It was the latest installment in a blitz of headline-grabbing publicity for Invisible Children—but it was a story they never intended. During almost two weeks of astounding success for their new-media publicity blitz, Kony 2012 attracted plenty of controversy and dissenting voices. But perhaps nothing could damage the credibility of the Invisible Children campaign as much as their founder’s run-in with San Diego police, who last week confronted an allegedly agitated and naked Jason Russell ranting on the sidewalk near Pacific Beach.
Apparently the San Diego police determined Russell was not a criminal threat but did present a danger to himself or others—a designation that allows law-enforcement officials to seek evaluation in a mental health facility on behalf of a detainee. Police brought Russell to one such facility, where he presumably underwent evaluation of his mental condition, and where, if necessary, he might receive treatment. The police response suggests there was a strong possibility that Russell was in the throes of a symptomatic mental illness. Writing for The Atlantic, brain-injury physician Ford Vox concurs. Although not confirmed, the introduction of a possible mental illness—and a public “breakdown”—has taken this story into a new dimension. It has also introduced a new source of fuel for public ridicule.
Regardless of the truth about this incident and Russell’s health, the incident elicits echoes of a common pattern in public life: the voyeuristic and cruel response to the public breakdown, usually followed by shame, humiliation, attempts at damage control, and a hospital stay for “exhaustion.” In our society, few things are considered as shameful as mental illness. Consider the cases of Demi Moore, Britney Spears, Charlie Sheen, and Mariah Carey. If celebrities are publicly skewered for their vulnerabilities, imagine how ordinary citizens are treated.
I should know. My mom has the disorder schizophrenia. After she began to have breakdowns—some of them public—when I was 14, I carried with me the sense that I was “infected” by association, and I was deeply scarred by the rejection and potential for rejection I felt in society at large and in the church. This is a kind of suffering you just aren’t supposed to talk about. And because of the general lack of conversation about mental illness, for decades my family and I felt very much alone in our suffering.
People with mental illness are the butt of jokes, the subjects of terrifying movies and amusement park rides, and sources of entertainment that seem to assume they are mythical creatures—like leprechauns and unicorns—so no one should be offended.
The church’s response to mental illness is typically silence—a silence that is tantamount to complicity in the world’s rejection of the most vulnerable among us, that speaks volumes about the weakness of our faith in the face of suffering. When the church is not silent, it often condemns, suggesting people need exorcism or simply more faith, and denying people’s need for legitimate medical intervention to ease their suffering and help them function as the people God made them to be.
In any given year, a little more than 25 percent of the adult U.S. population is affected by a diagnosable mental illness. And over the course of a lifetime, the numbers are much higher. This is roughly equal to the total percentage of people diagnosed with cancer each year, those living with heart disease, people infected with HIV and AIDS, and those afflicted with diabetes—combined! We have largely erased the stigma associated with these and other illnesses, but we can’t seem to overcome the stigma that curses those whose illnesses and disorders happen to attack the brain.
Stigma means immediate, irrational rejection of people with mental illness. They are shamed, labeled, stereotyped, misunderstood, mocked, and dismissed. Stigma keeps people isolated, away from treatment, and hidden away in poorly funded hospitals and prison cells—America’s highest-population “treatment centers” for people with mental illness.
Why do we perpetuate this stigma, joke about people with mental illness, titillate ourselves with terrifying images of them, mock them sadistically, or pretend they don’t exist? Somewhere in ourselves, we all know we see in them a reflection of who we could be—and that, I think, is what really scares us. By dehumanizing people with mental illness, we distance them from ourselves and our experiences and make ourselves feel safer. The less real they seem, the less we feel we have the potential to suffer similarly. But the truth is, our brains are as vulnerable to disease and disorder as the rest of our bodies, and in this age of relentless stress, impossible expectations, and information overload, perhaps we are more vulnerable than ever. These illnesses strike both predictably and randomly, and none of us is immune.
In writing a forthcoming book on this subject, I’ve been amazed at how many have shared their own stories (sometimes in hushed voices) as soon as they’ve heard about my project. How many people have talked about the shame and humiliation of being diagnosed with an illness, then suffering discrimination at work, in their friendships, and in their churches.
This has to stop. Cultural signs indicate it may be slowing as celebrities talk openly about their struggles. But if anyone should lead the way on loving society’s most vulnerable, it’s the church. We who are called to serve “the least of these” as if we were serving Jesus (Matt. 25:40). As living temples carrying God’s presence in this world, we must allow his light to shine out from us and infiltrate the darkness that surrounds so many people. Let’s start by responding to Jason Russell with grace and compassion.
Amy Simpson is editor of Christianity Today’s Gifted for Leadership, a freelance writer, and author of numerous resources for Christian ministry, including Into the Word: How to Get the Most from Your Bible (NavPress) and a forthcoming book on ministry to people with mental illness. You can find her at www.AmySimpsonOnline.com and on Twitter @aresimpson.
