us, save us, save us, God, anybody, save us, for it surely seems that we have no idea what we are doing.

Or perhaps we do know. And if so, even more, save us.

"Save us." Shouted in the streets or muttered, desperately, under our breaths -- it is the same prayer, and yet different.

And as I write those words, I realize, again, the deep resonance, so obvious as to barely be worth writing about.

In bipolar, in life, in the world -- in seeming high or shattering low --

It is the same prayer, and yet different.

Semicolons and commas

I was so very sad to hear about the death of Amy Bleul, founder of Project Semicolon. Project Semicolon arose out of her own struggles and her desire to honor her father, who she lost to suicide. Amy popularized the symbol of the semicolon for survivors of self-harm and suicidal ideation. The semicolon, Amy explained, represents a sentence the author could have ended, but chose to continue. The message: life goes on. The story goes on.

Amy's social media post that inspired Project Semicolon

I did not know Amy personally. I know her presence will be missed by so many people. And I know, in the spirit of Project Semicolon, that her story, her care, her love, will go on, and continue to influence and help many people.

Strange as it sounds, I have been thinking about semicolons this past week. At Leigh's hospital chaplaincy, her cohort watched the film version of the play Wit by Margaret Edson. It just so happens I was involved in a staging of Wit while I was in college -- it's a beautiful and heart-wrenching piece of art.

The cast and crew of Wit at Washington College in 2004 --
that's baby-faced me on the bottom left

The play revolves around Vivian Bearing, a scholar and professor with a particular interest in the poetry of John Donne and little time for nonsense. Bearing is dying of cancer, and we see her final days in part through the lens of the Donne poem "Death Be Not Proud." In particular, Bearing remembers her own mentor, E.M., addressing the issue of how to punctuate the final lines of the poem:

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, 

And death shall be no more, Death thou shalt die.

Some editors place a semicolon, rather than a comma, between "be no more" and "Death," a decision which E.M. considers a grave offense:

Nothing but a breath—a comma—separates life from life everlasting. It is very simple really. With the original punctuation restored, death is no longer something to act out on a stage, with exclamation points. It’s a comma, a pause. This way, the uncompromising way, one learns something from this poem, wouldn’t you say? Life, death. Soul, God. Past, present. Not insuperable barriers, not semicolons, just a comma.

So. A comma - a bare breath - between life and death. Or a semi-colon - a sentence that could have ended, but didn't, that hovers somewhere between an end and a continuation.

Some days, I want to write a semi-colon on my arm.

Some days, it feels like a comma would be more accurate.

But then, another punctuation association slips, unbidden, into my head. For awhile now, the United Church of Christ has used a comma as a symbol for their "God is Still Speaking" campaign. Granted, it's church PR, which always  has a bit of potential for cheesiness, but still. I like it. I like that comma:

I mean, it beats "ReThink Church"

God is still speaking, the comma says. Another version of the slogan is: "Never put a period where God put a comma." The story continues.

The story continues.

I didn't know Amy, personally. But her story continues. Our story continues.

Love without end; amen, amen.

A sermon, a devotion, and a few scattered thoughts

Hello blog-reading-type-friends,

Wanted to share a few things with you:

I had a short reflection published in Georgetown University's daily Lent devotional, which you can read by clicking here.

I also preached this past Sunday at Dumbarton United Methodist Church, as part of their "Unpacking Church Words" Lenten series. My "church word" was grace. You can listen to the sermon here; the texts were Exodus 32:9-14, Ephesians 2:4-10, and this comic strip:

So check all that out if you're interested.

As far as "Lithium for Lent" is going: I'm at the part of my book-writing project right now where I'm doing some reflection on medication and meaning. Here's a short excerpt from one of my favorite books on the topic, John Swinton's Resurrecting the Person: Friendship and the Care of People with Mental Health Problems, with references to sociologist David Karp:

The act of taking medication for mental health problems is a clear affirmation that the person has a stigmatized emotional disorder, and as such, requires a dramatic redefinition of his or her concept of "self." .... One of Karp's interviewees puts it thus: "I didn't want to be told that I had something that was going to affect the rest of my life, and that could only be solved by taking pills. It was sort of definitive. I had a label, and it was a label that I thought was pejorative." Thus, even if medication does reduce symptoms and allow a person to achieve a better quality of life, this does not necessarily mean that the person will perceive the medication in a favorable way. In my experience this deeper meaning ot the process of taking medication, highlighted by Karp, is highly significant with regard to the care of people with mental health problems (pg 73-74). 

