Confessions of a hypocritical Christian: the cock has crowed many a time in Michael Daley's life, and he's not denying it.

Lately I've been afraid to call myself Christian. Why? Because when I'm honest with myself, I am forced to admit that I am such a lousy one.

When I hear Jesus say, "Come, follow me," I am all too willing to offer a litany of excuses: You don't expect me to take you seriously? But I've got a mortgage to pay, kids to look after. I would, but I have to "keep up with the Joneses." Can't it wait, I'm only 38? OK, just let me finish this one last thing though.

I always smile when during class discussions a student will give this reason for not going to church: Who wants to hang out with a bunch of hypocrites? They put on a show for one hour on Sunday, then the rest of the week do whatever they want.

Though I don't tell them then and there, I am one of those Christian hypocrites. In response to the phrase, "You might be the only Bible some people read today," I'm embarrassed knowing that on some days my actions wouldn't even get someone to crack the book cover.

Every year on class night, when parents come to school and meet their sons' teachers, one of the first things I tell them is that I'll teach their child the substance of Christianity far better than I'll live it. At the very least it's truth in advertising. Interestingly either the parents are being polite or they, too, have experienced the truth of these remarks as well.

Soren Kierkegaard, the great 19th-century Danish Lutheran theologian, argued for a similar starting point in his own day when speaking of oneself as a Christian. According to Kierkegaard, it was self-delusional and dishonest to do otherwise.

Imagine someone who aspired to be a millionaire but as of yet had managed to earn only $3. Were he to call himself a millionaire because he was trying, would we be foolish enough to go along with his use of language? Would it not be better for him--simply to keep him awake and alert for the exertion--to say to himself, "I am not a millionaire"? By saying it to himself in this way, would he not guard against becoming a fool?

The point is this: If there is to be any meaning to it, if it is at all permissible to take the name of something simply because you are striving toward it, then you must at least resemble what you are striving toward.

Well, now that I've admitted I'm a non-Christian Christian Catholic, I don't know if I feel any better. But owning the contradiction and reality is a start.

Over the years I've taught students with the name Christian and Christina. I always have felt--jokingly and seriously--that they went through life with an impossible burden. Bearing the title of Christ in my name would have been too much for me. Though some dismiss the significance of that name, I usually am amazed at how well they hold up under the pressure and take up the challenge to live it out.

Thankfully my name gives me some degree of moral anonymity. But not much. My own name, "Michael," translates as "Who is like God?" It's the name of the captain of the heavenly court. It was with this battle cry that St. Michael the Archangel defeated the armies of Satan. At times I don't know if I'm fighting with or against my namesake though.

Taking a page from popular culture, a scene from The Godfather illustrates this well. In it Michael Corleone has become the godfather to his sister's son. During the baptism (talk about the perfect alibi!), Michael has orchestrated the assassinations of rival bosses. The viewer sees these hits take place as Michael voices his affirmation to the baptismal promises: Do you renounce Satan and all his work? "I do." And all his promises? "I do."

The contradiction between the two godfathers--one spiritual, the other criminal--in the same person is compelling. Yet isn't that all of us? Isn't it the church we belong to as well?

The parent of a student of mine told me that she and her husband had made a conscious decision to no longer practice Catholicism. With both humor and truth, all I could say in return was that the church provides us with plenty of reasons to stop being Catholic. Yet I remain. I keep the church. The church keeps me.

In the midst of my descriptive unease at being called a Christian, I must admit that I find great comfort in that rock of rocks, St. Peter. Surely Jesus had a supreme sense of irony and deft understanding of human nature when he told Peter that he would be the rock upon which Jesus would found the church.

On the eve of Jesus' Crucifixion, Peter convincingly announced that he would never deny Jesus. Yet when the opportunity arose--three times--to claim relationship with Jesus, Peter refused saying, "I do not know the man!" Along with Peter, whether it's been what I said, didn't say, did, or didn't do, I too have heard the cock crow a time or two.

Unlike his counterpart in Judas, Peter does not despair in his weakness but finds redemption in it. When asked by Jesus if he loves him, Peter replies, "Lord, you know everything. You know that I love you." Peter says this not in arrogance and superiority, but with a deep sense of humility and vulnerability.

We say much the same thing when, prior to receiving the Eucharist, we communally pray: "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed." In a new light we could see this refrain as a ritual oath of hypocrisy.

Following the example of his Petrine predecessor, Pope John Paul II said something numerous times during his papacy that we normally don't associate with popes: "I'm sorry." Though most people see it as calling our attention to the obvious, the church has had great difficulty admitting its sinfulness.

Yet for multiple sins of the church--anti-Semitism, the Crusades, the Inquisition, wars of religion, treatment of women, Christian division--Pope John Paul II publicly apologized and sought repentance and reconciliation.

From time to time, I'll come across the classic quote by the French philosopher Leon Bloy that the greatest sadness in life is not to be a saint. It usually strikes me with a strong bolt against my Christian complacency.

Being sacramentally correct, I know I'm supposed to say that I became a Christian at my Baptism. The truth of the matter is that I became a Christian at each of my childrens' Baptisms. It was there, in a context like no other one before, that the baptismal promises took flesh.

Do you reject Satan? And all his works? And all his empty promises?

How could I not answer "I do"? Perhaps this affirmative response is more on behalf of my children than even myself. Either way, tied up in their salvation is the degree to which I live out my discipleship with Jesus Christ.

By myself I know this is a failed mission. Thankfully, though, I rest assured that God's grace--divine friendship and presence--remain. As St. Paul exclaims, "where sin abounds grace is all the more present and active" (Romans 5:20). There is nothing I can do so that God will close the door to relationship--grace.

The name "Christian" is mine for the embracing, at some considerable risk, mind you. As a result I continue to fight, refusing to throw in the towel. For I am a member of a community of those who have imitated and continue to imitate Jesus to an exemplary degree. We call them the saints. How I want my children to make me one. It is in this challenge that I call myself Christian.

By MICHAEL DALEY, a teacher at Xavier High School in Cincinnati and the editor of the book The Many Marks of the Church (Twenty-Third Publications, 2006).