The trip that eventually leads a person to the Downtown East Side -- or any Skid Row locale -- can start pretty much anywhere. I learned that early on -- actually, from a Quebecois named Gilbert, whom I got to know in Victoria early in my own walk. He had come from a very well-to-do background, but bad decisions and alcohol blew landed him on Broad Street, sitting on the sidewalk in the broiling sun with a baseball cap at his feet. More about him another time.
Rudy was a man I met at Rainbow Mission in 2005. He was in his late 50s or early 60s, and one evening as people were lining up to get their dinner, he got his and came over and sat next to me. I forget how the conversation started -- he may have come up to ask for prayer -- and it was the first time I'd met someone who actually preferred to be living on the streets. "When I got back from Vietnam," he said, "me and some buddies tried to rent an apartment, but after all that time in the jungle, we couldn't have four walls around us. I couldn't anyway. So I joined up with some guys living out of vans down off the highway near Tacoma. We were called the 'rubber tramps'."
I don't think I'd ever met a Vietnam veteran before. "What was that like?"
It was a four-word question with a twenty-minute answer. The part that I really remember involved him seeing his whole advance party get wiped out.
"We got ambushed," he said. "VOOM! We returned fire and when it was over, everyone was gone. Except me. And I guess we got all of them, too, or they thought they got all of us and run off. But then I looked around, and I'm face to face with Charlie Cong. He's maybe 20 yards away. He looks at me. I look at him. 'If he goes for his gun,' I thought, 'I'm dead'. Then he holds up two fingers. I figure he's giving me the 'peace' sign, so I hold up two fingers. Then I realize -- he's askin' for a cigarette. So I pull out my pack o' smokes, and he comes over and I give him one. And we sat there and had our smoke. And he pulls out a picture of his wife and kids and we use sign language 'cause Charlie can't speak English and I can't speak Vietnamese. And we finish our smokes, and he goes back into the jungle.
"I got back to my camp and told my commanding officer what happened. I says, 'I can't kill these guys. Get me outta here.' The CO got me medicaled out the next day."
That led to the failed experience with the apartment in Seattle and the stint with the rubber tramps -- and the fact that Rudy could never hold down a job or a residence and was now, by choice, living on the streets in Vancouver.
Rudy was one of three Vietnam vets who came into Rainbow Mission. Clive -- very soft-spoken and kindly, but totally messed-up -- and Abraham -- an amazingly inspiring man -- were the other two. I'll write about them later. Meeting them -- particularly Clive and Rudy, left me thinking that some of the bigger casualties of war are the survivors -- the ones who came home. I understand there was a tendency to vilify the returning soldiers; on top of that, there are the deep thinkers like Michael Moore, among others, who point to evidence that the Tonkin Gulf "crisis" that led to increased US involvement in Vietnam was really a put-up job. Do they help the Rudys of this world, or is it enough for them to be right?
Was that what Rudy came home to? Did he have access to help in re-adjusting and if he did, did he understand that it was available? Or was he left in that confused state of watching guys no older than himself get wiped out in an ambush and finding real human interaction through sign language with a young father known only as Charlie Cong?
Rudy was a regular at the Rainbow Mission, and two weeks later he came up to me and said he was finally getting into Detox, and hopefully a rehab program for his cocaine addiction. We prayed together and I gave him a hug and he clung to me and shook with fear.
A couple of days later, he phoned to say he was alright. A couple of days after that, I called the detox centre to ask about him and was told they didn't give out patient information.
That was the last I saw of him.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
In the midst of death ...
... we are in life.
Late last year (is it that long ago already?) I blogged about some of the people who come into Gospel Mission and The Lord's Rain, including Richard. Among other things, I mentioned how he would invariably get a cup of coffee for himself "and another for m' ol' lady" and go out to try to find her. Over time, we grew to wonder if said "ol' lady" was kind of like Maris on "Frasier" or Duffy on "Duffy's Tavern" -- someone who is talked about but never actually seen; and a mental jigsaw puzzle starts to come together.
A few months ago, though, Richard did bring his "ol' lady" into The Lord's Rain -- and to my surprise, it was a woman I'd seen and been aware of for a few years. I don't know why that surprised me: the surprise turned to marvel, realizing how much Richard cared for her and that even in an area as chronically nasty as the Downtown East Side, you can still find that kind of caring.
She had a name -- besides "m'ol' lady" -- Brenda; and she would often be seen, wandering the streets, begging for a buck here, a toonie there ... or food, or a cigarette ... I last saw her two Wednesdays ago, sitting at a table outside a little storefront coffee-and-smoothie place on Carrall Street.
