Content Caution: This article discusses suicide and mental health crises. If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health crisis, call or text 988 to reach the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline.
Part One told the story of Bob’s journey from critic to contributor. This is what happened next.
The Voicemail
A few years into Bob’s new role as my Greek research partner, I was pulling into the parking lot at a Jewel-Osco grocery store in suburban Chicago. My cell phone rang, and I could see Bob’s name on the screen. This was before Bluetooth, and I was using both hands to navigate into my parking space, so I let the call go to voicemail. A few moments later, I dialed back in to listen to Bob’s message and was stunned by what I was hearing.
Bob was calling to say goodbye. He had a gun. He had determined he was going to kill himself; I was his last call. My heart started racing; my stomach dropped; I began praying like I’d never prayed before.
What worried me the most wasn’t the words themselves; it was how Bob said them. He spoke with a resigned calmness. Like he had already processed this, already made the decision, already worked through whatever internal debate might have stopped him. This was a definite, thought-out decision. A farewell. I knew from my pastoral training that suicidal people move through stages; when someone has the plan and the means to carry it out immediately, that’s the highest level of crisis. Bob had both, and he was telling me he was ready to act.
The Drive
Before calling Bob back, I phoned my wife, Jan. I told her to find Bob’s address in the church directory, then call 911 immediately. I called Bob back as I started driving toward his house, ignoring every hands-free law on the books. My goal was simple: keep him on the phone until the police arrived.
I don’t remember exactly what I said on that call. I just remember asking him questions, doing anything I could to keep him talking. Not just about his suicidal thoughts, but about how I appreciated his research, about the passages he was working on, about things he’d discovered recently. I had one goal: buy time, keep his attention on anything other than the gun. The drive felt endless; every red light an eternity; every turn taking me closer to someone who might not be alive when I arrived.
During the final few minutes of our call, his doorbell rang. He paused mid-sentence. “Someone’s at the door,” he said, sounding surprised. “I should probably answer it.” I could overhear the awkward conversation between two police officers at his doorstep and Bob’s confusion about why they were there. Then I heard the shift; the officers’ voices becoming more urgent, more direct. Then the sounds of a physical scuffle; Bob being taken to the ground; the click of handcuffs. They took him into custody; then to jail. He lost his privileges to own a firearm. And he told me, in his own words, he was “mad as hell” at me.
The Aftermath
Those words came in a call from Bob a few days after he was released; short, angry, direct. He felt betrayed. In his view, I had violated his trust, sent the police to his home, and taken away his right to make his own decisions. He didn’t experience it as help. He experienced it as betrayal. It was hard to hear, especially knowing I had just helped save his life.
Later, I understood: when you’re in that much pain, rescue can feel like a violation. From Bob’s perspective, I took away control, which is often the last thing someone feels they have when everything else has fallen apart.
As far as I know, Bob never forgave me. We never had another conversation. He didn’t just stop doing the Greek research. He stopped coming to church entirely. The partnership we’d built over years dissolved in a single, final phone call.
Bob’s sister, Claudia, took him in after his release from jail. She’d been a sometime attender at our church, showing up on Easter and Christmas, maybe a few Sundays scattered through the year. But after Bob moved in with her, she became an active participant. She showed up regularly; her faith deepened in ways I’d never seen before. She told me once that watching her brother in crisis, and watching us respond, changed how she understood what faith actually meant. Bob lived; Claudia grew; but the cost was a relationship that never recovered.
The “What If” Question
In the weeks and months after, I kept wondering: What if Bob had stayed a critic instead of becoming a contributor? What if I had dismissed his concerns, minimized his repeated attempts to connect, and continued avoiding him in that foyer every Sunday? Would he have still called me in his moment of crisis just because I was his pastor?
