Less of Me, More of Him

I was talking to a friend recently and something was shared that truly stayed with me. It was said that a podcast host had mentioned that as he grows in his faith, he prays he would “disappear” more and more; so that when God looks at him, and when other people look at him, they don’t really see him… they see Jesus.  There was something deeply moving about the humility in that prayer. Not a desire to be unnoticed or insignificant, but a sincere longing for Christ to be so evident in his life that his own ego would fade into the background.

It reminds me of what John the Baptist said about Jesus Christ: “He must increase, but I must decrease.” Not because John hated himself. Not because he thought he was worthless. But because he understood his role. He knew his life was meant to point somewhere higher.

And if I’m honest, that prayer feels both beautiful and challenging. Because I like being seen. I like being understood. I like being appreciated for my kindness, my insight, my strength. There’s a subtle part of my heart that wants credit. That wants the “wow, you handled that so well.” That wants the applause.

But what if the real goal isn’t applause?

What if the goal is that someone walks away from an interaction with you and thinks, “There’s something different about them. I felt peace. I felt loved. I felt seen.” And they can’t even fully explain why.

That’s Jesus.

Imagine being so rooted in Christ that your first reaction is grace instead of offense. Patience instead of snapping. Prayer instead of panic. Forgiveness instead of holding a grudge. Not because you’re trying to look holy, but because your heart is actually changing.

That kind of disappearing is powerful.

It’s choosing not to win every argument. It’s holding your tongue when sarcasm would be easy. It’s serving when no one is watching. It’s giving without posting about it. It’s forgiving someone who will probably never apologize.

It’s letting Jesus respond through you.

The wild part is that when we “decrease” in that way, we don’t become less ourselves. We actually become more who we were created to be. The truest, healthiest, most whole version of us is the version surrendered to Christ. The version not obsessed with protecting ego or proving worth.

Because the more we cling to our image, the more exhausted we become. Always curating. Always defending. Always trying to control how we’re perceived. But when we let Jesus increase? There’s freedom.

You don’t have to be the savior in every situation. You don’t have to fix everyone. You don’t have to carry the weight of being impressive. You just have to be available.

There’s something so humbling about praying, “Lord, let them see You.” In my friendships. In how I handle stress. In how I handle success. In how I treat the waiter when the order is wrong. In how I speak about people who aren’t in the room.

Because that’s where it shows up.

Not in the big, dramatic, church-moment ways. But in the small, ordinary Tuesday afternoon ways. In traffic. In text messages. In disappointment. In celebration.

To disappear more and more means letting go of the constant need to be the main character. It means trusting that your life is a reflection, not the source. Like the moon reflecting the sun. The moon doesn’t generate light. It just positions itself to receive it.

That’s us.

The closer we stay to Jesus, the more naturally His light reflects off our lives. And people don’t walk away thinking, “Wow, what an incredible person.” They walk away thinking, “I felt something good. Something safe. Something holy.”

And honestly? That’s better.

So maybe that’s the prayer we start saying more often:

Lord, make me smaller in all the ways that don’t matter.

Make You bigger in every way that does.

When people see me, let them see Your love.

When they hear me, let them hear Your kindness.

When they feel my presence, let them feel Your peace.

Not erased.

Not invisible.

Just aligned.

Because at the end of the day, if my life points people closer to Jesus Christ, then I didn’t disappear at all.

I fulfilled my purpose.