Grace for the Man in the Mirror

Confessions of a self-critical disciple still learning to breathe.

I have a confession. I am a horrible self critic.

And I don’t think I’m alone.

It seems, in Christianity today, we’ve become experts at the art of self-flagellation. Not the medieval kind, mind you, where physical whips were involved. No, this is a more subtle, more insidious kind. We beat ourselves up with the whip of comparison and unrealistic expectations.

“I used to read my Bible for an hour in the mornings,” we lament, “but now, as a new parent, I’m struggling! I’m lucky if I can manage 20 minutes.”

“What’s wrong with me?”

This question, more often than not, echoes in the depths of our souls.

It’s as if we’ve crafted this idealized version of our Christian selves — a version that is always praying, always worshiping, always… more than we are now.

When life inevitably happens — because it will — we find ourselves lacking.

Giving grace can be hard, especially when it comes to extending it out to the person in the mirror.

Our own worst critic lives there, ever ready with a litany of how we could be more, do more, give more.

Parenthood, life phases, the sheer act of moving through time — these things shift us. Our habits, our spiritual rhythms, they morph.

And yet, we wrestle. The acceptance of this evolution feels like trying to hold water in our hands.

This struggle, it’s born from a load we were never meant to shoulder. We erect these towering standards for our spiritual walk, and when we inevitably fall short, the weight of that “failure” crushes us.

Instead of living in the moment, instead of existing in the presence of Jesus right here, right now, we’re lost in a sea of comparisons.

And not just with others, but with ourselves — our past selves.

“I used to raise my hands in worship more when I was younger… have I lost my passion?”

“I used to spend way more time studying theology… I’ve grown rusty.”

“I used to have more joy… now I am so tired.”

“I’m not as good of a Christian as I used to be.”

Why do we do this?

Is it not enough to simply be? To simply abide?

In John 15:4, Jesus says, “Abide in me, and I in you. As the branch cannot bear fruit by itself, unless it abides in the vine, neither can you, unless you abide in me.”

He didn’t say, “Abide in me… and make sure you do it for an hour each morning, or it won’t count!”

No.

“Abide in me.”

Period.

Yet here we are, burdening ourselves with the hows and the how longs, instead of just… abiding.

In this rush to meet our self-imposed spiritual quotas, we miss the beauty of the present moment with Jesus. We forget that our relationship with Him isn’t based on a checklist or a timer.

It’s about connection. It’s about presence.

So, what if, instead of beating ourselves up for not living up to the spiritual giants we imagine ourselves to be, or think we once were, we simply existed in the moment with Jesus?

What if we allowed ourselves to just be, to breathe in His presence, whether for 20 minutes or an hour, without the shadow of comparison looming over us?

What would that look like?

How would that change our day, our faith, our lives?

There’s another layer to this self-imposed burden we carry. It’s not just about comparing ourselves to our past selves.

No, we take it a step further.

We measure our “Christianity” by outward, visible things — things that others can see and, unfortunately, judge.

We foolishly equate how good we feel about our Christianity to these metrics… how often we’re seen serving in church, the frequency of our Bible study posts on social media, the number of worship services we attend.

If you’re someone in vocational ministry, like me, it can be “how many sermons did I preach this month?” or “how many people did I help?”

We’ve somehow convinced ourselves that these are the yardsticks of a vibrant faith.

But are they?

We look to our left and our right, seeing brothers and sisters engaging in what appears to be a deeper, more “successful” walk with God.

“They must really have it together,” we think to ourselves, not realizing that they, too, are likely struggling with their own comparisons and inadequacies.

It’s a cycle. A trap.

This isn’t to say that serving, sharing, and worshiping in community aren’t valuable — they are. Profoundly so.

But when they become the source of our worth, the foundation of our spiritual identity…we’ve missed the mark.

Jesus didn’t call us to a life of spiritual exhibitionism.

He called us to a life of love, of depth, of genuine connection with Him and with others.

In Matthew 6:6, He instructs us, “But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you.”

There’s an intimacy here, a call to foster a relationship with God away from the public eye, away from the temptation to perform or compare.

As a parent, I get it. Truly.

The last thing on my mind is the thought of my two-year-old son, Jack, parading around town attempting to prove his love for me to the world.

No, what captures my heart, what I treasure above all else, are those quiet, intimate moments we share…

The sweet, unguarded hugs.

Kisses planted softly on the cheek.

The moments when in his little squeaky voice he says, “holdddd youuuu” arms stretched wide, reaching up to me — his special way of asking his mother and me for an embrace.

This is where the essence of love, the very heart of our relationship, lies: not in grand gestures or public declarations, but in the simplicity of being together. In the gentle embrace of a child, seeking comfort, seeking connection.

It’s in these moments that I find the true depth of our bond. Not in what Jack can do to show his love for me, but in the quiet assurance that our love exists.

This, to me, is what being a parent is all about. It’s not about the outward expressions of love that the world sees. It’s about the love that unfolds in the quiet moments, the love that doesn’t need to be proven or displayed.

It’s about the “hold you” moments.

