Confessions: The Idolatry of Doing

Tonight would be a night for confessions, Friend. But Jesus, you already know what I'm going to say. You've seen how every thing is about doing with me. I'm all about production -- getting things done. I think it makes you sad. I can't just be with you or with anybody. I must be accomplishing something, storing up some kind of productivity points.

I can't stop. It's too important to me. Some kind of false god. Forgive me for my idolatry. I have only learned about my instrumental value. Our materialistic and consumeristic society has only been too eager to be my teacher. If I am useful to others, they will love me. But people are users, and before long use turns into abuse and I end up a tool. Or if not abuse, then I'm prostituting myself for love that should actually be free and it leaves me bitter and resentful. I find myself alone, paranoid that everyone just wants something from me, but that no one wants me. This one wants money, the other time, another affection, another encouragement, someone else advise. But my soul cries out because I do not believe any of them honestly know me apart from my work, nor do they want me. (Like your soul cried out for Israel or still does for the God-manipulating church.) This assumed manipulation cripples me to receive love, if any truly is coming my way, and it cuts me off from your grace. Even if there is real love out there, I have gorged myself on this false approval and cannot stomach the real thing.

Then, darkest of all, I turn on you. I ignore you and go off to myself trying to build a value that cannot satisfy. I work on influence, importance, acheivement as if doing more things for more people is the solution. They are more than willing to make use of my abilities. But you are not. You do not use me. I think it's because you refuse to make me a tool. You can only use me as your child, but not your slave. Only when intrinsic worth saturates my doing and becomes the engine of my soul does my service have any meaning. Only when my the employment of my talents are given as a blessing to you, rather than payment, can you accept them. Otherwise, you would make me a son of hell, rather than a heir of the Kingdom.

Thank you for not using me, as painful as that is to say. And more painful: don't let me corrupt your work with my striving for something I cannot have. I can hardly pray this, because it means I will not be used, therefore I cannot build my worth in the world. But this is the cure for my sick soul. You know people will use me. They use you, worshipping blessings rather then knowing you. And so you remove your blessings because such utilitarianism is deadly to them. Ending my sickness works a double salvation, curing my addiction and cutting off my enablement of theirs. And maybe as my soul starves in this vaacum of human praise and usefulness, it will seek real food at your table. Food that will really feed the world.

I feel thin and naked. Now that you've heard this confession, Jesus, would you rescue me from this body of death? Can you -- who once heard the Father say, "you are my Son, and I'm pleased with you," before you had done a single thing of note -- say the same to my soul in a way these calloused ears can hear? Would you romance this adultrous heart that has no idea what intrinsic worth feels like? I believe in it because I want it. I want it more than anything. But belief has yet to move me. Jesus, please move me. Amen.