An Indictment

Another week has gone by and I have not blogged like I wanted. This week was marked by sickness, a sinus infection for me and strep throat again for McGrooter. It's been marked by sadness as Leslie's grandmother is now at the 2-week point of being in the hospital. It's been marked by confusion and frustration by the number of Christians who have actually said to me, "I hate" someone. And it's been marked by thought as I've been reading and having some in-depth discussions with other Christians. Finally, it's been marked by bitterness and depression as I've "relapsed" into rehashing the past and its impact on our lives.

Each of these issues has served as an indictment against me. My own sickness is due, at least in part, to my lack of sleep. I keep trying to burn the candle at both ends in an attempt to get ahead, to finish one more task. I feel guilty for not having finished more of my studies, so I try to read more. I work more in an attempt to accomplish an unending list of tasks. And then, rather than take my wife's advice, I wake up with my head pounding and swimming, the repercussions of another sinus infection.

My sadness for Nannie being in the hospital is compounded by frustration at the toll it's taking on the family. I act, at times, like it's purposeful. I find myself confused with thoughts of her clinging to life versus actually getting better. And then I get another report of how it is impacting everyone and I'm convicted of my own selfishness. It's also convicting at how rarely I gave up time I had to work to go and visit with Nannie.

I encountered two fellow Christians this week, actually in the same day, who said they hated someone. The person was the same for both of them. They hate George Bush. I admit that he's not a likeable fellow. His speeches often seem insincere. His actions have frustrated me at times. But I don't hate him. They said their hate stems from a number of things. They called him a crook. I guess if I shared their sentiments I could better understand their feelings about him. But to say that we hate someone, as a Christian, seems like a contradiction. As much as I am a conservative in my political ideology, and as much as I side with many of his decisions in regard to protecting our country, my hope is not in him as a person or in his office. Cal Thomas articulated many of my sentiments in an article he wrote about religious right. I realized in my discussions with these two individuals that I will never sway their beliefs. Their emotive responses led me to believe that they are blinded in a sense. I admit that I am too.

I've enjoyed pondering a bit this week during my reading of Reasonable Faith, by William Craig. It's been an encouraging exercise to learn about and be reminded of the reasonableness of my faith. I've also been convicted of how infrequently I share this hope with others and how hopeless I often live my life in the midst of lost world around me. I also enjoyed a group discussion about ministry this week. This too was in indictment of my laziness in regard to making ministry personal. Finally, I watched 12 Angry Men with a group of guys who I meet with weekly. The discussion that followed about anger was convicting, as was the prejudice that lies within each of our hearts. It caused me to think of how my beliefs can often blind me to people. I neglect the person in light of the truth. I struggle with how to synthesize truth and personhood the way Jesus did.

Lastly, I struggled with bitterness and depression in light of past sins. My own sin and the sin of others against me continue to show their fruits. As soon as I think I've dealt with these issues, they rear their ugly head again. I haven't forgiven. I know that. I desperately want to.

And this brings me to the overriding thought for all of these matters. I don't pray. I don't. I don't pray often, and I don't pray like I should. My communion with the Almighty has been like that of two passing strangers on the street. It's more like a "how do you do?" or a "thanks" for holding the door. Rather than pray I steep in my own misery. Wretch that I am, I prefer wallowing in my circumstances rather than crying out to my Savior. I shouldn't be amazed that I hurt. In a sense, I hurt because I am starving. The Manna from Heaven who came down to save me and who now sits at the right hand of the Father offers me a banquet. I prefer the crumbs that have landed next to the trash can. My pride creeps up as I hold mock conversations in my head with those who have said things I don't like, or have done things I don't like. Rather than in humility using that same time to pray, I pridefully tell off those who have been wrong in my presence. Rather than asking the Father to show me where I am wrong, I bolster my own position in my mind. I deny my neediness of the Holy Spirit in my life as I shun Him. He convicts me and I ignore Him. As John Piper has written, I use prayer like an intercom for the butler rather than as a field radio to call into my Commander. This is war, no doubt. But I act like the world as I go about glibly. Prayer. Pleading. Confessing. Begging. That's what I need to do.

And so even in writing this my heart is filled with hope. Hope that I am not alone. Hope that I have not been left to my own ability (or lack thereof). The indictment is true. I am guilty. But I am not under condemnation. I am not condemned. Christ was condemned for me. And so I can pray to the Father. I can hope that He loves me. Even in this I sense that God is working. I know that He is. I am, after all, His child.