If Christianity ever stops being weird, it will no longer change lives.
So let’s get weird.
I knew that the childhood mantra of “Believe in yourself” had failed in the crucible of reality. That turned out to be a bad drug, like the brown acid that the 1960’s burnouts spoke about.
Work and career couldn’t save me. Money couldn’t either. The old trusty sidekick, liquor, was as worthless as ever now. These were all bad drugs. While I had flung beer bottles at religious people for using God as a crutch, I was leaning on various crutches, and when those crutches failed, anti-depressants became the crutch. At this point, I still had no idea that I was soul-sick far more than physically or mentally impaired.
On particularly blue days, or “Black Dog” days as Winston Churchill called them, or the days when the “Noonday Demon” of acedia overtook me, I knew that something was missing. And after a few years working as an engineer, I realized that I needed to talk to a doctor.
And the doctor had the cure. Then I heard the new pitch for the new drug. I needed a supplement to believe in myself. It was medicine, just like insulin. Surely a diabetic would not refuse the medicine that would save his life, so why would someone deficient in a neurotransmitter not trust that pharma solutions could save me?
Here existed a scientific, peer-reviewed solution, and it came in the form of a pill that would simply re-balance the chemistry in my brain. Just eat this little dot once a day and like Dorothy I would be back in humanist Kansas. Never mind that humans had lived for tens of thousands of years without these pills - this was the only solution. The fix was merely a matter of dialing in the numbers, like getting the chemicals correct when balancing a pool PH level. It was easy! There were also techniques, from Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and its cousins like RET, and there was pseudo-spiritual self-affirmation options in Buddhist meditation (heavy on the self), and then there was the budding “science” of taking LSD. There was a pill plus technical methodologies to deal. I just needed an action plan for mind and body (no soul needed).
Pills are good
So the days of anti-depressants began. In a pill came the solution, and I convinced myself after a month it “seemed to be working” since I felt “not quite as irritable.” However, today I am certain that if the doctor had given me a magical bag of potato chips in a medical looking package, and had told me to eat one a day, it would have had the same effect. Because I wasn’t feeling any different. The Black Dog days still arrived and struck hard. That was when I was told that the dosage just needed to be increased. More was better…you see…I needed two magical potato chips per day, not one. This is becoming more well known as people are beginning to realize that the modern SSRI pill solution is just another version of snake oil.
What I discovered after about five years is that I could not stop taking these pills, because if I stopped, I became so dizzy that I could hardly stand. Getting off the anti-depressants now felt as hard as quitting tobacco had been.
In the early years of taking anti-depressants, I was still drinking, which in hindsight is insane to me. But after I did quit drinking (a topic I covered at great length in the initial series of this site), I continued with the pills. After a few years of sobriety, I tried to stop taking the pills, and the dizziness gave me such fear that I worried about slipping into some suicidal despair, so I stayed on the pills. This certainly works in favor of the pharmaceutical companies. I continued on the pills, sober, believing that I needed them.
Life without liquor started by asking God for help. Getting back to the basics of belief in God set me free from drinking, to my utter and complete surprise. The only way that I ever got sober was by doing the exact opposite of everything that I had learned in school. “Believe in myself” turned out to be the very thing that was destroying my liver and overall health. How many hundreds of times did I try to will myself to stay sober and it failed? Then suddenly, by simply asking God for strength and direction, I was making it through a day, and another day, then a week, then a month. But then I stopped praying for a long spell, not able to connect the dots.
I stayed sober for a year before falling into the usual trap. “I got this now. I believe in myself.” Yes, that was the road back to ruin. I started with non-alcoholic beer then switched to regular beer and a year or two later I was worse off than before. Then a night in jail and the threat of more rehab got me back to the basics, of the need for God. But this time I knew that I needed God more than he needed me. But I still didn’t need him that much. I had my pills.
The pills carried me through some more years, but I was back in motion. In addition, fitness became an interest and continued until I’d run some eight or ten marathons and did an Ironman. I thought I’d fended off the emptiness forever. But it was after the Ironman in 2019 that it struck back, and harder than ever before. The depression arrived and I knew that I had cured nothing. I could not save myself. I could not manufacture self-esteem. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy was a parlor game. The pills were doing nothing. The fitness had maxed out. I was still on the treadmill of self-esteem. Not even a long period of sobriety was a cure. There had to be something more.
Body and Soul
That is when I understood the soul. For the first time in my life, I realized that we are body and soul. I had inklings about it, in times when I’d felt I’d lost something. In the deadness of my heart, I had always known something was off, ever since middle school.
