sin

When You Beat Yourself Up for Being a Bad Christian

March 21, 2014 By Michelle

I sigh and examine my fingernails as my husband talks with the saleswoman. She is unable to answer a single question we have about the tan sofa we are considering on the showroom floor. “I’m sorry,” she stutters, “I don’t usually work in furniture. Adam, the regular sales person in this department, will be back tomorrow. Can I give you his card?” My husband thanks her. I sigh again and cross my arms over my chest.

“Why aren’t we getting the couch?” Rowan asks, flopping onto the ottoman with the dangling $500 price tag.

“Because the lady has absolutely no information, despite the fact that she is supposedly an employee of this store,” I hiss. The saleswoman’s heels click across the tile. I see her glance back at me.

“Michelle!” Brad chides. “Keep your voice down! She can hear you, you know.” My husband is appalled by my rude behavior, but I don’t care. We’ve been looking for a sofa that will fit in our renovated basement for two months. I’ve visited this particular store three times, each time leaving without the information I need. I want to blame someone, and the innocent saleswoman is the target of my frustration.

As we exit through the double doors, I feel the tendrils of regret wrap around my gut. But not for the reasons you might think. I’m suddenly afraid the saleswoman has recognized my face from the newspaper. I don’t want her to know that the woman who writes the monthly religion column is the same rude customer who disdainfully dismissed her and then stomped in a huff out of the store.

By the time Brad pulls the car into the driveway, though, my fear of being “found out” as a sorry excuse for a Christian has morphed into true remorse and shame. I’m embarrassed by my tirade, my rudeness. I regret the terrible example I’ve just presented to my kids, and I can’t even look my husband in the eye. I want to quit this whole Christian thing altogether – clearly I am a complete and utter failure, the kind of person who can’t even treat a minimum-wage, just-out-of-college sales clerk decently, for heaven’s sake. I am in full self-condemnation mode.

I berate myself for days after the furniture store incident. I simply cannot forgive myself; I cannot let it go. The power of my own sin grips me in a suffocating stranglehold, like a metal vise squeezing tight around my chest, constricting my breathing, bruising my ribs.

Until, days later, I finally remember that Jesus does not condemn me for my sin, no matter how wrong or ugly or unchristian or downright despicable I am.

“So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ,” Paul writes to the Romans. “And because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death.” (Romans 8:1-2)

Look closely at what Paul says: “The power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death.” Being followers of Jesus does not free us from sin itself, but from the strangulating power of sin, the power that threatens to plunge us into the abyss of shame and self-condemnation. The power that urges us to give up, throw in the towel, quit this Christian living once and for all.

It took a few days for the truth of this verse to seep into my hard heart and head. Part of me didn’t truly believe it; truthfully, part of me still doesn’t believe it, because it really does sound too good to be true.

So I keep going back to this verse, reading and rereading it, replacing the berating refrain of “failure” with this balm, this salve, trying to allow the words to sink deep. I tell myself that I will keep on sinning, that I know for sure. But I also tell myself that when I do, I can live free in the knowledge that I am not, and will never be, condemned by Christ.

Anyone else out there experience a total Christian fail like this? How did you forgive yourself?

** So I didn’t write this post with Jennifer Lee’s book in mind, but in rereading it just now, I realized this is the perfect #PreApproved post to go along with Love Idol: Letting Go of Your Need for Approval – and Seeing Yourself through God’s Eyes. If you haven’t heard of this book, go right now to Amazon and check it out. My copy is already underlined, dog-eared, wrinkled and worn (and it’s brand-new!) – this is a powerful read, friends. **

Relinquish to Receive

March 12, 2014 By Michelle

On the evening of Ash Wednesday last week I handed over my sin to God. I have more than one sin, of course, but I zeroed in on just one, a biggie. I wrote a single word on a purple slip of paper and dropped it into the basket on my way up to the altar for communion. It felt good, giving God that sin. I felt relieved and unburdened. I experienced a taste of the freedom Paul talks about in his letter to the Galatians. I left the church energized, my soul clean and my heart renewed. Ash Wednesday always reminds me a little bit of my Catholic days, when I’d draw back the red velvet curtain and exit the confessional liberated and right with God again.

In a lot of ways I haven’t changed much from my days as a Catholic. What always happened then — the inevitable crash back into sin — still happens now.

This time the cleansing lasted less than 36 hours. By Friday morning I was back at the altar (this time in the pre-dawn hours of my own living room), handing that same sin back to God again. By Friday morning I’d already cheated on what I’d given up and handed over. I’d already fallen back into my old ways. I’d already let my sin come between God and me again.

Insert big sigh here.

