You Are Not a Good Person

If I Were to Extend the Title of This Post, It Would Be “and Neither Is Your Wife, Your Husband, Your Mom, Your Dad, Your Friend, or That Person on Social Media, but You Already Knew That Last One.”

Understanding the Concept of Goodness

There’s a trend I’ve noticed among some of my favorite men, some of the kindest men in my life. They often say to the other men they love, “You’re a good man.” It’s a nice gesture. However, it’s also heresy.

Wow, that’s an extreme statement! I admit, I’m intentionally using extreme and incendiary language partly to hook you into reading the rest of this post. But it’s also true. This blog post runs the great risk of sounding pedantic or judgmental, missing the hearts of those men I love. I want to be careful here. I admire their motive to encourage others. Furthermore, I believe the men who peddle this phrase have likely seeded more good in other men’s lives than most could ever dream of. They are attempting to speak directly to the shame and unworthiness most men carry throughout life. Their intent matters more than the words. So, I applaud these men for showing the love of Jesus, and I’m also going to humbly suggest a better alternative.

The Problem with Labeling

But first, here’s the problem with telling someone they’re a good person: they’re not. Jesus is very clear about this. In Matthew 19:17, Mark 10:18, and Luke 18:19, Jesus unequivocally states there is only one who is good — God. We approach “good” as a relative term, but Jesus defines it as an absolute, synonymous with “perfect.”

Even as I write this, part of me wants to water down Jesus’s words. Yeah, but maybe we just use the word differently today than back then. I don’t think so. This speaks to a deep theological truth. Since the beginning of time, man has tried to achieve salvation by being better than others when God has always insisted that Heaven can only tolerate perfection.

The Cake Analogy

I once heard this crude but effective analogy: how much poop is okay to be included in your cake? Obviously, 1 ½ cups of poop in your cake is too much, but what about ⅓ cup? Still too much. A teaspoon? Of course not. You’re not eating a cake with a teaspoon of poop in it! And if you are, I encourage you to see a counselor about that.

Apparently I like analogies with cake; this is the second blog post I've written featuring one...

God is the same way about sin. Too often, we excuse the “smaller” amounts of sin in our lives by labeling some people (and ourselves) as “good.” The truth is that we have all fallen short of the glory of God because of our sin (Romans 3:23). This makes us all worthy of death, but we can be made right with God again by accepting Jesus (Romans 6:23). Crucially, it is NOT because of who we are or what we’ve done, so that no one can boast (Ephesians 2:9). Instead, “Let the one who boasts boast in the Lord” (1 Corinthians 1:31).

The Importance of Realism

A common goal in counseling is to have a realistic view of things. We want to be intentional about what we think and how we view important topics in life. If we are not, we face enduring inner tensions at best and delusion at worst. This miscalibration often happens when we define our reality based on how we feel. I feel like a good person. Or what others tell us. People tell me I’m a good person. But first and foremost, we must define reality by what God tells us.

God’s Love and Our Worth

We also must consider that God is love. And not just generally — he specifically loves you. So why would he tell you you’re not a good person? Because it is true, and it is better than the delusion. If God loved you because you were good, it wouldn’t really mean much. “Are not even the [worst people] doing that?” (Matthew 5:46). You would have earned his love, and it would be a conditional kind of love, or at least an untested one. But no, God loved you while you were his enemy (Romans 5:10).

Really consider that for a minute. God’s love for you was not and never has been based on your performance. It is based on your intrinsic value, value that he placed in your being. His desire to be in a relationship with you is not a passing fancy or a mild preference — it is the point of all creation. It’s all one cosmic love story, the grandest of romantic gestures, where God woos your heart despite its imperfections and failings.

True Love and Transformation

This is true love. Our response is to love others because he first loved us (1 John 4:19). When we bring that kind of love to our friendships, our marriages, and ourselves, this is what brings true transformation and healing. It is that earthly delusion that erodes those relationships. When we expect “goodness” from others and ourselves, that counterfeit love is fragile. But when we impersonate Christ in those relationships and look for ways to forgive and love people despite their unsurprising imperfection, there life is found.

A Better Alternative

In conclusion, I would like to propose an alternative. Instead of telling ourselves or others that they are “good people,” let’s get more specific: “I love how you pursue Jesus in your life; you remind me of him.” “The way you play with your kids inspires me.” “The joy and faith you have in the midst of this trying time are incredible.” “I love how you say yes to God’s calling on your life.” “The way you and your wife invest in the health of your marriage is such a beautiful model to me and to our community.”