The comment from Jesus: “Let the dead bury their dead” always shocked me. But I knew what he meant. I knew that he meant the people who never came to know Him. Because until I learned to kneel and pray and ask for God’s forgiveness, I never knew what redemptive suffering meant, and I never knew why he had to go through the cross to be resurrected.
Even this process took time because I was so blind to my spiritual state, that I couldn’t even see my sins and the wreckage of my life that had piled up in the wake of my jetboat named “Believe in yourself”.
The next four years began a long process of spiritual awakening, in a way that I could never have understood or predicted. Even as it happened, I tried to resist it. Sneaking into back rows of churches, I was there for reasons I could hardly fathom. But I knew there was something needed, something desired. A Sunday morning watching Netflix no longer satisfied me. It had never satisfied me, I was just finally becoming aware of it.
I started saying “Yes” to prayer, to fellowship, to volunteering, and to meet people who believed, and I mean really, actually believed in a spiritual life.
The supernatural became revealed again through the witness of others, and I too started to tear down the walls of my materialism and unbelief. The propaganda of the Humanist Manifesto that had been drilled into my head scattered. The false foundations of my public school and media indoctrination started to erode and crumble like sand.
And because the believers were living differently from everyone I had chosen to spend time with since middle school, I had to “come and see” what they were doing. It was so different. Their lives were different. Their thoughts are different. Most of them had less money than me, but they had something that I could never get. They had a sense of rest, of peace. And as I got to know them, I learned something interesting. They all spent time in prayer, every day. None were on anti-depressants. Not one of them “believed in themselves.” No, that was crazy.
No, instead they all believed in God, and the Resurrection of Christ. I knew many other people who seemed to be living without God, but they were taking pills, or smoking weed, or drinking, or chasing a dollar, or obsessing with sex. But here was something different. Here was a free option, called grace. No pills needed.
Then I read G.K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy and the second chapter confirmed what I had known by experience but could never articulate. This is a book about the concept of “Believe in yourself.” The second chapter is called “The Maniac,” and the maniac is the man who “believes in himself.” Chesterton says, “Believing utterly in one's self is a hysterical and superstitious belief.” I straightened up in my reading chair, as so much of the era from the 1970s to 2020s that I had lived within began to make much more sense. When I was born, the humanists had overrun public schooling in precisely that era (and even ruled the progressive Churches), and the first rule of the humanists, in their manifesto, was that “Religious humanists regard the universe as self-existing and not created.” Thus it was no wonder that my teachers had ruled out God as existing, as a living entity. My few hours a year in faith formation were trampled over and cast out at the first difficult question I raised about God. My understanding of anything about Catholicism or faith was a house of cards. To make matters worse, I had only attended Masses from the post-Vatican II, where it was more guitar and modern “hymns” than reverent prayer and silence. I am not joking when I tell this: the first time I saw a High Latin Mass, I thought I was on another planet. I had no idea what was happening, but I knew that every Mass I had attended as a kid was lacking seriousness. I didn’t even receive Communion that day because I didn’t know what the altar rail was for, or why people were kneeling to receive the Eucharist. Probably best I didn’t, since I still hadn’t understood the need for Confession and being in a state of Grace before receiving the Eucharist yet.
I realized after this process had completed, after I had flushed my anti-depressants, that I had to knock down about ten walls of worldly indoctrination and self-deception that had been erected over thirty years, all the way back to Sesame Street with its early onset self-esteem program of indoctrination…and maybe even Tom and Jerry as I loved watching them beat the hell out of each other and figured that both and Tom and Jerry believed in themselves.
First, I had to accept that God may exist. This meant overcoming the dogmas of academia, that had coached me into the negative position, and until I found Aquinas and Augustine and Pascal and Robert Barron, I had never heard of the compelling arguments for the affirmative. But it wasn’t an argument that made me believe that God may exist - it was the first time I tried prayer and was able to not drink. And this will forever be perhaps the strangest education of my life. For nothing had worked before - no amount of knowledge, no technique, no bargaining, no rewards. Later, I used prayer to discontinue looking at any smut on my computer or phone, and lo and behold, repeatedly kneeling and asking God for help, once again, chased away the demon. This had a profound effect on me, as I realized that prayer did something strange, and it was real.