It kind of makes you want to give up sometimes, doesn’t it? It all feels a little cyclical, even fruitless. Like my friend Drew said at our small group study Friday night, “That purple paper isn’t close to big enough to contain what I have to give back to God, and it seems like the list is the same year after year.”

As crazy as it sounds, sometimes I find myself wishing for a new sin — something different from the same-old, same-old. God, can’t we just be done with this one, once and for all, I complain. Can’t we just, you know, move on?

That’s just it, though. We can’t move on until the work is truly finished. God doesn’t let us off the hook quite that easily. I know, there’s grace, and I get that, I do. God doesn’t hold our sins against us; he forgives us as many times as it takes. But God also won’t let us quit, move on, until the real work, the hard work of replowing and resowing again and again, as many times as it takes, is done. It’s tough love, yes. But it’s real love, too.

So this Lent I know I’ll be back at the altar more than once or twice, handing over that purple paper, that sin, again and again. But I also know this: it’s in the handing over, in the relinquishing, that I receive.

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: When Bad Decisions Become Blessings

September 22, 2013 By Michelle

Some of you might remember my story of the necklace – the necklace I stole right out of a classmate’s desk when I was in the third grade. I never returned the necklace to its owner, and I never admitted to anyone that I stole it until I wrote about it on my blog, nearly thirty-five years later.

Two years ago on Easter Sunday afternoon I opened my in-box to discover an email from a former classmate. She’d come across my blog, read the story about the stolen necklace – her necklace, as it turned out – and wrote to tell me that she was, in fact, the girl.

Her tone was less-than-pleased, as you can imagine. I read her brief email three times, my stomach churning more with each word. And as I read, I realized I had never once considered her story in the three decades that had passed.

So wrapped up in my own guilt and spiritual angst, I never once considered how she must have felt the day she realized her necklace was gone, stolen by a classmate right out of her own desk. I never once imagined how she’d felt betrayed, targeted, isolated and scorned. And I never considered how she might feel should she read about the incident thirty-five years later – how it might open old wounds, tear open scars never entirely healed.

I was reminded of that stolen necklace once again when I read the familiar story of Jacob and Esau this week. It’s hard for me to get past Jacob’s behavior in this story. It’s difficult to understand how God could bless such an obviously flawed and deceitful person. Until, that is, I remember my own story of deceit. Like me, I suspect Jacob never considered his father’s or brother’s feelings when he deceived them. I suspect he acted only for himself, never once considering the wounds he would leave behind in his wake.

The grace in this story comes later, years later, when Jacob repents and Esau unexpectedly forgives. Likewise, the grace in my own story of brokenness came years later too, when, on Easter Sunday, I finally repented and my classmate forgave.

After I received her initial email, I agonized for a few hours before I finally replied to my former classmate, apologizing not only for stealing her necklace, but also for wounding her. She graciously accepted my apology, noting that it was a long time ago. Apologies not necessary, she insisted. “I wish you peace, love and happiness for the rest of your life,” she wrote at the end of her last email. And I know it sounds silly because it happened forever ago, but I felt gratitude and relief when I read those words on my computer screen. Probably much like the gratitude and relief Jacob felt when his brother forgave him.

Every time I read the story of Jacob and Esau, I forget that God’s plan is much bigger than any I can ever envision. I forget that he is always working to bring everything together for good, no matter how bad, how ugly or how broken it all looks at the start. Jacob was prepared to receive his brother’s ire, but he received only forgiveness and love instead. I was prepared to suffer the consequences of my wrongdoing, but I received forgiveness and love instead. In both cases, God turned a bad decision into an unexpected and undeserved blessing. He turned grit into grace.

Question for Reflection:
Can you think of an experience in your own life in which God turned a bad decision into a blessing, grit into grace?

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Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: Sometimes Even Love Requires Grace

June 23, 2013 By Michelle

I pretty much blew off the fourth commandment as a kid. I figured everyone dishonored their parents. Everyone talked back and rolled their eyes and sighed loudly. And so, on my knees in the dark confessional, with the red velvet curtain drawn tight, I confessed that one sin time and time again without really giving it a second thought. “Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been six weeks since my last confession, and these are my sins: I disobeyed my mother and father, I kicked my sister on the couch while we watched Love Boat, I was mean to my best friend.”

The necklace I stole right out of my classmate’s desk? No, I didn’t confess that sin. Ever. That sin was too bad to confess. That sin would have gotten me into trouble. But dishonoring my parents? I figured that one was no big deal.

As a kid I mapped out a hierarchy of sins in my head. Clearly some sins, like stealing and killing, were worse than others, like using the Lord’s name in vain and calling my dad a dork behind his back.