"Can you help me get in there?" she asked, pointing to the Rainier, a recently opened single-room-occupancy hotel across the street. "I don't like the Portland, where I am now. Can you help me get in there?" I told her I understood the Rainier was run by the Portland Housing Society too, but I'd see what I could find out and get word to her through Richard.
"OK. Do you have a loonie or a toonie?"
I didn't -- and I wouldn't give money, anyway, on principle.
Before I could look into the Rainier, though, Brenda went into hospital. I found out about it through Richard. "She's got stuff in her lungs," he said.
Last Saturday, Richard was already in The Lord's Rain by the time I came down from the Mission upstairs. He was wearing sunglasses, which I thought was odd.
"We gotta pray for Richard," John began. "His 'ol' lady' ..."
"I heard," I said. "In hospital."
"She died last night."
"'bout 6 o'clock," Richard said. "I was with her in the afternoon. Then she died. I saw the body. I'm pretty much all cried-out now." Hence, the sunglasses.
"You know we're here," John said. "You wanna talk ... you want anything ... we're here -- you know that."
We prayed over him -- to have strength and keep seeking God through the bad as well as the good -- and we just stood nearby him.
He flashed a grin. "Have some coffee, Drew," he said. "It'll wake ya up!"
The Enemy tries to make death seem like a horrible thing, and truly the fear of death is the main weapon he uses against us. Pretty much every sin is rooted in the fear of death: if we feel deprived, hungry, sick, depressed, it's because we are afraid that somehow, that will make us die. We equate feeling good with life -- hence drugs, drunkenness, sex with the wrong people, and lots and lots of money -- and the lengths we go to, to get them.
God knows that we fear death, which is why He equates following His commandments to life:
"I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose lilfe, that you and your offspring may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying His voice and holding fast to Him, for He is your life and length of days ...." (Deut. 30:19-20 ESV)
He also knows that we grieve our loss, and while the Enemy tries to make us think that's a silly, sissy, bad thing to do, God expects us to grieve -- and reminds us to turn to Him for comfort.
"He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces; and the rebuke of His people shall He take away from off all the earth: for the Lord hath spoken it." (Isaiah 25:8 KJV)
"I will ransom them from the power of the grave; I will redeem them from death: O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction: repentance shall be hid from mine eyes." (Hosea 13:14)
God definitely hates Death, per se, although not the passing from one chapter in our eternal life into the next -- so long as it's spent with Him. Death is equated with cursing and the antidote is Jesus' Victory over the grave.
And He also knows that we're going to be sad when it happens, and keeps reminding us that He's the one we can turn to for comfort. We're also told that we are to pray for one another, stand with one another and bear one another up in times of sorrow. That became the message at our service that Saturday night: that that is all part of the fellowship we enjoy as Christians.
After all, we know that if two or more are gathered in Jesus' Name, He's there in their midst, so by simply standing with someone who's grieving -- not necessarily saying anything beyond praying for and with him or her -- we're calling in the Comforter Himself to wipe away the tears.
Late last year (is it that long ago already?) I blogged about some of the people who come into Gospel Mission and The Lord's Rain, including Richard. Among other things, I mentioned how he would invariably get a cup of coffee for himself "and another for m' ol' lady" and go out to try to find her. Over time, we grew to wonder if said "ol' lady" was kind of like Maris on "Frasier" or Duffy on "Duffy's Tavern" -- someone who is talked about but never actually seen; and a mental jigsaw puzzle starts to come together.
A few months ago, though, Richard did bring his "ol' lady" into The Lord's Rain -- and to my surprise, it was a woman I'd seen and been aware of for a few years. I don't know why that surprised me: the surprise turned to marvel, realizing how much Richard cared for her and that even in an area as chronically nasty as the Downtown East Side, you can still find that kind of caring.
She had a name -- besides "m'ol' lady" -- Brenda; and she would often be seen, wandering the streets, begging for a buck here, a toonie there ... or food, or a cigarette ... I last saw her two Wednesdays ago, sitting at a table outside a little storefront coffee-and-smoothie place on Carrall Street.
"Can you help me get in there?" she asked, pointing to the Rainier, a recently opened single-room-occupancy hotel across the street. "I don't like the Portland, where I am now. Can you help me get in there?" I told her I understood the Rainier was run by the Portland Housing Society too, but I'd see what I could find out and get word to her through Richard.
