Despair, Conscience, and Christ

One wakeful night in the wild land of Self-Talk, two ideas resumed their interpretation of their person's life:

 One said, "You always were a bit strange. Makes sense you're in this mess. You never did work quite right. Just give up. You're pretty helpless, but you can do something. You can give up."

The other replied, "You know 'giving up,' as you call it, would be sin. You're not even supposed to be thinking like that. Sure, you're going to have consequences when you've done wrong--but you ought to trust God to bring good even out of that. And maybe if you work really hard, you can minimize those consequences. Or maybe working hard to ward off disaster is your consequence. Hmm?"

The first idea resumed, "Yeah, well, where are you going to get the oomph for that, sluggard? But you could worry about it all night, and then use your sleepiness as an excuse to get nothing done tomorrow. Why do all these happy people have demands on you, anyway? They have no idea. Just wash your hands of it. You'd never have to worry again."

The second idea (who introduces himself as "conscience"), exclaimed, "Listen to you! Do you know how blessed you are? How blessed you've been? Where is your gratitude? Forgotten under all the pity-party confetti, huh? Come on. You know this stuff isn't the truth. Also, you're not supposed to worry. Besides, God's got a plan."

First idea: "Ouch. He sure does. To bad you're too wussy for it."

Conscience: "Nice excuse."

And then, finally, like a cool breeze in and around and beyond the fly-buzz conversation, a Voice from beyond that little land spoke:

It is not the healthy who need a doctor, but the sick. But go and learn what this means: ‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice.’ For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.

And,

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners . . . .