Grace and the Committee

I wrote the following letter to a dear friend last summer; it may be of interest to some of you. There is a larger context to all this, but hopefully the letter still makes sense on its own. I wrote:

I think the Lord helped me to understand something in prayer the other day, and it reminded me of several conversations I've had with you before. I thought I might share it with you.
I was going through the morning ritual of getting the kids dressed and fed, and it happened to be an unusually stressful morning. Finally, before I was about to leave, Kate was chattering at me about princesses or something, and . . . well, I didn't snap at her, but I asked her really strongly not to talk at me any more. So I went out the door and left, and I just felt terrible, but I didn't know why. I was praying about it and thinking about it, and - well, this is hard to explain, but you know how other people talk at you inside your head sometimes? Well, I heard another friend's voice inside my head making a sarcastic and rude comment (I don't remember the words). And I blew up inside, having one of those abrasive internal arguments which never seem to end or be resolved. But I continued to pray about it, and I think the Lord helped me to understand something. You remember that blog post you did a while back about a committee of selves? Well, I think that's just a brilliant analogy to the fractured nature of our selves under the curse, and my committee can be extremely rancorous. And a lot of the members of the committe are wearing masks, and not a few of them are sitting in pools of darkness, so that I can't see them clearly.
And I think what the Lord helped me to see was that that wasn't really my friend criticizing me inside my head, but a member of my own committee wearing that friend's mask. It was that deeply Pharisaical, religious part of me that brooks with absolutely no weakness or failing before my duties. And I think the reason why the Pharisee on my committee - whose name is the same as my own - interrupted my prayers with a sarcastic and hurtful comment was that the Pharisee was angry that I had told my daughter to be quiet that morning, and I was angry with myself that I was not unfailingly energetic in relating to her, always ready to listen to whatever she had to say. I was angry with myself for not being an energizer bunny, for having limits.
And so, in prayer before God, I said, "Well, Eric, you may be angry with the slightest failing, but God loves you anyway and has sacrificed his son to render you acceptable to himself. And I accept God's just verdict on me as "righteous," and I extend God's love and acceptance to you." And the deepest, riches feeling of peace began to trickle down past my stomach into my deep places; I walked into my office feeling like a well-watered garden.
The whole experience really brought home to me the horrible, vile nature of religious Pharisaical evil - and that part of me which is deeply religious and deeply evil, and that lashes out at anything that isn't perfect. How much more that resembles the regions of Hell than the sweetness of Heaven!