There’s a question that comes up more often than I care to admit.
“What does it mean if I keep struggling with the same sin?”
Not just falling into it, but fighting it. Resisting it. Hating it. And still finding myself back there again.
For a long time, that question felt like an accusation.
“If I were really changed, I wouldn’t still be dealing with this.”
But there’s another way to see it, and once you see it, it changes the tone of the whole fight.
The struggle itself matters.
Without the Spirit at work in you, there is no real reason to struggle with sin. Especially the kind no one sees. The kind you could carry quietly, without consequence from anyone around you. There would be no tension. No weight. No internal resistance. You would simply do what you want and move on.
But that’s not what’s happening.
Something in you pushes back. You feel it in that moment before you act, and after. Sometimes it’s subtle, sometimes it’s heavy, but it’s there.
That tension is not meaningless.
It’s evidence.
Scripture talks about the Spirit convicting us, and that word matters. Conviction is not the same thing as condemnation.
Condemnation says, “This is who you are. Stay here.”
Conviction says, “This doesn’t belong to who you are anymore.”
One traps you. The other calls you forward.
That’s why the struggle feels the way it does. You’re being pulled in two directions at once. One part of you still leans toward what’s familiar. Another part of you is being drawn toward something better.
And that pull is not coming from nowhere.
It’s easy to hear “guilt and shame are gifts” and take that the wrong way, because most of us know what it feels like to be buried under them.
But think of it more like this.
When you touch something hot, pain isn’t there to punish you. It’s there to tell you, “Move your hand.” Without that signal, you wouldn’t just feel better, you’d do real damage and not even realize it.
That discomfort you feel when something’s wrong isn’t meant to crush you. It’s meant to wake you up. Not to keep you staring at the mistake, but to turn you away from it.
Because if you stop at the feeling, you’ll stay stuck in it. If all you do is sit in guilt, replay it, and label yourself by it, nothing changes. You don’t move closer to God. You just become more aware of the distance.
But if you treat that feeling like a signal instead of a sentence, everything shifts.
You start to respond. You pause sooner. You recognize the pattern faster. You choose differently.
And over time, obedience gets stronger. Not in a forced, white-knuckled way, but in a steady, growing way. The same situations don’t hit quite as hard. The same habits lose some of their pull. You still notice the struggle, but it doesn’t control you the same way.
And the weight you used to carry after every failure starts to lessen. Not because sin suddenly doesn’t matter, but because you’re no longer living in it the same way.
You’re responding.
You’re turning.
That’s the part people miss.
The presence of struggle is not proof that nothing is changing.
It may be the clearest sign that something is.
Not that you’ve arrived, but that you’re no longer asleep.
Because a person without that tension can go a long time without ever questioning where they’re headed. But someone who feels that pull, who recognizes it, and begins to respond to itâthat’s someone being shaped. Slowly, sometimes painfully, but genuinely.
So if you’re in that place where you’re fighting something you wish wasn’t there, don’t rush to write that off as failure.
Pay attention to it.
Respond to it.
Let it lead you somewhere.
Because the goal isn’t just to feel bad about sin.
The goal is to move away from it.
And if that’s starting to happen, even in small ways, then something in you is very much alive.
Category: Reflections
Thoughtful meditations on Scripture, faith, suffering, obedience, and growthâwritten as exploration, not instruction.
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The Struggle Matters
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The Christian Calling
If youâve been hurt by Christians, you may have walked away with a clear picture of what they think their job is.
Enforce the rules. Correct behavior. Win the argument. Fix the people around them.
Maybe that was aimed at you. Maybe it still is.
Hereâs what Iâve come to see: none of that comes from Jesus.
Before we can talk about sin, culture, or controversy, we need to spend a moment on something more basic. It’s something that, if we get it wrong, distorts everything else.
What is the role of a Christian?
Most of us were taught, in some form or another, that you clean yourself up before you come to God. That you get your act together first. That you earn your way toward Him.
Thatâs exactly backwards.
