Is Money Involved? It Doesn’t Count.

My counselor and I made eye contact but immediately broke it. We were twenty minutes into our session, and the topic of our conversation had meandered from theologians like Reinhold Niebuhr and John Stott to David Zahl’s book Low Anthropology. I had given him a copy of the book after last month’s session, and he assured me that he loved it. The man had been a Presbyterian minister for a decade before concluding that he enjoyed pastoral care more than preaching. He switched career paths midlife, and I am the beneficiary of his dual career insights. 

Our sessions sometimes go off track, just like this one had, but this time the conversation became unexpectedly intimate. In this unguarded moment, my counselor spoke relationship-changing words. “If we weren’t in a counseling relationship,” he shared, “I would love to go to your church.” Silence. Eye contact. “I would love to go to your church,” he said. It was a Freudian slip of my counselor’s own making, an unguarded admission that, outside of his office couch, we could be good friends. It was like that memeified scene from the Will Ferrell comedy Step Brothers: “Did we just become best friends?” Is our therapeutic relationship getting in the way of us being buddies? But after this wide-eyed moment of connection, where our mutual passion to connect our faith and psychology sparked, we both blushed and demurred to another topic. There were now only 35 minutes left in our session, and we hadn’t really touched on the reason for my visit.

Therapists are one part of a larger “emotional” economy, where we trade money for things like self-knowledge, emotional uplift, wisdom, or expertise. Other professions in this emotional economy: personal trainers, financial advisors, life coaches, massage therapists, beauticians, barbers, pet sitters, and the hospitality industry of hotels and restaurants. It’s not enough to provide a stylish haircut, excellent financial advice, a tasty meal, or a good workout. Each of these industries becomes profitable when they add a relational component to their service that transcends the practical need they supply. I’m much more likely to stick with my counselor if, beyond offering me treatment, he treats me as a friend. If my fitness trainer leads me like a drill sergeant, I may quit and not come back. The occasional Christmas card from my financial advisor is a marketing ploy, but at least he remembers me outside of our annual check-ins. It’s not enough to walk out of the salon with a stylish haircut: most people want to have a pleasant conversation with the stylist as a part of the pampering process.

I once dined at a fancy New York City restaurant, the kind with multiple Michelin stars. It was so good that I decided to return again four years later when I was back in the city (for a Mockingbird conference, nonetheless!). When I walked in the door, the hostess, who I had never met before, greeted me. “Welcome back Mr. Jarrell, it’s been a while. We’re glad you could join us again this evening. How have you been?” Certainly, there is a database with my information in it feeding the hostess her lines. It’s the kind of restaurant that might even have hidden cameras doing AI facial recognition, or a photo of me in their reservation system that they stealthily captured during my last visit. Intellectually, I knew her greeting was disingenuous, an excellently executed marketing ploy. That didn’t stop the warm feeling of pride and importance that rose up through the base of my spine and into my lungs and chest at her welcome. “They remembered me!” I thought as my shoulders subconsciously squared and my chin rose up. “I’m important!” Food aside, I may go back again one day and drop a West Virginia rent check on a four-course dinner just to get another hit of New York–sized validation.

Herein lies the problem: so many aspects of this emotional economy are built upon a mix of money and friendship, when, practically speaking, money and friendship are oil and water. The most important relationships in our life are those which are unconditional and voluntary. We find happiness and fulfillment in part because people choose to be with us, and we reciprocate that choice. A hermeneutic of suspicion might try to reduce these relationships to a transaction, but lived reality tells us friendship and kinship are more than the mutual exchange of endorphin- and dopamine-inducing interactions. Mutually reciprocated love and care is best described by poetry and art, not biology or psychology, to say nothing of how they inspire voluntary self-sacrifice for the other’s benefit.

My experience at the restaurant was the opposite of my friend’s experience at the gym. Some years ago, in my late twenties, I joined a heavy-metal, Viking-themed gym that specialized in personal training and weight lifting. The owners and trainers worked hard to create an encouraging atmosphere. If someone on the other side of the room was working on a heavy lift, those close by would shout encouragement, clapping and cheering them on. The rest of the gym, hearing the commotion from across the room, was spurred on to join in with the cheers, despite not knowing the circumstances. Within moments, the whole room was cheering as the lifter struggled to get their full extension. It was a fantastic environment. I would likely still attend that gym if I hadn’t moved away for work. 

One day, at the store, I ran into a gym friend I hadn’t seen in a while. I mentioned it to her, and she sighed with exasperation. “I quit the gym” she said. “I invited our workout leader to my birthday party last month, and she didn’t come. She was a fake friend to me.” 

You can forgive this friend of mine for mistaking the atmosphere of the gym for something deeper than it actually was. Who doesn’t want to try something hard and have a whole room cheering for them? Who wouldn’t be disappointed to find out that this atmosphere was limited to the four walls of the gym and a monthly payment? Wouldn’t we all like to have a room full of cheerleaders when we engage with life’s everyday heavy lifting? As positive as the gym environment was, it was not fueled by kinship and mutual affection. The money made it conditional.

The Bible is pretty clear that there are things that can’t be bought. Its prohibitions against prostitution, for example, are nuanced enough to highlight how the social dynamics of human sexuality don’t mix with money. The highs of physical intimacy can be experienced properly only in the monogamous unconditional vows of marriage, with all its “better or worse, richer or poorer, sickness and health” glory. Jesus has nothing good to say about those who give generously to the Jerusalem temple’s operating fund but have otherwise immoral lives, as if their relationship with God was as simple as a financial transaction. Simon the Mage, of course, is buried in condemnation by Peter when he tries to buy the blessings and charisms of the Holy Spirit.

This particular mix of money and relationship and heartbreak defines the apostate disciple. In Matthew’s gospel, Judas repents of his betrayal and tries to atone by returning his famed 30 pieces of silver reward to the temple leadership. “I have sinned by betraying innocent blood,” he declares. The leaders, of course, couldn’t care less. “What is that to us? See to it yourself.” Judas wants there to be some connection or understanding from his conspirators, some level of acknowledgment that he has erred. Perhaps he can restore something by returning the blood money. Maybe, because he’s asking for absolution from a priestly caste, he thinks there is possibly some atonement available from God himself. Sadly, he discovers that their relationship is merely transactional. They are not going to offer him a bounty for his betrayal while also giving him relief from the burden of his guilt. The charge cannot be reversed.

Life’s closest relationships — family, friends, and even God himself — can only be unconditional. The moment that money enters the equation, the potential for real intimacy dries up and withers. My therapist won’t ever be a congregant. Nor will I go out for cocktails with my financial advisor. My personal trainer is swell, and we show up at the same parties from time to time, but I won’t be calling him up to see if he wants to go to the movies next weekend. And that’s OK. Gratefully, I have family and friends in my life that I can count on outside of services that I pay for. But for those who don’t have some element of unconditional love in their life, the emotional economy provides a close, but ultimately unfulfilling, proxy.