It's time to come clean and tell you my secret.

I'm a bestselling Christian author with a dark, embarrassing secret. And it's time you knew.

Note: Special thanks to Caroline Beidler over at Circle of Chairs for cross-posting this article, supporting its creation, and reading it before the world did.

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Nearly 10 years ago I told the world I had a secret. It was about my mental health, specifically my anxiety and OCD diagnoses. I told you about my struggle and how, especially as a Christian, I took medication. Your reaction was incredible.

I’m praying for the same type of support now, as today I tell you — I tell the world — another secret. A deeper and darker one. And, frankly, an embarrassing one.

This secret is something I’ve been alluding to for a few months. It’s a secret that scares me, even more so than the last one. And that one really scared me. I have a lot to lose by telling it: contacts, contracts, support, projects, even book deals. Someone “like me” isn’t supposed to struggle with this, after all. And there are certainly those who will question my past work and future qualifications. In some ways, I get it.

But this secret has spent enough time being whispered about, being ignored, and being hidden. And honestly, it’s a secret a huge part of me is excited to tell, because there’s freedom in naming your struggles. I wrote a book on that once.

So here it goes…

Friend, I am a Christian alcoholic.

Give me a second…

I’m not kind of an alcoholic. Not just an overdrinker at times. Not a “Good-time Charlie.” Not just a “regular Wisconsin drinker.”¹ I’ve gotten to the point that when I drink, just one, alcohol controls me. It takes over and I either can’t stop or I’m scheming on how I can get to the point of no return as fast as I can. When I’m not drinking, I’m thinking about how or when I can be drinking. And everything — stress, holidays, good times, and bad times — is an excuse to drink. And drink to excess.

As I’ve come to terms with my condition, I’ve adopted a succinct mantra: The only drink I can say “no” to is the first one. I have a problem with alcohol. And I’m done with it. I have to be. I have been for the last year, in fact.

In some ways, that was easier to write than I thought. In some ways it was harder. Is harder. But it’s true. And there’s no taking it back now.

I have a feeling my life just got a whole lot different. Whether I’m ready for it or not, here we go.

Messy sanctification

I want to be very clear about something: I’m not someone who struggled with alcohol, found Jesus, gave it up, and I’ve been living a life of sober faith ever since. I haven’t just been hiding my sobriety. No, my story is much more winding than that. Much more jagged. Much more raw. It’s a story of what I call messy sanctification.

Sanctification is the fancy term we Christians use for our gradual and continual process of getting better, of becoming more and more like Jesus. Think of it as how and why “gray hair” Christians tend to be wiser than younger Christians.²

That process — also summed up as a “long obedience in the same direction” — is generally reserved for conversations about why a Christian gives up cursing, becomes more humble, or even becomes more selfless. It’s not generally used to talk about a Christian who appears on TBN one year and admits he’s an alcoholic the next. (That’s me, in case you were wondering.)

No, messy sanctification stories don’t fit into a pretty box. I think that’s because we Christians love stories of conversion — a jaded junkie finding Jesus — but we struggle with stories of sanctification, especially messy sanctification, where someone who already knows Jesus stumbles and walks with a limp for the rest of their life. Those stories aren’t sexy. They’re not really made for Hollywood. And you could even say they’re kind of confusing. We tend to call people with those stories hypocrites and shun them, or we at least make them pay penance and walk around with a scarlet letter for some arbitrary amount of time.

Well, that’s my story. I’m a hypocrite. I have a limp. And Jesus is my crutch.

See, my story is one of loving Jesus and yet giving myself fully over to alcohol over the course of 2022 to deal with the greatest bout of anxiety, OCD, and depression I ever faced in my life. Of knowing the truth, but not being able to live it out. Of telling of God’s faithfulness, but doubting it at the same time. Of believing but using the worst thing to “help my unbelief.”

What I’m saying is that I have been a professing Christian for as long as I can remember, and yet I became an alcoholic. I’ve worked with some of the biggest Christian names and outlets, and yet I developed a drinking problem. Full-blown. I’ve spent mornings talking about God on a podcast, and afternoons drunk on Gin. I’ve hosted and led a church small group buzzed. I’ve had a phone conversation with an elder after two drinks too many. And I’ve tried to cover it all up, lying to my wife and sacrificing time with my family in the process.

Like Paul, I am the chief of sinners — but in my case, of sloshed sinners.

Me, the man who spent time on staff at a church. Me, the “bestselling Christian author.” Me, the faith and mental health guy. Me, yes me.

I am a Christian alcoholic.

I’ve spent mornings talking about God on a podcast, and afternoons drunk on Gin. I’ve hosted and led church small group buzzed. I’ve had a phone conversation with an elder after two drinks too many. And I’ve tried to cover it all up, lying to my wife and sacrificing time with my family in the process.

