Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

I don’t remember when I got saved. But I do remember the first time I doubted my salvation. I was in kindergarten, and being a good little Christian tot who attended a good little Christian preschool, I had asked Jesus into my heart at the ripe old age of 4. After a particularly convicting chapel service at my elementary school, my now-5 year old heart just wasn’t convinced that Jesus had moved in for real. And so I buried my face in the overstuffed couch cushions and prayed as fervently as a child can that he would. But the precedent had been set.

Any time I heard fire and brimstone preached, or about all the good feelings you would have if Jesus was in your heart, or if it was the weekend, I doubted. Every altar call seemed directed to me. I felt weighed down with my sins and every so often would find relief in repeating the familiar prayer. If there is a Guinness record for kneeling down and begging for salvation and forgiveness, I could easily hold the title.

As a teenager, these episodes began to include additional guilt-relievers, such as smashing my CD collection. I was baptized several times, always with the same result – getting soaking wet. As an adult, I went to the extreme of getting the words “Faithful. Fearful. Forgiven.” tattooed on my wrist, a sure sign that I must be those things. 

Even today I find myself in a place of doubt. Only this time, I’m not doubting my salvation, but the basis for it. Over the past 20-some years I’ve become so comfortable in the pattern of Doubt, Confess, Recommit; but this doubt is unfamiliar and the old method isn’t going to fix it. Maybe this is my opportunity to finally reach some kind of peace about such things. And then again, maybe it’s not.