When Life Isn’t Ideal: Faith, Mental Health, and Finding God in the Mess

Welcome to Sunburnt Souls. On this show we speak about life, faith, and our mental well-being. I’m Dave Quak, your host. Usually we interview awesome people from all kinds of walks of life. We’ve had businesspeople with schizophrenia, burnt-out pastors, and worship leaders with anxiety. We’ve had all kinds of epic people with all kinds of issues, and I’m continually impressed by how many people I meet who love Jesus and keep doing their best in life, even though they’ve got mental health challenges and a few things going on.

One of the first times I ever encountered someone with some real things going on was when I was about 19 or 20, in a church in Melbourne. I found the church a little bit, I don’t know, stodgy, but I wanted to figure out God. It was another Sunday service and I just expected it to be a regular kind of encounter.

Halfway through the singing, someone down the back screamed at the top of their lungs, scaring the hymn out of everyone around them. This scream lasted at least five seconds, and then straight after he just went on singing. A few minutes later, the same thing happened—five seconds of this blood-curdling scream drowning out “How Great Thou Art.”

It didn’t happen during the sermon—which I kind of wish it would have; that would’ve been hilarious—but it did erupt once more after church during coffee and mingling. Everyone’s hanging around with a cup of tea and all of a sudden this guy yells out for five seconds. Obviously everyone wanted to know who the new guy was and why he kept screaming.

Eventually we went and talked to Tony. He wasn’t screaming for fun or to cause a ruckus—he had Tourette syndrome. Tourette’s is a neurodevelopmental disorder where there are involuntary, repetitive movements and vocalisations. Tony was extreme; most people with Tourette’s aren’t as extreme as Tony. I’ve got a friend with Tourette’s and I didn’t even know he had it until I’d known him for ten years; looking back you notice a few tics, but not in the moment.

For Tony, his outbursts were involuntary. They happened when he felt nervous and someone asked him a question he couldn’t answer. If he didn’t know the answer, he’d scream for five seconds until his breath ran out—and then he felt somewhat relaxed.

Now, imagine a guy like Tony who wants to encounter God coming into a church where people, by and large, are pretty happy with the status quo. We wouldn’t always say it, and not all churches are the same, but we kind of like things to be familiar. We sit in the same seats, see the same people, follow a similar order of service—even though nowhere in the Bible does it give us the current order of service we all use around the world. (That’s a rant for another time.)

Tony comes into church; people are curious and fascinated, but no one’s rushing to bring him into their life group. No one’s getting alongside him to disciple him. Even though he’d been chasing God for years, life was isolating for Tony, simply because he had a mental illness.

When it comes to mental illness, Tony’s condition is one of the more difficult to navigate. Don’t get me wrong—I’m not the guy who says one mental illness is worse than another or needs more attention. All are valid; all people need support. I’m just saying that, for daily functioning, that would be extremely difficult. You might even say it’s “unideal.”

And I think “unideal” is the phrase I want to start using when I speak about mental ill-health.

I’ve been asked a lot of questions this week from radio stations and others. That’s not a veiled brag—it just happened because it was World Mental Health Day, and I’m getting interviews on other days too. But the questions were all about how to handle life with mental illness if you’re a Christian. People want to know what it’s like to love God and have something unbalanced going on in your mind.

I actually think “unideal” explains it well. Our life with mental illness is just as unideal as someone with a physical issue. Let me explain.

I’ve got a mate whose second toe is freakishly small. It goes big toe, tiny pygmy toe, normal toe, normal toe, normal toe. It’s not ideal, right? You look and think, what happened to your toe? He didn’t choose it; that’s just how it came out. He can still function—play football, surf well—but he’s got a weird toe. He’s still a legend. There’s nothing about his life that’s limited simply because he’s got a mutant toe—it’s just unideal.

The ideal foot goes biggest to smallest. (I know, some of you “second-toe-longer” people disagree.) Anything other than that—especially his mini second toe—is unideal. It doesn’t change who he is in Christ. It doesn’t mean he’s not made in the image of God or called by God. It just means his second toe has a little deficit.

What’s that got to do with mental illness? We need to apply the same principle. Some of us have things that are mentally unideal. It’s not ideal that I get manic as someone with bipolar. It’s not ideal that I get depressed. It’s not ideal that my friend’s schizophrenic. It’s not ideal that my mates have anxiety. But we can still live full lives; we’re still called by God; we can still do great things and see miracles happen. We can still draw near to the God who made us in his image, exactly as we are (Psalm 139).

