On Second Thought
There is a quiet but persistent work that takes place in the life of anyone who walks with the Lord for more than a momentary season. Over time, desire itself begins to change. What once felt natural becomes uneasy; what once felt optional begins to feel necessary. Scripture names this inner reshaping not as moral self-improvement, but as holiness—an orientation of life toward God that affects habits, instincts, and choices. When Paul writes to Timothy about training in godliness, he is not offering a rigid program but describing a disciplined life shaped by love for Christ. “For bodily exercise profits a little, but godliness is profitable for all things” (1 Timothy 4:8). The Christian life is not accidental; it is trained, formed, and practiced.
Romans 6:19 brings this idea down to the level of the body, where real decisions are made. “I speak in human terms because of the weakness of your flesh,” Paul writes, acknowledging the real constraints of human frailty. The language of slavery is deliberately unsettling. Whatever we repeatedly offer ourselves to—whether sin or righteousness—begins to claim us. The Greek word doulos reminds us that habits are never neutral; they always pull us somewhere. Paul does not shame the believer for past bondage but names it honestly: patterns of uncleanness and lawlessness always lead to more of the same. Sin trains us just as surely as holiness does.
This is where the insight of Jerry Bridges proves pastorally clarifying. In The Pursuit of Holiness, Bridges observes that sin is not merely an act but a habit-forming force. Each repetition strengthens the pattern, making the next refusal more difficult. Yet Paul’s argument does not end in despair. The same principle works in reverse. Just as sin habituates the soul toward disobedience, righteousness habituates the soul toward holiness. Saying yes to God is not a single heroic act; it is a cultivated reflex shaped over time.
Still, Scripture is careful to guard us from a subtle danger: attempting holiness in our own strength. Paul never invites believers to white-knuckle obedience. Training in godliness is always cooperative, never independent. The Spirit’s role is not optional assistance but essential power. Without dependence on the Holy Spirit, the effort to say no becomes moral exhaustion rather than spiritual growth. Paul’s language throughout Romans insists that freedom from sin is not self-generated but Spirit-enabled. Obedience that bypasses reliance on God becomes another form of bondage—this time to self-effort and frustration.
What, then, does it mean to develop the habit of saying no? It means recognizing that resistance grows stronger through practice, but practice itself must be anchored in grace. Each refusal of sin is not merely avoidance; it is an offering. Paul says we present our members to righteousness. The verb implies intentionality and surrender. We are not simply restraining desire; we are redirecting allegiance. Over time, this redirection reshapes what we want. Holiness is not primarily about deprivation; it is about reorientation.
Prayer becomes essential at this point, not as a last resort but as a continual posture. “Dear God, break the bondage of sinful habits and desires in my life. Give me the strength to say no.” This is not the prayer of someone striving alone; it is the prayer of someone who knows that transformation flows from dependence. The paradox of holiness is that effort is required, but effort alone is insufficient. Discipline matters, but grace governs.
On Second Thought
There is a paradox hidden within Paul’s language that we often miss: the call to become “slaves of righteousness.” At first glance, this feels contradictory to the gospel’s promise of freedom. Why would Scripture replace one form of slavery with another? Yet this is precisely where Christian freedom reframes itself. Paul is not trading one chain for another; he is exposing the reality that human beings always live under some form of mastery. The real question is not whether we will serve, but whom we will serve.
On second thought, the strength to say no is not primarily about restriction but about belonging. Sin promises autonomy but delivers compulsion. Righteousness asks for surrender but produces freedom. What feels like loss in the moment becomes clarity over time. The more we say no to sin, the quieter its voice becomes—not because we are stronger, but because our loyalties have shifted. Desire itself begins to change direction.
This reframes holiness as relational rather than mechanical. We are not collecting moral victories; we are learning to live under a different Lord. The Spirit does not merely help us resist sin; He reshapes what we love. Over time, obedience stops feeling like resistance and begins to feel like alignment. The habits we once fought now feel foreign, not because temptation disappears, but because our identity has deepened.
Holiness, then, is not the absence of struggle but the presence of purpose. Saying no is meaningful only because we have already said yes—to Christ, to life, to freedom that does not erode the soul. The quiet miracle is that the more we entrust this process to God, the less our lives are driven by impulse and the more they are shaped by intention. Eternity, not impulse, becomes the measure of our choices.
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