The complexity of the human soul
When Sin and Suffering Cannot Be Easily Separated
Abraham Maslow once said that if the only tool you have is a hammer, then it is tempting to treat everything as if it were a nail. For much of my early ministry, that was exactly what I did.
I became a Christian when I was 29 years old. When I was 37, I took a part-time job as an administrative assistant in student ministry for our church at the time. When I was 39, I started writing women’s curriculum and “counseling” women. I had been a believer for 10 years, but in many ways, I was still immature.
I had no formal training—theologically, pastorally, or psychologically. I was hungry and self-taught. I read the Scriptures regularly and devoured books, sermons, and podcasts from preachers and teachers. But all of my learning had fallen into one camp. So my theological understanding, which informed both my teaching and shepherding, was narrow. And, it lacked the nuance and wisdom that form over time and through experience.
The only tool I had to address the human condition for many years was that of confession and repentance. And so I hammered the nail of sin over and over again. I looked for sin under every rock, in both my life and the lives of those I ministered to.
But ten years into my role as a minister, I heard author and therapist, Jay Stringer speak about sexual struggles. His approach disrupted my theological apple cart. Where I would have previously treated something like habitual pornography use or infidelity solely as sexual sin—hammering confession, repentance, and accountability—Stringer was asking different questions. He was looking beneath the behavior to what was driving it, exploring the story behind the struggle.
He warned that “until you heal what hurt you, you will bleed all over those who didn’t cut you.” It was the first time I considered that some sin may have taken root, not in proud unbelief or willful rebellion, but in grievous wounds that have not yet adequately healed, leaving us bleeding out on those around us.
I vividly remember the first time I used a different approach during a meeting with a young woman. She had been an active member of our church for a few years. At some point, we discovered that she was regularly using substances. Several of us on staff were in frequent conversation with her, and I began meeting with her every two weeks. We conducted accountability checks. We removed her from serving roles.
That is not to say that those were not appropriate responses to the situation, but looking back, I can see that we followed a process that was more about managing behavior than understanding her—how she got there and what kept her there.
One particular day, she came in for our meeting, and I asked her the usual question, “How are things?” She told me she was still using drugs. As she responded, I watched shame wash over her. I could tell she was waiting for the usual response, some mix of admonition and direction.
But for some reason that I can only attribute to the Spirit and not my own wisdom, I chose a different response. Rather than addressing her behavior, I asked her to tell me her story. I told her I wanted to hear more about her life. What was it like growing up? What were her parents like? When did she become a believer?
I realized that though I had known this young woman for some time, I did not really know her. She did not bare her soul in some sort of tell-all. But she did begin to disclose at a high level the abuse and neglect she endured throughout her childhood—things she had never really discussed with another human being before.
As she told me some of the circumstances surrounding her young life, I began to understand more about her struggles with substance abuse. The suffering she had experienced led her to search for escape through various means. And what had once served her as a means of coping now enslaved her. This significantly altered our conversations going forward. We did not shy away from discussing self-destructive behaviors, but we moved beyond mere behavior modification to address their origins. I stopped treating her like a nail and started treating her more like a person with layers and complexities.
She was not just a person struggling with sinful behaviors that needed to be addressed but a person who had experienced great suffering who needed to be seen, known, and loved, who needed compassion and someone to walk with her through the painful parts of her story. She needed healing as much as repentance. What she helped me see is that the human condition resists simple categories, as well as simple solutions.
I share this not as a ministry technique, but because I think most of us as believers, whether we realize it or not, suffer from similar thinking. And the way we view and treat ourselves in our own struggle can influence how we view and treat others in theirs.
I learned something valuable that day about sin and suffering, something that has continued to refine how I think, write, teach, and serve those God brings to me. It has also slowly begun to shift how I see myself when my actions fall short of the standard of holiness I’ve set for myself.
What I have come to understand is that the human condition, on this side of eternity, is complex and needs nuance. Sin is sin, yes. And repentance is an important spiritual discipline and right response to sin. But not all sin has the same root of rebellion and proud unbelief.
