Review of Donda: The Psalms of Kanye West
It was a story of and for the underachiever. Kanye West’s album “College Dropout” forever changed the face of hip-hop. “Jesus walks / Jesus walks with me,” sang West with Harlem-based ARC acapella choir. The Rolling Stone Magazine would name “Jesus Walks” one of the greatest hip hop songs ever created. Somewhere between the pink polo and his coveted knitted sneaker release, the pendulum swung in the other direction. West released his fourth album, unabashedly proclaiming “I am a god, Hurry up with my damn massage / Hurry up with my damn ménage.” While “Yeezus” received rave reviews and was nominated for the Best Rap Album at the 2014 Grammy Awards, critics were not slow to point out its contrasting heresy. Chris Richards of The Washington Post described the album as “West at his most wasted, stumbling through rubble”. In 2019, Kanye returned to the podium from the pew with his album “Jesus is King”. It won a Grammy for Best Christian Contemporary Music Album. His latest release “Donda” is named after his mother, Dr. Donda West, and features artists Jay Z, the Weekend, Roddy Ricch, and Travis Scott. While Kanye describes his artistry as “gospel with a whole lot of cursing”, there is certain unmistakable veracity to the albums that other faith-filled albums lack. It’s not just Kanye’s multi-faceted lyricism, brilliant sampling, or state-of-the-art production that makes the albums powerful. Rather, what makes the albums both authentic and authoritative is the omnipresent reminder of who Kanye is and was — from echoes of his early catalog to his positionality in our cultural consciousness — his presidential bid, his coveted collaboration with Adidas, and his turbulent relationship with Kim Kardashian. One moment he is headlining youth conferences; the next, he is getting a divorce. Our inability to divorce Kanye from his lyricism mirrors the tradition of inner-biblical allusion. Inquiry into this literary tradition not only eschews the authenticity of the albums but is an invitation to engage in meaningful conversations about mental health.
Used as a prayer book, the Psalms contain songs of both praise and lament. The collection is expansive, composed of numerous writers, and is celebrated for being theologically rich while plumbing the depths of human emotion and experience. The independent pieces within the Psalms serve many purposes. Psalms 113–118 make up the Hallel; countless are included in the Siddur prayer book, vital to Jewish identity and practice. When citing the Psalms, ancient Near Eastern speakers understood the context of the writing as rooted in a sense of distinct place and time. Unlike contemporary songs of praise, the Psalms for the Jewish listener were not disconnected from their origination in terms of authorship and context. From Saint Paul’s use of parallelism to Jesus’ repetition of the Psalms, allusion-users expected their audience to possess enough knowledge to understand the literary device’s original context. What that means is lingering in the background of inner-biblical allusions is the Psalms’ stories of origination — the what, where, and what that you might remember from high school English class. In exegeting inner-Biblical Psalm allusions, both Near East and contemporary listeners are confronted with the reality of the Psalms’ authorship. Many were written by a man with gross moral failings who nevertheless was considered “a man after God’s own heart”. What is more, some commentators such as Liubov Ben-None speculate that the King of Israel had mental health issues. “Evaluation of the passages referring to King David,” writes Ben-None, “indicated that he was afflicted by some mental disorder. . . Of these diagnoses, major depression seems the most acceptable.” Despite bouts with belief and unbelief, faithfulness and heresy, and the ups and downs of mental health, David’s lyricism would be repeated and prophetically fulfilled centuries later by his ancestor the Christ. In this construction, the dynamic and reflexive allusion becomes a celebration of the faithfulness of God despite our humanity. It highlights the messiness of our redemption story — that God is faithful to his character and present in our mental order and disorder.
