Tuesday, October 3

Chaplain,” the psychiatrist said. She summoned me with her hands. “Here is someone I want you to meet.”

A patient was seated next to her. The patient had covered herself with a winter coat to conceal her identity. “This is Annie,” the psychiatrist said. “Annie, this is our chaplain. He is here to help you with your spiritual needs.”

“I am a Christian,” the patient said. “I am a born-again believer in our Lord Jesus Christ.” “Annie,” I replied. “That’s wonderful. So am I! It is a pleasure to meet you.”

After a few more such exchanges, Annie finally pulled the coat off her head and into her lap. I saw who I had been talking to for the last several minutes. In the following days and weeks, I never saw her without her coat; she carried it with her wherever she went. I speculated about the reason for this. Was she afraid her coat would be stolen by another patient? Or did the coat provide some sort of emotional comfort?

Over the next few weeks, Annie and I conversed much more about Jesus. She asked for a Bible. I brought her one. I never saw her without that either.

Another patient attacked me today. She had emerged from the bathroom, yelling that someone had hurt her husband. She raised her hand in a threatening manner, so I said, “You are not going to hit me, are you?” She struck me in the stomach. The blow was not hard, and she walked away from me. Two nearby staff members interposed themselves between the patient and me, but the incident was over, and the patient sat down to compose herself. The next time I saw her, she seemed calm, and neither of us ever mentioned the incident.

Wednesday, October 4

My meeting with my supervisor went well. I am amazed at the support I have gotten from him and from the other administrators here at Osawatomie State Hospital. The Bible teaches us to expect persecution when we try to witness for Jesus, but the “powers that be” at this state mental institution have been nothing but warm, friendly, and accepting of me and my work here. Why? Do they believe that the gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ has the power to heal? Or do they only believe that the patients here—very many of whom profess faith in Christ—can find peace for their troubled minds in the faith to which they belong? Or do they have hope in a simple generic spirituality?

When I talked to Kevin, I was sorry to see he had made no improvement. Kevin claimed to be Jesus, and to own the hospital and everyone in it. I was shocked at his blasphemy, but I also pitied him. After he became accustomed to talking to me, I confronted him, with as much gentleness and compassion as I could muster. “Your name is Kevin,” I explained. “You are not Jesus.” But this only seemed to anger him.

Another patient claimed to be the archangel Gabriel. He said he had granted me a higher place in heaven. I had done him a small kindness by bringing him some clothes. “You are not an archangel,” I said. He answered, “I know.” But what he knows, or does not know, who can say?

Yet another patient heard voices in his head. While this is a common occurrence in mental patients, Kelly seemed to enjoy the voices. Despite this, I inwardly cherished the hope that the medications prescribed for Kelly would cause the voices to cease. When I saw Kelly, I expectantly asked him, “Do you still hear the voices?” After I asked him this question on several occasions, Kelly finally objected, and said that the voices were God and Jesus and angels, and my oblique attempts to undermine the genuineness of the voices were tantamount to religious persecution. He wanted me to stop. So I did.

Thursday, October 5

I was surprised to see Earl had returned to the hospital. I met with him in “the comfort room,” because I knew we would not be interrupted there. Earl told me, over and over, “I love Jesus and God.”

“I want to hug God in person,” he said. “And I want to stroke Jesus’ hair, and kiss His cheek.” Earl held his right hand to his lips, kissed it audibly, then held his hand against his cheek, as if to demonstrate what he wanted to do to Jesus. I have rarely seen such passion for Jesus.

But Earl also told me of his other love. He loves his future girlfriend and dreams about her and the manner in which he will “stroke her beautiful red, long hair.” Earl said he dreams about this at night, and said he is determined to do this every night. Such is his obsession, that Earl often stares at the female patients and hospital staff, and will sometimes sit uncomfortably close to them, or ask permission to touch them. The female employees told Earl, “That is not appropriate, Earl.” At his own request, Earl was transferred to an all-male unit, because he realized the temptations he faced in a unit in which female patients reside.

But Earl was not happy. The patients in the new unit were not friendly. Indeed, they were hostile and unwelcoming. They were especially annoyed at Earl’s many attempts to tell them about God and Jesus, and they were even more irritated at Earl’s habit of talking about his dreams of his future girlfriend with beautiful, red, long hair, and how much she will love to have her hair stroked.

“Why will she love that?” Earl asked. I told him I didn’t know.

Earl became frustrated because of the long delay in the arrival of his future girlfriend, because of the mistreatment he received from other patients, and because female staff objected to being greeted by cries of “Hey, beautiful!” I suggested that our Lord may be teaching Earl the grace of patience. Earl considered this possibility for several seconds, and asked me, “Do you want me to hit you?” I answered, “No. Please don’t hit me, Earl.” He looked at me with great compassion and kindness in his eyes, and said, “I love you as a brother in Christ, Jeff.”

