On Despondency

In my last blog post, I made mention to something that is ubiquitous in our fight as Christians; despondency. I characterized it (and I believe rightfully so) as the enemy’s chief weapon, and the very thing that he seeks to destroy us with. To be certain, there are an unlimited number of ways in which the Devil causes us to fall: lust, greed, avarice, rage, and envy, just to name a few. The list goes on and on. Indeed, there are as many ways to fall as there are people who have fallen or will fall! Insofar as the mechanism is different, the sinfulness of each one is unique. Where we are all united in experience is the condition which often follows; despondency. This state is characterized by many things: guilt, shame, torpor, hopelessness, despair, self-hatred, and the like. The sin is inward focused and self-gratifying, while the resulting condition is inward focused and self-deprecating. But it is a mistake to attribute the first to the devil, and the latter to ourselves (or worse yet, to God). To label our experience thus is a very dangerous thing indeed. The model for this bifurcation is predicated by our society’s insistence that all thoughts which exist inside of our heads belong to us. Elder Paisios of Mount Athos gives wise counsel on this matter:

“Thoughts are like airplanes flying in the air. If you ignore them, there is no problem. If you pay attention to them, you create an airport inside your head and permit them to land!”

In this image we clearly see that these thoughts are not our own, but come from somewhere else, and, as is our choice, we can either ignore them or invite them to stay. You may ask, “But how do we know that this is true?” Looking at the identical character of the sin and its accompanying state of despondency (that they are both fundamentally self-destructive), and judging them appropriately, we can see that both must either come from within, or without. If from without, we see the source for what it truly is, and act accordingly. If from within, we must concede that we have been created to sin, and that necessitates a temptation that is “baked into the cake” so to speak. C.S. Lewis has prescient words regarding this phenomenon:

“Let no man say “when I am tempted, I am tempted by God” [James 1.13]. Many schools of thought encourage us to shift the responsibility for our behaviour from our own shoulders to some inherent necessity in the nature of human life, and thus, indirectly, to the Creator.”

— C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain.

Here, Lewis gives a nod of his head toward our own culpability in the original sinful act, a culpability that the Church wholeheartedly accepts and agrees upon. But he hints at a greater problem; that of a shifting responsibility, moving upward (to the Creator) rather than laterally (to the external).

This upward shift is the root of despondency. All of the other rampant iterations of these negative outcomes mentioned (guilt, shame, torpor, hopelessness, despair, self-hatred, etc.) are but outgrowths of this one sin. And yes, it is a sin. Amma Syncletica, one of the desert mothers, knew well the power of despondency, or what the elder monastics called accidie:

“There is a grief that is useful, and there is grief that is destructive. The first sort consists in weeping over one’s own faults and weeping over the weakness of one’s neighbours, in order not to destroy one’s purpose, and attach oneself to the perfect good. But there is also a grief that comes from the enemy, full of mockery, which some call accidie. This spirit must be cast out, mainly by prayer and psalmody.”

(The Sayings of the Desert Fathers)”

Feeling guilt and shame about one’s deeds can be a good and appropriate medicine, if they are applied properly and for a time. But that darkness which interferes with the good life (that is prayer, the sacraments, love of neighbour) is evil and to be shunned. Ultimately, our self-destructive darkness becomes hatred of ourselves, of others, and even of God Himself. As Amma Syncletica tells us, it is a purposeless grief.

Amma Theodora also relays a story of a monk who, every time he arose for prayer, was overcome by the spirit of accidie, to the point where he was completely unable to pray. As a priest, I have often heard the confessions of those who are the hopeless captives of certain sins, the shame of which prevents them from returning to Christ in prayer. Even in some cases, they stay away from confession and the eucharist; not because of a rightly ordered acceptance of their guilt, or by the command of their father confessor, but due to that spirit of despondency which freezes them in their tracks. They are not capable of movement or repentance, because they have submitted to the one who hurls arrows at us insidiously. It is this submission to despondency that we must guard ourselves against most zealously.

“No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.”

(Ode On Melancholy, stanza 1, John Keats)

Keats paints a beautiful picture of one who, through the melancholy of life, descends to the point of despondency. He begs this one not to resort to giving themselves over to death by any means. The “wakeful anguish of the soul” is that beautiful, bright sorrow that leads to repentence. But despondency comes and drowns that possibility by capitalizing on our desires.

Why, then, is the experience of despondency so universal? What makes the soul so responsive to its allure? Sin is always attractive, because it is the warping of that which is beautiful and good. It has its root in the virtuous, but its fruit is death-dealing. Keats again gives a vivid picture of our propensity to couple with it:

“She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.”

(Ode On Melancholy, stanza 3, John Keats)

All-too-familiar is the aching pleasure which turns to poison on our lips, and the beauty of form which draws us in from the very start. But far more nefarious still is the descent into the shrine of melancholy, the acquiescence of the soul to the power of him who stands in opposition to all good. Notice also that those who experience the joy and beauty of the Kingdom are more susceptible to this. From a great height comes the possibility of a great fall. In our grief, we are consumed by the thought that God has abandoned us, and in that, we are made truly alone. As C.S. Lewis again says:

“…all sadness which is not either arising from the repentance of a concrete sin and hastening towards concrete amendment or restitution, or else arising from pity and hastening to active assistance, is simply bad; and I think we all sin by needlessly disobeying the apostolic injunction to ‘rejoice’ as much as by anything else.”

— C.S. Lewis, ibid

It is not sin to grieve; but as St. Paul says we are not to mourn as those who have no hope (1 Thes. 4.13). Therefore, our grief becomes a softening of the heart, a turning, a gentle movement, and a genuine repentance.

This leaves us with that wakeful anguish of the soul, the sting of sin, whether it be the immediate consequences of our own actions, or a more cosmic experience of falleness, such as illness or the death of another. It harkens back to our past discussions on suffering. Is this sting not suffering too? We do well to remember Who it is that we serve, and to Whom we give our sorrow and cares to. We must confront our sin boldly, but then just as boldly, we must move through our grief and on into the love of Christ. Please note, dear reader, that we are to move through grief, that is, to experience it; nothing is to be gained in sidestepping things altogether. It is this love which is the antidote to the poisonous sting of despondency and the averting of every seductive wile of this fallen world. In it, we find the remedy of that hatred which blooms from the part of us that is subject to, and immersed in the continual soul-destroying vanity of the passions and their attendant misery. And in encountering and embracing this love, the love of Christ, we are able truly to love God, love our fellow man, and love ourselves appropriately.

“Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, and infant fear?
No, no! Never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,
Hear the woes that infants bear—

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear?

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O no! Never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all:
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O He gives to us His joy,
That our grief He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

(On Another’s Sorrow, William Blake)