Broken Body, Broken Mind

The emptiness

Sitting down to do my morning Bible reading. A few chapters in Job, one of my favorite books.

Having a hard time of it lately. A new chronic digestive problem struck six months ago, sending me to the emergency room for diagnosis and treatment. It’s generally manageable by diet alone, but occasionally medication is needed.

Many people my age have this condition. It runs in my family. And yet I feel completely alone in my suffering. Why?

When I have that sense of discomfort in a certain part of my gut, it’s always accompanied by weird emotional symptoms. A gloomy darkness. A heaviness. A gulf between me and God. As the discomfort passes, so do the other symptoms. Does anyone else with this condition experience that?

I’m afraid to ask.

Afraid of facing skepticism or judgment. Afraid of being told that it’s all in my head, that a good psychiatrist can fix it. Or that I’m just feeling sorry for myself or giving in to fear. While self-pity and anxiety tend to enter the picture whenever I get sick, with this condition it’s not that simple. There’s some kind of strange connection between my gut chemistry and my brain chemistry.

Can anyone else relate to this? Or am I truly alone?

This latest flare-up has been especially hard emotionally and spiritually. Those symptoms have been building up as time passes. Now the physical discomfort comes and goes throughout each day, but the bad feelings continue 24/7.

It started on a Sunday afternoon. I wanted to get over it without taking medication, but made a mental note to call my doctor for a prescription if it went on for too long.

Somehow I misplaced that note.

The gut symptoms improved little by little for the first week. Then they kind of plateaued. At the same time, the emotional symptoms bogged down. God drew further and further away. A sort of spiritual deadness hit. I reached the point where I was wallowing in the dark, begging for healing, wondering where He had gotten to.

Over the decades, I’ve learned many ways to draw nearer to Him when I’m hurting. I tried them all. Nothing worked. Like Job in 16:6, “If I speak, my pain is not relieved; and if I refrain, it does not go away.”

God, why won’t You heal me? Why are my emotions stuck in such a difficult place? Why do I feel so far from You? Why don’t You pull me in closer?

A week and a half after the worst of the symptoms hit, I was filled with fear and dread. Fear that this time it was more hopeless than with previous episodes. Dread of a drastically reduced diet for the rest of my life. Fear of being told that I needed surgery. Fear of losing my independence.

Then somehow that mental note popped back into my head. I called my doctor, got a prescription, and began to heal again. But I had another minor episode when I’d almost used up the medication, and God was still too too far away.

The refilling

So I sit down for my morning Bible reading. It’s in Job, but it’s not touching me, reaching me, strengthening me like it usually does. There’s a wall inside that I haven’t been able to break through.

I’ve written before about how Job actually struggled emotionally and spiritually. He didn’t just take his suffering in stride, as some evangelicals seem to think. They cite chapters 1 and 2 as evidence of his unshakable faith.

But I look to chapter 3 and hear him cursing the day of his birth, followed by the heart of the book where he openly challenges God, and I’m grateful for the model that he provides, because I need to know that God can handle our questions and complaints with compassion.

As I’m reading the opening chapters this time, my heart is heavy and my spirit is lonely. I’m more critical of my own thinking and assumptions. Job really did say some pretty profound things in chapters 1 and 2. It’s not until chapter 3 that he seems to fall apart. What happened?

First God allowed Satan to attack Job’s family, servants, and belongings. Job’s faith remained strong. Then He allowed Satan to attack Job’s body. Job broke down.

There could be different reasons for this change. Coincidence. The straw that broke the camel’s back. The natural irritability and self-pity that come with illness. Moving through the stages of grief from denial to anger.

Or Job could be so self-centered that even the loss of his children didn’t affect him that much. It was only when his own body was damaged that he couldn’t handle it. That seems to be what Satan expected. With all the uprightness attributed to Job at the beginning and end of the book, though, that doesn’t seem likely.

Then something I’ve never thought of before comes to mind: Maybe the physical changes in his body included physical changes in his brain chemistry. Wow.

Did Job, my hero, my role model, go through the same thing I’m going through? Did Satan’s attack include not just the natural emotional response to physical distress, but a biological change that brought on almost irresistible* emotional and spiritual symptoms?

I can’t say an absolute yes, that’s definitely what happened. But it would explain so much. Job’s strength in chapters 1 and 2. His weakness in chapter 3.

Some evangelicals won’t like this idea. One reason I’m having a hard time getting my memoir published is because there are many Christians in positions of power who deny the possibility that biology can directly influence emotions.

Some publishers won’t consider my manuscript because it clearly declares that my first depressive episode wasn’t cured through spiritual practices. They helped a lot—they saved my life!—but only an antidepressant could restore my brain to its normal functioning.

There’s a link between our physical bodies and our minds and souls. Changes in brain chemistry can badly damage our emotions and our spirits.

I always feel so alone and misunderstood when this happens to me. But now, for the first time in my many years of being blessed by reading this precious book of Job, I’m seeing something new and profound. Job himself just might have suffered from the same problem. (And if he did, then maybe other people in the Bible did, too.)

I’m not alone.

