I will now share the story of a clinical mental health counseling (CMHC) program at Colorado Christian university (CCU) that failed to meet my expectations based on its presentation of itself and marketing efforts of its program objectives and outcomes.

Back in 2021, I was searching for a CACREP-accredited CMHC program. CACREP basically is a board of people who verify that the CMHC program meets educational standards and requirements that would prepare students for clinical practice. They also check that ethical standards are taught within this. CACREP is kind of a neat organization, although their accrediation would soon prove to not mean as much as it had appeared to mean.

In the interview, I asked very candidly: “I want to work with queer individuals and couples. I am in favor of queer rights. Will this be an issue at your program?” I was told not.

So by 2022, I started at CCU, even taking some courses a semester early. I was a little confused by the lack of rigor in the coursework. But I was taking only electives and the required theology sequence (which I was assured was merely a university requirement, and not a program desire). I decided to wait until the core courses to determine the plausibility that the program met my needs to become a clinical pyschotherapist.

In about July of 2022, I flew to Colorado and attended the on-site week-long residency.

I would define this as orientation mixed with a fancy way to wine and dine us. It was also an administrative way to get the most money from FAFSA or other loan providers. (CCU is famously known for not providing much scholarship to graduate students. Go figure.)

In the residency week, the CMHC program dean repeated at least once every time he came to speak, “We are not a pastoral counseling program. We are a clinical mental health counseling program. We prepare you for clinical work.” And that gave me some hope that I was going to be among properly equipped professors and students.

Yet, the storm came rampant.

The week I came back from residency, I was deathly ill. I was already pretty sick when I got into the CCU dorms, but I was nearly dying when I landed down in Arizona. I would later recieve the diagnosis of MRSA (would not recommend). CCU told me, in no uncertain terms, “It does not matter that it took you so long to get the treatment or why. The rules state that a week of inactivity in a course is an automatic administrative withdrawl. It does not matter that you have the professor’s approval or your academic advisor’s approval or even that a medical professional has verified your story and signed it.” I took a “W” for the course and moved on with my life. It seemed a fair option at the time.

My theology professor hated me. He despised my liberal stances. He marked me down for having sources he didn’t like. He was the head of the school of theology at CCU, but it shouldn’t have mattered. I was in a CMHC program. Not a pastoral counseling one. Yet he gave me a glorious “C” and I moved on with my life, not caring enough to fight it.

I continued on, to the next semester.

The school academic advisor called me, saying my grades were lower than desired and I was going to need an academic petition and financial petition. I was confused. She said I should just plan to get a 4.0 the next semester. I asked if that was possible. I knew I didn’t do great in theology, and wanted a real answer from someone on a real solution. The advisor assured me that my professors said my counseling skills were amazing and she saw no issue with my goal to obtain a 4.0 the following semester. She was not a great help. But I took her advice, assuming she knew better than I did.

Surely a school wouldn’t be this heinous to their students.

Surely someone knew what CMHC meant. Maybe that was her point?

But in the fall of 2022, I soon discovered that CMHC to CCU was basically a farce. Every course listed as a “program requirement” included a minimum of two faith-based assignments and each professor cared differently about them, to make matters even worse. These were called FICIP – faith informed clinical identity in practice – assignments, and were kind of obnoxious. The assignments ranged from a simple, basic discussion board post (which talked about a Bible verse or passage) to a whole five to seven page paper (which often were about how the clinical intervention would work with the “ideal” Chrisitian client). I was often proverbially bashing my head in at the FICIP assignments.

Before I get into my main gripe with FICIP – let me say this: the courses were also a disaster in that because there was so much theological emphasis in each assignment, the exams (which were actually based on clinicals and relevant metrics) were seemingly impossible and not at all on par with course content. Just because the exam includes the proper content does not excuse the course itself ignoring the adequate information.

Now: FICIP. My favorite thing to love and hate all at once.

First – talking about the Bible is not clinically relevant. It’s relevant if I am getting an MDiv or some seemingly other pastoral degree. But realistically, my client doesn’t care if I know David or Ruth or Noah or Jesus or Moses. Because if I don’t know how to address their clinical mental health issue and can only frame it in the context of the Bible, I have now proceeded to harm them by making it into a faith issue and have falsely called myself a counselor when I am simply a pastor with some better skills to listen and respond.

Second – since most of the courses are seven weeks long, spending an entire week of the course talking about a Biblical relevance misses why we’re there. It makes it into a pastoral program. It is then an MDiv program that leads to clinical licensure. As well, to have a student body who wants to be counselors forced to have theological discussions each course can allow a bad counselor but good theologian or pastor through. As well, it creates the idea that people can talk just about theology and not counseling, and pass.

Third – the idea of a FICIP paper selecting an “ideal Christian client” is offensive. The program states up and down that they welcome people of all beliefs, religions, and walks of life, among many other diverse characteristics. As well, I asked upfront if my goal of counseling queer clients was going to be an issue. To be forced to talk every course about how I was going to cater to some Christian client (who may not really even want me as their counselor, to be honest here) is also clinically inappropriate. We cannot be clinicians if we can only counsel a specific subset of the population. That’s an MDiv, truly.

So I struggled.

And I couldn’t get all the grades I needed to outweigh the theology professor who despised me, the withdrawal from getting sick, or even to just account for being a student who doesn’t measure her quality of success by needing a 4.0, but rather by her ability to do the job well. And I could do the damn job well. I had done an internship well.

I got an email that my grades weren’t good enough.

Suddenly, my academic advisor was “moving on to another role” and I was immediately assigned a new one. It seemed a little suspect. Oh well.

They asked to talk. So they then called me.

They were confused. Papers were shuffling in the background, chaos was erupting. I almost wish I could’ve seen what the pandemonium was on the other end. Someone had messed up. I wonder who realized I was going to call their bluff, and when. But all they did (maybe could do, at that point) was stand their ground that I should have known better. And I said, “Why didn’t someone just tell me to retake theology if it was that simple of a fix?” And suddenly, the advisor heard me. I mean, she really heard me.

“You know, you can always move to another program. I’m sure you’re going to do really well somewhere else. Your counseling skills were really good and it seems like you aren’t having an issue with the clinical side of things. I wish you so much luck.”

She didn’t say it. But she did.

She knew what I was asking. And she answered me rightfully.

I was close enough to getting academically kicked out anyway, so she really had nothing to lose on offering me what was nice advice at least and insight at best. And I moved on with life, furious and angry that a program took so much money from me and offered so many false promises to me. But they use faulty grading to bolster it.

I can’t change that some people aren’t honest.

I can change that I didn’t get to speak up about it then.

And so I am now.

XOXO,

Dorothy B.