Tamira Stephens, MTS '15 and project archivist at Andover-Harvard Theological Library, delivered the following remarks at Morning Prayers in Harvard's Memorial Church on September 20, 2019.
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Prayer can be anything—it’s all prayer. It is motion and stillness and energy all at the same time—and begins when we stop where we are, tired of working so hard that we surrender, turning toward something else. Prayer is seeking union, even when we are bitter, or broken, or insane. Prayer is chancing that against all odds and past history, we are loved, and do not have to have it all together. Prayer is making contact with the unseen, greater than ourselves, having to do with the eternal, with vitality, intelligence, and kindness—even when we are at our most skeptical, and utterly doomed. God can handle honesty, and prayer begins as honest conversation. (Reading adapted from Anne Lamott’s Help, Thanks, Wow: The Three Essential Prayers)
This book was brought to my attention by what I can now only consider prayer. After a year of difficult change and painful, unexpected loss, I became severely depressed, unable to cope with a reality for which I was unprepared. Months crept by as I floundered, returning to a life I had once left behind. Most of my time was spent either at the community pool or in bed, staring at screens. I felt lost and disoriented, as if I had forgotten who I was and where I was going. Later, when describing these feelings to my doctor, his response left me speechless. “How could a theologian forget how to orient her life?” I have rarely considered myself as such, but nevertheless, the weight of his question remained.
My prayer had been simple. Just four words—“Mom? I need help.” I called out as she walked past my room, and noticing my hands—they were busy, disassembling a pink disposable razor, with flowers on its handle. My fingertips were scratched, bearing thin, shallow cuts from the double blades. Searching for relief, ideation tipped into action, and I wanted to die.
I’m still unsure what prevailed that day—divine intervention, the power of a mother’s love, or a simple will to live—but I am certain that in my darkest moment, I turned to prayer. While my life and work are full of religion, the presence of God is rarely evident. As for religious affiliation, I claim my own label as Secular Methodist, acknowledging my personal ties to the United Methodist Church, while making no claim to Ultimate Truth. Yet, even I cannot deny one of the many ineffable qualities of prayer—that one which moves us to abandon the false notions that we are not good enough and must know it all.
We have been conditioned to hide our weaknesses, admit no fault, and fake it till we make it—whatever “It” happens to be. We hold back our questions and concerns in an effort to bolster our credibility, as though we are ashamed of our humanity. The stress of constant competition goes unacknowledged, taking its toll on our mental and physical health, destroying our sense of common purpose and collective understanding. And while there are real fears in vulnerability, the idea that we are somehow made unworthy from a lack of knowledge is a lie born from fear and oppression.
It is not wrong, or shameful, to ask for help. Or to ask for clarification, admit mistakes, or voice concern. Or even to hit rock bottom—everyone with a story to tell seems to get there eventually. We are often too short sighted in our focus, looking at the struggle and not the solution. The truth is, we don’t know everything, nor do we need to—having all the answers is not a requirement for a life well lived. Instead, we require honesty—not only from one another, but from ourselves, in order to see and accept the help we so often need.
I share my story for neither sympathy nor excuse—my diagnoses do not absolve my past mistakes, though they may offer explanation. Rather, having had much time and an undeserved amount of love and support, I reside in a place of deep acceptance regarding my mental health, which leads me to speak openly on my experience.
Our present condition demands change—for far too long we have relegated the subject of mental illness to the background, fearful of the many stigmas associated with diagnoses and disorders. But we owe it to ourselves and one another to speak when necessary, remembering that silence is a privilege by which nothing is gained, and that change, like prayer, must begin with honest conversation.