So, that's a brief synopsis of the problem that I'm supposed to be reflecting on and addressing. I've done some writing on it before, like this post called "Lithium and a Prayer." 

But I'm having a bit of trouble concentrating on it, for several reasons, one of which is this:

Questions of meaning aside, my medication makes me feel kind of crappy all the time.

Don't get me wrong. "Crappy" is better than "breakdown." "Crappy" is better than "hospitalization."

But it's still...just...crappy.

I don't want to whine about it too much. It isn't the worst or most awful thing. It just is what it is -- a a stomach ache, a wee bit of nausea, a sort of steady low energy. Just...crappy.

So here I am, trying to be really articulate and reflective about medication and meaning and spirituality and all these themes I'm trying to weave together in this book I'm writing, while trying to scrape together the various part-time jobs and commitments I have, and feeling, overall, just a bit crappy.

And so maybe that will be the chapter title for the book:

"Just a Bit Crappy."

Which is a better way to feel, anyway, than nothing at all.

So maybe, if you get a chance, just say a quick prayer for me. Oh, and I'm almost to the point where I'll be sharing book excerpts on my Patreon site, so if you haven't already visit over there and maybe become a patron. Thanks!

Lithium for Lent

Hi folks,

As you probably know if we're friends on Facebook, last month I had a bit of a rough time, mental health wise. One of the effects of that was that I stopped updating the podcast, so I wanted to do a quick recording and share it with folks who follow the podcast, just explaining what was going on and talking a bit about my plans for the podcast. If you're interested in that, check out this short episode of Fooling with Scripture:
  Here's the gist of what's been going on with me:

I lost track of the basics.

By "the basics" I mean, I wasn't sleeping right, I wasn't eating regularly, and because I wasn't eating regularly, I stopped taking my medication regularly. I wasn't doing the Mental Illness 101 stuff that I know I need to do to keep myself healthy and on my feet.

And so I crashed. And it sucked. And it meant canceling things, and backing out of commitments, and not being able to help Leigh out with things, and every time something like this happens, I worry that I will lose friends, or colleagues, or jobs, or trust. And to some extent, some of those things might be true. And the anxiety that comes with that makes the mental health issues I struggle with even worse.

(It is, by the way, entirely appropriate for you to point out the irony that the post before this one on my blog is about self-care.)

I've gotten back on my feet, and things are getting better. I'm back to the basics. And what I've decided to do for Lent is to focus on my mental health, not as a selfish thing, but as a way to contribute to the health of my community and to keep myself in a space where I can hopefully do some work for the common good.

I'm calling this effort "Lithium for Lent," because who doesn't love a good alliteration? I'm going to be focusing on the basics. I'm also going to start going to a support group, something I haven't done in a long time. And I'm going to be using Monica Coleman's book Not Alone as a daily devotional.

I'm also going to be sharing some blog reflections about mental health and mental illness. Not every day. I'm not going to force it. Some of these might even be previews of my book, or at least things I'm working out for my book. But I will share what reflections come up in this time, if any.

So that's where I am right now. Today is Ash Wednesday. In the Ash Wednesday service, while people are receiving ashes, we usually say something like: "Remember from dust you've come, and to dust you'll return. Repent and believe the gospel."

Which is sort of like saying;

"Remember you are human, mortal, limited. You've come from dirt and you'll return there, so return to that, and believe the good news."

The good news here isn't, "You're more than human." It's "You're human. You're limited. That's exactly where God's grace meets you, in your mortality and your flesh and your dustiness and your limits."

So I'm entering a season of remembering my limits, remembering my humanity, my mortality. Honoring my limits. Re-seeing them as holy, as exactly the place where God's grace meets me.

If I have let you down or disappointed you or strained your trust over the past month, I pray you will forgive me. But more than that, I am praying for the remembrance of dust, and limits, and good, good news.