Ah, I thought, wait, I know this one...

There's a Beatles song about this, and it goes "I'm down / I'm really down". This is the blue funk. To quote the great concert words of the Seventy Sevens, "Ah, you know what I'm talkin' about. Not matter what you call it, the paints, the reds.. no matter what you call it, it all comes back to those good, old-fashioned, country blues, I know." (from "You Don't Scare Me," 88).

Less pleasantly, it's that very very special time in every theologian's life, some more often than others, when the question is the deafening loud whisper: Why do I hew so closely to the truth, when nobody really cares? Why work? Why bust ass? Heck, why lift a finger, when no one is going to even wonder, let alone ask. Look at the fsckin' "religion" section at the bloody peasant bookstores. Even the boutique hoighty-toighty bourgoisie "book"stores hack the truth to fit in Paxil-, Zoloft-, or Prozac-matching capsules, according to one's color-coordinating preferences. The only possible critique of SK, PA, is simply that to attribute reflection to my fellow "human" beings is to give them far too much credit...

And now you see it. Hear it. It's seeping under the door now: despair. Yeah, baby. My old pal. But I know how to win this one. Named, I know to call on Hope, to pull me out of the mire.

Doesn't mean there's not a lot of mire by now, but I know this blue funk lethargy, and I know to arm myself in God to win.

Still, doesn't mean the Aunt Bettys don't sing my song...

"Jesus"

Jesus, won't you help me find my way
Won't you send me some money in the mail
Jesus, won't you let me drink one more
It helps me to ignore how much I have failed

I'm gettin' sick
gettin' ill
gettin' tired
gettin' fired
I'm gettin' killed
I'm gettin' chilled
I'm gettin' crazy
I'm gettin' lazy
I'm gettin' screwed
I'm gettin' used
I'm gettin' kicked
I'm gettin' tricked
I'm gettin' out
gettin' out
gettin' out
gettin' out