Why You Still Struggle

Good morning, everyone. If we haven’t met, I’m Matt VanCleave, one of the pastors here at Blue Oaks.

I have this recurring argument with myself about cleaning my house.

I’ve actually developed what I think is a pretty compelling case for why I should stop doing it.

First of all, I’m usually the only person who notices.

I can vacuum the entire house, clean the kitchen, wipe everything down, and apparently everyone else thought the house looked fine before I started.

So I’ve tried reasoning with myself.

Matt, this isn’t necessary. Nobody cares. In a few days it’s going to look exactly like this again.

At the molecular level, you’re basically just rearranging small particles. Go do something productive with your life.

And here’s the strange thing. I find my argument very persuasive. I completely agree with myself. I can decide, “I’m not going to spend my time doing this anymore.”

And then a few days later, I’m cleaning again. Sometimes I’ve escalated it. Now I’m washing windows. I’m shampooing carpets. I’m doing things no one has asked me to do, solving problems no one else seems to believe are problems.

And somewhere in the middle of it I’ll think, “Why am I doing this again?”

Now, cleaning your house too much is a relatively harmless problem.

But that experience isn’t. Because we all know what it’s like to know something and still have difficulty living according to what we know.

We know losing our temper isn’t going to help the conversation, and then we lose our temper.

We know worrying about something at two o’clock in the morning isn’t going to change what happens at eight o’clock in the morning, and yet there we are.

We know comparing ourselves to someone else makes us miserable, and five minutes later we’re doing it again.

And when the stakes get higher, it’s not funny anymore.

There are people who know another drink isn’t going to help.
They know opening that website isn’t going to help.
They know sending that text isn’t going to help.
They know hiding the truth is only making things worse.

They don’t need more information. They already know.

And sometimes they genuinely want to change.

That’s one of the most frustrating discoveries we make about ourselves.

Knowing what is right and wanting what is right doesn’t necessarily give us the power to do what is right.

And this is where Romans gets really interesting.

Because if you’ve been with us the last couple of weeks, you might remember what Paul has just told us.

In Romans 6, Paul said our old self was crucified with Christ. He said we’ve died to sin. He said we’ve been set free from sin. He said sin is no longer our master.

And last week we ended with this incredible declaration: “The wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

So we might expect Paul to say, “And that’s it. You belong to Jesus now. The struggle is over.”

But that’s not what happens.

Instead, Paul is about to describe one of the most frustrating experiences of being human.

I know what is good. I want what is good. And somehow I still find myself doing what I know isn’t good.

So what happened?

If I’ve been set free from sin, why does sin still feel so powerful?
If my old self was crucified with Christ, why do old patterns still show up?
If I belong to Jesus, why can obedience still be so difficult?

Or to put it very simply: Why do I still struggle?

That’s the question Romans 7 is going to help us understand.

And Paul begins in a place we probably wouldn’t expect. He begins with marriage.

Listen to verses 1 through 6.

Do you not know, brothers and sisters—for I am speaking to those who know the law—that the law has authority over someone only as long as that person lives?

For example, by law a married woman is bound to her husband as long as he is alive, but if her husband dies, she is released from the law that binds her to him.

So then, if she has sexual relations with another man while her husband is still alive, she is called an adulteress. But if her husband dies, she is released from that law and is not an adulteress if she marries another man.

So, my brothers and sisters, you also died to the law through the body of Christ, that you might belong to another, to him who was raised from the dead, in order that we might bear fruit for God.

For when we were in the realm of the flesh, the sinful passions aroused by the law were at work in us, so that we bore fruit for death.

But now, by dying to what once bound us, we have been released from the law so that we serve in the new way of the Spirit, and not in the old way of the written code. (Romans 7:1-6)

Now, before anyone starts building a theology of marriage out of those verses, that’s not Paul’s point.

He’s using marriage as an illustration of something his audience would immediately understand — a law has authority over you only as long as you’re alive.