By the way, this can be a helpful tool in your relationships in general. We sometimes get lazy with our compliments, but specificity is a powerful ally as we endeavor to speak life into one another and into ourselves.

Final Thoughts

Lord, may you remind us to give you all the glory. May we not cheapen the immensity of your love, your grace, and your forgiveness by crediting ourselves or others as “good,” for you alone are good. And may our growing understanding of your love for us bring us greater freedom, peace, and love for ourselves and others so that the world would see Christ in us and come to embrace you.

Therapeutic Lessons from Quigley the Cat: Radical Acceptance and Recovering from Trauma

There is a reason animals are so often studied and their lessons applied to people. Animal learning and development is analogous to that of humans, and some of the most important basics apply to both. So with that in mind, I would like to share insights from my longitudinal study of Quigley the cat from 2010 to 2025.

But first, some background. During my first year of marriage, I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. My wife and I needed more cat food, and we stopped into Petsmart. “Ooh, they have kittens,” I said naively.

My wife, always the voice of reason, replied, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Let’s just look,” I said. She raised her eyebrows playfully. With the foresight of a toddler, I forged ahead and was quickly overcome by the cuteness, separated from it only by a thin pane of glass. But my inner toddler was insatiable. “Maybe we could just play with one,” I suggested. That’s when Quigley and I met.

He was adorable in the cage, but he was even better when we took him out to play. Fearless but affectionate, he played when we wanted to play and snuggled when we wanted to snuggle. And when I flipped him on his back — a very vulnerable position for a cat — he just purred and playfully pawed at my hands. That was when I knew I was taking him home.

At first, I was delighted. Quigley was cute enough to forgive even his utterly revolting habit of carrying his dried turds around in his mouth and using them as toys, which he thankfully grew out of. He also had his heart-melting attributes, like how I trained him to be held like a baby in my arms. He loved it so much he would occasionally leap into my embrace, feet up, sometimes when I wasn’t even ready. Fortunately, I never dropped him, so he didn’t know any better.

Despite his endearing qualities, that cat tested my patience to its limits. He caused literally thousands of dollars in damage, mauling every conceivable upholstered surface. No training could deter him nor any cat post lure him away. Add to that his wanton vomiting, a ritual he observed at least once daily but usually more. There was no discernible cause, as the wretch didn’t know want and was only scarcely acquainted with illness.

Commitment and Change

When he first began clawing at our new couch, I was determined to change him. Surely, I thought, my determination, resources, and intellect are superior to this cat’s instinctual clothlust. I tried everything. The spray bottle was first, hilarious but wholly ineffective at interrupting his drive to destroy. Then decoys: abundant scratching posts. But cardboard and twine could not satisfy his expensive tastes. Fabric treatments with “deterrent” scents fell short, as did temporary coverings fail to decondition his appetites. Finally, I gave in. This was my reality. We were “those people,” the ones whose pets determine the condition of their home. Our principles required us to fulfill our adoptive commitment to Quigley, and inanimate belongings were a lesser priority than keeping him and his unbreakable will.

When we initially decided to commit ourselves to Quigley, I had no idea what I was in for. He seemed to be the perfect cat. But when the “honeymoon period” ended, all sorts of questions swirled. Had I made a mistake? How had I missed the red flags? We simply did not seem compatible anymore. Or perhaps I was not meant to be a pet owner at all. Maybe the problem was me. Then I was faced with a decision, and much to my chagrin, changing him was not one of my options. My options were divorce (from him — not my wife) or adjustment. We did not want to consider divorce, so I was left with the difficult, painful, and humbling path of change. 

It took longer than I expected. It began with a decision: this is the cat I committed to, so I am choosing to love him as he is. Then I worked to make things a bit more livable for myself. As we slowly worked to replace the things he had destroyed, we found objects less prone to be damaged by his claws. We studied patterns of what appealed to his most undesirable tendencies, then we worked preemptively to avoid triggering circumstances. As things improved but he experienced relapses, I tried to remind myself how much better things had gotten.

