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I am a Christian with a black heart.
I have a hard time being open about my faith. I fear the cocked brows and sly remarks, the strange smiles that mock my faith and worse yet, my Redeemer. Something inside me dies a little more each time it happens. I hurt for myself, for my own soul that has once again been sliced--but I hurt much more for my Christ who willingly sacrificed himself for them; their rejection and scorn is what He gets in return for the horrendous death He suffered. I know He forgives them; They don’t understand. And I don’t know the words to make them. I seldom try now; I keep my faith tucked away in a pocket where I can feel it warm over my heart, safe from stones and stares.
I love God, and I am a Christian--a choice I am deeply proud of--yet I cringe at the label. It has become stained and ugly over the last 2000 years. I am ashamed of myself that I feel this way; I should be proud. But I don’t want to be associated with those who take the same name, who pin their faith to a religion that I don’t agree with and to rituals and behaviours that Christ himself wouldn’t approve. These believers and I have nothing in common, and yet the stain covers us both. I want them to find a different name; I am judged because of them, as being one of them.
I hate that I care what people think, how that hate weakens me and removes God from me, that I give people the power to do that to me. And for that, I am ashamed.
I asked Jesus to save me when I was eight. But in all the years since, I have not learned to love, not the love one is supposed to feel toward his fellow man; that is not something that I know. I cannot seem to love the way others can. I’ve tried. Some days I think I do. And then it fades, and I know I didn’t love; it was merely just the mood. And my heart withdraws a little further, shrinks a little tighter, having failed yet again. I feel helpless to stop it.
I want more than anything to be a beacon for the lost to follow, a soft shining light that leads others to my Lord. But this is not the case. Most times, my light is dim, hardly seen at all beneath my carefully shrouded lamp. Sometimes I am moved; I remove the cover and let it glow, brightly even. Perhaps, too brightly... Sometimes I swear my light repels, instead.
Why is that? I cry out in the dark, my pillow soaked with tears after another
endless night of soul-searching. I don’t understand. God! Why won’t you change me?
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