If two people are married, they’re bound to one another by that covenant. But when one of them dies, that legal relationship changes.

Paul isn’t trying to explain every possible circumstance surrounding marriage, divorce, or remarriage.

He’s making one very simple point: Death changes the relationship.

And then in verse 4, he tells us why he’s bringing this up:

So, my brothers and sisters, you also died to the law through the body of Christ… (Romans 7:4)

There it is again — “you died.”

That’s the language Paul used throughout Romans 6.

You died with Christ.
Your old self was crucified with Christ.
You were buried with Christ.

And now Paul says something else happened because of that death — you died to the law.

Now, that can sound strange because Paul has already told us the law is good. In fact, later in this chapter he’s going to call it holy… and righteous… and good.

So the problem isn’t that God’s law is bad.

The problem is that the law can tell us what’s right… but it can’t give us the power to do what’s right.

And sometimes, strangely enough, the existence of a boundary can even awaken something in us.

John Ortberg tells a story about some friends of his who had a four-year-old daughter named Shauna. She was what you might call a strong-willed child.

Shauna loved riding her tricycle, but she kept riding farther than her mom wanted her to go.

So one day her mom took her outside and established very clear boundaries. There’s the tree. There’s the driveway. You can ride your tricycle anywhere between those two places. But you cannot go beyond them.

And then she made the consequences equally clear. “If you ride beyond those boundaries, you’re going to get a spanking.”

Shauna apparently considered this information for a moment. Then she backed herself up toward her mom, pointed to her backside, and said: “Well, you might as well spank me now, because I got places to go.”

I love that.

Because apparently Shauna had done the cost-benefit analysis and decided the freedom of the open road was worth it.

But there’s something profoundly human about that little four-year-old.

The boundary didn’t create something bad in Shauna. It revealed something that was already there.

And that’s exactly where Paul is going.

God’s law can identify the good. It can expose what’s wrong. It can show us the boundary. But the law cannot transform the human heart.

Think about my cleaning problem. I don’t need another rule. No one needs to come to my house and post a sign: “Matt, thou shalt not shampoo the carpet this week.”

I already know. Knowledge isn’t the problem.

And that’s why Christianity can’t ultimately be reduced to a better set of rules.

If rules could transform human beings, we’d be doing remarkably well by now.

We have rules everywhere. We have laws. Employee handbooks. HOA regulations. Terms and conditions that every one of us has carefully read before clicking “I agree.”

We know how this works.

Rules can restrain behavior.
Rules can identify behavior.
Rules can even punish behavior.

But rules by themselves cannot create a new heart.

And notice what Paul says next because this is really important.

He doesn’t say we died to the law so that now we can do whatever we want.

Verse 4:

You also died to the law through the body of Christ, that you might belong to another, to him who was raised from the dead, in order that we might bear fruit for God. (Romans 7:4)

That’s beautiful.

You were released from one relationship… so that you could belong to another.

And notice the purpose: “That we might bear fruit for God.”

Paul isn’t interested merely in getting people to stop doing bad things. God wants to produce something in us. A different kind of life.

A life marked by…

Love
Joy
Peace
Patience
Kindness
Goodness
Faithfulness
Gentleness
Self-control

Paul will use that language explicitly when he writes to the Galatians. But the idea is already here.

God isn’t simply interested in behavior modification. He wants transformation.

And then verse 6 gives us a little preview of where this whole argument is eventually headed.

Paul says:

We serve in the new way of the Spirit, and not in the old way of the written code. (Romans 7:6)

Don’t miss that — “The Spirit.”

Paul mentions him here almost in passing. And then he moves on.

But keep that word in the back of your mind.

Because by the time we get to Romans 8, Paul is going to talk about the Holy Spirit over and over and over again.

It’s almost as though Paul is planting a seed. He’s saying: “The answer to your struggle isn’t going to be more rules.”

Something else is coming. Someone else is coming.

But before Paul tells us how the Spirit gives us power to live differently, he needs to help us understand why the law, as good as it is, could never do that.

