For as long as I can remember I have wakened to guilt. It is a pulsating thought with root in no particular sin or crime, just a carried burden that I have done the world, and the Lord, an irreparable wrong. It is not a quiet guilt, but a raging one. It consumes me on some days and on the days when it doesn’t, it reminds me it is coming soon for me again. I remember Augustine’s, “For what am I to myself without You, but a guide to my own downfall?”
Guilt is my roadmap to repentance—even when I’m not sure what it is I’m repenting for.
. . .
This morning I woke with my aching friend, I stretched my legs and he stretched himself alongside me, making sure to not leave any part of me untouched. My head first, then my heart, down to my burning belly, and my weary knees. He is not a good friend, his only aim to buckle me before I’ve seen the sun. Some mornings I cannot even fight him, we have grown accustomed to our daily ritual.
That I will disappoint the people in my life often and daily is no surprise to me, I find apologies falling from my mouth more than any other words. But that I have disappointed a God who makes unrecognizable demands—this is what frightens me the most. What is you want? I beg. I’m holding my life to him in trembling hands, leaving no part untouched, no part unsubmitted—and he is disinterested in all my small offerings.
“I want you.”
. . .
The guilt I carry stems from the inability to tell the difference between being wanted for what I can do and being wanted just as I am.
I know what I am just as I am and there is nothing good or desirable or holy or clean enough to stand before a Holy God.
I know what I can do, though; it is a list a mile long and growing—always in an attempt to be found desirable and wanted.
The besetting sins of perfectionism and comparison are, I am learning, the roots of this bedfellow of mine. But it is not just simply perfectionism and comparison in regard to men and women—though it works itself out to be that—it is the deepest, rawest, most fearful part of me that cannot stack itself up to my Father. I fail, miserably, every time.
This morning I am reading Romans 5 and tears spill over on verse six:
For while we were still weak, at the right time Christ died for the ungodly.
I stay there for a while. Thinking of the timeline of my salvation, the present help in time of trouble, the future hope of glory—but thinking, mostly, of the before the foundations of the world. When I was at my weakest—my near non-existence, that I was chosen. Not when I was at my strongest, my most helpful and helped, my shining moments, crowned with achievement and success. He stooped, condescended, reached down, and plucked me from the mire that is my mind and my will and my emotions: including my persistent guilt. He loved me like that.
I may go to bed with guilt and wake with him for the rest of my days, and in my less than optimistic days, I am certain I will. Perhaps it is my thorn, but perhaps it is my mercy. My severe mercy, like Vanauken wrote: “A mercy as severe as death, a severity as merciful as love.” Perhaps it is God, who is love, loving me by showing me the weakness of me reveals the strength of Him?