A Good Guy, Surrounded by Sinners

One of the most remarkable letters I have ever seen...

I enjoy receiving letters from readers. I’m grateful that people take the time to say “thank you”, or to offer constructive advice, or that they take the time to read my articles at all.

But on rare occasions, a particular letter stands out with such clarity and power that I’m left in awe. They say what needs to be said, and there’s nothing left for me to add. At times like that I realize that my readers are often better writers than I am.

This particular letter is full of personal pain and raw emotion. Thankfully, the author gave me permission to publish. He only asked that I don’t share his name.

So without further ado, here is this man’s stunning letter:

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Dear Fr. Joseph,

I’ve been reading your blog for a few years, and I always enjoyed it. But I recently realized I made a big mistake. Not just when reading your articles, but when reading anyone else’s articles, or even the Bible itself.

I always saw myself as the good guy in the story.

I saw myself as Noah – a righteous man standing alone in a world of sinners, misunderstood, mocked, doing the right thing while everyone else drowned in their own stupidity. When you wrote about patience, I nodded. “That’s me. I am the faithful remnant.”

I saw myself as Abel – offering my best, only to be struck down by a jealous brother. When you wrote about suffering, I felt vindicated. “Everyone is against me because I am good, and they are evil.”

I saw myself as Job – innocent, afflicted, surrounded by false friends who blamed me for my own suffering. When you mentioned Job, I almost wept. “Finally, someone understands. I am like Job!”

But recently – I don’t know how to say this – I realized I had it backwards.

In every story, I am not the righteous man. I am the *other* guy.

I am not Noah. I am the man drowning in the flood of my own rage, blaming everyone else for the rising water while I refuse to get in the ark. The ark was humility. I chose to stay outside and shout at the rain.

I am not Abel. I am Cain. I offer my anger on the altar and call it a sacrifice. And when God does not accept it, I resent anyone who seems more peaceful than me. I have killed friendships with my tongue and called it “speaking the truth.”

I am not Job. I am one of Job’s friends. I have sat across from people who were suffering – my wife, my daughter – and instead of sitting in silence with them, I lectured them. I blamed them. And when they finally walked away, I called them betrayers.

I remember my daughter’s face when she was maybe seven or eight. She had done something small – spilled juice, I think – and I exploded. Later, I found her crying in her room. She said, “Daddy, why are you always so mad?” I had no answer. I blamed her mother. I blamed work. I blamed everyone except the one man in the room: me. She is older now. She doesn’t cry anymore. She just stays quiet around me. That silence is a judgment I cannot escape.

This is humiliating to write. I am sweating as I type it. But I have to say it, because I have spent ten years being wrong and calling it righteousness.

Someone once told me that a sign of progress is not feeling less angry, but feeling more *tired* of your own anger. I used to think that was weak. Now I realize I am exhausted. Not from fighting the good fight. From fighting everyone.

I spent hours in front of the screen playing World of Warcraft and Call of Duty – not because I truly enjoyed them anymore, but because in those worlds, I was always the hero. The one with the righteous cause. The one who could finally win. I leveled up, I dominated, I conquered. And then I would close the laptop and look at my real life – the debt, the broken relationships, the mirror – and the rage would come rushing back because real life would not let me be the hero.

I wrote long, furious posts online. I called out enemies. I built a whole identity around being the man who would not back down, who saw the truth, who was surrounded by fools and cowards. I called it courage. It was just addiction – addiction to the feeling of being right.

And the worst part? I knew better. I read the Bible. I read your blog. I knew the story of the Publican and the Pharisee. I knew the story of the Prodigal Son. I just never applied them to myself. I was the Pharisee thanking God I was not like other men. I was the older brother, angry at the feast, refusing to go inside because my pride was colder than my father’s mercy.

So here is my confession, Fr. Joseph. I am not the good guy. I am the sinner in every parable. I am the man who needs to beat his chest and say, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

I don’t know how to stop being angry. I don’t know how to stop blaming. I don’t know how to look at my debt, my empty days, the distance between me and my daughter, and say “I did that” without running back to the old story where I am the victim.

But I know I have to start somewhere. So I am starting with this letter.

I’m not even ready to send this to my own priest yet. Maybe in time I’ll be able to do that. I had to get this off my chest and tell someone. But writing it changed something. For the first time in years, I am not defending myself. I am just... sitting in the truth.

If you have any advice for a man who is tired of being the bad guy but doesn’t know how to become anything else, I would read it. I might even try it.

But even if you don’t write back – thank you. Your articles were not the problem. I was.

And that is actually the first honest thing I have said in a decade.

- A former righteous man

(who is not righteous at all)

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So, that’s it. That’s the letter that blew me away. May the Lord Jesus have mercy on this man, and bring him true inner peace.

I would offer him advice, if I thought he needed it. But based on what I read above, the Holy Spirit is already working on his heart, and he is already well on the way towards healing.