"OK. Do you have a loonie or a toonie?"
I didn't -- and I wouldn't give money, anyway, on principle.
Before I could look into the Rainier, though, Brenda went into hospital. I found out about it through Richard. "She's got stuff in her lungs," he said.
Last Saturday, Richard was already in The Lord's Rain by the time I came down from the Mission upstairs. He was wearing sunglasses, which I thought was odd.
"We gotta pray for Richard," John began. "His 'ol' lady' ..."
"I heard," I said. "In hospital."
"She died last night."
"'bout 6 o'clock," Richard said. "I was with her in the afternoon. Then she died. I saw the body. I'm pretty much all cried-out now." Hence, the sunglasses.
"You know we're here," John said. "You wanna talk ... you want anything ... we're here -- you know that."
We prayed over him -- to have strength and keep seeking God through the bad as well as the good -- and we just stood nearby him.
He flashed a grin. "Have some coffee, Drew," he said. "It'll wake ya up!"
The Enemy tries to make death seem like a horrible thing, and truly the fear of death is the main weapon he uses against us. Pretty much every sin is rooted in the fear of death: if we feel deprived, hungry, sick, depressed, it's because we are afraid that somehow, that will make us die. We equate feeling good with life -- hence drugs, drunkenness, sex with the wrong people, and lots and lots of money -- and the lengths we go to, to get them.
God knows that we fear death, which is why He equates following His commandments to life:
"I call heaven and earth to witness against you today, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and curse. Therefore choose lilfe, that you and your offspring may live, loving the Lord your God, obeying His voice and holding fast to Him, for He is your life and length of days ...." (Deut. 30:19-20 ESV)
He also knows that we grieve our loss, and while the Enemy tries to make us think that's a silly, sissy, bad thing to do, God expects us to grieve -- and reminds us to turn to Him for comfort.
"He will swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all faces; and the rebuke of His people shall He take away from off all the earth: for the Lord hath spoken it." (Isaiah 25:8 KJV)
"I will ransom them from the power of the grave; I will redeem them from death: O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction: repentance shall be hid from mine eyes." (Hosea 13:14)
God definitely hates Death, per se, although not the passing from one chapter in our eternal life into the next -- so long as it's spent with Him. Death is equated with cursing and the antidote is Jesus' Victory over the grave.
And He also knows that we're going to be sad when it happens, and keeps reminding us that He's the one we can turn to for comfort. We're also told that we are to pray for one another, stand with one another and bear one another up in times of sorrow. That became the message at our service that Saturday night: that that is all part of the fellowship we enjoy as Christians.
After all, we know that if two or more are gathered in Jesus' Name, He's there in their midst, so by simply standing with someone who's grieving -- not necessarily saying anything beyond praying for and with him or her -- we're calling in the Comforter Himself to wipe away the tears.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
A baby to pray for
Being the father of a teenage girl, I went into "dad" mode the moment I saw Davona -- just over a year ago, now. Blonde and achingly pretty, she was sitting in the doorway of one of our neighbouring buildings, which was under renovation at the time. It was a Saturday afternoon, and I stopped to chat and invited her to come to the Mission service, where I was headed. She thanked me for the invitation, but didn't come up.
A couple of days later, though, she came into The Lord's Rain -- more for the coffee than anything else. It's easy to look at a girl like Davona and assume that she's drugged-out and working the streets; then you want to scream, "GET OUT! OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR BEAUTY! OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR LIFE! OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TEETH!"
But on closer examination, Davona looks more like 30-ish. The fact that she still seems to have her own teeth is a sign that maybe the drug habit -- if she has one -- isn't so bad. But there was something else about Davona that wasn't right. She would carry on conversations with us -- except her voice would fade to nothing and/or she'd start speaking to the wall or her shoes, leaving you wondering if she was ever talking to you in the first place.
She would also show signs of obsessive-compulsiveness. She would go to a large box of clothes and start pulling them out one by one, examining each piece in detail. I'd find myself on tenterhooks, waiting to admonish her about taking so many pieces of clothing. (The house rule is a two-article maximum. Generally, the people respect that.) But instead of taking the clothing she had pulled out, Davona would carefully and methodically fold each one and put it back in the box. Sometimes, she'd take them out again and repeat the process. Occasionally, she might even keep a garment for herself.