Then there was politics, which is always the top idol in America. You can’t bring up a news story in most circles without hitting an electric wire related to politics. The issue of abortion or prayer in schools was a trigger for me, as I had been coached well enough in school that liberty and freedom only meant doing whatever one wished. Luckily, over the years I had lived in neighborhoods with people of both parties, so I had close friends of both the left and the right, and I still do, and this is because I have the gift of knowing when to shut the hell up. My 10th-grade biology teacher once paid me a great compliment, telling me that I was a nuisance in class, but I knew when to quit. Now, for some, that may not sound like a compliment, but to me, it meant I had the slightest sense of knowing when to stop acting like an idiot. Perhaps being from Minnesota had something to do with it because we hold back our feelings to avoid offending others - or we did at one time. I think that has passed as greater America has infected the state through social media.
However, when I began to believe in God, I began to set aside certain political issues, such as that unborn babies are “just a clump of cells,” which never made a lot of sense to me anyway. The problem was that if I had a soul, then so did everyone else. If I had a soul, so did my conservative and liberal neighbors - they both did. And if I had a soul, so did babies, and if babies had a soul, so did humans who had not yet popped out of the womb. Plus I had my own children and they were the greatest gift, along with my wife, that I could have ever asked for, and I hadn’t asked for, yet had been given them. And all of these things began to work like a degreasing rust remover on my static and crusty ideas. The bolted-on beliefs from college and my twenties started looking less solid. That wall of politics may have been as thick as the wall of “Does God exist?”
Then there was the approval of the world - a very thick wall - because to believe in God was to reject the secularization thesis that reigned in the last fifty years. Belief in God was a vestige of less sophisticated times. It was like the appendix on the body, or goosebumps - they were leftovers from a more primitive age. Joseph Campbell and many others assured us that Christianity was just like every other religion, every other myth, with just a wrinkle of difference here, a nuance there. I felt like the world was nudging me along, saying, “Nothing to see here, folks: Star Wars is sufficient for your spiritual needs.” Except it wasn’t (and Disney’s takeover of it has certainly proven that out as it degrades with every new release).
To be Catholic, or really any non-”progressive” Christian, was to be a modern freak. It was not approved of by the educated and cool people. I liked reading Reddit, which was like the atheist training ground of the internet. On Reddit people could be anonymous and bash the church openly, and all of the veiled arguments against Christianity in the media and college were unleashed in their full anger online. Oh, and Islam was the true religion of peace - all of Christian history was to blame for every injustice in the modern world. No, I believed that. In hindsight, it’s amazing how far your false teaching can take you, and it’s no wonder to me now that the books of the Church Fathers are swept under a rug. To read Augustine’s Confessions, or Origen’s First Principles, or the story of the martyrs of Lyon, or hear about the Battle of Tours and the Battle of Lepanto, or read of the martyrs like St. Lawrence and St. Agnes, or to see the early church in the letters of St. Ignatius of Antioch - all of this is more thrilling than any roller coaster at Six Flags.
As I started to read the Gospels and read the writings of the Church Fathers and listen to Bishop Barron, as well as the Lord of Spirits podcast, Tim Keller, Father Mike Schmitz, and more - I knew that I had not been told anything about the history of Christianity.
The education system, from kindergarten to college, had hidden a trove of books from us. Purposefully it had steered me away from millennia of wisdom. All spiritual things were kept away, all of the things that held Christendom together. Even the dichotomies were false ones: I had only ever heard of nature vs. nurture, as if all problems were merely questions of genetics or environment. As if only those two things could be the cause of human sin. They walled off “The Fall” as a non-possibility, and in walling it off proved in the 20th century experiments of communism, fascism, and liberalism that nature vs. nurture did not account for all problems. The longer you look into the abyss, the more you know The Fall happened. But the education system blamed other things. Never was it the world, the flesh, and the devil that prompted us to sin. Never was it the idea of concupiscence, a word that I didn’t learn until my late thirties.
Worse, there was a false war over faith vs. reason, and until digging deeply I learned that not only was this an invention of the Enlightenment, but the people beating the drum of that war were standing on the shoulders of the giants of faith who used their reason to discover the wonders of the natural world while still having full faith in God. There was no conflict between faith and reason. The fundamentalists and atheists may have had some odd war over those two things, but Catholics did not.
The wisdom of the Saints was kept like dry goods in storage. But the great thing about it is that just when all the bad movies and boring bestsellers had lost their flair, I stumbled onto St. Augustine, St. Ignatius of Antioch, St. John Damascene and realized that there is absolute dynamite in the word of God and the history of the church. I remember reading The Imitation of Christ on an airplane and thinking, “I should hide the cover or these people will think I’m a crazy Christian.” That was an odd thought. In fact, I now know who put that thought in my head. I had never once thought that I should “hide the cover” when I was reading Ovid or Virgil on a plane. I never thought that when reading Richard Dawkins or Christopher Hitchens.
