Certainly, I've expressed my aversion to hyper-spiritualized language before. It often feels contrived, lacking authenticity—a facade of piety.
Perhaps it's projection.
Maybe jealousy.
Or it could stem from a sense of disillusionment with the Christian community.
But every so often, amidst the noise, a truth resonates deeply.
"There is a root and fruit connection between heart and behavior. People and situations do not determine our behavior; these things provide an occasion where our behavior reveals our hearts." - Instruments in the Redeemer's Hands
I've been navigating through my anger, confronting myself in the mirror.
What does this anger unveil about my own heart? Surely, they aren't as enraged with me. In fact, they probably don't spare me a second thought. If anything, they—as sincerely as they can muster—bemoan my status as an apostate. So pitiful.
My fruit is anger. And too often, I'm tempted to point fingers elsewhere as the source of my fury. But that would be a misstep, keeping me trapped.
Beneath the layers of anger lies profound hurt. After all, anger is often a secondary emotion.
I'm saddened and wounded by the loss of my church family, by the absence of my friends. It's difficult feeling like I'm missing more than I'm missed. The root? I feel rejected. Abandoned.
I'm saddened and wounded by their lack of effort to mend things. The root? I didn't feel valued enough.
I'm saddened and wounded by their obsession with this Doug Wilson nonsense, morphing into his likeness rather than reflecting Jesus. The root? I doubt my own intellect.
I'm saddened and wounded by the sense that I don't matter. I yearn to be heard, understood. The root? I crave forgiveness and the ability to forgive.
The roots are a tangled mess. Sinful idols and desires. Old wounds and hurts that existed long before, exacerbated by the whispers of an enemy:
You are flawed. You're inadequate. Everyone abandons you. Reconciliation is beyond reach. Forgiveness is undeserved.
I quiet two voices.
The clamor of my own needs, sometimes turning into demands.
The insidious whispers of an enemy.
Amidst the chaos, I take charge. I regain control through busyness. I hit the block button on social media. I tidy up. I conquer the day, striving in every aspect to grasp at the semblance of feeling okay.
Yet, what I truly need is to pause, to sit with the shattered pieces of myself, to listen to those needs, to repent—and to find solace in the embrace of my Redeemer.
Perhaps it's projection.
Maybe jealousy.
Or it could stem from a sense of disillusionment with the Christian community.
But every so often, amidst the noise, a truth resonates deeply.
"There is a root and fruit connection between heart and behavior. People and situations do not determine our behavior; these things provide an occasion where our behavior reveals our hearts." - Instruments in the Redeemer's Hands
I've been navigating through my anger, confronting myself in the mirror.
What does this anger unveil about my own heart? Surely, they aren't as enraged with me. In fact, they probably don't spare me a second thought. If anything, they—as sincerely as they can muster—bemoan my status as an apostate. So pitiful.
My fruit is anger. And too often, I'm tempted to point fingers elsewhere as the source of my fury. But that would be a misstep, keeping me trapped.
Beneath the layers of anger lies profound hurt. After all, anger is often a secondary emotion.
I'm saddened and wounded by the loss of my church family, by the absence of my friends. It's difficult feeling like I'm missing more than I'm missed. The root? I feel rejected. Abandoned.
I'm saddened and wounded by their lack of effort to mend things. The root? I didn't feel valued enough.
I'm saddened and wounded by their obsession with this Doug Wilson nonsense, morphing into his likeness rather than reflecting Jesus. The root? I doubt my own intellect.
I'm saddened and wounded by the sense that I don't matter. I yearn to be heard, understood. The root? I crave forgiveness and the ability to forgive.
The roots are a tangled mess. Sinful idols and desires. Old wounds and hurts that existed long before, exacerbated by the whispers of an enemy:
You are flawed. You're inadequate. Everyone abandons you. Reconciliation is beyond reach. Forgiveness is undeserved.
The clamor of my own needs, sometimes turning into demands.
The insidious whispers of an enemy.
Amidst the chaos, I take charge. I regain control through busyness. I hit the block button on social media. I tidy up. I conquer the day, striving in every aspect to grasp at the semblance of feeling okay.
Yet, what I truly need is to pause, to sit with the shattered pieces of myself, to listen to those needs, to repent—and to find solace in the embrace of my Redeemer.
Comments