At its core, Christianity isnât a system for producing better behavior. Itâs a relationship between God and people and it begins with God moving toward us, not with us proving ourselves to Him. Scripture is consistent on this: God calls, invites, and restores before transformation ever takes place. Change follows relationship. It doesnât precede it.
When Christianity gets reduced to rule-keeping or moral correction, it loses its center. The Gospel isnât about becoming acceptable to God. It begins with realizing that Heâs been reaching toward you the whole time.
That is noteworthy, because it shapes how Christians are meant to live among others.
A Christian is called to love God, to accept Jesus as Savior, and to allow the Holy Spirit to guide their life. From that relationship flows a restored walk with God, a life shaped by Christâs example, and a witness that reflects Godâs character through word and action.
This is why Jesus didnât tell His followers to win arguments or fix society. He told them to follow Him. And when He did send them out, He made their role clear. They were to speak, to witness, and to invite. If they werenât received, they were told to shake the dust from their sandals and move onânot to force understanding, argue people into agreement, or stay where their presence was no longer welcome. (Luke 9:5)
Jesus often spoke in agricultural terms for a reason. Seeds are planted, growth happens later, and harvest comes in its own time. Christians are called to plant seeds, not force outcomes. That calling is lived out through how we speak, how we love, how we forgive, and how we endure hardship. It shows up in patience, humility, and faithfulnessâeven when results remain unseen. Especially when it costs us something.
Growth belongs to God. (1 Corinthians 3:6)
The roles Scripture assigns are actually pretty clear. Transformation belongs to God (Ezekiel 36:26). Conviction belongs to the Holy Spirit (John 16:8). Witness belongs to us (Acts 1:8).
At no point are Christians given authority to remake hearts, regulate behavior, or force repentance. Those things arenât just beyond our ability; theyâre beyond our jurisdiction. When Christians try to do Godâs work for Him, the result isnât holiness. What should be trust turns into control. What should be humility turns into judgment. Control and judgment have never produced genuine faith or good fruit.
The Christian calling isnât to change people. Itâs to point to the One who doesâand thereâs a real difference between standing above someone trying to fix them and standing beside them pointing toward Christ.
Even well-intentioned efforts at making disciples can come across as judgmental, intrusive, or high-pressureâand in some cases that turns into emotional manipulation trying to force a response, a conversion, or some other kind of change (Matthew 28:19â20).
True discipleship begins with an invitation, not pressure. (John 1:39)
This process, most of the time, looks quiet and unassuming. Someone notices that something has changed in your life. They ask why you seem to have peace, or hope, or stability where you once didnât. And youâre able to answer honestlyânot about how you fixed yourself, but about how Jesus is working in the middle of your mess.
Jesus didnât build His ministry on intimidation or dominance. He built it on presence. He walked with people, listened to them, shared meals with them, spoke the truth, and extended grace. Again and again, He drew people toward Himself rather than pushing them away. A Christ-like life does the same. It doesnât repel people or demand attention. It invites them to look closer.
That doesnât mean everyone will respond well. Faith has never been universally welcomed. But thereâs an important difference between being rejected for the truth and driving people away through our posture. Christians are called to be light, not spotlights. (Matthew 5:14â16)
Judgment assumes authority over outcomes we donât control and hearts we canât see. Scripture is clear that it belongs to God. (James 4:12) When Christians adopt a judgmental posture, they misrepresent both Godâs character and their own role. Thatâs not a call to ignore truth or abandon conviction. We are called to speak truth from humility, not superiority.
Jesus warned that the standard we apply to others will be applied to us as well. (Matthew 7:2) That warning isnât meant to silence truth. Itâs meant to restrain arrogance. Every one of us lives by graceâstanding because of mercy we didnât earn. Remembering that keeps us grounded and honest.
A faith that forgets grace quickly becomes cruel.
If Christianity is being lived faithfully, it should be recognizable from the outside. People should see lives being restored, not people being sorted. Humility rather than hostility. Conviction paired with compassion. A hope that holds up under pressure. (John 13:34â35) Christianity doesnât need to be defended by aggression. It stands on the strength of the One it points to.
