Our Lord finds our desires, not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.
C. S. Lewis
As anyone who has counseled knows, when people do ask for help, it is usually not in the area of their real need. They rarely mention their real source of pain without first sending up one or more trial balloons — the presenting problems.
The way these “safe” issues are handled determines whether they will reveal the underlying hurt.
“Any time a person comes for counseling, I assume the topic of discussion is not the real issue,” said one pastor who’s made counseling his specialty. “But the surface issue has to be dealt with. There may be pride on the surface, for instance, and a huge hurt underneath. When you try to see why the pride is there, often it’s because the person doesn’t want to admit the hurt. Anger on the surface often camouflages an underlying fear. Recognizing that is important.”
These camouflaged souls represent a special category of people who need help: those hiding their need — either consciously or unconsciously. In order to help those who don’t want help, we must recognize that some of these people will ask for help, but they will ask for it through a tangential issue.
One woman made a point several Sundays in a row to shake hands with the pastor at the door after the service.
“She would take my hand and look me in the eye in such a way that I knew she wanted to say something, but with other people around, she didn’t get it said,” the pastor noticed.
Finally one Sunday she asked, “Can I have an appointment?”
“Of course. Any time. Just call the office and set one up.”
She came in that week. She was a long-time church attender, and she and her husband had raised three sons. They were happy, as far as the pastor knew. But when she came in, she started to cry.
“Go ahead and cry,” the pastor said, “But I’d like to know what it is that’s hurting.”
After a minute or two she said, “I’m afraid to die.”
“Are you ill?”
“No. I’m very well. But I’m afraid to die.”
“Why?”
“I know I’m saved. I know I’m going to heaven. But I’m afraid to die.”
The pastor suspected something more was involved, but he addressed the immediate issue. “We all are somewhat afraid. Death is something we haven’t experienced, and anything unknown and alien like that, we dread.”
“No,” she said. “I’m afraid. I’m guilty.”
“Guilty of what?”
“I’ve never told anybody,” she said. “My sons would die if they knew. My husband has never known.”
She paused. The pastor silently waited. Finally she spoke.
“When I was twelve years old, I let a neighbor man play with me. He just used his hands, but he played with me. I felt so dirty. I never told my mother. I never told anybody.”
“How did you get along all these years?” the pastor asked.
“I forgot it. It was a girlhood mistake, and I just plain forgot it. I was so busy loving my husband and raising my sons. I’ve had a wonderful life, and I enjoy the church, but now the boys are grown and my husband is gone a great deal, and when I’m alone, all the memories come back. I can’t sleep nights. I’m seeing things that aren’t there. I’m hearing voices. I’m scared to die, and yet I know I’m going to.”
The pastor slowly asked, “Do you believe what you did back then was sinful?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “No question about it.”
“Well, how did you treat every other sin in your life?”
“I simply asked God to forgive me.”
“Did you ask God to forgive you for this?”
“I’ve never been able to.”
“Would you like me to help you?”
“Please.”
The two of them knelt in the office, and right there, she broke down and asked God to please forgive her for an action that took place forty years earlier. When they were done, she said, “Should I tell my husband?”
“Why?” asked the pastor. “He wouldn’t think any less of you — you know he adores you — but he hasn’t known for all these years. It wouldn’t do him any good to know. It’s forgiven. What God forgives he wipes out. It’s gone.”
The next Sunday when she came by to shake hands, she took hold of the pastor’s hand, looked up, and said, “It’s wonderful not to be afraid.”
The people standing around hadn’t the foggiest notion of what she was talking about. But she was free.
Issues that deeply hidden don’t usually just pop to the surface. The pastor certainly would not have had any way of ferreting out that problem. It was only her confidence in the pastor — she’d studied him for several weeks and seen how he’d handled her question about death — that allowed her to reveal her inner pain.
Signs of a Deeper Issue
The consistent pastoral presence and the ability to be slow to speak and quick to listen will help uncover most hidden agendas, but certain clues help pastors minister more effectively in these situations.
1. Some statements give it away, such as “Pastor, you never need call on me. I’m well cared for. You just spend your time calling on people who have real needs.”
