The harder I try, the more clearly can I
Feel the depth of our fall and the weight of it all,
And so this just might be the most impossible thing:
Your grandness in me, making me clean.
You are holy, and I am wholly yours.
-David Crowder

“Is there anything you’d like to confess?” I asked him.

This certainly was not the conversation I had anticipated when I stumbled downstairs to make myself a breakfast of coffee and toast. My husband Drew is an early morning person, which means he loves getting up in the middle of the night to start his day. By the time I enter the morning at a more reasonable hour, Drew has already read his Bible, digested the news, formulated theological interpretations of the news, solved world hunger, and gathered a few interesting pop culture tidbits to share with me along the way.

By our third year of marriage, we have come to an agreement called “Drew is welcome to talk animatedly and share his thoughts all he likes in the morning, and Katie will listen and perhaps provide monosyllabic, barely-intelligible responses until she has had her coffee and food.”

I tell you this so you can understand what an unprecedented miracle it was when I responded to Drew’s morning de-brief with a semi-thoughtful question:

“Is there anything you’d like to confess?”

That morning, Drew had been reading Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s thoughts on the Body of Christ acting as confessors to and for one another. There was a time I would have been afraid to ask that question—I would have feared either a dishonest or a devastating response. “Confession” in my previous marriage always led to a great deal of pain for me.

Drew answered my question with an acknowledgement of an area of his spiritual life in which he needs growth. My shoulders relaxed as he shared with me and I realized I had been bracing myself for impact.

What I did not expect was coming face to face with my own need for a confession—a steady stream of words and thoughts that arose in me and overflowed before Drew even had a chance to return the question:

“I want to confess that I have been captive to a fear of man and pleasing people. I care so much about not disappointing people that I have valued my performance over spending unhurried time in God’s presence. I feel like I am juggling a million things and am unwilling to drop them or fail in any way.”

A little embarrassed at my profusion, I looked out the window and took a sip of coffee, wondering what he would say.

“Who are these ‘people’?” Drew asked. “Are there actual people in your life that you’re afraid of disappointing, or does ‘people’ represent a general fear of failure?”

I swallowed, not knowing what to say.

“I think it’s both,” I managed. “But it’s more a general sense that I cannot fail or there will be consequences.”

He continued, “Because if there are areas of your life in which you are unable to fail, then you might want to consider walking away from them. If all the responsibilities and fear of failure you were describing represented a person, I would tell you to leave them. It sounds like being in an abusive relationship—always walking on eggshells—terrified of the consequences of messing up.”

“Dangit, Drew,” I thought, “You cut to the heart of me, every time.” God bless him.

“Well, I guess I feel like if I can be perfect, then I should. I’m afraid that messing up will cut me off from future opportunities and relationships and that any failure will be absolute and permanent.”

As we continued talking, I realized that I am the one who does not give myself permission to fail—my own expectations keep me awake at night, tossing and turning to an endless and unmerciful list of ‘to-dos’ that all feel vitally important. More often than I like to admit, I’ve lived in a way that anxiously says, “It is all up to me to make my life meaningful and worthy.”

And this revelatory conversation was all before 9 a.m. Who says miracles don’t happen anymore?

As we finished breakfast and I walked away to take my daily anti-anxiety medication, I sensed God guiding my thoughts with a clarity not my own, speaking to me in a kind yet practical voice that said:

“There is a difference between perfection and holiness. You are trying to attain perfection; all I ask of you is holiness.”

Gulp. “I thought they meant the same thing,” I thought. Then I remembered that the definition of ‘holy’ is “to be set apart”—and not just set apart, but set apart for a special purpose. To be holy is to be consecrated, wholly devoted to one end.

To live a holy life, then, does not mean living perfectly and sinlessly; instead, it means living our lives wholly devoted to the author of Holiness—to live a ‘set apart life’ for God.

When I consider the differences between perfection and holiness, the story of the rich young ruler from Mark 10 comes to mind. In this story, a wealthy young man approaches Jesus and asks,

“Good teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?”

In other words, “How will I know when I’ve accomplished enough to be worthy of eternity with God?” The anxiety in his question feels familiar, because it is this subtle-yet-deadly question which fuels the pressure I feel to keep accomplishing, performing, and earning.

Like any good teacher, Jesus responds to his question with another question:

“Why do you call me good?” Jesus answered. “No one is good—except God alone.”

Then Jesus provides the standard of ‘goodness’ by listing the ten commandments. In hearing them, the rich young ruler was relieved because he had devoted his life to keeping God’s commandments perfectly. Surely that was enough.

“Teacher,” he declared, “all these I have kept since I was a boy.”

Jesus looked at him and loved him.

“One thing you lack,” he said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow me.”

At this the man’s face fell. He went away sad, because he had great wealth.
(Mark 10:17-22)

I’ve always read this passage as ‘the one where Jesus asks more of someone than they are able to realistically give.’ It has bothered me because it seems like an impossible standard for Christians. Does Jesus really want us all to be poor and out on the streets?

But in re-examining this story through the lens of perfection and holiness, I realize that what Jesus is asking for is a life wholly devoted to him. The young man sought to earn heaven through perfection; Jesus invited him into a life of intimate communion with God through holiness.

Perfectionism says, “My worth depends on my ability and performance.”
Holiness says, “My worth depends on God’s ability and the identity I’ve been given in Christ.”

After the young man walked away from their conversation, Jesus turns to his disciples and says,

“It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.”

The disciples were even more amazed, and said to each other, “Who then can be saved?”

Jesus looked at them and said, “With man this is impossible, but not with God; all things are possible with God.”
(Mark 10:24-27)

“Jesus looked at him and loved him.” I imagine there was sadness in the eyes of Jesus, too, as the rich young man walked away—he had come so close to the Kingdom of God but missed the heart of it. Jesus knew that this man was stuck trying to achieve an impossible standard of perfection by his own efforts. When we devote our lives to following God, however, all things are possible.

Because no one but God is perfect, perfectionism can only lead to condemnation and death.
Because Jesus lived a perfect life on our behalf, holiness leads to forgiveness and everlasting life.

Perfectionism is driven by fear of failure.
Holiness is driven by love of God.

In Leviticus 19:2, God asks Moses to tell the Israelites,

“Be holy because I, the Lord your God, am holy.”

I used to think this verse meant, ‘Be perfect so you can be worthy of me.’ But now I believe that at the heart of this verse lies an intimate invitation to holiness through communing with God. God is setting apart a holy people, wholly unto himself.

How often have I missed the invitation to holiness because of my crippling standard of perfection?

I experience genuine grief as I ask this question. I also see the eyes of Jesus, looking at me with love. He looks at you with love, too—a love that invites each of us to wholly embrace the Holy One who embraces us.

With the Psalmist I pray,

“Search me, O God, and know my heart. Test me, and know my anxious thoughts. Point out everything in me that offends you, and lead me along the path of everlasting life.”
(Psalm 139:23-24)

This is our invitation to start again, to lean back into the loving arms of a holy God and let him show us how to live, step by step, for all of our days and into the life to come.

May it be so.