Sitting in the library at the University of Aberdeen, I argued with an atheist for seven hours. By the end of the day, I was worn out by his relentless habit of pulling up YouTube videos one after another for me to debunk. I was hungry, cold, and tired. Neither of us had moved an inch. I thought I was doing evangelism. In retrospect, I was just trying to win.

Sitting at Au Bon Pain in Harvard Square, I had to lead another Bible study. But I'd already studied the Bible with five students that day. I was spiritually dry and emotionally spent. I didn't want to do it, but I could hardly tell the next student, "Yeah, I don't want to read God's Word with you." So, I pasted on a smile and pretended.

The story about Jesus flipping tables is awkward. It's used both to rationalize posting rage bait online and to attack Jesus as an untrustworthy, out-of-control leader. But now that I've listened to the stories of dozens of survivors of church hurt, I get it.

I have the degrees listed on my LinkedIn profile—the M.Div., the D.Min. I've led ministries at Ivy League universities and served as an elder. On paper, I'm an expert. But there are nights when I stare at the ceiling and feel completely hollow. I know about God, but in the dark, sometimes I wonder if I've lost the wonder of simply being with Him. It's unsettling to realize that my credentials aren't enough.

We love John 3:16 because it feels safe. It's an inspirational thought printed on bumper stickers and In-N-Out cups. But if you read the whole passage, the text starts to feel uncomfortably intrusive. Jesus didn't come to offer a ticket to heaven. He shines a spotlight on our worst secrets. But why?