Therapy According to “30 Rock”

                The counseling process is often stereotyped in the media, and inaccurate representations of the helping profession add to inherent resistance individuals and families experience when considering pursuing help.  Consider a recent dialogue from the sitcom “30 Rock:”

Liz (played by Tina Fey): Jack, what makes a guy get bored in a dating situation?

Jack (played by Alec Baldwin): That’s an excellent question.  The answer is: questions like that.

Liz: This long distance is hard.  And now Carl and I haven’t talked in like five days.  And my other stuff is still unresolved.

Jack: I get it, Lemmon.  You need to see a therapist, someone you can dump your problems on and then get on with your “life.” 

Liz: I’m trying.  I just can’t find someone I like.  I mean, have you ever been to a shrink?

Jack: No, I believe that when you have a problem you talk it over with your priest or your tailor or the mute elevator porter at your men’s club.  Then you take that problem and you crush it with your mind vise.  But for lesser beings like girly-haired men and people who need glasses therapy can help. 

                In asserting that therapy is for “girly-haired men and people who need glasses,” Jack is communicating (in addition to other prejudices) that therapy is for a certain type of weaker person who is not strong enough to crush his or her problems in a “mind vise.”  On the show, the outlandish ego and pride of Baldwin’s character is what makes him so funny.  However, the sad reality is that many individuals share his perspective on counseling.  Unfortunately, seeking help for one’s problems is often viewed as a sign of weakness or inferiority.  Many of us have been raised to believe that you “pull yourself up by your bootstraps,” “pray harder,” “have more quiet times,” “just have more faith,” or “push on through and get over it” in order to conquer your problems.  However, life is just not that simple.

             Scripture confirms that our human weakness is an opportunity for God to demonstrate his strength.  Paul writes of God’s work in his own life, “But he said to me, ‘My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.’  Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ’s power may rest on me” (2 Corinthians 12:9).  When viewing our suffering and struggles in this light, the counseling process (or seeking help from others in any form) can be a means through which the sufficiency of God’s grace and the power of Christ’s resurrection rest upon us.  God has created us for community, for sharing both joys and burdens.  He even expects that we would confess our sins to one another in order to experience forgiveness.  We need each other, and though it might not seem like it, there are people out there who will listen, understand, and help you work through the mess in your life (and we ALL have mess in our lives).  Therapy is not merely “dumping problems out and then getting over it,” as Jack described above.  The counseling process is a way of encountering the mercy of Christ in ways you may never have experienced.  The bottom line is this: you don’t have to crush your problems in your mind vise.  It just might help to talk to someone.

A Son of the King

A few years ago, when I was about halfway through seminary, my friend Omar took me out to lunch for my birthday.  Omar was always making generous sacrifices for people, so his invitation came as no surprise.  I was a caught off guard, however, when after our meal the entire Chili’s work crew came processing toward our table behind a candle-laden chocolate lava cake.  Apparently Omar had worked behind the scenes to arrange one of those embarrasing, slide down in your chair and pretend you dropped something under the table birthday songs.  It was particularly awkward because it was just me and Omar sitting at the table for lunch.  There was no large table of family and friends to diffuse the attention.  The stares of all restaurant patrons were affixed firmly on me, with Omar smugly smiling on the other side of the table. 

After the busy staff returned to scurrying about, after I had annihilated the mountain of fudge and ice cream, and after Omar had given me a birthday card with an additional gift certificate to another restaurant (with an exhortation that ”I” treat my wife to a nice dinner sometime soon), I glared at my friend (chocolate probably still smeared on my chin and cheeks) and said, “Omar, you’ve treated my like a king today.”  And that’s when he firmly said the words I’ll never forget, “Well, David, YOU ARE a SON of the KING.” 

I’ve thought a lot about identity lately, and sometimes when I get really discouraged and doubtful about who I am in relation to God Omar’s words descend on me like a rainstorm in the desert.  The truth is that a Christian’s spiritual adoption into God’s family brings life, celebration, and security where there was once fear and separation.  However, the difficulty with living in a fallen world is that while the believer’s adoption is firmly grounded in eternity, life is not always birthday celebrations and hot fudge sundays.  There’s plenty of pain, struggle and feelings of abandonment to go around–we suffer because of our own sinfulness, the work of evil in the world, and the brokenness of other people.  But our lasting hope is that at the end of our lives, no matter how orphaned we have felt at different seasons and situations, we sit at the king’s table, and as he lavishes us with his approving stare, he calls for his angelic procession to bring his sons and daughters the mother of all chocolate lava cakes.

