When I was around age 19 or 20, my bipolar disorder--which had been lying dormant under the surface for so long, creeping forward in tip-toe fashion--smashed me upside the head like a sledgehammer. It was the summer of 2006, right after my first year of college. The depressive and manic cycles began then, and they continued over the next four years, receding and then proceeding like the tides. Such a weight upon life forms the spirit--the entire person--into a shell of what had been. It is not uncommon--in fact, it is the general rule--that those with such cycles (people always ask me, "What is it like?" and really I can't say; one must use symbolism and imagery and metaphor--darkness, shadows, heaviness--to describe what it's like) become cold and calloused, bitter and hateful, pissed at life and the world. Indeed I became such. I wrestled with God to the point of tears, exhaustion, and even blood; and I prayed that God would take it away, and He said, "Not yet." And though my heart was not entirely in it, I submitted to Him--with all my brokenness, anger, and depression. A cold and calloused and bitter creature I was; and God changed me. Not by eliminating the depression but by working within it.
God has used this weakness--this "thorn in my flesh" for which I've sought deliverance in countless tears and supplications--to magnify His strength and power and glory in my life. I have been broken and rebuilt, passed through the fire again and again, and through the agonizing despair and seemingly insurmountable depression, God has been reconfiguring me into the person I am and the person I will become: a person like Christ, suffering and loving, selfless and sacrificial. I really don't understand it, but out of the darkness a change has occurred. Before the darkness I was more concerned about myself than others. Now--somehow--I care more for others than myself (although not all the time; let's be entirely honest, I am becoming like Christ but not Christ himself), and I am more willing and eager to make sacrifices for them. I am stronger, not weaker. I am oddly more hopeful, though my hope has been transformed into a solid and certain hope. This weakness--as are all bodily weaknesses--is a result of the death, decay, and corruption that has infected and continues to infect the world through evil and sin.
But I digress. That asshole who spoke so condemning of me does not know a damn thing about me. And I know--not by assumptions but by the life he lives--that he is a self-serving drunkard who just wants to get some ass. A classic loser. He doesn't know me. Being bipolar hasn't made me weaker; it has made me--or, rather, God working within it has made me--stronger. I am not less of a person because of it; I am more of a person. The strength of God has manifested in my weakness; when others fell, He made me stand; when others gave up, He made me press on; when others became cold and hurtful, He made me more compassionate and loving. I take pride not in who I am but in whom God has made me. I am a vessel declaring His power and love--not a love that eliminates (yet) all pain but a love that takes that pain and uses it both for our betterment and for His glory.
And this badge I wear? I will boast it proudly. It is a badge of my incredible weakness and God's even more incredible power. I know this weakness is not a gift--gifts, by their nature, are good--but God has left it in my life to be a broadcaster and an amplifier of His glory. My ministry to the hurting and the hopeless is made stronger, not weaker, by it. Any thought that I should abandon what I believe God has called me to because of it is ridiculous. No, I should embrace it: such a tool, to be squandered, or disregarded or swept under the carpet, is foolish. Were St. Paul to sit in the dust on the Damascus Road, pitying himself for his weakness and saying, "I can do nothing of value because of this," then where might we be now? He did not enjoy his weakness, and he did not praise it; but God used it in powerful ways (if it weren't true, why would he mention it?). Some would say that if I just had enough faith, that if I loved God enough, that if I were more obedient, then God would take away this disorder. In fact, some people have, very bluntly, told me that. I now wonder what they would say to St. Paul when he mentioned the "thorn in his flesh"? "Have a little more faith, Paul. Love God a little more. Be a bit more obedient, and God will take it from you." I can only imagine Paul's reaction: a few choice words and a stinging slap across the face.
I am reminded of a man who pastored a church for a lifetime, a man who had a beautiful family and who died in joy surrounded by a mourning crowd of families, friends, and even the community. He changed peoples' lives, proclaimed the gospel, was an excellent husband and an excellent father. And I remember him because he had severe bipolar, was a man acquainted with much grief. Any thought that a bipolar person is forced to live lesser of a life is insane. It is difficult, to be sure, but that does not mean I will be a failure as a minister, a failure as a husband, a failure as a father, and a failure as a friend. I would like to think that what God is doing to me through it will make me a stronger minister, a more excellent husband, a more loving father, and a more compassionate friend. And I honestly think that is the case.
God has used this weakness--this "thorn in my flesh" for which I've sought deliverance in countless tears and supplications--to magnify His strength and power and glory in my life. I have been broken and rebuilt, passed through the fire again and again, and through the agonizing despair and seemingly insurmountable depression, God has been reconfiguring me into the person I am and the person I will become: a person like Christ, suffering and loving, selfless and sacrificial. I really don't understand it, but out of the darkness a change has occurred. Before the darkness I was more concerned about myself than others. Now--somehow--I care more for others than myself (although not all the time; let's be entirely honest, I am becoming like Christ but not Christ himself), and I am more willing and eager to make sacrifices for them. I am stronger, not weaker. I am oddly more hopeful, though my hope has been transformed into a solid and certain hope. This weakness--as are all bodily weaknesses--is a result of the death, decay, and corruption that has infected and continues to infect the world through evil and sin.
But I digress. That asshole who spoke so condemning of me does not know a damn thing about me. And I know--not by assumptions but by the life he lives--that he is a self-serving drunkard who just wants to get some ass. A classic loser. He doesn't know me. Being bipolar hasn't made me weaker; it has made me--or, rather, God working within it has made me--stronger. I am not less of a person because of it; I am more of a person. The strength of God has manifested in my weakness; when others fell, He made me stand; when others gave up, He made me press on; when others became cold and hurtful, He made me more compassionate and loving. I take pride not in who I am but in whom God has made me. I am a vessel declaring His power and love--not a love that eliminates (yet) all pain but a love that takes that pain and uses it both for our betterment and for His glory.
And this badge I wear? I will boast it proudly. It is a badge of my incredible weakness and God's even more incredible power. I know this weakness is not a gift--gifts, by their nature, are good--but God has left it in my life to be a broadcaster and an amplifier of His glory. My ministry to the hurting and the hopeless is made stronger, not weaker, by it. Any thought that I should abandon what I believe God has called me to because of it is ridiculous. No, I should embrace it: such a tool, to be squandered, or disregarded or swept under the carpet, is foolish. Were St. Paul to sit in the dust on the Damascus Road, pitying himself for his weakness and saying, "I can do nothing of value because of this," then where might we be now? He did not enjoy his weakness, and he did not praise it; but God used it in powerful ways (if it weren't true, why would he mention it?). Some would say that if I just had enough faith, that if I loved God enough, that if I were more obedient, then God would take away this disorder. In fact, some people have, very bluntly, told me that. I now wonder what they would say to St. Paul when he mentioned the "thorn in his flesh"? "Have a little more faith, Paul. Love God a little more. Be a bit more obedient, and God will take it from you." I can only imagine Paul's reaction: a few choice words and a stinging slap across the face.
I am reminded of a man who pastored a church for a lifetime, a man who had a beautiful family and who died in joy surrounded by a mourning crowd of families, friends, and even the community. He changed peoples' lives, proclaimed the gospel, was an excellent husband and an excellent father. And I remember him because he had severe bipolar, was a man acquainted with much grief. Any thought that a bipolar person is forced to live lesser of a life is insane. It is difficult, to be sure, but that does not mean I will be a failure as a minister, a failure as a husband, a failure as a father, and a failure as a friend. I would like to think that what God is doing to me through it will make me a stronger minister, a more excellent husband, a more loving father, and a more compassionate friend. And I honestly think that is the case.
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