I also worked on my reactions. Before, I noticed it used to make me angry when he would claw at furniture. But this is who he was, and I realized my angry reaction was not inspiring change in him — the only one it was changing was me. I could feel my blood boil and my pulse rise. Why was I getting so upset about something that would always be this way? When I felt the anger returning, I would take deep breaths and set my mind on the thoughts I wanted to cultivate. Sometimes I would even choose to go and pet him shortly after correcting him, a practicing of the love I wanted to feel and express.

After years of this slow progress, I realized something: I had grown to appreciate Quigley in a new and deeper way. I loved him not only for how he looked or even how he made me feel while I was snuggling him or playing with him; I also loved him because of what we had been through together. Our lives had grown together, and we had been with one another through virtually my entire adulthood. Ours was an easy connectedness built on deep trust, understanding, and unconditional love. What once had felt like the greatest mistake of my life had turned into something very rich and deep, something that can only grow over a long period of time and on the other side of hardship.

Without being tested, one cannot know the limits of love. What seems like love could be the shallow reflection of a puddle, which has a certain romantic appeal but once disturbed quickly evaporates. But long-lasting, committed love contains untold depths. A lifetime is far insufficient to explore it, to catalogue or comprehend its wonders. Even in a roiling, turbulent storm, the sea nurtures legions underneath the surface whose wellbeing is undisturbed by the passing tempest. And no, I’m not talking about a cat anymore.

You Are Not a Cat

One of my other favorite observations about Quigley relates to his attachment style and his lack of exposure to trauma. Quigley never knew mistreatment. For not knowing better, he trusted every single person he ever met. As a result, he went through life with an incredible kind of pre-Fall, Garden-of-Edenesque posture. When the doorbell rang, Quigley ran to greet the visitor, regardless of whether he had met them or not. Generous with his affection, Quigley made fast friends with nearly everyone. 

And in those rare cases when a person was allergic to or detested cats, Quigley was unbothered. He never took it personally; those people never seemed to discourage Quigley from befriending the next visitor.

Quigley greeting one of my wife's students

Quigley’s style was quite different from my sister-in-law’s cats, Penny and Pippa, who tragically experienced abuse as kittens, which also happens to be when both feline and human brains develop the template for how to engage in relationships. My sister-in-law adopted these kittens, rescuing them from their abusers, but the effects of their abuse will be obvious lifelong.

Although my sister-in-law entertains many visitors, few of them have ever laid eyes on her cats. If a visitor stays long enough and quiet enough, one of the elusive creatures may slink by, hissing along the way. Only a couple of her visitors have stayed long enough to touch the braver of the pair, Penny, but even in so doing, Penny’s response makes clear her persistent antisocial preference.

While these cats for me represent the far end of the traumatized feline spectrum, there is reason for hope. Do they experience far more maladaptive anxiety, fear, and avoidance than Quigley? Unquestionably. But the vast majority of their sheltered life is still filled with healthy relationships with one another and with my sister-in-law, with whom they are very affectionate. Even people who have experienced a great deal of trauma can enjoy healthy bonds. Furthermore, I believe Penny and Pippa could undergo an intensive therapy program where through enough treatment, their trauma responses could be deconditioned and they could learn to rewire their template for humans, instead coming to a default of trust. For these cats, though, it would take a ridiculous amount of time and resources.

The good news is, you are not a cat. You have access to a different layer of skills. A cat is motivated by base instincts that make reprogramming difficult because the cat does not “want” to get better. A person, however, has access to faith, hope, and reason. Your desire to get better is powerful, and your ability to suspend disbelief so you can try something uncomfortable but good can make all the difference. You can see the long-term goal, and this can motivate you to much faster progress.

You might find the utopian description of my cat unrealistic for a person, especially if you don’t feel about people the way Quigley did. However, essentially what I’m describing in him is referred to in my field as “secure attachment,” and it is possible in people. I believe it is even possible to rewire your brain so you can experience secure attachment even if it is not the attachment style you currently tend toward.

It is possible to learn not to be governed by your anxieties and to increasingly shift your default to a healthy trust. It is possible to go through life more like Quigley and less like Penny and Pippa. And you do not have to be oblivious like Quigley, who would have lasted two seconds out in the wild. You can be intelligent and wise enough to not be disproportionately taken advantage of but free enough to enjoy relationships and feel a general sense of peace, wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove (Matthew 10:16).

Thank God you are not a cat.

