“A God I never would have discovered without my affliction”

David Weiss was diagnosed with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder in the spring of 2005. An excerpt from his CT article, “God of the Schizophrenic”--

A year before my treatments, I went to see the best psychiatrist I have ever known. He was a professor who oversaw the resident students at the University of Arizona College of Medicine. He always told me the truth and did his best. He was one of the select few who made a real difference. He was a Catholic. I know because he wore a saint around his neck.

I talked about how I felt and the slow but steady progress I had made toward the illusion of normalcy. I mentioned that I found it easier to pray.

"You believe in God?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied.

He sat forward, this tall Mexican man. He didn't meet my eyes, but asked, "Why?"

I didn't have an answer then. I still don't. Perhaps I can't cope with the prospect of meaningless absurdity. Perhaps I am a coward. I am certainly not brave. Perhaps I am just wishing for a better existence.

I have a group of three friends. We call ourselves the "bipolar buddies." We all went to the same church, and we were the nerds, the kids with straight As and college scholarships. With a 3.8 GPA, I was the underachiever. Within a few years, we were all diagnosed with serious mental illness. We lost our scholarships and our dreams. We each also had a crisis of faith.

While some members of our conservative church were supportive, it was amazing how often our questions were met with skepticism and hostility: "Are you secretly gay?" "Do you have some unconfessed sin?" "Are you possessed by a demon?" "How dare you question God!" The range of suspicions was staggering.

My parents deflected the ugliest overtures. When my mom had cancer, some friends tried to ascertain a spiritual cause, so she understood how sincere people could give harmful advice. But despite her protective efforts, the questions and interventions persisted. More than once I went to a prayer meeting where people laid hands on me and asked God to heal me—but also to increase my faith, make me more like Christ, and so on.

My faith in God has always been an important part of my life. I am not a saint. I have prejudices and flaws. But as a Christian, I wish fellow churchgoers would refrain from passing judgment and recommending a fix after two minutes of conversation.

…

Though my illness persists, I have finally met the God I had heard about but never truly experienced. A God who heals. A God who loves. A God I cannot logically explain to my psychiatrist. A God who manifests his genius by salvaging good from the evil in our lives. Someone unlike me. Someone unlike the well-meaning inquisitors who judged me and sought to spiritually cure me. Someone I never would have discovered without my affliction.

A God who calls himself Emmanuel—God with us.