Selling Jesus to Yourself
When the story becomes a performance, and presence becomes a stranger
There once was a man who married a woman whose very presence stirred something deep in him. From the beginning, their union felt storied—serendipitous, poetic, almost sacred. He spoke often of how they met, how improbable their love had been, how her voice in that first conversation seemed to awaken something eternal in him.
He began to tell their story everywhere. At gatherings, around campfires, in long emails to friends. He crafted it carefully, the way a sculptor might refine an image until it glowed. Over time, the story itself became a kind of offering—something he could give to the world, something that reflected not just her beauty, but his insight, his faith, his sensitivity to wonder.
He didn’t ignore her, not exactly. But when he looked at her, it was always through the lens of how her actions, her struggles, even her silences might fit the next chapter. He was always half-inside the narrative—narrating, arranging, interpreting. Her tears, if they came, were not met with questions, but with conclusions. Her words were not explored, but quoted.
He loved how her presence made him feel. He loved the meaning she gave his life. He loved what she allowed him to say about love.
One night, as the candles burned low and the air between them was quieter than usual, she asked,
“Do you love me, or do you love the story we tell?”
He hesitated—not because he didn’t care—but because, without realizing it, he had already begun composing how that question might serve as the perfect turning point in the next retelling.
And in a way, that’s how we sometimes treat Jesus.
We cherish the beauty of the gospel narrative, marvel at the shape of grace, get swept up in the redemption arc. We craft testimonies, quotes, and teaching points from our interactions with Him. We speak of Him often—sometimes even eloquently. And yet, quietly, our hearts drift from the Person to the poetry. From presence to performance.
We don’t stop believing. We just start selling it—to ourselves.
We convince ourselves that our closeness to the story is the same as closeness to Him. We use the gospel to affirm our own insight, our purpose, our role in a larger drama. And Jesus becomes the character who legitimizes our narrative, rather than the Friend who disrupts it with love.
But Jesus didn’t say, “Master the story.” He said, “Come to me.”
The Pharisees knew the text, loved the tradition, lived in the rhythm of Scripture—but Jesus said,
“You search the Scriptures because you think that in them you have eternal life; and it is they that bear witness about me. Yet you refuse to come to me that you may have life.” (John 5:39–40)
They weren’t blind. They were devoted. But their devotion was to the structure, not the Source.
And that temptation still lives in us.
To tell the story of faith, rather than to be faithful.
To pursue meaning, rather than intimacy.
To love the idea of Jesus more than His nearness.
We don’t need a better narrative. We need to stop rehearsing and start receiving.
The invitation isn’t to build a platform around the gospel—it’s to be undone by the Presence that whispers, “Do you love Me?”