Dying this way

Near the end of C.S. Lewis' The Last Battle, the character Emeth says: "Nevertheless, it is better to see the Lion and die than to be Tisroc of the world and live and not to have seen him."

Thing is, I sometimes want to die. I wish I could die, and rid myself of all the troubles of living. It appears many people are afraid of death, because their security is in this world, in the things of the world. But I have no faith in it. My life is a fucking mess, and my only hope is in Jesus Christ.

It is harder to live than to die. Somehow life seems like a living hell, what with the need to put up with all kinds of pains-in-the-arse, and have yourself to contend with at the end of the day!

'Peccavi' is the Latin for 'I have sinned'; it's probably the most apt description of the degenerate being writing this entry, and seems to sustain any and every act of piety or 'counter-sin.' Soo Tian was right: ascetism never works.

For awhile it was OK. My life wasn't such a mess. And then, I got chickenpox. No, the disease is not the mess, but my life has been made more vulnerable. So who do I blame? God? No! The blame is mine; who was I to leave myself wide open for the invasion of evil, the draining out of good?

And yet Peterson seems to say it is better to leave our lives open to the elements that are more likely to destroy, than to stay in a safe cabin. I've got to learn to let go. But letting God run the show is so difficult. It requires devotion and discipline. Focus and faith.... things I don't have.

If I were God, I'd have given up on my life. And right now, I'm actually willing to say, "God, take a good look at me. See if there's anything good left in this stupid shell. If there is, spare me and make something out of it. If not, I might as well burn in the fire."

Some say God is even better than we expect; to believe that means to stop thinking about just how good God is, because the moment we try to assign God to a level of 'goodness' (even if we use that magic word 'infinity'), we are locking him in our four walls of 'expectation.'

And they say God likes surprising us. Suddenly the storm hits. Do I run into it, embrace the power that God reveals through nature, or hide? It's the kind of moment when I might just say "Oh, what the hell--" and dash smack into the centre of the whirling winds and stinging rain, and bask in the presence of God.

In this moment of my depravity, I ask you, God, for this: your forgiveness. God, forgive me. How many promises have I made, and how many have I kept? The worlds biggest liars put together couldn't come close.

But I don't count on that alone. The only thing giving me any fucking hope, is that I hear people saying you're not done with us, and that means you're not done with me. So what if I'm this screwed-up tool lying about in the workshop, all rusty and useless? It appears the craftsman needs me for something, and my duty is yet undone.

I want to amount to something; I want to do great things for you, God. And if you can make anything out of this depraved life, out of this decadent soul, out of whatever fucking little is left after round and round of sin enjoyed rather than despised... especially if you want to... then who am I to stop you?

(Good night)