Six months ago, one of my best friends from college got married.

Friends from around the country flew into Seattle for three days of activities, culminating with the wedding on Sunday evening. The weekend was unforgettable. We rented Segways (trust me, they’re more fun than you’d expect), climbed a small mountain at sunrise, and even got to ride down an authentic fireman’s pole. But despite all these memorable moments, including watching my friend of 15 years marry the love of his life, the most meaningful part of the weekend was a relatively short late night conversation.

Two nights before the wedding all the guys sat around a fire pit in the foothills of the Cascades, smoking cigars, and sharing stories about our good friend. It was our opportunity to bless him, to express how much his friendship meant to us, and to bring up a few embarrassing moments from the past. When it was my turn to share, I spoke of the impact that this dear brother in Christ had played in my spiritual journey, especially during college. I spoke of our accountability group that lasted for several of those years. I spoke of the spiritual maturity, wisdom, and strength that he had consistently displayed. And I spoke of how he was a true giant of the faith at our school.

I paused. Considering what to say next. Without hesitation, and with a knowing smile on his face, my friend spoke these words that still echo in my mind: “I pretty much faked my way through most of that.”

[Imagine the sound of a record screeching to a stop; followed by laughter.]

He went on to talk about how as a Christian leader on campus, he felt burdened to live the perfect Christian life. Being far from perfect, he still portrayed himself as such, building a public façade that reflected what he thought the true Christian life was supposed to be. He spoke the language and looked the part. But doing so required him to withhold the full extent of his struggles with sin, even from committed accountability partners like me.

His admission was unexpected. But I wasn’t surprised, because he was telling my story as well.

Like my friend, I was more concerned with convincing people that I was a good Christian, than with actually being one. I participated in various campus ministries, went to Bible studies, listened to Christian music, and disclosed just enough of my own sin to prove that I was being real. Deep down I wanted a genuine faith, wanted to pick up my cross (whatever that meant), wanted to follow Jesus. But somehow I failed to realize that this was possible in the midst of my mess. I had missed the point of what Jesus came to do, and more specifically who he came to do it for.

As I look back on my college years, it is remarkable to see my blatant unwillingness to be real and to admit that I didn’t have it all figured out. These reflections have been extremely valuable in my work with college students over the last decade. How can I help students avoid the same trap that ensnared me, and my good friend? How will our students respond when they encounter the lie that advocates false perfection and counterfeit holiness over authentic living that allows for imperfection?

From my perspective and experience, there are two primary obstacles that must be confronted if students (or anyone for that matter) are to embrace and live authenticity: pride and shame.

More often than not, we too easily dismiss pride in our lives, justifying its existence as something that everyone deals with. The truth is, however, that pride is the primary factor that keeps us from fully pursuing God. As my pastor often says, “Pride is the one thing that denies its own existence.” Scripture tells us that with God we can accomplish anything; pride tells us that we can do the same on our own. We are called to carry one another’s burdens; pride calls us to withhold our weaknesses. We are so concerned about our image, that we are almost entirely unwilling to show the slightest crack.

The impact of our pride is further compounded when shame is involved. Nowhere is this more evident, than when dealing with topics of sex and sexuality. Those who struggle with sin in these areas often carry the extra burden of shame. As a result, any disclosure of struggle bears additional risk. Sin is sin. But as a Church we have made certain sin more shameful, partially by not talking about it. Instead of allowing our brothers and sisters in Christ to carry our burdens or sharpen us in our walk, we isolate ourselves from receiving the freedom that Christ came to offer. During my college years, it wasn’t that I didn’t want people to know I had sin in my life. People knew that. Instead I didn’t want people to know that I struggled with lust and internet pornography. That was too much. And so, like my friend, I faked it. And in doing so I forfeited the opportunity to receive the grace of God, and the grace and support of my friends.

Over the past few years, I’ve been repeatedly drawn back to this quote from Henri Nouwen’s book In the Name of Jesus:

“I am deeply convinced that the Christian leader of the future is called to be completely irrelevant and to stand in this world with nothing to offer but his or her own vulnerable self.”

I think this sums up how we are meant to live, and also the life that we ought to invite our students to live. Only when we do so, can we finally live in the freedom that Jesus offers each one of us. A freedom that allows us to not have it all figured out. A freedom to be imperfect, authentic. And most importantly, freedom that overcomes pride and shame.

[ RETURN TO THE SEX & THE SOUL HOMEPAGE ]