Today was a confession session with Jesus. I went to my High Priest because, frankly, I’ve just been letting some things go. Spiritually speaking, I’ve been laying around the house in yoga pants, eating junk food, generally not caring, and getting weaker by the day.
My past, legalistic, self-condemning voice would have harrumphed at me for going to my quiet time spot.
“You think Jesus wants anything to do with you? He despises you, son!” it would say, tone soaked in sanctimony. Then it would have me write on the chalkboard of my mind a hundred times:
I am sorry for being a filthy, rotten, disgusting person, unworthy of love….I am sorry for being a filthy, rotten….
Thankfully, I don’t listen to that voice anymore.
I know now I can come to him as I am, warts and all, but I dare not come presumptuously; that is, there is no mistaking he is infinitely holy and doesn’t overlook my wickedness and give me a pass. He is jealous for me, and that jealousy burns with passion to kiln away anything that still claims me as its prize. No, he won’t hear of it. He wouldn’t dream of letting me stay as I am.
Oh, I came to him sheepishly, you can be sure of that, but I came as an infinitely loved son of the Most High still wearing my robe and ring, and still smelling of a heavenly barbecue fit for a King’s kid.
While all that’s true, I still confessed stuff that wasn’t befitting a royal child. It was ugly and wasteful and crushing and was killing my soul by degrees. It’s stuff I’ve had to confess before, and I don’t understand how I can still be so deceived – and still so wonderfully loved. I let the pruning-hooks of his mercy rip these things out of me and scatter them to the east and west winds where they will be sucked into oblivion.
I felt clean. Young again. I didn’t become more worthy afterward, just like I was no less worthy when I was larding around my spiritual house in yoga pants. While those pants may give you some semblance of freedom, they really are nothing more than a symbol of shame and unhappiness.
We aren’t made for yoga pants, we are made for the robe of acceptance and status as co-heirs with Jesus.
Go to Jesus, my brother, confess your junk-food addiction, my sister. Feel his jealousy burn away the latent lovers of the flesh and his pruning-hooks’ surgical precision do their work on the shameful attachments of your soul. Watch that chalkboard burn to dust…and see a better story come to life.
It begins like this:
I am a trophy of God’s grace, marvelously chosen, infinitely loved, undeservedly forgiven…
What else can you put in your story?