Letter of accusation against the Heart

Lord, I do not come to defend myself today, but to accuse myself before You, and first of all my heart.

You warned me by Your word what the heart is, yet I still made room for mine. I read in scripture of corrupted men and thought I understood the lesson, the darkness stood out in visible shapes. Their pride could be named, their deceit could be traced, their fall could be read like a road plainly mapped out. But my own heart I handled more delicately. Though I knew what You had spoken, I did not fear mine as one should. I imagined it less dangerous because its wickedness did not always show itself so plainly. I mistook quieter forms for lesser dangers, and because I could not always see its corruption as clearly as I saw it in others, I granted it a kindness it did not deserve.

I feared the evil I could recognize logically on paper more than the evil that had learned to live quietly in me.For my heart did not always come as an open enemy. It often longed for peace, for quiet, for tenderness, for something that seemed to lean toward the very nature of Your love. Thus, I was not always severe enough with it. There were times when I grew too gentle toward what should have been judged. My suspicions of its wickedness were watered down, not because it was innocent but because it gave false words promising it would draw near to You. Under the notion of peace, I gave room to bargain. I allowed two desires to remain speaking within me…one that wished to be conformed to You, and another that still wished to breathe the air of the old self that lusted with my heart.

As I began to prepare the eviction notice for the old self still residing in the bedrooms of my heart, he did not rise against me with open rebellion but spoke with a gentleness that nearly passed for wisdom. He would bring flattering words of forgiveness as You had for the spirit. He told me it was only a slip, only a fall. He told me that in time he would be put out, but why should I hasten the eviction? If pressed too suddenly, he could possibly leave something of himself behind and have claim once again to enter, and there, beneath the false pretense of holy judgment, I did not judge by Your warning, but by the softened fairness of my own heart. I would draw near again to the old man, even after he had thrashed another room within me, and I would speak strictly of the day of his destruction as though promising judgment were the same as carrying it out. Then I would depart, and the heart with the old self would begin find a corner of my heart not observed and begin seeking to turn an eviction notice into a permanent stay.

My hatred for the old self was often present, whether in prayer or in the way I persecuted myself with unending harshness. Yet the old man did not worry himself into submission. He would see me speaking to You and allow me a few days of peace, a little quiet to rest after a big fall. He did not tremble every time I would draw near, not every chance was a worrisome one he would say. He did not want me to bring You in fully, for You Lord would bring to light every evil scheme he had conjured, every wickedness he wished for my soul. Oh how he would sit in the dining room of my heart and whisper ways to make me misjudge your strength and ways to turn the passions into condemnation of self. So long as my sorrow stayed partly fixed upon myself, and not wholly surrendered before You, he could bear it. He would find a discomfort bearable if only he could keep you from reaching me fully.

The heart, eager as ever to protect what should have been exposed, would send me after the teachings of men, not to receive truth cleanly, but to gather words about timing, about process, about sanctification, and then bend those holy teachings into a kind of mercy for transformation into moments of weakened surrender to self.

I would repeat my battles and repentance before You, Lord. I would come bearing the dents in my armor and the dullness upon the sword of truth, yet even then I was not always coming cleanly and in truth. Often I listened to You only for the portion of calm needed to quiet the tempest within the house. The old self, knowing well he still had lodging there, mocked me, not openly and loudly but through the quiet counsel by which he taught my heart to lead me. I would set myself before You with grand tasks and lists, with plans of how I meant to change my sin and master my passions, and all the while I had not first truly consulted the great Healer Himself, You, O’ Lord. With every plan I raised instead of surrender, I only strengthened the hand of the old man against me.

The heart laughed wickedly with him yet leaned close to me with warming words in calculated moments of devilish mercy. It would draw me near to a verse, or to some promise You had spoken, not to turn me to surrendered obedience, but to settle me just enough to remain as I was, damaged. After many victories, feeling prideful it would persuade me that only great men of faith bore dented armor, and only true believers carried dulled or chipped swords. Thus, he convinced me that my wounds were made to show faith, the battles fought victory marks for a day when they would be counted as faith.

They would act, but even I, Lord, found myself becoming an enemy to myself. I would reflect on Your mercy, even while the battle raged and tell myself that You would surely come in my hour of need. Yet Your command to me was not always, “Go out and fight,” but “Remain behind the walls.” For the battle was already won in the victory of the cross, peace and calmness already given by Christ himself. But the old self knew the danger of such safety, of such Holy and reverent thoughts of the Trinity. Whenever I came near to taking up the order You had sent, he would draw near the wall, pounding his war drums and screaming for me to come and fight him.

Then pride would stir in me. I imagined the joy You would have for me if I met this wickedness in the open and overcame it. I prepared myself, though Your warning had already been given. My heart, an ally to the enemy and not to me, cheered from the rooftops for the greatness of the victory to come quickly to me, it’s desires of destruction hidden. So, I would go out to fight the old self, sometimes it was only a second or hours, sometimes days or weeks…and at times I would prevail. But I had mistaken the battle for the war. Even when the old self lost the fight, he had still won much that day, for he had drawn me out from the safety of Your walls into the open field where my own skill could be admired, my pride could be seen. He could not defeat You, Lord, but he could still trick me.

My heart deceived me in secret meetings with the old self and would find moments to whisper to me when I broke from prayer. It noticed the happiness and rejuvenation you would bring; the warmth I had received from You. The heart would draw near and in a soft tone would say, “Why should your words be enough? He has need of a warrior, not a saint. Let the saints be saints and let warriors always draw the sword.” And so, O Lord, even holy prayer I corrupted once more, for hidden beneath it was a pride that wanted conquest more than quiet surrender to You. I would take the moments with you and turn them into daggers to foolishly fight the enemy. Where then is my peace, Lord? Where may I find rest, if I refuse the chambers You have prepared for me?

Here, Lord, I stand against my own heart. Here I call out the corruption that sits silently within me, plotting its next move and so, Lord, though this matter now comes to its close and the courtroom of my soul begins to empty, I know I shall return again before You. There are yet more hidden corruptions within me, more defiled things I have sheltered, more evils I have named too softly and judged too kindly. I will bring them to You in time, and lay them bare without excuse, that all I have protected, portrayed, and refused to cast out may stand exposed in Your light.

But for now, as this day comes quietly to its end, let me remember You not only in Holy fear, but in love. For You have endured me with a patience I did not deserve. You have borne with my ignorance, my arrogance, and my slowness to surrender, not by casting me off, nor by crushing me at once, but by long-suffering mercy. Still, after all my wandering counsels and crooked judgments, You have granted me grace enough to know the voice of Your Son.