Christians arenât called to control culture, police morality, win arguments, or force belief. Those things may feel urgent, but theyâre not our assignment. Weâre called to love God, follow Christ, live faithfully, and love truthfully. To trust God with outcomes we canât control.
That calling is demanding. It requires patience, restraint, courage, and humility.
But itâs also freeing.
Because it reminds us that weâre not the Savior. (John 3:30)
The Christian life isnât about making others look more like us. Itâs about becoming more like Christâand trusting Him to work through that witness.
Everything elseâgrowth, repentance, changeâflows from there.
Thatâs the role of a Christian.
And itâs enough. -
God Works
God is omnipotent. That simply means God has all power. Nothing is beyond Him. He doesnât need tools, time, or effort the way we do. Creation itself came into existence because He spoke. Scripture tells us plainly that âwith God all things are possibleâ (Matthew 19:26).
Because of that truth, a natural question arises. If God can do anythingâĤ why doesnât He? Why doesnât He simply fix everything? Why doesnât He come down and play Oprah with the world?
âYou get healed. You get a million dollars. You get happiness.â
It sounds almost humorous when we say it that way, but underneath the joke is a very real question. If God is loving and powerful, why isnât His intervention more obvious? The answer begins with understanding what God actually wants from us.
If God revealed Himself constantly in undeniable, unmistakable waysâif miracles happened every hour and divine voices echoed from the skyâbelief would be unavoidable. But unavoidable belief is not faith. Scripture describes it this way:
âNow faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.â
(Hebrews 11:1)Faith involves trust. It involves believing before we see the outcome. Jesus spoke directly about this after His resurrection when Thomas demanded physical proof. After allowing Thomas to touch His wounds, Jesus said: âBlessed are those who have not seen and yet have believedâ (John 20:29). Faith, in other words, matters deeply to God. Not because God needs validation, but because faith reveals something about the heart.
Christian faith is not merely intellectual agreement with a set of ideas. Itâs not just saying, âYes, God exists.â Biblical faith is relational. When someone places their faith in Christ, theyâre trusting Him with their life, their forgiveness, their identity, and their future. And that kind of trust doesnât grow in a vacuumâit grows from love.
Think about it in human terms. The people we trust most deeply are the ones we love most deeply. Trust and love reinforce one another. In that sense, faith becomes a reflection of love. When we believe in Godâwhen we choose to trust Him even when life is confusing, painful, or uncertainâweâre expressing love toward Him. The depth of our faith reveals the depth of our love.
So does that mean God simply sits back and watches the world unfold? Not at all. Jesus said, âMy Father is working until now, and I am workingâ (John 5:17). God is not absent. He hasnât abandoned the world. But much of His work now happens in a way that many people overlookâHe works through His people.
Throughout Scripture, God repeatedly accomplishes His work through ordinary people who are willing to trust Him. He worked through Moses to lead Israel out of Egypt. He worked through Esther to save her people. He worked through the apostles to spread the gospel across the world. That pattern has never really changed. When someone feeds the hungry, comforts the grieving, speaks truth in love, forgives someone who wronged themâthat is God working through the faithful.
Paul described believers this way:âFor we are Godâs workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them.â
(Ephesians 2:10)Notice the order. God prepares the work. We walk in it. The power belongs to God. The obedience belongs to us.
Hereâs something many believers eventually discoverâliving by faith often leads us into situations we would never choose on our own. Left entirely to ourselves, most of us prefer comfort. We prefer safety. We prefer quiet lives where we donât draw attention to ourselves. Yet faith has a way of pushing us past those boundaries. Someone might feel called to encourage a stranger who is struggling. Someone might speak openly about their faith even though it makes them nervous. Someone might step forward to serve or lead in ways that stretch them far beyond their comfort zone.
From the outside it may look like courage. From the inside it often feels like obedience mixed with trembling. And that trembling obedience is exactly where God often works most clearly. Paul described it this way:âWe have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to usâ
(2 Corinthians 4:7)We are the jars of clayâordinary, fragile, imperfect. The treasure is the work of God happening through us.
