There exists this model of therapy called Accelerated Experiential-Dynamic Psychotherapy. It’s a complicated title to a fairly simple approach, but one that is profound for a community that prides itself more on professional distance than on entering into the muck and mire of a person’s story to help them find the redemption and way of life in it.
So this approach, AEDP, has in it the basic concept that we learn best by two complimentary steps. The first is experience. Another word would be “encounter.” By this we mean not mere intellectual understanding or learning some rote fact or absorbing some information. We mean the real and raw process of something, the journey into a new territory somehow. Therapeutically, we often mean the experience of some emotion and memory as an encounter with another person present who can help navigate and offer life into the usually painful and, because of that, often blocked part of themselves. A place that is ungrieved. A memory too painful to recall. Insight into themselves or the world or a particular relationship that hasn’t been acknowledged consciously. A thought too threatening to deal with alone. That gets expressed and experienced in the presence of a salient figure, a person tuned into their experience. The dragon in the cave that’s threatened them for so long, that they’ve run from and feared, finally gets dealt with. It’s encountered and slain.
The second step is reflection. Apparently, and research seems to support this, we cannot learn or grow by mere experience. We need to take time to reflect on it, to put words and meaning to what it is we’ve been through. Wisdom, it might be said, is comprised of these two crucial elements — to first enter in and deal with whatever is at hand, and the second is to find the meaning in it, to ask the tough questions regarding it, to see it for what it is. This is the “dynamic” part of the model’s name, AEDP. And we might add one more piece to the therapeutic approach that is included as a fundamental aspect — community. That’s a given. That’s what therapy is all about, the journey through difficult stretches of the trail with someone who can offer a hand-hold and a familiar and hopeful voice when the light grows dim.
I think the developers of this model, building on more than a hundred years of clinical practice and deep thinking about what it takes to help people change and grow, have landed on something profound. Of course, I always want to equate these things back to Scripture and ask, “Does the Word of God support that?” Is there evidence that this is truly a way we are made as people that we need to think deeply about and incorporate somehow into our daily living and our spiritual disciplines. The first person that comes to mind is Solomon, the wisest man who ever lived, after Jesus. He did quite a lot of reflection, and fairly deep if you consider the Proverbs he wrote and potentially even Ecclesiastes. A philosopher, really — and one that, incidentally, was instrumental in leading me to the Lord to begin with. And then you have David, who experienced quite a lot in his life, suffering as well as glory. Maybe more than anyone else in the Old Testament. And he reflected on everything. Then you have Paul, whose missionary exploits are the stuff of legend. And then he reflected on them. Just take a look at Acts or his letters to Timothy. Teaching for him was a way of reflecting. Oh, and Jesus. This seemed to be one of the ways he instructed his disciples in the art of living in the Kingdom of God. He would teach them something, then demonstrate it through action. Reflection and experience. Sometimes he reversed this and would help them experience something totally different than what they’d ever thought, and then reflect on it, tell them more about it. He did this occasionally with his parables.
I’m a reflector — I like to reflect on things. It started way back for me when I would crawl onto the roof of my house as a kid and stare as deeply as I could into the stars. That for me was when experience and reflection kissed, and wonder burst through. I’m not sure we can do both at the same time, but I would feel myself to be so small against such an immense backdrop, and then reflect on the expanse of the stars and be filled with awe. And then I would do it again, always trying to feel myself get smaller and smaller. It was a wonderful feeling to experience, especially when at other times it seemed as if I was the center of my little world and all orbited me. Finally, I wasn’t. And I have carried that practice on in my spiritual life, even now considering it something so crucial that withholding it is like holding my breath. Last night my wife and I watched a Discovery channel documentary on the ocean and ocean life. Narrated poorly, it still showed some of the extremes of creativity that God employs in creation. I’m flooded again with wonder and awe, and now internally reflect on how immense is this Heart behind all hearts.
I think the first time I ever really heard something related to my calling was when I heard Amy Grant talk about Rich Mullins, posthumously. She said that he would go to the edge, look over and see what was there, and come back and write a song about it. That’s exactly what I’m talking about. Experience and express. And by doing so, extend our concepts and understanding of this Lover God and the life He’s invited us into.
I don’t know if many read this blog. I’m okay with that either way. I’m not sure I would read it myself if I didn’t write it. It’s a chronicle of my journey, and it’s as much for me as anyone else. I’ve written professionally before, and it was something I did for others to read, not necessarily something I wrote for myself. If I ever write a book, I think my MO will be to write something that is meaningful to me, meaningful to write, something I need to read, something I need to hear and experience. And, hopefully as a byproduct, something others will as well. I want it to be a reflection of my experience with God so that others will be compelled toward experiential interaction with Him.
