Brennan Manning, in The Wisdom of Tenderness, on something that often triggers depression, but can instead turn us into more loving followers of Jesus.

Manning:

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“Isn’t failure worthwhile if it teaches us to be gentle with the failure of others, to be patient, to live in the wisdom of accepted tenderness, and to pass that tenderness on to others?

If we’re always successful, we may get so wrapped up in our own victories that we’re insensitive to the anguish of others; we may fail to understand (or even try to understand) the human heart; we may think of success as our due.”

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Boy that’s good.

Of course, every motivational speaker will say much the same thing about failure — but only in the context of failure leading to Verifiable I Paid for My Peloton With Cash Success.

You know, “fail in this business, learn something valuable for your next one, conquer the world!”

But for Christians, our lesson from failure shouldn’t be about business success or any of that, it’s about becoming more patient, forgiving, and loving people.

Even sin can serve a purpose.

Of all the sins we overlook, self-righteousness is at the top.

But the minute we sin deeply enough to shake us from the illusion we’re “holier than them,” we’re a little slower to throw our righteous weight around on social media, and we remember that even our “goodness” is only God’s.

Christians in the United States these days are very fond of raging against the machine (however they define it), but the real “Deep State” is the deep sin in our own hearts. That’s the scary thing. That’s the thing to fight. If I’m looking at what’s wrong with the world, it’s ME. Never “them.” Never “it.” Always me.

And that’s why it’s very practically important to talk about sin. It’s not just a theoretical thing.

We can only become gentler and kinder when we realize we’re the biggest sinner on the block, because everyone is the biggest sinner on the block.

Colossians 3:13 is $$$$ on this: “Make allowance for each other’s faults, and forgive anyone who offends you. Remember the Lord forgave you, so you must forgive others.”

And so failure at anything, including our Christian walk, can serve good as it produces humility and turns us into gentler human beings.

A passage from The Valley of Vision:

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Thy name is love,

in love receive my prayer.

My sins are more than the wide sea’s sand,

but where sin abounds,

there is grace more abundant.

Look to the cross of thy beloved Son,

and view the preciousness of his atoning blood;

Listen to his never-failing intercession,

and whisper to my heart,

‘Thy sins are forgiven,

be of good cheer, lie down in peace.’

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What a beautiful passage: “Whisper to my heart, ‘thy sins are forgiven, be of good cheer, lie down in peace’.”

At the front of the Mayo Clinic, there is a stained-glass inscription that famously reads:

“To cure sometimes, to relieve often, to comfort always.”

It comes from the 19th century humanitarian Edward Livingston Trudeau, who founded the tuberculosis sanitarium of Saranac Lake in the Adirondack Mountains.

Before antibiotics came around, he was a firm believer in diet, fresh air, and exercise as a form of treatment, and is widely-admired to this day.

In fact, if you’re in the health care field, you’ll find that numerous institutions, nurses, and doctors have adopted the phrase as a guiding philosophy (read a touching tribute by Dr. Mark David Seigel of Yale Medical School here).

Beyond “do no harm,” it’s probably the most ubiquitous phrase you’ll come by in health care.

And what a quote it is.

The beauty of it is that you and I can also live by that quote in our journey with the disease, because we are both wounded and, as Henri Nouwen writes, “wounded healers.”

You and I aren’t professionals. We can’t cure someone of their mental illness. But perhaps we can point them to someone who can help.

And you and I can “relieve often.”

Not always, because we know that mental health disorders are famously tricky, but we can listen — I can’t tell you what just listening to someone does for them.

And we can always, always comfort.

Sometimes the comfort won’t be words, in fact, usually it won’t. It might be the kindness of using a bit of the surplus of our energy for someone who has none.

Every Christian, in every context, in every interaction, can offer comfort in some way.

And there’s something more for you and me.

The emotionally wounded can offer comfort in ways the “strong” can’t.

As the playwright Thornton Wilder wrote, “in love’s service, only wounded soldiers can serve.”

I’m not thankful for depression, anxiety, and OCD. I wish I were sage and old and wise enough to say that I’m thankful for it.

But I hate diseases that are part of the fall. And I hate the way depression, anxiety and OCD often rob myself and family of living a fuller life. It’s not somehow more spiritual to say we love consequences of the fall, to say that we love brokenness.

Who prays for suffering? Jesus begged the Father to take away the cup of suffering.

But I am thankful that I know how someone feels when they talk about how exhausting, paralyzing, and exhausting and paralyzing and exhausting and paralyzing and exhausting and paralyzing OCD is.

Or, as Andie McDowell recently put it, how PTSD “is in your bones.”

We form connections with people who need connections, and God knows we need them, as well. And if all Christians were Hallmark Christians, I doubt we’d do much good.

If we didn’t struggle, we wouldn’t just be oblivious to suffering; no, even worse, our human arrogance would lead us to look down on it.

As I type, it’s a hard morning and I want to be comforted. Maybe you do too.

But someone else needs us, as well. And by looking for that someone else, maybe we’ll find comfort as well. (Or truthfully, maybe not. In fact, probably not, let’s be realistic. But at least we’ll have done someone some good).

So today and every day: “To cure sometimes, to relieve often, to comfort always.”