A letter of accusation against self (Letter 3)

Lord, if the charges I brought forth ended with heart and mind, the shame would already be enough for me to buckle. Yet I have not come before You merely as a man misled by feeling or betrayed by thought. I come now with a more grievous accusation against myself, that I had taken hold of holy things with unclean hands and made them slaves to the corruption I should have put to death. Here, before You and before all of Heaven, I drag my wickedness into the light. For I did not only sin, I made what was sacred speak on behalf of what was evil within me.

And first, Lord, I name one of these wickedness by its borrowed title, zeal. I allowed myself to flee my passions and hide within what many would have called devout love, or zeal for holiness and for Your glory. But that is easy to say, and holy words are easily stolen. I gave weight to the name of zeal even when what lived beneath it was not truly pure. For before it was zeal, it was fear…fear of what I was, and fear of who I had once been. I looked for You not first for comfort, nor for wisdom, but to build in small moments a proof of faith by which I could tell myself I was no longer the man I used to be. Thus I did not only seek holiness, Lord, I sought relief from the terror of being found unchanged before you.

As time passed, others praised what they saw in me. They drew near to a warmth they believed had come from You, and perhaps some of it had, I could not lie and say I was not changed, yet I was not clean in it. For I was no better than a thief who opens his door with bread and shelter, only to rob his guests in silence before the morning comes. I let men draw near to what looked like devotion, while beneath it there still lived the need to think well of myself. As the years went by, a numbness settled over my conscience. I told myself this was only the awkwardness of my exposure to a new faith, or the slowness the baby steps within faith, and over time they would pass. But they did not pass, Lord. They only learned to hide better. The old need to justify myself before You sank into the depths of my soul until what once spoke as a thought became a law within me. Yet You, in patience, allowed me to continue, and now the burden of those sins has fallen back upon me with unbearable but appropriate weight. The chain I once wore lightly has become too heavy to carry.

Next, Lord, I accuse myself of abuse against Your holy mercy. I pondered its meaning and searched it out through the words of theologians who painted it with tenderness and splendor. Yet with every stroke they laid upon the canvas of my soul, I quietly scraped away a little of that paint and stored it up for myself. Not because I wished wickedness for it, but because somewhere within me I had already weighed judgment, that I was unworthy of so great a blessing. So I spoke of mercy with joy and warmth and gave myself words bright enough to quiet my unrest, while beneath them I concealed a harder truth, that I could not receive such goodness without suspicion. I honored mercy aloud, yet inwardly kept it far from me, as though it were too clean to rest upon plazas evil as me.

But I would not dare accuse You of falsehood, Lord, for the cross stood before me as the highest and most terrible witness to mercy. To save myself from your wrath, I instead changed the meaning. I kept the word, but bent it until it better served the lie I had already conceived within myself. I took mercy and turned it into endless torments, long prison terms, severe fasting's, and private punishments by which I might display how deeply this body deserved to suffer. This, though wicked, fit the mercy that should be allotted to me. Yet it was only another fraud, another attempt at deceiving myself so that I would never have to tell You plainly what I most needed most… that I longed to hear from You without my attempts to give another task, another sentence, another work of payment, but the warm and unbearable truth that there was nothing left to be paid. It had been finished, so much so that my soul could scarcely bear.

I did not reject Your mercy, Lord, because I despised the gift. What I did was fouler than even that…I kept punishment at the center and merely clothed it in mercy, because true mercy, Your Holy and divine mercy left me with empty hands. It gave me no deep correction to strike at, no sentence to complete, no heavy cross of my own choosing to drag behind me. It only told me plainly what I had done and that what You had paid was enough, all debt owed paid in full by three nails, a cross and a crown of thorns . But I could not endure the thought of my body being free of wounds, for the wounds reminded me that I was still human, still a man from the grave, still one who believed he must suffer like Job if he was ever to understand You rightly or truthfully. The mercy I fashioned for myself was easy for my proud and vain flesh to consume, but Yours was harder, since it stripped me of every offering but surrender.

Punishment, Lord, meant that in some small and hidden way I was still part of the end. The outcome could still seem to bend in my favor, or be threatened against me, according to the burden I endured. If I suffered long enough, denied myself sharply enough, carried the weight with self destructive sorrow, then perhaps I might still say I had brought something of my own to the matter. Punishment left me standing near the verdict, as though my pain could still influence Your will. But mercy did not leave me there. Mercy spoke that my place was no longer to strive within it, but to fall silent and receive what I could neither increase nor repay. This, Lord, was the pride buried beneath my false mercy, I was more willing to wound myself beside the cross than to confess that the cross had already finished what I never could begin to repay.