But God…

As I’m learning, no one is immune from this disease. Alcoholism is no respecter of persons. It doesn’t care if you’re an atheist or an Anglican, evil or evangelical, a criminal or a Catholic. It only cares about what it can take, and over the course of about a year and a half I gave it whatever it wanted. Threw myself at it even. And the only thing I asked for in return was a cheap sense of saccharin comfort and momentary escape.

It was a bad trade, but a trade I made daily. I chased the white whale of escapism, and it drove me mad.

By May 2023, I had my rock-bottom moment. On a beach in Miami in the wee hours of the morning I saw who I had become. I saw where I was headed. The next 24 hours would change my life drastically.

How?

My pastor once said that the two most powerful words in the Bible are “But God.” I experienced God that day, I experienced those two words. Not in the way you might think. It wasn’t some audible voice, it wasn’t some miraculous occurrence. It was through the power of conviction, the desperate tears in my wife’s eyes, and finally admitting what I knew to be true: I was an alcoholic.

God intervened. Painfully, but poignantly. And for the better.

The boardwalk on South Beach in Miami the night after I hit rock bottom.

As I write this, I’m about to hit one year of sobriety. One year without a drop of alcohol. One year after hitting rock bottom. One year of “one day at a time.”

Do you know what that means? When I talk about this, I’m not reaching back into the archives of my mind. I’m not straining to remember the emotions and the pain — both for myself and for my family. No, the memories and the lessons are so close I can taste them, like I can still taste the burning bourbon on my tongue from last May. It’s all right there, both for my benefit and sometimes for my shame.

So if you’re reading this and you are facing a similar struggle, I know exactly what you’re going through. Trust me, I know.

And I want you to know, you’re not alone.

The memories and the lessons are so close I can taste them, like I can still taste the burning bourbon on my tongue from last May. It’s all right there, both for my benefit and for my shame.

Going forward

Why exactly am I telling you about this now?

For starters, I think there are a lot more like me out there.

Who are people “like me”? Well, they are the people with messy sanctification stories. Their lives don’t follow neat, clean lines, where they’re bad, find Jesus, and then get good. Their stories aren’t formulaic: (A) They were an alcoholic + (B) They found faith = (C) They got and stayed sober.

Sure, there are plenty of those people. And I don’t disparage their stories. But it’s not my story. And I think today — especially after the pandemic where over-drinking to deal with our issues became even more normalized — there are too many of “my stories.” But I also think those stories are more protected, more hidden.

Why? Because there is a lot of shame in messy sanctification stories. We Christians know we aren’t supposed to get drunk. We know all the right answers, or at least the answers we’re supposed to give. So when we turn to the wrong ones, we bury ourselves in shame. We hide, like Adam running from God in the garden. And in many ways, that keeps us enslaved even longer.

Hear me out.

Over the last year I’ve been blown away by how transparent and open non-Christians can be about their addictions, and simultaneously scared by how secretive Christians can be about theirs. I should know, I was one of those people.

I hope to change that by telling my story. I hope that by coming clean today, I can inspire — at least in some small way — other believers to admit their issues and tell their stories so their addictions lose power over them.

If you’re one of those people, please let me know. (Email me at jon@readdearjon.com and tell me your story. I’m listening.)

Finally, I’m telling you about this because, well, God has told me to. I’m not trying to overspiritualize this. Really. But it’s the truth.

At the beginning of 2024, I started hearing distinctly that I needed to open up about this topic. I told God, very specifically, “I will write about anything but my alcohol journey. Anything.” The shame is strong. The embarrassment real. And the fear palpable.

Not surprisingly, though, here I am writing about my alcohol journey.

In fact, not only am I going to be writing about it right here going forward, I’m actually writing my next book on it. Go figure.

That book is tentatively called, “Confessions of a Christian Alcoholic.” It chronicles my slide into alcoholism, coming to understand what alcohol use disorder really is, my journey out of addiction, and then the four foundational steps I took to break free. It’s telling my story, offering hope, and giving a voice to people who are either like me or curious about people like me. It’s scheduled for fall 2025.

God told me to write it. I told him, “no.” And here I am writing it.

I’ll have plenty more to say on the topic in the weeks and months ahead, and especially in the pages of the forthcoming book. I’m sure you may even have questions. I want to hear them. I want to answer them. I want to share, through radical vulnerability, where I’ve come from, where I am now, and where I’m headed. Much of that (and the details) will come in due time.

But until then, know this: If you share a similar story of messy sanctification, you are not alone. You don’t have to live a life of shame to pay for what you’ve done. There is not only freedom from addiction, but freedom from shame. And I’m ready to walk that journey with you.

Me, the one who wasn’t supposed to struggle.

Me, the one who should have known better.

Me, the Christian alcoholic.

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(Pic: A picture of me recording material for my previous book. Alcoholism doesn’t care if you’re a Christian who wrote a bestselling book on faith and mental health. I learned that the hard way.)

1. Wisconsin is known as the “drunkest” state in America.

2. I know, it’s a generalization. But you know it tends to be true.