“If you can’t be brave in front of your friends, how could you ever be brave in front of your enemies?”
This question echoed in my mind as I replayed the day’s events.
Earlier, while spending time with some friends on a video call, I heard the Lord’s name taken in vain more times than I could count. Their casual, reflexive outbursts came from habit, not hatred or malice. My friends weren’t aware of the contempt their words carried, yet their careless use of His name made me cringe. Their hearts weren’t in the wrong place, just their words.
In that moment of judgment, I realized I was looking in a mirror.
I’m no saint—not even close. Quite the opposite. I’m a sinner, a broken man worthy of the Lord’s love, mercy, and forgiveness only because He declares me worthy.
Have I taken His name in vain? Of course. A lot. In the past, His name would just slip through my lips. I’d mutter, or worse, holler “Jesus Christ” whenever I hurt myself, grew angry with others, or felt frustrated with my children, my wife, or my work. I did it because I could, because I didn’t fully appreciate what I was doing. Because I was careless. Selfish. Arrogant. Because I didn’t really care.
But names have meaning. I know that now. They carry power. Especially our Lord’s name.
So what did I do? Did I gently correct my friends? Ask them in a polite, lighthearted way not to be so flippant with the Lord’s name? Of course not. Because I am neither brave nor courageous.
Friends should be the safest place to practice courage, right? Yet sometimes they’re the hardest audience because their opinion matters most to us. As for me? I’ve always sought approval. From my parents, my co-workers, my friends. So I took the easy path.
Whenever I heard someone say “Jesus Christ,” I’d mute my mic and whisper, “…is King.”
My way of countering the offense and turning something I saw as wrong into something I knew to be true and good.
But who was I saying it for? The four walls of my office? The cats napping on the couch? Just me?
What’s worse, I couldn’t even mouth the words on camera. I’d tilt my head off screen so no one saw what I was doing.
Why was I so weak? Why couldn’t I do what I knew was right and true?
I pray more than I ever have. I believe my faith has never been stronger than it is today, and yet…I couldn’t even do this small thing. I couldn’t even stand up for the Lord among my friends. Not that the Lord needs my defense—but He deserves my devotion. This was an opportunity to express my faith in Him. To prove I love Him more than myself. I thought I did. I thought I’d finally ordered my life and pointed it toward Him, my true north.
I had clearly stumbled off the path.
Maybe my compass isn’t completely broken, just misaligned.
To fix my direction I need to be honest—brutally honest. Because only with brutal honesty will I begin to truly know myself. How? I need to ask “why” and then prevent my ego or anything else from getting in the way of the truth.
And the answer I discovered?
Pride. Fear.
I didn’t want to be judged. Didn’t want to be considered a “Jesus freak.” In my past, I would have mocked someone who did what I should have done, calling them a religious nut. I probably would have taken the Lord’s name in vain several more times just to spite them. I don’t know, maybe I wouldn’t have, but I do know I was worried my friends might see me differently.
And you know what? I do want them to see me differently. I don’t want them to see me only as kind, courteous, helpful, fun, even silly at times—all good qualities, for sure—but I want them to see me as a follower of Christ. When I walk away, I want my friends, family, even strangers to know without any doubts the Holy Spirit works within me. I pray for that every day. And here was a golden opportunity, a gift from God, to live it out.
And I whiffed.
But with that failure came recognition.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.” (Mt. 26:41)
My failure taught me something important about the gap between internal faith and external witness. That recognition? That itself is a gift, because my old self would never have even noticed these missed moments. Or cared.
I am truly grateful the scales have fallen from my eyes. Now the question is…what will I do with this recognition?
Lord, give me the courage to try again.
Author’s Note: This piece first appeared on C.E. Albanese’s Substack, where you can find more spiritual reflections here.
Photo by dawin opiana on Unsplash