We are like three pieces of paper that have been glued together. The first piece of paper is the image of God, the second is sin, and the third is suffering. You cannot cleanly separate them—each piece of paper leaves remnants of itself attached to the other—making it difficult to discern where suffering ends and sin begins. Did I do this only because I am sinful? Or did I do this because of past or present suffering? Or did I do this because my suffering and my sin in some way are working in tandem with one another? I have legitimate pain, legitimate grievances, but I am also making volitional choices.
The Scripture is clear that we all sin and fail to live according to God’s commands (1 John 1:8, Romans 3:23). When a man approached Jesus and asked him which of God’s commandments is the greatest, Jesus responded,
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.”
All sin, at root, is a failure of this love—love of God and love of neighbor—but the reasons we fail vary enormously. All of us make willful, intentional choices that fail to love God and neighbor. We choose self over others in both mundane and egregious ways. An orthodox view of sin, the need for repentance, and the call to holiness is a daily part of following Jesus. And as believers, it is crucial to remember this.
But sometimes, our choices—even when they result in the sin of failing to love God and neighbor—are not made out of intentional rebellion, but out of subconscious self-protection. Our sympathetic nervous systems feel threatened, and we can go into fight, flight, or freeze responses. We react to the threat and reach for whatever tool promises safety and security in that moment. It can be difficult to discern whether our actions stem from willfulness, weakness, or woundedness—wounded by what has been done to us, weakened by the frailty of our flesh, and willful in the choices we make. The proportions vary, and the categories blur, but all three are almost always present.
Even the most vile adult was once a vulnerable child who was shaped not only by their own sinful nature, but also by the nurture of (or lack of) their caregivers and the circumstances of their young life. There are times when even our struggles with sin stem from a wound or unmet need that now compel us to do and say things that do not reflect love for God or our neighbor—times when the wounded becomes the wounder.
Pain can make us unpredictable. When we feel cornered or threatened, or when someone stands in the way of what we think we need, we may lash out. Unhealed pain can also weaken us, make us irrational, and lead us to make foolish choices—choices that, while promising peace or comfort or security, actually rob us of it instead.
This is not meant to excuse or justify sin—in ourselves or others. In our desire to be compassionate and extend grace, it can be tempting to use the complexity of a person’s story as a reason to avoid speaking hard truth. Sin is never justified! But we should also understand the significant impacts things like trauma, abuse, neglect, poverty, or bullying can have on a person. Understanding why someone does what they do is not the same as endorsing or excusing it.
When we seek to better understand a person—how they came to be who they are, what significant experiences they had in life, and what core wounds they have—even if that person is ourselves, we are better equipped to receive hope, healing, and freedom and to extend it to others.
Treating an abuse victim who is using pornography or substances with a hammer may only further increase their feelings of shame and isolation, trapping them in a perpetual cycle of sin and shame. Calling a person who lost a parent as a child, whether through divorce or death, to repent of the way they attempt to control those in their lives, may treat the fruit, but it never gets to the root—things like fear of abandonment, insecurity, or the need for assurance. Both people may act in sinful ways, but like those pieces of paper glued together, we cannot cleanly separate what is willful and what is weakness or woundedness.
Maybe you have been treated that way by others? Maybe you have treated others that way? Or maybe you have even treated yourself that way. When the only answer to human dysfunction is sin, then the only tool is the hammer of repentance. You may be able to remove the fruit from the tree through behavioral modification for a short time, but the fruit will eventually reappear. It is like the game of whack-a-mole, constantly whacking at sin, only to have it pop up somewhere else.
I have personally experienced the mental, emotional, and spiritual exhaustion this produces in a believer’s life—constantly on watch and ready to whack at the next sin that raised its head. It was only after others gave me the tools to understand the complexities of the human condition that I was able to respond with curiosity—something I learned to extend to others before becoming willing to extend it to myself.
Because we are complex and multilayered, our needs are too. Thankfully, the Bible does not flatten us out. It is far more nuanced and compassionate in its approach to the human condition than we are toward ourselves and one another. Throughout the Scripture, God addresses intentional and unintentional sin—those committed in weakness and ignorance. The entire chapter of Leviticus 4 is God making provision for sins committed unintentionally. In Psalm 19, David speaks of hidden sins—those sins he does not even know he has committed. And the Apostle Paul makes allowances for weakness, woundedness, and willfulness as well, encouraging the Thessalonians to act according to the need: warn those who are lazy, encourage those who are timid, take tender care of those who are weak, and be patient with everyone (1 Thessalonians 5:14). And in Matthew 26:41, Jesus acknowledges that even though the spirit in us may be willing, the flesh itself is weak.
