Never will I forget my stay at the Olympic Village in Seoul, South Korea, before competing in the 1988 Olympic decathlon. I’d been dreaming about that moment my whole life and had trained for the previous 16 years.
Strolling the streets of this mini-city with athletes from all over the world, I tried to take everything in, to feel the experience to the fullest. I knew this would be my first and last Olympics.
My euphoria was interrupted when another athlete casually told me that most of the athletes I would be competing against had more than likely used steroids to get to the Olympics—stopping their use long enough before the Games to pass the drug test while still benefiting from the effects.
Knowing that athletes used steroids was nothing new. It’s hard to be around sports at that level without being exposed to athletes doing whatever it takes to improve—including steroid use. But this time it felt personal.
All of the sudden, I was upset. After all, at 5’8″ and 160 pounds, I was already giving up 3-4 inches in height and 20-30 pounds to other decathletes I was up against. Now, on top of that, I would have to overcome their steroid use? It didn’t seem fair.
My thoughts turned to how much better I could be if I had used performance-enhancing drugs. I wondered (probably overestimated) how much faster, how much stronger. … but then I got a sick feeling in my stomach. You know the feeling—the one you get when you’re the only one who knows you’ve cheated, when you’ve sinned in secret multiple times over, when you’ve been praised by people but you know something is terribly wrong on the inside.
At that point, I realized that my soul was in turmoil. My athletics had always been an extension of my walk with God. To lean on anything besides God for my performance would have violated the primary fuel source that kept me training all those years.
I always felt God put a love for the Olympics in my heart. And suddenly, the thought of selling a part of my soul to get a little closer to a gold medal felt so wrong, so inauthentic. I was relieved that I said no to steroids all those years leading up to the Olympics, even if it meant getting beat.
I placed 26th out of 42, and I quietly retired from track. It was a victory for me—a private one. But because the world’s voices are so strong, it took me years to really believe that. It was hard to overcome the world’s definition of success. Those scales never measure private victories.
Pastoral enhancing substances
Twelve years have passed now. Back then I never realized how much that experience would serve me today. I can’t tell you how many times as a leader I am still tempted to use artificial means to enhance my performance in ministry.
Not drugs. My temptations are even more insidious—fuel sources like pride, envy, unresolved hurts and wounds, proving myself to others, people pleasing, and many more.
Ministry on steroids is using any artificial, sinful sources of fuel to make you come off better than you would otherwise. We do it every time we’re tempted to shave the truth or exaggerate a bit in a sermon to help God along. We do it when we use other people’s material without giving appropriate acknowledgement. We do it when we spend more time and energy image protecting than we should.
In my experience, I have used them all to one extent or another. And every time, it implodes my soul a bit and often takes life away from others around me. It also brings an inauthentic component to my experience with God. And it’s particularly easy for those of us in vocational ministry to fall into, because we are scheduled to give ministry output on a regular basis whether or not our souls are ready. The volunteers need to be inspired; the staff needs to see a strong leader; the next message has to be better than the last. And so we try to fix the problem artificially.
To what extent are you “fueled by steroids”? Or to what extent are you being energized by the appropriate sources of fuel—love, gratitude, obedience, mercy, and compassion?
The scary thing is that as you become more aware of what drives you, you will discover spiritual steroid use.
I did when I looked inside.
We all carry some dark motivations. And when you discover them more clearly, you’ll fear moving away from them because you can’t imagine that fuel being replaced completely by godly sources of fuel. What will you do if you can’t access that good fuel? What if the requirements of the job are more than you can handle on God’s fuel alone?
You’ll have all those fears, but God will be right there. He’s not surprised that you supplement your drive with carnal sources. He’ll be there the whole way as you move away from them. He will be there to renew your strength. He will not let you fall beyond His reach. Moving away from steroids might involve losing a bit in the eyes of the world, and that might be painful. But you’ll discover freedom in knowing that what the world thinks isn’t what’s most important anyway.
We must all take that first step of faith, stop the steroids, and trust God for our performance. We may risk lower public performance but gain the private victory before God.
He doesn’t want us or need us on steroids.
Jim Mellado is president of Willow Creek Association.
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