Thoughts on Romans 7

It’s not proficient in my repertoire, but it should be: I repeat it enough to myself, or rather, some weak form of it, to regard it with enough importance as would seem to merit memorization. But it’s a lot of do’s and do not’s and not do’s. Frankly, it’s a tongue twister that hurts the entire head when thought about.

If I were to be completely honest, I would tell you that I don’t like the shirt you’re wearing. Or if I were to say what I truly thought, I would say that you look nice enough, but your nose could use some work, don’t you agree? But both would be severely unkind and I do not want you to think me rude.

It was only time, seconds in fact, before the words jaywalked across my tongue and hit your ears unpleasantly. Do you remember? That day I told you that I thought your nose was “bulbous: like two sticks meeting with a ball formed on the end”. So we’re back to where we started: me saying things I do not intend to say.

What I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.

Have you thought that, too? You, with the bulbous nose. Do your ears need tuning, too? I asked if you have ever wanted to shake your fist at that sneering, snotty voice inside your head that says the things you hope never pass your lips and vibrate the eardrum of another. Who owns that voice anyway? Some say the devil: some red-horned meanie that shows up at Halloween parties with a plastic, light-up pitchfork and a date that is its opposite in white winged wonderfulness.

You still listening? I’m over here. Eyes weak too, huh? I’m on a roll, now that I think about it, it’s not just your looks I can’t stand.

What I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do.

Day after day after day, it’s the very same thing: I do, I don’t do. I gossip and cheat and envy and lie. I tell myself tomorrow will be different. But the mean words slide out of my mouth just the same; you can’t tell me it’s a devil in me.

As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me.

Sin. Told you it wasn’t a lit-up devil. More importantly, these moments of clarity last for only a short while so I’d appreciate your attention while I have it. I was getting to a point, but got distracted by your nose again. Bah. I didn’t mean that. I really am trying to be less critical. You probably wouldn’t have guessed it, but I haven’t said even close to all of the things that have been scrolling through my mind this entire time. You’re sure I can’t help you find a plastic surgeon? Ah, again, my sincerest apologies. This could go on forever.

For I have desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.

Believe me. I want to be nice. I want to tell you that I like everything about you. I’m exhausted by the constant critical work of my mind’s eye. I wish I could put a stopper on my throat to prohibit it from giving air to my opinions.

For 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.

I keep on doing.

I keep on doing!

Call it the devil. Call it sin. Blame Adam; blame Eve. Keep shaking your fist at whoever or whatever it is that makes me this way. And this side of heaven, it seems it might be the only thing I can do.