I Kings 19:1-13

The Bible, like many sacred writings, contains love letters, given and received. Letters of passionate longing like Song of Solomon, “Kiss me again and again, for your love is sweeter than wine.” Letters of regret like Psalm 51—“Create in me a clean heart, and renew a right spirit within me.”  Letters to God, celebrating the mysteries of creation “the heavens declare the beauty of the handiwork of your fingers.”  There are some narratives, too, that while the details are contextual, the stories of life and death and life anew are timeless—as it were, love letters of the brokenhearted. The story of Elijah in 1 Kings 19 is one of these.

Elijah’s backstory is this: He’s just come off a big spiritual competition between himself– the prophet of God God and the prophets of the enemy god, Baal to see which god will bring down fire from heaven to consume the sacrificial offering. It’s sort of like the ancient world’s version of a big business trip where you have to give a competing bid presentation. At the contest, Baal is a no-show, being just a false god and all, and Elijah handily wins the day, but the queen, Jezebel who prefers Baal as her favorite god, promises that she will come after Elijah in retaliation. Still fresh from his success, but gradually over time, Elijah begins to experience a significant mood change. From the mountaintop to the deepest valley, he falls. Hard. And by verse 4 of chapter 19 in the story, he is overwhelmed by self-recrimination and fear. He leaves his leadership job and even his best friend behind. Vs. 4: “He went a day’s journey into the wilderness, and came and sat down alone under a solitary broom tree. He asked God to die, saying, Take away my life. I’ve failed just like my ancestors.” He can’t seem to move on, just sleeps. He stops eating.  Then, in the story, he is discovered in his pain by one he experiences as an angel who makes food for him, and says, “Get up and eat, otherwise the journey will be too much for you.” He’s huddled in a cave, wrapped in his mantle, and all around him is a great wind, a storm splitting mountains, breaking rocks, an earthquake, a fire, and God is not in the wind, the earthquake or the fire. And then, and then, there comes a fine silence. Vs. 13 says, “Elijah wrapped his face in his cloak and stood at the entrance of the cave. Then there came a voice to him that said, “What are you doing here, Elijah?”

Notice the details of the story. He is very low—believes he is absolutely alone, though someone comes to check on him. And he is huddled in the mouth of a cave, the storm outside full of fury and quaking and fire, and then the sound of a fine silence. What a metaphor for what it feels like to lose hope. I imagine him at the entrance to the cave, but with his back to the light, facing the inside where there is no light, no end to the night. Maybe you know how that feels.

Maybe you have been part of a conversation like this. My thanks to Lizzi for creating slides and to Kristen Stone for her work with youth and mental health resiliency for these pictures are from her work. Because of the stigma, both external and internal, that accompanies brain disorders, it is easy to say and to believe what these cartoons depict. The deep fear and shame and the sense that someone is to blame—family, friends, or the self. The conviction that if one has enough faith, education, money, or willpower or could find the wherewithal to  “shake it off,” that mental health challenges will miraculously go away. Communication between us is often difficult. Those who are suffering in body or mind sometimes exhibit behaviors and speak words that others may experience as hurtful. Sometimes we reach out to one another with sincere love in our hearts but still say or do things that are not experienced by the other as helpful or life-giving. Sometimes our very best efforts, offered with grace, forgiveness, and love beyond measure still are met with rejection and pain. Sometimes in order to preserve life and health, we must put some distance between us and let go, allowing others to help.  It happens. As you know.

And it also often happens that we can remind one another that there are resources that often can help.

The Alachua County Crisis Center and the Gainesville Opportunity Center and the Gainesville Peer Respite Center and all the National Alliance on Mental Illness and other family support groups. And the Green Ribbon Awareness movement here today all around our church and in our city. The Mental Health First Aid training we will be having on Saturday and the classes that Meridian is offering, and the many mental health professionals whose hearts and lives are poured out to help. And the warm-lines, lifelines, and hotlines. Sometimes we can walk ourselves or someone else back from the mouth of cave and back out into the sunshine. Sometimes we can, and sometimes we can’t.  Our lives are for one another love letters filled with all this joy and all this sorrow.

Think of all those whose courage and patience strength have been love letters of hope in your life, in whatever struggles you are enduring this day. There are many, of course—struggles and love letters that help us get through. I could write a hundred of them, at least. Recently I wrote one to my friend Mike and asked him if I could share it with you today.

