Acedia

"From Late Latin, from Greek akedia, indifference. a (absence) + kedos (care)." -American Heritage Dictionary

The members of my ministers’ study group which meets twice a year in Rhode Island have a standing joke. Each time we gather, as we discuss possible topics for our forthcoming meetings, someone invariably suggests the topic of "depression."

Not that depression is a joke. Indeed, various members of our group have, from time to time, suffered from deep depressions. Some are open about the fact that they take medication to control their depression, and some that they have sought or are seeking counseling for it, and some that they have done, or are doing, both. All of us in the group have experienced some degree or other of depression and of its often debilitating effects.

The problem is that as pervasive as depression is, it is, well, a depressing subject for most of us. (I suspect that it may be for you, as well.) We just can’t bring ourselves to spend an entire meeting on it. We attend our study group and we partake of its collegiality and conviviality and camaraderie in part to escape from the causes and effects of our depressions. Even when perhaps we should, we’d rather not talk about it.

The fact is, in the company of others who do the same kind of work, who share the same experiences, the same or similar burdens, and the same or similar successes and failures, we find some relief from the effects of what, in medieval times, was known as "sloth." Sloth, you may not need to be reminded, is one of the so-called "seven deadly sins."

Now that I know its derivation, I can honestly say that I, too, am sometimes guilty of the "sin" of sloth. I really had no idea that it meant what it meant. Sloth seemed somehow--how should I put it?-- "slothful."

I had not come across the term "acedia" until I read Kathleen Norris’s book The Cloister Walk, which contains the chapter on the subject from which I read this morning.

Acedia is sometimes defined as "spiritual torpor and apathy," sometimes as "ennui": boredom or indifference, and sometimes even as "stupor." I know this feeling! We might call it, simply, "feeling blue." But it’s depression by any other name.

Acedia, which is an old monastic term, "is generally regarded as affecting particularly monks and hermits, who are more liable to it than other persons owing to the outward monotony of their life [The Oxford History of the Christian Church]." But, clearly, one does not have to be a monk or a hermit to suffer from acedia.

But why was it considered "sinful"? According to novelist Evelyn Waugh in The Seven Deadly Sins, "The malice of sloth [or acedia] lies not merely in the neglect of duty (though that can be a symptom of it) but in the refusal of joy. It is allied to despair."

With knowledge comes understanding. I like to think we are more enlightened these days. Though there unquestionably is still a stigma attached to depression, it is slowly being replaced by an understanding of its several causes. It need no longer be the deep, dark secret it once was.

"Sin," of course, has all kinds of awful connotations, which I needn’t go into here, except to remind you that it originally meant only "to miss the mark." Sloth--or acedia--was considered a missing of the mark, but mainly, according to Waugh, because it was a "refusal of joy" and for that reason "allied to despair."

Despair--particularly when it results in suicide--was once viewed as "the unforgivable sin," I suppose because only God was allowed to have power over life and death, and to take one’s own life was to usurp that power. Never mind all the justifications for taking other people’s lives that the church has come up with and perpetuated over the centuries. Suffice it to say that even the Catholic Church takes a more enlightened view about suicide these days, a more understanding and compassionate view, which takes into account all that we have learned about the psychological as well as the organic causes of depression.

Please don’t mistake my lightness in treating the subject of depression for a lack of seriousness or concern. I know first hand how destructive it can be. One of the roles that a minister often plays is helping people to find the help they need for the various things that ail them, including depression. So I hope that if I can ever be helpful to you, you will seek me out.

The great problem with acedia, of course, is not that it is "sinful" in some guilty, some, well, "sinful" sense, but rather that it interferes with our ability to function normally and to enjoy life. It affects our ability to be productive human beings. Kathleen Norris captures this reality perfectly, calling it "death-in life . . . when my capacity for joy shrivels up and, like drought-stricken grass, I die down to the roots to wait it out." She continues describing an experience that I suspect many of us have had:

The simplest acts demand a herculean effort, the pleasure I normally take in people and the world itself is lost to me. I can be with people I love, and know that I love them, but feel nothing at all. I am observing my life more than living it.

The 4th century monk Evagrius Ponticus, who coined the term "noonday demon" to describe acedia, wrote of "the depressing thought that suddenly ‘depicts life stretching out for a long period of time, and brings before the mind’s eye the toil of the ascetic struggle, and . . . leaves no leaf unturned to induce the monk to forsake his cell and drop out of the fight.’" [quoted by Norris]. One thinks a bit of T. S. Eliot’s "J. Alfred Prufrock," "[measuring] out [his] life with coffee spoons."

How many of you have been tempted to "drop out of the fight," even of the good fight? I know that I have, and often.

How can life, which is at times so exciting, so engaging, so beautiful, and so full of joy, suddenly seem so utterly devoid of meaning, so completely boring and apparently worthless? As Norris suggests, even the knowledge that we love and are loved doesn’t help at all. With all our knowledge of its causes and effects, the mystery of depression remains, as does the ailment. Perhaps it is an inescapable part of everyone’s life.

Monks who were suffering the effect of acedia were urged to engage in "assiduous prayer," as well as in singing psalms and scripture reading, as the best remedies for it. At least part of the cure for it was to be found in worshipping in the company of one’s fellow monks.

I am grateful, every time I remember to be, that I am in a line of work that forces me to get outside of myself on a regular basis, at least one day a week, as Sabrina likes to remind me, to be with other people, even when I do not necessarily feel like it, and to write out my thoughts on a regular basis, which is a kind of "talking cure," I think, and if not to pray assidously, then at least to read and evaluate, and to gather with others to sing and worship together.

I honestly fear to consider what my life would be like if I was not in some sense "required" by my work to do these things, because, also in all honesty, they don’t come naturally to me. Whether serendipitously or intentionally, I am blessed by being here with all of you. It really does help to know that I am not alone, when acedia comes calling, as it inevitably does, and will.

Yes, I know about the refusal of joy. I am sometimes guilty of it. And that is why I try to remind myself to be grateful for everything I am and everything I have every time I think of it, and even sometimes when I don’t feel like it. The poet Anne Sexton wrote, to remind herself, I think,

There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry "hello there, Anne"
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.

All this is God,
right here in my pea green house
each morning
and I mean,
though I often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down my the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.

So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.

The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.

But back to my study group. We have yet to tackle the topic of depression. But this spring when we meet again I am going to suggest the topic of acedia. Or maybe even sloth. It’s about time, after all, or even past time.

Or maybe I’ll suggest the topic of joy, and the importance of sharing it, and of giving thanks for whatever we have known of it.

As always, it is good, and good for me, to be together with all of you. Remember that you are always welcome here, no matter where you happen to be on the continuum between joy and sadness. You are not alone.

Amen.

The Rev. Harold E. Babcock