Year B, Proper 20: Wednesday Eucharist
Proverbs 30:5-9 | Psalm 24:1-6 | Luke 9:1-6
Seminary of the Southwest | Austin, TX
Jonathan Hanneman
September 26, 2018
“Then Jesus called the twelve together and gave them power and authority
over all demons and to cure diseases, and he sent them out
to proclaim the kingdom of God and to heal.”
A brown haired boy, 3 or 4 years old, sobs in his bedroom uncontrollably, his voice a tiny howl that longs for death, each wail an impotent wish he had never been born. He isn’t in trouble. No one has yelled at him. This isn’t just a circumstantial fit. This is a regular occurrence, and he really means it.
A mother watches her teenager withdraw ever more deeply from everything he used to love. Worried he’s going to kill himself but not knowing what to do, she does nothing but cry herself to sleep each night.
A woman interrupts the increasingly disordered and chaotic thoughts of a co-worker standing near a balcony ledge. Her voice provides just enough of a distraction to let him turn around and walk away.
The thirty-year-old man has vowed not to hurt himself, and he takes his vows seriously. He consciously avoids the sides of bridges, and the sharpest object in his apartment is a butter knife. Fortunately, he is afraid of drowning, so the region’s many waterways aren’t remotely tempting. But each Sunday for months on end, maybe even a year or more, he fans a hidden a spark of hope. Every week, every step of the mile walk home from church, he continually prays that God will allow a car to lose control, just to jump the curb. He promised not to hurt himself, but if God would be kind enough to offer even the opportunity, he’ll gladly leave this life.
*****
This weekend a group of people from my field placement, Good Shepherd on the Hill, are participating in a walk to support the Austin branch of NAMI, the National Alliance on Mental Illness. NAMI provides support and education both for people who have a mental illness and for those families trying to survive life with a mentally ill member. People like me, and families like mine. Because as much as I sometimes feel perfectly normal, as much as I want to wish it away, every day I swallow a small regimen of reminders that I’m not okay. Innocuous-looking medicine—just 142 milligrams of dust—keeps my own brain from trying to kill me. I have Major Depressive Disorder, and although my doctor diagnosed me about 12 years ago, it’s been a life-long companion. The little boy, the teenager, the co-worker, the thirty-year-old—they were all me. For as long as I can remember, my life has twined through the valley of the shadow of death. Like the Psalmist, I fear no evil, but it isn’t because I know the Lord is with me: it’s because I want the death. I want to wrap it around me like a soft gray blanket on a cold wet day so I can slip with it into nothingness—absolute nothingness. No future. No past. No present. No spinning brain. No aching existence.
No me.
At least, that’s what it’s like when I don’t take my meds. Or when their effects eventually weaken over time, as they finally did late last spring.
So when I read passages like our Gospel today, I often wonder, what about me? When Jesus sent out the apostles to proclaim God’s kingdom, what happened to people like me? We were the demon-possessed? Were the disciples able to cast out chemical imbalances, to heal us, too? Or did they even see us? Were we left behind, looking mostly normal yet trapped within a disorder I’ve been told withdraws “only by prayer and fasting”? What happened to the people like me?
Because as happy as the Bible can make these healing vignettes sound, some of us remain ill. Because despite prayer and fasting, despite spending our savings on physician after physician, some of us stay sick. Even immersed in Christian community, a community that tries really hard to be present for each of its people, some of us need our NAMI support groups every other week. No matter how often we feast on the bread and wine of the heavenly kingdom, some of us still need our 142 milligrams of medication, too.
If you’re neurotypical, if you’re one of the lucky ones—a “normal”—please know that even if you can’t heal people like me, you can help. A life with mental illness is a life of hidden handicap. I’m clearly not a mental health professional, but if you see someone struggling—if you suspect someone is struggling, reach out. Take the time to ask how they’re doing, and be prepared to push past the inevitable “I’m okay.” Walk with us. Talk with us. Mental illness is a very convincing, and very loud, liar. Help us hear the truth. And don’t be afraid to push for professional help!
If you’re like me, if you’re one of those people the apostles missed on their Gospel mission, know you aren’t alone. Therapy can help. Medicine can help. NAMI can help. (Maybe even Jesus can help.) Talk to your friends about your illness—despite how it feels, your disease is not infectious. Talk to me about it—I’ve spent most of my life in a similar place. Don’t be afraid to reach out. Your community may not be made of apostles. We might not mystically heal you. But many of us are standing ready to help.
*****
Dear God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who through your Son sent the apostles to proclaim your kingdom and to heal, in your mercy, we ask:
“What about us?
What about all the ones who said they have the answers?
What about us?
What about all the broken happy ever afters?
What about us?
What about all the plans that ended in disaster?”
What about faith? What about hope?
“What about love?
What about trust?
What about us?”