Talking to Davona is like driving on the Interstate and your radio has a wonky tuner: you constantly have to do something to keep it tuned in. She'd carry on these conversations with no one in particular, but all you'd need to do is call her name, and she'd immediately snap back into reality -- or your reality, at any rate, as opposed to the one she had lapsed into. But after maybe 3 minutes, the frequency would start to drift again and you'd either have to call her name to jar the tuning knob back into position or just let her continue and go and do something else.
As often happens with people on the DTES, Davona disappeared for a few months. People do that. Sometimes, they've been arrested. Maybe they get a job and move away. Maybe they lose the job and move back. About two months ago, Davona turned up again. She was a bit more lucid, incessantly fussy in the mirror ... and pregnant.
Danilo tried to press her for information as to how it happened. Well, maybe not the how part, but information about the father. He got nowhere. Another of the women who often come into The Lord's Rain had a baby about a year and a half ago, and that little girl was seized by the Child and Families Ministry shortly after birth. There was an unspoken assumption that the same thing would happen with Davona's baby.
And that was the last we saw of Davona ... until today. I was walking through Waterfront Station, when a very familiar blonde face passed by. I called to her, and yes, it was Davona. And strapped to her front was a Snugli with baby sound asleep inside. "Her name is Shine," she told me, stroking the little head. I was in the middle of some INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT work and had to catch up with some others so aside from a little more sighing over the baby and telling each other it was nice to see the other again, there wasn't much chance to catch up.
In a story that could have so many unhappy elements to it, I'm believing for the happy ones all the way through. That Davona has the support she needs, that she's healthy mentally and physically, that the baby stays healthy and grows ... that everyone involved will see a miracle of God through all of it. A new little life, coming out of (and hopefully, staying out of) the DTES: that amid what often appears to be a land of walking dead, we have a sign that God wants life to keep going -- even there.
Especially there.
In your own way, in your own time, lift up Davona and Shine in prayer.
A couple of days later, though, she came into The Lord's Rain -- more for the coffee than anything else. It's easy to look at a girl like Davona and assume that she's drugged-out and working the streets; then you want to scream, "GET OUT! OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR BEAUTY! OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR LIFE! OUT WHILE YOU STILL HAVE YOUR TEETH!"
But on closer examination, Davona looks more like 30-ish. The fact that she still seems to have her own teeth is a sign that maybe the drug habit -- if she has one -- isn't so bad. But there was something else about Davona that wasn't right. She would carry on conversations with us -- except her voice would fade to nothing and/or she'd start speaking to the wall or her shoes, leaving you wondering if she was ever talking to you in the first place.
She would also show signs of obsessive-compulsiveness. She would go to a large box of clothes and start pulling them out one by one, examining each piece in detail. I'd find myself on tenterhooks, waiting to admonish her about taking so many pieces of clothing. (The house rule is a two-article maximum. Generally, the people respect that.) But instead of taking the clothing she had pulled out, Davona would carefully and methodically fold each one and put it back in the box. Sometimes, she'd take them out again and repeat the process. Occasionally, she might even keep a garment for herself.
Talking to Davona is like driving on the Interstate and your radio has a wonky tuner: you constantly have to do something to keep it tuned in. She'd carry on these conversations with no one in particular, but all you'd need to do is call her name, and she'd immediately snap back into reality -- or your reality, at any rate, as opposed to the one she had lapsed into. But after maybe 3 minutes, the frequency would start to drift again and you'd either have to call her name to jar the tuning knob back into position or just let her continue and go and do something else.
As often happens with people on the DTES, Davona disappeared for a few months. People do that. Sometimes, they've been arrested. Maybe they get a job and move away. Maybe they lose the job and move back. About two months ago, Davona turned up again. She was a bit more lucid, incessantly fussy in the mirror ... and pregnant.
Danilo tried to press her for information as to how it happened. Well, maybe not the how part, but information about the father. He got nowhere. Another of the women who often come into The Lord's Rain had a baby about a year and a half ago, and that little girl was seized by the Child and Families Ministry shortly after birth. There was an unspoken assumption that the same thing would happen with Davona's baby.
And that was the last we saw of Davona ... until today. I was walking through Waterfront Station, when a very familiar blonde face passed by. I called to her, and yes, it was Davona. And strapped to her front was a Snugli with baby sound asleep inside. "Her name is Shine," she told me, stroking the little head. I was in the middle of some INCREDIBLY IMPORTANT work and had to catch up with some others so aside from a little more sighing over the baby and telling each other it was nice to see the other again, there wasn't much chance to catch up.
