Several weeks ago, I spent time with a remarkable book on mental illness from a Christian perspective: A Quiet Mind to Suffer With: Mental Illness, Trauma, and the Death of Christ by John Andrew Bryant. This book offers a series of profound theological reflections discovered through the valley of mental unrest—truths that apply to everyone, including those not afflicted in the same way.
It’s all too easy to see our lives unfolding before the Lord and focus primarily on our callings, our roles, our gifts, our service. And there’s good reason for that. Scripture urges us to make the most of the time, for the days are evil; to place our talents and treasures in the Lord’s hands and trust him to bring fruit; to live faithfully as sons and daughters, parents and grandparents, coworkers and friends. In describing our Christian life, it’s natural to tell our stories in ways that highlight what we’ve done or can do—who we are in the world. But sooner or later, every story we tell must yield to the intrusion of serious suffering.
In times of testing—whether physical, mental, or spiritual—when we enter the wilderness, much of what we take for granted can be stripped away. In moments when intense suffering has struck my own life, I’ve felt robbed of words, so stunned I couldn’t pray or even form the thoughts I’d bring before the Lord. Sometimes the fog is so thick and the shadows so deep, we feel bereft of consolation. Then the fear rises: the fear of failure, the fear of falling away from God’s love, the fear of losing our sense of calling or any hope of making a meaningful contribution to his kingdom.
The apostle Paul wrote of affliction that left him “completely overwhelmed, beyond his strength,” to the point he “despaired of life itself.” Yet he saw beyond the “sentence of death” to God’s purpose in suffering: “That we would not trust in ourselves but in God who raises the dead” (2 Cor. 1:8–9).
What Suffering Cannot Steal
Suffering steals: joy and peace, hope and balance, strength and stability, competence and companionship.
But there’s one thing suffering cannot steal—and that’s where Bryant draws our attention:
My dependence on Christ was the only thing that couldn’t be taken from me. The intention to depend on Christ was the only thing that couldn’t be taken from me.
Bryant found solace in the steady rhythms of prayer and praise—the small liturgies that tether us to Christ’s promise when all else gives way. This sense of dependence was most acute for Bryant in seasons of mental anguish, but his insight reaches far beyond his particular malady. Sooner or later, pain will visit each of us, and when it does, it will surely steal away many of the ways we think of ourselves as Christians.
There may come a day when physical ailments keep me from traveling and speaking. When the best days of leadership lie behind me. When grief reshapes the landscape of my heart and diminishes my relationships. When my mind’s ability to write fades, and words no longer come. When memory dims, and I no longer recognize the faces of those I love.
And yet, even if every light were to fade, one truth would still glow: I’m a child dependent on my Savior. Bryant writes,
There may come a day when because of this awful life we cannot be a good mother, a good father, a CEO, an athlete, or a friend. There may come a day when we cannot be sane or capable, when we cannot be stable. But there will never come a day when we cannot be a Christian. Because a Christian is someone who depends on Christ, who can be quietly changed by depending on Him. We are assured that to depend on Christ is to be given Christ, utterly and completely. If we can depend on Christ with every horrible thing, then in the midst of every horrible thing Christ will give Himself to us, and by giving Himself to us, give us back to ourselves. In this way, even anguish and distress have been a transfiguration. In this way, every moment can be a transfiguration.
Grip That Holds You
The life of faith is the life of dependence—childlike trust. Suffering may ransack your world, but as a child of God, you cannot be kidnapped. When everything falls and fails, your dependence remains.
Even when your lips can no longer whisper, “Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me, a sinner,” the voice of your Savior will say, “You are mine.”
Every-moment dependence on God is the deepest reality of your life. It never shrinks; your awareness of it only grows. And in the end, faith is expressed not by the strength of your grasp on God but by quietly nestling into his everlasting arms.
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