And so it occurred to me that the real rebel today is the one who reads The Imitation of Christ. The only books I was embarrassed to be seen with were the ones that felt like they inverted the whole world that I had come to accept. And the fact that invasive thoughts were suggesting that I stop reading it or hide it hinted to me that the nature of thoughts may not be purely material things. After all, thoughts are only in the intellect, and angels are pure intellect - as are demons.
Oddly enough, this open reading of books written by early Christians felt like an act of revolt against the world. As a child of the 1980s and 1990s, I tend to like a revolt now and then, but this was the first revolt against the world instead of God. Now I was repenting, turning back. I think when we 90s kids were drinking like fish and head-banging, we were only doing so because we had never seen beauty or truth, never heard it, never understood it, never encountered it. We were raised with ugly buildings, ugly art, and ugly ideology. Given the choice today between listening to Metallica’s “Master of Puppets” or “Jesu, Salvator Mundi” from the Benedictines of Mary, Queen of Apostles - ten out of ten times, I choose the nuns. (Sorry, Hetfield, you’ve been replaced. Those women need no distortion pedal or even guitars to outdo you. Thanks for all the metal, but I’m all good now.)
Punk is done, rock is dulled: beauty, truth, and goodness is new again. Why? Because God makes all things new. Many of us who grew up in the late 20th century and early 21st century have never seen or heard such things. Irreverent Masses and the pop music hymns are all we were shown. We are so accustomed to ugliness that we don’t even know it until we start digging in the past to see what “The Enlightenment” tried to bury. There is much more out there than the material world. There is new life in Christ. Life is not just biological or psychological, it is spiritual, it is Sacramental.
“Something shook out of me”
After I started seeking God, which came in incremental steps, there were two days when the world of ghosts and spirits became real to me in ways that I cannot account for.
The first was an out-of-body experience I had in a doctor’s office, when I was being told something and could no longer hear the doctor. For a brief period, I felt as if floating in the room, or absent from my body. This may have lasted only ten seconds, but in those ten seconds, I caught a glimpse of a reality outside of the body. Nothing dramatic happened, I just felt a separation from my body and recognized that the soul can live outside of the flesh. This made apparent the need for change, for the animating, the soul, seemed to be separating for the sole purpose of telling me, “Here I am. This is the self you thought was you. This is your soul, and your body is down there. You need to acknowledge me.”
This startling experience rocked various assumptions I had about the material world. Already I had known that through prayer, somehow, someway, I could resist temptations like alcohol that otherwise drove me to madness, that I could never stop on my own.
But the second experience showed me that the concept of possession is real. Again, I am at a loss for an explanation for this, but the day this happened is the day that I began to read the Bible and see it completely differently.
I was at home. Because I had been learning about God and catching up on reading the books I had never been exposed to, I took a moment to watch a show about Catholicism, called Symbolon. Now, Edward Sri is not a speaker or teacher that I am drawn to, but it is he who changed my life by merely speaking words - not even to me, but in a recording - and what he said caused something to leave my body.
Again, this is too strange for words, and whatever I make of it here, will fail to tell the ghostly nature of what occurred. I’ve written about this before but didn’t mention the “shaking out” that happened with it. Something left my body, or my soul, or both.
It was a word that changed me. Some say that books don’t change people; paragraphs do. But for me, it was a single word that opened up the scripture. The word “literarily.” Edward Sri said there is a difference between reading the Bible “literally” and “literarily.” The literal was important, but the spiritual reading I had been ignoring. Reading the Word of God was more than a literal or literary exercise, but somehow the word literary awakened me to understanding that there was a literal and a spiritual way to read. Better still, within the spiritual sense were the moral, allegorical, and the Big Picture (of how it related to Jesus) senses.
This was a moment of St. Anselm’s “faith seeking understanding,” as the literal and spiritual senses of scripture suddenly flowered. I realized reading the Bible was not an academic exercise, it was a living encounter with the Word of God.
It made all the difference in the world to me. When I heard that, something made my ears perk up. Edward Sri had only said this:
The Catholic approach to Scripture is different from the fundamentalist view, which reads Scripture in a literalistic way. To discern the truth God put in Scripture, we must interpret the Bible literarily, remembering that God speaks to us in a human way, through the human writers of Scripture. That means that we examine the context and intent of the author for any given passage.
-From Symbolon (session 3)
This marked the death of fundamentalism, from both sides. The pure materialist science perspective was gone. Any creeping “faith alone” or fundamentalist Protestant reading was gone, too.