I’m in good company.

The company of one who was declared by God to be blameless and upright. One whose story God has chosen to include in His inspired Word.

And God loves me enough to come to me when I feel like He’s so far away, and to open my eyes to see an incredible truth that I’ve been missing for all these years.

My head collapses onto my folded arms on the desk in front of me. I cry hard. I release the tears that have been bottled up inside, unable to escape for the last couple of weeks even though I’ve tried to let them go. I pour out the pain and frustration and emptiness. And, eventually, the joy. God has brought me home to Him once again.


*A note to my evangelically-correct friends who might think I’m saying that we have no responsibility for thoughts and emotions that spring from biological causes: We might not be able to control the thoughts and emotions themselves at the instant when they strike, but we have at least a little bit of control over how we handle them.

The more we practice responding in more biblical ways to the feelings that seem so unmanageable, the better we’ll be able to handle the next attack. Christians also have the Holy Spirit inside strengthening us when we’re at our weakest, enabling us to deal with these challenges in more godly ways.

 

 

Alone

 Pandemic-induced aloneness

    My friend Kyle died in September. An aggressive brain tumor took his life just three months after his first symptom. One day he was feeling fine, going about his business as usual. The next day he was thrashing about on the sidewalk, convulsing uncontrollably as a violent seizure swept through his head.

    The paramedics rushed him to the hospital. Alone. He had brain surgery. Alone. He spent three weeks in the hospital and rehab center recovering. Alone.

    At a time in his life when all he longed for was the presence of his wife of forty years and other loved ones, Kyle was more isolated than he’d ever been before. He was suffering with pain and seizures that the medications reduced but didn’t entirely control. With the shock of learning that he would not survive this cancer. With the helplessness of watching his family and friends struggle through the sorrow that he was causing them. Alone.

    Due to the coronavirus pandemic, he had no visitors, no comfort or touch from the people he valued most. When he was moved to the rehab center, his son-in-law delivered a cell phone to be placed by his bedside. Every morning Kyle’s wife dialed his number, then left the connection open for the remainder of the day. As friends and family members came and went from his home, he could hear their voices, join in their conversations and prayers, feel like a part of the group.

    But it wasn’t the same. He needed people. He needed people with him, beside him, looking into his eyes, touching his hand. Instead, he was alone.

Is God all we need?

    Kyle was one of the most mature Christians I’ve ever met. Even with working full-time for a local business, teaching college and Sunday school classes, reading a wide variety of books, and spending time with his family, he still made regular appointments with other Christian men to sit down with a cup of coffee and talk. He and his friend would share whatever was going on in their lives—the good and the bad, the mundane and the profound, the spiritual questions and insights.

    And then, suddenly, this man who intentionally gave so much time to others was alone. And lonely. He drew great comfort from knowing that the Lord was with him. But since he made it a practice to be honest with God and with people, Kyle occasionally voiced his frustration and his loneliness. Was that okay, or was he failing one of the final tests of his mortal life? Did he really need people, or should he be so content with God’s presence that he never knew the definition of the word lonely?

    “Jesus is all I need.” I hear that message in songs, in church, in Bible studies, in my own head when I’m feeling lonesome or rejected. In one sense, it’s true. Jesus is all we need for our salvation and our relationship with God. No one else can save me. No one else can provide a way into His presence day after day.

    But what about my psychological needs? Some believers openly declare that Jesus is all we need when it comes to loneliness or anxiety or depression or any other type of emotional suffering. They would proclaim that Kyle was falling short of God’s expectations when he expressed a need for human companionship. Jesus was right there with him. What more could he ask for?

    It sounds so spiritual to say that I should be happy, content, filled with the joy of the Spirit even if I’m separated from my loved ones. Even if I’m stranded on a desert island with no human interaction. But is that really God’s plan?

Adam’s need, our need

    I remember the first time a Bible teacher drew my attention to the implications of Genesis 2:18 so many years ago. I had recently found relief from my first depressive episode through an antidepressant. My view of emotions had changed drastically during that experience. I was trying to reconcile real life with the theology I’d heard so often—Jesus was all I needed, even in the emotional realm. I mustn’t be dependent on mere humans when God was there to supply all my needs through Himself alone.

    Then I heard this lesson from Genesis. The Lord God created the heavens and the earth, the sea and the sky, all the plants and all the animals, and, finally, Adam. Each day, for six days, God worked on His creation. And each day He saw that it was good. But after creating Adam, the Lord declared, “It is not good for the man to be alone.” There was one thing, and one thing only that was not good in all of His perfect creation. That one thing was Adam’s aloneness.

    God could have created an Adam who would be perfectly well off with His presence alone. Happy. Content. Filled with the fruit of the Spirit. Without any need for other people. But God didn’t. He chose to create an Adam who needed an Eve. Even before the Fall, Adam had a need that couldn’t be fulfilled without human companionship. How much more do we truly need others?

    Kyle was only one of many, many people hit by the terrible loneliness brought on by the pandemic. Around the time of his passing, the national news spotlighted a group of seniors who had been denied in-person visitors at their care center for months. They were sitting outdoors in their wheelchairs holding signs saying, “I’d rather die of COVID than loneliness.” They were willing to risk their very lives in exchange for a few moments with a loved one.

