Here’s my confession, Lord. Do You want them all at once? Would You rather I gave them to You one at a time, gave You a coffee break in between? No, You’d rather have them all at once, as many as I can think of? Okay. I’ll try. It may take a while. I’ll just make You a list. Is that okay? Here’s my list, Lord.
- I confess that I usually find You more beautiful than true.
- I confess that I’m not sure You have a plan for me.
- I confess that I look around me and I so profoundly glimpse the terrible back and it drains me with its darkness, and I look around me and I so profoundly glimpse the noble face and it smites me with its beauty, and I find such antithesis too great, too much… Too much for my smallness. I do not know, Lord, if I can hold the tension of both these realities in my hands and not be crushed by such seeming contradiction. I am so small, God… My hands are not big enough. I am not big enough. (But “Be comforted, small one, in your smallness,” and so I will try, Lord, You know that I am trying.)
- I confess that I am afraid of Your sweetness. As much as I am compelled by the name of “Tender Pioneer,” so also I am afraid, because how can such tenderness not burn? How can it not cost me more than I know how to give? Worse, how can it not gift me with more than I know how to receive?
- I confess that I am addicted to my own self-condemnation. It feels safe, Lord, safer than You. Safer than hope. It means You can whisper ‘belovedness’ to me over and over again and I do not have to struggle to believe what I have declared untrue.
- I confess that intellectualism has become my mask. (I didn’t know what Mom meant that day, when she said the same thing about him, but I do now…I do now.) It’s not simply about pride though, about looking smart in front of other people. It’s not really about that at all. Most of the moments I’m most deeply immersed in intellectualism are private, are moments of loneliness. It isn’t pride so much as control – and barriers. There’s so much I don’t know. There’s so much. And the not knowing, sometimes it threatens to undo me, but more deeply, more honestly, it is less the fear of not knowing and more the fear of not being known. So I learn. I gather information like bread crumbs, like a horde of secrets that will establish worth in my hiding place, I horde knowledge because maybe, maybe then, when I know as much as I possibly can, I will not feel such a splintering need for someone else to know me.
- I confess that I have never once in my entire life loved something without at least part of that love being an idol, or a mask, or a mirror, or a safety net. (But I want to… How I want to.)
- I confess that I have never been as scared of confession as of loneliness, and the cost of honesty has never been as deep for me as the cost of isolation. (Is this only me? Do you, you reading this, not also feel that we wall ourselves in, hide under masks of shallowness, pretend that surface-level relationship is the longing of our hearts, when all the while we are dying of superficiality, isolation, constantly digging holes to hide the very things we have been given as entryways into each other’s stories – always staggeringly lonely, yearning for intimacy, and wondering how anyone else can stand it? He gave us us our wounds as communion and we sew it up with ribbon and wait till the day He returns so we can ask Him why He made it so easy to hurt alone.)
- I confess that my wounds are nothing compared to Yours.