Emotional Leprosy

 Part of being highly distractable is that when something is mentioned that has a whole category of memory or feeling, the mind takes a small hiatus - a short adventure into the realm of everything-in-that-category. This happened to me on Sunday when the sermon was regarding the 10 lepers (or, more accurately, the 9 and the 1). He was talking about what gratitude looks like, and trying to help us appreciate, in some small measure, what having leprosy was like in those days. He started saying how it was a socially isolating disease, a disease of separation, loneliness, scorn, rejection, humiliation. They had to walk about if they encountered healthy others, by calling out, 'unclean' to warn people to stay away. And he went on to focus on the theme of his sermon, which was gratitude. But I was already captivated, and brought to tears.  (There is something very healing about church: I go there to cry, then wait a whole week to return, only to cry again).  

I believe God speaks through His word to us. And He uses mere mortals - imperfect people - to prophetically steward His words, helping us catch their meaning. Of course people are not infallible in their proclamations. And I'm not looking for a hidden, mystical message when God's Word is preached. I merely sit and soak, wait and listen. I've heard so many sermons in my life - and many boring ones, dry ones, poorly delivered ones, as well as those more polished and dynamic ones we tend to call to mind as memorable. Preaching is a subject near and dear to my heart, but lest I digress, let me just state plainly that almost any sermon can be used to help us hear God's truth, His voice, His gentle whisper. If we're waiting. If we're listening. And even if the preacher isn't high-octane.

This past Sunday, I'm sure the message was not meant to be about leprosy. But it's where I was taken in my thought-imagination-journey. When he talked about the horrors of what people who suffered this disease experienced, mostly in their social setting, something shifted and moved in me. Being a spiritual director means I'm trained to notice these shifts, to wake up, pay attention. Why was I so suddenly gripped with this pain in my soul? Why was I fixated on his description of these who suffered - nameless, faceless ones who are the characters of this story? And I began a thought conversation with God, and my deepest, hidden self - the self that doesn't dare speak sometimes. 

"I feel like that, God. Like one who is separated from society. No-one sees my lesions, but the wounds on my soul feel so isolating. I may as well cry out, 'unclean!' because the weight of sadness and depression feels too heavy to inflict on others. Leprosy is a physical ailment that hinders feeling and sensation, and depression is an emotional ailment that hinders, at its worst points, any feeling whatsoever. It can feel like floating outside onesself, like I don't belong with others at all. It feels lonely, quiet, disengaged, cut-off."

"Do you remember going to the Leper Colony?"

"Oh yes, I forgot about that." 

"Do you remember meeting Father Nico? And the people you greeted there?"

And my mind went back to that place. Let me tell you about it.

In Macau, where we often went for excursions or brief holidays, was a small secluded area set aside for the housing and care of those suffering from leprosy. I didn't even know it existed for most of my childhood. Sometime in my teen years, I can't recall when exactly, we were staying in Macau for a few days, and Dad said, 'Today I'm going to visit the Leper colony - who's coming with me?' (I have since learned that the word 'leper' isn't appropriate to use as it identifies a person by their illness, but I'm telling this as it happened). I don't know what possessed me, but I figured if Dad was going, I may as well tag along. 

We went to a nearby market and got bags of fruit and some bakery items. Dad explained that the people in this area were somewhat like prisoners in that they had been placed there to live, often taken away from their families (even spouses) and sequestered there for the rest of their lives. People coming in from the outside were a great encouragement. Dad was teaching me the power of being seen. In some sense, because we were white Westerners, others viewed us as a bit of a novelty. I'm not saying it was warranted, but, if simply being fair-skinned with freckles and red hair is somehow fascinating to others who are cut off from the world, there's no harm in showing up so they can somehow enjoy this novelty. We made our way out to the outer corner of Coloane island in Macau and trekked up some steps to a beautiful spot with numerous small colonial-style huts. There were various ones shuffling about, and as soon as they saw us, they hobbled over to greet us. We handed some of them the groceries and shook their hands (even if they were mangled). Their faces were radiant. I couldn't understand their exceeding joy. We showed up with a bit of fruit and they openly welcomed us and our gifts, but with smiles as wide as their faces, with more happiness I can image anyone expressing. Father Nico came to greet us and showed us around for a while. They loved our visit.

