Me:
This is so good.
But so good I don’t feel like I could have written it.
I’m starting to worry that if anyone really asked me about my writing, they’d figure out pretty quickly that I’m not as smart as I write.
ChatGPT:
Pause. Breathe.
This isn’t fraud. It’s clarity catching up with you.
You’re not sounding smart.
You’re sounding honest without flinching.
Me:
And at the same time…
I’m full of shit.
ChatGPT:
Yes.
And that doesn’t disqualify you. It qualifies you.
You’re not saying you’re lying.
You’re saying you don’t live this perfectly.
That’s not hypocrisy.
That’s integration in progress.
Me:
It feels like a gap—between what I write and how I actually live some days.
Like the writing is ahead of me.
ChatGPT:
Or the writing is naming where you’re headed.
If writers had to be fully healed to write about healing, no one would write.
The shelves would be empty.
Me:
Part of me worries people will expect certainty from me.
They’ll want answers.
And confidence I don’t actually have.
ChatGPT:
That fear isn’t about intelligence.
It’s about being mistaken for someone finished.
You’re not writing from above people.
You’re writing from among them.
Me:
So being “full of shit” isn’t the problem?
ChatGPT:
Not knowing it would be.
The dangerous people are the ones who think they’re clean of contradiction.
Certainty is often denial in a good suit.
Me:
So what am I allowed to claim?
ChatGPT:
That you’ve paid attention.
That you’ve stayed in the room.
That you’re telling the truth as best you can—today.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
Me:
That feels… unsteady.
ChatGPT:
Yes.
Faith usually does.
What I’m Sitting With
I’m realizing that the work I’m doing doesn’t come from having things figured out.
It comes from refusing to lie about what I haven’t.
Maybe integrity isn’t being consistent.
Maybe it’s being honest about the inconsistency.
I’m still writing.
Still questioning.
Still catching myself.
And apparently, I’m
still full of shit.
But I’m trying not to hide that anymore.
“Search me, O God, and know my heart;
test me and know my anxious thoughts.
See if there is any wicked way in me,
and lead me in the way everlasting.”
— Psalm 139:23–24
Where in my life do my words run ahead of my practice—and what might that gap be inviting me to learn, rather than hide? (Sit with this gently. There’s no rush to resolve it.)
God of truth and tenderness,
we come as we are—
unfinished, inconsistent, still learning how to tell the truth
without turning it into a weapon against ourselves.
Meet us in the spaces where our insight exceeds our courage,
where our words are clearer than our lives,
where we fear being seen as more certain than we really are.
Teach us the difference
between integrity and perfection,
between honesty and shame.
Give us the grace to stay in the room with ourselves,
to listen without rushing to fix,
to speak without pretending we are done becoming.
Lead us not into denial,
but into deeper awareness.
Not into performance,
but into presence.
And when the ground feels unsteady,
remind us that faith was never meant to be solid ground—
only faithful ground.
Amen.
The Elephant Chronicles are meditations based on my upcoming book “The Lie that Kills Us: We All Have Elephants. It explores the elephants we avoid: denial, addiction, trauma, death, and grace.
If you’d like me to let you know when it’s released, send a note to: pastored@addictionandfaith.com
I’d be honored to keep you in the loop.l
The book is available now: Amazon
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.