Tag Archives: church

40 Years Of Wandering Leads The Way Home

11 Thursday Feb 2016

Posted by in bipolar, hope, mental illness, schizophrenia, stigma, Uncategorized, writing

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When I say, “It’s the little things that make up a life and that matter the most,” I mean it.

Sunday I went to church with my husband. As soon as I walked in the door, a member reached out her arms and gave me a hug. The pastor was next, and he did the same thing, and he whispered in my ear, “There’s my favorite author.”

To the pastor and the member of our church these welcoming greetings were probably routine, but to me they were life changing.

I haven’t felt at home in the church since I was ten years old. I never thought I would find a church where people open their arms to me. I never thought I would find a church that didn’t turn the “less desirable” people away. In my mind, I never thought I would find a church where people acted like Christians and welcomed everyone to the table.

I have seen mentally ill people removed from services.

I have heard pastors make jokes about the mentally ill.

I have felt like an outsider for forty years.

If you Google “mentally ill neighbor” you will find that people don’t want us to live next door to them.

If you Google “prisons and the mentally ill” you will find that the largest treatment facilities in the country for the mentally ill are jail cells.

If you Google “homelessness and the mentally ill” you will discover that a large portion of people living on our streets are mentally ill.

People seem to want us to disappear. It would be easier if we didn’t exist because we can make other people uncomfortable when our symptoms are too hard to manage – we may be unable to keep up with our hygiene, or we may talk to voices others can’t see.

I know that people who have the same diagnosis as I have are treated as the unwanted, the throwaways, or the eye-sores.

Do you know what it is like to go through life belonging to a group of people who have to prove their humanity? Proving our humanity entails taking a shower, washing our clothes, finding housing and no longer talking to voices inside our heads– all things that may be impossible for us to achieve.

I went to God’s table on Sunday morning, and the people there smiled at me, opened their arms and welcomed me. After forty years of closed doors, I have entered the inner room and found my way home.

A Lesson In Life: Serving The Homeless

07 Saturday Nov 2015

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Yesterday, after I finished typing up my blog, I walked downtown to surprise my husband at the church where he volunteers to cook and serve the homeless and low income every Friday.

When I walked in the volunteers had finished cooking and the pastor was doing a devotional before everyone started to serve the guests food. The pastor said, “All of you just told me what you think heaven will be like, now, what does the Bible say?”

The pastor went on to talk about angels singing, and saints being present, but then he mentioned Lazarus. In the Bible, Lazarus, is a beggar that is covered in sores and begs outside the temple.

Every day a rich man passed Lazarus in fine linen and things. Lazarus longs to eat the droppings from the rich man’s table. Both Lazarus and the rich man die. The rich man is in agony while Lazarus is comforted.

The rich man asks Lazarus to dip his finger in water and put it on the rich man’s tongue to help relieve his pain. Abraham tells the rich man that there is a chasm between the two that no one can cross and to remember that while the rich man had everything in life, Lazarus had nothing. The rich man then begs Abraham to let him go to warn his brothers while they are still living about what happens after death so they won’t suffer the same fate.

Before we started to serve the guests, the pastor said, “Think about this while you are serving the people who came here to eat and drink today.”

I always love a good story. Stories open up my heart and my mind. I really love a story that contains justice, but this story hit me hard, because most of us could be seen as the rich man who can eat and drink whatever s/he wants while others around us are suffering and have to beg for the food they eat.

Yesterday, I served coffee to those who have to carry what they own in a shopping cart, backpack, or in trash bags. I said good morning to each and every one of them. I looked them in the eye. I treated them with all the respect that I would treat the mayor, or the CEO of a company. I saw past their dirty clothes and dirty skin. There are only a few things that separate them from me, and most of it has to do with money.

I realized that money is a thin veil – it doesn’t define our humanity or worth. It can be lost, stolen, or spent. We can all find ourselves in need.

I don’t look down on people living in the streets. I meet their eyes, because in all the ways that matter we are equal. None of us will escape death, and I don’t have any idea what heaven looks like or what it will be like, but I know what being treated with dignity is like, and I know it doesn’t cost me anything to treat everyone that way – beggar or king.

Jesus was Nowhere to be Found

15 Wednesday Jul 2015

Posted by in bipolar, hope, schizophrenia, stigma

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About ten years ago, I attended the Methodist church in the city where my husband and I were living. It was Christmas time and my parents were visiting from Arizona. The four of us decided to attend the midnight service at the church.

We arrived and the huge altar looked stunning covered in the bright red leaves of poinsettias. The stained glass windows didn’t have the sun shining through, but even the darkness of the night outside couldn’t mask their beauty. The choir, all in white robes, looked angelic, their voices filling the sanctuary.

It was Christmas and I looked forward with anticipation to hear the hope of the sermon and to sing all the carols that I loved as a child.

Christmas always brings back memories of my brothers and I when were kids. During church, my oldest brother, Joel, would tell us, his younger siblings, that the song Noel was really, Joel. So, all four of us kids would sing JOEL at the top of our lungs.  After church we were allowed to open one present and then we had to go to bed so Santa could visit. We were poor when I was little, but I never knew that, there were always presents stretching way into the living room. It was magical, it was wonderful, and it was Christmas.

It was with the heart of a child that I went to church that night. We sat in the balcony, because there was no room left below. Before the pastor started the sermon he talked to the congregation about the life of the church community, available Bible studies and upcoming rummage sales. Then he told a joke. It started out with the song bipolar people sing at Christmas (I can’t remember the punch line) and it ended with “Schizophrenics sing, Do you hear what I hear?”

I sat in that balcony in pain and shock. At the time, I still had the diagnosis of Bipolar, and I thought to myself, “If people like me are not allowed in church, where are we allowed?  If church isn’t safe, where can we find safety?”

One time a homeless man had come into the church and sat down in a pew. He started talking a little during the sermon, and he was obviously making the congregants nervous. Men from the church immediately went into action and removed him.  I thought to myself, “The weak, the sick, the needy, the poor are not welcome here. Jesus doesn’t live here anymore.”

While we were singing Silent Night outside of the church in the court yard, I eyed the pastor.  After the song was over, I approached him. “I am bipolar.” I said.  If people like me are not welcome in the church, where are we welcome?”  He was a very powerful man in the community, and very politically motivated. He said something and then turned away from me.

Not everyone who leads a church, or claims to be Christian, follows Christ. I can assure you that many of them know the teachings of Jesus but deny his words. It was a revelation to me. I’m not always welcome in church, but I know one thing for sure, If I’m not welcome and the homeless are not welcome, neither is the revolutionary that we follow.