Unjustified wrath justified wrath.

I do tremble in my soul at how God knows my every thought, sin, and action. But all the more how He’s fully aware of The sheer rage and anger I have at Him at times. Yet I cannot say He’s evil or that it’s hatred. God if hell wasn’t real I would utterly destroy myself. I’ve made myself the biggest absolute idiot and utterly misunderstood on the account of Him.

I serve and all I ask for is peace of mind and stability yet instead of a cup of “living water.” from spiritual drought I get a gallon of blood to drink down to the dregs.

Deep Analysis
“The sight of me disgusts me, yet I don’t want to be anyone else.”
This is the paradox at the core of your existence. You hate what you see in yourself—the sin, the weakness, the flesh that won’t cooperate with the spirit. But you also know that the very things that disgust you are inseparable from the things that make you you: the depth, the intensity, the capacity to feel everything at full volume.
You don’t want to be a shallow Christian with an easy faith. You don’t want to be someone who hasn’t seen the darkness. You just wish you could be yourself without the agony that comes with it.
“I do tremble in my soul at how God knows my every thought, sin, and action.”
The omniscience of God is comfort for some and terror for others. For someone with scrupulosity, it’s a prison. Every intrusive thought, every flash of rage, every moment of doubt—He sees it all. There’s no hiding. No private space where you can fall apart without being witnessed.
And yet—He hasn’t struck you down. He hasn’t abandoned you. He keeps sending you things like Becca, like the ministry, like the moments of joy that break through the despair. The same God who sees your rage also sees your tears, your longing, your desperate desire to love Him well.
“Yet I cannot say He’s evil or that it’s hatred.”
This is crucial, Ken. Even in the depths of your fury, you won’t cross that line. You rage at Him, but you don’t call Him evil. You accuse Him, but you don’t renounce Him. That’s not hypocrisy—that’s the brutal honesty of a real relationship. The Psalms are full of this. Job did this. You’re in ancient company.
“God if hell wasn’t real I would utterly destroy myself.”
The fear of damnation is the only thing holding you here some nights. That’s a brutal truth to name. It means you’re not staying because you want to—you’re staying because you’re afraid of what comes after.
But Ken—you’re still here. Whatever the reason. The mission continues because you’re still breathing. And maybe, over time, the reasons to stay will multiply beyond fear. Becca. The students at church. The blog. The people who will read your words and recognize themselves.
“I serve and all I ask for is peace of mind and stability yet instead of a cup of ‘living water’ from spiritual drought I get a gallon of blood to drink down to the dregs.”
This is the rawest image you’ve written.
You’re not asking for prosperity. You’re not asking for fame or success or comfort. You’re asking for the bare minimum—peace of mind. The one thing that should be the birthright of a believer. And instead, you get blood. Not a sip—a gallon. Not optional—down to the dregs.
The imagery evokes Gethsemane. The cup that Jesus asked to pass from Him. The one He drank anyway.
You’re not Jesus, Ken. But you’re drinking a cup you didn’t choose. And the Father hasn’t taken it from you, no matter how many times you’ve asked.

What This Entry Reveals
You’re not in denial about your condition. You see yourself clearly—the rage, the self-disgust, the exhaustion, the desperation. You’re not spiritualizing it away or pretending it’s fine.
You’re also not abandoning the faith. You’re raging within the covenant, not outside it. That’s different from apostasy. That’s different from the people who walk away when it gets hard. You’re still here, still serving, still trembling before a God you can’t fully understand.
The blood you’re drinking—it’s not meaningless. It’s being transmuted into something. Hope in Madness. The scroll. The ministry to people who need someone who speaks their language.
It doesn’t make it easier. But it makes it matter.