Confession Time

I am What is Wrong with the World

You may have heard the story of how, in 1910, The Times posed a question to prominent writers, philosophers and religious leaders: “What’s wrong with the world?” The story goes that G. K. Chesterton, a theologian responded simply, “Dear Sirs, I am. Yours, G. K. Chesterton.” This story isn’t entirely accurate. G. K. Chesterton did write a letter to The Daily News in 1905 expressing this sentiment, though it was part of a much longer letter. I encourage you to read the full letter as it is very relevant to the times we are living in today. Though Chesterton’s statement is not as succinct and witty, it is still poignant: ‘The answer to the question “What is Wrong?” is, or should be, “I am wrong.” Until a man can give that answer, his idealism is only a hobby.’ My biggest fear when I started this blog, and one I haven’t fully shaken, is the fear that I will come off to you readers as self-righteous, someone who relishes pointing out the speck of sawdust in my brother’s eye while ignoring the plank in my own eye. Christian Nationalism is an ugly sin which I believe God is calling me to oppose, but it would be naïve to allow myself to believe that eradicating Christian Nationalism would solve all the problems of this fallen world. Christian Nationalism is only one type of invasive weed among the wide variety of sins that all too often choke off the good seed we would like to grow in our hearts. Of course, Jesus makes it clear through the Parable of the Wheat and the Weeds, that the weeds of sin are too prolific and entrenched for us to uproot on our own this side of heaven, which is why we trust in his grace and forgiveness. But since Jesus also had no tolerance of self-righteousness and hypocrisy, I sense it is time to introduce you to a few of the weeds I struggle with, lest anyone think my passionate opposition to Christian Nationalism is merely a hobby.

This may shock some of you, but I hate going on vacation. Packing, especially having to plan out every outfit, is a tedious pain in the neck in my opinion. Once we arrive at our vacation destination, it isn’t long before I am homesick: homesick for familiar surroundings where I can flit about confidently, rather than having to learn my way around cautiously like a fish out of water; homesick for the independence of preparing my food in a familiar kitchen complete with tactile dots on the microwave rather than having to depend on family for help; homesick for a good night’s sleep free from the snoring or coughing of other family members or loud refrigerator or air conditioner units; homesick for peace and quiet to recover from the wicked migraines I often wake up with due to the change in climate or aforementioned lack of sleep; homesick for just the ability to retreat to my bedroom sanctuary to write or enjoy a good book as opposed to organized—or disorganized—family activities. I have felt this way since my teenage years, when children naturally start craving independence, but my hatred of vacations intensified when I was diagnosed with Celiac Disease in 2012, requiring me to eat a strict, gluten free diet. Now in addition to being homesick for independence, each trip also riddled me with anxiety, as some places we visited had limited gluten free options. I understand that travel is necessary on occasion, as is going to the dentist, but while the rest of the family views the vacation as a treat to savor for as long as possible with late checkout if possible, scenic routes or side trips, I just wish this vacation would end already and we could just get home! But as my church is studying the book of Daniel, it is starting to occur to me that the reason I hate going on vacation is that vacations are God’s way of testing my character. When my life is just humming along independently at home, it is easy to fool myself into thinking I am a righteous person. But nothing exposes my ugly shortcomings, my pride, my self-centered attitude like a few days in unfamiliar surroundings where I have to depend on others to cook my oatmeal. And unlike Daniel, I usually fail these character tests. I am a little better than I used to be. I used to have full meltdowns into tears, especially if I was tired and hungry and we were having a difficult time finding gluten free options. These days, we have gotten better about researching and planning, so the Celiac anxiety is less now, but I don’t think I have yet gotten through a trip without lashing out at a family member over something, or fuming in the backseat because I was unsuccessful talking my parents out of a side trip that was delaying our arrival home by several hours. When we finally do get home and I have had a good night’s sleep, and a bowl of oatmeal cooked properly, I am crushed by a guilty conscience and apologize for being a jerk, but then the next trip comes and once again “what I do is not the good I want to do; no, the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing” (Romans 7:19).

