Dear God,

I quit.

This thing that you’re asking of me is really hard.

That’s an understatement. This is easily, the hardest thing I’ve ever done – or tried to do. I’m pretty sure I haven’t been doing well enough to say I’ve done anything – it sounds so completed, so successful.

I don’t think I’m very lazy. I don’t think I’m one that always chooses the path of least resistance. I don’t break into a cold sweat at the idea of confrontation, generally.

Before we met, my greatest ambition was to be a revolutionary. I wrote petitions against Wal-Mart’s pharmacy policies and collected signatures at their front door in high school. I got great grades in all my speech/debate classes; my college instructor advised me to leave that university and pursue law because I wrote him a letter disagreeing with him. Once a month I took friends into the city to stand opposite a group of protestors we thought were wrong. I worked 10 PM to 6 AM every Friday and Saturday night my freshman year of college in the ONLY all-night diner in town, changed my major after one semester, and still made great grades.

I’m reasonably capable. I can wield determination. I like a challenge. I used to boast that I thrive on stress.

But this is too much.

I’m starting to wonder if I ever knew what stress was before I committed myself to ministry.

I’m starting to think that I only like challenges because I’d never really met one before before You told me to forgive freely, or be a slave of all.

I’m starting to doubt my determination since I realized I live in the tenth hour.

I’m starting to believe I’m capable of nothing, because the one thing You tell me to trust in is Your ability.

So I quit.

It’s too much.

I’m afraid I can’t even give You two weeks’ notice. Two more weeks of this will drive me into a deep, dark hole.

Effectively immediately, I quit counting on my own capabilities. I am not capable. You will need to do everything from now on. If you want me to help in any way, I certainly will, but I take no credit for anything. I will sign my name to nothing.

Effectively immediately, I quit being determined to do anything. I will look for You around every corner. I will take things one step at a time. I will let bad ideas fail without bating an eye, and I will let Your plans take off without, as I said, signing my name to anything.

Effective immediately, I accept no challenges. I will defer them all to You.

If You want me to go, I will go, but You will have to make a way. If You want me to speak, I will speak, but You will have to tell me what to say. If You want me to give, I will give, but You will have to give me something to give. If You want me to stay, to shut up, to keep – I will do those things as well, even if everyone else is yelling at me to go, or say something, or give.

All of this, I assume, will dissolve this debilitating stress.

I understand that this puts a lot on You, and on short notice, but I’m confident in Your ability to handle it well. If this seems completely selfish – well, it probably is. I have no excuse for myself, I just can’t do this anymore. I know You will forgive me.

Yours if You’ll keep me,
Lex

(Do you need to quit too? Name what you’re quitting, or just sign here.)