I<\/span>t was the prayer requests that caught the new minister\u2019s attention. Not long after Lisa Bryant arrived at the Madam Russell United Methodist Church, a historic congregation named for one of the original pioneers in Saltville, Virginia, she began to notice the repetition. The same underlying problem kept rearing up in the needs she heard.<\/p>\n \u201cI got phone calls from some members: \u2018Please pray for my grandson, he\u2019s on drugs again,\u2019\u201d she said. \u201cOr someone\u2019s niece would get arrested again.\u201d<\/p>\n Drugs\u2014methamphetamines, oxycontin, heroin, fentanyl\u2014were hiding everywhere in the prayers of the people.<\/p>\n The town of just 2,000 people in southwestern Virginia had almost nothing to help those struggling with addiction. The nearest recovery group was an hour\u2019s drive away. Residential rehab facilities were even farther\u2014out of reach of anyone without a decent income and reliable transportation, which is a lot of people in that part of the country. So Bryant believed that the church, in the Wesleyan spirit of doing all the good you can for all the people you can, could start a recovery group.<\/p>\n It shouldn\u2019t be too hard, she thought. Churches have been hosting 12-step meetings across the country for decades.<\/p>\n She brought the idea to the church council: They should launch a program to help people in Saltville deal with the opioids crisis ravaging the region.<\/p>\n \u201cEverybody was quiet,\u201d Bryant told CT, recalling the moment from five years ago. \u201cThen one guy spoke up and said, \u2018We don\u2019t really have that problem here. That doesn\u2019t pertain to us.\u2019\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cReally?\u201d she asked, stunned to tears. \u201cIt\u2019s all around us. You have to see it.\u201d<\/p>\n By the numbers, the crisis<\/a> should be impossible to miss. A record number of people died of drug overdoses in the US in 2021 and again in 2022. Almost 110,000 people, twice\u2014the vast majority connected to opioids. The Centers for Disease Control and Prevention expects<\/a> to see that many deaths again in 2023. That\u2019s like losing the entire population of South Bend, Indiana, or Sugar Land, Texas, three years in a row.<\/p>\n And the problem has grown rapidly. Seven years ago, the overdose toll<\/a> was less than half of what it is today. Twenty years ago, it was less than a third of that size. But the numbers have soared with increased availability of fentanyl, which is highly addictive in even small quantities and is frequently and fatally mixed into other drugs.<\/p>\n Appalachia, the mountain region that stretches from Mississippi up to New York State, has been especially hard-hit<\/a>. Some of the highest per capita death tolls are in Eastern Tennessee, Kentucky, West Virginia, and Ohio. Researchers connect this to the economics of the region, especially the decline of the coal industry, which contributed to widespread poverty and depression. Many of the jobs that do exist entail risks of physical injury, which increases the likelihood of prescribed pain relievers, which in turn increases the likelihood of addiction, plus a ready quantity of leftover pills that can be sold for extra cash. In the 2010s, opioid prescription rates were 40 to 50 percent higher<\/a> in Appalachia than anywhere else in America.<\/p>\n Yet the drug abuse can still be hard to see. A lot of congregations, like the Methodists in Saltville, have had trouble recognizing the problem, even as the destruction wrought by opioids filled their prayer lists. It seemed like something that happened to other people. And it was covered up by deep shame.<\/p>\n This has started to change, though. A growing network of churches\u2014evangelical and mainline alike\u2014have started acknowledging the drug problems in their communities and responding like they think Jesus would: with an outstretched hand.<\/p>\n O<\/span>nce people see the need, they go do it,\u201d said Andrea Clements, a psychology professor at East Tennessee State University in Johnson City, Tennessee. \u201cIt\u2019s just getting the fire lit.\u201d<\/p>\n Clements, who earned her doctorate at the University of Alabama, researches the connections between religion, health, and responses to trauma, with a particular focus on addiction. Her work has led her to believe that faith communities have a critical role to play in dealing with the substance abuse crisis at the grassroots level.<\/p>\n Addiction goes back to trauma, according to Clements, and the impact trauma has on neurological systems. When people are loved and cared for, their bodies produce a healthy amount of hormones, including natural opioids such as endorphin, the \u201cfeel-good\u201d hormone. When they\u2019re not cared for or otherwise experience severe stress, the hormone receptors are not replenished. Chemical substances including alcohol, heroin, and fentanyl can meet that same physical need, though, and the external drugs are so powerful that the body will stop producing its own hormones.<\/p>\n \u201cIt shuts down the natural production,\u201d Clements explained. \u201cAnd when it\u2019s gone, it\u2019s awful. The feeling is often something below sadness.\u201d<\/p>\n The process fuels addiction, which is both a strong physical craving and a deep emotional need.<\/p>\n \u201cThere are biological reasons for what\u2019s going on, a reason for why it happens,\u201d Clements said. \u201cThat\u2019s not an excuse, but it is a call for compassion.