Hiding in the Pews

Shining Light on Mental Illness in the Church

Steve Austin

• Publisher: Fortress Press
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN: 9781506470481
• eBook ISBN: 9781506470498
• Topic: Theology & Religion
• Subtopic: Christian Ministry

In 2012, Steve Austin, then a pastor, nearly died by suicide. His experience launched him on a journey that opened his eyes to the widespread problem of mental illness and how those who live with it are often treated in congregations. He began to wonder: if church folks had talked openly about mental health, therapy, suicide prevention, recovery from abuse, and other difficult issues, would that have changed his story?

In Hiding in the Pews, people with mental illness--some of whom might be pastors themselves--will find comfort as they learn they are not alone. Those who know someone with mental illness will gain wisdom about how to be a safe presence. Those who hold the most power in church communities--pastors, board members, and lay leaders--will be challenged and equipped to transform their congregations into places of healing, where it is safe for people to be vulnerable about their suffering.

Austin draws on his own experience, as well as on interviews with eighty current and former church leaders and members. Each chapter covers a topic or theme about mental illness and the church and includes practical applications to guide leaders on a journey toward transforming church culture.

When a church champions vulnerability and establishes safety within its walls, especially for those who are suffering, the loving power of God heals. Austin offers hope that faith communities will be the first places people think of when they need a sense of safety and belonging.

Chapter One

The Power of Vulnerable Leadership

Almost all people are carrying a great and secret hurt even when they don’t know it. When we can make the shift to realize this, it softens the space around our overly defended hearts. It makes it hard to be cruel to anyone. It somehow makes us one in a way that easy comfort and entertainment never can.

—Father Richard Rohr, The Universal Christ

We attend a little Episcopal church near our home in the suburbs of Birmingham, Alabama. The rector of our parish is Father Eric Mancil, an Auburn graduate (but we won’t hold that against him). Eric is nearly the reincarnation of Mr. Rogers: soft-spoken, musical, present, and so incredibly gentle.

On Christmas of 2019, Father Eric brought back the good old-fashioned Christmas pageant. Our children practiced and practiced each Wednesday night in December. My son was a blond-haired, blue-eyed shepherd boy. And my daughter? A wise woman. That’s right. The girls far outnumber the boys at our little parish, so we had three wise women. And they were absolutely perfect.

On Christmas Eve, the church was packed; parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and family friends filled the pews for the children’s big Christmas service. We sang, prayed, knelt, and went through a simple but classic Christmas Eve liturgy. And then it was time for the kids’ grand entrance.

Please sit.

First, a wooden cradle was placed just in front of the altar with a baby “wrapped in swaddling clothes” (Luke 2:12 KJV). Next, Mary and Joseph, two of the parish teenagers, joined the baby center stage. After the angel of the Lord appeared to shepherds keeping watch by night, the shepherds entered the tableau dressed in classic brown bathrobes with tan head coverings.

As the Christmas pageant drew to a close, Father Eric came to the front to present the children’s homily. He was decked out in his holiday vestments and carrying a little blue blanket that looked just like the one my own son used to carry around when he was a toddler. “What’s your favorite Christmas movie or TV show?” he asked the children.

“The Grinch!” one little girl with piercing blue eyes said.

“Elf!” said one cherub-cheeked boy toward the back.

At least four different children answered, “Home Alone!”

When the little ones had finally run out of ideas, Father Eric calmly raised his hand and said, “Does anyone know my favorite Christmas movie? It isn’t Christmas until I’ve watched this one.” Perhaps it was because of their age, but no one could guess Father Eric’s favorite Christmas film, A Charlie Brown Christmas.

And here’s where our priest nearly made me cry during the children’s homily.

“Charlie Brown is really struggling through most of the movie,” Father Eric said. “He is down. Sad. Depressed. Because he just can’t seem to figure out the real meaning of Christmas.” I was so thankful our priest had the courage to say the word “depressed” during this sermonette. We need to expose our children to these words and concepts when appropriate rather than whispering them to other adults like they’re something to be ashamed of.

“Charlie Brown is really sad, but do you know why I am holding this little blue blanket?” Father Eric asked.

“To remind us of the baby Jesus?” one child asked. (This kid obviously knew that the answer is almost always “Jesus” in Sunday school classes.)

“Not quite,” Father Eric responded. “It’s because of Charlie Brown’s friend in the movie, Linus. Linus always carries around a blanket. And why do you think that is?” I could hear the theme music to Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood in my head.

“Because he was sleepy?” asked one tiny voice.

“Because he was so small?” asked another.

“Because he was afraid,” said one of the older children. She said it with such calm confidence—almost as if this little girl knew something the rest didn’t yet understand. My heart broke just a little in that moment.

