What is going on here? I looked around the auditorium. It seemed that everyone but me was singing to loud, upbeat music. Some people had their hands raised in the air. This is really strange.

I'd expected a Christian college to be different, but this just seemed weird. Up to this point, my visit to Bethel College in Minnesota had been pretty typical. Then some of the guys from the football team brought me to a meeting called vespers. It reminded me a little of the church services I went to as a kid, but here I felt out of place. I squirmed in my seat and felt thankful when the meeting ended.

Then, another surprise: "You up for some sledding, Scotty?" one guy asked.

Sledding? Is he serious? I knew the usual recruiting routine: I met with coaches; we talked about football; they sent me off with the guys to "have a good time"—or in other words, "hit the parties and try not to get too drunk." I imagined what my friends back home would say if I told them I went sledding on a college visit: "What?! No parties? What kind of lame school is that?"

Since my junior year in high school, colleges had been recruiting me to play football for them. Big colleges, with big offers—like the University of North Dakota, Montana State and Minnesota State. I even got calls from Notre Dame and Northwestern. All the attention was flattering, and playing for a big-time school sounded exciting.

But I felt like I needed something different. Football had been my entire life for as long as I could remember. I definitely wanted to play college ball, but I also wanted to be known as more than Scotty the Quarterback. As for the party scene, I was tired of it. There has to be more to life than football and partying, I thought.

In January of my senior year, my high school coach suggested I check out Bethel. He knew some of the coaches and said they had a strong football program. I figured a religious school would be a good place for a lifestyle change, so I decided to give it a shot.

Even before vespers and sledding, I noticed something different about Bethel. When I met with the head coach, we hardly discussed football. Other college coaches promised me scholarships, playing time and recognition. Coach Johnson offered love.

"I love my players," he said. "Not for their athletic talent or for what they can do for me, but for who they are."

I'd never heard anyone talk like that—let alone someone I hardly knew. The students seemed different, too. I'd never seen a group of people so excited about church—but they knew how to have fun, too. Sledding turned out to be a blast. As we raced down the hills and pelted each other with snowballs, I couldn't remember the last time I cut loose and had fun like that without feeling the pressure to look cool.

Back home, I tried to put Bethel out of my mind. You'll never fit in there, I told myself. It didn't make sense to turn down a full-ride scholarship and a chance at fame. As my senior year came to an end, I hung out with friends and pretended to have fun partying. I made a half-hearted commitment to a Division II school. That pleased everyone else, but only increased the empty feeling in my gut. I couldn't shake the feeling that Bethel might be the right place for me. I'd seen something different in the people there—something real.

One day, alone in my bedroom, I broke down and cried. I don't want to live this way anymore. I took a deep breath and picked up the phone. Quickly, before I could change my mind, I dialed. A few rings later, Coach Johnson's voicemail picked up.

"Coach J, it's Scott Kirchoff," I said. "I'm coming to Bethel."

I hung up and stared at the phone. Did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?

I asked myself that question a lot during the next several months. My friends and family—especially my dad—couldn't understand my decision. "You could go anywhere, Scotty," Dad reminded me more than once. "Why waste your talent?" My buddies, who were headed to schools where the party scene would be hopping, gave me a hard time about "joining the Bible thumpers."

I tried to shrug off their questions. What reason could I give for going to a Christian college when I wasn't even a Christian? How could I explain the need for a change in my life without knowing what kind of change I wanted? Many nights I lay awake staring at my ceiling, wondering if I'd fit in at Bethel, wondering if I'd made a huge mistake.

In August I joined the team on campus for preseason practice. Before we began, Coach Johnson stated his expectations: "Some people say Christianity is a crutch. They say you're weak if you need it. That's not true." He scanned the locker room, making eye contact with each of us. "If you're a Christian, you're called to a higher standard. You're going to work harder. You're going to hold one another accountable."

He was serious about that. Practice was tough. But the mood in the locker room afterward was easygoing and friendly. My doubts began to fade. Maybe I can fit in here.

I had solid friendships with my teammates, on and off the field. We challenged each other and pushed toward excellence in an encouraging way I'd never experienced on any other team. I felt more loved and accepted than ever before, but I still didn't feel like I fit in—not totally. I knew my teammates had something I didn't.

Then, the summer after my freshman year, my world crashed. My parents divorced, and my girlfriend and I broke up. As I watched my life fall to pieces, I realized I needed someone to rely on. I needed a relationship with God, like the ones my teammates at Bethel had.

Toward the end of the summer, I asked God to forgive me for messing up so many times. I asked Christ to come into my heart and help me turn my life around.

For the first time in my life, I felt like I had something to live for—something real and significant and solid. My relationships with my teammates and other Bethel students deepened to levels of friendship I never knew were possible. I often stopped by my coaches' offices to ask questions about my new faith and to talk about life.

I joined the Fellowship of Christian Athletes leadership team and shared my testimony at local high schools and youth groups. I also developed a different attitude about football. I still loved the sport, but it no longer consumed me. Still, it continued to go well. I started as quarterback in every game my sophomore year and earned All-Conference honors. During my junior and senior years, I set school records for total offense, passing touchdowns and completions. I broke the conference record for career passing yards. Basically, life was good.

Still, I quickly discovered that becoming a Christian didn't automatically do away with my struggles.

One day, sitting in my defensive coach's office, I confessed: "Nothing I do is ever good enough."

For as long as I'd been an athlete, I accepted nothing short of perfection from myself. When I became a Christian, I transferred that perfectionism to my relationship with Christ. "If I read my Bible and pray, I feel good about myself," I admitted to my coach. "If I skip a day or two, I feel horrible, like I let God down."

Coach Miller said he'd struggled with similar feelings. "God wants us to strive for excellence, Scotty," he said. "But that's not how he measures our worth. Your value isn't based on what you do; it's based on who you are in Christ."

Coach's words sunk in deep. I knew I needed to stop trying so hard to change myself. My coaches and teammates helped by encouraging and supporting me, even when I messed up or had a bad game. I reminded myself over and over: "Scott, your righteousness is based on Christ. Nothing you do or don't do will change the way God loves you." Slowly but surely, God helped me let go of my perfectionism.

Now that I've graduated from Bethel, I think it's pretty cool to look back and see how God brought me there. Even though I never tasted the fame that comes with playing for a prestigious university team—and even though I have some hefty loans I wouldn't have if I'd taken a scholarship to a bigger school—the blessings I take with me far outweigh anything I missed. For one thing, I found a group of guys who love me no matter what, friends that will last the rest of my life. I learned some valuable lessons, and I have great memories. Best of all, I have a relationship with Jesus Christ—which means my life has value and purpose apart from any talent or accomplishment.

Now I understand why those students at vespers were so excited. I'm not just Scotty the quarterback anymore. I'm Scotty, a child of God. And that's something worth getting excited about!

Copyright © 2004 Christianity Today. Click for reprint information.

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