beachlass | on the use of a pulpit

With one thing and another: media discussions, pastoral care situations, thoughtful fandom reflections, conversations with a colleague - I took my lectionary readings in hand this week and looked at them through the lens of mental illness.

In John's telling of Jesus' encounter with John the Baptist, and calling the first disciples, the encounter goes something like this:

Disciples: follow Jesus around
Jesus: What are you looking for?
Disciples: Where are you staying?
Jesus: Come and see.

Which is just plain weird. Where are you staying? What kind of answer is that?? But if we remember the way the other gospels tell the story - when Jesus calls the first disciples, he goes to stay with Simon Peter, where Peter's mother in law is ill, and Jesus heals her. So Jesus is staying in the place of illness. Jesus the healer, who heals the lepers and the blind man and the woman who's been bleeding for 12 years, and Jairus' daughter, and the centurion's servant, who stays with Mary and Martha and their brother Lazarus whom he raised from the dead - Jesus is the healer, he stays in the place of illness.

And this is the place he invites the disciples, he invites us to come and see. If we are looking for Jesus, the places of illness are where we should look. We need to be willing to come, to listen to the narratives of illness, to listen to people's stories, so that we can identify the barriers that prevent people from full participation in their lives and communities. For folks with limited mobility, it's not the physical limitation that is the barrier to participation in church life, it is the stairs coming into the building. If we listen to the stories, we can start to see the barriers, and work to overcome them.

But some stories of illness are easier to tell than others... I have no worries telling the story of falling at the curling rink, and my bashed up toe. You might think I'm a klutz, but won't, I trust, call into question my fitness for ministry. Other stories have stigma and fear and shame attached.

But what if... and physically shaking as I say it... what happens when I say that I live with mental illness. When I say that while I took a tylenol for my sore foot this morning, that the pill bottle that sits on my bedside table is a bottle of antidepressants. Those are the pills I take every day.

I was diagnosed with chronic, serious, clinical depression in my early twenties. I've lived with depression my whole life. I had a serious bout in high school - there are months I can't remember at all. I remember being a child, and trying to figure out whether the drop out my bedroom window was enough to kill me, or just hurt me. I didn't know that not everyone thinks about that.

I live with depression every day. And it's exhausting. And if Jesus were to appear and ask me what I want - I might say "Jesus, could I have, just, even, two years without depression? Because I hate it, and I want a break.."

Jesus invites us to honestly answer the question of what we are seeking. Jesus calls us as disciples, calls us to come and stay with him in the places of illness, to listen to the stories. And when we listen to the stories, we hear how hard it is to live with mental illness. How hard to find support, the difficulties of living with the side effects of our medications. We hear how the front line workers are police - and how sick is our society that that is the case?

If we don't tell our stories, if we don't listen, then the only stories we hear are the ones that hit the media, when something disastrous happens, and words like 'crazy' get thrown around. If we don't listen to people telling their stories, we don't hear about the interlacing of mental health and addictions - and the catch 22 position people who try to find treatment find themselves in - where addiction programmes only want to treat the sane, and mental health programmes only want those who are clean and sober.

Jesus calls us to follow him, calls us to discipleship.

He asks us "What are you looking for?"

"Where are you?" we ask.

"Come and see. Come and see" he answers.

My congregations are wonderful. I was scared to speak about living with mental illness, but not worried, if that makes sense. I trust them.

I got a lot of hugs at the door. Some congregation members started to cry as I held them. Others spoke of friends, or sisters, or just leaned in and said "I know, too". I was completely wound and exhausted by the time I was done. I went into my calm and composed place during worship, but even so, I was shaking throughout the morning. I came home and watched a couple of movies on netfix, had a nap, still felt hit by a truck when I woke up.

Today is a self care day, I think. And tomorrow I should try and make a pastoral care follow up list. As yesterday morning unfolded, I knew I'd made the right decision to speak up, I could hear the words in the hymns affirm the message I was trying to share.

And, mental illness being what it is... I can report with bitter amusement that as I drove home from church, I struggled with my internal critic berating me for not having done a "better" job that morning.