    I don’t know the best way to handle this coronavirus crisis. It’s painful to see so many dying. It’s equally painful to see the suffering triggered by shutdowns and isolation. But this I do know: We need people. The need is real. Loneliness is not a lack of faith or a sign of spiritual immaturity. God designed us this way even before the Fall.

    So it’s okay to feel it. It’s okay to admit it. And it’s okay to seek relief from it—to seek out and enjoy the fellowship of other human beings (as safely as we can), rather than insisting that God is all I need.

Ann O'Malley, Anomaly

My background

    Welcome to “Those Who Weep: Not-Quite-Evangelically-Correct Thoughts on Suffering.” As mentioned in my sidebar, Ann O’Malley is my pseudonym. As suggested in the title above, it’s a play on the word “anomaly.” An anomaly is someone who’s weird, who doesn’t fit in, who never quite feels like a part of the crowd. That’s how I’ve always felt. Even in Christian circles.

    I became a Christian as a teenager many years ago. The gospel that I heard and responded to convicted me of my inability to be acceptable to God on my own merits. Only by the sacrifice of His Son, Jesus Christ, could I be saved from an eternity of suffering in hell. As a new believer, the Holy Spirit planted in my heart a powerful desire for His Word so I began reading the Bible, but several months passed before I started going to church. At that point, my religious background consisted of a clear understanding of the gospel, plus Jesus’ teachings.

    When I first set foot in an evangelical church, I was baffled by some of the preaching. I didn’t realize it at the time, but this was my introduction to evangelical correctness. Every message dealt with God’s love and our need to “accept Jesus Christ as Lord and Savior.” Not the wording used by the evangelist that I’d listened to, and not the actual words used in Scripture. Little was said about obedience. Our only responsibility after being saved was to save others. Period. What about all those instructions Jesus had given His followers in the Bible passages that I’d read?

    In the years since then, I’ve recognized that the teaching at my church was mostly biblical but adapted to our American evangelical culture. It wasn’t ideal, but it was understandable. Every culture, every age has its own way of expressing the truths of the Bible. And I’ve gained much by being a part of evangelicalism—growing in my relationship with God, having the loving support of brothers and sisters in Christ during difficult times, experiencing the opportunity to minister to others both within and outside of the church. But I still feel like an anomaly when evangelical culture clashes a bit with biblical teaching. That’s what I refer to (tongue-in-cheek) as being evangelically correct.

My purpose

    I don’t intend to use this blog to rant against evangelicalism, but to provide some gentle chiding in areas where we evangelicals tend to go astray, especially as it relates to dealing with people in pain. My main purpose is to minister to those who are suffering, especially if you’ve been hurt or puzzled by evangelical correctness in your time of need.
 
    I welcome your comments. (Please take a look at my comment policy for details.) I hope we, as a community, can demonstrate God’s love to one another and support one another through the tough times, including when we need to vent or ask uncomfortable questions.

Comforting others

    One somewhat subtle area of evangelical correctness is found in some biblical teaching on why Christians suffer. Many authors list all the benefits to me for the suffering I go through. Focus on me. Focus on self. Feed my human desire to make it all about me.

    Biblically, there are legitimate reasons for suffering that do benefit me. It draws me nearer to God (Job 42:3-5). It helps me to recognize how much I depend on Him every day (2 Corinthians 12:7-10). It matures me in ways that otherwise wouldn’t occur (Romans 5:3-4). It can serve as loving discipline when I’m going astray (Proverbs 3:11-12, quoted in Hebrews 12:5-6). And it increases my appreciation for heaven (2 Corinthians 4:17). I can draw great comfort from knowing that God is using my suffering to grow me.

    But when I’m at my lowest, I have this powerful tendency to obsess about myself and my problems anyway. To think constantly, even to pray constantly, about me and only me. When I do this, I just dig myself into a deeper pit. What I need most is to get the focus off of myself. Not to deny the problems and the pain, but to look outward to others and upward to God. This is when I need to know that there’s a greater purpose to my suffering. I need to know that it’s not just about me.

    One place I find that greater purpose is in 2 Corinthians 1:3-4, “Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, the Father of compassion and the God of all comfort, who comforts us in all our troubles, so that we can comfort those in any trouble with the comfort we ourselves have received from God.” God doesn’t limit His purposes for my suffering to me alone. He doesn’t give me His comfort just so I can be comfortable. He allows my suffering and He gives me comfort so that I can comfort others.

    This is the balance that I need. The passage doesn’t tell me to deny my pain and reject God’s comfort. Just the opposite. Paul admits to having troubles, and praises God for His compassion and comfort. But he gently reminds me that there comes a point where I need to take the next step and pass that comfort on to others. Focus on others.

    And he gives God all the glory. This is the transcendence that I need. Focus on God. He is the Father (originator) of all compassion. He is the One who initiates the flow of comforting—from Him to me, from me to others, from those others to additional others, from generation to generation and age to age.