Why Seek Validation From A World That Crucified Perfection?

There is perhaps no more exquisite irony in all of human experience than this: that creatures made in the image of God should spend their days frantically seeking the approval of a world that, when confronted with God Himself walking among them, decided the most reasonable course of action was to nail Him to a tree. It is rather like a painter desperately seeking praise for his masterpiece from a committee of vandals who have just finished throwing acid on the Mona Lisa.

Yet here we stand, you and I, checking our phones for likes, refreshing our notifications, measuring our worth by the fickle applause of a society that has demonstrated, with stunning historical consistency, its remarkable ability to get absolutely everything wrong. We are like actors who have forgotten they are performing Shakespeare and have begun taking their cues from the peanut gallery—never mind that the peanut gallery once booed Hamlet off the stage.

Consider this curious fact: the same democratic instincts that we celebrate in our age—the voice of the people, the wisdom of the crowd—are precisely the forces that screamed "Crucify Him!" when offered the choice between Christ and Barabbas. The mob chose the murderer over the Savior, and we are meant to believe this same mob's opinion of us matters? It is rather like taking fashion advice from people who thought the Emperor's new clothes were quite fetching.

The fundamental error of our time is not that we seek validation—this is as natural to humans as breathing. The error is in the source we choose for that validation. We have made the remarkable decision to seek approval from a world that has already rendered its verdict on perfection itself, and found it wanting. It would be less absurd to seek cooking tips from someone who has just poisoned their own dinner.

Christianity has always been accused of being topsy-turvy, of turning the world on its head. But perhaps the world was already upside-down, and Christ simply pointed out that we were all standing on our heads. When the Creator of the universe arrived in His own creation, the reception committee consisted mainly of those planning His execution. The very people He had come to save decided that salvation looked suspiciously like sedition.

This is the profound absurdity we must grasp: the world's judgment is not merely wrong—it is systematically, catastrophically, almost impressively wrong. It is wrong with the kind of consistency that would be admirable if it were intentional. When faced with the one perfect man who ever lived, the world's collective response was not "Here is someone we should emulate," but rather "Here is someone we should eliminate."

The modern Christian faces what I might call the Stranger's Paradox. We are citizens of another country, yet we persistently seek approval from the citizens of this one. We are like ambassadors who have forgotten their homeland and have begun desperately trying to impress the very people from whom they are supposed to remain diplomatically distinct.

The apostles understood this paradox perfectly. They rejoiced when they were considered worthy to suffer for the Name, not because they enjoyed suffering, but because persecution was proof positive that they were doing something right. To be approved by a world that had murdered their Master would have been, for them, a sign of spiritual failure. They sought the applause of heaven, not the approval of earth.

But why do we fall into this trap? Why do we care so desperately what the world thinks? Perhaps because validation from others feels real in a way that self-knowledge does not. It is easier to feel valuable when someone else tells us we are valuable than it is to believe it based solely on the rather abstract notion that God loves us. The world's approval is immediate, tangible, and—here's the kicker—usually conditional on our not being too obviously Christian.

The world will pat us on the head for being good, decent people. It will even admire us for our charity work and our moral uprightness. But suggest that Jesus Christ is the only way to salvation, and watch how quickly that approval evaporates. The world is perfectly happy to validate us as long as we keep the more offensive bits of our faith safely hidden away, like embarrassing relatives at a dinner party.

There is a mathematical impossibility in seeking validation from those whose fundamental evaluation of reality is incorrect. If someone has miscalculated the value of perfection itself, by what logic should we trust their calculation of our worth? It is like asking someone who thinks two plus two equals five to help us with our accounting.

The world operates on a different value system entirely. It measures worth by wealth, success by status, and meaning by the applause of crowds. Christianity suggests that the truest riches are invisible, the highest status is servanthood, and meaning comes from an audience of One. These are not merely different opinions; they are contradictory mathematical systems. You cannot use both simultaneously without losing your mind.

Here is a liberating thought: if the world crucified perfection, then its disapproval of our imperfection is hardly devastating news. We are not failing to meet the world's standards; we are failing to meet standards that the world has already proven it doesn't actually believe in. The world talks about love, forgiveness, and compassion, but when these virtues showed up in person, it murdered them.

There is tremendous freedom in recognizing that the world's opinion is not merely unreliable—it is irrelevant. We are not performing for an audience that matters. We are like musicians who have discovered that the critics panning our concert are tone-deaf. Their review tells us nothing about our music and everything about their ears.

The Christian's validation must come from citizenship in a different country entirely. We seek the approval of a King whose kingdom is not of this world, whose values are so foreign to earthly thinking that they appear as foolishness to those who measure wisdom by quarterly earnings and Instagram followers.

This King has already rendered His verdict on us. He looked at humanity in all its sinful, broken, validation-seeking ridiculousness, and decided we were worth dying for. Not because we had earned it, not because we deserved it, but because love—real love—doesn't operate on a merit system. The world's approval is contingent and fickle; God's approval is unconditional and eternal.

So whom should we seek to please? The answer is both obvious and revolutionary: we should seek to please the One who made us. But this is not the groveling, fearful attempt to appease an angry deity that the world imagines Christianity to be. This is the natural response of a child who wants to make their father proud, not because they fear punishment, but because they love him.

The Christian life is not about performing for the world's applause; it is about living in such a way that when we stand before our Maker, we hear those words every child longs to hear: "Well done." The world's opinion will not echo in eternity, but those words will.

In the end, Christianity promises a great reversal. Those whom the world despises for their faithfulness will be honored; those whom the world honors for their compromise will be... well, that's between them and God. The validation we seek from the world is temporal and meaningless; the validation we receive from God is eternal and transformative.

The world cannot give us what we truly seek because it does not possess what we truly need. It offers us acceptance, but we need love. It offers us approval, but we need purpose. It offers us validation, but we need transformation. The world promises us everything and delivers nothing; Christ promises us a cross and delivers everything.

Let us stop seeking validation from a world that crucified the only perfect man who ever lived. Let us stop caring what they think who demonstrated, in their treatment of Christ, exactly what their thoughts are worth. Let us find our identity not in the fickle approval of the crowd, but in the unchanging love of God.

The world killed God when He walked among them. What makes us think their opinion of us matters? Let us seek another audience, serve another King, and find our worth in the One whose opinion actually counts. After all, if we're going to care what someone thinks of us, perhaps we should choose someone whose judgment isn't quite so demonstrably catastrophic.

The world has already shown us what it does with perfection. Let us not be surprised when it's less than enthusiastic about our attempts at godliness. Let us instead be surprised by grace, overwhelmed by love, and utterly indifferent to the opinions of those who wouldn't recognize God if He bought them dinner—which, incidentally, He did, and they killed Him anyway.

~ The Seeker's Quill