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Reactive Living

  If we picked up the latest issue of Reactive Living (if such a magazine existed), we might find a picture of the prodigal son’s elder brother on the front cover. The caption might read, “What about me?” That’s what the reactive life is all about. No matter what happens, we react in our own self-interest. If we feel threatened, diminished, or overlooked, we react. We want what’s fair for us, and we don’t really care about anyone else. We’re in pain, and when anything touches our woundedness, we react. We’re on high alert for both insult and injury, and whenever the internal siren goes off, we react. Just like the elder brother, we react when we don’t get what we want, when we don’t get what someone else gets, or when we’re not recognized for how awesome and amazing we are. It’s an ingrained reflex. Whether we’ve experienced a perceived slight or a direct insult, we’re not able to respond because we don’t have enough internal self-control to keep ourselves from reacting.

  The elder brother had done everything right, as far as he could tell. He had been obedient; he hadn’t run away; he hadn’t embarrassed or humiliated his father. He had done what a dutiful child does, and he expected to be recognized and rewarded accordingly. In our most selfish moments, we are all just like him—jealous of anyone who gets a bigger dose of grace and feeling entitled to a celebration just for being alive. We’ve all been there, focused on what’s happening on the other side of the palace rather than enjoying and being thankful for all the blessings we’ve been given.

  When we’re constantly looking at what’s happening with other people and measuring our satisfaction based on how fairly we feel we’ve been treated, we are forever at the mercy of whatever is going on over there. We’ve wired ourselves to react to whatever scale of comparison we’ve established. If our dependency invites criticism, we react defensively to justify, minimize, and project our problems onto someone or something else. We may react with anger to drive someone away, or we may withdraw with a whimper to elicit sympathy.

  These reactions are not always extreme, and they may not even be noticeable to other people. Our reactions are nuanced and variable, and we’re able to adapt to the painful reality of our inner world and deflect attention away from ourselves and the source of our pain. After years of reactive living, we’ve carved a deep rut in which to run, and we’re more afraid of what lies outside the rut than we are of staying stuck. When pressured or threatened, we react. And we stay stuck.

  To be fair, our reactiveness is often rooted in pain that accrued when we were very young. Whether we were neglected, misunderstood, abandoned, used, abused, or tortured—or whether we experienced something equally horrific—we were truly victims. We learned to react negatively to others and to loathe ourselves. All of these attacks were undeserved, and at such an early age all we could do was survive. We weren’t able to change anything. Even today, as adults, we have something within ourselves that resists the notion that meaningful change—much less complete transformation—is possible. We step back into the shadows because we don’t have any proof that transformation can actually happen. So we continue to react to protect ourselves and whatever it is we think we have to lose.

  The entire purpose for Take Your Life Back is to show you that real and lasting change is possible. Not only possible, but also achievable. At some point, we all must stop reacting and learn how to respond appropriately instead. If your life has been hijacked, it’s up to you to take it back, with God’s help—and the sooner the better.

  Stepping Out of the Shadows

  In Rembrandt’s famous painting, the elder brother hovers on the edge of decision. Will he recede into the shadows of his inward obsession, remaining captive to his anger and resentment; or will he step forward into the light and find healing even as he joins in his father’s embrace of the one who has come home?

  At any time, the elder brother could step out of the shadows and join the celebration. But he is stuck in his point of view, unable to see the situation from a different perspective. That’s often what keeps people in bondage to acting in. If only he could reframe the picture and see it all through the eyes of his father, or feel it all through the heart of his prodigal brother, he might reawaken and take his life back free and clear.

  For us, if we would see things from God’s perspective (who sees the end from the beginning) or feel things with the heart of Jesus (who sacrificed everything to set us free), we could move from the dire picture painted in Philippians 3:19—headed for destruction, owned by our appetites, invested in our shame, and thinking only about life here on earth—to the promise of Philippians 3:20, which reminds us of our citizenship in heaven and our eager anticipation of Christ’s return.

  The elder brother’s first step is to become aware of how he is feeling and how it affects his behavior. Change may begin with the realization that nothing he has been feeling is going to change anything. In fact, the more negative and angry he becomes, the less able he is to have a positive impact. Stewing in the residue of his bitterness changes nothing for the good. By accepting his own powerlessness, he might come to accept the frailties of his father and his brother as well.

  He could try to understand what God is up to here. He could reframe the story from God’s point of view and discover that he is merely a part of the story and not the whole story. He might feel some gratitude that he’s alive and full of potential. And he might even find a way to feel some gratitude that his brother has survived and is safe at home. He could count his blessings and express his thankfulness to God. But for now we must leave him as Rembrandt has him: a proud and prominent figure standing paralyzed on the perimeter by the bitterness that clutches his heart.