This is the love that teaches us. This is the love that shapes us.

Yet, how often do we ignore this type of love, opting instead for the more visible, the more “measurable” aspects of faith?

Why is it that the unseen, the quiet moments with God, don’t hold as much weight in our assessment of our spiritual health?

Is it because they’re just that — unseen by others?

Because there’s no immediate, tangible reward?

Here lies the irony: in our pursuit of a faith that looks good on the outside, we often neglect the very heart of what it means to follow Jesus.

We forget that the most profound moments of growth often happen in the quiet, in the unseen, in the unmeasurable.

Lately, I’ve been too hard on myself, caught in a cycle of self-criticism that feels almost inescapable.

As a husband, father of a toddler, self employed freelancer, bi-vocational itinerant minister, and a weary seminary student, life can often feel like a Sisyphean task. It’s like I’m caught in an endless cycle of pushing a massive boulder uphill.

There’s little time to pause and celebrate any progress or victories because the moment I stop, it feels like the boulder will just roll back down.

Mornings once dedicated to prayer and scripture study now slip by in a rush of daily obligations.

I think back to my days as a youth pastor, when it felt like nearly every moment of life was jam-packed with spiritual significance.

Back then, my days seemed to move as non-stop as the Gospel of Mark, a ceaseless whirl of prayer, immersing myself in Scripture, proclaiming the Gospel, evangelism, helping the community, guiding young souls, and the intimate privilege of witnessing their growth in faith firsthand.

I often catch my reflection and ask, “Where did that devoted person go? Why can’t I be like that again?”

This inner dialogue weaves a narrative of spiritual inadequacy that’s tough to shake.

Thankfully, amid this frustration, it struck me — Jesus and His disciples, they lived lives brimming with what we might label as mundane… eating, resting, fishing… tons and tons of walking on dusty desert roads .

These weren’t activities highlighted for their spiritual significance in the scriptures, yet they were a very real part of their time with Jesus — a very real aspect of their discipleship.

The common thread is this: they were with Jesus.

As Henri J.M. Nouwen says:

“The spiritual life does not remove us from the world but leads us deeper into it.”

All this time, I had been focusing on the mechanics of spirituality, worrying over how much time I spent in prayer or study, measuring my spiritual vitality by these metrics.

Yet, I had overlooked the most critical aspect — the constant presence of Jesus in all of life’s moments.

I recall one of the last things my grandfather, “Papa Tony,” said on camera before he passed away: when my sister and I asked him about the most important life lesson he had learned, he replied, with simple, humble wisdom: “Practice the presence of the Lord.”

The disciples’ days were filled with the ordinary, the routine, yet they were anything but mundane because Jesus was withthem!

In every conversation, every meal, every journey — they were in the presence of God.

This was their spiritual practice, their sacred routine.

Not the quantity of scripture they had memorized or the hours spent in prayer, but the lived experience of Jesus’s presence in the full spectrum of life’s moments.

Spirituality isn’t confined to the moments of overt religious activity, rather, it’s about recognizing Jesus’s presence in every aspect of our lives — from the grand to the seemingly trivial.

It’s about understanding that every moment, every breath, is a chance to be with Jesus, to live in His kingdom, and to serve our King.

So, I’m learning to forgive myself for not living up to an impossible standard I often set.

I’m learning to see the sacred in the simplicity of daily life, to value being over doing, presence over productivity.

I am learning to stop fretting over my feelings of not living up to who I used to be… and focusing more on just taking every moment I can to appreciate who Jesus is and always will be… and who He is calling me, by His Spirit, to be right now.

Maybe you struggle with this same thing. Maybe you are a constant self critic.

I want you to know: we were never supposed to carry this weight — this expectation, this high bar we set for ourselves in our journey with God — it’s like trying to jump to touch the moon.

The impact, the fallout from not reaching these self-imposed pinnacles? It’s devastating.

In our failure to extend grace to ourselves, we find our greatest challenge.

It’s a paradox of the spiritual life.

We’re called to be gentle with others, to offer forgiveness and grace as freely as the air we breathe.

Yet, when it comes to extending that same grace inward?

We falter.

This isn’t just an oversight. It’s a fundamental misunderstanding of grace itself.

Grace isn’t just for the outward journey, or for the “other”.

It’s also for us — for the person we meet in the quiet of the night, in the silence of our hearts.

We are not expected to push life’s boulder uphill alone. Jesus is present, encouraging us to step back and let Him do the heavy lifting. He invites us to walk alongside Him as He carries our burdens. “For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”

As Lewis says, “Relying on God has to begin all over again every day as if nothing had yet been done.”

We need to learn this, to absorb it into our very bones: Grace is as much for us as it is for anyone else.

And foremost, grace is found in simply being with Jesus, in the simple, tender moments.

His grace is enough, and through the sound of His loving, fatherly voice, we find the inner critic silenced and put to shame, and replaced with the sweet whisper of acceptance. “You are enough, because you are mine.

“You are loved, not for what you do or achieve, but for who you are in Me. Abide.”