\u201d<\/p>\n Because addiction isn\u2019t only a medical issue, though, Clements and others are skeptical it can be addressed in a strictly biological way. Medication-assisted treatment, such as methadone, can certainly help people cope with cravings and be functional. But is there a way to address the underlying trauma?<\/p>\n The question, according to Clements, is whether the natural system can be restarted with enough love, care, and human connection. That\u2019s where the local church could step in.<\/p>\n \u201cThe church needs to walk with people,\u201d she said. \u201cThe gospel is what we offer differently from everyone else.\u201d<\/p>\n That part isn\u2019t theoretical for Clements. She and her husband, Dale, and their son, Tanner, joined with others to plant a nondenominational church in Johnson City in 2012 with the goal of helping people dealing with substance abuse, including users and their families.<\/p>\n One of their primary forms of ministry became transportation. The church connected people who could provide rides with people who needed to get to jobs, medical appointments, court hearings, recovery meetings, and church events. As the practical need was filled, relationships formed and people became a community. Together, they believed it was possible to not only stave off the wreckage of addiction but also address deeper human needs and begin to flourish.<\/p>\n In 2019, the Clementses also helped start Uplift Appalachia, an organization that equips faith communities to respond to the substance abuse crisis in their areas. Uplift is an \u201cecumenical but evangelical\u201d group, which views faith in Jesus as central but is willing to work with groups that start from a different place. It serves as a hub for a growing network of congregations.<\/p>\n Image: Illustration by Vartika Sharma<\/p>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>\n \u201cWe want to help churches to be equipped,\u201d Clements said. \u201cWe help churches develop plans that are appropriate to their circumstances and can act as a liaison between the faith, science, and medical communities.\u201d<\/p>\n Uplift has connections with more than 80 congregations, including Baptist, Methodist, Episcopal, Presbyterian, Stone-Campbell, Pentecostal, and nondenominational churches. The group also works with researchers at East Tennessee State University; the University of Virginia, in Charlottesville; Duke Divinity School; the Duke University Medical Center; the Wolfson Research Institute for Health and Wellbeing at Durham University, in the United Kingdom; the Center for Integrative Addiction Research at the University of Vienna, Austria; and other institutions.<\/p>\n When Appalachian congregations contact Uplift, once they\u2019ve seen the problem in their own community, touching their churches, they are asking \u201cWe can sit with them while they survive\u2014walking along, having someone who answers the phone,\u201d Clements said. \u201cIt might start with: Can you give someone a ride?\u201d<\/p>\n D<\/span>avid Ball, pastor of The Anchor Church in Tupelo, Mississippi, said it started pretty simply for his church. He planted Anchor at the southern end of Appalachia in 2011, as the opioids problem was dramatically expanding in Mississippi. It began with 80 people reading the Book of Acts and talking about the New Testament model for bringing \u201chealth and hope and healing to hurting people.\u201d<\/p>\n As they kept meeting, praying, reading the Bible, and discussing what it meant to be \u201ca church for today\u2019s world,\u201d they started to see that a lot of people in northeastern Mississippi were hurting in a very specific way.<\/p>\n \u201cWe wanted to be the hands and feet of Jesus, and we kept discovering needs,\u201d Ball said. \u201cOur mindset needed to shift to find the biggest need in the community and start meeting it.\u201d<\/p>\n Through its Grace and Mercy Ministries, the church launched twin residential programs for people struggling with substance abuse: the Transformation Ranch for men in 2014 and, a year later, Transformation Home for women. The women\u2019s program is housed upstairs at the church building in the Tupelo suburb of Verona. The men\u2019s \u201cranch\u201d is on church property outside of town.<\/p>\n Not everyone at Anchor loved this idea. Ball said the decision to help people with addictions led to an exodus of members the first year. Others came, however, and today about 500 attend the church\u2019s two Sunday services. Around 100\u201470 men, 30 women\u2014come from the Transformation ministries.<\/p>\n The 10-month program does not provide medical care. If people need a doctor, they are sent to a licensed facility. But Ball is skeptical of medication-assisted treatment. He doesn\u2019t like how it gives people different drugs, and it concerns him that medical treatments don\u2019t address the problem of living life. It\u2019s the daily struggle of being alive\u2014getting up, going to work, paying bills, feeding a family\u2014where people face the temptation of returning to opioids, he said.<\/p>\n \u201cWe have to teach people how to cope and deal with life,\u201d Ball said. \u201cWe do that through a relationship with Christ.\u201d<\/p>\n Transformation Ranch and Transformation Home walk with people through four stages of intensive discipleship. When they first arrive, it\u2019s like \u201cJesus boot camp,\u201d according to Ball. Residents attend worship services, 12-step meetings, discipleship classes, and Bible studies. They are given chores and prayer partners and are cut off from contact with the outside world\u2014at least until counselors can identify the people in their lives who are most likely to disrupt their attempt at sobriety.