The four senses of scripture roared from the book. I guess it like how LSD users describe their imaginary worlds coming to life when the hallucinations begin. But I wasn’t using LSD. This was a stone sober revelation. This was an encounter. This was the Holy Spirit. I had rejected it for so long, the unforgivable sin, and somehow I now let it in. Or rather, I didn’t do anything - God did something.
How do I know that this moment in time changed something in me? Because I felt it. And because I’ve seen it happen to others.
In AA meetings you will often hear someone say, “I felt something lifted off of me.” Whenever I hear this, I know that God is working miracles in this world just as he was when Jesus walked the earth, or when Moses heard God thunder on the mountain, or when a dazed Abraham made his covenant with God. There is another saying in AA, and it is, “Don’t stop coming until the miracle happens.” Newbies don’t know what that means and often find it confusing, if not irritating. But something happens and it cannot be explained in purely rational terms.
Something happened.
Something strange. Something wonderful.
Years ago, when I knew the time to drink was nearing, I always felt a tingle in my forearms. It was like a creepy, crawly feeling - like a temptation or urge or compulsion. There was a sense of a force approaching that could not be satisfied. On that day when something happened, I had been sober for four years at this point, so the writhing feeling rarely ever happened. I was past that. But I was still white-knuckling life on many days. Some days I still live that way.
But when I heard the words about how to read the Bible, my hands shook. It was not like an excess caffeine shake, nor was it like a nervous shaking, nor was it like a hunger shake, nor was it like the natural tremor that I have in my hands. Something shook out of my hands, something invisible.
This was a violent shake. The shaking lasted perhaps one second. But when it happened, I said, “Yes, that’s it.” And I knew. I knew then and there that the reason I had been unable to read the Bible was because I had blinders on from Protestant fundamentalists and atheist scientists who had presented a false dichotomy. There was no war between faith and reason. There was another invisible realm beyond nature vs. nurture. There was a way to read Genesis that made sense. There was a way to know Christ as the eternally begotten Son of God, fully human and fully divine. The world and scripture opened up, spiritual and physical.
When it shook out of me I knew what the demoniacs had felt in the Gospels, what Mary Magdalene had felt. Further, I knew what Jesus meant when he said that we must ask, seek, and knock and God will answer, because even though I didn’t know what was drawing me, I was no longer seeking myself, I was seeking God.
This was a casting out. The shaking that occurred that day altered the course of my life. Many little walls had to come down before that, but that day did something that no book or life experience could ever do. Were it not for the shaking out of something from my forearms and hands, no senses would have caught the departure of this presence that had been over me. Suddenly I could say, “Something was lifted off of me,” but for me it was, “Something shook out of me.”
And it was that day that I knew: I no longer needed anti-depressants. I needed prayer, fellowship, scripture, and the Sacraments. I needed God, in the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. I still needed “me” because I knew that I was made for God, and my heart had been restless until it rested in Him. But I also knew that I needed Reconciliation and the Eucharist far more than Lexapro or Wellbutrin. I knew that every misguided search and difficulty had been leading me to that moment. And after that, the moments kept coming where I saw more clearly, such as when I first attended a High Mass in Latin, where I saw how powerful liturgy could be, or when I continued to meet people of faith, or when I kneeled to pray, or read spiritual books, or volunteered for things that I didn’t necessarily like to do.
A few weeks after that day when “something shook out of me,” I dumped the last of the pills down the toilet. Whatever had shaken out of me seemed to stir the Holy Spirit in me. I felt as if the Baptismal and Confirmation graces were set free. Whatever had been “over me” had departed, and I knew it. And I knew how to keep it that way, through the name of Christ, through prayer and obedience, submission to God. Not through effort, but by surrender. The old “surrender to win” attitude worked. The cure had been to unlearn all that I had ever learned, because once I stopped believing in myself, I believed in God. I knew that the devil was real, and he certainly believed in himself. I knew that sin was real and it was some relative wishy-washy opinion.
No longer was I on top. I was in the lowest place, because I knew that spiritually I had long been a sitting duck when I thought I knew more that spirits of pure intellect. No longer did my ideas come first, but I submitted to the teachings of the Church. These rules were not for oppressing but for freedom, the right kind of freedom. Most of all, I knew Who was greater than both the devil and myself. In a great mystery, our trials and tribulations are permitted, because they allow growth to happen. But there is no growth without struggle, and action and humility must be settled into a union. Scripture is alive. God is alive. He is risen. These are all mysteries to embrace. “Surrender to win” must be the way, as the Lord showed us. In the strangest story of all, God became man, was crucified, died, and rose again. At long last, I am alive and no longer looking for the answer in myself, because I no longer believe in myself. I believe in God.
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