Here's what I still don't get: How can God stand the smell of me? The very sight of me? I can't bear either. And I can only sense a small portion of the rot and dross in my wasted soul.
God sees it all. He knows every dark, dank corner of me. The filth of my mind, the tumor that is my heart, my wicked notions, my blank stare, my empty brain. He knows that I look out at the evil world as though that somehow excused the evil me.
And I know the standard Christian response: He sees Christ. Really? He can't see past Christ? He's not blind. Yes, I know Christ paid in full for my sins, but then there is the old man, that part of me that just keeps sinning, blithely pretending it's, well, the "old man," the former me that is still with me. So it's not so former, is it? It's not so old. It's now. It's me.
What do I do when I'm convinced I'm going to hell, yet I'm anxious to get this life over with and face what's inestimably more horrible than even this? Ah, there's the conundrum. The end of this awful life leads to a far worse judgment.
If God is good, then I am evil, and I have earned every inch, every second of this, and so much more. Why was I even born? I wish I had never been here. I wish I had never drawn one breath. Not just for my sake; for all those I've hurt, all those I've damaged. I need to be destroyed. I need to be gone. It's all I want, nothing more. Just let me go, please God, and then do what you must.