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MEDS, THERAPY, AND A MENTAL HEALTH FACILITY—THESE WERE the solutions I was offered. One counselor suggested that my condition wouldn’t change for the rest of my life and that I’d always need medication. As desperate as I was, I just didn’t buy it. There had to be some other answer to my problem. After trying several Christian therapists, each of whom employed a different approach, no one could alter the patterned behaviors I was stuck in.

After all, obsessive Bible study and street evangelism aren’t your run-of-the-mill symptoms.

MY BEGINNING

In high school, I was popular, earned good grades, and was elected president of the student body. I had no trouble making friends and making friends laugh. I enjoyed success in sports, in theatre, and with girls. None of these areas contributed to the deep-seated inferiority that I felt.

The trouble for me was that I didn’t seem to stack up in another arena—the spiritual one. Whether it was the church, my Christian high school, Christian camps, or even Christian concerts I attended, they all implied the same thing: you need to rededicate, recommit, and be different. You’re not doing enough. Don’t be satisfied. Don’t be stagnant. Never rest. There’s always more to do for God.

Fear. Guilt. Pressure. These were the motivators that hooked me early on and nearly killed me. Killed me? Yeah, I had close encounters with death or serious injury a few times. I took a two-by-four to the head once in a dangerous neighborhood while street evangelizing. Another time, I was thrown to the pavement by a drug dealer whom I was trying to convert.

Although I’d stand
up on the subway and
preach to the entire
train car, I was still
empty inside.

Committed? You bet. But committed to what? Although I’d stand up on the subway and preach to the entire train car, I was still empty inside. Despite my willingness to go door-to-door witnessing in my own neighborhood, I really had no life of fulfillment to offer. Whether I was preaching on a train, in neighborhoods, or even in the local jail, there was always an underlying anxiety.

I grew up with a flavor of the gospel that assured me I was going to heaven, but that didn’t help with the present turmoil. I was afraid God was so thoroughly disappointed with my performance that he wouldn’t use me, grow me, or “have fellowship” with me. Voices around me only confirmed that I was falling short and needed to strive yet again to meet the standard.

You wouldn’t have known any of this bothered me, because I never let it show. But after years of not being considered for the Christian Character Award at school, it got to me. The key to winning the award was to be quiet or even shy. Those who didn’t say much at all were labeled “meek.” The problem for me was that my personality didn’t fit the requirements.

I had a personal relationship with Christ. I knew my Bible better than many. And I really cared about my friends at school. But I was the class clown and the life of the party. Humor and Christian character just didn’t mix.

MY MIDDLE

“I’ll be different in college,” I told myself. This was my opportunity to change—to find a whole new environment and start with a clean slate. I received acceptance letters from two universities. One was Wheaton College, perhaps the best Christian college in the nation; the other was Furman University, a reputable school in the South. After informing my parents that I wasn’t “a good enough Christian to study at Wheaton,” I accepted the invitation to study at Furman.

My first year at Furman was a transition. I decided I no longer wanted to be mediocre in the spiritual arena. I wanted to earn the respect of God and of those around me. After poring over dozens of Christian books, I felt more knowledgeable than most of my peers. I delivered my first church sermon at the age of nineteen. I evangelized on the streets in Spain, Greece, and Italy while on study-abroad trips. I was intense, and everyone around me knew it.

After I returned to the United States, I lost all my friends. Who could blame them? I had changed. I still remember one of my best friends telling another friend that he was embarrassed to be seen with me.

Sure, some outsiders applauded me and respected me. But they were strangers. All they saw was the product—some were coming to faith in Christ, and others appeared to benefit from my “discipleship.” But these were the minority. Most could detect that there was something not right within me. I was driven, and there seemed to be no end in sight.

I could no longer
sleep at night unless
I had shared Christ
with someone
that day.

My intensity hit its pinnacle when I could no longer sleep at night unless I had shared Christ with someone that day. When my head hit the pillow, I’d recall my lack of service. So I’d get up, go to the nearest twenty-four-hour grocery store, and find someone to preach at. Once I said my lines, I could go home and sleep. The response I received wasn’t important. “You can’t control the outcome,” I told myself. I had fulfilled my duty. I had answered the call. And now I could sleep.

Ridiculous? Maybe. But all I was doing was carrying out what I had heard some people suggest to be the path to spiritual growth and fulfillment. My madness seems extreme, but it was nothing more than taking the method presented to me to its ultimate conclusion. I would always have a response ready for those who inquired about my “walk” and wanted to keep me “accountable.” They would never label me as backslidden or unspiritual. That would hurt worse than carrying out this performance ritual. Or so I thought.

MY END

Soon all the exertion with no payoff took its toll. I began spiraling into a deep depression. A few months later, I found myself lying on the floor of my apartment, sobbing for hours on end: “God, I’m doing everything I’m supposed to do, and I still don’t feel closer to you. In fact, I feel worse than ever! How could this have gone so wrong? I can’t see any way out. Help me!”

I had no choice but to call home. I picked up the phone, and within hours I had left the university mid-semester to return to my home state of Virginia. I didn’t know what awaited me, but I knew I couldn’t remain in my current condition.

There was no quick fix. After months of seeking help, I still couldn’t break free from my obsession with performing for God. My father got wind of a man who might have answers for me, so we jumped on a plane to Atlanta. After spending a day in prayer with this man, some of my thoughts began to clear up. At least I was able to agree that the compulsions to perform were not coming from God. This was a start.

“Would you like
to become a
Christian and be
miserable like me?”

The following years were not easy. I returned to college, earned my degree, and even went on to graduate school, but I had lost all confidence in who I was. My beliefs had betrayed me. If I were vulnerable enough to be honest during the times I was evangelizing, I would’ve made the following pitch: “Would you like to become a Christian and be miserable like me?”

So I was in a rebuilding time. I had been broken, stripped of any sense of self-worth. I had gone from class clown and student body president to intense Christian warrior and then to quiet, awkward guy in the corner. Psychologically, I was all over the map. I needed answers.

MY NEW BEGINNING

It’s been seventeen years since I lay sobbing on the floor of that apartment. Today, I wouldn’t trade my relationship with God for anything. In fact, I would wish my relationship with him on everyone! Through my desperation, my surrender to God for real answers, and my willingness to leave behind everything I had presumed before, I was introduced to the naked gospel.

I was already a Christian, but no one had ever taken the time to strip off all of the convoluted ideas and misleading jargon. No one had ever presented me with the bare truth. What I needed was an intravenous shot that wasn’t poisoned with religiosity. Once I realized I was on the wrong path, God enabled me to see his way—the route to freedom. The content of this book is the result of my journey. Hope began with grasping an important distinction between two operating systems—one Old and one New. Once I saw the doorway to the New, all I had to do was walk through.

What was on the other side was life changing.