Father Eric gently smiled at the little girl and said, “Exactly. Because Linus was scared.” He continued, “So Charlie Brown is upset because he just can’t quite figure this whole Christmas thing out. But then, at center stage in the middle of the auditorium, the lights dim, and a spotlight focuses directly on Linus, who begins to explain to Charlie Brown the real meaning of Christmas as he gives this beautiful monologue of the nativity story from Luke’s Gospel.” The adults in the room—many of whom had been raised on A Charlie Brown Christmas—took a collective sigh. We all remembered.

“And as Linus is quoting the angels, saying, ‘Fear not . . . ,’ he drops his blanket.”

Linus made a courageous choice. From the stage—from the proverbial pulpit, we might say, in the role of minister of the gospel—he chose to release his grasp on fear in the sight of everyone. And Linus’s one act of courage began the establishment of a culture of safety for the whole Peanuts community.

Linus-Like Leaders

Why am I starting our journey together with a nativity play and a Charlie Brown reference? Because what Linus does here is a great metaphor for the work I am challenging us church leaders to do. If we are to transform our churches into hospitals for the hurting, the work needs to be from the top down, with leaders first; otherwise, congregants will not be safe to follow. What our churches need, then, are Linus-like leaders.

We all have a part in this work, of course. Whether you’re reading this book at Christmastime or in the middle of June, many of us—leaders or not—have felt like Linus: holding onto our fears and desperate (but, because of shame, terrified) to let go. Desperate to feel safe. Linus was holding onto a physical blanket, but you might be holding onto your anger or your secret addiction. The blanket might represent emotional eating for some, and for others, it could be self-isolation and pushing others away. We’ve all got something. We’re only human.

When we feel safe, not simply to connect but to belong with another person, that safety gives us the courage to be vulnerable. If our church isn’t a safe place to do this, we’ll practice this vulnerability where it is safe—with a therapist, or a spouse, or one trusted friend. Having our vulnerability witnessed and received without judgment shatters our shame and gives us new freedom and joy. Life becomes more bearable, and bonds with others improve. That’s how vulnerability and healing work; that’s the process.

And the goal is for churches to tap into and cultivate that powerful healing process right within their own four walls. This transformative kind of love can be unleashed in churches whose leaders work to establish safety by their own example. As Linus found the courage to drop his own blanket in the sight of all, a sense of safety spread like the snow at Christmastime. At that very moment, Divine Love snuck in and empowered Charlie Brown to let go of his own fears, giving him permission to just belong.

Dropping the Blanket

For us as pastors, the in the sight of all bit feels particularly intimidating. We’d rather appear strong, certain, and unwavering in faith. If our followers see us falter, we reason that surely they’ll lose confidence in our ability to lead. But ironically, despite our assumption that vulnerability is weakness, the most courageous leaders are the Linus-like ones—the ones willing to drop their masks and personas (their “blankets”), put their vulnerable selves on display, and empower their congregants to do likewise. As shame researcher Brené Brown writes,

The word persona is the Greek term for “stage mask.” In my work masks and armor are perfect metaphors for how we protect ourselves from the discomfort of vulnerability. Masks make us feel safer even when they become suffocating. Armor makes us feel stronger even when we grow weary from dragging the extra weight around. The irony is that when we’re standing across from someone who is hidden or shielded by masks and armor, we feel frustrated and disconnected. That’s the paradox here: Vulnerability is the last thing I want you to see in me, but the first thing I look for in you.1

In other words, many leaders wear a mask of perfection, wisdom, and certainty. The thought of dropping that mask—dropping our blanket—terrifies us. We fear appearing weak, uncertain, or at a loss. So we avoid vulnerability at all costs.

Of course, the fear of appearing weak isn’t the only reason we might avoid vulnerability. Many pastors have other objections. My friend Arthur is a Methodist pastor, an army chaplain, and a brilliant preacher. (He also never says no to tacos, which makes him a beloved friend.) As one of the early readers of this book, Arthur gave me some of the most constructive criticism, which makes me appreciate him even more. When reading my encouragement for pastors to be vulnerable with those they have influence over, Arthur commented that such vulnerability could present an ethical issue. He was concerned that pastors who reveal personal struggles to their congregations will unethically burden their congregants, and he commented that those in leadership should seek support from either colleagues or people not under the leader’s authority.

Though his concern is valid, I do think vulnerability can be different from unethical burdening. No one is asking you to emotionally vomit on your congregation because that’s certainly not helpful. Oversharing isn’t the same thing as vulnerability. As Brené Brown says, “[Vulnerability is] not purging, it’s not indiscriminate disclosure, and it’s not celebrity-style social media information dumps.”2 But in spite of the power pastors inherently possess in their relationships with parishioners, I do believe pastors (and other church leaders) can talk openly about their struggles while also making it clear that their congregants aren’t responsible for fixing those struggles. What if, when sharing a particularly vulnerable slice of your story, you simply add a line like this to your sermon: “If you feel concerned, be at peace knowing that I am getting the help and support I need. I’m not sharing any of this because I need you to help me. I’m sharing this so you all know that at our church, it’s OK to struggle. It’s OK not to be perfect.”

