That the Works of God Should be Made Manifest in You

“Hold up your light that it may shine unto the world. Behold I am the light that ye should hold up – that which ye have seen me do.”

I’ve never thought much about why. Honestly, prior to serving a mission, I never thought much about the what either. What was going on inside my mind.

Terms like anxiety, depression, mental illness, obsessive compulsive disorder and the like felt like taboo topics growing up. Those people have problems. Get yourself together. Choose to be happy. Let go of stuff that bothers you. Get over it. And learn to control your thoughts.

Not bad advice. Frankly, it’s good advice to actively take control of your mind and body and walk the path of emotional, physical, and spiritual stability and health. Until you realize that, for some people, they just can’t.

One of my first times recognizing a panic attack remains critically imprinted on my memory. Waking up in a cold sweat. An impending sense of doom. My heart racing. The feeling that I was definitely going to die. I felt the desire to call my parents, but I didn’t want to wake them in the middle of the night. I remember rocking back and forth on the couch in the living room trying to breathe and calm myself down. I don’t believe I called my parents. I think what happened is that the thought occurred to me, “You are having a panic attack.” That realization was its own balm. The knowledge of what was actually happening acted like an instant sedative. I had just needed something to jolt my brain away from the dimension of false perception and back into reality. I regained control. I went to bed.

I could go on with these stories. A conversation with my mom when I was six years old. We were in the back room of my grandma’s basement. I was crying because I didn’t want to live forever. The thought was terrifying and overwhelming. She told me that she didn’t bother thinking about things she knew she couldn’t comprehend with her mortal mind. I don’t know how I remember that, but I do. I stopped thinking about it for a few years.  But there’s a reason I sleep with a nightlight or lamp on in my bedroom. I read online that it’s called Apeirophobia, a crippling fear of eternity that leads to intense feelings of horror and eternal dread – like gaping into the jaws of hell. A feeling that you’d rather cease to exist than stay physically or mentally alive. The reddit boards about it are fascinating. I still struggle with it.

There are stories of OCD – learning to cope with a mental illness that daily convinces you to give into compulsions as if every sin were your temptation, tendency, and desire. A beautifully self-deceptive trap that makes understanding of self a challenge if not, at times, impossible. To delineate between the real and the skewed is a daily battle. Time helps with that. So does self-talk. Good sleep. Exercise. And the right people to talk to – like a dad who spent his career working with soldiers with PTSD. It is almost a disservice to brush over it here, but there’s so much more to say towards my point.  

Every day, in the end, you realize you’re walking around like a broken replica of an imaginarily intact and perfect human soul. An almost frustratingly mandated realization of one’s own mortality. Which, in the end, is also everyone’s problem.

But we weren’t created towards an end of self-disappointment and defeat. Maybe that’s why something in my scripture studies caught my eye this week.

It was 10:30pm and I was exhausted. I was running on a disturbingly common four hours of sleep. I’d driven up to Sandy to see my Dad off before he flew home after coming out for my brother’s graduation. My mom had decided to stay behind for a few more days so she could take my little sister home for the summer. My older sister and I ended up sitting on our mom’s bed when she tells us that we still need to have FHE, even though we’re all tired and not feeling well. She says we’re going to read from Come Follow Me, John 9, and I’m mentally rolling my eyes because why does my Mom have to insist on making us pretend to spirituality when we’re obviously too drained for that kind of intellectual integrity?

Except we start reading about the man born blind. Three verses in and my mind lights up in shock at the sheer relevance of a sudden verse of scripture I’ve read multiple times and never cared much for.

“Master, who did sin, this man, or his parents, that he was born blind?” The question from the disciples of Christ illustrates a sentiment not uncommon among their day and in some ways reciprocated in our modern society – “What did he do wrong in order to be cursed with this disability?”

“Jesus answered, Neither hath this man sinned, nor his parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in him.”

Certainly, the man wasn’t to blame for his disability – as is obvious to all of us—but the part of the answer that struck me was the idea that God’s works should be manifest through him. That sounds, bear with me, like a blessing. I used to think it was a little weird. It sounded like God cursed him just so He could heal him.