And that’s where he goes next.

Because all of this raises an obvious question.

If the law can’t change us… and sometimes even seems to make things worse… is there something wrong with the law?

Paul anticipates that question.

Listen to verses 7 through 13.

What shall we say, then? Is the law sinful? Certainly not! Nevertheless, I would not have known what sin was had it not been for the law. For I would not have known what coveting really was if the law had not said, “You shall not covet.”

But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of coveting. For apart from the law, sin was dead.

Once I was alive apart from the law; but when the commandment came, sin sprang to life and I died. I found that the very commandment that was intended to bring life actually brought death.

For sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, deceived me, and through the commandment put me to death. So then, the law is holy, and the commandment is holy, righteous and good.

Did that which is good, then, become death to me? By no means! Nevertheless, in order that sin might be recognized as sin, it used what is good to bring about my death, so that through the commandment sin might become utterly sinful. (Romans 7:7-13)

Now notice how emphatic Paul is.

“Is the law sinful? Certainly not!”

Paul doesn’t want us walking away thinking, “Okay, so God’s law was the problem.”

The law isn’t the problem. In fact, Paul says the law did something incredibly important for him. It showed him what was happening inside him.

And the example he chooses is interesting. “You shall not covet.”

That’s the tenth commandment.

And it’s different from most of the others.

You can see someone steal.
You can see someone murder.
You can see someone commit adultery.

But you can’t see someone covet.

Coveting happens inside you. I can sit right next to you in church and covet your house.

Your career.
Your marriage.
Your vacation.
Your retirement account.
Your hair.

And that’s what’s inconvenient about coveting. There’s no breathalyzer for it. No one pulls you over and says, “Sir, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle. You’ve been comparing yourself to your neighbor.”

That’s what makes this commandment so interesting.

Paul had spent his life learning how to obey God’s law externally.

Remember who he was. He was a Pharisee. He had devoted his life to Torah.

In Philippians 3, when Paul describes his former life, he actually says that when it came to “righteousness based on the law,” he was faultless.

That’s an extraordinary claim.

From the outside, Paul looked incredibly obedient.

And then he encountered a commandment that reached somewhere rules usually can’t reach. His desires.

“You shall not covet.”

And suddenly the question wasn’t simply: “What am I doing?”

The question was: “What’s happening inside me?”

And Paul discovered that you can control your behavior remarkably well while your heart is moving in an entirely different direction.

You can smile at someone while resenting them.
You can congratulate someone while envying them.
You can give generously while desperately wanting people to notice.
You can say the right thing while hoping it hurts.
You can look incredibly righteous on the outside while an entirely different conversation is taking place inside you.

Jesus talked about this all the time.

He said murder doesn’t begin with a body on the ground. It begins with anger.

Adultery doesn’t begin in a bedroom. It begins with desire.

Jesus kept taking people who were asking, “Did I break the rule?” and saying: “Let’s talk about your heart.”

That’s what the law ultimately did for Paul. It exposed him.

But then Paul says something even more disturbing.

Verse 8:

But sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, produced in me every kind of coveting. (Romans 7:8)

That’s fascinating.

The commandment says: “Don’t covet.” And somehow sin takes even that good command and turns it into an opportunity.

Paul uses the phrase “seizing the opportunity” twice in this paragraph.

The Greek word he uses was sometimes used for a “base of operations” — a place from which an attack could be launched.

That’s Paul’s picture.

The law is good. But sin establishes a base of operations and uses even something good to do its work.

That’s what makes sin so deceptive.

Sin doesn’t need everything in your life to be bad. It can take something good and distort it.

Ambition can be good. Sin can turn it into a need to prove that you’re better than everyone else.

Sexual desire is good. Sin can detach it from love and turn another person into something to consume.

Money can be good. Sin can turn it into security.

Parenting is good. Sin can turn your child’s success into evidence of your own worth.

Even religion can be good. Sin can turn it into pride.

That’s how deep the problem goes.