Jesus understands our complex condition. He knows, better than anyone, that just as you cannot cleanly separate the pieces of paper glued together, you cannot cleanly discern the weakness, willfulness, and woundedness of the human being. There is no one-size-fits-all solution on this side of eternity. We need different things from him at different times. Sometimes we need compassion. Other times, we need correction. Sometimes we need to be built up, and sometimes we need to be humbled. But it is Jesus’ kindness that leads us to repentance (Romans 2:4), and it is his grace that strengthens our hearts (Hebrews 13:9) in our struggles with sin.
Jesus does not treat our wounds with a hammer, nor does he treat our willful rebellion with a soft hand. Instead, he comes to us with the right medicine for the circumstance. He meets each one of us where we are—weak, wounded, willful, or likely a mixture of all three—offering us exactly what we need.
He sees us more clearly than anyone else, including ourselves. He sees all of our weaknesses, all of our wounds, and all of our willfulness. He is not blind to our failings, nor is he blinded by them. He sees those small, unseen sacrifices we make. He hears the tears as they silently fall onto our pillows in the night. He knows the dark thoughts hidden away in the crevices of our hearts and minds. And the invitation is always the same: Come to me.
Come to me with your unhealed heart and let me bind up your wounds.
Come to me with your willful rebellion and let me show you the path of life.
Come to me with your weakness and let me offer you my strength.
Do you believe that Jesus has made provisions for your weakness, woundedness, and willfulness and that, as the Great Physician, he is able to apply the right medicine to your needs?
Questions for Reflection
Engage the Scripture
Read Leviticus 4:1–3 and Psalm 19:12–13. What does it reveal about God’s character that he made provision for sins committed unintentionally and even for sins we don’t know we’ve committed? How does that change the way you think about your own struggles with sin?
Read 1 Thessalonians 5:14 slowly. Paul instructs us to respond differently to different kinds of people — warning some, encouraging others, caring tenderly for the weak, and being patient with all. What does it suggest about how God sees human struggle that he doesn’t give a single, one-size-fits-all response?
Explore Your Story
Think about a recurring struggle in your life, something that keeps surfacing no matter how hard you try to address it. Have you primarily approached it as a sin behavior to be managed, or have you ever asked what might be beneath it? What would it look like to get curious about its roots rather than just managing its fruit?
Have you ever been on the receiving end of the hammer—someone addressing your behavior without knowing your story? How did that feel? Have you ever treated yourself that way, whacking at your own sin without ever asking what was driving it?
Is there a sin you are currently struggling with that you have been excusing, attributing it to wounds or weakness, where Jesus is calling you to confess and repent? What would it look like for you to own responsibility for your sin, even if it took root in a current or past wound?
Encounter the Savior
Jesus is described in this article as the Great Physician who applies the right medicine for the circumstance—not treating wounds with a hammer, or willful rebellion with a soft hand. Which do you most need from him right now: compassion for your wounds, correction for your willfulness, or strength for your weakness? Sit with that question and bring your honest answer to him.
Read Matthew 11:28–30. What words stand out? What promises does he make? What part of yourself have you been reluctant to bring to him, perhaps because you weren’t sure whether it was sin or suffering or simply weakness? What would it mean to bring that specific thing to him today?
Experience Shalom
Take ten minutes to write a journal entry beginning with this prompt: “The struggle I have been hammering at is _____. If I’m honest, what I think might be beneath it is _____.” Ask Jesus to show you the fear, emotion, wound, desire that might lie beneath the behavior. Don’t try to fix anything or even edit your thoughts. Just be curious, let yourself look.
Now read back over what you wrote. Bring it to Jesus as a prayer—not asking him to fix it, but asking him to show you what he sees when he looks at it. Write down whatever comes. Does anything shift in how you see yourself when you imagine him looking at your story with neither blindness to your failings nor blindness by them?
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