No. 003: Blessed Are the Tulip Bulbs.

On photosynthesis, poverty, and beatitude.

In my last post, I talked about God’s design in augmenting humankind’s spiritual health through embodied means, and I encouraged readers to invite their Good Father into honest conversations about their embodied desires. I appended to that post a note to those enduring seasons of suffering and mental affliction, staking a red flag in the common temptation to construe effort as a guarantor of spiritual health—and therefore spiritual suffering as evidence of personal failure. Here I would like to elaborate on that theme.

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Springtime hit differently in Illinois—I mean, in a good way.

It has always been my favorite season, and as a child in Georgia I would imagine myself as little Mary Lennox, queen of a magical, secret garden, any time the forsythia and the daffodils and the dogwoods began to bloom. But after enduring the first, brutal winter of my college tenure in the suburbs of Chicago—when (despite my big, white parka that made me look like the Michelin man) the blistering winds had chapped and cracked the skin on my face and hands, and the seemingly endless streak of bleak, gray, sub-freezing days had thoroughly battered my soul—I reached a new level of giddy appreciation for those first, warm rays of springtime sun that came to melt the dingy snowbanks and to draw forth precious, pink buds from the tree branches.

I recall telling friends and family back home that my capacity for happiness seemed to have grown larger in response to the Midwestern spring; I didn’t previously know that I could be this happy. The harsh winter had felt nearly unbearable, but the pronounced contrast between the searing winds of February and the delicate beauty of May fostered in my heart unprecedentedly vivacious praise for my creator.

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If you are at all familiar with my story, then you likely know that during the span of several years when my three sons were very young I endured a long, bitter winter of the soul—a crushing and debilitating depression that severely hindered my ability to function effectively in life. Some months were better than others, and at times I did feel like I was making progress toward emotional wellness, but then the tide of despair would again cover my soul, leaving me in an even worse state than the previous one.

The more months and years that had passed—and the more emotional homework I had done—without finding sustainable relief, the more I became tempted to believe that I was a lost cause and that this would be the trajectory that the remainder of my life would take. But finally, after years of striving, something changed. Seemingly all at once, the therapeutic pieces began to come together, I discovered a medical treatment regimen that served me well, and circumstances in my life rearranged into a pattern that filled my heart with hope. And after a couple of anxious months of waiting to see whether these changes were there to stay, I could lay claim to the joyful confirmation that my soul was finally thriving.

At the time that I first found myself on the path to wellness, I remember telling friends that colors seemed brighter and sunshine felt warmer. Everyday life felt sprinkled with moments of magic and joy unlike anything I had experienced in five or six years. It was as though someone had turned on the lights in my soul and given my mind’s eye a pair of prescription glasses; I was astonished at the thought that many people actually walked through life seeing reality so clearly, and I wanted to shout from the rooftops my gratitude that I was finally one of them. Because of the suffering I had endured, I no longer took the good gift of wellness for granted, but instead was flooded with thanks and praise for the provision of my merciful God.

Perhaps the most tangible change I experienced in my transition from depression to wellness was that I was finally able to make a habit of waking up early. For several years, it had felt like an anchor was tied to my consciousness any time my morning alarm rang. I would press “snooze” several times, finally drag myself out of bed with great pain when my children’s hyper pleas for cereal could no longer be ignored, spray some dry shampoo in my hair, put on the dirty yoga pants, and collapse on the couch with a mug of coffee to try to raise myself chemically out of the overwhelming somnolence. It was incredibly difficult for me to go anywhere or to do anything productive before 9:30 AM.

I was always ashamed of my habit of staying under the covers until the last possible moment, because I knew that most of my other mom-friends were diligent about rising a good while before their children in order to prepare for the day. I tried many times to instill this habit in myself, but I never made it more than a week or two.

But when my mind began to heal, I realized that the anchor was gone: Waking up still wasn’t exactly enjoyable, but I was able to rouse myself when the alarm went off without requiring a monumental, painstaking effort. When I was depressed, I never would have believed that I could become this person, but I am now (usually) able to be more like the mom that I want to be—the one who wakes up a couple hours before her kids so that she can shower, do a round of pilates, spend time in the Book of Common Prayer and Scripture, wake up her brain with the daily puzzles from the New York Times, do her hair, and put on a cute, clean, comfortable outfit before the demands of the day start rolling in. By God’s grace, gone are the days of clinging on for survival, and here are the days of drinking (even enjoying!) green smoothies, jogging around the neighborhood several times a week, and planning fun activities, crafts, and field trips for my sons. I cannot overstate how much more life I feel in my body and in my soul.