But this time, as I read the words, I realized it wasn’t a curse at all to be born blind. It was a fact. A consequence of being merely mortal. And I thought suddenly about my OCD.

Recently, and I mean very recently, I have come to realize that what definitely has been a trial and reasonably could be viewed as a curse has in many ways come to be an understated and perhaps misunderstood blessing in my life. I am not lauding or praising and certainly do not desire to fight a battle with my mind on a daily basis, but I’ve learned some things from this one ‘thorn in the flesh’ that has given rise to a number of personal revelatory and encouraging moments.

Each time I talk a friend out of a panic attack. When I bear testimony of the Atonement of Christ. When I question the validity of someone’s critical or self-demeaning perspective because I have to question mine on a daily basis. When I look at someone with compassion and interest. I am not building myself up here. I’d be the first to admit that I have a huge deficiency when it comes to natural human sensitivity and empathy. But over the last few months, I’ve realized that there is a power that comes with weakness. The trick is— it’s only accessed when we turn those weaknesses over to God and allow him to shape them for us. So, what power is that?

I remember when a friend once asked for my advice while she was going through a hard time because she knew I had gone through something particularly, albeit I think less, challenging. I remember being shocked at the realization that the Spirit might actually help me use my previously devastating experience to help someone else. I had never thought about the healing effect on others that comes from being the one constantly seeking for healing and strength from God. I had never thought that facing the inner little demons that make me cry in corners or struggle for breath in the middle of the night could help me calm and heal and lift up others. That my tears of sorrow could be turned to others’ peace. That strength rises from adversity. That bruised hearts can be softened and made compassionate as part of their becoming whole. And it’s not my strength, it’s God’s works and power manifesting themselves in our lives as we learn to rely on Him. I never thought about it that way.

But God knew that the whole time. 

In the story, the blind man regains his sight. And he becomes a disciple and witness of Christ – talking to the Pharisees with a spiritual wisdom that surpassed their years reading Mosaic Law. His very life – his weakness, his struggles, his healing, his journey likely became a source of testimony and strength to everyone who heard him. Why? Because he pointed them to Christ. And Christ is, in the end, the source of all healing. The blessing of years of disability was the suddenly acquired ability to lead others to healing, including himself.

He became an instrument and tool in God’s hands. A worker of miracles through the power of Christ. A broken soul becomes a healer of souls. In as reverent a way as possible, is that not, to some extent what the Savior himself experienced? To descend below all things in order to rise above all things. Do we not think his suffering a gift? Because he did it for us.  From the Master, we are taught to endure. We are taught to heal. We are taught how to bear suffering – unjust and underserved though it at times may be. It purifies the soul and enables us to help others.

I don’t always feel this way, of course. I often struggle understanding myself and breaking free from the mental prisons that my mind at times clings to like addictions. But there are moments – glimpses in which I feel for a moment that I see things as they are. Moments where I feel something akin to release, healing, peace, and joy. There are prayerful memories, miraculous experiences. Moments where I have felt a real power, a balm in Gilead wash over my soul and free me for a moment from my own brokenness. It is a reminder of my potential and Christ’s matchless power. It encourages me to not give up. If I endure, turning to Christ and turning outward to others, can his healing power turn me into an instrument in His hands? I think so.

   

It is not some curse to be broken – that is a mere fact of mortality. A curse would be to allow a broken mortal frame to break our very souls. The gift, on the other hand, is the depth of compassion and eternal promise to those who seek and follow Christ. The gift is that God can turn a mortal soul into a god. The gift is the ability for all to be made whole. A fact that was demonstrated in the very life of the man born blind but healed by the Savior.

When it comes to mental illness or emotional struggles, the healing may not come in this life, but the truth remains. “Neither hath this man [or woman] sinned, nor [their] parents: but that the works of God should be made manifest in [them].”

God’s work, glory, healing power, love, and redemption can be manifest though us - the broken ones.

And that is a miracle.

“My strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me. Therefore I take pleasures in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ’s sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.”