“I discovered that’s some people’s way of saying, ‘Please pay attention to me — I’m in need.’ It took me years to learn that,” mused a pastor from Los Angeles. “Often they’ve got unresolved problems they would love to talk about, but they’re afraid. They will want to argue with you over some fine point of doctrine or procedure or share a bad experience in the church. But when you get beneath it all, you find they’ve got a desperate loneliness, or their prayer life is delinquent, or they’re not sure of their salvation.”
2. Inappropriate emotion is another clue of an untapped hurt. One pastor from Kansas City, Earl Jenkins, met a young couple visiting the church for the first time. Their first words after introducing themselves were “We’ve been to three churches since moving here from New York City six weeks ago, and this is the first one that hasn’t completely disgusted us.”
Earl gulped but said half-jokingly, “I hope we don’t step out of line.” Then he introduced them to a young couple from the church and was pleased to see them easily strike up a conversation.
The next week, they again attended both Sunday school and the worship service, so Earl arranged to visit them. As soon as he sat down, he was facing two Grand Inquisitors.
“Why are churches so formal? I don’t see any such institutionalism in the New Testament,” said the young man with surprising emotion.
“Your church is like all the others. It’s locked into a constitution. Where’s the Spirit? Where’s the life?” demanded the young woman.
Earl refused to take the bait. He breathed a quick, silent prayer for patience and a nondefensive spirit. “It’s interesting to hear that,” he said. “You’ve been here two weeks. I’ve been here eight years. I’m sure I miss things that are right in front of my nose. Tell me what you observed.”
They mentioned the classical hymns, the readings, the sobriety and formal structure of the service.
“Accurate observations,” said Earl. “We do believe the Spirit can be present in structure as well as spontaneity. But you saw what we were the first week. What brought you back the second week?”
“Well, some of the people did seem to care about us.”
“It’s tough to uproot yourselves and relocate half a continent away, isn’t it?” said Earl. Was this the hurt that made them so pugnacious?
As they admitted their sense of loss over leaving relatives and friends on the East Coast, Earl began to sense a thaw. Before he left, the couple had warmed considerably. The next Sunday, they came back. Two Sundays later, they were ready to become members. Never again did Earl hear anything about formal institutionalism. Instead, the couple eventually shared with their Sunday school class how grateful they were for a church that welcomed them into the family.
“I was glad I let them ventilate without responding directly,” Earl concluded. “If you assume an angry person is hurting, you’ll be right 90 percent of the time. And if you can identify the hurt, even indirectly, and offer some comfort, often you’ve turned the enemy into a friend.”
3. When the complaints are scattered and seemingly disconnected, or when they’re only about recent events, that’s another indication a deeper, unseen stream is flowing.
Jim and Valsa had been married eighteen months. He was twenty-three and worked nights at a bakery. She was thirty-five. They had a son three months old. They’d told their pastor, Calvin Thulman, that they were struggling with some things in their relationship but never mentioned anything specific.
Then one night Valsa called in tears. “Pastor, Jim’s gone! He walked out. He may be staying with some friends across town. I’m not sure.”
“Is he coming back?”
“I don’t know. He just left in a huff.” Valsa explained that Jim kept coming home late, and she suspected him of immorality. She had accused him. He angrily denied it. And things escalated until she threw a colander at him. He said, “I don’t have to put up with this!” and stormed out of the house.
“I know I’m part of the problem,” said Valsa. “But what should I do?”
“Well, Valsa, let’s begin by praying.” Calvin said a prayer over the phone. He agreed to call Jim at work that night and try to set up a meeting with both of them.
When Calvin called, Jim agreed to meet, though he said, “Valsa has just become so demanding, so jealous. She thinks there’s something wrong all the time. There’s nothing wrong with our marriage — we’ve got a kid, don’t we?”
The next night, the three of them met in Calvin’s office. He asked each of them what they felt the pinch points were in their marriage.
Valsa began, “I can’t trust him. He goes and delivers donuts to the girls’ dorm at the university. And he never tells me how long he stays in there! He never tells me what he does.”
“I delivered ten dozen sweet rolls,” said Jim. “It’s the truth!”
“I’ll bet it’s the truth,” she said sarcastically. “Besides that, you won’t fix up the house. I hate the colors in the kitchen, and two weeks ago I bought wallpaper, and you still haven’t put it up. Last week I fixed breakfast for you when you got home, but you said you were too tired to talk and went to bed.”
Jim countered, “When I do want to talk, all you do is complain. You complain about the colors. You complain about where we live. I can’t do anything to please you.”