I was glad to see that the scratch marks on the sides of Earl’s face seem to have healed to some extent. Earl sometimes hears voices inside his head—they have even interrupted our conversations together—and these voices sometimes tell him to hurt himself. Earl does this by choking himself with his bare hands, or by throwing himself onto the floor, or by scratching himself on the sides of his face. He attributes these voices to the devil, and I have never contradicted him.

I once talked with Earl in his room. He stood at the window, looked up at the sky, and cried out, “I am desperate for God! I am desperate for Jesus!” And then he wept.

Friday, October 6

I was glad to meet a fellow pastor today. He is a patient in our short-term unit. He has been diligently witnessing to his fellow patients about Jesus Christ. He also asked me for Bibles and devotional literature to distribute to patients who he said had become new converts to Christ. I was happy to do so, of course, and I was glad that a representative of the Gideons and the Friends of the Mentally Ill Foundation had made such Bibles available to me, especially since no state funds can be used for such purposes.

This pastor/patient had committed some violence at his home, and so was committed to the hospital. He blamed some medications he had taken for this outburst. However, I suggested he consider the words of Jesus in Matthew 15:18: “Out of the heart come evil thoughts,” including “murder.” But he respectfully disagreed that such counsel applied in his case—the medication was the culprit.

While he was a patient, I had the sad duty of informing him that his church had expelled him from the pastoral ministry. He was saddened, but the sure knowledge that God is sovereign brought him considerable comfort, as it should for all of us.

I went to visit Betsy again today. She had been diagnosed with bipolar disorder. When she is depressed, she sees only the wrath of God, and the certainty of her eternal punishment, after she is “tortured, cut into pieces” and burned, by the undercover agents posing as her fellow patients. She pleaded with me to pray for her, and to read the gospel promises to her. I told her I would see her tomorrow; but she predicted she might not live to see another day. Later, when Betsy was feeling manic, she was full of life. She was not going to hell after all, she said. She thanked me for my help. And she smiled.

Saturday, October 7

Saturday is always my busiest day of the week. I arrived at 9 a.m. My first therapy group was with the patients on the HOPE unit at 9:30, and I led another group on the CSP unit at 10:30, another on the MAPS unit after lunch, at 1:10 p.m., and my last group for the day was on the SLP unit at 2 p.m. After that, I recorded my observations so that the innumerable psychologists, psychiatrists, therapists, social workers, and nurses can see the patients’ progress.

I marvel at the opportunities afforded me in the therapy groups. While every therapist in the hospital leads similar groups, only I am permitted to lead groups with such titles as “Spirituality and Coping” or “Spiritual Recovery.” In fact, these groups are really more akin to small group Bible studies than anything else.

At the beginning of every group, I distribute handouts to each patient in the group. The handouts indicate the topic to be discussed, such as anxiety, anger, guilt, or demon possession. I then call on one of the patients to read the passage of holy Scripture that is printed on the handout, and we discuss the teaching of the Word of God regarding the topic for that day. What a joy to see mental patients reading the Bible and discussing its meaning! I think such things help the patients to overcome their problems.

But not everyone benefits from such experiences, because there are too many distractions. Every pastor or Sabbath school teacher knows the sad effect that a baby’s cries in the sanctuary or a late arrival can produce. But the worst distractions are those inside the human mind. Today, a patient accused me of talking about his girlfriend. I had said nothing of the kind and told him so. He became increasingly hostile and began to yell; the group discussion did not resume until I had escorted him out of the room. Even then, he continued to pound on the door and yell obscenities in my direction for several minutes. Thankfully, when I saw him later, he was quite pleasant. Other patients utilized the time by walking around aimlessly, sleeping (possibly a side effect of some medications), or simply complaining about the facility. I look forward to my days off this week. It will be good to attend church tomorrow.

But my thoughts turn to the patients. Since they are confined to the state hospital, they will be unable to attend any public worship service. Some patients have told me how much they miss public worship; they seem to be both annoyed and disappointed. But what can I do? Volunteers could lead services on the Lord’s Day, but the few volunteers are already occupied with the chapel services on Wednesday afternoons, and I have been unable to recruit more. I could wish that Osawatomie State Hospital had hired another chaplain to help me; there is certainly enough work for two. Yet, I am grateful to the Lord for the help I can give them. What a mission field this is!

—Jeff Yelton is the chaplain at Osawatomie State Hospital in eastern Kansas, where he lives with his wife and two children. He also served as pastor of the Clarinda, Iowa, RPC from 2001-2005. All names of patients have been changed to protect their privacy.