If I’m honest, I still do the same today. I deem some sins worse than others. I’ve got a sin spectrum all laid out, ordered and organized. Sometimes I let myself feel better than other people, if I know they have committed a sin farther along on the spectrum. Well at least I’m not that bad, I think to myself … at least I haven’t done that.

But the truth is, in God’s eyes, a sin is a sin is a sin. There is no sin spectrum, no hierarchy of bad-to-worse. Because in God’s eyes, every sin separates us from him.

I think that’s why the fourth commandment is included in the top ten in the first place. At first glance, honoring your father and mother might seem like small potatoes compared to “do not murder,” “do not commit adultery” and “do not steal.” But think about it. What happens when you dishonor your parents? What happens when you are disdainful, neglectful, impatient, snappish, bitter, self-righteous or angry with them? Not only are you showing disrespect toward your parents, you’re also not showing them love.

And when you’re not loving one of God’s own, you’re not loving God himself.

In the end, all ten commandments circle back to love, which is what Jesus tells us when he summarizes the ten into two in the Book of Matthew: “Love God and love your neighbor,” he says. It sounds simple, doesn’t it? But for all of us who have ever exchanged a snippy word with our neighbor or our father-in-law, our mother or our boss, we know that love is complicated.

We know that sometimes, even love requires grace.

Questions for Reflection:
Do you consider some sins worse than others? Have you ever considered that even a “lesser” sin still creates distance between you and God?

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Welcome to the “Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday” community, a place where we share what we are hearing from God and his Word. If you’re here for the first time, click here for more information.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

Please also try to visit and leave some friendly encouragement in the comment box of at least one other Hear It, Use It participant. And if you want to tweet about the community, please use the #HearItUseIt hashtag.

Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!

Hear It on Sunday, Use It on Monday: You Have to Admit You’re Dirty to Get Clean

June 9, 2013 By Michelle

We hauled two dressers from my grandparents’ house out to Nebraska when we moved back in 2001. They had sat in their basement for decades. My grandfather stored tools in them — rough files, ragged saws, hammers, nails, screwdrivers. The dressers were chipped and scuffed, but I could see in a glance that they were solid and heavy and had good bones.

One weekend I finally decided to paint the dressers white. My number one design trick is paint — white paint, to be specific. Often Brad will come home from work and find a piece of furniture suddenly morphed white – “Oh, the coffee table … you painted it,” he’ll observe. He’s gotten used to this over the years.

Painting these two dressers took all day, even with Rowan’s “help.” I hadn’t considered the dark finish when I embarked on the refurbishing, hadn’t considered it would take four coats to cover every drawer and every surface of both dressers.

Later, after the dressers had dried and Brad and I had grunted them back upstairs to the bedroom, I stood back to admire my handiwork. The detailing on the drawers popped in the creamy white. The finish shone beneath the lamp’s glow.

But when I opened the drawers to put my shorts and shirts and socks back inside, I noticed the grime. Gritty dust had settled between the cracks and crevices during the sanding. A tangled cobweb fluttered beneath the back leg. The interior was ugly and stained, especially juxtaposed against the gleaming white.

The metaphor struck close to home. As I rubbed a damp towel along the bottom and into the corners of each drawer, I realized this is exactly what I do in my own life, too. I whitewash nicks and scuffs. I coat my surface with slick white.

I even whitewash the self I present to God. I pray my polite prayers; I do my good deeds; I read my Bible passages. But do I trust him enough to present the layers beneath that shiny exterior?

Do I allow him to see the real me, with the gritty, cobwebbed corners, the dark underbelly?

Or do I coat myself pretty and pretend, even to him, that I am clean?

He sees it anyway, of course.

Slowly I’m learning that the exterior isn’t nearly enough. It’s fine to start there, but I can’t be satisfied with outward acts of faith – the volunteer work; the worship; the bible study.

No, the process must stretch beyond mere acts, beyond scraping the surface, into the dark recesses and dingy corners of my own self. It’s not a place I want to spend much time – it’s ugly in there, cold and dark. Yet the dark insides are part of who I am, too. And I can’t expect to be washed clean if I don’t admit I’m dirty in the first place.

Surely you desire truth in the inner parts;
You teach me wisdom in the inmost place.
Cleanse me with hyssop, and I will be clean;
Wash me, and I will be whiter than snow.
Let me hear joy and gladness;
Let the bones you have crushed rejoice.
Hide your face from my sins,
And blot out all my iniquity.
Create in me a clean heart, O God,
And renew a steadfast spirit within me.
Psalm 51: 6-10

An edited repost from the archives.

Please include the Hear It, Use It button (grab the code below) or a link in your post, so your readers know where to find the community if they want to join in — thank you!

Thank you — I am so grateful that you are here!

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