Beyond the Fearless Moral Inventory

In Uncategorized on November 5, 2011 at 1:48 pm

Submitted By: Gentry

I would either be the world’s best alcoholic anonymous or the worst. I don’t know.

I do know that I am conducting a fearless moral inventory damn near every day. I don’t miss my adolescence or early 20s in general. You can only play fetal position depression and raging hormones treated by airport girls for laughs for so long.

However, I do miss being oblivious of my brokenness. Although the guilty weight produced by a drunken binge or a clothes on romp with your friend’s sister seemed heavy at the time, its density is nothing compared to a legacy of todd van poppel potential or relationships that go more wrong every time you try to do right.

Fuck high school. Internal ostracism kills far more quickly than social alienation.

Lately my self-condemnation has developed such a punch that I verbally respond to each attack. For years my acute groans only occurred in private. My self-control has now eroded to the point that my family and, increasingly, my colleagues here a wincing “ugh” or a swallowed expletive on an almost daily basis.

I am increasingly realizing that this guilt is the reason I am so desperate for Jesus. When I look at the cross I am reminded how utterly worthy I am of condemnation and an ugly conclusion. Unlike Jesus, in my case neither Pilate nor power obsessed religious leaders (whom we could re-cast a million times over with the Christian characters we have today) would need to lose sleep. My conscience could indict and close the case within a minute. Fortunately, in my better moments, I look at the cross of Christ and realize that it can carry my weight. Then I pray for the faith to continue believing that victory over entropy is more than an existential dream.

Although I hate to admit it though, most of the time the image of the cross doesn’t really connect. It’s the Eucharist that kills me. Whether a nine year old at Christview Christian Church, a seventeen year old cult survivor astonished by the Eucharist at a distance, or the 34 year old holding a squirming kid as the medicine of God is mashed with my pestle and the wine (or welches) slides down, I am overcome.
It is this feast that keeps the hope alive that God’s grace is weightier than my guilt. The food of God for the people of God almost always inspires hope that my epitaph will not be a sharp groan, but a new name, a white stone, and a perpetual spring where the sun has never shone.

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