What a monk, a psychiatrist & a rabbi taught me about living with constant pain – by Simon Hall

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I was converted into charismatic Christianity in my mid-teens and this started a loving and life-giving relationship with God.

But after 13 years, I felt the tap of the Holy Spirit had been turned off. The feeling of God’s loving presence disappeared.

For several years I scoured my tradition for answers. I spent two years repenting of every sin I could think of and having all kinds of prophetic words spoken over me. But nothing worked.

The monk

But my spiritual cloud began to lift when I read The Dark Night of the Soul by the 16^th century Carmelite friar, St John of the Cross. It had only cost me 20p second-hand and, to be honest, I only bought it to look good on my bookshelf.

In his book, John suggests that if you are experiencing God’s absence but not in active rebellion against God or doubting his love, you are probably experiencing a dark night of the soul.  This is something like God removing the stabilisers and training wheels from our bikes. It’s not a permanent condition but a necessary part of growing up that we learn to trust God without the good feelings that can come with spirituality.

As I read this short book, a new idea entered my mind: what if this isn’t my fault? I began to realise that my very real spiritual and emotional depression was caused not by my sense of God’s absence, but by what I thought this absence meant: I was a bad person who had displeased God.

Somewhere along the way I had picked up the idea that God’s presence and activity in my life was a reward for good behaviour, and its absence was punishment for sin or ‘lack of faith’. Just stepping out of this worldview with John allowed me to see how much judgement I was pouring onto myself.

The psychiatrist

Around that time I was reminded of another book on my shelf, The Road Less Travelled by Christian psychiatrist M Scott Peck. One quote stood out:

‘Life is difficult. This is a great truth, one of the greatest truths. It is a great truth because once we truly see this truth, we transcend it. Once we truly know that life is difficult, once we truly understand and accept it, then life is no longer difficult. Because once it is accepted, the fact that life is difficult no longer matters.’

I have found it important to go back and meditate on these words. Something we absorb from 21^st century western culture is the idea that our purpose in life is to be happy and successful. If we are not, then something must be wrong.

Why is this important? Because it reminds us of the truth that when terrible things happen they are not aberrations: they are normal. This is life, and as much as possible, I need to live it, rather than expend what life I have wondering why it’s happening to me the way it is.

Life is difficult. If we don’t accept this we will be weighed down by a sense of misfortune our whole lives.

The rabbi

Jesus’ disciples ask the standard theological question when confronted with suffering: ‘Why?’ They are trapped in the worldview I outlined at the start of this article: someone must have done something wrong for this to have happened. In John 9, they ask Jesus:

‘Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?’

The first thing Jesus does is dismiss this question out of hand: this bad thing did not happen because anyone did something bad. Over and again, we need to hear what Jesus is saying. Then he says something shocking:

‘He was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him.’

In the rest of the chapter we see how this works out: the pharisees choose not to believe it and Jesus contrasts their spiritual blindness with the man’s healing.

We should not look to place blame for anyone’s disability. But God can provide purpose and meaning through how we respond to pain and debilitation.

My chronic illness

I live with a chronic illness. I’ve been unable to work for over two years and I’ve been told by doctors that recovery is very unlikely.

One aspect of my condition is known as fibromyalgia, which is just a doctor’s way of saying painful muscles. All day, every day, I feel as though I have flu and ran a marathon yesterday. It’s not much fun, but love and friendship and an occasional board game can keep my mind off things for a while.

I have never once asked God, ‘Why me?’ or ‘Where are you?’ These questions don’t mean much to me anymore.

My identity

I have had to do a lot of work on my identity because before getting ill I was a very busy, activist Church Minister. Now I have to sleep a lot and my productivity is not what it once was.

Now, my main project is me. And there is plenty to be getting on with.

And I am finding that my life is more Christlike in ways that I had never expected. I feel an association with Isaiah’s words

‘We accounted him stricken, struck down by God, and afflicted’ (53:4).

The challenge for me is to respond to my condition and struggles with Jesus, and show what God can do with me through my physical brokenness.  To live out Paul’s reflections in 2 Corinthians 8-10 about his own chronic condition:

‘I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong’

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Simon Hall is a Baptist Minister from Leeds and is part of the Northumbrian Collective where a longer version of this article can be read: How a Monk, a Psychiatrist, a Mathematician and a Rabbi help me live with constant pain