Some Scars Keep Seeping

My human bent is toward achievement. (Wait, no, that sounds braggy and not at all right.)

My human bent is toward earning. It just makes sense to me at a chromosomal level, I guess. Best be striving and working and weeping and attaining, or else you get nothing. That is exactly what sounds fair to my base self.

You sow. You reap.

You sow, so you CAN reap.

My “theological” raising was similar and one fed the other like a hungry beast. To get something, you must earn it. Look, God has done His part (Jesus and all), now you do yours. Ok, that sounded fair at the time. Legalistic teachings woven with work-based salvation -- they were kneaded into the dough of my development, permeating the very fibers that made up the ME I became. The ME I still struggle daily NOT to be.

Pastor gave an illustration today that unexpectedly punched me in the gut (forgive me, brother, if I butcher it here):

“Suppose you enter an Olympic-level event, but you finish dead last. No, you don’t even finish. They are turning out the stadium lights, the crowds are dispersing, and the race is history long before you can even come close to completing. Then suddenly you find yourself baptized in light, a spotlight beaming down on your sad loser-self. The crowd churns up, but not with boos or shameful chants or jeering, no, they are cheering for you. The championship emblem is placed around your neck, because for some reason the actual victor had made a legally binding contract that stated all of his accolades would be bestowed upon you, even though your efforts were pitiful and lacking. He gives his crown to the likes of you, and it was his pleasure to do so.”

A picture of the gift grace.

But as I listened, I noticed that my body was getting warm, my ire was rising just imagining myself in such a scenario. My knee-jerk, gut reaction was “no!” Because in real life I would not feel humble or grateful to receive a prize that I didn’t deserve in some earthly foot race I couldn’t even complete. It would make me angry! I know myself and I would want to refuse it. I couldn’t take a crown that belonged to another. If I hadn’t worked hard enough, run fast enough, trained smart enough to get to the finish line, that was on me – it was only fair -- if I had failed, I deserved a failure’s reward.

My reaction was a bit involuntary and surprised me how strong it was. It also reminded me that I still have a lot of work to do on the sanctification highway. (Ugh! There's that idea of "work" again!)

Because, unfortunately, that old sentiment is still trying to mold my heart’s foundation, be my underpinning. There were so many years of adolescent warnings that if there was even one sin I hadn’t named and repented for, I was toast. A holy God demanded a clean slate before entrance would be extended to such a sinner. BUT, if I really, REALLY tried hard, I could do it. I could earn myself a seat at the table. That’s what I took from it anyway.

Couple those formative-years teachings with the flavor of OCD that tags around in my brain, and it’s an uphill battle daily. Certainty is a foreign tongue.

And even now, having left that former tradition, feeling myself “reasonably Reformed” and standing under grace (for the Bible tells me so), I realize that, at my core, I don’t necessarily automatically always believe it. I want to. I want to have the kind of assurance that follows me around in the dark, lifts me up when I want to stay down, rethreads the needle on the days my faith is down to its last fraying strand. I want THAT!

My therapist asked once if I believed God loved me. I said I always felt more like He tolerated me. No one ever told me that in so many words, but somehow, it’s what this fallen fixture settled into. I want to believe His love, His grace, the certainty of salvation all the way down to the marrow in my bones, but the truth is, it’s sometimes a hard sell. I’m still a bit broken with these seepy scars. My brain still needs to convince my heart, or maybe it’s the other way around.

I don’t know, but I’m glad to draw another breath and keep trying. Or trusting. Or trying to trust.

 

 

Sidenote: There were several quotes from Tim Keller in the sermon this morning. And I miss him.