May God lead you to deeper, better relationships with others, with Him, and with yourself. May you relish the strength God has given you and feel the inner warmth of his loving care as you face the tempest of growth with determined grin. May God whisper untold blessings in the very fire of the crucible. May your hard-won sanctification bring Him echoing glory. And may the space between those echoes be the quiet peace and rest of a soul that has toiled valiantly for magnificent cause.

In loving memory of Quigley (2010-2025).

"Who I Am" - What Song is Your Heart Singing?

In a recent post, I explored the general utility of music to deepen our emotional experiencing and teach our hearts life-giving truths. We often experience a distance between what our brains think and what our hearts feel, but music and art can help close that gap. And teaching our hearts is usually a matter of practice. Rarely can we unlearn or replace outdated and well-worn patterns of feeling with a single lesson. It takes repetition and rehearsal. All the better if we can approach such lessons with curiosity and compassion, for these facilitate growth.

In this post, I would like to examine a song that’s been popular on Christian radio, because it perfectly dovetails with some ideas I’ve been chewing on for a while. It’s called “Who I Am” by Ben Fuller.

In it, the artist notes the discrepancy between how he sees himself and how God sees him. He begins, “I stand in front of the mirror / But I don’t like who’s looking back at me.” It represents a pattern that we all experience: we are confronted with negative thoughts (this happens automatically; it is not something we can choose to avoid), but then we have the opportunity to choose our response. Many people feel a sense of obligation to self-criticize here. They linger on shoulds and supposed tos. These generate a sense of shame and often leaves us stuck. But that’s not how Jesus treated people.

I love the choice made in this song instead. Very quickly — without discounting the reality of the self-consciousness and doubts — the perspective shifts: a conscious turning toward God’s view. After a quick acknowledgement of the temptation to focus on “who I’m supposed to be,” it becomes a prayer: “In every trial, lift me higher / Through the fire, hold me tighter / Remind me again that I was made for more.” Notice it’s not judging or trying to ignore the negativity. These typical responses can serve to more deeply entrench us. Instead, it seeks a higher perspective, something that outweighs the heaviness we feel.

By the way, studies have shown that prayer literally unlocks new ways of thinking. It can help our systems get out of fight or flight, communicating divine comfort and perspective in challenging circumstances. For the person of faith, it’s bigger than that, though. We believe God moves. We believe he responds beyond the inherent physiological benefits; he can intervene through time and space and very literally change things.

But sometimes we don’t want change. We say we do, yet we are bound by old pacts. Ultimately, we must examine who or what determines our beliefs and behavior. Will it be parents, pasts, trauma, anxieties, depression, culture, friends, fears, influencers, marketers? Will it be our emotions? Our baser impulses? Or will it be God?

Sometimes therapy is about raising the client’s awareness. The therapist helps the client to realize a misalignment of values so they can respond and make adjustments allowing them to experience less distress and a greater sense of integrity because their actions are now lining up with their values.

So my dear reader, I ask with the greatest of compassion, are you allowing God to direct how you speak to yourself?

In my experience, self-talk is where Christians are most damningly judgmental, most seething with hatred, most unforgiving — ultimately, most hypocritical. Even for the mature and outwardly humble Christian, self-talk frequently remains the greatest bastion of pride in the believer’s heart, the place where they most value their own opinion over God’s.

So what do we do about it?

To begin, I believe there must first be submission and repentance. If you have been unchristian to yourself, that behavior is based upon an old agreement, an old testament if you will. This part of your heart needs to accept the gospel, then be baptized in truth.

In the water, take me under

Fill my lungs to speak Your wonder

You brought me out of the darkness, I was made for more (for more, for more, for more)

Who I am in the eyes of the Father

Who I am His love set free

Who I was I left at the altar

I am Yours Lord, I believe

It's who I am (I'm a child of the most-high God and the most-high God's for me)

It's who I am (I'm a child of the most-high God and the most-high God's for me)

You gave up everything for me to have everything

For all of eternity, a song in my lungs to sing

You gave up everything for me to have everything

For all of eternity, a song in my lungs to sing

After accepting the gospel, we then get to live like it. We can carry around our chains, or we can cast them off. Every time someone tries to give them back, we can set them down again. We can say, “Only God tells me how to treat myself.” And we can act like it. We can rehearse truth until our heart learns and echoes gospel. Until Jesus’s treatment of us and our treatment of ourselves are one and the same.