The Good That Slips Away

Read

Romans 7:16–17 “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.”

Think

There’s a moment in nearly every personal failure where regret hits like a wave. You knew better. You wanted better. You even had a plan to do better. But somehow, the good you meant to do slipped through your fingers. Again. You replay the moment in your head and think, “That wasn’t even the real me.” It felt like you were watching yourself fall into the same trap, almost as if someone else had grabbed the wheel.

That is the kind of language Paul is using here. He’s not denying responsibility. He’s not shifting blame. He’s getting real about the tension inside all of us. When he does the thing he doesn’t want to do, he’s not saying the sin doesn’t matter. He’s saying it doesn’t align with who he truly is in Christ.

There’s a kind of brokenness that knows better and still falters. Paul is not conflicted about whether God’s law is good. He agrees with it. He delights in it. He wants to obey. But something in him resists. Something pushes back. And he names that something as sin living in him.

This can sound strange at first. Isn’t Paul saved? Doesn’t he have the Holy Spirit? Yes, absolutely. But he’s still living in a body affected by sin, still waiting for final redemption, still walking through the messy middle of transformation. And so are we.

This passage gives us language for that middle space. We are no longer defined by sin, but we are not free from its presence. We are forgiven, but we are still in process. Theologians describe this as the difference between justification and sanctification. Justification is the legal declaration that we are made right with God. It happens instantly, the moment we put our faith in Christ. Sanctification, on the other hand, is the ongoing work of becoming more like him. It happens slowly, often painfully, and always with grace.

Paul says, “It is no longer I myself who do it.” That’s not an escape clause. That’s a statement of identity. He is no longer who he was. His truest self—the one made alive in Christ—does not want to sin. So when he does sin, it feels foreign. It feels like something is off. Because it is.

This is actually one of the signs of spiritual growth. Sin begins to feel less natural. What used to be normal now feels wrong. What once brought pleasure now brings grief. That is not because you’re getting worse. It’s because your heart is becoming more aligned with God’s. You’re learning to love what he loves and hate what he hates.

But that doesn’t mean the battle disappears. Sometimes, it intensifies. Especially when we’re trying to walk in obedience. Temptation flares up. Old patterns resurface. And we begin to wonder, “Why is this still happening?” The answer is found in Paul’s words: sin still lives in us. Not as our master, but as an intruder. Not as our identity, but as a residue of the old life we’ve left behind.

Think of it like a tenant who refuses to move out. You’ve signed the deed over to Jesus. Your heart belongs to him. But sin is like the squatter who still shows up uninvited, tries to take over the space, and makes you question whether the house is really yours. But it is. Christ owns it. He’s just in the middle of remodeling.

And remodeling takes time. You don’t walk into a renovation and expect instant beauty. There’s dust. There’s debris. There’s progress you can’t always see. But slowly, steadily, the space begins to reflect the builder’s vision. That is what sanctification looks like.

When the good you want to do slips away, when your actions don’t match your desires, you can either give in to despair or lean into grace. One says, “This will never change.” The other says, “He is still changing me.” One leads to hiding. The other leads to healing.

This is why honesty matters so much in the Christian life. Not performative honesty, but deep, soul-level truthfulness. Paul could have left this out of his letter. He could have given us a cleaned-up version of his journey. But he didn’t. Because the gospel is not for people who always get it right. It’s for people who want to do right and still fail, who believe and still fall, who love God and still feel the pull of sin.

If that’s you, you’re not alone. You’re not broken beyond repair. You are in the same space Paul found himself—longing to live fully for God, yet still bumping into sin’s stubborn grip. But that grip is weakening. Slowly, sometimes imperceptibly, but surely. Christ is making you new.

And one day, the struggle will end. One day, sin will not only lose its power but its presence. Until then, we fight not as victims, but as children of grace. We keep showing up. We keep trusting the Spirit. We keep walking, even when we stumble.

Apply

Where do you feel the tension between what you want to do and what you actually do? Write it down. Then remind yourself, “This isn’t who I am in Christ.” Speak that truth out loud, not as a way of denying sin, but as a way of declaring your real identity. You are no longer a slave. You belong to Jesus, and he is not finished with you yet.

Pray

Jesus, sometimes the good I want to do feels just out of reach. I want to honor you, but I still fall. Thank you that even in my weakness, you do not walk away. Thank you for reminding me that I am not defined by my failures, but by your grace. Keep shaping me into your likeness, even when I can’t see the progress. In Jesus’ name. Amen.