  The position of the elder brother in the painting suggests that Rembrandt was aware that there were two prodigals. One had lived outside the palace walls, and the other within. One had acted out; the other acted in. Both had abandoned love, and both needed the grace and mercy of the father. Both needed healing and restoration. It seems that Rembrandt was aware that the elder brother’s restoration would be a much more difficult task than the younger brother’s. It’s much harder to change when we’re looking down than when we are down and looking up.

  An Open Invitation

  God invites us every day to come out of the shadows and into the light. He wants us to have the courage to reach out to others despite our fears and insecurities. As we humble ourselves before God, he empowers us to reach outside of ourselves.

  If you have been battered and bruised into submission, don’t think that continuing to suffer will make you well or that more time will produce a different result. What we need isn’t in us. It comes from God to us through others.

  Stepping out of the shadows is the first responsible move we can make toward recovery and redemption. That means acknowledging the problem and accepting our powerlessness. God promises to guide us and empower us, but our part of the equation is responsible action. Even in the worst of situations, we’re called to make the best of things, to do what we can to move toward wholeness. There is no life so painful that it absolves us of our obligation to pursue responsible living. Sooner or later, those painfully responsible actions become routine, and they bring with them security and hope, healing and redemption.

  Maybe you have felt that you are without options. Maybe you’ve been so controlled by circumstances or by another person that having the freedom to choose for yourself seems impossible. Maybe you’ve resigned yourself to living life at the mercy or behest of another. If so, when you make the choice to get out or get better, it may feel weird or strange or even wrong. Even though it will be better, it may not feel like it at first. But the consequences of choosing to change are a better life and a better outlook. You must work through the discomfort of getting better so that you can find the abundant life you were meant to live.

  On the other hand, if you choose not to get better, that choice has consequences as well—destructive consequences. We often think it’s better to wait than to move ahead. Too much risk. To
o much work. Too much pain. We think that if we can hold on wherever we are, something will finally break us out and set us free. But it doesn’t work that way; such thinking only wastes valuable time.

  Perhaps you see yourself as a prodigal who needs to come home. Come on home. Maybe you now recognize yourself as the elder sibling who has the more difficult journey toward health and wholeness. But no matter where you are or what you’ve been through, God wants to help you take your life back so you can live freely with him and for him. You have not gone too far or resented too intensely. God’s invitation to take your life back is always there, awaiting your response. Let’s begin the healing journey.

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  UNDERSTANDING YOUR WOUNDEDNESS

  WE DEVELOP “ELDER SIBLING SYNDROME” unconsciously and involuntarily. It’s not something we choose. We lose ourselves to avoid dealing with our own pain. But how did we get on this painful path in the first place? For most of us, the trail was blazed by the degree to which we were wounded as children. We talk about “degrees of woundedness” because we all were wounded to some extent as children, some of us more deeply than others. But to whatever degree we were wounded, our response was to hide our real self and develop a false, reactive self as a cover. In order to avoid being aware of and feeling the pain of our woundedness, we now hide the parts that feel the most authentic or vulnerable. And not only do we hide these parts from other people, but we also hide them from ourselves. They get buried. Before long, the only things visible are the facades we’ve created—some of them more artful than others.

  The Battle between Our False Self and Our Real Self

  To understand the difference between what we refer to as the real self and the false selves we often construct for different situations or relationships, we must begin by looking at Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden. Like us, they were created in the image of God. “God created human beings in his own image. In the image of God he created them; male and female he created them.”[8] Each person is a unique creation, made in God’s image for the purpose of having a relationship with God and with other people.

  At the very beginning, both Adam and Eve were living only in their real selves. At Creation, there was a sense of oneness between them that we see most clearly when God introduces Eve to Adam. When Adam responds, “This one is bone from my bone, and flesh from my flesh,”[9] he is noticing only how much Eve is like him—he’s not fixated on their differences. He felt a sense of completeness of himself in Eve.

  “Now the man and his wife were both naked, but they felt no shame.”[10]

  In the beginning, Adam and Eve were operating through their true and authentic selves—as God’s perfect creation. There was no hiding, only spontaneous love for each other. They were free with their feelings and were not defensive about anything—all of which are characteristics of the real self, as God intended. In addition, as God planned, his created beings were made to be caring; to be able to play and have fun, with a childlike openness to life; and to be vulnerable with each other. And they were made to form a real and deep connection with each other. In all, they were intended to live authentically as real selves with others and with their Creator. This was the reality of who they were meant to be.

  To review, here are some of the positive attributes of our real self:

  Living authentically, with no pretense

  Able to be spontaneous

  Caring for and loving others

  In touch with one’s own feelings

  Free to play and have fun

  Able to accept nurturing from others

  Open and not defensive

  Able to be vulnerable

  Accepting of oneself

  Then Eve chose to abandon her real self and her real-self connection with Adam. She began to have private conversations with a serpent, in a way that was separate and distinct from who she really was. She fell into the temptation of creating an all-knowing, all-powerful, and independent false self, apart from Adam. Her response did not reflect her true self as being one with Adam. Instead, she immediately created a disconnected, false self, focused on building an identity of knowledge and power outside of her companion’s knowledge. But the real self was always there.

