Ziklag - Struggle with Sin

Habit, Holiness, and the Weight of Conscience

“If giving in to temptation means the Spirit isn’t present, then I don’t see how I’ll ever be able to call myself a true Christian.” - One of You

These are not the words of a heretic or a backslider. They are the words of a man who’s trying. A man drowning in the weight of Christian expectation while clutching the promise of forgiveness with white-knuckled desperation.

In a world obsessed with shallow grace or performative repentance, the question burns: How do we understand the daily failures of the Christian life without falling into despair? One Lutheran response—sober, theologically consistent, and yet lacking in comfort—provides a case study in how easily truth can become a millstone.

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The Pastor’s Caution

On an LCMS-affiliated “Ask the Pastor” YouTube channel, a question was posed: Can someone be forgiven if they keep falling into the same sin? The pastor responded with a firm theological stance:

“Forgiveness freely flows, but only to the penitent… habitual confessing of the same sin means that the repentance is questionable and the Law needs to be better understood, as does the gospel.”

He gives an example—a young man battling pornography. The man repents, prays, fights. But if he continues falling, the implication becomes clear: he may not truly hate the sin. And if he doesn’t truly abhor it, how can he truly be repentant?

The Law, sharp as a sword, is drawn. But the balm of the gospel is sheathed.

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The Common Man’s Rebuttal

In a private thread, another voice—raw, unfiltered—responds not with theological precision, but with lived anguish:

“I fail in so many different ways each day. I constantly catch myself slipping… I’m scared after each meal because I’m worried I’ve committed gluttony… I guess struggling with sins and having failures means I don’t walk with the Spirit.”

This is where theology meets suffering. Where doctrine, if not wielded with mercy, becomes a cudgel. What was meant as clarity on repentance ends up sounding like a warning label on damnation.

This Christian isn’t just afraid of sin. He’s afraid of himself. Of being unsavable. And all because someone taught him that victory must be immediate and measurable.

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A Mother’s Wisdom

Into this dialogue enters another voice. It doesn’t come from the pulpit—it sounds more like a mother’s kitchen counsel:

“Don’t be an idolater… Do you really want a harem now? Don’t you want sons?”

This voice does not coddle. But neither does it condemn. It redirects the eyes away from the temptation not through fear, but through honor. Through calling. Through the image of manhood as builder of a household, not consumer of fantasies.

“It’s not about never seeing evil. It’s about the zeal which averts the eyes.”

Zeal, not shame. Honor, not mere avoidance. This isn’t pietism—it’s purpose. It doesn’t say sin doesn’t matter. It says: Stop being stupid. You were made for more.

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Who Gets to Speak?

The conversation ends with a brutal clarity:

“Stop listening to pompous assholes whose home lives you have not examined… DO NOT EVER take life advice from someone you cannot hold accountable or test according to their own words. This is common sense 101.”

Perhaps that’s the core of it. Not that theology is wrong. But that its messengers are often untested, unscarred, and therefore untrusted.

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A Complete Word

If the Church is going to speak to the man drowning in his own failures, she must do better than say, “try harder.” She must proclaim Christ crucified for that man—precisely because he cannot conquer on his own. Not to excuse sin, but to give courage for the fight. Not to minimize repentance, but to remind him that repentance is not the absence of temptation—it’s the turning of the heart again, and again, and again, toward mercy.

In a world where everyone wants to build a cult of self, perhaps the boldest act of faith is to say:

“I am weak. But Christ is strong. And He is not done with me yet.”