Vulnerable

I was afraid of being vulnerable. I was afraid of being hurt. And you know what? It’s very possible I could have been, especially as I struggled with the diagnosis. Being newly diagnosed is like finding a terrible wound. Now you know what’s wrong, but that doesn’t mean you’re healing. Everything is too fresh, and further wounds will make it all the harder to heal.

Who do you trust with the information that you are broken?

Make no mistake: If you tell anyone that you have depression, they have power over you. They have the ability to make you feel far, far worse at any given moment. They can dismiss what you’re going through.

“Oh, that’s just depression.”

They can crush what you want.

“That’s the depression talking.”

They can obliterate what you try to build.

“You know you’re just going to end up ruining it.”

They can belittle you at any moment.

“Yeah, you’re just weak.”

Do you dare? Do you dare open up to anyone to tell them you have depression?

When I was diagnosed, I told my wife. I told some other family members and close friends.

I didn’t tell a soul in my congregation.

I was afraid it would be used against me. It would be so easy to dismiss what a pastor says that you don’t like if you can wave depression in front of his face. “Pastor, you’re only angry because your depression is acting up.” I know I’m not alone in that concern; other pastors have sent me anonymous messages saying they wish they could be open with their congregations.

As I grew to understand the diagnosis and got counseling, I started sharing with a few people here and there, privately. I told a family of members who struggled with depression as a family.

They sighed in recognition of what I was going through. We were able to comfort each other.

A few years passed. I ended up writing a paper for a pastors’ conference on pastoral depression. I made a dangerous choice:

I gave each member of my church council a copy of that paper.

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Absolutely nothing. Some of the council members read the paper, and told me it was “Very interesting.” One council member asked me if this was a cry for help. I am so, so thankful that he cared enough to ask. It was not a cry for help; it was me starting the process of being transparent.

And then… then I started writing these blog posts. You really can’t be more open than this, huh?

Anyone who reads these posts will know how broken I am. They could weaponize that information so easily against me and against my congregation.

So why do I do it? Why do I make myself so vulnerable?

Because every time I have shared in a private situation, I have found I have encouraged the person I am with. When someone finds out that their pastor needs Jesus just as much as they do, is just as broken as they are, what happens is that I am able to speak the Gospel alongside that person. They come away grateful, not looking for ways to attack me.

And then… then in a sermon, I told the congregation that I have depression.

Now, that was not the center of the sermon by any means. It was an illustration, though, showing that Jesus loves broken people.

And do you have any idea how many people hugged me after that sermon? How many people were grateful to learn that their pastor needs Jesus, too? Not just in some vague way, not in a general way, but in a, “I desperately need someone to love me and accept me, because I am so broken” way.

And so I have chosen to be vulnerable to encourage others and to better point to Christ. That is why I do what I do.

But.

I’m not you. What should you do?

Well… let’s talk about that next week.