Lament of an Evangelical

The other day at Seminary we had a "morning of prayer" and during the time of lament I felt compelled to share (with tears) this one that I wrote earlier this year. I have had several requests for a copy, and so I'm making it available here. Its about as intensely personal as I want to get on a blog, and a part of me hesitates to share it. But then I remember how much I hate the type of Chrsitianity where only the "Shiny Happy" is allowed . . . and so I offer this side of worship - a lament:

Inherited a faith
I've loved and hated both:
Loved more sometimes than God-
Which leads to hating it the most.

Grew into a church
I'd grow in and out of always:
Wanting to burn it down
One out of a month of Sundays.

I can read the Bible good
But I pray like an ass.
I should find a better word than that,
My prayer-life is way more crass.

A faith I feel in guilt
And lose at a twitch in pride.
The good part is I love God more
When I hate myself inside.

Been given countless blessings:
Family here and there,
Friends I can rely on,
Two boys and one I call "my dear".

I'd die for them I would,
Yet with my words I kill.
There is nothing quite as hard
As surrendering the self-will.

I want to give them everything;
To put joy inside their hearts.
And yet myself I will leave scars
When I have left my part.

There is nothing here worth doing.
My good just makes me proud.
Riddled as it is with bad besides -
Just let me duck behind the shroud.

If I could I'd give up,
But something keeps me here.
It must, it must get better.
And I live for you my dear.

I'd rather live to say my sorries
Than die a thousand deaths.
I'd rather spend a thousand summers
Paying all my debts.

But paid it is, it's easy,
And there's nothing I can do
But sit here and fell guilty
And then give myself to You.

A faith that I've inherited,
That I tarnish everyday;
A God I can't live up to,
And a price I cannot pay.

A painless life I've lived,
And yet a psychy full of scars.
I know the pain I put you through -
Wish I could once see my own stars.

But once I bleed or touch the pain
My desire goes away:
"Get me the hell out of here," I say,
"And return me to my play."

For all I have been given,
I have not given much.
They are right when they accuse me
That my Jesus is a crutch.

As such this is my faith.
As much as this my prayer:
That You, O God, would know me,
And still give a damn; a care.