Dr. Andrew R. Wichterman, LPC
There was a time early in my counseling career—back in the days of home-based therapy and community mental health—when I still believed that professionalism alone could carry the weight of this work. I was several years in, working with families in one of the tougher areas of town. One family in particular had a reputation for appearing put together, at least externally. But once inside the home, it was clear there was a deep well of unresolved anger and dysfunction.
The father was particularly volatile. He also enjoyed cultivating his own marijuana—well before it was legal in our state. The teenage son, understandably angry himself, had been caught showing off his dad’s stash to another kid in the bed of a broken-down truck parked on the property. That stunt, with a side of reckless driving, landed him in the probation system, and eventually in my office.
At the time, I was acting part counselor, part case manager—navigating probation, school complications, family conflict, and trauma exposure all at once. But over time, this young man began to make real progress. He slowly started distancing himself from his father's influence and began to walk a different path—one his mother had long hoped for. Eventually, we closed his case.
I was walking into the probation office, and there he stood—smiling, full of pride. He told me, “I'm about to get my driver’s license.” And without even thinking, I laughed.
Not the warm kind of laugh. A short, almost scoffing kind of laugh—something that bubbled up from a dark corner within me that I wasn’t proud of. Just a few years prior, this same teen had been on probation in part for reckless driving. So the idea of him getting licensed felt ironic. But that wasn’t an excuse. Not really.
I quickly apologized: “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh.”
He responded with a smirk and said, “Yeah you do. It’s kind of funny.”
He took it well. But it really bothered me.
Where did that laugh come from? That scoff? That brief flicker of superiority?
I’ve revisited that moment again and again over the years—sometimes in supervision with other therapists, sometimes in quiet moments of prayer, sometimes when mentoring students. The truth is, that laugh came from a place within me that had not yet been refined. It came from pride. It came from thinking I was better than the people I was serving.
It came from a heart that needed sanctification.
And it raised a question that every Christian counselor should ask themselves:
What are we doing if we can't respect the people we are called to serve?
At the core of this work is not skill, education, or even years of experience. Those things help, certainly. But the foundation must be a life continually refined at the feet of Jesus. It is in His presence—consistently, humbly, and quietly—that the counselor becomes who they are meant to be.
Like Peter by the fire (John 18:15–18, 25–27), or Mary at His feet (Luke 10:38–42), or Paul in the quiet years after Damascus (Acts 9:1–19; Galatians 1:17–18), the soul must be shaped before the work of the hands can be holy.
We are not simply behavior managers. We are image-bearers reflecting the light of Christ into dark and fractured places. And that means we must be remade—over and over again—until we reflect Him more clearly.
You can practice every spiritual discipline there is—prayer, fasting, study, silence—but if you do it in isolation, you will miss something essential. The formation of the therapist, like the formation of the believer, is meant to happen in community.
We need the body of Christ around us—mentors who will call us out, brothers and sisters who will bear our burdens, friends who will sharpen us like iron sharpens iron (Proverbs 27:17). We need those who will say, That didn’t sound like Jesus, and those who will remind us of grace when we fall short.
That young man, by God’s grace, had changed. He had overcome. He was doing what many thought he couldn’t. And in a single moment, I almost stole from him the dignity of that progress.
He had been becoming. But so should I.
We should always be inching closer to Christ. We should always be becoming more gentle, more kind, more respectful. Not out of obligation, but because our King is gentle, kind, and respectful. Because that’s what it means to shine His light.
This work—Christian counseling, spiritual care, walking with the wounded—is sacred. And sacred work requires a sanctified heart. Not a perfect one. But one willing to be broken open and made new, again and again.
So to you, fellow counselor, student, or spiritual leader:
Sit at the feet of Jesus.
Let Him refine what still needs changing.
Do not scoff at growth, no matter how small.
Practice the disciplines, yes. But also live in communion with others.
And never forget: even the smallest victories in your clients' lives deserve your awe, not your cynicism.
Because in the Kingdom of God, reckless drivers still get licenses.
And scoffing counselors still get sanctified.
References
The Holy Bible, English Standard Version. (2001). Crossway Bibles. (Original work published 1971)
Acts 9:1–19 — Paul’s conversion and encounter with Christ on the road to Damascus
Galatians 1:17–18 — Paul’s time in Arabia before beginning public ministry
John 18:15–18, 25–27 — Peter’s denial of Jesus beside the fire
Luke 10:38–42 — Mary sitting at Jesus’ feet while Martha works
Proverbs 27:17 — “Iron sharpens iron, and one man sharpens another.”

Comments
Emily Pethel
Andrew Wichterman
Fee Rocha