Dear Pastor
May is Mental Health Awareness Month, an important reminder to the world that mental health needs are real and widespread. For the church, May reminds us that mental health needs are present and real in our faith communities as well. Loving Jesus does not mean you will not suffer from mental illness. It does not mean you will not battle anxiety, depression, nor does it make you immune from trauma. As we sit with the reality of mental health as May invites us, we must also be reminded that pastors also face mental health issues. Many may think clergy do not deal with the darkness of depression or the panic of anxiety, and many pastors may believe the lie that says they must not demonstrate any such struggles. However, the truth is pastors are people. They are human being with limitations who live in the same fallen world we all do, and therefore they too can often find themselves walking through the valley of mental illness. Not only so, but research has repeatedly shown that clergy are at a high risk for developing Secondary Traumatic Stress or Compassion Fatigue, a mental health diagnosis that acts similarly to Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and is the result of proximity to the traumatic experiences of others, something pastors are all to familiar with.
As I’ve considered what to write in this week’s blog post, I thought about explaining the research behind Secondary Traumatic Stress Disorder, I’ve contemplated creating a list of ways pastors can work to prevent compassion fatigue, but as I sat with this all important topic, I felt led to simply write a letter to pastors. So, if you are a pastor, this blog is for you:
Dear Pastor,
I see you.
I see you when the sudden death in your congregation hands you not bereavement leave but overtime. When your own grief and shock is quickly pushed somewhere deep inside so that you might sit with the family, holding their hands, filling the room with prayers, sharing their pain even as yours goes unknown, unseen.
I see you when Saturday’s funeral catapults you into Sunday’s sermon, your grief still buried deep. Your proclamation of God’s good news exits your lips as you pray it might somehow tend to your own soul.
I see you.
I see you as you light the candle in your office and offer a prayer for the one about to enter. I see your eyes fill with compassion as you bear her story of pain and of grief, as the questions of “why?” linger in the air. I see you sit with her cry of “why”, even as your own “why’s” go unanswered.
I see you.
I see you when the couple wants you to counsel their marriage and the parents want you to speak with their wayward teenager. I see you step in with mercy and grace, even as you wonder who will provide the same care to your family.
I see you, the short drive from the hospital visit to the board meeting your only moment to process the suffering you’ve just witnessed. I see you as you try to balance the hat changing dance, from chaplain to board president, exchanging your portable communion set for the meeting agenda.
In all the ways you seek to shepherd to people God has entrusted to your care, in all the ways you seek to remain faithful to this call, you are seen. God has called you to shepherd his people, but in that calling, please remember, you too are a person.
So in all the ways you shepherd others, in the holding of their pain, in the lingering with their questions, in the extension of mercy and grace, may you allow Jesus to shepherd you the same. May you take to him your grief and suffering. When it all feels like too much, may you cry out to him “why?” May you take to him your family. Allow our good shepherd to shepherd you, and may you know that you are seen, you are known, and you are deeply loved.
