Note: This is not going to be nearly as exciting as the title sounds.
Before I get to the preaching on drugs part, let me give you a little update. I'm just about through my first month of medication for my depression. The third dosage level, 75 milligrams of Imipramine, seems to be right for me, though it's really too soon to tell. The last two weeks have been wonderful. Jeanene and the three sisters would tell you that I'm like a new person.
I feel like I've been reunited with a long-lost friend. I remember that I used to feel this way. I used to be happy and very silly with the girls. I used to play a lot of crazy “daddy games.” It feels good to find myself again.
There are a couple of side effects that I'm having to deal with, but none more important than the benefits, and all of them can be dealt with. The thought of slipping back to the way I was before is terrifying to me. I would do just about anything to keep feeling this way. I'm not sure that's a good thing, but that's how I feel about it.
But you want to hear about preaching on drugs, am I right?
First, I need to tell you what preaching has been like for me over the last ten years. Every Sunday morning I would awaken before dawn and experience some combination of dread, sorrow, anxiety, and paranoia. My moods would range from simple sadness and lethargy to a dark, “Camus-like” angst, which drove away any sense of the presence of God. I knew I was on my way to a sacred place of worship, and I knew that I would be called upon to stand and preach. I felt like the world's biggest hypocrite.
I am unable to remember a Sunday when I felt happy and glad to be going to church. This was my big secret. The thing I didn't want anyone to know. I didn't want to be there. Not really. Not in my heart. It certainly came out in my writing. Once I wrote something that began with this line: “Sundays can be a bitch.”
Yeah.
But even in the darkest times, there was always a small shaft of light making its way into the depths of my soul. The one thing I never lost was the desire to offer something to God, or, on bad days, to the possibility of God. And since I could not offer joyous service, a child-like faith, or even much hope, I offered what I had. My body.
“I will get out of bed, and I will go to church. I will arrange the chairs and print the orders of worship. I will pray. I will make ready. And when the time comes, I will preach.”
Ah, preaching. I always had that. If everything else felt crazy, at least I could control that one 20 to 25 minute time slot. Hyper-focus has always been my drug of choice, and these are the things that bring it: movies, reading, writing, and preaching.
My preaching style is something like that of a stand-up comedian. I don't mean that I try to be funny, but I seek that kind of intimate connection with the congregation. No pulpit, nothing between you and me. No looking at notes. Only a small index card with a bare outline, and that's only to be glanced at once or twice if needed.
I have always had the strange ability to create a fairly complex sermon outline, get completely lost in the moment of delivery, and not really need my notes. Not only can I follow my outline, I can usually remember exact phrases that I want use here and there. This is odd since I can hardly remember anything else. My absent-mindedness is almost legendary among my friends. I've lived in San Antonio for 16 years and I still get lost.
So over the last ten years, I've developed something of a pattern for myself. Wake up on Sunday morning and feel lousy. Go to church anyway and get focused in order to drive away the feelings. At precisely 11:00am, channel that focus into my sermon. Go home and collapse on the couch or disappear into the computer.
But last Sunday I had taken this new medication the night before. I woke up feeling normal. I got all the way to church before I realized that I didn't feel bad. I was actually looking forward to Sunday. And why not look forward to it? I like my church. My dearest friends are here, and they are generous and kind and put up with my weird eccentricities. They truly love me and care for my family. Worship is relaxed and meaningful, and I get to preach, a thing I dearly love. Why shouldn't I be happy?
What I'm about to tell you next is something that only someone as goofy as me could come up with. I don't know how to explain it except to say that I didn't feel right being so happy. I mean, I just wasn't used to it. And since I didn't need such intense focus to drive away the feelings of despair, I wasn't that focused. And not being focused was making me VERY nervous.
I responded by eating five Poptarts before anyone got to the church. I guess this means I'm officially off the South Beach Diet, huh?
As the sermon approached, rather than feeling relieved and ready, I felt nervous and a little out of sorts. As it turns out, it's hard to get used to feeling normal again.
And then Steve S. stood to pray before the sermon. He prayed for me, and I started crying. Fortunately I was able to shut that down quickly, but when I stood to speak, I didn't feel like I was going to be very organized or coherent.
At one point I completely forgot what I was supposed to say next. I can't tell you what an alien feeling that was for me. When I preach, I am NEVER at a loss for words. Suddenly, I had no words.
“Thank goodness I have my outline,” I thought. I looked down at it. I could read words on it, but they meant nothing to me. Normally a quick glance is all I need, but I was getting nothing. I stared at the outline for a “world without end” moment, then I gave up and started free-wheeling. I said some things - I remember that much - and we got through the service. I forgot the words to the final blessing, but I do that about once every three months anyway.
So my first experience with preaching on drugs tells me that I've got to relearn some things. Having real drugs on board, I don't need to use preaching as a drug anymore, if that makes any sense at all.
The good news is that I'm among friends. I'm not anxious or worried. I'm sure whatever gift I have that allows me to stand and speak without fear will return in a week or two.
In the meantime, I seem to have found something other than my weary body to offer unto the Lord. I think it's called joy, and it's a heckuva thing to get used to.
rlp