Just because life isn’t ideal doesn’t mean it can’t be full and amazing. My life’s amazing. It’s crazy; it’s up and down. If I’m honest, there are days I wish I could punch them in the face. But on the whole, being unideal doesn’t mean I’m not awesome—because I’m made in God’s image.

And here’s the thing: if we’re honest, all of us are unideal. All of us. We all have an element of life that isn’t 100 percent—less than ideal. Did you notice that for years Jeff Bezos, with all his billions, had a droopy eye? Somehow it looks normal now, but he had it forever. Unideal. It didn’t stop him creating a multi-billion-dollar company and a delivery service that means I barely have to go to the shops. His eye was unideal—who cares?

When I say “who cares,” I don’t mean God doesn’t care about your problems. I mean who cares in the sense that someone else’s unideal won’t stop me loving them or drawing close to them—no more than my mate’s mutant toe would.

The idea that mental illness somehow makes you lesser, weak, poorly discipled, or separated from God is dumb. And I’d say anyone who believes that is believing it from a place of being unideal themselves—it’s a theological misunderstanding. Everyone is broken.

A friend told me the other day that he thinks I sit in my mental illness too much—that I’ve resigned myself to it rather than fighting it. But what you don’t see, if you believe that about someone, is that we’ve probably been fighting for a very long time before getting to a place of making peace with it. I haven’t made peace with the devil or grabbed the ailment as my identity. I’ve made peace with the fact that the world is broken—and, in that brokenness, brokenness latches onto people.

Think about life this side of eternity. Picture a bucket. Mine’s red—you can choose your own colour. In that bucket is all the brokenness of life: anxiety, bipolar, depression, alcoholism; my mate’s mutant toe; someone’s broken back; another friend’s kidney disease. All the unideal things are in this bucket of brokenness that exists because the world is broken and life is chaotic.

If we’re honest, everyone gets done by something sometime. We’re all broken in different ways. Sometimes you walk past the bucket and some of that brokenness latches onto you. It might be emotional—you feel despair, you can’t regulate thoughts and emotions, you’re easily triggered, you cry when no one else is crying (nothing wrong with crying; I’m just listing possibilities). If that’s you, it’s not because you’re weak or a loser or did something wrong. You walked past the bucket. That’s life this side of eternity.

You can fight it. You can grow healthier. But it doesn’t mean you’ll avoid the bucket. It gets every one of us, one by one.

When people look at my mate’s mutant toe and realise it came from the bucket of brokenness, no one seems to have an issue with it. “That’s just a broken, mutant toe; he can live fine with that.” I think we need to treat mental illness similarly—not that it’s inconsequential and we shouldn’t help people, but inconsequential in the sense that everybody is affected by the bucket somewhere. You might be affected mentally, someone else spiritually, someone else physically. All of us are.

World Mental Health Day reminds us we’re in this together. Roughly one in eight people globally are living with anxiety and depression right now—nearly a billion people. In Australia it’s about one in four or five for anxiety/depression; in the States it’s a little more. The stats aren’t better inside the church than outside. It’s a human condition.

Back to the bucket. People walking with mental illness aren’t doing it because they like it. There’s a small percentage who might feel they’ve grown accustomed to it, like it’s a friend, but that’s not most of us. I’m not holding on to mental illness because I believe God gave it to me to reach people or for some mysterious purpose. I don’t believe God gave it to me. I walked past the flipping bucket and out of it, depression, anxiety, bipolar jumped on me.

I walk with bipolar now. God didn’t give it to me, but because I’ve got it, I take it back to God, and he uses it and redeems it for good. Instead of being wasted on my little life, it’s used to help others, to bring redemption, to share the gospel, and—most importantly—to keep me humble so I don’t think I’m more than I am. I recognise I can’t do what I do except by the glory, power, kindness, and grace of God. That’s what any ailment should do: he didn’t give it to me, but he’s not going to waste it—and neither am I.

People ask, “Have you given up praying? Do you still pray about it?” To be honest, I don’t really pray about it much anymore. Not in a resignation way—I have prayed, like Paul with his thorn, more than three times. I’ve gone to countless healing schools and deliverance ministries; I’ve had many people pray for me. Only two weeks ago at a conference at Transformations, the Holy Spirit was moving; a medical doctor from Ukraine—an absolute nutcase in the Holy Spirit—in the best way—prayed over me for my mind to be rewired. I asked God again: lift this off me. The next day I woke up with bipolar still.

