Yesterday I wrote A Psychotherapist’s (Imagined) Field Notes on Why Church is So Boring, which is awesome even though I wrote it—but whatever.
But that piece did make me remember that I know from psychotherapy. For one, the man who for some ten years was my stepfather (that’s the guy who marries your mom, right?) was (and I promise I’m not even almost exaggerating) a world-renowned psychologist. So much so, in fact, that there’s no question but that your life has been directly if not dramatically impacted by his work.
And the good, hyper-charismatic doctor was/is ridiculously intelligent; as a kid, even I knew it. Sure, I had to lie awake at night listening to Dr. Feelgood have sex with my mother. But it was the 70’s, a truly unique period in the history of conventional sexual mores. On their coffee table, my mom and he kept a copy of The Joy of Sex, along with the latest issue of Penthouse.
You youngins may not know that there was a time when keeping a copy of Penthouse and/or (for the slightly more conventional) Playboy on your coffee table signified that you were part of the cutting-edge intelligentsia: you were (or at the very least were pretending to be) part of the feminist/intellectual/disestablishmentarianism set.
You were a radical. An artist. A freethinker.
You smoked pot. You did sculpture.
You totally traumatized your 13-year-old son in the middle of the night with sounds that there should be laws against anyone under the age of thirty ever having to hear.
But I digest. The point is, I was just now thinking how great it would be to turn the tables on the bit I wrote yesterday, and write from the point of view of a Christian analyzing why psychotherapy (as opposed to church, see) is so boringly lame.
Wouldn’t that have been great? But, alas, you see how much time I’ve already spent writing just this.
Time and space. Whaddaya gonna do?
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