I like beer. I always have. Ever since my high school buddy and I drank ourselves sick with a case of quarts, I have liked beer. I like the way it washes down a piece of pizza and mutes the spice of enchiladas. It goes great with peanuts at the baseball game and seems an appropriate way to crown 18 holes of golf. Out of the keg, tap, bottle, or frosty mug—it doesn’t matter to me. I like it.
Too much. Alcoholism haunts my family ancestry. I have early memories of following my father through the halls of a rehab center to see his sister. Similar scenes repeated themselves with other relatives for decades. Beer doesn’t mix well with my family DNA.
So at the age of 21, I swore off it.
I never made a big deal out of my abstinence. Or someone else’s indulgence. I differentiate between drinking and drunkenness and decided, in my case, the former would lead to the latter, so I quit. Besides, I was a seminary student (for the next two years). Then a minister (three years). Next a missionary (five years). Then a minister again (22 years and counting). I wrote Christian books and spoke at Christian conferences. A man of the cloth shouldn’t chum with Heineken products, right? So I didn’t.
Then a few years back something resurrected my cravings. Too many commercials? Too many baseball games? I don’t know. Quite likely, it was just thirst. The south Texas heat can rage like a range fire. At some point I reached for a can of brew instead of a can of soda, and as quick as you can pop the top, I was a beer fan again. A once-in-a-while … then once-a-week … then once-a-day beer fan.
I kept my preference to myself. No beer at home, lest my daughters think less of me. No beer in public. Who knows who might see me? None at home, none in public leaves only one option: convenience-store parking lots. For about a week I was that guy in the car, drinking out of the brown paper bag.
I HAD BECOME A HYPOCRITE
En route to speak at a men’s retreat, I stopped for my daily purchase. I walked out of the convenience store with a beer pressed against my side, scurried to my car for fear of being seen, opened the door, climbed in, and opened the can.
Then it dawned on me. I had become the very thing I hate: a hypocrite. A pretender. Two-faced. Acting one way. Living another. I had written sermons about people like me—Christians who care more about appearance than integrity. It wasn’t the beer but the cover-up that nauseated me.
I knew what I needed to do; I’d written sermons about that too. “If we say we have no sin, we are fooling ourselves, and the truth is not in us. But if we confess our sins, he will forgive our sins, because we can trust God to do what is right. He will cleanse us from all the wrongs we have done” (1 John 1:8-9, NCV).
Confession. The word conjures up many images, not all of which are positive. Backroom interrogations. Chinese water torture. Admitting dalliances to a priest who sits on the other side of a black curtain. Walking down the church aisle and filling out a card. Is this what John had in mind?
Confession is not telling God what He doesn’t know. Impossible.
Confession is not complaining. If I merely recite my problems and rehash my woes, I’m whining.
Confession is not blaming. Pointing fingers at others without pointing any at me feels good, but it doesn’t promote healing.
Excerpted from Grace: More Than We Deserve, Greater Than We Imagine by Max Lucado. ©2012 Thomas Nelson Publishers. Used with permission. May not be further reproduced. All rights reserved.
Listen to an interview with Max Lucado on a recent FamilyLife Today® broadcast.