Letting Go of Illusions: When Faith Matures
When Heroes Fall
Recently, I talked about a mentor in my life. Someone I looked up to. Someone who, at one point, let me down in a way that was profoundly disorienting. It felt personal—as if I had lost something central to who I was becoming. But with the gift of hindsight, and maybe a bit more maturity, I began to see things differently.
It wasn't just my friend who let me down. It was my illusion of who I thought he was that truly failed me. That carefully constructed image I had projected onto him—of wisdom, perfection, invulnerability—that's what collapsed. And in its wake, I had to deal not only with grief but also with the sobering realization that much of what I was mourning wasn’t him. It was the image I had built of him.
The Illusions We Project
This dynamic doesn’t just play out in our personal relationships. It happens in our spiritual lives too. We carry ideas—illusions, really—about who Jesus is. Not necessarily because we're trying to lie to ourselves, but because we want something so deeply that we end up projecting it onto him. We imagine Jesus as the fearless leader, the perfect teacher, the one who never wavers or weeps.
But illusions are fragile things. And when life challenges them—when we feel let down by our faith or disillusioned by what we thought God was supposed to be—that's when our imagined Jesus starts to crack. And if we haven't taken time to discern between the Jesus we imagine and the Jesus we meet in the Gospels, it can be incredibly difficult to hold onto faith.
Embracing the Real Jesus
Here's the thing: Jesus seems intent on disrupting our illusions. Not to hurt us—but to lead us somewhere deeper, somewhere truer. He doesn’t fit the mold of untouchable power or flawless leadership. In fact, he intentionally reveals himself at his most vulnerable—afraid in Gethsemane, misunderstood by his friends, betrayed by someone he loved.
And in that vulnerability, we meet the real Jesus. The one who welcomes brokenness. The one who doesn’t shy away from human pain. The one who—knowing full well what's coming—still invites Judas to the table. Still shares bread with the betrayer.
A Table for All
That table, where Jesus sits with friends and traitors alike, becomes a place where illusions go to die. It’s not just about Judas. It’s about us too. Because if Judas is welcome, then surely we are. If Jesus shares his table with the one who would hand him over, then there’s space for all our complexities, all our failures, all our doubts.
Maybe what Jesus wants is not for us to perfect our faith, but to let go of the versions of him that we’ve fabricated. To stop policing who belongs at the table. To finally accept that grace is bigger than we imagined.
The table is where we are called to release our illusions. And maybe, in that release, we finally encounter the Christ who was there all along—waiting to welcome us as we are.
