Schizophrenic Jesus

One of the places closest to heaven for me is Asheville, North Carolina. I spent six weeks there in the summer of 2016 that are as fresh to me as if they happened yesterday.

Haywood Street Congregation is a United Methodist church plant with a focus on reaching the poor and the homeless. Other people are welcome, of course, but there is a preferential option for the unhoused, just as God has this preferential option-- Jesus said he'd meet us in the hungry and the stranger.

After worship people lingered in the air conditioning and I lingered too, hoping to wander into conversation. There was a woman there whose name I can't remember. But I can hear her gravelly voice and see her ball cap covered in aluminum foil and duct tape. I introduced myself. She told me the government was spying on her through her microwave so she had to wear this stuff.

Quickly I realized she was a paranoid schizophrenic, afraid of so many people and places that could spy on her, capture her, hurt her. I listened as closely as I could. There was a loud hum of anxiety inside of me, too. How could I talk her out of this paranoia and confusion? She was talking so quickly it didn't seem like I could possibly get a word in edgewise. But I kept listening as closely as I could. Minutes flew by, and I realized I'd been listening to her for almost an hour. 

What seems obvious to me now hit me with profundity in that moment: There was no way to fix her mental illness. No way to stop her from thinking the government was after her. Perhaps a good psychiatrist or therapist could, but I was neither of those things. 

So I told her the only thing I knew to say, that could possibly reach through the paranoia-- God loved her and was with her in the apartment that scared her so much and God would never let her go. That Jesus had a lot of scary moments in his life and Jesus knew what she was going through and she was not alone.

"I don't trust many people," she said, "but you listened to me. I think I can trust you. Thanks for talking to me."

It hit me that it was not my job to try to fix her. Simply listening to her, loving her, pointing to the true Savior and Healer, was my role, and that role could accomplish plenty. 

In her hospitality and trust she saved me from my own delusion that I could fix or save anybody. She taught me the real role of ministry (paid or not) is love and listening and pointing to Jesus. She saved me from the guilt and shame that often plagued me when I was not able to fix all the situations I thought I should. I met Jesus in her that day, and I think of her often, and I hope and pray she is blessed and safe and knows Jesus is living in her. 

That's why I have to keep making friends with the poor, the unhoused, the hungry, the differently abled. That Christ in distressing disguise saves me. I think that's true for the whole church, too.