Sin doesn’t merely tempt us to choose bad things instead of good things. Sin can take good things and ask them to do what they were never designed to do.

And Paul says that’s even what happened with God’s law.

The law said, “Here’s the way that leads to life.” Sin took the commandment and used it to produce death.

Not because the commandment was bad. Because sin is that destructive.

Paul says in verse 11:

For sin, seizing the opportunity afforded by the commandment, deceived me. (Romans 7:11)

That word “deceived” should sound familiar.

We’ve heard this story before.

A command from God.
A human being.
Sin.
Deception.
Death.

That’s Genesis 3.

God gives Adam and Eve a good command.

The serpent takes that command and twists it — “Did God really say…?” Maybe God is withholding something from you. Maybe the boundary isn’t there because God loves you. Maybe the boundary is keeping you from something you deserve.

And they reach.

Paul is showing us that the pattern of Adam isn’t simply something that happened thousands of years ago. It’s still happening in us.

God says: “Trust me.”
And sin whispers: “God is keeping something from you.”

God says: “This leads to life.”
Sin says: “You’d be happier outside the boundary.”

And that’s why Paul ends this section by saying:

So then, the law is holy, and the commandment is holy, righteous and good. (Romans 7:12)

The law isn’t the villain in this story. Sin is.

The law is more like an X-ray.

An X-ray can reveal that your arm is broken. But no one gets angry at the X-ray for breaking their arm.

The X-ray showed you what was already there.

And God’s law does something similar. It reveals what’s happening inside us. It exposes sin. It shows us how deep the problem actually goes.

But an X-ray can’t heal a broken bone.

And the law, by itself, cannot heal the human heart.

Which brings Paul to the part of Romans 7 that most of us recognize.

Because now the conversation becomes intensely personal.

Paul stops primarily talking about commandments and begins describing what it actually feels like when you know what’s right… you want what’s right… and yet something inside you seems to be pulling in another direction.

And his description is almost painfully relatable.

Listen to verses 14 through 20.

We know that the law is spiritual; but I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin.

I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do. And if I do what I do not want to do, I agree that the law is good.

As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me.

For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.

For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing. Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it. (Romans 7:14–20)

I don’t know if there’s another paragraph in the Bible that describes the frustration of trying to change quite like that one.

“I do not understand what I do.”
“What I want to do I do not do.”
“What I hate I do.”
“For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out.”

Paul sounds like he’s been listening to conversations inside our heads.

This is my cleaning problem. Except now it’s not funny anymore. Because Paul isn’t talking about shampooing carpets.

He’s describing the experience of wanting to become one kind of person and repeatedly discovering something inside you pulling in another direction.

And there’s something here we need to talk about.

Because if you’ve been paying attention for the last couple of weeks, something Paul says should bother you.

Look again at verse 14:

I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin. (Romans 7:14)

Wait a minute. Paul… Didn’t you just tell us the opposite?

In Romans 6…

You said: “Our old self was crucified with him.”
You said: “We are those who have died to sin.”
You said: “Sin shall no longer be your master.”
You said: “You have been set free from sin.”

And now you’re saying: “I am unspiritual, sold as a slave to sin”? Which is it?

And followers of Jesus have wrestled with that question for a very long time.

Some interpreters believe Paul is describing his life before becoming a follower of Jesus — what it’s like to know God’s law and sincerely try to obey it without the transforming power of the Holy Spirit.

Others believe Paul is describing the continuing struggle of a follower of Jesus — someone who genuinely loves God and wants what is good but still experiences the pull of sin.

Others see Paul telling the larger story of Israel — God’s people receiving a good law but discovering that the law itself couldn’t free them from sin.

There are thoughtful Christians on all sides of that discussion.

And I’m not sure we have to settle every part of that debate this morning to hear what Paul wants us to hear.

Because there’s something all of those interpretations have in common — Knowing what’s right isn’t enough to make us right.

Even wanting what’s right isn’t enough.

