Hoping for Embodied Grace
It only took one brain cell to tap the letter “i” on my keyboard to begin this essay. This cell—a neuron—is nestled just above my left ear in the outermost millimeters of my brain. Under a microscope, it looks like a pyramid with flowering branches growing in all directions. It sends out a fine cable from its base which courses through the globe of my brain, down my brainstem, and into my spinal cord. Near the base of my neck, this little fiber releases a chemical signal onto another neuron, triggering an electrical impulse which wires its way through my right arm until it instructs a muscle in my forearm to contract, bending my finger and depressing the letter “i.”
This is, of course, a bit of an oversimplification. A small symphony of similarly situated neurons is required to stimulate muscle fibers in a way that produces useful work. Their function has been entrained by other brain systems so that my seemingly simple action of pressing a key occurs without a second thought. But this tidbit of neuroscience is something all of us can appreciate. We “get” electricity on a practical level, and a severed nerve seems no different than an unplugged appliance. And just like a circuit breaker kills power to an outlet, we can all imagine how brain changes from cerebral palsy or stroke can ultimately restrict muscle movement.
Although I can describe some basic brain mechanics, many of the more complex functions of the brain are well beyond the grasp of our current scientific models. For example, we know that brain lesions disrupt language and memory, which has helped us identify structures associated with these experiences. But no one can yet explain exactly how the brain produces and stores language and memory. With all the advances we’ve seen in modern neuroscience, we still experience our brains far more than we understand them.
Our brains are also rich in theological complexity. We believe that God Himself chose to experience a mortal, human brain. In our focus on Jesus’ moral perfection, we often neglect the ways his incarnation was influenced by the same physical laws we experience. Our tradition suggests that his brain required development before he could crawl, babble, or express his thoughts. Did Mary laugh when he took his first stumbling steps? Did Joseph—like our fathers—become frustrated at his initial inability to effectively use tools? How did an adolescent Jesus with an underdeveloped frontal lobe act? How did he learn to tolerate fatigue, lack of sleep, and hunger? Like us, his brain processed signals from glutamate, dopamine, and serotonin. He walked the Levant using motor programs encoded in His spinal cord. He could heal without speaking a word, but he chose to use the coordinated electrochemical activity of His body to spread clay on the eyes of a man born blind. When he was whipped, his flesh tore open and pain signals flooded His back. When he was crucified, the nails severed muscles, tendons, neurons, and bones that had performed miracles. When he surrendered his life to God, his dead body had no measurable brain activity. Then, in his greatest miracle of physicality, Christ changed a mortal, fallen body into an immortal, perfected body, continuing his Godhood as an embodied being.
Restoration theology does not see the brain as mortal baggage; it is our heritage as children of God. Our souls are not incorporeal, everlasting spirit, but “the spirit and body are the soul of man” (Doctrine & Covenants 88:15). But what does it really mean to have both a spirit and a body? On my more mindful days, I notice my senses. I feel embodied. I experience direct agency over some of my actions. While I clearly don’t understand everything, I have learned enough human physiology to generally appreciate the way my body works. Many clearly physical ailments make sense, and I have hope that they will be repaired in the resurrection. And yet despite all of my study and experience, I still have no idea where my spirit starts and my body ends. My spirit isn’t just my mind, as my consciousness is moderated by brain function. And it may just be an illusion, but I feel like more than just a collection of elements that experiences reality of its own accord. Human biology has taught us so much, and yet we still don’t have a testable model of consciousness to guide our understanding.
In my work as a psychiatrist, embodied consciousness is not just an intellectual curiosity. When I treat people experiencing psychosis or mania, I cannot dismiss the role the brain plays in their symptoms. People experiencing severe psychosis are disconnected from reality. Typical processes governing reason, behavior, emotion, and values are impaired. People experiencing mania often engage in dangerous, out-of-character behaviors. Mania tends to resolve with treatment, but lifelong consequences may follow even a few days of elevated mood.
Less apparent mental illnesses also alter our perception of reality. People with depression are often plagued by inaccurate or unhelpful negative thoughts. People with anxiety disorders experience seemingly safe situations with worry, fear, and panic. Even people who are otherwise mentally well witness changes in their judgment when they are hungry, tired, or lonely.
Our brains are not static vessels to experience the world; they adapt themselves to challenges. These adaptations can be profoundly helpful. We learn to solve complex problems, complete challenging work, and navigate elaborate social dynamics. Few of us would willingly give up the hard-won skills we’ve developed. However, the evolutionary processes that produced our brains didn’t favor joy over survival, so many of the adaptations our brains cultivate can be profoundly painful. For example, we know that children who experience abuse or neglect are at much higher risk of physical and mental health problems than their peers. In many cases, these brain changes can be mitigated through treatment, but so many people suffer because their brains kept them alive through unimaginable circumstances.
