Barn鈥檚 burnt down
now
I can see the moon.

-Mizuta Masahide

A few聽months ago I surprised myself. I was sitting around the living room watching football with my roommate, Beau, when I said something in response to the TV. I have no idea now what it is that I said鈥攖hough it was probably something vulgar.

To be honest, the actual words seem to matter little, rather, I was surprised because the words I鈥檇 just spoken didn鈥檛 sound like my own. Like the syllables were somehow separate from my body.

Through some soul searching, I鈥檝e come to believe that in this moment I was speaking with something other than my own voice. My words felt separate because they were. They were the voice of another.

I could probably spend hours processing whose voice had replaced my own that day. But what seems more important is acknowledging how often it is our stories, our attachment figures, and our greatest trauma that give rise to our loudest voices鈥攙oices that overcome the voice that is our own.

For unrelated reasons, in the weeks following I found myself in a swirl of brutal, annihilating self-talk. It felt as though my brain was trying to destroy itself with words of self doubt and utter disdain. And then I began to see, here was another voice, this time internal, that spoke in my tone but sounded nothing like me.

Who could this be screaming out with such anger and contempt?

In the aftermath of this epiphany, I鈥檝e become certain of the importance of acknowledging the voices that are not our own. Far too often those voices are not kind and they are not tender. Too often, those voices do not know us but have still come to define us.

I see it all the time in my work with clients at my internship site. I hear the cruel, painful voice of anger and shame and I wonder, who has spoken to you this way that you have come to speak of yourself and others like this? I wonder, who is it that has hurt you so?

What makes combating such voices of hostility so difficult is there is something inherently safe in a story we know well. Anger or disgust helps us order our existence in a way that brings some sense of control in a scary, dangerous world. It鈥檚 easier to speak out with brutality before someone else can do it for us.

Yet, so much is lost when we speak to and of ourselves with inauthentic voices. In my own life, I鈥檝e discovered that my natural excitability and goofiness become muted when the voices of my past speak at their loudest.

Something of my tenderness is lost when my voice is not my own.

The reason I love the Masahide poem above (other than it so succinctly describes the experience of being a 天美视频 student) is because it simultaneously acknowledges all that is lost when old forms of being are torn down and all that is gained when a new perspective is allowed to shine through. Because there is something lost, something risked, when we live into a voice that is truly our own.

What is burned down must be acknowledged even as the fire gives way to something new.

This is why I think the work we do as pastors and counselors and leaders is so important鈥攂ecause there are so many who need help witnessing and releasing the internal voices bent on harming the self. They need someone to walk with them during the painful process of discovering the true voice within.

And this is why we battle on: because the voices of shame and self-contempt cannot win if the suffering ones are to be redeemed鈥攊f we are all to be redeemed.

The post Hearing Voices appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

It鈥檚 hard to come to this point and not begin to look back.

I am four months into my third year at 天美视频. Which means I am four months into my internship and six months away from graduation.

It also means I am more than two years removed from the first day I walked into the red brick building for orientation. I鈥檒l never forget riding the bus into school that first day鈥擬eagan, Millie, and Michael close by as Lady Rainier made an appearance over the Sound.

Reminiscing has had me thinking lately about that old Michael Douglas and Martin Sheen movie my family used to watch, The American President. In one particular scene, Sheen, Chief of Staff to the President, says:

鈥淵ou fight the fights you can win? You fight the fights that need fighting.鈥�

I arrived in Seattle in 2013 ready to take on the world, ready to fight all the battles, ready to play the conquering hero. Mostly, I was ready to win. I was ready to do the work I needed to do to perfect myself, to make this world safe, to battle and defeat metaphorical dragons.

After 28 months of turmoil and growth, rupture and repair, heartbreak and redemption, here is one thing I know for sure: there is no greater purpose than to fight the battles that need to be fought, but sometimes we have to choose which battles we will face.

This is one of the things I initially found confusing about my entrance into 天美视频. I spent hours those first two years learning about my privilege. Which, when you consider that I hit the power and privilege trifecta (probably more like a quad-fecta of gender, race, sexual orientation, and socio-economic status), means I also spent a lot of hours learning to exist in the privilege I had previously been unaware of.

