“So what do I do about that?” The client sat across from me in the counseling room as the only other sound that filled the silence between us was the white-noise machine in the hallway. I had been seeing this client for a couple of months now and we had worked through several crucial components of the counseling process. We had begun with walking through the clients past history, understanding how their childhood and the various of elements of it (their parents, experiences, attachment style, etc) had impacted their development and how to process some of those pieces. We had worked through a variety of elements through the lens of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, understanding how thoughts, emotions and behaviors all interconnect to form a sort of cyclical effect in our daily lives. We had learned and identified what cognitive distortions might be present in the client’s daily thinking, addressed anxious thoughts processes and learned better coping skills to face rather than avoid the fears and worries the client faced day to day. But here we were after roughly eight weeks of weekly sessions as the client shared that despite making progress, overcoming previously held fears, understanding how they connect to others, and even attempting to mend some difficult relationships, they still felt lost. “Help me understand",” I asked the client, “what you mean by lost?” “Well, I see all this progress, I know this counseling thing is working and I do feel better, but, there is still something else. I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s like I don’t feel better about tomorrow even though I do feel better about today” the client answered. “It sounds like maybe you mean hope,” I replied, “that maybe you feel better about facing day to day struggles, but you maybe lack hope for the future.” “Yes, that’s exactly it!” The client was getting more responsive now. “I know what I have to do to keep moving forward and keep making progress, but I don’t think that alone gives me hope for the future.” I nodded without reacting in any particular emotion or facial expression. “Right, that makes sense” I responded. The client stared at me, waiting for some bigger reveal from me, some response that would provide clarity, some kind of direction or insight. But as the moment sat in silence the client broke forth finally with a direct question, “So what do I do about that?”

The problem was not that I was unaware of the client’s need for hope, or that I did not understand what hope was or where hope was found. On the contrary, I knew exactly where the client was lacking hope, and where to find the perfect and only antidote to their lack of hope. The problem was, this client had shared with me during our first session together that they were agnostic at best, and atheist at worst. They had experienced what would be referred to (by them and many others today) as “religious trauma”. Religious trauma was a term applied to individuals who felt that being raised in a strict and harsh “religious” environment had traumatized them, such that religion as whole was now a trigger. So what was I, a biblical counselor who works with people of all walks of life, to do when I have applied narrative therapy, cognitive behavioral therapy, trauma-informed care, and even some philosophical existentialism to the process only to find the client is missing and seeking hope? This was my predicament: to see with clarity the hope that is only found in knowing and pursuing Christ, while guiding a client who wants said hope but without the Christ part. The truth is I was lost for a moment or two, and so I did what I do best, I sat with the client in silence while I pondered carefully my response.

Jeremiah 17:5-10 offers a very important analogy of the human heart. Verses 5 and 6 offer a glimpse of a shrub planted in the dry desert ground whose roots have no source of life, and who withers when the dry season comes and the hot wind blows. Conversely, verses 7 and 8 describe a tree who is planted by water, whose roots have access to a source of life and who has no reason to fear the dry season and even bears fruit in the midst of drought. The word that is being described here is hope. The shrub in the desert has no hope, its roots dry out and it lives in fear of the drought and dry season that will ultimately claim its lifespan. On the other hand, the tree planted by water lives without fear for it is sustained not by itself, but by the very water from which it draws life. The difference here is hope and more specifically where hope is found. Neither the shrub nor the tree have reason to hope in themselves. They cannot sustain themselves, and they cannot provide for themselves. Therefore their hope is found in the living water which provides for them. If the shrub in the desert had the capacity to sustain itself, it would have no reason to fear, no reason to dread, no reason to live outside of its own existence. But the tree planted by water, which thrives even though the drought comes, has hope in the living water which provides for it and is sustained by said water. This was the conundrum I found myself in with the client described above. In every possible way they had lived their life in a manner which required hope to be found within themself, only to find that their roots had run into the dry desert ground and left them empty, lost, directionless, and hopeless.

“So what do I do about that?” the client asked me. After I had paused for what felt like much longer then it actually was, I finally opened my mouth to speak. “Well, I can tell you the answer, but I don't believe it is an answer you want to hear.” “You’re going to tell me God or something like that right,” the client immediately responded to me. I stared back at the client with a short smile on my face. The client didn’t hesitate long before replying, “I already told you why I don’t believe in God. So no, I’m not interested in a hope that comes from a God that allowed everything that happened to me.” “I understand completely,” I told the client with sincerity, “and because of that I have worked with you through all of the other modalities that offer us guidance on how to process and progress through grief and truama. But all of that, has led us here, to this conversation. Can I ask you a question though?” I wasn’t sure the client would give me an opening here, and I would of course respect them either way. “Sure,” the client replied cautiusly. “You’ve tried to live without hope in Christ after everything you went through as a child. Logically, if you blame God for your life experiences, that would make sense. Why would you, after all, follow a God whom you see as the problem. But in all of your efforts to put yourself together and live a fulfilling life, you came to the end of yourself, to the end of your ability to provide answers, to provide meaning, to provide hope. You have tried with all of your power to do this without faith or hope in Christ.” “Exactly!” The client very quickly replied, nearly cutting me off. “And how is that working for you?” I asked with as much empathy as I could offer, but the client certainly felt the weight of my words in that question.

I have a passion for people of all walks of life, and for seeing them healed and living fulfilling lives. I have a passion for listening to peoples stories, walking with them through their experiences, and pointing out the details I spot along the way. But one thing that Narrative Therapy, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy or any other form of secular counseling simply cannot provide….is hope. Only Christ, God wrapped in flesh and carrying away the sins of mankind, a savior that died our death and offered salvation, a redeemer who paved a way towards justification and adoption into the family of God, can provide hope. No other thing in this world that I place my hope in, can actually provide hope. Everything else will fail me or let me down. And worst of all, secular psychology places hope in ourselves to provide answers, insight and direction. Hope can only and will only be found in the one who gave life it’s name, spoke creation into existence, and offered grace and mercy while we were still his enemies. “So do I have to spend the rest of my life playing mental gymnastics to work through my thoughts everyday, challenge my own thinking and put myself in check constantly? Is that what I have to look forward to?” The client was frustrated now, and asked with a sense of sarcasm that was covering fear. “Well, yes and no. In theory, this process will get easier, with time, practice and repetition, you will find more success and less anxiety in all of these things. There will be ups and downs, but if you keep practicing what we’ve discussed and learned, it will get better and have a positive trajectory.” I told the client, hoping to give them a small amount of hope. “But,” I cautioned here, “your hope is in your own ability to keep up this work. You are choosing to place your hope in you. Are you comfortable with that?”