The bedroom walls locked me into my own shame, that pit of dread in my stomach, the burning on my cheeks. It was time to confess, I knew, time to fess up to this crime I'd kept burdened in my throat for months in hopes that the shame would dissipate but alas, it had only reverberated more deeply in my soul, and I could no longer bear it.
I walked out into the garage where I knew my mother was, and I cringed as I tasted the bitter truth roll past my tongue:
I cheated in library class to get a piece of candy.
Mom reacted graciously despite the immensity of the crime, though looking back I am imagining the subtle smile my mother likely tried to hide as she reassured me she already knew, that my 2nd grade teacher had told her, and that she'd deemed my punishment in class enough.
This library incident was no doubt the apex of rebellion for me. Good Girl blood flowed in my veins; God forbid I make any waves, upset anyone, and my Christian upbringing provided the perfect platform for this heart of mine. The 10 Commandments were received with glee as a means to Not Make Anyone Hate Me. I picked up quickly on social cues, and maintained a sensitive conscience to heinous crimes such as the one recorded above.
I'd received Christ that same year because I believed what everyone told me: that I was a sinner. The years passed and, like anyone else who grows up in the church, I heard the numerous Prodigal Son-like testimonies from Christians who'd abandoned their sex-laden, drug-dripping rebellion and found themselves in the grace of Jesus. I heard the stories throughout middle school, high school, college. I had opportunities to share my own story and shame spiked in my cheeks that I...I didn't really have one?
I tried to make much of the few sins that did present themselves throughout the years but as I matured, I perceived them in ever-decreasing revulsion, like mom viewed my cheating in library class. The rebellious stage never came for me. High school came and went without a curious sip of alcohol, without a blunt, without a hint of sexual experimentation. I graduated from my Christian college as an upstanding student and joined a missionary organization. I continued to muster repentance for sins I noticed, and knew I could always confess the catch-all sins like pride and selfishness and idolatry. I hushed the appalling thought that nothing I've done is really that bad, and wished I could revel in grace like the Prodigals. I could not relate with those who had a hard time believing they were forgiven because, honestly, how hard is it to forgive someone for cheating in library class?
Of course, these are not things a good Christian admits aloud. Our Christian spaces have progressed greatly in the safety of confessing many once-taboo sins, but this didn't seem plausible to disclose even to close friends. To even acknowledge this to myself would be to identify as one of the dreaded Pharisees, which seemed to be the only irredeemable identities in Christianity. The Pharisees were the ones Jesus yelled at, the ones He condemned, the ones He rebuked.
I wanted to believe my sin was as bad as everybody said it was, so I just...did. I knew better than to base my faith upon feelings, so I kept up the façade of living in the grace I never felt like I experienced.
-
I wish I had a tidy conclusion to this story, but the unfortunate reality is most of these realizations have hit me fairly recently. I realized that though I enjoyed reading my Bible, it was mostly for the clever conclusions I could come up with. My time with the Lord wasn't exactly me connecting with the Lord but rather me learning more about Him and His Word. I compared it to sitting in a 6th grade science class learning about the Solar System as opposed to getting on a rocket and exploring space. While there's nothing wrong with the classroom, it was time for me to explore.
My Maker has met me in this rocket, reopening my eyes afresh to old truths I've always known, like finally landing on the actual moon after years of studying it.
I've come to resonate with Paul's words in Philippians as he recounted his past of good works and then counts them as loss. This passage always intrigued me, and I just assumed it was akin to a really humble dude who doesn't like compliments or praise. Until I realized that's me. My Good Girl Heart has done nothing but stunt my capacity to repent and see my sin. My sin is so powerful that it's hidden itself and distorted my view of God into a strict lawkeeper (whom I was obeying quite well) rather than a devoted husband who just wanted me.
I don't love God; I just hate consequences. My heart is just as far away from Him as any prodigal. I've reduced the Lover of my soul to a far-off god whom I thought I was good at appeasing.
I am the Pharisee. The most reviled of characters in the Gospel narrative. The "chief of sinners," to steal more words from my man Paul.
