Reflections on Romans

I must keep the Ten Commandments. I must be morally mature. I must have deep faith. Otherwise, I am a bad person, a filthy person, someone who deserves to be abandoned—as a human being, a friend, and a senior to others.

These thoughts have been deeply rooted in my mind for as long as I can remember. Looking back, perhaps I was obsessed with a certain “standard.” I believed that everything I said and did had to be sufficiently mature, that my thinking had to be exceptional, and that my faith in God had to be profound. Otherwise, I would never be good enough. Whenever I confronted my shortcomings—especially how immaturely I lived in everyday life—I would collapse under their weight. Every word I spoke and every thought I had seemed painfully beneath that standard. I even felt that I was more corrupt than those commonly called “nonbelievers.” I was convinced that anyone who did not know me well would never identify me as a Christian after seeing how I lived. Knowing all this and yet seeing no change in myself devastated me again and again. I was deeply afraid that someone might stumble in their faith or look upon me negatively after seeing me sing praises and pray so fervently during worship.

To be honest, I still feel much the same. I still believe that the way I live falls short of almost everyone else’s. I still worry that people might be led astray by watching me.

When these thoughts first began to trouble me, I spoke with a teacher. I told the teacher that I had something weighing on my mind, although I was not even sure it deserved to be called a concern. The teacher replied that this was simply what human beings were like, and asked why I thought Jesus had come to this earth. Only when we acknowledge that we are sinners can we truly come before the Lord, the teacher explained. And when we experience His love, we begin to change—slowly, but surely. I was simply grateful.

For a while, I no longer worried much about this. But when I entered my second year of high school and watched my everyday life fall apart again, the same obsession, the same questions, and the same pain returned. I agonized over why I was still this way even as a second-year student, and I stumbled repeatedly. Overwhelmed by self-reproach and guilt, I struggled even to approach the Lord. Those feelings interfered with prayer and kept me from immersing myself in worship. Even my daily devotional readings became difficult. How could someone like me—someone so lowly and ugly—possibly approach the perfect Lord? I was Icarus, except that I had broken my own wings.

As I understand it, Icarus in the myth ultimately fell to his death. But I did not. Just when I had reached my lowest point, the Lord spoke to me: You are still My son, a son whom I love more dearly than anyone. He kept reaching out through a friend’s reflections on Scripture, through sermons, and through brief words from teachers. I was profoundly confused. I kept asking how He could love someone like me, and why He loved me so much. Many times I prayed almost frantically, overwhelmed by both gratitude and remorse.

And I think our class on Romans was one of the ways He spoke to me. Blinded by my own shortcomings, I had lost sight of the Lord’s forgiveness and love. That class reminded me once again of those astonishing truths.

We are sinners. That is an unchanging fact. Until the day we die, we will never cease entirely to be sinners. But there is a truth far more powerful than this: the Lord declares us righteous. Romans 5:1 tells us, “Therefore, since we have been justified through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ.” The Lord is the one who saves us. He loves us, forgives us, and continually seeks us out. I am a sinner, yet the Lord tells me that I am His son.

One day during our Romans class, I was having an especially difficult time. My worries and guilt had piled up so heavily that I felt reluctant even to attend. I was barely listening when a single remark from Barnabas suddenly caught my attention: “We, too, are children of God!” I was startled. I do not know how others will read or receive this account, but I believe the Lord was speaking to me through Barnabas. Those words brought me a sense of salvation. To me, struggling as I was, the Lord affirmed once more: You are My son. At least, that is what I believe—or what I felt.

The truth is that some of that fear remains. It has not disappeared completely. Nor has there been any dramatic change in my life or in the way I appear to others. I still swear constantly and entertain repulsive thoughts. To be honest, even writing an essay like this was a tremendous challenge. Yet I believe that someday—truly, someday—my faith will grow like a tree and take firm root. I long for that with all my heart, and I believe the Lord will bring it about. I need prayer. I need prayer, a seal of assurance, and affirmation. I am still so inadequate, but I can only thank the Lord for embracing even someone like me. I look forward to the person I may become.