Sadly for me and all who knew Omar, my friend is now enjoying that type of divine embrace. Omar’s battle with ALS ended last week, and he’s presently fellowshipping with Jesus (the Son of the King who makes it possible for us to be sons of the King)  in heaven.  There’s part of me, that fearful, cynical part, who wants to avoid thinking about Omar’s death.  My own flesh and evil sneer, ”look at where your God and your hope get you.”  In a sense, daring to hope in the things I’m writing about, risking believing that God could make me or Omar or anyone else a son takes a certain measure of faith. 

Thankfully, there are moments when over and against my internal struggles the Holy Spirit moves me to trust, to grieve, to long for restoration, to cry out to God, to tell people about Omar, to write about his many encouraging words to me.  And in the memories of Omar’s words, in his looks, in his smile, in his graciousness and generosity, the love of the Suffering Servant Jesus lives on in my own heart and in this imperfect world.  I wonder if Jesus might be saying to you today, “Take heart, my child, you’re a son of the King.”        

 

Living and learning in a community which is gospel-centered enables individuals to experience the love and mercy of Christ.  Maybe at times that type of radical living looks like personal counseling, maybe it’s a small group, maybe it’s regular worship attendance.  Likely it’s all of the above in different proportions throughout your life.  As you consider coming out of hiding and more deeply embracing your identity as a Son of the King, we invite you to tell us who you are by emailing david@firstpresopelika.org. 

Winter’s Hope

I went for a jog this morning, and along the trail I noticed something in a new way.  The Camelia is an amazing flower.  The woods for the past month or two have been a frozen gray, and in the midst of the bleak landscape out pops (incredibly, even in the deepest cold and frost) bright pink, white and red blooms.  

It’s sort of like hope.  As harbingers of spring, the Camelia assures us that life will return to the land.  And the message is not merely life, not simply survival or sustenance.  No, the Camelia dares to shout of abundance and beauty.  As Christians, no matter how deep our pain or how wounded our hearts have been by the bitterness of life’s winters, there’s hope that spring will return.  God promises through the prophet Amos that when Christ returns he will usher in a season of restoration like never before, a spring in which grapes grow so abundantly that ”wine flows down the mountains in streams” (some of you are REALLY excited about that promise) and God’s people will rest in the gardens they have planted, enjoying the beautiful fruit of their labors. 

If a pang of emptiness and longing stabs you upon considering this hope, you’re right where God wants you.  The environment in which the Camelia grows communicates the reality of life in a fallen world–death and disappoinment are around every corner.  You can move to the tropics and drink boat drinks all year, but there’s no escaping the brokennness of the world.  Life batters all of our dry bones, so perhaps winter Camelias will remind us that Jesus has ultimately conquered death and gives new life by his Spirit.  Seeing them, we must allow our hearts to risk hope in the face of darkness.

By the Breath of His Mouth

So I’m now resigned to the fact that all of my posts will involved quotes from books.  What can I say?  I like to read, alright.  I also like to do other things, but not everyone wants to hear about my deer hunts this winter or what my son learned how to say today.  So you’ll have to live with some quotes that this old English major thinks are meaningful.

One of my favorite “beach reads” of all time is _The Perfect Storm_ by Sebastian Junger.  Maybe you shouldn’t read it if you’re at the beach during a hurricane or monsoon, but otherwise it’s a great story.  And that’s what we’re all looking for, right?  Good stories?  Stories, especially redemptive stories, remind us of the deep truths of our existence.  They help us connect our story with God’s story, and _The Perfect Storm_, among other things, reminds us of God’s power.  Junger writes this about hurricanes:

“A mature hurricane is by far the most powerful event on earth; the combined nuclear arsenals of the United States and the former Soviet Union don’t contain enough energy to keep a hurricane going for one day.  A typical hurricane encompasses a million cubic miles of atmosphere and could provide all the electric power needed by the United States for three or four years.”

All the nuclear bombs in the world wouldn’t keep a hurricane going for a week!  That fact just reminds me how vulnerable we are in relation to a mighty God!  Psalm 33 says it this way:

“By the word of the Lord were the heavens made, their starry host by the breath of his mouth.  He gathers the waters of the sea into jars; he puts the deep into storehouses.”

Wouldn’t it be great to have someone who can put the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans into jars protecting and preserving you?  Jesus tells us that we do.  Speaking of believers (who he calls his sheep) he says, “My Father, who has given them to me, is greater than all; no one can snatch them out of my Father’s hand.”  That means not Satan, not other people, not yourself, nothing and nobody can snatch you out of the Father’s hand once the Holy Spirit dwells in your heart.  He’s unpacked his bags and he’s not going anywhere!  Now that’s good “beach read” material.

