Perhaps I’m just a rebellious jerk, but I don’t like being told what to do, what to think, or what to believe. Details of denominational distinction disgust me. My gut tells me a simple truth, and I find the heaping upon of doctrine irrelevant to my relationship with God.

I seem to have three types of days.

Type one: I wake up well-rested, find the sun shining on my bed, enjoy my breakfast, and feel the calm presence of God as I get ready for my day.

Type two: I wake up tired but ready to sacrifice, largely open to an unknown future.

Type three: I wake up and feel like I got run over by a truck. You know the rest.

It doesn’t matter in any of these situations whether I was baptized as a baby, as a kid, or as an adult. It doesn’t matter if I was baptized at all. It doesn’t matter if I’ve taken communion recently. It doesn’t matter if I’ve been a good boy and gone to Sunday school. It doesn’t matter if I think we’ll have free will in heaven.

All that matters is that I drag my spirit with all its baggage into the presence of God and lay it before him without holding back. This means I bring my nastiness along with my goodness. This means I bring the grudge I’m holding and the fears I have about the future. It means I bring my endless worrying about my car’s front suspension and my rage at getting a parking ticket.

Laying these before God without holding back means that I release them to him. I no longer cling to the grudge and my self-righteousness; I no longer cling to the belief that I can control my future if I am smart enough and responsible enough; I no longer cling to the belief that my careful driving habits can make my car last for ten years.

Also, it means I have to stop fantasizing about ramming that damn parking services truck.