depression

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Listening to Naomi Judd: She tried to be honest about her angels and her demons

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Listening to Naomi Judd: She tried to be honest about her angels and her demons

Naomi Judd thought she understood the ties that bind country-music stars and their audience -- then one aggressive fan went and joined the Pentecostal church the Judd family called home.

"It really burdened me," said Judd, after signing hundreds of her "Love Can Build a Bridge" memoir back in 1993. "I just don't sign autographs at church. The best way I can explain it to children … is to say, 'Honey, Jesus is the star.' "

After a year of this tense standoff, Judd became concerned and wrote the fan. "I said, 'I want you to really get away by yourself and read this letter and answer this question honestly: Do you come to church to see The Judds or do you come to church to see God?' She never came back to church. But she was in the autograph line today."

Through it all, Judd and her brash daughter Wynonna have talked openly about their triumphs and their struggles. Many fans identified with their failures just as much as the messages about faith and family.

At the time of that 1993 interview, Naomi Judd had battled through waves of anxiety attacks to address some dark realities -- such as rape, crisis pregnancy and her deadly battle with hepatitis C that retired the The Judds.

What she hadn't discussed was the sexual abuse in her childhood that led to treatment-resistant depression. Judd's April 30th death, at age 76, focused new attention on blunt passages in her 2016 book "River of Time," in which she said had been tempted by suicide. "I wanted to be completely honest that if someone took out a gun and killed me on stage, they would be doing me a favor," she wrote.

The Judds were inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame the day after Naomi's death and her shaken daughter Ashley Judd told the crowd, "I'm sorry that she couldn't hang on until today."

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Lessons for the modern church, in the pages of 'I Love Jesus, But I Want to Die'

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Lessons for the modern church, in the pages of 'I Love Jesus, But I Want to Die'

The first time Sarah J. Robinson tried to kill herself was eight months after she became a born-again Christian.

She had struggled with suicidal thoughts since elementary school. She would imagine jumping into highway traffic or fill her hand with pills and consider swallowing them. But her depression only deepened after she was baptized as a teen and poured herself into Bible studies and upbeat youth-group projects.

She felt like a failure. Finally, she pressed a knife harder and harder into her skin -- but she couldn't force herself to end it all on the kitchen floor. Looking back, she wrote: "I didn't want my family to find me there, so I got up and put the knife away. I climbed into bed, put on a worship CD, cursed God and went to sleep."

Robinson kept stacks of journals and they provided crucial material for "I Love Jesus, But I Want to Die," a book written during three years of struggle and research. Her battles with depression have continued, even during her years working as a youth minister.

Images of handwritten pages appear in the book, including this 2007 plea: "Lord, I'm struggling. I need your help. This week has been really rough -- I've been sad & lonely & angry & numb. I cut myself and berated myself, wished for the end, tried so hard to hide it. I'm not just empty -- I've become a vacuum, taking on more and more of the absence of your presence. … God, please don't let me be lost."

It was hard to be that vulnerable, said Robinson, reached by telephone in Nashville. But including actual journal pages "seemed like a no-brainer" if the goal was to "let other people who are hurting know they are not alone. I wanted them to know that I've been there -- in that kind of midnight."

Among secular researchers, it's common to find two views of mental-health issues, said Robinson, citing the work of Stanford University researcher Carol Dweck. The first is a "fixed mindset" that assumes these conditions are predetermined and unchangeable. Thus, "setbacks and failures reveal who we really are and will always be," said Robinson." The second is a "growth mindset" that says individuals can adapt and change.

In pews and pulpits, many believers simply assume all mental-health struggles represent a lack of faith. Strugglers will be healed if they dedicate themselves to Bible study and prayer, while turning away from their sins. Church-based "pastoral counseling" is an option.

"The idea is that if I put the right things into the spiritual vending machine, then I'll get the right things out," said Robinson.

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Are many religious flocks simply too afraid to help depressed, suffering people?

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Are many religious flocks simply too afraid to help depressed, suffering people?

Week after week, the Rev. Todd Peperkorn listens as pastors talk -- in private -- about people wrestling with loneliness, depression and urges to commit suicide.

Most ministers believe they know their own people and their struggles. Then things start happening that reveal dark secrets and pain in the lives of members of their parishes, said Peperkorn, senior pastor at Holy Cross Lutheran Church in Rocklin, Calif.

"What I hear pastors saying is, 'I didn't know. I didn't see it. Now I see it everywhere and I can't stop seeing it,' " he said. "Pastors want to help. They want to do the right thing. Most of all, they are scared that they will do something wrong and make a situation worse. …

"At some point, you can get so involved in the details of people's problems and their needs that you feel like you don't have the time or the energy to pray for them and carry on with all the other things that pastors need to do."

There's a reason that Peperkorn ends up on the other side of these conversations over coffee or on the telephone. He has openly discussed his own experiences as a patient diagnosed with clinical depression.

A decade ago, he shared what he has learned in a book entitled "I Trust When Dark My Road: A Lutheran View of Depression." Here's one unforgettable image from his story: During one busy Holy Week, he found himself writing an Easter sermon -- while, at the same time, pondering how he could commit suicide.

Right now, many pastors -- especially evangelical Protestants -- have been shaken by the death of the Rev. Jarrid Wilson, associate pastor at the Harvest Christian Fellowship megachurch in Riverside, Calif. He was best known as the co-founder of Anthem of Hope, a mental-health ministry dedicated to helping people struggling with depression, addiction and suicide.

On Sept. 9, Wilson appealed to his Twitter followers for prayer as he prepared to lead the funeral of a "Jesus-Loving Woman" who took her own life. A few hours after that service, Wilson sent out a poignant tweet.

"Loving Jesus Doesn't Always Cure Suicidal Thoughts.