Sermon — July 9, 2023
The Rev. Greg Johnston
There are certain phrases that evoke a whole story. One of my favorites is “I just couldn’t resist…” As in, “I’m trying to cut down on caffeine, but an iced coffee sounded so good on a day like today, and I just couldn’t resist.” “I know that Sue didn’t want me to tell anyone about her new boyfriend, but my friends started gossiping, and I just couldn’t resist…” Or, my favorite, from a blog post about someone’s visit to the British Museum, captioning a photo of an ancient Assyrian column—“I know it says ‘Kindly do not touch the displays,’ but I just couldn’t resist. I just kind of had to hug them.” I just couldn’t resist. I knew the thing I was about to do was the wrong thing to do. But I did it anyway.
It’s a feeling the Apostle Paul knew all too well. “I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate… I can will what is right, but I cannot do it. For I do not do the good that I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do.” (Romans 7:15, 17-18) Has this ever happened to you? I suspect it has. Maybe it’s a vice you can’t give up, or a New Year’s Resolution you inevitably fail, or the simple daily reality of procrastination. But it’s clear that sometimes, even when we know what the right thing is to do, we just can’t make ourselves do it. And even when we know that something’s wrong, well, sometimes… we just can’t resist.
Now, Paul isn’t writing to his therapist. This isn’t a confession to a trusted friend. In fact, Paul’s Letter to the Romans is his only letter to a congregation that he hadn’t founded himself, the only letter where he didn’t know the readers face to face. It’s his summary of the good news he was proclaiming for the churches in the great imperial city, and so his writing is less concerned with the practical questions and conflicts of the small-church life in Thessalonica or Corinth, and more with the big and universal themes of theology.
So this isn’t a description of a personal problem that only affects Paul. It’s his great reflection on psychology, and particularly on the human will. He describes a pattern that we all know to be true: That there’s a big difference between thinking you should do something or wanting to do it, and actually doing it; that knowing something is wrong doesn’t always stop you from choosing it.
It’s what Martin Luther called “the bondage of the will.” It’s as if our willpower, our ability to actually do the things that we want, is in bonds, chained up. And this sense of unfreedom, feels like a struggle with an external foe. We tend to identify with the part of ourselves that knows what’s right and wants to do it. And this other part, this part that struggles against it, feels like a foreign object, like something else that is inside us, but is not us; Paul calls it “sin that dwells within me,” something separate from his “inmost self,” and he experiences the struggle as a kind of “war” between “the law of my mind” and “another law,” the “law of sin” to which he is captive. (Romans 7:22-23) And he faces this struggling with bafflement. I know what’s right, he says. I just can’t do it. Something comes over me, and I just can’t resist it. And so “I do not understand my own actions.” (Romans 7:15)
This is a pretty pessimistic view of human nature. But in a paradoxical way, if this is the central Christian theological claim about the power of “free will,” it’s actually good news for all of us.
Because if you find yourself thinking that this sounds an awful lot like you—if there’s some unhelpful behavior you find yourself repeating again and again and again, however much you try to snap out of it, or some words that come out of your mouth that you immediately regret—I hope you realize that it’s not just you. It’s not just you who struggle with whatever you struggle with. It’s me. It’s Paul. It’s everyone around you, and every human being who’s ever lived. We may all struggle with different things at different times, but we all struggle with this divided human will, this gap between what we know and what we want and what we do. And when you fall into that gap, it’s not your fault, per se. It’s a pre-existing condition.
This is what allows Paul to write from a position of empathy, not judgment. In fact, this colors everything else that Paul has to say about sin and righteousness, grace and forgiveness. He doesn’t write like the preacher who stands in the pulpit pointing down at the pews, “You do not do what I want.” No. He stands, facing God, and lets us in on his prayers: “I do not do what I want!”
But at the same time that Paul claims that we are imperfect, that our wills are held captive, he continues to proclaim that we are fundamentally good. I don’t love Paul’s dichotomy between “the mind” and “the flesh,” the “will and the members,” as if the body were the source of sin; this has been a sexist trope since before Christianity even began. But I respect what I think Paul is trying to express, which is the goodness of the true self, of the “inmost part” that delights in God, despite the presence of this countervailing force. He does not condemn you and you as miserable sinners because we “just couldn’t resist”; he acknowledges our collective struggle against the universal “law of sin.”
And so far, at least to me, this is good news. It’s potentially life-changing news. If you are convinced that you’re the only one who struggles with temptations or regrets, then the natural shame response is to hide things away, to pretend everything’s fine, to suffer alone. But there are few things in human life that benefit from being hidden away. And to be reminded that everyone has struggled in a similar way, from the Apostle Paul himself down to the present day, is to be invited into the kind of honesty and compassion that come from this very human solidarity.
But that’s not all. It’s wonderful to be freed from the shame of being the only imperfect person in the world. But we need more. We want more. We don’t just want empathy when we mess things up. We want to stop messing up! We want to be more free to be the people we know we can be. We’ve learned over time that we can’t do it on our own, no matter how hard we try, and so we’re left asking the question of Paul, “Who will rescue me?” We need someone to save us from this mire.
And in he comes, riding on a donkey.
Now, it’s a core conviction of the Christian faith that Jesus is, in some sense, the ultimate answer to this problem; that he will “rescue” us from the power of sin and death, (Romans 7:24) that he will “set us free from the waterless pit,” as Zechariah says (Zechariah 9:11); that one day, all that has been hidden will be revealed, and we will know God face to face, Amen.
But in the meantime, this work has already begun. Jesus has come, and taught us, leaving us with a deeper understanding of what is good and right, what it means to love. Jesus has died and risen, breaking evil’s ultimate hold over us, although that victory is not yet complete. Jesus has sent the Holy Spirit, to be our advocate and guide. And just as Paul imagines that “sin dwell within me,” so Jesus has promised that the Holy Spirit will dwell within us. We are not alone in our struggles. In fact, to the extent that we do anything right, that we even try to resist, it’s because our will is moved and strengthened and led by the very spirit of God.
And through it all, God treats us with compassion, supporting us when we need strength and forgiving us when we fail. Jesus looks at each one us, knowing us more deeply than anyone else, knowing the things about us that we’ve never told a spouse, or parent, or friend. Jesus listens to all our inner turmoil, and replies,
“Come to me, all you that are wearing and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from m; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.” (Matthew 11:29-30)
Amen.