Despite knowing these truths, my experience with humanity makes me doubt the reality of modern neuroscience findings. Numerous studies demonstrate profound brain changes in people with drug and alcohol addiction, but I can’t escape the fantasy that addiction is primarily a problem of agency. In so many ways, abstinent people with addiction seem no different than anyone else. But when a drug-related cue presents itself, a nearly irresistible urge to use arises and changes everything. It is thankfully true that people can always work harder, build stronger sober connections, learn new skills, and surrender their wills more thoroughly. But even if it were easy to do this, they still have to accomplish these goals using the same flawed brain that keeps leading them back to substance use.
And what about my own behaviors? How many of the poor choices I have made are due to nature, nurture, or naiveté? Everything I experience and do is filtered through a mortal brain. Through meditation, I’ve learned like so many others that most of my thoughts flow into my consciousness automatically, and I can’t turn off the tap. My emotions are sometimes grounded in the present, but I often find myself riding a wave of unpleasant, unexplainable feelings. Sometimes I deliberately choose to be petty, mean, or indulgent, but I’m much more likely to behave badly out of habit.
By attempting to draw lines between brain and spirit, I am falsely separating my soul. I alternate between working on my spirit or my body on my good days and ignore both on others. I blame my sins on carnality while repressing the deep part of me that finds satisfaction in doing wrong. I beat myself up for my shortcomings while also dismissing my failings as only human.
Christ asks me to be whole. He sees all of me, not a spirit or a body. His grace accounts for all woundedness. He transcends my tendency towards dualism. His atonement is not meant to simply mitigate my imperfect brain; it is an enabling power that can remake all of my soul. And in the quiet moments when I try to connect with the divine, I glimpse the complete compassion my Heavenly Parents have for their children.
And so I ask myself: what does faith look like when we recognize the frailty of the human brain? It looks, I assume, like grace. That means accepting the uncomfortable reality that I need to see myself and my neighbors as Jesus sees us. I need to love and accept those who engage in the more unpopular transgressions. I can be patient in the sins I can’t yet forsake, especially when my brain may need both my best efforts and a resurrection to change. I can work harder to love my enemies, recognizing that their sins are at least as complicated as my own. When all else fails, I can find hope in a merciful Savior who sanctified His own mortal brain and body and offers to do the same to all who receive Him.
Jeff Clark is a general adult and addiction psychiatrist. He is a faculty member at the University of Utah Spencer Fox Eccles School of Medicine and founder of SlumberCamp.co.
Artwork by Violet Frances.
SPECIAL ESSAY SERIES BY BENJAMIN PETERS
NEWS
Restore 2024 will take place on September 5-7 at the Mtn. America Expo Center in Sandy, Utah. Learn more and register here.
Wayfare Editor Zachary Davis will be leading the Dialogue Gospel Study on Sunday, March 24th at 10 am MDT. Those interested in registering for the event and joining by Zoom can do so through the following link.
Scripture Central has begun to release a new multi-episode series, A Marvelous Work, which details and explores a range of evidence supporting the divine authenticity of the Book of Mormon. Hosted by Scott Christopher, known for his roles in Granite Flats and The Best Two Years, the series is shot across multiple locations, including Guatemala, New York, and Utah, featuring interviews with various experts, researchers, and faith leaders.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has acquired the Kirtland Temple, along with various other sites and artifacts, from Community of Christ in a historic $192.5 million purchase. Earlier this week, church leadership from both traditions offered a joint-statement characterizing the scope, nature, and motivations of the monumental exchange. Community of Christ apostle, Lachlan Mackay, poignantly captures the sense of bittersweet loss and mourning felt by members of their tradition.
New York Times journalist Ezra Klein wrote for The Deseret News recently, speaking to the need for greater depolarization in our discourse and offering tools for how we can better root our political identities locally. He advises, “Trying to be aware of how politics makes us feel, of what happens when our identities are activated, threatened or otherwise inflamed, is a necessary first step to gaining some control of the process.”
On Saturday, March 23rd, an art show and Purim party will be hosted by Writ & Vision, with readings of “Tales of the Chelm First Ward” by James Goldberg, Nicole Wilkes Goldberg, and Mattathias Singh. The special event will take place at 6:30 pm MT, at 274 W. Center St. Provo, UT 84601.
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