Posted By Kristen Sosebee on July 14, 2011

“‘But of course!’ said the Spirit, shining with love and mirth so that my eyes were dazzled. ‘That’s what we all find when we reach this country. We’ve all been wrong! That’s the great joke. There’s no need to go on pretending one was right! After that we begin living.’”

~ The Great Divorce, C.S. Lewis

Yet we don’t like to admit that. If we say we have regrets, someone might think we’ve done something really bad. You know, not just “everyday bad,” but real bad.

I have done really bad things. I could make myself feel really good by concentrating on all the “bad” things, little and great, I could have done and haven’t.

But I still carry anger around in my heart toward a few girls from my freshman year of college. And I was the self-absorbed romantic who cared more about her relationship with her fiance than always honoring and obeying her parents, the one who proudly thought she didn’t need boundaries but did. I was the pregnant woman who gave in to her hormones and snarled at her husband for absolutely no fault of his own. I was the person who used Facebook to criticize Miss America for being a horrible example of godly femininity (an opinion I still hold), but did so partly out of smug pride and self-righteousness. I am the person who wastes precious time instead of serving or praying. I am the hypocrite and the unrighteous. I am as fallen as anyone else on this planet.

And it feels so good to admit it.

How much of life do I spend worried that people will see me for what I really am? A sinner.

And how many times have I criticized others because of my own misplaced pride and the false superiority it brings?

I would make a wonderful Catholic – as far back as I can remember, I’ve loved the freeing feeling of confession. My mom said that even as a kid I would tell her everything bad I’d done, sometimes even more than she wanted to know. It feels good to lose my masks and pretensions.

But sometimes, apologies aren’t possible. Or even afterward I lug around a feeling of shame. Sometimes confession in prayer feels like shouting in a metal prison cell – empty and futile.

You know the verse that says, “For if you forgive others their trespasses, your heavenly Father will also forgive you, but if you do not forgive others their trespasses, neither will your Father forgive your trespasses” ? It’s in Matthew 6.

What does that mean? God doesn’t forgive me because I’ve earned it. In fact, until God has worked redemption in my heart, I can’t forgive anyone completely.

But I do know this. Most of the time, I am unable to forgive someone else because I am unwilling to see myself as just as bad of a sinner as they are. Humility allows me to forgive others. And it allows God to work his forgiveness in me.

God’s first loving me and forgiving me opens this brittle, rusty heart to be able to love and forgive others. But every day I let my pride and pain chain me to bitterness and anger, I shut out the vibrant joy God offers. I shut out His forgiveness for me and the freedom it brings.

Kinda paradoxical. But that seems to usually go hand-in-hand with orthodoxy.

Categories: Biblical Womanhood, Personal Testimonies
Tags: Christian life, scripture