The big problem with "moral failings."

What we really need to understand about that phrase.

“I didn’t have a moral failing, or fall into an addiction.”

I read those words and sighed. I sighed for me. I sighed for you. And I sighed for everyone who has ever committed a “big sin.”

And I grieved.¹

The words quoted above are from an article I read this week. The author was a pastor explaining why he had resigned from his church and left the ministry. And in order to explain it he wanted to be clear: while there were apparently some things that went wrong, we should rest assured that he did nothing as egregious as cheating on his wife or falling into addiction.

Well, friend, I am an addict. I am the Christian who became an alcoholic, not the other way around, as I like to say. I fell. Hard. I was on part-time church staff during the beginning of my heaviest drinking period.

I was that guy.

And I have some news for you: we are all “that guy.”

And yet, what I’ve realized—and what’s made clear by statements like the one above—is that the Church really struggles with people who have sinned and messed up in really big ways. So much so that we tend to go out of our way to make sure we are not like “those people.”

And yet, what I’ve realized is that the Church really struggles with people who have sinned and messed up in really big ways.

The small sins? The small failings? We easily welcome those people back into the fold. There’s room for them. Have an anger issue? Come on back! Pride? Come on back! Porn even? Come on back!

But the big sins? The big sinners? The adulterers and the alcoholics, especially the ones that openly follow Jesus and still mess up? Now wait just a second. “Are we sure they were ever really Christians? How could they do that if they really love Jesus?”²

That’s the undertone I hear in the quote in question. When anyone feels the need to qualify whatever went wrong with saying, “but I didn’t have a moral failing or fall into addiction,” there’s an understanding. There’s a signal, of sorts.

“You can trust me more because I’m not like those sinners. You know, the ones who cheat on their spouse or have an addiction problem. I’m at least a little better than them.”

Do you hear it? It may not even be intentional. I get that. And yet, it’s there.

You know what that sounds like to me? It sounds a lot like what the Pharisees said in Jesus’ day.

He told his next story to some who were complacently pleased with themselves over their moral performance and looked down their noses at the common people: “Two men went up to the Temple to pray, one a Pharisee, the other a tax man. The Pharisee posed and prayed like this: ‘Oh, God, I thank you that I am not like other people—robbers, crooks, adulterers, or, heaven forbid, like this tax man. I fast twice a week and tithe on all my income.’

“Meanwhile the tax man, slumped in the shadows, his face in his hands, not daring to look up, said, ‘God, give mercy. Forgive me, a sinner.’”

Jesus commented, “This tax man, not the other, went home made right with God. If you walk around with your nose in the air, you’re going to end up flat on your face, but if you’re content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself.”

Friend, we are constantly comparing our sins to others and trying to let ourselves off the hook. Whether we realize it or not. And the “big sinners” allow us to do a lot of justifying.

And let me be radically vulnerable with you: I did that in a big way with my sister. My sister was a drug addict who spent time in prison. And while my own relationship with alcohol was becoming misordered and disordered I looked at her and said, “at least I’m not doing what she’s doing. At least I’m not like here.”

I wish she was still alive so I could tell her that and apologize. It’s one of my greatest regrets.

Let me be clear, though: On one hand, I don’t think it’s absurd to have categories for different sins. The murderer and the fibber may both be sinning, but the consequences here on earth for murder should be greater.

And yet, all sin is a moral failing, isn’t it? It’s all a problem. We all fall short. That’s the point of the Old Testament and the “law”—to show us we can never measure up.

So it’s just a little disheartening to hear someone suggest, “At least I didn’t have a moral failing, or fall into an addiction.”³

“At least I’m not like those other sinners,” wafts through the air, even if unintentionally.

Listen, I’m not trying to come down hard on this man. I’m sure if I ever met him we’d have a nice chat and maybe even become friends. And I’d relish the opportunity to explain this all to him, because I doubt he even realizes it.⁴

But there’s something I really want us all to see that has become so clear to me since I’ve come face to face with my “big” sin: Friend, we are all adulterers and addicts. We are all moral failures. We are all cheating on God. We are all replacing him with some substance—food, alcohol, drugs, Amazon items, you name it. That’s what coming to the end of myself has shown me. That’s the perspective it’s given me.

I am the adulterer. I am most definitely the addict.

And so are you.

Instead of resigning and running from that, it’s time you resigned yourself to that.

Photo by Stefano Bucciarelli on Unsplash

1. Before I fully explain why this grieves me so much, let me say this: I’m not going to link the article. I’m not going to tell you who wrote it. Why? Because I don’t think the author was intentionally trying to do what I’m about to point out or that he is some awful person. I’m not trying to shame him. I’m just pointing out how pervasive the mistake is.

2. Let me be clear that repentance—no matter the gravity—is key. That’s a key ingredient when it comes to walking with people who have messed up. And it’s necessary. I talk a lot about this in my upcoming book, Confessions of a Christian Alcoholic.

3. It’s also possible this young pastor didn’t do anything at all and had something done to him.

4. I’m also not trying to minimize the hurt and harm that can result from something like adultery. This is not an excuse for adulterers to justify their actions by saying, “It’s not any worse than telling a white lie!” Stop it.