So it’s not like I’m not trying. But I don’t try in a way that hurries my soul or steals my peace or wrecks my relationship with God. I’m asking and believing, but I’m also walking in what is. We can pray in a way that brings more anxiety than peace—hurried, rote, repetitive, like the prophets of Baal on Mount Carmel—instead of resting in God and saying, “I have prayed; your grace is sufficient for me; your power will be made perfect in my weakness as I go about bringing the kingdom.” That’s where the power is for me.

So if you’re praying about your mental well-being, do it—petition, run to God. But if you’ve prayed for a season and it’s not lifting, that’s not because you’re a horrible pray-er or God’s being mean. There’s a bigger story at play and you might not know all the scenes yet. There’s freedom in making peace with it.

Some will disagree: “You can’t make peace with sickness—it’s not what’s happening in heaven; it’s not God’s will.” I don’t know, mate—maybe sometimes it is. Think of Nick Vujicic, the dude with no arms and legs. I actually knew Nick before he was famous; he lived next door to Jackie, one of the youth leaders at the church where I got saved at 20. He was speaking for free back then. I’ll never forget him turning around in his chair, hitting a bump at the front, and falling on his head right in front of me. I could’ve caught him, but I was so shocked I just froze.

Nick doesn’t ask for healing anymore. He doesn’t want it. God has used him with no arms and legs more than almost anyone I know. Same with Joni Eareckson Tada. People kept trying to pray for her healing and she’s like, “Can you just stop? I have prayed. I’m going to live.” God’s grace is sufficient; his power is made perfect in their weakness. If they had full physical healing, perhaps God wouldn’t be using them in the same way.

Some people don’t love hearing that because they believe Jesus healed everyone all the time. That’s not actually true. John 5 says there was a great multitude of sick people at the pool of Bethesda. Jesus healed one man and withdrew; the multitude remained. That doesn’t mean Jesus lacks compassion, but it does mean we can’t guarantee he will heal every time. If you think that’s how Jesus always works, you may end up frustrated at the world, and maybe even at God. I’m not going to be frustrated at God anymore. He’s reminded me of his goodness over and over, shown me his love, renewed my heart for him, and shown me that I can live as a son—loved, adored, liked by God himself.

If that’s the God I serve and I still walk with bipolar, I’m not going to rage against that anymore. He can reveal the next piece of the puzzle any time he wants.

Another question this week: “By dwelling on your mental illness so much with Sunburnt Souls, are you making it worse—shouldn’t you just forget about it?” I’m trying not to hate people, so let me concede: just because we have mental illness doesn’t mean we need to focus on it all day, every day. If my mate only ever talked about his mutant toe, we’d say, “Okay, we’ve heard about the toe—can we move forward?”

There’s a difference between paying attention to something and dwelling on it. I don’t think I dwell on my mental health. I think about it when I’m in it and doing something about it, or writing, or interviewing someone. That’s not dwelling; it’s proactive engagement in an important conversation.

If one in four people are struggling with mental well-being, I don’t know a bigger subgroup. If our church is about 100, then roughly 25 are struggling. Think of any other subgroup: maybe four breastfeeding mums—we care for them with a quiet room; 20 kids in kids’ church—similar ratio; 15–20 older blokes. In every demographic, a quarter are walking with mental illness, and that’s only those willing to speak up, which many won’t due to embarrassment or fear it’s a spiritual deficit.

As a pastor, if you care about the body of Christ, a quarter of the people in your world, room, and life group are struggling with this. So don’t say, “You’re dwelling on it; that’s the problem.” I’m not dwelling—I’m trying to do something about it. I’m trying to show people that Jesus is with you with or without mental illness—same as with a physical ailment. He’s with you. That’s why he died: to bring you into redemption so you can have a relationship with God.

If my mental health is good, God is good and close. If my mental health is bad, God is good and close. Sometimes when I’m furious—when I’m manic—everything is irritating. Not just normal irritating; like, Bunnings-on-a-Saturday irritating. If you’re neurotypical, you might not notice, but the music is loud. If your mind is racing, you haven’t slept, you’re anxious and heightened, people are everywhere, you just want to get home—it’s horrible. Sometimes in Bunnings I’m muttering under my breath, “Would everyone please shut up,” and I say the actual words.