How in the world can you fight tooth and nail over petty things that have come up in the last two weeks? thought Calvin. Such scattered complaints about such recent offenses signaled Calvin that they weren’t touching the real injury. There were too many charges and not one of them was really heartfelt. He sensed they were flinging accusations out of frustration. The underlying problem had to be something that had been building for a while.
Calvin probed, “I know your work schedule is tough, Jim. It has been ever since you were married. But how much time a day do you spend together?”
They both looked rather blank. Calvin pressed on. “Do you eat meals together? Are you sleeping in the same bed together? When was the last time just the two of you did something together?”
Their mouths dropped slack. “We’re not together much. Valsa sleeps at night, and I sleep during the daytime,” said Jim.
“He gets home at 9 a.m. and sleeps until supper time,” Valsa added. “We usually eat an evening meal before he heads off to work at 10 p.m.”
“Is it possible that much of your frustration comes from your work schedule? You’re not sleeping together. I don’t mean just sexually. Even physically, you’re not next to each other. There’s no time for renewal.”
“I’ve had this job for four years,” said Jim. “I’ve applied other places, but the only openings would have meant a cut in pay.”
Calvin said. “I want to meet again next week. But let me give you some homework. Would you both pray — just pray — about whether this job situation is the key element in this problem?”
They agreed and set up another appointment for the following Wednesday.
That Saturday, Jim called Calvin. “You’re right. I think the job is the real problem, not all those other things we were talking about. And you won’t believe it! I just got a call from the manager at the Blue Coach Restaurant. I had talked with him about a job a year ago, but nothing was available. But now he needs an assistant manager. I can work days — and without a pay cut! I’m going to take it.”
Calvin continued to meet with Jim and Valsa to work on their communication patterns, but it was clear the biggest hurdle had been overcome. Calvin rejoices in both the answer to prayer and that he was right about the underlying issue.
Uncovering the Need
In addition to simply providing a consistent, trustworthy pastoral presence and suggesting possible problem areas, one pastor has discovered that prayer can provide an atmosphere where people feel free to reveal the deeper issues.
“Many times I’ll take the person’s hand and we’ll pray,” says Ken Leone of Spirit of Christ Church in Denver. “We’ll pray about the issues we’ve talked about, and then I trust the Lord to speak through me. Perhaps — and I’m careful not to be manipulative — I’ll softly interrupt my prayer and say ‘I sense that you’re terribly frustrated. Is there anything else? Is there something way down deep that maybe we can ask Jesus to help you with?’
“Or perhaps I’ll say ‘I’m sensing, just from holding your hands, that there’s an anger here. Is there something you really need to talk about yet?’ Many times in the context of the prayer they will suddenly start to cry and then it all comes out.”
An eighteen-year-old boy came to see his pastor because he was wondering whether he should take martial arts classes. He wanted to learn karate, but as he told the pastor, “I’ve seen some black candles in the instructor’s home, and I don’t want to get involved in any satanic worship or anything that’s going to harm my Christian walk.”
After discussing it, they prayed, and the pastor said, “Lord, help Ted know what to do. But even more importantly, help him know why he’s doing it. Help him to use these skills to honor you, not just to have power over others.”
Suddenly Ted shivered and began crying uncontrollably. The pastor put an arm around his shoulders and waited. Slowly the sobs subsided and Ted blurted out a devastating memory.
“You know my dad was killed in a plane crash three years ago. Two weeks before he died, I found out I had been cut from the high school football team. And Dad was disappointed. He’d worked with me on tackling and being tough, but I wasn’t tough enough. When I told him I was cut, he said, ‘Geez, I have a wimp for a son.'” Ted began sobbing again.
His pain had been so repressed that only the prayerful atmosphere and the pastor’s putting the shame into words allowed the real issue to come out — not martial arts — but whether he would ever be able to please a dead father.
“Once that came out,” reports the pastor. “It was like releasing a pressure cooker. He became calm and peaceful and was able to look at the real issue and deal with it. But I suspect when he first came to see me, he honestly didn’t know what the real issue was.”
It came out through prayer, through accepting the original proposition at face value, but also recognizing that there might be more underneath the surface.
The camouflage hiding the real issues often slows the process of helping these people, but it need not prevent the healing. Many times the catalyst for restoring wholeness is an effective use of indirect confrontation.
Copyright ©1986 by Christianity Today
