Am I depressed? Or do I just need a snack?

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Am I depressed? Or do I just need to go to bed?

Am I depressed? Or am I just overstimulated?

Am I depressed? Or do I just need to hydrate?

Am I depressed? Or do I just need different friends?

Am I depressed? Or do I just need to move my body?

Am I depressed? Or do I just need to get off my phone?

Am I depressed? Or do I just need a snack?

We live in an age that pathologizes nearly everything. The language of therapy and diagnosis has trickled so deeply into our everyday speech that many of us describe ordinary fatigue, loneliness, or distraction as though they were permanent conditions of the soul. Online spaces only intensify this, with endless streams of self-assessment tools, quick videos diagnosing our quirks, and voices insisting that a label explains the whole of who we are.

Of course, depression and anxiety are real and serious conditions. But sometimes what we’re experiencing is the ordinary wear and tear of being human: bodies that need rest, minds that need stillness, spirits that need purpose. The danger of rushing to diagnose every ache as pathology is that we miss the possibility that God has already given us rhythms and remedies embedded in creation itself, like sleep, nourishment, community, meaningful work, and worship.

The ancient world did not have our vocabulary of mental health, but it did have a deep awareness of human frailty and divine care. That is why the story of Elijah resonates so powerfully across centuries: it names our exhaustion without medicalizing it, and it reveals God as a caretaker of body and spirit alike.

In the book of 1 Kings, the famous prophet, Elijah, confronts the prophets of Baal led by Queen Jezebel, and her husband, King Ahab. The story is quite comical and if you want to read the account in its entirety, you can find it in 1 Kings 18. 

The backdrop of the story is one of a fundamental need: rain for crops. We read about how the land is in the middle of a drought, and the need for rain has reached desperate proportions. 

Elijah calls for the prophets of Baal, 450 men total, to bring two bulls allowing the false prophets to select their preferred sacrifice first. He tells the prophets to cut it to pieces and lay it on the wood of their altar, explicitly telling them not to set fire to it.

He then announces that he will prepare the other bull and lay it on the wood of another altar, but will not set fire to it either. He then instructs the prophets to call on the name of their god, and that he would call in the name of the Lord. And the god who answers by setting fire to the wood is the true God. Everyone standing around agrees to the terms and the prophets of Baal begin the ritual.

The wood was prepared. The bull was placed on the altar, and they began to call on the name of Baal from morning until noontime, shouting, “O Baal, answer us!” But there was no reply of any kind. Then they danced, hobbling around the altar they had made. 

If you are unfamiliar with the Bible, this is when the narrative takes an unexpected but truly hilarious turn.

Elijah begins to taunt the prophets of Baal, saying, “You’ll have to shout louder, for surely he is a god! Perhaps he’s daydreaming, or relieving himself. Or maybe he’s away on a trip, or is asleep and needs to be awakened!”

The subtext is telling us what is meant to be obvious: a real god would not be limited in such ways.

So they take the bait and begin to shout louder. Following their normal customs, they cut themselves with knives and swords until blood gushes out of them. They rave all afternoon until the time of the evening sacrifice, but still. Not a sound, not a reply, not one response. No one answered, no one paid attention.

What happens next is a big flex on Elijah‘s part. He prepares his altar by taking twelve stones, one to represent each of the tribes of Israel, and he uses the stones to rebuild the altar in the name of the Lord that had been torn down.

But the next part is rather puzzling: Elijah digs a huge trench around the altar and asks the people to fill it with water. He then walks up to the altar and prays, “O Lord, God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, prove that you are God in Israel and that I am your servant. Prove that I’ve done all this at your command. O Lord, answer me! Answer me so that these people will know that you, O Lord, are God, and that you have brought them back to yourself.”

Well, immediately the fire of the Lord flashed down from heaven, and burned up the young bull, the wood, the stones, and the dust. It even licked up all the water in the trench. The people then fell faced down to the ground and cried out, “the Lord—he is God! Yes, the Lord is God!”

Ok, isn’t that something? A truly amazing story of faith and God’s faithfulness. When we face adversity and step out in faith, God proves himself faithful. 

 Amazing.

But it’s what follows in the story that resonates with me the most. And perhaps you’ll agree. King Ahab witnessed this spectacular display and reported it to his wife, Queen Jezebel. She then sent a death threat to Elijah, who had subsequently run away. When he received this death threat, all the boldness and courage he possessed on Mount Carmel was completely snuffed out of him.

He sat under a tree and prayed that he would die. “I’ve had enough, Lord,” he said. “Take my life, for I am no better than my ancestors who have already died.”

It is striking how quickly triumph can turn to despair. Mount Carmel was Elijah’s pinnacle moment: a spectacular confrontation, a vindication of faith, and an undeniable demonstration of God’s power. You’d be right to think such a victory would fortify him for years. Instead, the high was followed almost immediately by collapse.

That pattern is not unique to Elijah. How many of us have felt the same disorientation? The athlete who trains for years to stand on a podium, only to sink into depression once the medals are hung. The author who finally publishes a long-awaited book, then struggles to get out of bed the next morning. The teacher whose entire class ace a big test, but unravels over one student who won’t bother handing in an assignment.

Moments of triumph can expose just how fragile we are, because adrenaline cannot sustain a soul. The sharp contrast between Elijah’s fire-calling boldness and his wilderness despair can act as a mirror held up to the human condition: we can be resolute one hour and undone the next.

Perhaps that’s part of the message here:

A reminder to us that our faith is not measured by emotional consistency, but by a God who remains steady when we do not.