I’m not sure. Actually, I don’t think he would have. Position and title alone don’t create the kind of connection that makes you someone’s last call; Bob didn’t call me because I was his pastor; he called me because we had become partners. He called me because I had invited him into a meaningful contribution; because he knew I valued his gifts, even if I couldn’t use every page of his research. The invitation to contribute had created a bond that title and position could never have built.
Of course, I never imagined that turning a critic into a contributor would end like this. I never imagined that delegation, that one simple decision to ask for help with Greek research, would one day prevent a death.
What This Taught Me About Critical People
Small decisions have invisible consequences.
When I invited Bob to do Greek research, I thought I was solving my problem. I was tired of weekly criticism; I needed a different approach; delegation seemed strategic and diplomatic rather than confrontational. What I didn’t realize until later was that I was also giving Bob something to live for, a reason to matter, a place to belong.
Critics aren’t always trying to tear you down; sometimes they’re showing you the only way they know how to connect. Sometimes criticism is a misplaced attempt at contribution, an awkward offering from someone who desperately wants to matter but doesn’t know how to say it. When we see past the criticism to the person underneath, when we invite them from the margins to the center, when we dignify their gifts with meaningful work, we’re doing more than improving team dynamics or increasing efficiency; we’re giving people reasons to show up, to stay connected, to make one more call before they give up entirely.
I don’t know all the factors that led Bob to that breaking point. Mental health is complex. Suicide is rarely about just one thing. But I do know this: the partnership we’d built over years mattered enough that in his darkest moment, I was the person he called. That’s not a credit to my pastoral skill. That’s a testimony to what happens when we turn critics into contributors, when we see people’s pain underneath their problems, when we offer dignity instead of dismissal.
For Leaders Carrying Similar Weight
If you’re a leader, especially a pastoral leader, you know the weight of these moments. You know what it’s like to receive calls you’re not prepared for, to make decisions with incomplete information, to wonder if you did the right thing when the person you tried to help is angry at you for helping. You know the cost of caring about people who may never thank you for it.
Bob never forgave me, but Claudia’s faith deepened; Bob survived, even if our relationship didn’t. I made the call I had to make, not yet knowing it would cost me the partnership we’d built. Some leadership decisions don’t have good options, only less bad ones. Some relationships don’t survive the intervention they require. Some people you save will never forgive you for saving them.
You carry that weight because it’s part of the calling, because preventing one death matters more than preserving one relationship. Love sometimes looks like betrayal to the person who needs it most. If you’re carrying that weight right now, know this: you’re not alone. The call you had to make, the relationship you had to sacrifice, the person who’s angry at you for intervening—you did what love required, even when love looked like a violation to the person who needed it. That’s what it means to shepherd people through their darkest moments.
The Invitation to See Differently
I’m not claiming credit for Bob’s survival. Mental health crises are complex, and I was one factor among many. I’m sharing this because small decisions about inclusion matter more than we realize.
The critic you’re avoiding might need you more than you know; the problem person on your team might be a contributor waiting for an invitation; the gift you’re reluctant to delegate might be someone else’s reason to matter. You won’t always know which inclusion decision prevents a crisis; you won’t always see the invisible consequences of inviting someone from the margins to the center. But those decisions matter, and they can create connections that hold people when everything else falls apart.
Turn your critics into contributors. Not for efficiency. For humanity. Delegation can dignify someone’s calling. That’s worth more than reclaiming your calendar. See past the criticism to the pain underneath, because sometimes the person who irritates you most is the person who needs to belong most desperately.
I never expected delegation to prevent death. But I’m grateful I made that invitation when I did; I’m grateful Bob had a place to belong before he reached his breaking point. I’m grateful he called.
Even if he never forgave me for answering.
Resources:
- “It was a wonderful life” In September of 2022, my nephew Daniel took his own life. This article contains my sober reflections. May his memory be eternal.
- Suicide and Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988
- Crisis Text Line: Text HOME to 741741
- National Alliance on Mental Illness (NAMI): 1-800-950-NAMI (6264)