All Things to All Men

Judging by the title, I bet you think this post will make you feel guilty, don’t you?  You’re expecting me to quote a Bible passage and then tell you to get out there and save some lost people.  And then you’ll beat yourself up because you’re not even “all things” your wife or your boss or your kids need you to be.  So on top of disappointing your family, your friends and yourself, now you’re going to disappoint God by not being able to save all the nonbelievers you know.  Ok, take a deep breath and let’s continue.

Yes, Paul does write the following in 1 Corinthians 9:22-23….

“To the weak I became weak, to win the weak.  I have become all things to all men so that by all possible means I might save some.  I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings.”  

However, as I was reminded a few nights ago, this does not mean that it’s up to me, or you, or even your local church to single-handedly save the world.   

I recently started the novel The Last Gentleman by Walker Percy.  It’s an awesome book so far, and on page two the narrator reports the following regarding the main character:

“Most people would have forgotten the incident in question in a week’s time. But he did not.  His life had come to such a pass that he attached significance to it.  For until this moment he had lived in a state of pure possibility, not knowing what sort of a man he was or what he must do, and supposing therefore that he must be all men and do everything.  But after this morning’s incident his life took a turn in a particular direction.  Thereafter he came to see that he was not destined to do everything but only one or two things.  Lucky is the man who does not secretly believe that every possibility is open to him.”  

We can learn a lot about the call of God from this passage.  To this point in his life, the protagonist seems to have been overwhelmed by the possibilities and vastness of life, and he hasn’t intentionally engaged in any significant activities.  That could be our life situation as well if we think being “all things to all men” means we get involved in every single Bible study we hear about, every outreach ministry in the community, and generally walk around with a nagging voice in the back of our heads droning “you’re not doing enough” to save ______________. 

The context in which Paul tells the Corinthians that he has become all things to all men is paramount.  Basically, the point he’s making is that Christians should use discernment and wisdom in the ways we minister to nonbelievers (or even to each other).  For Paul, becoming all things to all men meant that in some situations he might coform to the outward behavioral standards of the Jewish law (even though he was free from the law) in order to minister to Jews.  It does not mean that he must stay up all night giving his testimony to anyone he can find, make weekly visits to every church he planted, or disciple anyone who scratches on his tent door.  If that were the case, we would have fewer books of the Bible–Paul would have been too overwhelmed to write any letters! 

So what does this mean for you?  Simply put, God calls you to be faithful, not Superman or Wonder Woman.  You’re going to disappoint people, and that’s OK.  You can’t please everyone, and that’s not what the Lord wants you to do.  He’s given us unique dispositions and individual gifts to minister in specific ways, and he’s calling us to wisely and discerningly engage (“being all things”) with the different people he puts in our paths (“to all kinds of people”).   

It’s too early in The Last Gentleman for me to predict what’s going to happen, but the event that precipitated the above quote seemed random, a chance encounter.  But for those of us who trust a sovereign God, we know there are no chance encounters.  Therefore, live freely today in the knowledge that Jesus is the only one who can be “all things to all men” in the way we tend to interpret the verse. 

What do you want most?

Sometimes I get confused about desires.  I long for so many things in the course of a day it’s hard to even keep track.  My body yearns for another hour of sleep.  I crave a bacon egg and cheese biscuit.  I desire to feel close to God.  I hope to please my wife.  That coffee smells good, but I might get the shakes…anyway, you get the picture.  Calvin said our hearts are idol factories, so what’s an idol and what’s a legitimate desire?  It’s often hard to discern.  Larry Crabb, in his recently released book 66 Love Letters: A Conversation with God that Invites you into His Story (Incidentally, if you’re part of the FPCO church family, you’ll recognize that this book was highlighted in the monthly newsletter but was quickly checked out of the church library.  I don’t know anything about that.), provides some interesting thoughts on the matter.  He writes the following (remember, he’s having an imaginary conversation with God):

["God, am I not supposed to want things to go well for me, to do what I can to make better my life and the life of those I love?  Am I not supposed to ask you for good health, godly children, a happy marriage, a decent income, or safe travel when I go on vacation?"

"It's not what you want that is wrong.  It's what you want the most.  When you want your life to go well more than you want to know and please Me, you relate to Me and to others in ways that violate My nature."]