I know that from the inside. Iâm a writer nowâyouâre reading the proof of thatâbut there was a long stretch of time when I had no interest in writing about faith at all. I wasnât running from God exactly, but I wasnât moving toward anything either. God had to work around a fair amount of my own resistance to get me here. The path wasnât straight and it wasnât comfortable, and I wouldnât have chosen most of it. But looking back, I can see it clearly: He was preparing the work long before I was willing to walk in it.
Thatâs how it tends to go. When a person truly understands Godâs loveânot as a concept but as something theyâve actually receivedâsomething shifts. The cross is the clearest demonstration of that love:âWhile we were still sinners, Christ died for usâ
(Romans 5:8)God didnât wait for humanity to deserve His grace. He offered it first. When a person receives that love and responds with love of their own, faith begins to grow. Obedience becomes less about obligation and more about relationship.
Living that way changes how a person approaches everything. Acts of kindness become expressions of obedience. Forgiveness becomes an act of trust. Serving others becomes a way of reflecting Christ. Jesus put it simply:âLet your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heavenâ (Matthew 5:16)
The goal isnât to impress people. The goal is to point people toward God. And often the most powerful witness isnât a sermon or a debate. Itâs a life that quietly reflects the character of Christ.
God doesnât need human help to accomplish His purposes. But He chooses to involve us anyway. When believers step forward in faith, even trembling faith, they become part of something far larger than themselves. A kind word at the right moment. An act of mercy shown to someone who expected none. These things may seem small. But they travel.
I stood in front of a room full of college students not long ago and talked about all of this. I was terrified. I didnât want to be there. But I was there, because I had faith. Somewhere along the way, God had been working on me long enough that I finally stopped arguing with it.
Faith may begin as belief without seeing. But over time, you start to see it everywhere. God has been working all along. And often, He works through the hearts of those willing to trust Him, even when their hands are shaking. -
Walking Through the World
Thereâs a temptation that quietly creeps into many Christian lives.
It usually begins with good intentions.
Someone warns us that the world is full of corrupting influences. Certain music is labeled âworldly.â Certain books are discouraged. Certain movies are avoided. The solution offered is simple: surround yourself only with things that are explicitly Christian.
Clean music. Clean entertainment. Clean conversation.
A clean bubble.
At first glance, this approach seems safeâeven wise. After all, Scripture does warn us about guarding our hearts and minds.
But thereâs a subtle danger hidden inside this approach.
If we withdraw completely from the world, we slowly lose the ability to understand the people living in it. And if we no longer understand them, how can we reach them?
Jesus never hid from the world. He walked straight through it.
He sat at tables with tax collectors and sinners. He spoke with fishermen, zealots, skeptics, and outcasts. He told stories about farmers, dishonest stewards, prodigal sons, and corrupt judgesâstories drawn directly from the messy reality of human life.
Jesus didnât avoid the broken world. He entered it. And because He entered it, He could speak to the people inside it.
When Christians isolate themselves entirely from secular culture, something unintended begins to happen.
We lose our vocabulary for the human experience.
Much of modern art, music, and storytellingâwhile not explicitly Christianâis wrestling with the same questions Scripture addresses: Why do people feel empty? Why do we hurt each other? Why does the world feel broken? Why does nothing fully satisfy?
If we avoid every expression of those questions simply because theyâre not labeled Christian, we risk becoming disconnected from the very struggles people are trying to express.
The result is a strange kind of distance. We begin speaking a language that only other Christians understand. Meanwhile, the rest of the world is trying to describe its pain in songs, stories, and poems that weâve never taken the time to hear.
Jesus didnât speak from a distance. He spoke directly into the lives people were already living.
Engaging with the world doesnât mean absorbing everything uncritically. It means listening with discernment.
Discernment changes how we receive what we encounter. Instead of letting a song dictate our worldview, we interpret the song through the lens of truth we already hold.
A piece of music might describe despair, but a Christian listener recognizes the deeper longing underneath it. A story might describe brokenness without offering redemption, yet we can still recognize the human need that redemption would answer.
In other words, weâre no longer passive consumers.
