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Confessions of a Survivor

By Greg Asimakoupoulos

I’m a survivor. No, I didn’t win a million dollars by outplaying, outlasting, and outwitting contestants on a reality TV show. A decade ago I survived the jungle of clinical depression. And today I’m grateful to say my experience was every bit as rewarding and far more valuable.

My wilderness experience was not in the Australian outback or on a deserted tropical island in the South China Sea. It was in my first church out of seminary, a small church struggling to make a dent in a suburban frontier just east of the Bay Area hills of northern California.

After 7 years at Crossroads Church in Concord, California, I felt my ministry, though small, was thriving. Attendance was up, complaints were down. On Monday, as I played golf with Don Spradling, who pastored Calvary Temple across town, I was able to focus on sinking 6-foot putts with joyful abandon.

And then without warning I lost my balance and fell into the dark emotional basement of depression. Years of trying to compete with larger growing congregations like Don’s had led me to the edge. This is the temptation most pastors of smaller churches continually face. We drive ourselves to find the secret formula to begin a growth momentum that becomes self-sustaining. Due to lack of paid staff, we try to overmanage the committees and boards, in hopes of lending the expertise we think our volunteers do not have. Without a built-in support structure that a multiple staff provides, we internalize (instead of sharing our feelings with interested colleagues) the disappointment and stress that occur when growth is not forthcoming.

My low self-esteem as a small-church pastor trying to compete with the big guys led me to the edge, but I was tripped up with a couple of unexpected events.

First, I discovered an irreconcilable conflict with a leader in the church. Second, my father nearly died from a massive heart attack. When I looked into the mirror each morning, I came face to face with reminders of my own mortality and imperfection. It was more than I could handle.

One day, life seemed absolutely meaningless. The next day, I felt the same. I was continually sad. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t concentrate for any length of time. The blue sky and green hills surrounding the church looked black and white (mostly black). The ring of the telephone was more than I could stand. I’ll never forget the emotional paralysis I felt standing before the congregation on Easter Sunday. They were expecting good news about the power of the living Christ in our lives made possible by the empty tomb. I felt like a hypocrite. As far as I was concerned, it was still Good Friday (and Jesus wasn’t alone on the cross).

MY SURVIVAL KIT

My superintendent recommended a sabbatical. The church board said it wasn’t financially feasible. Because ministry had to continue, I had no choice but to gut it out and pack a survival kit. Here are several items in my kit that helped me provide for the congregation while climbing out of despair.

1. A Christian counselor. Even though it was initially hard to swallow, I took the medicine I’d prescribed to countless couples through the years and sought out a counselor. When he told me my condition had a name, I had reason to hope. My condition was curable. His capable insight and prayerful counsel gave me courage to admit my failings and fears. I came to the point of actually looking forward to my therapy. A shriveled self-image began to rebound. I was affirmed; so was my call to ministry.

2. Journaling. One of Dr. Richards’ suggestions was keeping a journal. Given my diagnosis, my anger, apathy, and confusion were to be expected. They were also worthy of being chronicled. Because my soul was parched, I wasn’t motivated to spend time with the Lord. Yet, I didn’t mind writing Him notes that documented my dilemma. By funneling my feelings (or lack of them) to a notebook, I was able to evaluate the validity of my thoughts. As Daws Trottman of Navigators once said, "Thoughts untangle and make more sense when they pass through articulating finger tips." I found I didn’t need to believe everything I thought.

3. Confession. I was in too much inner pain and turmoil to pretend. I candidly admitted to the congregation one Sunday that I was in depression. I acknowledged I was seeing a Christian counselor. I asked them to pray for me. In addition, I asked them to be patient with me while I healed. My initial fear that such an admission would result in rejection was unfounded. The cards and letters (and even some annoying telephone rings) reminded me I was loved.

4. Preaching helps. A pastor in depression is in survival mode. He is grateful for whatever resources he or she can find that translates into saving time and energy in planning worship and preparing sermons. Having previously used a coordinated worship and preaching curriculum, I ordered sample sermons and illustrations. In addition, I cut back on nonessential pastoral tasks at church. General visitation was put on hold. I learned I could delegate nonemergency calls to others. Nonpersonal mail was sorted and distributed to members of the board, according to the committee they chaired.

5. Pastoral care. For the first time in my memory, I consciously took care of me—the pastor. My wife got the kids to school while I slept in, drank coffee, and watched The Today Show. When I told the board I was bone weary (it was emotional exhaustion) and needed more rest, they didn’t protest. As a result, the guilt I felt at first while I put in less than a full day eventually evaporated. The more rest I got, the more energy returned. I discovered that by adding aerobic exercise to my daily routine, my nightly rest was more replenishing, and I felt more energetic. Since jogging has never been a temptation, I wore out the tread on my Nikes® by walking several miles a day.

6. Family time. As I gradually came to my senses, I recognized that my wife and children were members of my congregation, and I hadn’t spent much time ministering to them. Here was a time to make up for that oversight. We went for walks or picnicked. We took day trips on Saturdays to the beach or simply watched TV. Would you believe I even played dolls with my girls? To my wife and my girls, I was loved and accepted simply for my presence (as fragile as it was). My job performance, preaching skills, or ministry success were not the basis of their affection. They cared for me because I was me. It was in that atmosphere of unconditional love the black clouds of despair eventually lifted.

7. Acceptance. Peace of mind returned to my heart as I accepted that Crossroads would not likely ever grow to the size of Calvary Temple; but what really ushered in the peace of mind was that this was okay. Not every pastor has been wired to have a huge flock. I saw I didn’t need to have my hands in everything. I didn’t need to attend all the committee meetings. I didn’t need to push myself so hard anymore. The truth is, I’m a much better shepherd than I am a rancher. My gifts of care and encouragement (as well as writing and poetry) find expression more easily where pews are few.

It’s been 11 years since my 9-month bout with depression. I can honestly say my life is richer for the experience. No, I didn’t win a million dollars or become a television celebrity. I didn’t get voted off an island or have to eat grubs. But I did survive. And in the process, I tasted flavors of God’s grace I previously didn’t know existed. What is more, I have the satisfaction of knowing I can endure the wilderness of hardship with God’s help. And with His help, I’ve discovered the indescribable contentment of blooming where He plants me.

Greg Asimakoupoulos is director of creative communications for Mainstay Ministries, Naperville, Illinois.