Crabb reminds me that it’s alright for me to desire a nice house, a comfortable income, a healthy family, good friends, time to do something fun, and a fancy meal every now and then.  However, when those things become my demand or if my pursuit of them is more passionate than my desire for intimacy with God I know I’ve crossed over into idolatry.  So maybe we should ask ourselves today, “What do you want most?  What do you spend your time thinking and dreaming about?  What would your friends and family say you are most passionate about?”  [Ouch.  That last one could be really convicting.]  Augustine wrote, “Our hearts were made for Thee, O Lord, and restless ever will they be, until they rest in Thee.”  Let’s all resolve to be aware and intentional with our desires today–just don’t stop at the bacon, egg and cheese.  Long for a warrior-king who created you in his image with dignity and honor, suffered humiliating pain,  conquered death and evil, keeps you in the palm of his hand, and promises to make all things right in the end.  Maybe you could go so far as to hope that even the wrongs you’ve suffered can be made right.

A Thousand Miles for You

I recently finished reading the Pulitzer Prize-winning novel Gilead by Marilynne Robinson.  One particular passage stood out to me as the anchor of the book’s power.  I’ll quote it here, even though taken out of context it’s probably not as evocative.  The premise is that an old pastor (who fathered a child late in life) is dying, and he wants his son to know how much he loves him.  So he starts writing him letters which, presumably, the son would read when he’s grown older and his father is long gone.  Here’s the passage:

“I’d have never believed I’d see a wife of mine doting on a child of mine.  It still amazes me every time I think of it.  I’m writing this in part to tell you that if you ever wonder what you’ve done in your life, and everyone does wonder sooner or later, you have been God’s grace to me, a miracle, something more than a miracle.  You may not remember me very well at all, and it may seem to you to be no great thing to have been the good child of an old man in a shabby little town you will no doubt leave behind.  If I only had words to tell you.”

There are indeed many days when I wonder what I’ve done in my life.  In essence, I question my significance.  And then when I question my significance, my tendency as a human is to resort to performance.  Isn’t that what we all tend to do?  We want to prove we matter–that our life means something–by earning more money, by looking a certain way, by getting all A’s, by living up to God’s standards, by being a better pastor/teacher/banker/mother.  But the reality is we can never DO enough to feel significant.  We’re imperfect people living in a frustrating world of “thorns and thistles.”  The whole point of life, of faith, of spirituality is that in our feelings of insignificance we would run to someone bigger, someone with the potential of giving us an identity and a purpose.

The old pastor (Rev. John Ames) understood this  truth.  He understood that one day his son would doubt his significance.  And he wanted to say to his son, once and for all, no questions asked, “I think you’re special and you’ve meant the world to me.”  He does this more explicitly toward the end of the novel:

“I can tell you this, that if I’d married some rosy dame and she had given me ten children and they had each given me ten grandchildren, I’d leave them all, on Christmas Eve, on the coldest night of the world, and walk a thousand miles just for the sight of your face, your mother’s face.  And if I never found you, my comfort would be in that hope, my lonely and singular hope, which could not exist in the whole of Creation except in my heart and in the heart of the Lord.  That is just a way of saying I could never thank God sufficiently for the splendor He has hidden from the world–your mother excepted, of course–and revealed to me in your sweetly ordinary face.”

Elsewhere  in the novel, Ames remarks that Augustine (a church father and theologian) believed that God loves each of us as an only child.  While that’s difficult for me to comprehend, if not impossible, there are moments when I’m touched by the kind of love described in the above passage.  I ask you, reader of my first blog post ever, does anyone love you that much?  Is there anyone out there who thinks you’re that special?  It’s a big risk to hope for that intimate a love, for that great a significance.  After all, you’ve been disappointed and treated as insignificant (at least at times) by your own parents, by your friends, by life’s harsh realities.  Maybe even God has seemed distant and uncaring.  But even if you can’t allow yourself to believe, don’t you wish there was a father who would walk a thousand miles on the coldest night of the year just to catch a glimpse of your face?  Somewhere deep in your calloused and self-protected heart isn’t there a longing for a shepherd who would leave the 99 and pursue you, the lost, lonely and frightened little lamb?  Pastor Ames knew what his son’s questions would be, and he was aware of the deep longings that would tug at his soul.  In his letters, perhaps he gives his boy (and me, and you) a model of how deep our Heavenly Father’s love is.

*All quotes are from the Picador paperback version of Gilead, copyright 2004, Marilynne Robinson.  Go get a copy  and read for yourself.