<\/p>\n In the next two phases, residents meet with peer counselors to \u201cstart figuring out their identity in Christ,\u201d Ball said. They take more classes and receive job training, money management lessons, and instruction in other life skills. They are integrated more into the life of the church. They also join a work program Anchor organized through local businesses to start earning and saving money. Typically, a resident graduates with $6,000\u2013$8,000 in the bank.<\/p>\n After about nine months, residents enter the fourth and final phase when they move into their own housing, paid for with their savings, and check in with their mentors once a week. The goal is to get reestablished as thriving, independent adults who are also part of this church community.<\/p>\n Ball reports that the program is successful for about a quarter of the men and one-third of the women. The program has a slightly higher relapse rate than the overall rate for recovery programs tracked by the Department of Health and Human Services. But Anchor\u2019s standards are also higher, only counting people who never return to addiction, no matter how long they\u2019re out of the program.<\/p>\n B<\/span>rett McCarty, a theological ethicist at Duke Divinity School and associate director of the Theology, Medicine, and Culture Initiative, has observed a divide in the way Christians think about addiction. More conservative Christians tend to favor abstinence, making sobriety a first priority. This is usually structured around 12-step programs. More progressive Christians typically support harm-reduction efforts, like methadone treatment, needle exchanges, and fentanyl testing kits. These deprioritize staying clean, but still reduce overdoses.<\/p>\n Such polarization frustrates McCarty. There are strengths and weaknesses in both approaches. There\u2019s a lot of data that supports the effectiveness of harm-reduction efforts, but researchers can also see the impact of community involvement.<\/p>\n \u201cThe opposite of addiction is connection,\u201d McCarty said.<\/p>\n Aaron Hymes, a licensed professional counselor and board-approved clinical supervisor who oversees the addiction counseling program at Milligan University in East Tennessee, suggests an \u201cevery door approach.\u201d Bring people in the door\u2014any door.<\/p>\n \u201cYou go with what works,\u201d he said. \u201cMedical assistance helps to minimize urges and cravings, to let a person work on other skills.\u201d At the same time, \u201cIf all you do is hand out meds, nothing\u2019s going to happen. They need to be engaged with a community, such as a church\u201d to change their lives.<\/p>\n Hymes studied peer counseling for his doctoral dissertation and found that it had real value. But he also encourages congregations that offer peer counseling to look into training and professional supervision.<\/p>\n \u201cRecovery happens in community,\u201d he said. \u201cBut it\u2019s not the same as clinical therapy. \u2026 Without training and supervision, someone can actually do harm.\u201d<\/p>\n Before any of that can happen, though, churches have to see the need. They have to identify the problem as their problem and see themselves as the hands and feet to meet the need.<\/p>\n Back in Saltville, the youth group led the way. The teens of the church befriended a high school junior they knew from school and welcomed him into their community. As the boy started to share more about his life with the church, Lisa Bryant, the pastor, learned that all the adults in his family\u2014both parents, a grandparent, and an uncle\u2014were addicted to drugs. The boy wasn\u2019t a user, but he was struggling to keep his head above water while he helped his family function and finished high school.<\/p>\n Sometimes his home was not a safe place to sleep. On those nights, he would sneak through an unlocked door at the town\u2019s public library, where he found refuge in a crawlspace.<\/p>\n Bryant shared some of the details of his situation with a Bible study made up mostly of retired teachers and asked them to pray. She couldn\u2019t help but notice the repeated need\u2014drugs again.<\/p>\n This time, however, her church felt like it pertained to them. It wasn\u2019t abstract anymore, a problem \u201cout there\u201d that they knew through statistics. This was a person in front of them with a need. They began collecting money, clothes, and food, and committed to support the boy until he finished high school. He graduated a year later and enlisted in the Army.<\/p>\n Now, the church is reconsidering starting a recovery group and thinking of other ways to address the opioids problem as well. The congregation is working with other Methodist churches in the district and a regional government agency to secure some short-term housing. They hope to set up an addiction counseling center.<\/p>\n \u201cYou do what you can,\u201d Bryant said. \u201cIn 10 years, I\u2019d love to see less drug use, but more realistic is that when we see somebody struggling with addiction, we see the image of God in them. What can we do to bring out that image?\u201d<\/p>\n S.\u2009J. Dahlman is a professor of communications and journalism at Milligan University and the author of A Familiar Wilderness: Searching for Home on Daniel Boone\u2019s Road<\/span>.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n Have something to add about this? See something we missed? Share your feedback here<\/a>.<\/b><\/p>\n<\/div>\n![\"\"](\"https:\/\/www-images.christianitytoday.com\/images\/135760.jpg?h=839&w=600\" "\\"\\"")
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\na fairly basic question: What can they do? Is there any way to help?<\/p>\n