The narrative continues. While Elijah was sleeping, an angel touched him and told him, “Get up and eat!” So he got up and beside his head were some bread baking on hot stones and a jar of water. So he ate and drank… and then?

Not a battle or a miracle or another epic confrontation, or demonstration of God’s power. Elijah simply laid back down for another nap.

A little while later, the angel woke him again and told him to eat some more because the journey ahead would be too difficult for him. So he did. He got up and ate and drank, and the food gave him enough strength to travel to Mount Sinai, the mountain of God, where the Lord was leading him. Once he arrived, he went into a cave and… I promise I’m not making this up: Elijah took another nap.

Sometimes we surprise ourselves. We muster courage, we step out boldly. We do something out of our comfort zone and it’s incredible. Other times, a small thing like a harsh word can completely derail us. We are living in a time when therapeutic language has permeated so many basic areas of our lives. So many of us easily take on labels like “depression" or “anxiety” and allow them to define us and what we are capable of.

Elijah was the same person whether he was confronting 450 false prophets of Baal or in the face of a lone messenger passing along some hateful words. It turns out Elijah just needed a snack and a nap. He wasn’t depressed. His life wasn’t over. He just needed a minute. Maybe you do, too?

See the detail is almost humorous in its simplicity and I don’t want us to miss it: Elijah, the mighty prophet, is undone not by an army, but by hunger and fatigue.

God does not then respond with a lecture, nor with a vision, nor even with immediate reassurance. Instead, he provides a hot meal and insists on rest. This is not trivial. It is a profound statement about what it means to be human. In our disembodied age, where we imagine we can transcend bodily limits through caffeine, productivity hacks, or sheer willpower, Elijah’s story is a wake-up call.

God ministers first to Elijah’s body before addressing his despair. Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is eat something nourishing, turn off the screen, and sleep. Sabbath was given for precisely this reason: because the Creator knows the created cannot sustain endless output.

And when Elijah awakens, nourished and rested, he is still not instantly “healed.” He takes another nap. Grace is a slow rhythm. Healing isn’t linear; it’s cyclical. Restoration comes in increments, not epiphanies. In that unhurried process, we glimpse a God who not only acknowledges our bodily limitations, but teaches us that spiritual renewal often begins with the profoundly ordinary.

So in the spirit of the profoundly ordinary, I give you a few examples of simple questions I ask myself intended to help me discern what I’m actually experiencing. Try asking these of yourself: 

Am I depressed? Or am I just overthinking?

Am I depressed? Or am I just self-diagnosing?

Am I depressed? Or am I convicted?

Am I depressed? Or am I silencing the voice of God’s Spirit?

Sometimes it’s our bodies that need special care by drinking more water, moving our bodies, and limiting screen time. But sometimes God is trying to speak to us about areas in our lives that are not serving us. Conviction does not feel good, so we silence God’s Spirit speaking to us and default to numbing out instead. 

The next part of Elijah’s story goes like this: 

God tells Elijah to stand before him on the mountain. As Elijah stood there, the Lord passed by, and a mighty windstorm hit the mountain. It was such a terrible blast that the rocks were torn loose, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. And after the earthquake there was a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire there was the sound of a gentle whisper. A still, small voice. 

Friends, let’s not miss this! That quiet moment was enough for Elijah. To get quiet before God long enough to hear him in a gentle whisper, in a still small voice.

The whisper was God’s reminder that he is not always found in the dramatic displays of power or the emotional highs of victory. Sometimes he comes to us in quiet, steady, sustaining ways.

How foreign this is to our instincts. We search for God in the dramatic, the visible, the measurable. We long for fireworks, certainty, or the emotional surge of revival.

But the God we encounter in the Scriptures often resists our demand for the sensational. He comes instead in the quiet that strips away distraction, in the stillness that exposes our dependence, in the smallness that humbles our pride. 

We resist silence because it feels like emptiness. Yet it is precisely there, in the absence of noise, that the presence of God becomes most profound. 

The climax of Elijah’s encounter is not another act of spectacle. He didn’t need another showdown, another miracle, or another surge of adrenaline. He needed presence. The assurance that God was with him even when his emotions betrayed him.

I wonder if this isn’t true of us, too. In our cultural moment, we are so accustomed to constant alerts and performative noise, that a quiet moment can feel unnerving. But perhaps that is why it is so necessary.

The still small voice interrupts the myth that bigger, louder, and faster will save us. Instead, it offers something infinitely steadier. Perhaps his invitation is to eat, to rest, to listen, and to remember that he has not left us. The God who remains near, not in sensational performance, but in sustaining presence.

Maybe you are not broken beyond repair. Maybe you’re just tired. Maybe you don’t need a new self-diagnosis, but a renewed awareness of God’s Spirit. Maybe what your soul is hungry for isn’t another scroll, another purchase, or another distraction, but the Bread of Life. The quiet assurance that God still sees you and is still at work.

Elijah thought his story was over, but God was just beginning a new chapter. That’s true for you, too. You are not defined by your “wow” moment or your weakest moment. You are not finished just because you feel weary. Sometimes all it takes is a nap, a snack, and the still small voice of God to remind you that your life has purpose and your journey is not done.

So the next time you find yourself asking, Am I depressed? Or…? Pause long enough to listen for the whisper. God is still speaking. And He may just be closer than you think.

What’s in the Ears

This is the part where I share a song or podcast I’m currently into. This episode of Theology in the Raw by Preston Sprinkle is titled How to Disciple Young Kids in Christian Sexuality. It is the first of a two-series that explores the important work of sex education for families from a Christian perspective. Let me know if you check it out!

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