The law can tell me what goodness looks like. My mind can agree with it. My will can even desire it. And I can still discover another power at work in me.

Paul calls that power sin.

And this is where I think we need to be careful with some of the language Christians sometimes use.

Maybe you’ve heard someone say: “Christians still have a sinful nature.”

And if you’re reading the NIV with me, you might say, “Matt, I didn’t just hear someone say it. I heard Paul say it about thirty seconds ago.”

Fair point. But there’s something worth knowing about the translation.

The Greek word Paul uses is sarx. Literally, flesh.

Older English translations sometimes interpreted that word for us as “sinful nature.” But many contemporary translations simply leave it as “flesh.”

And depending on what we mean by that, there can be truth in it.

We clearly still experience temptation.
We clearly still have desires that aren’t aligned with God.
We clearly still sin.

But the phrase “sinful nature” can also create a picture that I’m not sure is quite what Paul is saying.

It can sound as though there are two versions of me living inside the same body.

There’s the new Christian me… and there’s the old sinful me… and they’re wrestling over the steering wheel.

But remember what Paul has already told us.

He didn’t say your old self needs to become better behaved. He said: “Our old self was crucified with Christ.”

Something decisive has happened.

You are not the person you were.

So how can sin still be so present?

I think Paul gives us an important distinction right here. Listen carefully to verse 17:

As it is, it is no longer I myself who do it, but it is sin living in me. (Romans 7:17)

And then again in verse 20:

Now if I do what I do not want to do, it is no longer I who do it, but it is sin living in me that does it. (Romans 7:20)

Paul isn’t denying responsibility for his behavior. He’s not saying, “That wasn’t me. Sin made me do it.”

He’s distinguishing between “who he is” and “the sin that is at work within him.”

That’s important.

Sin is still present. But sin is not identical to Paul.

And Romans 6 has already told us sin is no longer his rightful master.

Maybe we could say it this way: Sin can still be present in territory it no longer owns.

Romans 6 says there has been a transfer of authority. Sin once reigned. It ruled. It was master.

But when we’re united with Christ, the old ruler is defeated.

That doesn’t mean every trace of the old regime disappears overnight. There are still patterns, desires, habits, ways of thinking, even ways our bodies have learned to respond.

But there’s a difference between remaining and reigning.

Sin remains. It doesn’t have to reign.

That’s why Romans 6 could say: “You’ve been set free from sin”… and then immediately tell us: “Therefore do not let sin reign in your mortal body.”

If sin automatically disappeared, Paul wouldn’t need to tell us not to let it reign.

Sin remains present, but it no longer has to be in charge.

And I think that’s incredibly important for those of us who follow Jesus.

Because sometimes we experience temptation or an old pattern resurfaces and immediately think:

“What’s wrong with me?”
“I thought I had changed.”
“Maybe I’m not really a Christian.”
“Maybe none of this is real.”

But the presence of struggle doesn’t necessarily mean the absence of transformation.

Sometimes the struggle itself tells you something has changed.

There may have been a time when you simply obeyed that desire. You didn’t fight it. You didn’t grieve it. You didn’t wish you were different.

Now something in you says: “I don’t want to live this way anymore.”

That’s not nothing.

Paul says in verse 22:

In my inner being I delight in God’s law. (Romans 7:22)

Whatever else we make of Paul’s description, notice the conflict.

He delights in what is good. He wants what is good. And yet he’s discovering something frustrating:

A desire for what’s right is not the same thing as the power to do what’s right.

I can know what’s right. I can want what’s right. I can resolve to do what’s right. And still discover that I need something outside my own willpower to actually become different.

And when we’re talking about addiction:

Or anger.
Or pornography.
Or bitterness.
Or dishonesty.
Or a pattern that’s slowly damaging your marriage.

At some point the question becomes: If knowing isn’t enough… and wanting isn’t enough… and trying harder isn’t enough… where does the power to actually change come from?

Paul is almost there.

But first he’s going to describe the conflict one more time.

