Archive for the ‘fear’ Tag
CAN I PLEASE JUST HAVE THE BONE?
It seems to me that if we do not find in God the ultimate answer to our needs, we become dangerously dependent on others. If I think my wife is the sole channel of God’s grace for any substantial need and she fails me, then my only recourse is to force her compliance. I might cajole, argue, bargain, threaten… there are a hundred ways to get her to “fall in line,” but this manipulation undermines her sincere love.
Genuine love must grow in an atmosphere of freedom, not control. That is frightening because freedom allows my friend to choose to be unloving and uncaring, refusing to help with my needs. If I make no demands, but offer unconditional love, he may take advantage of me, take all I have to offer and give little in return. And if my needs go unmet, I cannot survive. So when I sense a disparity between how much I give and how much I get, I react to protect myself. If I protect myself by giving less, I feel bad for my selfishness, for my lack of generosity, and I feel a distance growing in my heart towards him. So instead I subtly (or plainly) push him to give more.
This approach did not go over well with Kimberly. She felt the pressure of my expectations and recognized the conditionality of my love. When she chose not to do as I wished, I felt unloved and became resentful, critical, and demanding. This in turn made her feel unloved. I tried to pressure her to comply, to prove her care by meeting my expectations. She insisted on a more honest path to resolving our conflict, one that made room for both of our needs and for genuine rather than forced expressions of love.
I thought love was proved by what it gave—if folks didn’t give, they didn’t care—and this was intolerable to me because it inflated my fears of unworthiness. I gave to others with the expectation that they would reciprocate and so prove my lovability. My mind tightly bound together loving motivation and helping behavior, and I desperately needed Kimberly to prove my worth by setting aside her feelings to meet my needs. Through long conversations and consistent responses, Berly expressed her care for my needs without yielding to my pressure to change her behavior (and so abandon her own needs in favor of mine). It took years for me to believe she loved me in spite of not coming to my rescue. I slowly realized that someone can love without helping and help without loving, that sometimes the truest and hardest love is one that does not give when giving would beguile the loved one into a false security.
I wanted to stop feeling my insecurity and Kimberly wanted me to embrace it, understand it, work through it. If she helped me to avoid those feelings, it would undermine our relationship. For her part, she was afraid of my resentment, and wanted to act in a way that would hold it at bay, but she knew living out of that fear would keep her from sharing herself honestly and vulnerably with me. Things might go smoothly between us, but we would be sacrificing substance for façade. Slowly we both stepped into our fears and broke through to a deeper understanding of ourselves and one another, a deeper trust, and a deeper freedom to accept who we are. We encourage and help each other to find a way to meet our needs, but do not take the responsibility for this on ourselves. Of course, sometimes our needs conflict, but that is another story altogether.
Elisabeth speaks for many of us when she worries that making room for someone’s quirks could encourage the attitude, “God made me this way so just accept it even though it is inconveniencing or hurting you.” That is one of the guiding principles that shaped the way I related to others most of my life, and it still pulls strongly on my emotions. This will take two posts to discuss even briefly because I want to start with my own experience and perspective and then offer the comparative view of my wife.
I grew up believing very strongly that I was responsible for others’ responses to me. If someone felt hurt or inconvenienced by my actions, I should change my behavior. Either I had done something wrong and should apologize and change myself to prevent this in the future, or they were mistaken and I should explain to them how they had misunderstood my intentions (or a combination of the two). Their negative feelings indicted me, and I was responsible to relieve them and to then live in such a way that I caused them no more inconvenience or hurt.
I think this entanglement of responsibilities is common among children who respond to parental displeasure by being compliant and who determine their own lovability based on the feedback they receive for their behavior. If my mom or dad is angry, it is my fault, and I must fix it. I think our parents’ generation generally believed this, and those of us raised in religious homes believed this was also a true reflection of God’s attitude towards us. One of the downsides of this perspective is that I hold others responsible for my feelings as well. You take care of my feelings and I take care of yours. You take care of my needs and I take care of yours.
Relational Balancing Act
It sounds very considerate, and I suppose it may be, but in my case, instead of a free and loving choice, it was grounded in fear and relational obligation. I could not survive in forgoing my own needs for the sake of others’ needs if they did not reciprocate, so if there was no parity, I had to pressure others to meet my needs. If I were inconveniencing or hurting someone, I was under moral obligation to change, and if I did not like what they were doing, they had to change.
Of course, the entire system broke down if others did not meet my needs. When I eat out with a friend, the payment shuffle at the end is a bit embarrassing. Supposing my friend will reciprocate the next time, I decide to pick up the tab. But he doesn’t return the favor. I decide to do it again as a good example that shows him clearly how he is falling behind in the balance of hospitality. By the third unreciprocated meal, I start feeling resentment and make mild side comments or light jokes to bring his attention to the situation. If he simply does not work by this system of fair trade, then our relationship is in trouble. I will feel that he is selfish and uncaring.
When I decide what to wear, what to say, where to go, how to behave, I automatically assume others’ needs are preeminent. This does not primarily come from a place of health or freedom or generosity, but from a fear that they will justifiably think badly of me or resent me if I do not care about them. I find it very hard to think well of myself if others think badly of me (in this case because I am being “uncaring”). On the other hand, if others seem to ignore my needs, I feel that my needs don’t really count, I am not worthy of receiving their care. So I am trapped in this world of reciprocation based on fear of losing my worth as a person.