This brings us back to Kanye. Like Davidic allusions, Kanye’s lyricism and proclamations of faith cannot be divorced from the reality of who Kanye was and is, given his cultural influence and public life for over a decade. The artist himself is hyper-aware of this public tension, singing before, “I miss the old Kanye, straight from the go Kanye / Chop up the soul Kanye, set on his goals Kanye / I hate the new Kanye, the bad mood Kanye” (from “I Love Kanye”). Tracks on both albums are intimately intertwined with the author’s failings both on account of his cultural influence and own self-allusion. Commentators were quick to point out “Donda” is less spiritual than its predecessor — but really, it is an emotional turning point for Kanye in his spiritual journey. Like the Psalms, Kanye’s lyricism on the new album is an exploration of how God relates to real and difficult experiences and emotions. While “Jesus is King” bore the Psalms’ themes of trust, thanksgiving, and praise, “Donda” is truly an album of lament: “Lord, I need You to wrap your arms around me / Wrap your arms around with Your mercy / Lord I need You to wrap Your arms around me / I give up on doing things my way” (from “I Need You”). It is personal lament for Kanye— a lament for his late mother; a lament for his family; a lament for the last year. In “Losing My Family”, the artist reflects on his recent divorce, “She’s screaming at me / Honey, why could you leave? / Darling, how could you leave? / Come back tonight, baby”. During the album’s first listening party in Atlanta, Kanye could be seen crying during the song. This is not a spiritual departure for the artist; rather, it could be seen as an act of faith that follows the tradition of crying out in pain and hardship. In fact, over a third of the Psalms could be categorized as lament. These collective songs remind both singer and listener that we are not alone in our struggle. Mark Vroegop writes, “The practice of lament is one of the most theologically informed actions a person can take. While crying is fundamental to humanity, Christians lament because they know God is sovereign and good. Christians know his promises in the Scriptures. We believe in God’s power to deliver.” Engaging with the album, we become witnesses to the artist’s messy redemption story — that, at times, may mirror our own journey. It is a persistent reminder that, just like David, God is present in our mountains and valleys; mental order and disorder.
Donda’s lyricism of lament inextricably cannot be divorced from Kanye’s very open struggles with mental health. His struggle with bipolar disorder is encapsulated in “I Know God Breathed On Me” when the artist sings, “Okay, okay, devil’s talking to me / Angels start to tell me, ‘it’s okay not to feel okay’.” Thoughts of suicide are referenced on other tracks. Following, the album becomes an invitation to share in authentic and active conversations about mental health. Not only are we constantly swinging in the pendulum of heresy and faith, belief and unbelief — “trying to keep my faith but I am looking for more,” many listeners are struggling with mental health issues that have long been dismissed in places of worship (see “I Thought About Killing You”). A 2018 study published by Christianity Today revealed that mental health is not regularly addressed from the pulpit — reasons can range from sheer ignorance to blame on moral failings, although they are not mutually exclusive. “So many have allowed stigma and fear to prevent acknowledgment that mental illness exists within the walls of churches,” reflects Amy Simpson in “Breaking the Silence”, “The silence sends a clear message that God is not interested in their suffering, serious problems have no place in the Church, and our faith has no answers for hardships like theirs.”
In this absence, Kanye’s albums have become one of the few opportunities to deal with the intricacies of mental health and the communities of faith. Kanye’s lyricism gives us an opportunity to grapple with difficult questions, which have only increased following the pandemic, like — where is God when I am depressed or ridden with anxiety (for a great resource, see “Running Scared” by Edward Welch)? Bipolar? Manic? How does the local faith communities come alongside those struggling with mental health, those whose “most beautiful thoughts are always beside the darkest?” How does it tangibly prioritize counseling and psychological well-being? How do psychology and spirituality intersect? How have mental issues been over-spiritualized and simplified? Is it even safe to be open about mental health issues? Will those who try “to say something / compensate it so it doesn’t come bad / But sometimes, [we] think really bad things” (from “I Thought of Killing You”) be judged? Paul repeatedly exhorts the believers to address one another in “psalms and hymns and spiritual songs’’. Perhaps, our playlist needed a more descriptive reminder of the psychological nuances of our redemption story. Grace is amazing because it is personal and pursuant — the descriptive “like me” part that remains unsung in the classic song.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not claiming Kanye is a prophet or his albums should be canonized. He gets a lot wrong (“Make me new again / And I repent for everything I’ma do again” from “New Again”) — he’s not alone in that respect. Nevertheless, his refrain is an opportunity to have courageous conversations about mental health. This year is a reminder that “it’s a hard road to heaven” and we have “to hold on to your brother when his faith is lost” (from “Use this Gospel”).
Author note: Lyrics were taken from the album’s listening party in Atlanta. Song titles may have been changed since the album’s release.