In a story that could have so many unhappy elements to it, I'm believing for the happy ones all the way through. That Davona has the support she needs, that she's healthy mentally and physically, that the baby stays healthy and grows ... that everyone involved will see a miracle of God through all of it. A new little life, coming out of (and hopefully, staying out of) the DTES: that amid what often appears to be a land of walking dead, we have a sign that God wants life to keep going -- even there.
Especially there.
In your own way, in your own time, lift up Davona and Shine in prayer.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
It's called "responsibility"
My friend, Sandra Thomas of the Vancouver Courier, has nailed it again with her assessment of the study into traffic and pedestrians on the Downtown East Side.
(At the outset, I should point out that my company, TransLink, has been quoted in the media for some comments that were included in the report. What I say here has nothing to do with my position at TransLink, as you'll see.)
In her column, she sums up the study's proposal, so I'll leave it to you to read. But there's something that nags at me: the proposal is the latest, as Sandra points out, in a series of "approaches" -- for want of a better word -- to various problems on the DTES that seeks to make everyone else responsible for the actions of a particular group of people. Why would anyone want to make a particular group exempt from responsibilities that the vast majority of people take for granted?
If you try to absolve certain people of responsibility because of some pre-existing circumstance, are you not, in fact, oppressing those people? In a way, you're declaring that the DTESers are a separate caste, made distinct by the fact that its members are incapable of being responsible -- and therefore are entitled to special treatment. You've assumed a position of superiority to this "caste", writing them off as incorrigible and doing so under a cast of kindness, pretending to be one who cares and truly understands the needs of these people better than anyone else -- including themselves.
Rather than assist them to become responsible, you simply enable them to continue being irresponsible. Isn't that the way of thinking that created Indian reservations and residential schools?
It's oppressive enough to tell people that they'll never be able to pull out of the mire they're in so they might as well have a more comfortable time of it. But this also accentuates the "us-versus-them" mindset that splits the DTES from the rest of the city. "Here's another case," people from outside the DTES would say, "where these deadbeats get another break because they're so hard-done-by!" That hardens hearts even further, making it tough to stir up the compassion and love that it takes to turn lives around and really bring change to people. When hearts are hardened, it becomes tougher to see people as God sees them.
Why would someone want to oppress people like that? Why help them stay in a drugged-out, chronically ill, impoverished state? Is there an agenda? That's the $65,000 question. "Follow the money," the legendary Deep Throat told Woodward and Bernstein as they were digging into the Watergate Scandal. As we saw recently with the implosion of the Downtown Eastside Residents' Association, groups that receive large handouts under the guise of helping the poor are just as susceptible to temptation as anyone else. And when money is involved, the greatest temptation is to perpetuate the need that's been bringing in the money.
But I sense there's something more than that going on. People who start to see the light of Christ coming on in their lives, turning the darkened image in the mirror to something clearer and closer to the way God made them, realize that, with the help of Jesus, they are capable of overcoming the drugs and poverty and abuse and other things that put them on Skid Row to begin with. As they strengthen their faith and hope, they can no longer be controlled by other people, because the weapons being used against them -- guilt and shame and even the fear of death -- suddenly have no effect.
Well, of course, that's the last thing Satan wants, isn't it? He wants to prevent that light from coming on, and the best way to do that is to convince people that the way they're living is as good as it gets. He does that with rich folk in the British Properties, making them believe they've got it so good, they don't need Jesus. And he does that with the most mpoverished on the DTES, perversely, also making them believe that this is as good as it gets, and that they're so special, the rest of the world should excuse them from following the law and being responsible people. So wipe that pipe before you pass it, bro, and don't bother with Jesus.
It makes our job just that much more challenging.
The "We Are All Pedestrians" report is just the latest symptom of that mindset. Forgive them: they know not what they do.
(At the outset, I should point out that my company, TransLink, has been quoted in the media for some comments that were included in the report. What I say here has nothing to do with my position at TransLink, as you'll see.)
In her column, she sums up the study's proposal, so I'll leave it to you to read. But there's something that nags at me: the proposal is the latest, as Sandra points out, in a series of "approaches" -- for want of a better word -- to various problems on the DTES that seeks to make everyone else responsible for the actions of a particular group of people. Why would anyone want to make a particular group exempt from responsibilities that the vast majority of people take for granted?
