In my little parish, mental illness simply cannot remain unspeakable. We're soaking in it, especially in these few dark weeks before Christmas. People who manage to hold it together most of the rest of the year are plunged into anxiety when the bright lights start to twinkle and everywhere you turn are promises of the perfect family, the perfect holiday, the perfect life - if only you buy the perfect gift. Never shall it be acknowledged that anything less that just the right item might be acceptable. Never is the possibility that one might not have anyone for whom to buy - much less anyone who might offer one a gift - even broached. No, we are to shop shop shop and give give give, and as long as we buy and give the Right Things(TM), life will be beautiful.

Or so we're told. (Or should I say, "Or so we're sold?")

In our community, demons of guilt, regret, broken promises, rejection and alienation litter the paths of every single one of us who manages to keep ourself together enough to hold down a job, raise a family, or otherwise manage to pass for 'normal'. It's not uncommon for someone to be in tears during Mass, and in recent weeks, tempers have frayed as the anxiety and stress that exists in the culture seeps into relationships between people as well. No one escapes the tension or the low-level depression that underlies so many interactions, even if it's simply a matter of witnessing the struggles all around. We all carry the unspoken fear that maybe, just maybe it's not really all going to be OK after all come Christmas Day.

So often when we think "mental illness", we do flash onto images of Jack Nicholson or even Almodovar's Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown. (Gazpacho, anyone?) The rest of us? Well, perhaps we're a little overwhelmed with work or school, but we're fine as long as we get our couple glasses of wine each night. Or maybe we have this habit of revisiting past conversations, deconstructing them to parse each word and see if perhaps we said something wrong. Or perhaps it's as simple as waking up at 3am in an anxious sweat, tossing and turning until dawn over questions of what the future might hold - questions that seem so very urgent at 3am, even if not a single decision made in the dark of night could be acted upon before dawn anyway.

For a few of us, it might mean frantic trips to the store in these next few days, taking a list and checking it twice, fearing that the items on it may be too expensive - or not expensive enough, whether they'll send the right message, whether the degree to which the gift is accepted and appreciated represents the ultimate significance of the giver in the recipient's life. I've been there before, and it's a bloody, godawful mess.

One way or another, we're all touched by mental illness, especially in this season. For some, it may be one's own formal diagnosis of a condition in the DSM. In the past six months alone, two of my friends have shared with me diagnoses they carry. Two others have found themselves in the mental health system desperately seeking answers while simultaneously hoping against hope that it'll all just go away, that the stigma that comes with having a DSM label or needing to take meds will simply miraculously pass over one's door.

One of those friends wryly noted in a letter, "Given the way things are right now in the US and in Catholicism, not being depressed about it might be a bad sign of a much more serious illness than any diagnosis of severe depression could be. Anyone who thinks everything going on these days is sane is probably more than a little nutty themselves."

I can't really argue with that logic.

Others of us may find ourselves with a transitory bit of depression or anxiety - the mental health equivalent of a cold. A few remedies might alleviate the discomfort for a bit, but in any event it will pass. Maybe it's situational, maybe it's just getting a little tired or missing that bright orb that is absent from the Oregon sky in these months. A few broad-spectrum lightbulbs and a trip to chilly but bright Bend can clear that up right away.

It's a continuum, and according to Mental Health Ministries, over half of the adults in the United States will experience a mental disorder at some time in our lives. I don't stay awake wondering if I'll be part of that statistic someday; I've already carried an ADD/depression dual diagnosis. The depression is gone - right now - but I'm not foolish enough to think that it's by virtue of anything I've done. Several years ago this season I was in my third or fourth week of living entirely on Trader Joe's Soup & Oyster Crackers, frozen peas, and vanilla frozen yogurt with caramel sauce from the espresso bar at the far side of the campus where I work. Depression left me suicidal; I thank God that the kid was plenty of a reason to not go through with it. The curiosity of wondering just how long someone could live on crackers, peas, and frozen yogurt gave meaning to each day as it ticked by. (A: At least 23 days. Then, feeling much better & with a good med kicking in, I branched out to Tom Kha Gai soup and beyond. Oh. Did I mention that the ADD is still with me, even if the depression is not? Now ... where was I?)

Communities of faith - whether they be physical places like my little parish, or virtual sanctuaries such as what we've built on Prophecy Street - play a valuable role in the lives of any of us who have experienced any form of mental illness in our lives whether personally, by walking the journey with a loved one, or both. For me, being present every week in a community where many experience mental health issues that impede their ability to function "normally" in society (and oh do I use that term loosely) reminds me of how fragile all of us are. No, not just the 50% or so who will someday experience a mental health issue - all of us. The guy who sits in the back row talking to his voices through the entire Mass also smiles warmly at me every time he sees me. The woman who is dabbing the tears from her eyes from the introduction through the benediction reminds me that I spent months doing that myself, and still do on occasion. It's not something to be feared, not in our little community.

In October, the Council on Mental Illness of the National Catholic Partnership for Disability held a "webinar" about supporting people with mental health issues and their families within parish communities. Attendees were given practical information about how to recognize and welcome people within their communities who experienced mental illnesses or disorders. Dr. Thomas P. Welch, Chairman of the Interfaith Council on Mental Health, summed it up simply. "Pay attention. Welcome. Include. Accommodate. Pray. Learn and teach."

Tonight our peripatetic peregrinos come to our doors with legions of demons, traumas, and fears. They knock - are we paying attention? What sort of welcome will they receive? Can we include tonight's pilgrims from La Posada in our gathering, and accomodate their needs, just as we might accomodate the requests or idiosyncrasies of those among us deemed 'healthy'? And of course - we must pray*. For it is through our prayer that we reach out together toward the One who can cast out the demons, can quiet the troubled waters, and can make us whole again.

Spirit of all imagining, all thought, all vision -

We ask your watchful presence over our doors tonight. We will be visited by friends and family who come bearing illnesses that we fear to even name, so great is the stigma. We understand physical disabilities and challenges, but in so many ways we've not come far at all from those who bound their brother in shackles and chains all those years ago. Take away the fear that is our own illness, and let us see our own precious lives reflected in the faces of these Brothers and Sisters - and may we see Your face there as well.

May peace be with us all.
Pax - and Amen.

(*meditate, hold in good and active thought)