I've been reflecting on this encounter and the few others I had visiting there. It strikes me as odd that I suffer a leprosy of the soul at times - an isolating scourge - a numbing of everything: joy, sorrow, shame, reproach, peace, pleasure. It's not a visible illness. It's not accompanied by the requirement to shout 'unclean!' when I'm near others. It doesn't physically remove me from the company of others. So why do I feel like depression is an emotional leprosy? When the preacher talked about the life of these men, why did I react so strongly? 

"It feels like I must stay away from others. That the weight of sadness isn't appropriate to share in polite company. That the warped thinking, the self-denigration, the shame, doubt, and discouragement are a form of uncleanness to society. That's why I feel like I have leprosy sometimes. Because it requires professional attention, and it strikes fear in those not trained to deal with it," I told God. 

"But I healed them - all 10 lepers. Don't you think I can heal you?"

"Lord, I believe, help my unbelief!" I responded. 

It is tragic to think leprosy still exists in the world today, though there is a cure and it isn't as contagious as it was thought to be in the past (oh the power of education, discovery, and science!!)

And when I think of what people have suffered in ages past - the excruciating separation from home, comfort, family, and society as a whole, it makes my heart hurt. Leprosy struck children often, and, once discovered, they would be swiftly carted off to the nearest leprosarium. This was the fate of many I met those few times in Macau. They had suffered the deepest traumas imaginable - losses so huge, they could not be counted. They lost physical stability, the loss of limbs, sensation, health, appearance; they lost family stability - familiar love, touch, embrace, soothing; they lost societal connection - acceptance, laughter, freedom, agency. I do not pretend the suffering I've encountered in my life is anything to that degree. But I have felt that deep ache of longing, of pain, of suffering of soul that resonated with those who I met in that small village in Macau. I could not speak at length with them - we had a language barrier, as they spoke Cantonese and we spoke English, and Father Nico translated a bit - He was Italian. But these who had sufffered so much had come into deep joy; they had developed hearts of gratitude. They loved their community, accepted their isolation, and became deeply devoted to each other and to their spiritual practices. Father Nico had been called to this mission from his humble home in Italy as a farm-boy. He had devoted his life to establishing this community and helping them to know the One Who suffered outside the camp, on our behalf. 

This is where their joy came from. They knew the Man of Sorrows. 

These days it feels almost wrong to resonate with another's suffering, as if it negates it somehow - 'suffering appropriation' might be a new catch-phrase term to add to the political correctness glossary. But maybe I'll take a pass on being cautious about that. I know my pain is different that those who suffer leprosy. And yet, through my imagination I can touch it somehow. I can feel traces of leprosy in my soul. And I trust the Man of Sorrows will also reach out and touch me, and welcome me with the ache, with the sense of uncleanness I carry at times. He doesn't cast me off. He pulls me close and welcomes me, hurting as I may be.

The story of the 10 lepers is about gratitude. To go deep with gratitude, I must uncover what my soul most deeply needs, and bring this empty place to God, and watch Him fill these gaps to overflowing with His love, healing, and peace. Then I hold myself before Him and say, "Look what You've done with me! I was hurting and needy, and You met me in this! I am Your held child. I'm so grateful to be here with You!"

Gratitude comes from a place of seeing, of feeling - feeling my need, my lack, and entrusting it to God Who visits us as more than a novelty. He takes on our flesh and walks our road, and drinks our cup of suffering. And I can't help but be thankful. I'm not alone in my pain. Jesus enters it.

Leprosy is chilling to think about. It represents outwardly what many of us feel inwardly - that we are trapped in a state of bondage to decay. So we wait for liberation, along with all creation:

The Apostle Paul tells us: "I consider that our present suffferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration...in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God."

Freedom. There is a freedom Paul is speaking of that is glorious. It is free from decay. Free from suffering. Free from the brokenness of this world. 

Perhaps the groaning and yearning in our souls is there for a reason. It beckons faith, it enlivens hope. It tells me there is something more. There is a freedom that only God can bring. 

We have a taste of it now. 

But we know there's more. So much more. 

Paul, in the same book, continues with these words a few chapters later: "May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit." 

This is my prayer for you, dear reader, for me, and for each of those I encounter.