When Depression and Hope collide

Today I led a review day for 3 of my churches, we had a similar conversation with my other churches a couple of weeks ago. We are a year into a new structure and still trying it on for size, just as it takes time to break in new shoes that fill awkward and stiff after the old comfortable ones that have been shed, so we have a lot to learn and change not least me as the minister who is supposed to guide them through this. We also have issues of declining, aging congregations increasing bills and decreasing resources. All of which adds up to an uncomfortable conversation.

There are signs of hope and life, but they are small and need nurturing, and hard for people to see. And when they do see them it seems they see the work not the hope. It is strange that I, on antidepressants and knowing the struggle to find the positive in my own life, am the one who sees the possibilities and signs of hope in the church – or rather in the church living out its faith in the community.

I feel like the keen gardener nursing seeds and tiny shoots when others see only a pile of effort with no expectations that even if a hint of green is seen that it will survive let alone thrive, and there is just so much housework to do that all that time in the greenhouse just seems beyond them, and quite frankly natural growth can take a lot of work!

As the non gardener myself when not in metaphor I can see their point of view – acutely. And I see their tired eyes devoid of hope if not of longing. But sometimes longing for preservation of the familiar, not being able to glimpse anything that is different – and the seeds that grow today are very different to the plants that released them for the soil and conditions are so different.

And so here I am, the one part of my life that I live with hope and enthusiasm – boxed in by other people showing the depressive symptoms that I know so well in my personal life. I have an empathy from my own life but still want to bash heads together and say ‘don’t you get it?’ even though I know that doesn’t help. So understanding and yet still frustrated, and wondering if I have the inner strength to continue to proclaim hope to the hopeless, and freedom for the oppressed.

I will survive, but for tonight I will lick my wounds and have a glass of red wine.