I don't need a tragedy to shake my solid ground; Pride has really fucked me up.
I take every good thing in my life and I attribute it to my own effort; every bad is somehow a trial God sent me through that I overcame. I have the most pitiful collection of "merits" that I jealously guard. I can't bear to give them up--they've become my very skin, the way I create my Self each day. I'd have to flay myself in order to return them, to scrape off the layers of Competence and Confidence and whatever else has grown invasively, choking out the spirit I'm meant to be showing. Was it C.S Lewis who remarked how naked you'd be without even your skin? I tried to pray about it this week in church--tried to say "God, please rid me of my pride" but I couldn't. I didn't mean it even a little bit--I don't want God to remove it because I can feel how much I've placed on it. I can see how much I'll lose. I don't want him to touch what I've precariously built--leave it alone. It might be shaky, but at least I know it. So I changed the prayer. "God, show me my pride and make me repulsed. Make me disgusted at what I've done. Maybe then I'll let you get rid of it". I'm not sure I mean this one, either, but it's closer. I'm so unwilling to submit myself to the humility of not knowing, not understanding, of trusting God and stepping out when the bridge is invisible. I still have no idea why I'm in Madison, why I have this job, these friends. I hate not knowing. I just want God to tell me his will. I need to know that I'm doing the right thing. I need that security, that affirmation. I want to know that I've done well. I want to please him. How the fuck am I supposed to do that when you won't talk to me, God? If you'd tell me I'd be calmer. If you told me, I could trust you. If I knew what you wanted I could do it without question. I would, right? It's all pride, every bit of it--the idea that God owes me explanations, the idea that if I'm doing the "right" thing I'm a child more deserving of his grace. And as God tries to root it out of me I spit at him for taking away the "good" I think I've found. I'm so content with so little. I refuse to put down scraps of stale bread when he offers a feast. Pride convinces me to resist the healing work I need and resent God for offering it. I tried to think of what I should write about after years of silence here. I have no clever observations, no snarky commentary. All I have is what I'm trying to process through. So here's a raw journal entry from me. I'm going to try and write here again--hopefully much sooner than this last time. Rae
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