The mountains surround me, and my mind is even more still than usual. I am writing this while on a spiritual retreat. Five days ago, I left the pastor’s office and the church behind for a total of 12 days – that’s two Sundays. For a pastor, that is a big deal. My purpose for this break is for renewal, education, and rest. As a church leader with bipolar disorder, I consider this a necessity. My vocation as a parish pastor fosters a continuous preoccupation with schedules, exegesis, routines, liturgy, and, most importantly, the needs of the people. My predisposition as a nervous, moody, and neurotic human living with bipolar type 1 can make my occupation as a clergy person a slog at times. This is why I need these 12 days to focus solely on mentally preparing for the next year of pastoral duties.
“Sounds nice.”
I’ve heard that quote from many people when I explained that I take time off to study and recharge. My employment contract allots two weeks annually for continuing education, but not every pastor uses that time. When I entered the ministry, many church folks said, “Oh, you actually take continuing education leave?” If I didn’t do this, I wouldn’t want to see what would happen to me.
The last thirteen years of my life have been dedicated to following a simple routine of mental wellness. At its foundation, my regimen relies on listening to the guidance of trusted peers and professionals regarding my current state of psychiatric well-being. I have always needed time and peace to regulate that which pathology cannot balance. This is where my spiritual needs seem to intersect with my psychiatric needs.
Moments of quiet, meditation, prayer, and inquiry fill my days here on retreat. There are no interruptions. I am out of cellphone service areas, and I can almost always hear the sound of a flowing river. There are regular opportunities for community dialogue, and I am surrounded by forest, mountains, and animals.
Retreat also offers me nutrition. I don’t need to cook here. The meals are healthy and available around the clock. There is intentionality in the meals prepared, and food is served at a shared table.
When I explain the concept of retreat to my peers back home, I often hear, “I wish I could do that.”
This leads me to the main point. I consider myself privileged to have a spiritual retreat. I embarked on a journey that involved a three-hour flight to reach the coast, followed by a three-hour drive to a boat dock nestled in the mountains. From there, I continued for two more hours on a ferry, deep into the wilderness, until I reached a remote harbor. Subsequently, a 45-minute drive took me up a mountain road to the village where I am currently staying. Privilege brought me here, and privilege paid for my travel and stay.
Have you ever ordered a coffee and considered that the barista could use a spiritual retreat? Have you ever asked someone stocking grocery store shelves if their employer is giving them time once a year to recenter themselves? When you bite into a crisp and delicious apple, have your thoughts ever wandered to the migrant worker that labored to bring you the harvest? Have you ever considered if any of these people deserve an extended break for their mental, emotional, physical and spiritual well being?
Furthermore, I am fortunate to have all the necessary resources at my disposal to effectively manage my mental health condition, and yet it remains a daily struggle that demands continuous attention. I am privileged. People ask me how I can live well with bipolar disorder while others cannot. Why are you not unhoused, Pastor Perry? Why were you never incarcerated? Why don’t you have a criminal record? Why can you hold down a job? Why do you have a master’s degree? The answer is simple: privilege.
I have had every possible medical remedy at my disposal since the early signs of my disorder arose at the age of twelve. By the time I was 17, I had been assisted by two psychologists and a psychiatrist who is the leading doctor in dual diagnosis cases. I got to choose which psychiatric facilities I went to, and I was given aftercare. I went to a paid psychiatric and substance abuse facility for five months before starting this 13-year journey of recovery. The socio-economic, gender, and racial position that I was born into sheltered me from specific types of trauma that people like me are not often subjected to.
It is still a challenge to maintain my health, so I can only imagine and empathize with what it is like for oppressed individuals who lack access to all the things that have contributed to my mental wellness matrix.
As a person of faith and a pastor, it is my job to imagine and empathize with those who do not have what I have. For some reason, the dominant Christian narrative seems to offer success and advancement through conversion to Christianity. Conversion and “faith healing” are not a part of long term wellness in my experience. If I were a pastor that offered instant freedom from all that ails you, I would be casting a broad and irresponsible net that included absolute freedom from mental health conditions. It just isn’t that easy. My wellness has involved many thing other than my faith.
Here are some things that I can offer: a place of refuge, a listening ear, a place to be unwell, a place to be protected, a place to talk about healing and a place to consider where you can make connections outside of the church that will support your mental wellness. I facilitate healing, but I don’t eradicate disorders that I have no power over and have little clinical understanding of. Doctors, psychiatrists, psychologists, support groups and crisis workers should be in every pastor’s contact list.
So, why am I on this retreat? Certainly, I am here for my own well-being, but I’m also here to ensure that I can maintain a place in my community where individuals can seek solace, connection, referrals, support, and, if they provide consent, prayer.
Amen and thank you.
