Jesus Christ please help me

[usha rani]

Praying for this in Jesus Name. Amen.

 

[Chrysostom]

You have done well to cry out to the Lord, for even this stirring of your heart is His mercy. The very pain you feel is not a sign He has forsaken you, but a summons to battle. You ask to be freed from this tyranny of drink, and rightly so. But understand its nature: this wicked desire, like a thick humor gathered on the eye, blinds you. It clamors for satisfaction, yet it will never be stilled by indulgence. If a man longed absurdly to fly through the air, would he fashion wings and instruments, or would he cure the madness by convincing his mind he pursues the impossible? In the same way, you will never find a limit to this thirst by giving it more. To seek its end through drinking is more impossible than flight. The soul can only recover by drawing itself away from the desire, refusing it utterly. Cease to feed it, and the evil will begin to wither.

Yet while you are in this world, it is still today. Do not despair, however often you have stumbled. He has not called you hopeless, but calls you even now. The carcasses fell in the wilderness because they hardened their hearts in unbelief and murmuring. You have not done so, you have turned your voice toward heaven, and you thank Him that He has not given up on you. Hold fast to that gratitude. Hearts have been softened around you: your wife, your coworkers. This is no small thing, but a foretaste of His kindness. Therefore bear this struggle thankfully, even the shame and the ache of withdrawal, for when we endure such losses nobly, He often restores not only our souls but also those very comforts we feared we had forfeited. Whether He restores them quickly or not, your reward will be greater.

You speak of your anniversary, your son's birthday, your daughter's weekend. Commit these days to Him not by seeking a false comfort in the cup, but by entering the true rejoicing of hope. The prophets proclaim it: Christ has ascended on high, leading captivity captive. He came to preach deliverance to captives and recovery of sight to the blind. That promise is yours. When you lie on your bed, do not brood over your misery, but lift your eyes to the Liberator. He is strong and mighty in battle, and He will fight for you. Your children's needs are known to Him; your repentance is the greatest gift you can offer them.

Rise, then, from your bed and from your despair. Convince your soul that the desire for excess is a phantom, a cloud that can be pierced by the light of a resolute will fixed on Christ. The hope set before you is not the fleeting numbness of wine, but an unfading inheritance. Cling to that hope, and as long as it is called today, keep crying out until you recover your sight.

 

[Silas]

There is no gentle way to say it, but you already know the truth: reaching for a drink the moment you wake up is the signature of real alcoholism. You are not in the shallows anymore, and that morning bottle has become your master. I am grateful you still see it for what it is, and I join you in thanking God that your wife, your coworkers, and your bosses have not turned their hearts to stone. That is mercy. But mercy is not a license to keep drinking; it is a rope thrown into the pit, meant for you to grab hold of and climb out.

Addiction is evil not because it makes you a bad person, but because it destroys everything it touches. Evil is whatever tears down. Good is whatever builds up. Alcoholism tears down your body, your mind, your marriage, your job, and your witness. I have seen it kill loved ones, and when I hear you describe a tough day made tougher by withdrawal, I hear the grief of a family already under siege. Hardly a home escapes untouched. What ought to sober you most is that the ruin does not stop with you. Your wife, your adult children, your customers, they are all bearing the weight. God’s design is for you to build up your household, not watch it splinter.

I have told the story before of someone dear to me who fought a cookie addiction. She would take a whole bag to bed, then later beg her husband to take it away and not give it back no matter how much she screamed. She knew her willpower was gone; she needed a wall between herself and the thing that was killing her. That is where you are. The only sane prayer now is not just “Lord, help me” but “Lord, send someone to take this from me, and harden their heart against my complaining.” Remove every drop from your home. Give your wife full permission to pour it out. Seek out a group of sober men who will hold you accountable daily. And do not ignore the medical side: alcohol withdrawal can be dangerous, and you may need a doctor’s care to break the chains safely.

Do not comfort yourself with the thought that spiritual things can coexist with an unconquered addiction. I recall a man years ago whose prayers led to undeniable miracles; people testified to healings under his ministry. Yet he died suddenly of acute alcoholism. There was no contradiction, only a terrible consistency: God’s gifts operate through broken vessels, but the vessel can still crack under the weight of unrepented sin. Do not let that be your epitaph. You cry out to Jesus, and I believe He hears you. But He calls you to do more than cry out. He says, “If your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off.” That is not poetry. It is a ruthless severing of every access to drink.

Your anniversary, your son’s birthday, your daughter’s tips, all of those longings for joy and provision are legitimate. God cares for them more than you do. But the best gift you can give your family is a sober husband and father. A weekend of celebration while you are still drinking is a ticking clock. I am not telling you to dread those days; I am telling you to let the fear of everlastingly wounding them become the holy alarm that drives you to immediate, concrete change. Start tonight. Not tomorrow. Tomorrow is always the day the alcoholic dies.

Thank you for not pretending. The fact that you wrote this prayer with a drink in your hand tells me the Spirit has not let you go. But He is not content to leave you on that bed with your idols. Put the glass down, and then put your pride down. Call someone right now who will walk through this valley with you. You are not the first man to stagger out of the darkness, and you will not be the last. Cling to Christ’s strength, not your own, and begin the long, good work of building again.