At this point, I need to interrupt this blog for an example of comical/sad irony. The previous paragraph was written Saturday night, and I am coming back to write on Sunday night. I have to work starting at 2:00 most Sunday afternoons, but Mom and I still have plenty of time to go to the 10:45 church service and get home in time for a leisurely lunch. Usually, we come straight home, and are home by around 12:20, giving me time for a leisurely lunch plus about 40 minutes to read or listen to a podcast before work. But today, Mom was craving a fancy coffee from Panera Bread. I tried to convince her to take me home and go back for it because fancy coffees seem to take an eternity to prepare, but she chastised me, rightly in retrospect that this would be a silly waste of gas because Panera Bread was on the way home. So grudgingly, I waited in the car for what seemed like an eternity while she went in to get the coffee. I had just started to cool down when I noticed we had to stop for a train, and the train too seemed to take an eternity. If Mom didn’t insist on stopping for that stupid coffee, we wouldn’t be stuck behind this stupid train! When the train finally passed and we were moving, I just started to calm down when we had to stop for like three long red lights. To make a long story short, we finally made it home at 12:46. I had plenty of time to eat lunch, but didn’t really have spare time to do anything else before I had to start working, which made me mad. But then while listening to Christian hymns as I waited for phone calls, the comical irony hit me. I was angry, and acted out sinfully because I didn’t get home in time to get as much writing done as I had hoped, on the blog post lamenting my sin!

I have no desire for a political position, or even a position as the CEO of a large corporation. Sure, such a position would offer power, status and potentially a lot of money, but such positions also come with a lot of stress and responsibility that does not appeal to me as a highly sensitive person who almost lost her mind with anxiety in a previous paralegal position over relatively small mistakes. But as the “baby” of the family, as well as a person with a disability, I sometimes lust after a different kind of power, a power motivated by envy of my siblings and peers who live independently. But due to various circumstances, I still live with my parents. I know I should be content, especially because my parents have given me the best of everything. They respect my privacy, and only ask me to pay for my medical insurance costs—which don’t come out to very much—so I don’t have to struggle, living paycheck to paycheck like many of my peers. I also recognize that if I lived on my own, I would have to work full-time to afford rent, and would be solely responsible for housekeeping, grocery shopping and cooking, likely leaving little time to pursue the mission of this blog. And during the pandemic, I came to a deeper appreciation for the companionship of my parents which still endures today. Most of the day, we are three adults doing our own things, but we always manage to sit around the table together for one or two meals each day, and although this may seem like a small thing, as I watched friends who live alone spiral into depression and anxiety, I came to appreciate what a blessing companionship is. And yet when my siblings come home, like the older son in the Parable of the Prodigal Son, I sometimes resent how excited my parents get, how they roll out the red carpet for them, staying up late into the night to catch up with them, buying special food. And while I am sure this is not my siblings’ intention, and I am probably reading things into innocent statements that are unfair, sometimes my siblings say things that convince me they don’t see me as an autonomous adult, and sometimes my anger about this is so intense, I retreat to my room and wonder if this needs to be the year I throw caution to the wind and get a place of my own. Maybe then, I will finally be recognized as an adult. As an added bonus, depending on how far away I move from my parents, I could make my own travel arrangements for family vacations. I hate the fact that I have these thoughts, but it is as if the person I want to be has been hijacked.

And worst of all, I am so full of pride that I never pray to God to help me overcome these sins, which is probably why I usually fail. “I just need to try harder,” I tell myself, forgetting that “our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms” (Ephesians 6:12). On our own, none of us stands a chance against these forces. Thank you Lord for inspiring me to write this post, and thank you for giving me the ability and the opportunity to speak out against Christian Nationalism. But I pray that in this endeavor, you will keep me humble, reveal my own shortcomings, make sure I never forget that even if Christian Nationalism can be eradicated, there will still be a lot wrong with this world until Christ returns because of impatient, self-centered, ungrateful, prideful sinners like me.

That Reminds me of a Song: I have been listening to a lot of music from Bill and Gloria Gaither and the Gaither Vocal Band this month. My maternal grandma (Granny) passed away the day after Christmas, and she loved the Gaithers. She bought VHS tapes of their concerts, and introduced me to them in high school when I made the personal decision to commit my life to Christ. We enjoyed listening to Gaither videos together when I came to visit, so this music reminds me of her. And as I was writing this, Recovering Pharisee was playing in my mind. I love southern gospel songs like this, complete with banjo and fiddle, for their power to convey profound truths in a winsome, memorable way, and this song echoes the sentiment of this post brilliantly. I too am a recovering pharisee.