The human condition is fraught with struggle, though the nature of that struggle varies greatly. Some wrestle with basic necessities like food and shelter; others face what we call “first-world problems,” such as the cost of gas or reliable internet service. We are all aware of the many struggles people face—or are we? Perhaps we are only aware of the struggles we see, or the ones we choose to pay attention to. We notice the visible and the public, the hardships our neighbors share or that society measures and tracks. But there are other struggles—hidden ones—that remain unseen because they are quietly endured or purposefully concealed.
Did you know that over 102.5 million Americans—more than 30% of the population—struggle with mental illness each year, and only half of them seek treatment? “Mental illness” is a broad term encompassing mental, behavioral, or emotional disorders. It does not mean that 30% of the population live with severe conditions such as schizophrenia; very few do. Most experience some form of depression or anxiety, often without recognizing it or knowing what to do about it.
If you have never experienced depression or anxiety, allow me a moment to describe what it can feel like. When I was in my late twenties and early thirties, I was tired all the time. I didn’t want to attend events, see friends, or even play Legos with my kids. I wanted to curl up on the couch, get lost in television or books, and be left alone—yet I also longed for emotional connection. I couldn’t explain why I felt this way because I didn’t understand it myself. On top of the depression, I was living with undiagnosed anxiety. A simple note from my boss asking to see her could trigger a three-day, nonstop internal conversation ranging from “I’m about to be fired” to “It’s probably nothing,” and every possibility in between. My chest would tighten as if in a vise, or I’d have heartburn so severe I wondered if it was possible to replace my esophagus.
Through it all, I kept going to church, though even that began to feel empty. I struggled to understand why I no longer sensed the presence of God. At the same time, I was devouring every book I could find about God—and becoming increasingly angry. How could the Creator of the universe allow creation to destroy itself? Why did God seem so silent?
That struggle—to understand why I felt alone despite being surrounded by love, despite knowing that God loved me—was both painful and life-giving. As I sought medical treatment for my depression and anxiety, I also realized I was walking through a spiritual crisis—a dark night of the soul. Slowly, I began to see that my turmoil was not evidence of God’s absence but part of a process. God was using my pain to shape me, to call me, to show me that divine healing often happens through human hands. God calls doctors and researchers to develop medicines that ease mental suffering. God calls social workers, counselors, and pastors to walk beside those who suffer. God heals the world through the people God calls to serve.
Mental illness is prevalent among us, yet we rarely recognize it because those who live with it often become experts at hiding it. Only in recent decades has our culture begun to speak openly about it—and even then, much of that openness comes from those who do not experience it. Hiding our pain behind a façade is exhausting. It denies others the chance to love us as we are, and it can make it nearly impossible to believe that God loves us. If you cannot believe that your friends, family, or partner love you, how can you trust that God’s love is real?
In this way, the struggle with mental illness mirrors the struggle of faith. Jacob, too, was a deeply flawed man—he deceived his brother, cheated his father-in-law, to gain wealth and power. Yet Scripture tells us he was loved and blessed by God. His greatest struggle was spiritual, revealed in the mysterious night when he wrestled with God and received a new name. Israel—which in Hebrew means “one who struggles with God”—became not just Jacob’s name but the name of God’s people. The biblical nation of Israel is, at its heart, a community defined not by perfection, but by struggle.
This story reminds us that struggle is not the opposite of faith; it is often the birthplace of faith. When we wrestle with God, we are held in the tension between our weakness and God’s strength. That tension is not punishment—it is grace. It is through wrestling that we discover who we are and who God is. Jacob walked away from his encounter wounded yet blessed, forever changed. So too, our own wounds—emotional, mental, or spiritual—can become signs of encounter with the divine.
Depression, anxiety, grief, or despair are not signs of divine abandonment but invitations into deeper relationship. When we face the darkness within and refuse to let go until God blesses us, we participate in that same sacred struggle. God meets us not in our masks of composure but in our honesty, exhaustion, and raw humanity.
The incarnation itself reveals that our pain is not foreign to God. In Jesus, God wrestles with what it means to be human—even unto death—and transforms our suffering into resurrection hope. To live as Israel is to live as those who wrestle with God and yet cling to God. It is to trust that even in the depths of depression or anxiety, the wrestling itself can become holy ground. For it is there—in the night, in the uncertainty—that we find God not as the one who removes our struggle, but as the one who blesses us through it. What we do with that blessing is up to us, and it is my profound hope that the church continue on the path of making our communal spaces sanctuaries in the truest sense, spaces that truly welcome and protect all, including our siblings who hide their pain.