For the past couple of years, I have been thankful to receive regular counsel from a Christian therapist who always treats me with dignity, respect, and empathy in all of our conversations. However, it did require a little trial-and-error with other therapists before I found her.

One of my worst experiences in counseling was with a therapist who, even after several sessions, seemingly could not get it through his head just how dire my situation was and just how helpless I felt. When I told him about the pain I faced every morning when I tried to wake up, he just shrugged and dismissed my complaint: “I mean, no one likes waking up. I think what you’re experiencing is normal—you just need to work on your self-discipline.” During one session—after I described to him how for years, despite every effort to the contrary, I kept finding myself crying in a ball on the bathroom floor, texting my husband a plea to come home from work because I did not feel safe at home alone—this therapist offered the following advice: “Have you considered making a playlist of upbeat music to listen to when you’re sad?” I did not return to said therapist after that.

When I tell my friends about the healthy changes I have implemented in my life since recovering from depression, I am careful to articulate the ordering accurately: It was not that I made these changes and submitted myself to more discipline and then found spiritual healing. Far from it—my mind, in truth, had to experience a total transformation into health before my good habits felt as though they made any difference.

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My favorite thing about spring in the Midwest was the tulips. Tulips are my favorite flower, but the climate in Georgia is too warm to allow them to grow. Tulip bulbs require a couple months of deep winter freeze in order for the flowers to bloom in the spring, so they are therefore perfectly suited for the garden beds of Chicagoland. Across my college campus, they sprang forth in bold colors, announcing the beatific arrival of a new season of warmth, and the sight of them filled my heart with gladness.

Once the green leaves of a tulip plant have burst through the soil into fresh air at the beginning of spring, the sunlight makes its way to the plant’s chloroplasts, which photosynthesize the light into energy—and the plant then can grow to reach maturity.

When we structure our lives with habitual disciplines of health, it often feels as though our bodies and souls are photosynthesizing God’s grace in order to grow us in holistic wellness and maturity. There is so much to be gained by pursuing embodied activities that augment our spiritual health: reading Scripture; gathering to worship; moving our bodies and fueling them with nourishing food; enjoying art and humor and friendship. These are all gifts from our Good Father, and by receiving them with open hearts, we are likely to enjoy our lives much more organically and sustainably. I am an avid evangelist of the benefits that such efforts may have for the souls of believers.

However, many of our Christian brothers and sisters do not experience the world as though they were tender green sprouts, eager to grow—rather, for any number of diverse reasons, they feel more like the winter bulb, buried beneath a solid layer of frozen earth and snow. Perhaps sometimes, on good days, the rays of the sun will penetrate the earth and offer some temporary warmth. But growth, if there is any at all, is imperceptible. As much as the mind might conceptually affirm one’s telos as a vibrant, blooming plant, the soul feels as good as dead, buried beneath a frozen layer of despair.

I suspect that this is what Jesus is getting at when he speaks of those who are “poor in spirit.” That is, poverty of spirit is not simply a state of sadness, but a state of helplessness in the face of one’s sadness, pain, and despair. As Evangelicals, we all verbally confess that we are helpless apart from God’s grace. However, whether we are conscious of it or not, I wonder how many of us believe at some foundational level that our personal efforts to incorporate biblical wisdom, obedience, and faith into our lives actually, to some degree, guarantee our enjoyment of spiritual peace?

During the years when my spirit was held hostage by depression, I was not lazy in my efforts to heal. I prayed unceasingly; I confessed my sins and sought to submit my heart to Scripture; I worked hard in therapy; I followed my medication schedule with care; I attended church and surrounded myself with Christian friends; I read books about spiritual healing; I pursued reconciliation in relationships; I got off social media. Whatever practical tips for combatting depression that you have read on the internet or heard preached by a Christian leader, I tried them all. But my condition only seemed to worsen.

Although I knew that the people close to me loved and supported me, I felt awfully self-conscious about the duration of my battle with depression. I had put in the hours, so to say, and therefore I expected of myself—and supposed that other people expected of me—that the work would pay off, and I would be on my way toward healing. I was ashamed of the degree to which I felt like an incessant burden on the lives of everyone around me.

