It is a pleasure to be with you this evening.

I lived in San Angelo for two and a half years when I served as
Curate of Emmanuel Episcopal Church; and in that short time my wife and our three children fell in love
with San Angelo.
We made some wonderful friends here who we miss seeing. One of my joys while being here was
serving on the board of West Texas Counseling & Guidance. I have a background in community
organizing and obviously in ministry, so I have been involved with many boards and committees and it is
rare to find a board whose self-understanding is deeper than mere functionality.
In the short time I served on the board I witnessed a group of passionate, intelligent and capable people
who love San Angelo, and their desire to increase mental health resources and awareness grows out of
that love. There are some people I want to particularly point out and embarrass.
I am an introvert and sometimes a bit of a grump so I usually find people who exude tremendous
amounts of happiness and joy rather annoying. I have a hard time believing it. But then I met Tiffany
Talley. And I believe it. Its real and she is a gift to this community.
I have to mention these next people as a couple, because that is the shape they take in my life, and
thats Dusty and Diedre McCoy. They are for me the Real McCoys because they are just that real.
Dusty has Irish blood in his veins, which means hes a good storyteller and refuses to put on airs; and I
think that authenticity makes him a good leader. Diedre is Sicilian, which means you never have to
wonder what shes thinking, and shes got a great laugh. I am grateful to Dusty, Tiffany, and the board thank you for asking me to be here.
I went to seminary in Austin I began the three year process of intensive study, theological reflection,
and formation to become a priest in the Episcopal Church. There was a dinner that first orientation week
people were sharing their stories. People pretend in situations like that people wanted to come off
a little more holy, a little more reverent, a little more devoted than we actually were. Then this guy said,
You know Im just another narcissistic asshole who thinks I can be used by God.
His name was Clay. And I knew I needed Clay in my life. He became my first and closest friend in
seminary. Clay showed the spiritual gift of calling BS. He knew how to increase the anxiety in the room
just enough for people to start telling the truth.
Clay and I both had affinity for bourbon. We would stay up late and sit on my front porch and drink. Clay
had an irreverent humor. He knew how to laugh and make me laugh. We would talk about our wives.
We would talk about scripture, theology, and wonder how we would ever fit into this thing called
church. Clay and I werent the same person but we shared some of the same story.
Clay was sexually molested as a kid. I was sexually molested as a kid.
Clay had a parent who battled mental illness. So did I...
Clay struggled with clinical depression. So have I
All those things can make you feel out of place lonely, unbelieving even home can be just another
place you feel like a stranger. Clay and I got to the heart of all that.
In the ancient Irish Church they had a phrase for these kind of friendships in the Gaelic language its
pronounced Anam Cara. In English it translates to friend of the soul, a friendship in which you are
understood without mask or pretension, all the superficial truths you hide behind crumble. Clay was
that kind of friend a soul friend.
After graduating from seminary, Clay returned to his home diocese, serving a parish in rural Oklahoma,
and I came here. But we kept up. About once every two weeks we would talk on the phone.
But as the months went on Clays depression took hold. It started impacting his marriage, his work as a
priest. He went to a doctor was prescribed medication but it wasnt helping.
Clay, being Clay, sat down with the leadership of his church and shared what was going on he was
asking for help. They didnt know what to do.
He was asked to take leave of his pastorship. He was searching but there were no resources, it being
rural Oklahoma. There were no counseling centers, nothing. He began working with a psychiatrist long

distance who helped him formulate a plan. Part of that plan was to have a call list in response to his
suicidal thoughts.
After his wife and a family member, Clay informed me, I was number three on that list. For months we
talked once every two weeks turned into once a week, sometimes twice depending on how he was
doing, what he was thinking. Sometimes we would talk about the depression, other times he just
wanted someone to talk about anything but the depression. But without the consistent relationship of a
counselor or an understanding community, it was becoming harder and harder.
On October 20, 2014, for reasons unknown to me, Clay chose not to call me or anyone. He took his
own life. The flurry of phone calls started happening. Friends from seminary, others trying to make
sense of it. I didnt want it to make sense. I still dont.
For me, to make sense of it gives it a place of belonging in this world, and I refuse to believe that suicide
belongs in this world. But I stopped answering the phone, I was getting angry at people who were just
trying to be encouraging. But it was more than that I felt something else. I felt shame. A complicated
shame because intellectually, in my head I knew this wasnt my fault but then againI have a masters
in counseling psychology, I have masters in divinity Im a priest.
What could I have said? Why didnt he think he could call? What happened? For weeks I couldnt
sleep, I was restless. I felt what can only be described as this sickening combination of sadness and
anger. Then one night my wife, who is one of the wisest and discerning people I know said, I know what
youre doing. And you cant do it anymore. Then she said, Clay died of a sickness and you alone never
had the cure.
I have never talked about Clay publicly before tonight. I didnt want to reduce his story to a sermon
illustration for a snoozing crowd on a Sunday morning. But this is different. This is why were here.
Because Clays story is not an unfamiliar one. Many of you are survivors of such a story. This is a
beautiful city, San Angelo, full of beautiful people. I love this place. But behind the well-manicured
lawns, behind the honor roll students, behind the churchy lingo, and behind the tough cowboy faade is
a world of hurt because life, no matter who you are, is difficult. But we dont talk about it.
After moving here I began reading Elmer Kelton. I love reading Kelton I have a shelf-full of his books
at home. But in the introduction to The Time it Never Rained Elmer Kelton, with his perceptive eye
and authorship, describes the character of the West Texan. Kelton writes:
Walter Prescott Webb, in his classic The Great Plains, noted how the land changes west of the
98th meridian, and how this has affected the people who live there, etching its marks upon their
characters and impacting upon their culture. Traditionally it has taken a strong-willed,
individualistic breed to live west of that line. Those not strong enough either did not cross the
line or retreated after being bruised by the demands of that uncompromising land. Those who
remained became tough, resilient, and almost militantly independent.
Tough, strong-willed, and independent is what it takes to grow a ranch but its not how you grow a
person. And I believe there is a tenderness that can be lived in this world that is fiercer than any notion
of strength we attempt to face life with. But we have to embrace tenderness. We have to embrace
vulnerability. So, in the spirit of my friend Clay Im going to call BS on something. And it is this
Being West Texans, we are inheritors of a foolish, ignorant and harmful value system that convinces us
that even though life is difficult, you take it on with a fierce independence and rugged individualism
we have to do it on our own. BS. That is a myth. We were not created to do life on our own.
Im so thankful that so many of you here have formed a community of survivors a community of hope;
through the telling of your stories, through embracing vulnerability and tenderness, through the honest
talk of the collateral pain suicide causes, through the difficult process of looking at your own shame and
complicated inner worlds you have become one to another Anam Caras. You have become friends of
the soul.
And in doing that you are becoming a friend to the soul of this community of San Angelo.

The ancient Irish church was also rich in offering blessings. Being a priest, I would like to honor those
here who are survivors, by offering you a blessing.
When the burden of loss weakens your legs and you stumble to find safe ground,
May the earth shift beneath you
To mind your steps
When the figure of sorrow darkens your door and bids you into some strange night,
May the loneliness in you have eyes to see the loneliness in others
To mind your thoughts.
When the voice within you is lost and you wait in unapologetic deafness,
May you come to hear silence as the language of God speaking in the places words cannot reach
To mind your heart.
When the work of remembering hurts and time shows its jealous hand,
May your memories become sacred spaces
To mind your soul.
May light perpetual be yours
May the resiliency of love be yours
And may peace take your pilgrim hand
To mind your way through this life
Into life everlasting.
Amen.