I don’t feel distant from God even then. I’m not assuming on grace or sinning willfully; the fury from inside is coming out, and God is helping me through it. He ministers to me through my brokenness, pain, and hecticness. He is the God of the broken-hearted. He stands with the downcast and the anxious and brings his peace when peace feels impossible.

I’ve learned to invite God into my mental battles. I’ve learned to sit under my robe in the darkness with him—lamenting like Psalm 88: “The world is bleak; can you take me out of this place? My friends are against me.” I’ve invited God into my anxious mornings when it feels like a weight is on my chest and I don’t want to face the world. I’ve invited him into the areas where I’m a bad dad—where I get frustrated at my kids, whether it’s my weakness, my mental health, or both. Otherwise I just feel condemnation and guilt.

That doesn’t excuse being a frail dad. The way to honour God when you mess up isn’t to sit in brokenness and beat yourself up as penance. It’s to forgive yourself, ask forgiveness from your kids, get restoration with God, and move on. The quicker the restoration, the more glory goes to God—otherwise you’re paying twice for what he’s already paid for.

I’ve invited God into the fights I have with my wife. Last Sunday on the way to church we had a massive fight. We usually take separate cars because we used to fight on the way, but we forgot and drove together. Big fight. Spiritual warfare. And then God moved in the service—someone became a Christian, worship was amazing, we prayed over heaps of people. Not because Jess or I are perfect, but because his power is made perfect in our weakness. I’m not excusing weakness or using mental illness to justify poor behaviour—I’m inviting God into the mess.

Don’t leave God outside your mess. Bring him into it. He already knows and cares. Invite the one person with the power to do something about your situation into your life.

If you’re walking with mental ill-health, let me be clear: it’s not the end of your life; it’s the start of your life. Your solution is twofold.

First, make peace with God. Remember that the God who made you cares about you, and no matter what you’re going through he wants to go through it with you—not on the sidelines hoping you’ll be okay. If you want to know what God is like, look at Jesus—how he lived and loved. That’s what God’s like. His love is most fully expressed when he dies in the place of those who deserve death.

Read the Gospels—Matthew, Mark, Luke, John. They’ll teach you about a Jesus of reconciliation, redemption, and relationship. He really does want to walk with you. If you don’t know where to start, start there—or email me and I’ll talk with you and lead you to Jesus.

Second, you need relationships with people who are good for you—who’ll help you towards Christ and towards wholeness in your mental well-being. I’m blessed with a great support network, but I’ve worked at it. I’ve found friends who are there for me. I’ve sought out mentors who understand mental well-being. I’m discipled by Christians who have their own anxieties. I’ve chosen friends well. You need mentors, friends, loved ones, supporters who will truly be there—who will walk you to Jesus and walk you to freedom.

I’m blessed to have a lot, but I’ve been in the same postcode for 22 years—it’s taken time. Today is a good day to start taking time. If you don’t know where to start, go to a church near you. They might be weird and do weird things, but they could also be the very people who bring you to freedom.

Mental well-being and Jesus belong together. Mental illness and faith are not incompatible. I have bipolar. I lead a flourishing church. I follow Jesus every day. God is using me—and he wants to use you too.

Let’s pray.
Father, I pray that anyone listening today who doesn’t know you begins to know you today. I pray that those who are isolated, walking alone, or needing help can find help. Ultimately we pray that you will move, Lord God—that your power will be made perfect in our weakness. We offer all our brokenness and everything to you. Do more with our lives than we ever could. In Jesus’ name, amen.

Thanks again for tuning in. If you want to see more podcasts, go to sunburntsouls.com. There’s also a free course plus a 28-day course. If you could help me by sharing this around, that would be epic.

Basically, the way podcasts work is there are about 10 percent who don’t make it past 10–15 episodes and give up; about 80 percent, where I’m hovering now; and 10 percent who make it and become sustainable long-term. If you can help, maybe we’ll bust into that 10 percent—I’d love that. Please share it, pray for it. I reckon that’s a big key. We’ve had breakthrough this week—even this week, Mental Health Week, I got interviewed by a couple of stations in the UK for the first time, which is great.

Ultimately, I pray this is a blessing—and if you can do anything to bless it back, that would be epic. Love you.