In the context of the individualistic meritocracy in which we live, it is all too easy to conflate the message of the gospel with the message of the American dream: just do a little work, and success is sure to follow. The Bible, of course, is filled with wisdom that teaches its readers the optimal way to live, and if we abide by biblical wisdom, then we are certainly more likely to enjoy peaceful, healthy lives.

However, proverbs are not the same thing as promises. (This has nothing to do with the inerrancy or infallibility of Scripture and everything to do with an appropriate hermeneutic of genre.) God has not promised us success or even happiness. He has promised us his Spirit, who will guide us home even through the darkness of the world and all of our failures. Christ did not come to save those who can help themselves; he came to save the helpless. This is why Christ calls them “blessed” who suffer from poverty of spirit. These vulnerable souls are perfectly positioned to receive the gracious gift of admittance into the kingdom of Christ, for they know viscerally that they cannot through their own effort secure this beatitude for themselves.

Of course, mental affliction is only one cause of an impoverished spirit. Any affliction that cages a person within a state of helplessness will do the job. Perhaps the most obvious cause of an impoverished spirit is poverty itself—that is, financial poverty. For those entrapped in poverty, who do not have reliable access to the material comforts enjoyed by the financially solvent, every tiny, inevitable, human misstep bears the risk of sending them sliding back down the mountain of their desperation, and they find themselves incapable of securing their own physiological and emotional needs.

I have spent my whole life in middle-class and affluent circles. For those of us who inhabit these classes, who are able to secure for ourselves nourishing food, comfortable housing, adequate education, and reliable healthcare, such blessings will very often contribute to the holistic health of our bodies and souls. We may, of course, recognize God as the giver of these good gifts, but if we are not careful, our hearts may come to harbor a sense of disdain for or resentment toward the poor. Instead of recognizing that the pursuit of health and happiness often depends on the preexistence of a secure foundation, we judge the poor and suppose that if they only worked a little harder, they would be able to lift themselves up out of their desperation.

This judgment is contrary to the gospel. Indeed, the Incarnate Christ deliberately came to bring “good news to the poor,” because as a result of their destitution the poor know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they cannot satisfy their own longings, comfort their own pains, or earn their own security. They depend wholeheartedly on the mercy and grace of Christ.

When I was in the throes of depression, I was tempted to construe my suffering as a curse. Even though, mentally, I knew this not to be the case, I felt as though the channel leading from God’s grace to my heart was broken, since the activities that I expected to draw me to God’s grace seemed to make no difference in my soul. However, I can now acknowledge that all of my failed efforts were a gift; when I reconsider my experience of healing, I can rejoice in the certainty that my health was restored to me by nothing less than the merciful hand of God, not by my own striving. I also rejoice in the ways in which my personal spiritual battle grew my heart greatly in compassion and now empowers me to speak with empathy and encouragement to other beloved brothers and sisters who are enduring similar seasons of helpless despair.

During the window when I transitioned from illness to wellness, nothing changed about the routines or disciplines that gave structure to my life. Furthermore, nothing changed about my theology, about my appreciation for scriptural truth, or about my belief in God’s love for and delight in me. It was only the active mercy of Christ, extended according to his own wisdom, timing, and plan, that saw me through.

Yes, God is near to the heart of those who are poor in spirit, who turn to him for hope in redemption. But he does not desire for his followers to remain pressed under the weight of poverty forever. This is why the New Testament clearly teaches that local churches should care for the needs of the poor within their midst. The point in this is not that the Christian life should become perfectly comfortable, but that we all as brothers and sisters may regularly direct one another forward in hope to the reality that our full redemption is near.

I sincerely hope that none of my three sons experience seasons of spiritual despair anything close to my own. Blessed are the poor in spirit, but the kingdom is open to all who will call upon the Lord—not only to those who have suffered earthly poverty. There is no shame to be felt in living a life characterized by relative peace and ease, if that is the lot that God has given you; simply respond in thanks, and let the blessings of your own experience motivate your compassion to serve others.

But to those who feel less like an exuberant, colorful bloom and more like a dirty, unimpressive little bulb, hidden deep in the soil, take peace in the knowledge that you are just as much a valuable part of the garden that Christ is growing as those who have already bloomed. You may not be able to perceive your own growth, but the gardener is using the deep freeze to prepare you for the glory that will be yours to share when the Eternal Spring blooms. It is not up to you; he will see it through.

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Until next time—

Affectionate thanks

HLS

P.S.—I promise I’ll slow down with the posts shortly. I just have been sitting on a number of these thoughts for a long time!