Sometimes I wish that I wasn’t a Christian…

Standing in the shower the hot water cascades down my chest. A song runs through my head… what can wash away my sins, nothing but the blood of Jesus… what can make me whole again… nothing but the blood of Jesus.

I pray quietly asking for forgiveness. I’m selfish and immature and I let my emotions control me like a hypnotist and in the end I look like a fool.

My sins normally do not take form or shape, instead they are merely mental images and thoughts that if acted upon would cause me to be in jail or a nuthouse. I have to cage my thoughts the way a rabid dog is caged because they are there with bared teeth and a protruding snout snapping away and barking, dying for a release, a chance to escape, an opportunity to destroy…

Recently I’ve been manic. Not manic depressive because I’m not depressed, but manic like a junky looking for a fix. I have moments where I have a frenzied need for something, but I don’t know what. My skin is crawling and I need to get out of it. I’d like to be anywhere but in my own skin, in my own head, I want to escape.

At one time I wanted to be a counselor because I’ve gotten pretty good at diagnosing myself and often I can see problems in others. My inner shrink tells me that I need to chill out, stop stressing, stop envying, stop with the discontentment, reel in the disappointment. Just stop. But that is easier said than done.

The shower water is hot and for just a moment I wish that I wasn’t a Christian because then I would have an excuse for my behavior. If I didn’t know that Christ died for my sins and that when I became a Christian that I was dead to sin and that I should no longer be living in it then I would have an excuse. If I wasn’t a Christian then I wouldn’t know Proverbs 3:5,6 and I could lean on my own understanding. I could do what I thought was best or I could call Sister Cleo or check my horoscope. If I wasn’t a Christian I would have someone besides myself to blame.

But I don’t.

I was bought with a price. Christ died for my sins. Like Job I cannot question God. I cannot begin to fathom his infinite wisdom. I cannot question his omnipotence, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t want to. Sometimes in my stupidity I want to rage against my Creator. For some reason I have all this pent up hostility lately and it wants to come out.

I sit in my room thinking about myself. It’s always about me. I shame myself for my behavior. I’m humbled by my inadequacy. I’m lost without Christ. He is my all in all, but sometimes I forget that.

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