Yet no one ever told me I couldn鈥檛 fight all the battles鈥攐r that I couldn鈥檛 win all the battles. Eventually I found I was really frustrated, like if I couldn鈥檛 do it all right then I couldn鈥檛 do any of it right. And believe me, I have been far from doing it all right.

I remember at one point becoming so exasperated that I yelled out, to no one in particular: 鈥淚鈥檓 tired of being vigilant about everything! I can鈥檛 get anything right!鈥� I realize even as I type those words that the ability to stop being vigilant is a privilege. An African-American man driving down the street with a white cop following him doesn鈥檛 get to decide whether or not to be on alert. But I do, and that is one of the privileges of my power as a white, upper-middle class, straight male.

And yet, I still can鈥檛 fight all the battles. I am only one person and my energy is finite. Still, as Martin Sheen said, you fight the fights that need fighting. You just don鈥檛 fight ALL the fights that need fighting. Sometimes we have to trust that others will carry a piece of the load along with us.

With all this being said, I was recently given an opportunity I am extremely proud of鈥攖o enter into the dialogue about sex and sexual abuse through my friend Abby鈥檚 non-profit, . Abby and I have begun a momentous task: writing about sex and sexuality for the next generation in hopes of lending our words to a realm so desperately in need of voices.

There are two important things I have realized about power in the weeks since we began these letters. First, I need a lot of forgiveness. I need forgiveness for all the times my power gained me something I didn鈥檛 earn. I need forgiveness for the messiness of this transition. Going from unaware to aware is never perfect, and I am no exception.

The second thing I learned is my power and privilege puts me at a unique advantage to instill change in areas you might not often see a guy like me stepping into. We need men speaking out against sexual abuse. We need straight people fighting for the rights of the LGBTQ community. We need the upper class in the struggle against poverty. And we need white folks who are willing to wade into the continued fight against racism.

That鈥檚 hard for me to admit, as it could easily be taken as power and privilege continuing to assert its voice over the voiceless. But I hope that is not what others hear me say. I hope you hear me say that I cannot fight all the battles, but I am one person ready to step into a battle that needs fighting.

Most of all, I will do my best to use my privilege for good, because there is nothing greater we can ask of each other than to use what we have been given for those who have had something taken away.

The post The Fights That Need Fighting appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

“These fragments I have shored against my ruins.”

-T.S. Eliot

I’m beginning to realize there is a certain bind I have often found myself engrossed in鈥攐ne that has deeply impacted my life experiences and my relationships. This bind is called safety. It’s a bind because oftentimes safety is seen only in the categories of safe and unsafe.

In the psychology world this is called splitting: when something or someone must be all good or all bad to be real. Splitting comes when we are unable鈥攐r unwilling鈥攖o see the complexity of human existence. It’s something we all do, often with no idea we are doing it.

Culturally we do this all the time. We turn our anger toward the devilish white cop or the dangerous young black man. We deify some celebrity who works with kids in Africa or the southern mega-church pastor who can do no wrong. Whether we are ignoring someone’s darkness or their capacity for goodness, we are wrong. There is no such thing as a person who is all good or all bad.

Sadly, this reality often goes unrecognized.

I remember in college taking a date to my fraternity’s semi-formal event in Savannah, Georgia. I’d asked the girl I was seeing at the time who, sadly, wasn’t as into me as I was into her. One night as I was beginning to realize this, I got too drunk and, barely aware she was in the hotel room, threw a trash can in her direction. It was dumb and violent, and I apologized profusely the following day. Our relationship, at least in its romantic form, ended after that trip.

I’m reminded of this story because I’ve come to realize that I have felt trapped by the bind of safety for much of my life. After that night I felt as though I was unsafe鈥攍ike my anger made me dangerous. Unfortunately, this is a message that has been reinforced many times throughout my life. I’ve struggled to feel accepted in my humanness, too often sensing that there is no middle ground鈥攖hat I must be either all good or all bad. I can either be trusted with vulnerability or I cannot. I am either safe to love or unworthy of it.