Yet Lord, even after the filth had gathered enough that any sane man should have recoiled from it, I could not stop there…for worse things still lay hidden beneath. I feared to bring them forward, as though speaking them plainly might finally drive You from me. But how could I hide from You? Are You not the One who searches the hearts of men? Did You not see all of this long before I found courage enough to name it? Why then did I hide? Why did I crouch behind silence, as though my secrecy could spare me from the gaze that had already read me through, from a God who saw me before I was even created.

But You held me near, Lord, and did not let me go. Though my conduct was grievous in Your sight, Your long-suffering and patience toward me stretched far beyond what my small mind could fathom or handle. There were times when I walked as though the old self had surely died, yet he, like my own pride, still loved the use of Your holy language. For it is easier to hide between reverent words than in open filth. How swiftly I could change the course of sin by altering only its name, turning what was crooked toward the appearance of holiness by replacing a word here and there. Thus corruption learned to return to me not as itself, but clothed in language too pious to be questioned or argued against, at least from appearance of others and myself.

The old self, together with the adversary and his minions, had little need to press near while I walked in such a manner. I could not blame them, why disturb a man already marching, as he imagines, righteously towards Heaven, but straying towards hell? Yet You intervened, Lord. You set before me a holy mirror and would not let me escape the sight of what I had become. You allowed me to walk long enough to be stripped of illusion, but not long enough to be abandoned. For Your words were never flattery, but promises, none shall be lost. So now I stand before You torn, broken, and ashamed, yet still daring to hope in the embrace of the One who would not let me go.

Yet , Lord, I come to You with my final accusation against myself. Though I speak before the One who has always known my wickedness, I can no longer keep it held closeted within me. When I would sin and fall, You could search my heart and see how broken I was, the wreckage I created and inward ruin left behind in my soul. However, quickly, with words of faith, I would rise again, unwilling to remain beneath the foot of my passion. But no sooner had I risen I would back to my workbench to fashion fresh chains for myself, then name it wisdom. To rise by mercy was holy. But to answer mercy by forging a new law for myself was not. I built rules, laws, and punishments for breaking them, hoping that by such devout and strenuous labor I might never again have to come before You speaking the same repentance over the same sin. But when, Lord, did You ever place mercy and grace into my hands to manage? If a man could justify himself, what need would he have for Christ? Even my stubbornness could not withstand such a plain truth, and so I twisted Your words inwardly and told myself I was not forging chains, but laying down lanes of sanctification. How easily the word came. How quickly I consumed it. Yet the food was poisoned because it was built upon my power to perform, and every such road ended only in collapse. Then I returned to You twice as guilty, twice as broken, and fear began its work in me. The days grew heavy. I sat and waited for the hammer of Your righteousness to fall. No enemy needed to come near, for I had become more devastating to myself than all their cunning required by the enemy.

This became a wash-and-repeat offense before You, Lord. Consciously or subconsciously, I fashioned an identity out of the struggle itself. I would hand down sentence against myself, then praise You for the endurance to keep fighting the enemy. Thus the barred cell of Iron I had made became, in my own twisted sight, a holy temple. I mistook imprisonment for devotion and torment for faithfulness. Even then I knew enough of this poison to warn others. I told them to seek mercy rather than condemnation, to run toward Your kindness and not deeper into the prison of themselves. But when my words were spent and I had given them all the Holy rhetoric , and thorough counseling, I returned to my own cell and began a fresh torment. I became a man who could preach mercy with open hands and return home still clutching the instruments of his own punishment.

So now, Lord, I have brought to You my anguish and my sins, and for a moment I almost wish that You would destroy me where I sit. But You are holy, and I know now within my soul that You were never far from me. Even here, in the midst of my accusation, I speak painfully, yet Your warmth still draws near enough that I am compelled to speak every evil hidden within me. Foolishness is hard to paint once the mind no longer recognizes its own shape, yet here I stand ashamed, and still met by love. How could I betray You so often, and yet find Your words still soft, still comforting, still lifting me when I deserved to be cast down? I am wicked, this I know. But You are perfection beyond all telling and mercy without limit. You see anguish and do not answer it by laying on a greater burden. You have allowed me to break myself apart, until at last I might be remade by Your hands.

So I give myself to You now, Lord, not because I understand how to do so perfectly, but because I know at last that I am safe in Your hands. Even here, accusing myself , I have found that Your love has not withdrawn from me. You have washed what I could not cleanse, carried what I could not bear, and spoken peace where I had only pronounced sentence. If I rise again to condemn myself, remind me that the harshest judgment has already been paid in full by Christ himself. If I hide again behind stolen holy names, remind me that I am already seen. If I fear what is still to come, remind me that before time was made, You knew me and did not turn away. Hold me, then, until my last breath. Keep me near until all falsehood is gone from me. Let me speak of You always in truth and in love, that others may know this too, that even a fool at his worst may be found, washed clean, and made whole in the love of God.