A few years ago, I vanished. For four days, I disappeared into a retreat center in Santa Barbara, desperate to escape the chaos I’d created. I was a wreck. Forty-plus years of wannabe heroism had left me juggling two torches—two lives—simultaneously, and the flames were searing my hands. Seminary student by day, top-performing Fortune 500 sales rep by night; church-planting pastor and high-pressure sales manager—I’d built my adulthood on split identities, convinced I could outrun burnout.
It began in high school. By senior year, I’d stopped caring about grades. My mother had already mapped out my future—her future for me—and school felt like a cage. So, I set myself free every Wednesday. Forged her signature on absence slips, fled to the Santa Monica Mountains or the beach, and still kept a “B” average. No one suspected a thing. Then, that August, Jesus found me. I dove headfirst into ministry, joined a Christian commune, volunteered, witnessed—all while carrying 16 units as a Pre-Med major.
In my twenties, SUCCESS hit me. Hard. Tony Robbins, sales gurus, and The One-Minute Manager whispered that I could have it all—be it all. My high school hustle had been practice. Now, I weaponized it. A pressure point beneath my sternum became my constant companion, a dull ache throbbing with every compromise.
By 40, I was a gray-haired senior pastor with a side hustle. Financial fears and ego convinced me to pitch my church board: “Let me take a marketing job at 3M. If the apostle Paul made tents and changed the world, why not me?” They agreed.
Then, I began writing men’s discipleship books 4–6 hours a day, swapping my 9-to-5 for a consulting firm, and clinging to the delusion that I was “maximizing time for God.” Meanwhile, my family got the scraps—a distracted husband, a phantom father. I craved whispers of “How does he do it all?” while my inner Sybil screamed for validation.
To my wife and sons, I was a punchline—a dark joke where the laugh track was their quiet dread. My biblically justified ADD had hollowed our home. They loved me, but their hands hovered over the eject button, braced for the day my self-built rocket would explode.
At the retreat, I cued Celtic harp music, forced my fists to unclench, and tried to listen. Three verses into Psalm 23, His voice cut through: “Art, I am so weary of you competing with me to be god. There has always been only one real Hero, and He is my Son."
My heart stalled. Then shattered. For 24 hours, tears tsunami-ed out of me, dissolving decades of pressure. This wasn’t a quick fix. My wiring was faulty—a hero complex soldered to my soul. I’d spent a lifetime building a temple to “Art Hobba,” mistaking sweat for sanctity.
I drove home under skies heavy with grief. Four decades lost—family dinners, laughter, quiet moments with God—reduced to kindling for a bonfire of “hay and stubble.” I mourned friendships I’d neglected, stories I’d steamrolled, and the humble joy of listening instead of performing.
Two vows emerged from the ashes:
- Confess. To my wife, my five sons—no more excuses. I’d fight to rebuild what my ambition burned.
- Kill the hero. Annihilate the version of me that mistook hustle for holiness.
The walk to redemption has been hard—real hard. The damage ran deeper than I imagined, and a decade later, I’m still rebuilding trust. One son remains distant—a wound that may never heal. I’ve learned repentance is the easy part. Some refuse to forgive; others never forget. All I can do now is walk this path with gratitude for mercy and a knife at the ready—to slit the throat of my ego the moment it dares resurrect.
When I share this story now, men’s faces flicker—a mirror held up to their own double lives. Some stare silently. Others whisper, “Aren’t we all like that?”
“The Kingdom of Heaven suffers (allows for) violence, and the violent ones seize it by force.”
—Jesus, in Matthew 11:12