My fear of others “taking advantage of me,” requiring me to do more lifting in the relationship than they do, is not simply that I will run out of energy and resources. It is a much more basic fear—that my very worth as a person is seriously at risk. Of course, I never think it out so clearly and objectively as this, but simply react from deep-seated emotions, often jumping right past the fear (which makes me feel vulnerable) into the reactive and manipulative anger of self-defense, “Don’t you care about me?!”
Some say that compromise is at the root of any good marriage, but what if either or both partners feel an arrangement is unfair, unbalanced. Picture the impact on the relationship if this imbalance is not simply an inconvenience, but a threat to the spouse’s very worth as a person. That is a picture of Kimberly and me as we stepped into a committed relationship.
Gregory Boyle, a priest who works in gang territories of L.A., tells this poignant story:
I knew an inmate, Lefty, at Folsom State Prison, whose father would, when Lefty was a child, get drunk and beat his mom. One Saturday night Lefty’s father beat his mother so badly that the next day she had to be led around by his sisters, as if she were blind. Both eyes were swollen shut.
On Sunday, Lefty’s father and brothers are sitting on the couch, watching a football game. Lefty calmly goes into his parents’ bedroom, retrieves a gun from his father’s bedstand, and walks out to the living room. Lefty places himself in front of the television. His father and brothers push themselves as far back into the couch as possible, horrified. Lefty points the gun at his father and says, “You are my father, and I love you. If you ever hit my mother again… I… will… kill you.”
Lefty was nine years old. He didn’t kill his father, then (or ever). And yet, part of the spirit dies a little each time it’s asked to carry more than its weight in terror, violence, and betrayal. (From “Tattoos on the Heart”)
That last sentence is so achingly true. Every child is forced to handle situations that exceed his or her capabilities, and each such experience incites fear or shame or distress. I have discovered in my own life that my greatest emotional reactions to situations as an adult invariably spring from the wounds of my boyhood. Have others found this to be true?
“Fear Not!” occurs over 300 times in the English Bible. It has always been a rebuke to me, or at least a challenge to obey. After all, it is in the imperative mode—it is a command, and commands are to be obeyed. Combined with Jesus’ rebuke of his disciples, “O ye of little faith,” I was tried and found wanting. That was my take on it most of my life.
I am regularly amazed at how I blindly bring my own assumptions to Scripture. As I receive insight from the Bible, I also shape that truth to my pre-set ideas. I think to some extent this is inevitable, since we cannot make sense of a concept that will not somehow fit into our current worldview. In this case, my assumption was that any word of Scripture in the imperative is a command, its primary address is to my will, and it requires obedience.
If I do fear when I shouldn’t, I am being disobedient and condemned by my conscience, and fearing this feeling of guilt, I try to force my feelings to submit, usually by impressing on my mind thoughts that will countermand my fear—talk my fear down, so to speak. I was trying to eliminate my fear by increasing my fear (of something greater), and my greatest fear was losing God’s approval.
I remember when I started wondering about this. Does a God of grace really want us to be afraid of Him, to doubt His grace? Does the phrase “fear God,” which crops up way more often than “fear not” really mean that I should be afraid of God? How does the gospel address this question? How do we make sense of the Bible commanding us both to fear and to not fear… is God suggesting that He should be considered more scary than anything else… the Almighty Boogeyman?
As I wrestled over many months, perhaps years, with these questions, it dawned on me that the command mode in grammar is not always used as a call to obedience. We commonly use the imperative to encourage or grant favors to others: “Have another piece of pie” or “Take your time.” They are in the command mode, but are meant as gifts, not orders. As someone departs town, we say, “Stay safe!” Is this a blessing or a command, like parents scolding their teenager, “Drive safely!” They have such very different responses in our souls.
I learned as a husband that I can easily intend a statement to ease my wife’s fears which only shames her instead. She would be afraid of something happening, and I would feel sorry for her suffering in this way and try to give her relief by explaining to her why she did not need to be afraid. “You don’t need to be afraid! It is pretty unlikely that this will happen because ____________.” I would try to explain away her fears, but she heard me saying, “It is stupid for you to be afraid. Your feelings are completely unfounded.” I seemed to be shaming her for her feelings.
Over time I learned to validate her feelings of fear, “I understand completely why this would make you afraid. I mean consider X,Y,Z,” before I went on to try to calm her fears with some form of encouragement (the kind that works for her). All my life I thought that expressing understanding for someone’s fear would actually support their feelings of fear, but I discovered that, magically, the opposite happened. Hearing my empathy for their feelings (instead of arguments for not being afraid) seemed to relieve a lot of their anxiety. They could see I was with them in their insecurity.
When God says, “Don’t Fear!” is he trying to calm our fears or shame them away? Is it the voice of a tender father soothing his frightened little girl as he holds her tight, “It’s okay… I’m hear… don’t be afraid… I’ll protect you,” or is it the voice of a sergeant to his platoon, “Stop being afraid, you cowards! What’s wrong with you? Go out there and die like men!” Which seems to yield more healthy results in our lives?
Janathan Grace Reflections 