Dear Friend,

I have to say that today broke open my heart. Again.  I sat across from you at lunch. Your words were eloquent, and your eyes held that look that I have come to recognize–in you and in others, the look of light and hope.  You handed me the textbook you just authored, now used by so many trainers in the field of peer support.

It is entitled, Helping Others Heal. I studied the cover and its words larger and smaller. Values, rights, role, equality, ethics, mutual, hope, strengths, respect, and the biggest words of all, support, recovery.  And when I looked up and into your eyes, you said, without a hint of bitterness, “It wasn’t long ago when I started hearing those words used for and with people who lived with mental illness. People like me. There was no expectation that positive change could happen. The truth was simply assumed to be—that folks like me are a culmination of deficit, diagnosis, dysfunction.”

I looked at those hopeful words on the book again. I thought about the words you’d heard that were not healing. And I was moved by the courage it takes for any one of us to deal with mental health challenges–in ourselves or in our most beloved ones—the courage to hold on, the courage to let go. I realized that it was lack of accurate information and the presence of fear that so often has been the source of the stigma. The fear that I would be inadequate to help, the fear that the pain would overtake them, or me.  When I said as much to you, you smiled again.  “Of course,” you said. “It’s true we want to make things okay, for there to be a simple solution to our struggles in life, no matter what they are. But there aren’t any. There are lights we can shine on our questions. We can come out of the shadows and speak in our own voices. We can be proactive in self-care and expect that from others to whatever degree they are able, to do those things that nurture hope and resiliency. This part of me is not all of me. My life experiences include trauma and the reality of brain disorders, but I am not a diagnosis.”  You are not just a pre-existing condition, I thought. No, you are a precious person, walking beautifully and courageously on this earth.

Before you left, I asked what helps you as an individual. You take time off to rest, eat a healthy diet, stay connected, practice plans and interventions that help you navigate life to stay as healthy as possible.

You smiled again, and spread your hands kindly. “My plan works for me. I know different things work better for others. I am committed to being a living example that is hopeful for someone else. In my hardest times, what helped me most was when other people believed in me, gave me another chance, saw me without judgment, loved me unconditionally. I want to be that for other people–so they hear my story, see my brokenness and my resilience. When I am willing to be vulnerable, my story may have the power to heal.” I saw how Mike’s story connected to Elijah’s to mine to yours—that we are more resilient when we do the things that nourish life—rest, eat well, face into the storms, connect and reconnect to our sources of community, strength, and healing.

Mike lives and works in another state, and so many of you and others in our city, state, and region, he works with legislators, law enforcement, friends, peers, and educators to help eliminate stigma and promote resiliency. In the current political environment especially, we know how important it is for all of us, whenever and however we can to advocate, step in, stand up, and speak out for positive support and treatments for those with brain disorders and those who love them. But in the day to day, I believe it is our human connection that promotes life and hope. You and I are the love letters for the brokenhearted—each other. We are the survivors in the garden, the peers who speak, the support group we form–the broken and mending heart we bring is the one that heals. I want to be and I invite you to be, whenever and however we can be, that safe person—to see ourselves and one another with the eyes of God. To learn to let go of unreasoning demands and expectations—to be gentle, patient, kind, grateful, open, compassionate with myself and others.  I think about that button folks wear to help combat trans phobia and how powerful that little sentence is that appears on that button. What if, not only for trans folks, but also for combating all sorts of phobia, and to reach to every one of us, families who feel alone, primary sufferers dealing with addictions, those facing major mental illness, those who are broken all apart for whatever reason, that covers all of us—what if we each recommitted ourselves to this simple action in circumstances of fear, pain, and injustice: I’ll go with you. On the journey, in the night, in the light, when it’s easy, when it’s hard. A living love letter with the message scrawled upon the heart. I’ll go with you, because I have come through and I am still here. I will listen to you without judgment. I will mirror your words, your face, your truth. I will not deny or hide or stigmatize or judge. I will believe with you when you have stopped believing and when I stop believing, I will be vulnerable, too, and then I will trust you to go with me into the shadows, and so on… life as a chain letter. Love letters meant to be shared. Amen.