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From my earliest memories, I remember "playing the game": try to say the right things at the right times to the right people. When the people or circumstances changed, so did I.

As a young child, I tried to please my parents. In school I made sure my teachers got my grandest act. There's nothing terribly wrong with that, but looking back, I see that those were just practice runs for what would come later.

As a teen I did almost anything for acceptance from my buddies. I partied, swore, lied, cheated, and stole. By the time I got to college, I was playing so many different roles that I began to lose track of the real me. Honestly, I began to wonder if there was a real me.

At nineteen I became a follower of Christ. And the parts of my life he changed, he changed miraculously. He cleaned house. But in a darkened corner here, a locked closet there, I continued to believe I was better off putting up a front.

It was a new front, a spiritual one. But still the same old game, just played on a different stage.

Within a few years, I became a pastor. You'd think that would have shaken the deceit right out of me. But as a young pastor, I simply turned pro. My church members observed my finest performances. I fooled many of them, but I didn't fool myself.

And I didn't fool God.

I entered seminary after I had been a pastor for a while. One of my professors taught me many invaluable ministry principles. In fact, I still practice most of what I learned from him. However, one of the things he shared I now believe was not only wrong, but incredibly dangerous. He called it the "pastor's mystique," and he said we had to guard it at all cost.

"People think they want their pastors to be normal, everyday people," he told our class, "but they really don't. They want to see you as better than the average person. Church members want to believe your marriage is always strong, your faith never falters, and you are virtually without sin."

I soaked up his advice.

Week after week, he warned about a pastor's mystique: "Keep your guard up. Don't let them know the real you. Dress the part. Talk the part. You're a pastor now. Never let them into your life, or you'll regret it."

This sounded logical to me. He'd obviously been deeply wounded in his ministry and wanted to help us avoid similar pain. He meant well. So I continued perfecting my "good pastor" act. I'd smile big, shake each hand with both of mine, and end each conversation with the pastor's best line: "God bless you." Somewhere, though, I forgot that God called me not to be like a pastor, but to be like Christ.

That's when my spiritual struggles started. I was not living with gross, unconfessed sin—at least not the kind that gets pastors fired. And my motives weren't bad. I loved Jesus and his people. Every bone in my body desired to make a difference for God in this world. I poured my heart into ministry, enduring long hours, boring meetings, temperamental people, and plenty of good, old-fashioned church conflicts—all for Jesus.

After a few years, I became good at being a pastor. Ministerial words flowed from my mouth. I learned what to say and what not to say. Weddings were a breeze, and funerals were becoming easier. Preaching came naturally, and my counseling skills improved. People said I was an "up 'n' comer" who'd rise quickly through the ranks to a bigger church. From the outside, everything looked good.

But God doesn't look at the outside.

One Sunday, after another week of performing, I stood to preach. As I approached the pulpit, the truth hit me squarely between the eyes. I hadn't prayed. Not that day. Not the day before. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn't prayed all week.

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