Quite frankly, this isn’t just a message that comes from outside myself. It’s co-created. I also struggle to accept my own imperfection. I also fluctuate between utter shame and total denial of any capacity for causing harm. Again, we all split both ourselves and those around us.

It makes me want to ask, what of my humanity? Where is there freedom to be both good and bad, safe and unsafe? Is there space for me to be both broken and redeemed? Perfect and imperfect? Am I allowed to be human?

The girl from semi-formal and I have remained friends for close to a decade now. And my actions didn’t end our romance; the end was coming long before I started drinking Southern Comfort. But when I look back on that night, I realize it’s time to give myself some credit. I really cared about that girl, and still do. I shouldn’t have thrown things, and I should have dealt with my sadness without a bottle of liquor. But I also care deeply for people. When I love, I love hard, and it’s time to give myself some credit for the goodness in my mistakes.

I am very broken, but I am also very good.

In other words, I am safe. I am worthy of vulnerability, love, and pain. But I will also inevitably screw up. I will get angry. I will say things I don’t mean. And I will apologize, because that’s what humans do: they make mistakes and then they ask for help and forgiveness. To be human is to be both safe and unsafe. We are not bound to one or the other, no matter how much the world in which we exist wants us to be.

I used to think one day all this work I’m doing would make me clean again. That if I could just dig a little deeper, peer a bit further into my story, I could cleanse away all the scars. But the scars never go away, and who would want them to? They are what make me who I am. It’s the scars which give hope for redemption. It’s the scars that allow the belief that there are relationships out there in which vulnerability can be shared in safety, and forgiveness can be found in brokenness.

I am not all good. I am not all bad. I am a man, I am human, and I am complex. I guess all that is to say, I am Charlie.

The post Bound to Safety appeared first on 天美视频 of Theology & Psychology.

Honestly, when I first began telling my story I started too recently. I began with the years spent fighting against the yearning bubbling up in my heart, or with the phone call to Rachael Clinton deferring my enrollment for a year.

The real answer, however, is that it started with a handshake.

It was 2009 and I had a career. I was twenty-six years old, doing what I thought was my dream鈥攃oaching and teaching at a prestigious high school in my hometown.聽One afternoon a fellow coach invited a local therapist to come speak to volunteers soon headed to Belize to work with local students. The therapist鈥檚 name was Stephen James鈥攁 graduate of 天美视频.

It was a moment I鈥檒l never forget. We were being introduced for the first time, and I did what I always did in such situations鈥擨 went in aggressively to powerfully shake his hand. Just like my grandfather taught me: look him in the eye and shake firmly.

On this occasion, however, I got a very different response than I was used to. Stephen pulled back and said, 鈥淲hoa man, what are you trying to prove?鈥�

Those eight words stopped me in my tracks.

It may seem silly, but Stephen鈥檚 response rocked the very core of who I believed myself to be at the time. It鈥檚 hard for me to fully explain even now, years later, but unbeknownst to him, Stephen spoke to a longing in my soul鈥攁 piece of myself that knew I wasn鈥檛 who I was meant to be.

His words called out to a lonely heart, and I haven鈥檛 been the same since.

I was thinking about this story recently while watching the movie Fury. In it Shia LaBeouf鈥檚 character quotes Isaiah 6:8: 鈥淭hen I heard the voice聽of the Lord saying, 鈥榃hom shall I send?聽And who will go for us?鈥� And I said, 鈥楬ere am I.聽Send me!鈥欌��

I believe that day with Stephen six years ago was the moment God called out to me, 鈥淲ill you be sent? Will you go for us?鈥� It was the moment when I was forever ruined for normal work and a simple life. Even if I didn鈥檛 realize it at the time鈥攁 restlessness had been raised within me. One I would never again be able to ignore.

It took four years, a failed business school experiment, and a lot of fear before I was finally ready to be sent. But honestly, I don鈥檛 think any of that really matters. Whether it took four years or forty, the point isn鈥檛 when we go, but simply that we go. I had to fight and claw and scream and ask God to send me anywhere else, but eventually I went.