Men and boys—some of whom become pastors and church leaders—in particular are taught to maintain the image of invulnerability. And why is that? Glennon Doyle adds this important slice of wisdom to our vulnerability pie in her book Untamed:

Being an American boy is a setup. We train boys to believe that the way to become a man is to objectify and conquer women, value wealth and power above all, and suppress any emotions other than competitiveness and rage. Then we are stunned when our boys become exactly what we have trained them to be. . . . Since women are equally poisoned by our culture’s standards of manhood, we panic when men venture out of their cages. Our panic shames them right back in. So we must decide whether we want our partners, our brothers, our sons to be strong and alone or free and held. Let’s embrace our strength so our men can take their turn being soft.3

Women aren’t the only ones whose panic shames men out of vulnerability and back into their cages. We all do this to one another. Board members and congregants panic at pastors’ vulnerable admissions. Men panic when women leave their prescribed societal roles as caregivers, sacrificial mothers, or small, quiet, sweetly submissive wives. Each of us has the power to be a force for shame or a force for healing and freedom in the lives of those around us. When we panic, we breed shame. When we let others show up with their full humanity on display, we cultivate healing.

I recently had the honor of speaking at a beautiful Methodist church in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and I decided to practice this kind of vulnerability by “dropping my blanket in the pulpit.” I shared what it’s like to be a Christian with mental illness who sometimes wants to die. After the service, everyone gathered for a delicious catered meal in the gym-turned-fellowship-hall. I was slightly overwhelmed by the number of people who wanted to talk and/or pray with me, but I’ve never been so happy to have my lunch interrupted.

One woman cried as she told me about having suicidal thoughts since her teens. One older woman said she recently lost a friend to suicide: “He was the last person on earth you’d ever expect.” And a woman who looked just like my grandmother held my hand as she asked if I’d be willing to write to her daughter in prison. Each conversation illustrated the deep desire we all have to belong. But one conversation in particular I will not soon forget.

I noticed a long-haired guy with a scraggly beard slowly, nervously approaching. I could tell he desperately needed to talk, but his nervous energy prevented him from engaging. His awkwardness was painful for me. After what felt like an eternity, the stranger asked—without ever making eye contact—if we could talk. I took it upon myself to separate us from the other guests at the luncheon, grabbing a bench seat near the wall. I reached out my hand and greeted my new friend with a smile. “Hey! I’m Steve. Thanks for your patience. What’s up, man?” I laughed inside because I hadn’t used that overly zealous, a-little-too-friendly youth pastor voice in a long time.

As my new acquaintance sat down, he continued to avoid eye contact. “I’m Mike. I, uh, I really . . . uh . . . it was cool what you had to say today.”

The Good Samaritan—and a Pit Bull?

Poor guy, I thought. His nervous energy permeated our conversation for those first few minutes, but it also reminded me of a video I’d just seen on Facebook a few days earlier (one of those viral, inspirational videos that people love to share).4 The short clip featured a veterinarian who had rescued an abused pit bull named Graycie. The poor pup was visibly scared. Each day, the vet would climb into the kennel, sit down next to the cowering dog, and eat his own food—you guessed it—from a dog bowl.

As the veterinarian ate, slowly and calmly, he would reach into Graycie’s untouched bowl, scoop a small handful of dog food, and offer it to the puppy. Eventually, she took a morsel or two from the vet’s kind hand. Then more. Then a bit more. At last, miraculously, Graycie allowed the vet to pet her.

The miracle was in the stubborn, compassionate commitment of the vet to climb into the kennel with Graycie, to eat his human food out of a bowl much like the wounded dog’s, to offer her food for her hungry belly, and ultimately, to offer her friendship for her hungry heart.

The miracle was in every single moment that the vet showed up next to the frightened canine.

Much like Graycie, I’ve been on the inside of the cage, desperate for affection but scared to death for anyone to see my wounds. I couldn...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• Foreword by Robert W. Lee
• Preface
• Acknowledgments
• Introduction: Vulnerability Can Heal Us
• Chapter 1: The Power of Vulnerable Leadership
• Chapter 2: Becoming Trauma Informed
• Chapter 3: The Wonderful Gift of Presence
• Chapter 4: The Terrible Gift of Sight
• Chapter 5: Interlude: God’s Boundless Love
• Chapter 6: Embracing the Fullness of Your Story
• Chapter 7: Hiding behind the Pulpit
• Chapter 8: Cultivating Vulnerable Conversations
• Chapter 9: Neutralizing Shame
• Chapter 10: Self-Care Basics
• Chapter 11: When the Church Gets It Right
• Appendix A: Six Simple Steps for Suicide Prevention
• Appendix B: Quick Reference Guide
• Appendix C: The Role of Faith in Suicide Prevention: Consensus Statement on Suicide and Suicide Prevention from an Interfaith Dialogue
• Notes