Oh My Goodness

Dear Goodness,

We need to talk. I’m breaking up with you. No, not with all goodness in general. Just you: the sort I can manufacture from inside myself applying enough blood, sweat, and tears. The pure kind that once offered to cover me like a robe of royalty? I want that back. Jesus held His perfection out to me, and I thought I grabbed on, but I can see now that my heart quietly reverted to you.

For a while, it was subtle—the two types looked similar, especially from the outside. Good grades. Mission trips. Making everyone proud. But somewhere along the way, things shifted. If I had been honest enough to examine my motives, I’d have found myself fighting for you, looking to my warped version of you for rescue. When life around me started breaking, I could cling to the safety of who you made me: the good girl. Before long, attachment became addiction. I wasn’t myself apart from you.

While I bent over backwards trying to appear perfectly shiny from the outside, you took ownership of me. For an excruciatingly long time, your anthem went like this: Straighten up. You know better. Get a grip, and hold on tight. With more practice, you’ll convince everyone—even yourself—that goodness is not only possible; it’s easy. If you make a mistake, you’re obviously not trying hard enough. You are nothing without me. I will keep you safe. I can shower you with the attention and applause and opportunities that I earn. There was no mention of the price I would have to pay every second I chose your heavy yoke.

When I made you—my own ridiculous version of goodness—master, I took Jesus off the throne. So right in the middle of my white, suburban, Christian life, you drove me to work my way out of any need for grace. I discipled believers. I married a pastor. I became a missionary in the darkest area of the country. I peddled the gospel I knew everyone (else) needed. But you kept me boxed in and alone, cut off from hope, always striving but never enough.

To be honest, it wasn’t fair of me to put so much pressure on you. Trading what Christ extends for my own brand of goodness shifted the weight of eternity from His shoulders to yours. I negated the cross with my crusade to “live right,” and you mercilessly cheered me on. No matter what, though, our effort always fell short.

Here’s the truth: Apart from Jesus, I’m really not a good person, and I really can never be a good person. According to you, that’s not something to announce. It’s something to maybe whisper to a counselor and create a plan to do something about. More white knuckling, more elbow grease applied at a soul level. With enough willpower, you can handle me. There’s even a Christian spin you’ll use for shame-fueled oomph—to admit powerlessness is to insult God.

But I’m learning now, in a rough and tumble way, that admitting powerlessness is an invitation to the Lord, not an affront to Him. He’s not clutching His pearls in horror at the enormity of my need—He’s drawn to it with a compassion so warm it could melt my heart. Because He’s seen me all along. He knows what I wish I were like: perfect, with zero call for grace, easy to love. He knows what I am like: a wreck, the chief of sinners, desperate, needy, with nothing to offer except my own lack. And He knows what I will become: healed, loving, vibrant, glorious.

You can’t get me from here to there. I need to be romanced by Jesus. He is the Master who will lift my chin, put His hands on my clenched shoulders, and help me rest. We’ve been talking, and I choose Him. I have to learn how to embrace my humanity in a way that welcomes His divinity, how to display His strength in my weakness, and I can’t do that while my heart is tethered to you. The patterns you taught me are antithetical to the gospel. Even if I made it my full-time job, I could never be good enough to earn love. So I’m letting you go.

In a funny way, I need to say thanks: you unwittingly whetted my appetite for something bigger. And only Christ is big enough to save me. So goodbye, my own goodness. Jesus is waiting, and He is all I need.