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in a clump of gray-black hair. The little attendant is unshaven. His bulbous jowls and one glass eye cause the spectators’ eyes to dart away.
    “Pathetic,” one man says.
    “Just an obsequious, starstruck hanger-on,” adds another.
    Moe is neither. His heart is buried with Christ in the Father’s love. He moves un-self-consciously through the crowd and extends the Gatorade gracefully to the hero. He is as comfortable as a hand in a glove with his servant role (that is how Jesus first revealed Himself to Moe and transformed his life). Moe feels safe with himself.
    That night, Carlton Hayes will deliver the main address at the banquet of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes, who are attending from all fifty states. He will also be honored with a Waterford crystal cup as the first eight-time Olympic gold medalist.
    Five thousand people gather at the Ritz-Carlton hotel. Glitterati from the worlds of politics, sports, and show business are scattered throughout the room. As Hayes steps to the podium, the crowd is just finishing a sumptuous meal. The speaker’s address abounds with references to the power of Christ and unabashed gratitude to God. Hearts are touched; men and women weep unashamedly, then give a standing ovation.
    But behind the glossy delivery, Carlton’s vacant stare reveals that his words do not inhabit his soul. Stardom has eroded his presence withJesus. Intimacy with God has faded into the distance. The whispering of the Spirit has been drowned out by deafening applause.
    Buoyed by success and the roar of the crowd, the Olympic hero moves easily from table to table. He ingratiates himself with everyone   —from the waiters to the movie stars. Back at the Red Roof Inn, Moe eats his frozen TV dinner alone. He was not invited to the banquet at the Ritz-Carlton because, quite honestly, he just wouldn’t fit in. Surely it wouldn’t be fitting for a pot-bellied, glass-eyed attendant to pull up a chair with the likes of Ronald Reagan, Charlton Heston, and Arnold Schwarzenegger.
    Moe sits down at the table in his room and closes his eyes. The love of the crucified Christ surges within him. His eyes fill with tears. “Thank You, Jesus,” he whispers, as he peels the plastic top off his microwaved lasagna. He flips to Psalm 23 in his Bible.
    I was in the dream, too. Where did I choose to spend that evening? My impostor rented a tux and we went to the Ritz. The next morning I awoke in the cabin at four a.m., showered and shaved, fixed a cup of coffee, and thumbed through the Scriptures. My eyes fell on a passage in 2 Corinthians: “From now onwards, therefore, we do not judge anyone by the standards of the flesh” (5:16). Ouch! I lug the false self around even in my dreams.
    I relate to Charles Ashworth, the character in the Howatch novel, when his spiritual director comments, “Charles, would I be reading too much into your remarks if I deduced that liking and approval are very important to you?”
    “Well, of course they’re important!” Ashworth exclaims. “Aren’t they important to everyone? Isn’t that what life’s all about? Success is people liking and approving of you. Failure is being rejected. Everyone knows that.” [6]
    The sad irony is that the impostor cannot experience intimacy in any relationship. His narcissism excludes others. Incapable of intimacy with self and out of touch with his feelings, intuitions, and insight, theimpostor is insensitive to the moods, needs, and dreams of others. Reciprocal sharing is impossible. The impostor has built life around achievements, success, busyness, and self-centered activities that bring gratification and praise from others. James Masterson, M.D., stated, “It is the nature of the false self to save us from knowing the truth about our real selves, from penetrating the deeper causes of our unhappiness, from seeing ourselves as we really are   —vulnerable, afraid, terrified, and unable to let our real selves emerge.” [7]
    Why does the