And this time he reaches the end of himself.

Listen to verses 21 through 25.

So I find this law at work: Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me.

For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me.

What a wretched man I am! Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death? Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!

So then, I myself in my mind am a slave to God’s law, but in my sinful nature a slave to the law of sin. (Romans 7:21–25)

There it is. Paul has finally reached the end of the argument.

And listen to the frustration in his words:

“Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me.”
“For in my inner being I delight in God’s law…”
“But I see another law at work in me…”
And then he says it’s “making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me.”

Do you hear the progression?

Paul knows what’s right. He wants what’s right. He delights in what’s right. And he still can’t seem to produce what’s right.

And finally he cries out: “What a wretched man I am!”

I don’t think that’s Paul engaging in religious self-hatred. I think that’s exhaustion.

It’s what happens when you’ve tried to change yourself long enough and finally realize: I can’t rescue myself.

And then notice the question Paul asks.

He doesn’t say: “What do I need to know?” He knows.

He doesn’t say: “What rule am I missing?” He has the law.

He doesn’t even say: “What technique should I try next?”

He asks: “Who will rescue me from this body that is subject to death?”

Who? That’s the question.

And I think that’s the turning point of Romans 7.

Because most of us spend an enormous amount of our lives looking for a “what.”

What’s the right information?
What’s the right habit?
What’s the right book?
What’s the right diet?
What’s the right app?
What’s the right morning routine?
What’s the right system?

And there may be tremendous value in all of those things.

I love learning better ways of doing things.

But eventually we encounter things in ourselves that can’t be solved by another life hack.

There are things we don’t simply need help managing.

We need rescue.

And Christianity begins with the admission that I cannot ultimately rescue myself.

That’s difficult for us. Especially in a culture like ours.

We live in the golden age of self-improvement.

There’s an app to track your sleep… an app to track your food… an app to track your habits… an app to help you spend less time on all the other apps.

You can hire a coach for your career, your fitness, your finances, your relationships.

We listen to podcasts at one-and-a-half speed because apparently even learning needs to be optimized.

And I’m not against any of that.

But eventually you discover there’s a limit to what self-improvement can accomplish.

You can improve yourself. But you cannot resurrect yourself.

You can manage behavior.
You can develop habits.
You can acquire knowledge.
You can strengthen your will.

But Paul says the deepest problem of the human heart requires something we cannot provide for ourselves.

We need someone to rescue us.

And then comes one of the most beautiful interruptions in this entire chapter.

Paul asks:

Who will rescue me? (Romans 7:24)

And immediately:

Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord! (Romans 7:25)

That’s the answer.

Not a principle.
Not a program.
Not another commandment.

A person — Jesus.

And suddenly Romans 7 makes sense in light of everything Paul has been telling us.

The law is good. But the law can’t rescue you.
Knowledge is good. But knowledge can’t rescue you.
Wanting to change is good. But desire alone can’t rescue you.
Willpower can be useful. But willpower can’t rescue you.

Only Jesus can.

And maybe that’s what some of us need to hear today.

You’ve been interpreting your struggle as evidence that you’re failing.

“I should be better by now.”
“I’ve been following Jesus too long to still struggle with this.”

But don’t confuse the presence of struggle with the absence of transformation.

Sin may still be present. But if you belong to Jesus, sin is no longer your master.

Your old patterns may still speak. They don’t get the final word.

And when you fail, you don’t have to hide from God until you’ve gotten yourself back together.

You can ask exactly what Paul asks: “Who will rescue me?”

And the answer is still: “Thanks be to God, who delivers me through Jesus Christ our Lord!”

Paul has already given us a hint about how that rescue begins working itself out in us.

Back in verse 6 he called it “the new way of the Spirit.”

That’s where we’re going next week. But maybe today we simply need to admit: I know what’s right. I want what’s right. But I cannot rescue myself.

I need a Rescuer.

And thanks be to God… we have one.

Alright, pray with me as the worship team comes to lead us in a closing prayer.