The problem with the vigilante Christian life was that I concerned myself more with being an expert idol smasher than with seeing God as sufficient in what He was using to sanctify me. Instead of wrestling with matters like my fears, my doubts about God, my love for nature and art, my career plans or my desire for home and a family, I pretended they didn’t exist to keep them from becoming idols. I didn’t want to cling to or confide in anything other than God Himself.

I penned the words from Martin Luther’s Large Catechism on an index card in high school and again on the inside of the Bible I carried through my 20s: “Whatever your heart clings to and confides in, that is your god.” I was obsessed with my idols—not with worshiping them, but with smashing them. I played idol whack-a-mole, smacking down anything that popped up threatening to take my eyes off Christ. I was an expert at managing what John Calvin called the “idol factory” that was my heart, constantly on the lookout for ways I was failing to find my all in Christ.

The problem with this vigilante Christian life was that I concerned myself more with being an expert idol smasher than with seeing God as sufficient in what He was using to sanctify me. Instead of wrestling with matters like my fears, my doubts about God, my love for nature and art, my career plans or my desire for home and a family, I pretended they didn’t exist to keep them from becoming idols. I didn’t want to cling to or confide in anything other than God Himself.

Looking back, I realize that this focus kept me from seeing how God was trying to use my fears, doubts, loves and hopes to show me more of Himself. Sometimes, He simply gives His children abundant gifts to enjoy rather than having to worry about them as potential idol traps. Other times, He allows hardship as a means of sanctifying idolatry. Despite my best intentions, my idol hunting had become an idol itself. Rather than resting in the finished work of Jesus, my vigilance became a means of proving my worth to God.

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