We become interpreters.
Thereâs a song by Emily Jane White called Hole in the Middle. Itâs a dark folk song about the emptiness people carry inside themselves. The central lyric is simple:
âEverybodyâs got a little hole in the middle.â
The song doesnât offer an explanation for the emptinessâjust an honest look at a culture reaching for whatever might fill it. Pleasure. Identity. Superstition. Nationalism. None of it works.
Taken at face value, it reads like a commentary on human darkness. But listened to through a different lens, the metaphor becomes strikingly familiar.
Christian thinkers have long described humanity as carrying a spiritual voidâa place in the heart that nothing in this world can fill. Augustine put it plainly: âOur hearts are restless until they rest in You.â
The songâs âhole in the middleâ sounds remarkably like this idea.
The difference isnât in the observation. Itâs in the explanation.
The songwriter sees emptiness. The Christian understands why it exists.
From a Biblical perspective, the hole is the mark of our fallen condition. We reach for anything that might fill itâpleasure, success, power, relationshipsâbut nothing finally satisfies. Scripture calls this idolatry: the habit of reaching for substitutes instead of the Creator.
Without intending to, the song ends up describing a deeply Biblical reality.
This is where engaging with secular art becomes valuable.
Songs like this often function as modern laments. Theyâre attempts to articulate a deep unease about the human condition. People feel the emptiness. They just donât always know what to call it.
When Christians refuse to listen to those expressions entirely, we miss an opportunity to understand the language people are using to describe their lives. But when we listen carefully, we begin to recognize familiar patternsâthe longing for meaning, the frustration with brokenness, the search for something that will finally satisfy.
These arenât foreign ideas.
Theyâre the same questions the Gospel answers.
Itâs worth noting that weâre not required to accept an artistâs interpretation of their own work. A song may mean one thing to the person who wrote it, but the listener is free to receive it from a different point of view.
Through the lens of faith, a song about emptiness can become a reminder of humanityâs need for grace. A lyric about darkness can become a recognition of our need for redemption.
The art hasnât changed.
The way we receive it has.
Christians arenât called to pretend the world is cleaner than it really is. Nor are we called to hide from its ugliness.
Weâre called to walk through it.
Jesus walked through villages full of doubt, corruption, sickness, and sinâand He spoke truth directly to the people.
If we completely isolate ourselves from the culture around us, we risk losing the ability to do the same.
But if we engage thoughtfullyâlistening carefully, interpreting wiselyâwe can recognize the echoes of deeper truth hidden in unexpected places.
A dark folk song. A restless lyric. A voice trying to name something it canât quite reach.
Thereâs a hole in the middleâand the people singing about it are closer to the Gospel than they know. Theyâve already admitted the need. Thatâs further than most conversations get.
We just have to be close enough to hear them say it.
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The Bible
The Bible has been described in a hundred well-meaning ways.
Itâs a love story. A war story. A story about a Father and His children. A moral guidebook. A record of human history.
None of those descriptions are wrong. Theyâre just incomplete.
The problem isnât that we say too much about what the Bible contains. Itâs that we often miss what the Bible is actually about. When we misunderstand that, everything downstream gets distortedâhow we read Scripture, how we talk about faith, how we understand God, and how we understand ourselves.
The Bible absolutely contains stories of love. It tells of conflict, both physical and spiritual. It reveals a God who calls His people children. But it isnât a loose collection of inspiring themes. Itâs a unified narrative with a center of gravity.
And that center isnât humanity.
The primary story of the Bible is the story of Jesus. It describes who He is, why He came, and what He accomplishes for us. Everything else in Scripture points toward Him, prepares the way for Him, or explains the meaning of His life, death, and resurrection.
When we start anywhere else, we end up reading the Bible sideways. Read that way, we often see only a barrierâa thicket of rules and history that keeps us at a distance. But when we reorient ourselves and read it rightside up, toward Jesus, we see an open door.
It helps to say plainly what the Bible isnât, because a lot of confusion starts there.
