Every now and then, someone really desperate walks into our churches in search of help. But it’s the kind of help we’re loath to provide and ill-prepared to dispense. It’s particularly challenging when the person is plagued with psychological problems that make everyone uneasy.
That’s what happened in our church recently. Suddenly a middle aged woman, dressed like a pauper and carrying a large cloth bag full of who knows what, showed up in our church. She would always arrive early, take a seat far from the front, usually skewed to the far side of the sanctuary. Never interacting with anyone, she would just sit uncomfortably alone, refusing to make eye contact with others.
Overcome with Fear, Shackled with Phobias
Every Sunday she would submit a long list of prayer requests – that she would not get sick, that she would not die, that the doctors wouldn’t put her to death, that the electric shocks in her head would stop – a list of things that were by no means normal. These prayer requests were repeated multiple times, making for a thick stack of prayer cards.
That’s how I got informed. As prayer leader, the stack came to me each Sunday. It was my job to pray for the requests. My initial reaction was that this person was overcome with fears, many of which may not have been real – at least not to others, but they were certainly real to her. It seemed clear that she was burdened with psychological problems and unable to find help.
I knew I didn’t have the expertise to help. I didn’t know who did. It’s an area the church could use help on. But I decided to reserve judgment and simply pray that God would free her of the demons that were plaguing her. I don’t necessarily mean real demons. Perhaps they were, perhaps not. It’s not important to know. What seemed important was that she had come into our church desperate for help, very sick and in need of deliverance.
A Woman in Need, Yet in Exile in the Church
The terrible part was how little we all did. Few had anything to do with her. She was not the type of person we wanted in our church. There was something “foreign” about her – like she didn’t belong in our church. She made most of us uncomfortable – myself included.
My wife was one of those who attempted to get to know her, only to learn that she was trapped in a hellish place within her mind that had an unrelenting grip on her consciousness. She simply repeated over and over her overwhelming fears. Conversation seemed impossible.
This was the person I was praying for, praying God would give her release. She had no one else to turn to, disappointed by legions of doctors and counselors who couldn’t break through the armor of self-isolation. It assured protection from further disappointment.
A Realization too Late Leaves Lingering Guilt
Though I prayed, I never took the time to even assure her that I was praying for her. I also failed to inform my prayer-team. It’s hard to believe my own callousness. I’d only said “hi” to her a couple times, nothing more – hardly giving her reason to stay.
No wonder then she left our church after a few months. In my indifference I failed to realize she’d left until a few weeks after it happened. Having returned from vacation, I didn’t even notice her absence for a few Sundays.
As I reflect back on these failures, I realize how much more work God must do in my life. I wish it were an isolated instance but God has shown me at times I’m reserved, curt or disinterested in others who’ve also come into our church in search of hope and friendship. They were halting efforts made with those who were just a bit different from the majority in our church.
Looking back, I’m disappointed at my own failure to reach out fully as Christ would have done. Yet I wonder what becomes of those who came into our church genuinely in search of help, only to stigmatized and exiled from the very help they sought?
Perhaps she’s not the only one plagued by demons. Seems I’m plagued by a few of my own. What happens when the church disappoints those in need? What do they conclude about God’s love and power to heal? These uneasy questions deepen my guilt, leaving only questions of “what if”. What if I’d just reached out? What might have happened?