Sometimes I think creativity and productivity are forces at war. I don’t know how to be both creative and productive. I’m either productive, making lists and spreadsheets and getting things done, or I’m creative, daydreaming and writing, thinking about things that nobody benefits from me pondering (like this advertisement I saw for a service that ‘cleans up’ movies . . . as if the problem with movies these days is the swearing and nudity).

I had an irritating conversation with a friend yesterday. She messaged me with a “Hey how are you” and I stupidly decided to be honest, tell her I’ve been feeling strange. And this friend, someone I’ve known for over ten years, asks the same question that any acquaintance would ask me if I dared to say I’m anything other than good: “Why? What’s going on?”

What’s going on? What’s going on?

You ask how I am, I say “strange”, and you ask what’s going on?

What am I? Some stupid animal, only capable of feeling based on how things are going? Do I not have a rich, internal world of my own, independent of the mundane goings-on of my daily life? Why does something “bad” have to be happening in order for me to not feel well? Am I not allowed to feel bad unless I have some reason?

Ah, but apparently feeling anything less than good without a circumstantial cause is mental illness! Because when I angrily explained that I don’t need a reason, her response was just . . . classic:

“But you know it’s just depression, it’s your brain chemistry. Are you taking meds?”

No, I’m not taking meds just because I’m not blithely meandering through life like one whose mind swirls around things that don’t last longer than a week. No, I’m not going to medicate away my tendency to think that life is “meaningless, a chasing after the wind”. I’m not going to pursue happiness at all costs. All meds do for me is give me a little bump when I can’t seem to get it going myself. And why would I want to live an entire life just “functioning”? I’m sorry but “functioning” is not on my bucket list.

No, I am not taking medicine for my occasional bouts of whatever it is that makes it harder for me to smile, easier for me to feel worthless. I’ve done that, and for me (and please for the love of God don’t think for a second I’m talking about anyone else’s experience but my own here), medicine masks my deep and abiding need for a Savior. I feel fine; why would I cling to a Rescuer? I’m “functioning”; why humble myself before a forgiving God when I don’t need to be forgiven? That sentence right there reveals a lot about what I (erroneously) believe the standard for righteousness is: getting all the things done.

Last night I watched episode three in a series called Gospel Treason, something a wise friend shared with me. Love and I have been watching these together, and we refer to it as the “DJ Preacher” videos. I don’t think I would be seeing the real issues in my heart as clearly as I am if I were taking medication that altered my mood. Because you see, no matter how apparently out-of-the-blue my blues may seem, they do come from somewhere. I don’t believe my feelings come from circumstances (clearly the thought offends me to my core), but I don’t believe they happen in a vacuum.

I can’t talk about exactly what’s going on with me yet in such a public place, but I will say this: recent developments in my life have brought to the surface some ugly idols. I worship competence, self-sufficiency, the ability to get it all done. I serve a harsh and unforgiving god who mocks my failures and sets the bar ever higher with each achievement. If I were taking medicine that made me “feel” good, I’d only serve this god more heartily, convinced that I could earn its love, because I would have the energy to push myself to achieve, achieve, achieve.

The God I want to serve is not like this god. He accepts me as I am, forgives me where I stand, takes me in and dresses me in His righteousness. The bar was set from the beginning and never changes, and only Christ has ever or will ever meet the standard. My worth is entirely independent of my achievements; my identity rests in this fact: Christ, the Holy One, for the joy set before Him endured the cross — the joy of communion with me. Unthinkable! Even while I was rebelling against Him, chasing after other gods, jumping into bed with them, no thought of His love for me — even then He chose to endure the cross, the pay the price for my harlotry. And He did it, not out of obligation or duty, but for joy.

This is what I need: to live in this truth, to make my home in it and let it makes its home in me.

And if creativity means more thinking like this, then let productivity die a natural death. The things that must get done will get done, in due time. First Christ, the rest follows.