The Bible isnât primarily a self-help book. It doesnât exist to teach us how to be better people, manage our emotions, or live more productive lives. Following the wisdom of the Bible will naturally guide us there over time, but self-improvement is a byproduct, not the point.
Itâs not primarily a rulebook. The commandments matter, but theyâre not the solution. In fact, one of the Bibleâs most consistent messages is that rules alone only reveal whatâs broken in us. The Law canât fix us.
Itâs not primarily a history textbook. The Bible includes real history, but it doesnât attempt to record every event, culture, or civilization. Itâs selective on purpose.
And itâs not primarily about what humanity can achieve. That assumption quietly sneaks in when the Bible is reduced to moral lessons or inspirational examples. Read that way, Scripture becomes a measuring stickâone weâll always fail to reach. Or worse, one we begin to think we can reach on our own.
What the Bible is actually about is God acting on behalf of humanity.
From beginning to end, it bears witness to a single truth: left to ourselves, we donât, and canât, meet Godâs standard. Not because the standard is unfair, but because weâre flawed.
This is the secondary story running throughout Scripture: human failure. We see it immediately. Creation is declared good, and humanity breaks trust almost as soon as itâs given. From there, the pattern repeats endlessly. Promises are made and then broken. Rescue is offered, gratitude fades, and rebellion returns.
The Bible doesnât flatter us. It tells the truth about who we are when weâre honest and who we become when weâre not. In this way, Scripture becomes a home for the person whoâs run out of ways to fix themselves.
But human failure isnât the point of the story. Itâs the context that makes the point necessary. The Law doesnât exist to save humanity. It exists to show us that something is wrong and that we canât fix it ourselves. It reveals a gap between us and God.
That gap is where Jesus stands.
Jesus doesnât appear late in the story as a backup plan. Heâs the fulfillment of what the story has been pointing toward all along. The prophets anticipate Him. The sacrifices foreshadow Him. The Law exposes the need for Him.
Jesus doesnât come to help us try harder. He comes because trying harder was never going to be enough. He comes to break the cycle of humanityâs inevitable failure.
To say that humanity is flawed isnât to diminish human value. Itâs to acknowledge our limits and to make room for something we actually need. Not endless instruction, but relationship. Not constant correction, but guidance. Not abandonment, but a Father who steps in with boundaries, nurture, and love.
This is where many of us misread the Bible. We read it as a long list of examples to imitate and warnings to avoid, and then wonder why it feels crushing or contradictory.
The Bible doesnât say, âHere is how to climb your way back to God.â It says, âYou canât. So God comes to you.â
Thatâs the Gospel. Itâs not merely advice, instruction, or self-improvement. Itâs about rescue.
When we demand that the Bible be something it was never meant to be, we either reject it unfairly or misuse it dangerously. Some dismiss it because it doesnât answer every possible question. Others force it to speak on matters it never intended to address. Both miss the point.
The Bible tells us what we need to know to understand who God is, who we are, and why Jesus matters. It doesnât tell us everything we might want to know. It tells us what we need to know. The truths we discover outside of Scripture are real and importantâscience, history, art, discovery, and the human experience all matter. They simply serve different purposes than Scripture.
The Bible isnât diminished by its focus. Itâs powerful because of it.
How we read the Bible shapes everything we receive from it.
When itâs read as a book about self-improvement, it produces shame. When itâs read as a rulebook, it produces pride or despair. When itâs read as a weapon, it produces harm.
But when itâs read as a witness to Jesus, it produces humility, clarity, and hope.
Suddenly the Bible stops asking, âAre you good enough?â And starts answering, âYou were never meant to be on your own.â It stops sounding like a list of demands shouted from a distance and begins to sound like an invitation offered up close.
The Bible doesnât hide humanityâs flaws. It doesnât exaggerate human potential. It doesnât minimize the cost of redemption.
It tells the truth plainly:
We fail. Repeatedly.
God does not. Faithfully.And in Jesus, God does what we canât. He restores what was broken, reconciles what was lost, and offers salvation not as a reward for performance, but as a gift of grace.
Thatâs the story.
Everything else in Scripture exists to serve it.