On Fixing People

I reread Henri Nouwen's Out of Solitude on the plane ride to Miami. That book really gives me perspective on a lot of things. One of the things that always challenges me is the concept of curing people versus caring for people. Curing controls and defends love, while caring releases love. Bob Lupton's Theirs is the Kingdom has been a favorite of mine for several years and I reread a story that ties into curing versus caring that is a real challenge.


On Fixing People

Most people saw Philip as a ne'er-do-well, a community write-off. He was an abusive father, a chronic manipulator, an irritating leech, and probably mentally retarded. I remember feeling relieved when he was locked up for a drunken escapade. At least he was out of the neighborhood for awhile.

That's how I felt before I glimpsed Philip through kingdom eyes. It happened one day while I was talking with our pastor. He had discovered some value in Philip that the rest of us missed. Apparently there was a rather keen mind behind Philip's dull appearance. And concealed by a host of irritating defenses was a heart longing to be tender and responsive.

At first I couldn't see it. But I wanted to believe it, so I made a commitment to invest myself in Philip. I convinced some people to create a job where he could learn the discipline of steady work. We secured affordable housing to give his family a stable living situation. There were hours and hours of counseling, teaching, modeling, and praying.

The changes that occurred were remarkable. Philip stopped drinking and assumed a leadership role in his home. His hard work began to pay off both in income and self-esteem. The church community became his family, and he demonstrated a genuine desire to grow as a man of faith.

By the end of two years, it was almost impossible to recognize the old Philip in the new. An incredible transformation had taken place. We all marveled at the life-changing work that had been done in him.

Then things started to unravel. Philip’s work attendance became irregular. He lost one job, then another. As some of his old behavior patterns returned, his home life suffered. His participation in church declined. We talked prayed, encouraged, and rebuked. Nothing worked. The backward drift continued and continues even as I write. We seem powerless to stop it and that troubles me deeply. Again and again I ask, “Why?”

Why, indeed? Perhaps it’s time to look at myself. Does my disappointment spring from compassion and care for Philip? Or is it a reaction from a darker side of me that sees his downfall as the loss of my personal accomplishment? Have I watered and tilled and waited in wonderment for what the Creator would cause to grow? Or have I been clipping and twisting and wiring a miniature bonsai shaped after my image? Could it be that Philip shrivels because of the manipulation of my expectations?

I’m beginning to see that fixing people is a dangerous business. Fixing assumes I know what the final form should be, as if I were a spiritual orthodontist who knew just what wires need tightening to produce the perfect smile. When I presume to fix someone, I shape that person with my values, doctrine, hygiene, parenting, vocabulary, housekeeping, nutrition, and a host of other things. Fixing is a license to fashion after my image one who may be uniquely created to flower in quite a different form. It is a dangerous business because it may block or skew the growth of another. And it may unwittingly intrude on the work that God reserves for himself alone.

But what about Philip? How can I help him?

Or is Philip helping me? Perhaps he is teaching me to serve without controlling. The drama of his life instructs me in the ways of being a good neighbor. He invites me to take a faithrisk, to gamble that in releasing him from the shadows of my expectations he will be freed to grow toward the sunshine of the Creator. Do I really believe God is the designer of all life? Do I believe my highest and best is to love God and my neighbor? Is that what you ask of me, Philip?