If you try to absolve certain people of responsibility because of some pre-existing circumstance, are you not, in fact, oppressing those people? In a way, you're declaring that the DTESers are a separate caste, made distinct by the fact that its members are incapable of being responsible -- and therefore are entitled to special treatment. You've assumed a position of superiority to this "caste", writing them off as incorrigible and doing so under a cast of kindness, pretending to be one who cares and truly understands the needs of these people better than anyone else -- including themselves.
Rather than assist them to become responsible, you simply enable them to continue being irresponsible. Isn't that the way of thinking that created Indian reservations and residential schools?
It's oppressive enough to tell people that they'll never be able to pull out of the mire they're in so they might as well have a more comfortable time of it. But this also accentuates the "us-versus-them" mindset that splits the DTES from the rest of the city. "Here's another case," people from outside the DTES would say, "where these deadbeats get another break because they're so hard-done-by!" That hardens hearts even further, making it tough to stir up the compassion and love that it takes to turn lives around and really bring change to people. When hearts are hardened, it becomes tougher to see people as God sees them.
Why would someone want to oppress people like that? Why help them stay in a drugged-out, chronically ill, impoverished state? Is there an agenda? That's the $65,000 question. "Follow the money," the legendary Deep Throat told Woodward and Bernstein as they were digging into the Watergate Scandal. As we saw recently with the implosion of the Downtown Eastside Residents' Association, groups that receive large handouts under the guise of helping the poor are just as susceptible to temptation as anyone else. And when money is involved, the greatest temptation is to perpetuate the need that's been bringing in the money.
But I sense there's something more than that going on. People who start to see the light of Christ coming on in their lives, turning the darkened image in the mirror to something clearer and closer to the way God made them, realize that, with the help of Jesus, they are capable of overcoming the drugs and poverty and abuse and other things that put them on Skid Row to begin with. As they strengthen their faith and hope, they can no longer be controlled by other people, because the weapons being used against them -- guilt and shame and even the fear of death -- suddenly have no effect.
Well, of course, that's the last thing Satan wants, isn't it? He wants to prevent that light from coming on, and the best way to do that is to convince people that the way they're living is as good as it gets. He does that with rich folk in the British Properties, making them believe they've got it so good, they don't need Jesus. And he does that with the most mpoverished on the DTES, perversely, also making them believe that this is as good as it gets, and that they're so special, the rest of the world should excuse them from following the law and being responsible people. So wipe that pipe before you pass it, bro, and don't bother with Jesus.
It makes our job just that much more challenging.
The "We Are All Pedestrians" report is just the latest symptom of that mindset. Forgive them: they know not what they do.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Better Living through Chemistry?
John Fischer's "Fischtank" piece today really strikes home. He writes of William Cowper, an 18th Century English poet who wrote some of the classic hymns that are still being sung today -- and how Cowper wrote them at times when he was in deep depression.
I can relate, and I'm sure a lot of us can: it's at the times of deepest depression that we have reason to contemplate God and His mercy and the meaning of Jesus' sacrifice on the Cross. Sometimes, I've felt strong enough to haul my own tail in front of the Cross: sometimes, my wife has been the one to point and push me there. But it does the job.
I can't help thinking that, if Cowper were living today, he'd have been put on heavy medication and, being so "normalized", would have continued on cruise control without even thinking he needed to contemplate God: thanks to Better Living Through Chemistry, he was "OK" and could get on with dealing with the things of the world, which are so much more important than contemplating God. And not only would Cowper have missed out, we -- more than 200 years later -- would be without what John Fischer calls Cowper's "legacy of depression".
Isn't that what happens with so many people today? Who needs Jesus when I've got my little bottle of pills to take twice a day before meals? Not only do they miss out on their own time with God, the rest of society misses out on their witness.
I can relate, and I'm sure a lot of us can: it's at the times of deepest depression that we have reason to contemplate God and His mercy and the meaning of Jesus' sacrifice on the Cross. Sometimes, I've felt strong enough to haul my own tail in front of the Cross: sometimes, my wife has been the one to point and push me there. But it does the job.
I can't help thinking that, if Cowper were living today, he'd have been put on heavy medication and, being so "normalized", would have continued on cruise control without even thinking he needed to contemplate God: thanks to Better Living Through Chemistry, he was "OK" and could get on with dealing with the things of the world, which are so much more important than contemplating God. And not only would Cowper have missed out, we -- more than 200 years later -- would be without what John Fischer calls Cowper's "legacy of depression".
Isn't that what happens with so many people today? Who needs Jesus when I've got my little bottle of pills to take twice a day before meals? Not only do they miss out on their own time with God, the rest of society misses out on their witness.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)