It鈥檚 funny, sometimes I want to blame Stephen or God for getting me into this mess. For pushing me beyond the simple life I thought I desired. The truth is, God didn鈥檛 make me do anything. He simply used a man to call into the truth of who I am created to be and waited for me to answer.

I鈥檇 like to say I鈥檓 glad every day that I answered, but that would be a lie. Some days I鈥檓 angry for all that my decisions have cost me鈥攆or what I鈥檝e left behind. Other days I cry watching cheesy Today Show stories and wonder what the hell I鈥檓 doing here. In the end, I guess the point is simply that I鈥檓 here.

I鈥檓 here, Lord. Send me.

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I used to think I was pretty powerful. No, let me say it another way: I used to think I had to be powerful to survive.

When I was young I experienced some traumatic events. They weren鈥檛 all life changing, but smaller traumas tend to add up over time. They also teach lessons, lessons that, sadly, become a way of life鈥攁 haunting existence.

One of the lessons I learned from my trauma was that people were powerful. Grown men were big and loud, and they made up the rules. Girls could make your heart hurt. Best friends could move away or choose certain vices over friendship.

So I assumed I must be powerful, too.

My power, or so I thought, came in my ability to affect women. I鈥檒l never forget when, in college, a couple of girls made me a mix CD (yes, I鈥檓 that old). It was a compilation of love songs with the title 鈥淗eartbreaker鈥� on the cover. They did it as a joke鈥攁 joke that hit a little too close to home.

Sadly, over the years this became my story鈥攖hat of a man powerful enough to break hearts. Whether it was getting too close to a female friend or developing a budding romance, my special skill became causing pain. Heartbreaker became my haunting existence.

Not long ago I walked into a meeting with my practicum leader and launched into a diatribe about the many broken hearts鈥攖hose I鈥檇 sustained and those I鈥檇 caused鈥攚hen he looked at me and said, 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a tired story.鈥�

鈥淲hat?鈥� I said, momentarily flooded.

鈥淚t鈥檚 time to lay your worn out stories to rest, Charlie.鈥�

Honestly, I haven鈥檛 been able to get those words out of my head for months. At first I was angry. I didn鈥檛 want to lose the story I鈥檇 been telling. It felt safe and comfortable. Then I realized something important: I鈥檇 spent over a year at 天美视频 peering into my past but still telling its story in the same old, worn out way. I knew more of my history, but I was still living as the same 鈥渄angerous man鈥� I鈥檇 always believed myself to be.

I think this is what my Practicum Leader was trying to help me see. Yes, I鈥檓 sure I have broken a heart or two over the years, just as I have had mine hurt on a few occasions, but that really isn鈥檛 the point. The point is the stories I鈥檝e told (and those that have been told about me) are still deeply impacting my existence. The past is still the lens through which I view the present, and that is a dangerous place to be.

It鈥檚 dangerous not because the old, worn out story of Charlie as heartbreaker is true, but because what I鈥檓 afraid of most鈥攂eing a bad guy鈥攊s actually the very thing keeping me from the intimacy I so deeply crave. I walk through the world careful to never get too close to any woman because I assume I鈥檓 going to crush her. And that takes me away from the thing that matters most: relationship.

We spend so much time at 天美视频 considering our stories鈥攐ur past trauma and pain. Lord knows understanding our stories matters, but I think we must be careful with the ways we use what we learn. How we engage our stories in the present is just as important as coming to understand the past. There comes a time when we must refocus our attention鈥攚hen we must take what we know and start telling new stories.

“How we engage our stories in the present is just as important as coming to understand the past.”

We live in a world so quick to place us in boxes. A world where dehumanization often comes in the form of definitions of who we are and who we are not. I don鈥檛 want to be a definition anymore. I don鈥檛 want to miss out on life and relationship because of pain left unhealed. I don鈥檛 want to be a heartbreaker.

Instead, I want to be a person鈥攁 person with a new story to tell.

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