  The real self, quite simply, is the self that God sees. He sees it all, with all its flaws. He does not approve of or endorse everything he sees, but he loves the person he sees. He does not see an idealized self, free of sin. He sees the real self—sinful, doubtful, and flawed—and yet he accepts the reality of it and loves us in spite of it all.

  In coming to rediscover and understand your real self, you must ask the following questions: What does God see? What is there that is good? What is there that is flawed? What defective means of living have I chosen that have attempted to conceal me from others and from God? How do I surrender those defective ways and start working on repairing, reviving, and restoring my real self so that I can feel a deep and rich connection with God and with everyone who enters into a relationship with me?

  Before Adam and Eve disobeyed, Eve abandoned her real self and discovered that the promise of a quick path to becoming something more than ourselves never works, especially when we leave behind the God who created us and the relationships God created for us. Adam, for his part, seemed to abandon his real self without a thought.

  When Adam and Eve disobeyed God, everything changed. They began living their lives out of touch with their real selves. Instead, they set in motion a pattern that has been replicated by everyone ever since, as we spend our lives developing false selves to hide behind. At the very moment when Adam and Eve disobeyed, “they suddenly felt shame at their nakedness. So they sewed fig leaves together to cover themselves.”[11] Then, when God asked them why they had hidden from him, Adam replied, “I was afraid because I was naked.”[12]

  Suddenly, the innocence they had enjoyed was lost, and they began to blame each other for their problems. Instead of being governed by the real, authentic selves that had been created in the image of God, they now operated out of selves that were rooted in shame and fear. They no longer enjoyed the open, joyful, and unencumbered relationship they had shared with God and with each other.

  The effect of shame and fear

  As we look at the various forms of wounding we can experience, we’ll see that a very common response is to be ashamed and fearful. We blame our fear and shame on others, and we also begin to blame ourselves—our real self, which we now believe is defective and must be hidden. In its place, we put forward a false, reactive self that is defensive, fearful, and closed down. No longer oriented toward God’s truth and our real self, we worry about what other people will think of us (if they think of us at all), and we don’t trust anyone to look out for our best interests. In our relationships, we become manipulative, self-protective, and defensive.

  We also begin to put distance between ourselves and others for fear they will see past our false self and expose the defective nature of our true self. That can lead us to be very controlling and self-righteous. We don’t play much anymore for fear of lowering our guard and being uncovered. And we keep a careful watch on our feelings, so we’re never caught off guard.

  Our unique false self

  By the time we are adults, we have carefully designed our false self to replace our buried real self. Each false self has a core issue that we depend on to protect ourselves from being known. For some it is control; for others, it is trust issues. Some design a false self that is adept at avoiding feelings. Some who struggle with abandonment issues create a false self to guard against further abandonment, while others seek to become totally self-sufficient so that they won’t need anything from anyone. It is not a happy way to live.

  In order to take back your life, you must unbury your real self. This means you must face the pain of your woundedness, grieve what has been lost, make peace with what was taken from you, and embrace the real you that God created. When God looks at you, he sees past the false selves and longs to relate again to your rea
l self. He didn’t make a mistake when he made you. May we once again rejoice as the psalmist rejoices: “Thank you for making me so wonderfully complex! Your workmanship is marvelous—how well I know it.”[13]

  The Setting for Our Wounding

  Our wounding begins as soon as we are born into this imperfect world. Think of the extreme contrast between the quiet safety of the womb, where every need is met automatically, and the terror that every newborn must experience at some level as he or she is suddenly brought into a strange and very unsafe world. Now our needs will be met in a somewhat random manner. We can’t talk; we can only cry when we have a need. And parents have varying abilities to interpret those cries.

  Our need for safety and security is met during the early months of life by our connection to the mothering person who cares for us. Our single task during this time is to snuggle into the world represented by that nurturer, who is there to make us feel safe.

  But at around six months of age, another basic need springs up in opposition to our need for safety. We begin to notice our arms, feet, toes, fingers, and especially thumbs. Gradually, we begin to realize that “I am a me,” separate from the mothering person. And thus begins a three- or four-year journey of trying—at first, without words—to differentiate between ourselves as separate individuals and the we of “Mommy and me.” These two competing tasks—connection and attachment versus separation and independence—create a fertile environment for our being wounded at a time in our lives when we don’t have adequate words to express our feelings, needs, frustrations, and fears.

  What’s interesting about the struggle between attachment and independence in early childhood is that it leaves unfinished business for later resolution. The competing needs generally reach equilibrium during our elementary school years, only to reemerge with a vengeance—but not always with greater articulation—during our teens. As adolescents, the struggle is broadened to how we can continue to be part of our family while at the same time moving more in the direction of independence. In midlife, we wrestle with these competing issues again in a different context and then one more time as we reach old age.