I discovered my problem the summer after my first year of college. I was riding in the car with  friends – windows down, radio on, unfettered freedom flowing through the air. It was the kind of freedom that can only be experienced in that season of life when adolescence concludes, but adulthood has yet to begin. 
And then it happened. Lee Ann Wommack (yes, I listened to country music back then) sang the words, “God I hate her, I’ll think of a reason later,” and one of my friends laughingly said, “Well, Rick, this chorus could be your theme song.”
My theme song! My theme song? What did that mean? 
My friend went on to explain how I seemingly hated everyone, was quick to find fault in people, and (present company excluded) slow to accept anyone. Apparently, I had a habit of pointing out other people’s flaws and writing a narrative that deemed them unworthy of my time, my friendship, or me in general.

Who I am on the inside will always find a way to manifest itself on the outside.

And as the song came to an end, a little bit of my freedom did too. 
The truth of my friend’s words pierced my soul. It fractured my facade, and for the first time in my life, I was confronted with the reality that who I am on the inside will always find a way to manifest itself on the outside. 
Growing up, I was a rule follower, and the funny thing about rule followers is that they turn into scorekeepers. They don’t just follow the rules themselves, they keep track of who breaks what laws, when. In doing so, they create a false sense of superiority. There’s often grace and excuse for self, but judgment and condemnation for others. For example, I know why I speed through my neighborhood, but that guy who lives two doors down – the one who barely mows his lawn and leaves his trash cans out an extra day – yeah, that guy is clearly just a cretin with no regard for life. 
Twenty years and several counseling sessions later, I can identify my “goodness” as a defense mechanism – a cover to keep people from getting too close, knowing me too well, or having the opportunity to reject me. I have a skewed view of others because I have a skewed view of myself.  And to be honest, it’s still a struggle. 
Deep in my heart resides a Pharisee. One desperate for approval, acceptance, and love but terrified of rejection, being declared unworthy, not good enough. And so, if through my goodness, I can keep people from rejecting me, I will – even at the sake of remaining unknown. 
James warns that “faith without works is dead,” but on the flipside, works without faith is pride, despair, and loneliness (James 2:17). It’s a terrible life where self-worth is tied to achievement, and self-loathing always lurks in the shadows. There is no consistency of emotion or practice, just a never ending quest to prove oneself “enough.” 
But isn’t that the point James is trying to make? To prove our faith isn’t dead, we must live consistently with what we have learned in Christ; to mature in our faith, we must live what we say we believe. That means my goal shouldn’t be to prove myself “enough,” but to consistently demonstrate belief through my actions. And the only thing powerful enough to fuel this kind of consistency is the gospel. 
The gospel disarms the Pharisee and empowers the sinner. It frees the Pharisee to stop striving and the fallen sinner to get up one more time because both need the same thing: hope in the finished work of Christ. In the gospel, there is no need to look down in pride or up in despair, but only to look forward in hope. Hope that Christ will be who He says He will be – our righteousness – and do what He says He will do – forgive sin and self-righteousness. 
Do you (like me) hesitate to lower your guard for fear of being rejected? Lower it anyway. Are you loath to let go of the score because scorekeeping makes you feel safe? Let go of it anyway. Risk being known even at the risk of being hurt. This, too, is faith manifesting itself in action – the faith of a Pharisee made whole. A Pharisee, freed. A Pharisee no longer.