And it is that realization that finally knocks me to my knees in desperate repentance to the Creator of my very being who made me to live my days in union with Him, with the renewed fervor to rid everything in my heart that blocks the delight of my intimacy with my Maker.
I walked out into the garage where I knew my mother was, and I cringed as I tasted the bitter truth roll past my tongue:
I cheated in library class to get a piece of candy.
Mom reacted graciously despite the immensity of the crime, though looking back I am imagining the subtle smile my mother likely tried to hide as she reassured me she already knew, that my 2nd grade teacher had told her, and that she'd deemed my punishment in class enough.
This library incident was no doubt the apex of rebellion for me. Good Girl blood flowed in my veins; God forbid I make any waves, upset anyone, and my Christian upbringing provided the perfect platform for this heart of mine. The 10 Commandments were received with glee as a means to Not Make Anyone Hate Me. I picked up quickly on social cues, and maintained a sensitive conscience to heinous crimes such as the one recorded above.
I'd received Christ that same year because I believed what everyone told me: that I was a sinner. The years passed and, like anyone else who grows up in the church, I heard the numerous Prodigal Son-like testimonies from Christians who'd abandoned their sex-laden, drug-dripping rebellion and found themselves in the grace of Jesus. I heard the stories throughout middle school, high school, college. I had opportunities to share my own story and shame spiked in my cheeks that I...I didn't really have one?
I tried to make much of the few sins that did present themselves throughout the years but as I matured, I perceived them in ever-decreasing revulsion, like mom viewed my cheating in library class. The rebellious stage never came for me. High school came and went without a curious sip of alcohol, without a blunt, without a hint of sexual experimentation. I graduated from my Christian college as an upstanding student and joined a missionary organization. I continued to muster repentance for sins I noticed, and knew I could always confess the catch-all sins like pride and selfishness and idolatry. I hushed the appalling thought that nothing I've done is really that bad, and wished I could revel in grace like the Prodigals. I could not relate with those who had a hard time believing they were forgiven because, honestly, how hard is it to forgive someone for cheating in library class?
Of course, these are not things a good Christian admits aloud. Our Christian spaces have progressed greatly in the safety of confessing many once-taboo sins, but this didn't seem plausible to disclose even to close friends. To even acknowledge this to myself would be to identify as one of the dreaded Pharisees, which seemed to be the only irredeemable identities in Christianity. The Pharisees were the ones Jesus yelled at, the ones He condemned, the ones He rebuked.
I wanted to believe my sin was as bad as everybody said it was, so I just...did. I knew better than to base my faith upon feelings, so I kept up the façade of living in the grace I never felt like I experienced.
-
I wish I had a tidy conclusion to this story, but the unfortunate reality is most of these realizations have hit me fairly recently. I realized that though I enjoyed reading my Bible, it was mostly for the clever conclusions I could come up with. My time with the Lord wasn't exactly me connecting with the Lord but rather me learning more about Him and His Word. I compared it to sitting in a 6th grade science class learning about the Solar System as opposed to getting on a rocket and exploring space. While there's nothing wrong with the classroom, it was time for me to explore.
My Maker has met me in this rocket, reopening my eyes afresh to old truths I've always known, like finally landing on the actual moon after years of studying it.
I've come to resonate with Paul's words in Philippians as he recounted his past of good works and then counts them as loss. This passage always intrigued me, and I just assumed it was akin to a really humble dude who doesn't like compliments or praise. Until I realized that's me. My Good Girl Heart has done nothing but stunt my capacity to repent and see my sin. My sin is so powerful that it's hidden itself and distorted my view of God into a strict lawkeeper (whom I was obeying quite well) rather than a devoted husband who just wanted me.
I don't love God; I just hate consequences. My heart is just as far away from Him as any prodigal. I've reduced the Lover of my soul to a far-off god whom I thought I was good at appeasing.
I am the Pharisee. The most reviled of characters in the Gospel narrative. The "chief of sinners," to steal more words from my man Paul.
And it is that realization that finally knocks me to my knees in desperate repentance to the Creator of my very being who made me to live my days in union with Him, with the renewed fervor to rid everything in my heart that blocks the delight of my intimacy with my Maker.
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