Tanner had just shut his laptop when the wave of guilt rushed in.
Alone in his room again, lights off, blinds drawn. He didn’t mean for things to go that far. Just a bit of scrolling. Just a bit of curiosity. But curiosity doesn’t draw a line in the sand—it pushes until it breaks through. And when the video ended, the silence was deafening. The faint cry of shame crept in like a whisper from a dark corner of his mind: “You’re not who you say you are.”
He lay back on his bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling fan spinning above him, asking the question he’d asked a dozen times before: Is it really a sin?
Jesus once spoke words that still echo through centuries like a clarifying bell: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:27–28, NIV). And Paul, writing to an oversexualized culture in Corinth, pleaded, “Flee from sexual immorality… You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies” (1 Corinthians 6:18–20).
Yet here Tanner was—part of a generation overwhelmed by temptation, hounded by images and sounds, stories and screens. He'd never touched another person sexually, but his mind and body told a different story entirely. Was Jesus really talking about this?
The Bible doesn’t name masturbation directly, and that’s part of what makes the question so uncomfortable. But Jesus didn’t just give rules—He gave a lens. He expanded the battlefield from the body to the heart. From the act to the intention. Lust, He said, doesn’t begin between sheets. It begins in the imagination. A glance, unchecked. A thought, embraced. An appetite, fed in secret. What we feed shapes us.
You don’t need to cross a line to be lost—you just have to follow your desires without asking where they lead.
And that’s where Tanner found himself, not in a courtroom of condemnation, but in a field of longing. Wanting more than just relief. Wanting peace. Wanting to feel clean.
The thing is, neither Jesus nor Paul was simply talking about sex. They were showing us something deeper—that we’re sacred. Our bodies, our eyes, our minds. Not cheap, not disposable, not private playthings. Sacred. “You are not your own,” Paul said. Not in a controlling way. In a treasured way. In an “I would die for you” kind of way. And Jesus did.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the ache behind the act. The longing that release can’t quite touch. How shame leaves a quiet residue, even when no one knows. There’s a reason. We weren’t made to carry lust. We were made for love. But not the kind the world shows us through backlit screens. We were made to love as God does: pure, patient, holy.
And purity isn’t shame for what you’ve done—it’s delight in what you’re made for. That’s the shift. Not, “How far is too far?” but, “What would honoring God with this look like?” Not, “Is this a sin?” but, “Does this stir my heart toward what is sacred or toward what is selfish?”
It’s possible to be honest about your struggle and still be holy. Holiness never required perfection—only surrender.
Tanner didn’t suddenly become spotless. He didn’t wake up the next day free of every desire. But something had shifted. He got up, crossed the room, and opened the blinds. Sunlight stretched across the wood floor like an invitation—like grace. He whispered old words with new meaning: “God… I want to want You more.”
You might find yourself there too. Not flawless, but hopeful. Not finished, but willing.
Purity in a hypersexual world isn’t about having no desire—it’s about reordering our desires around something greater. About laying down what feels urgent for what is eternal. About remembering who we belong to, and letting that truth make its way into every corner of our hearts and habits.
Your body is not the enemy. Lust is. Your desire is not the problem—it’s the direction it’s pointed.
You were bought at a price. Not rented. Not bargained for. Bought. With blood.
Your story doesn’t end in shame. God won't leave you in the dark room or with the swirling guilt. He meets you there—and leads you out through grace.
And when you forget again, fall again, ache again, just remember: you are sacred. Not because of what you’ve done, but because of whose you are.
That’s what it means to stay pure.
Even here. Even now.
Tanner had just shut his laptop when the wave of guilt rushed in.
Alone in his room again, lights off, blinds drawn. He didn’t mean for things to go that far. Just a bit of scrolling. Just a bit of curiosity. But curiosity doesn’t draw a line in the sand—it pushes until it breaks through. And when the video ended, the silence was deafening. The faint cry of shame crept in like a whisper from a dark corner of his mind: “You’re not who you say you are.”
He lay back on his bed, eyes fixed to the ceiling fan spinning above him, asking the question he’d asked a dozen times before: Is it really a sin?
Jesus once spoke words that still echo through centuries like a clarifying bell: “You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall not commit adultery.’ But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matthew 5:27–28, NIV). And Paul, writing to an oversexualized culture in Corinth, pleaded, “Flee from sexual immorality… You are not your own; you were bought at a price. Therefore honor God with your bodies” (1 Corinthians 6:18–20).
Yet here Tanner was—part of a generation overwhelmed by temptation, hounded by images and sounds, stories and screens. He'd never touched another person sexually, but his mind and body told a different story entirely. Was Jesus really talking about this?
The Bible doesn’t name masturbation directly, and that’s part of what makes the question so uncomfortable. But Jesus didn’t just give rules—He gave a lens. He expanded the battlefield from the body to the heart. From the act to the intention. Lust, He said, doesn’t begin between sheets. It begins in the imagination. A glance, unchecked. A thought, embraced. An appetite, fed in secret. What we feed shapes us.
You don’t need to cross a line to be lost—you just have to follow your desires without asking where they lead.
And that’s where Tanner found himself, not in a courtroom of condemnation, but in a field of longing. Wanting more than just relief. Wanting peace. Wanting to feel clean.
The thing is, neither Jesus nor Paul was simply talking about sex. They were showing us something deeper—that we’re sacred. Our bodies, our eyes, our minds. Not cheap, not disposable, not private playthings. Sacred. “You are not your own,” Paul said. Not in a controlling way. In a treasured way. In an “I would die for you” kind of way. And Jesus did.
Maybe you’ve felt that too—the ache behind the act. The longing that release can’t quite touch. How shame leaves a quiet residue, even when no one knows. There’s a reason. We weren’t made to carry lust. We were made for love. But not the kind the world shows us through backlit screens. We were made to love as God does: pure, patient, holy.
And purity isn’t shame for what you’ve done—it’s delight in what you’re made for. That’s the shift. Not, “How far is too far?” but, “What would honoring God with this look like?” Not, “Is this a sin?” but, “Does this stir my heart toward what is sacred or toward what is selfish?”
It’s possible to be honest about your struggle and still be holy. Holiness never required perfection—only surrender.
Tanner didn’t suddenly become spotless. He didn’t wake up the next day free of every desire. But something had shifted. He got up, crossed the room, and opened the blinds. Sunlight stretched across the wood floor like an invitation—like grace. He whispered old words with new meaning: “God… I want to want You more.”
You might find yourself there too. Not flawless, but hopeful. Not finished, but willing.
Purity in a hypersexual world isn’t about having no desire—it’s about reordering our desires around something greater. About laying down what feels urgent for what is eternal. About remembering who we belong to, and letting that truth make its way into every corner of our hearts and habits.
Your body is not the enemy. Lust is. Your desire is not the problem—it’s the direction it’s pointed.
You were bought at a price. Not rented. Not bargained for. Bought. With blood.
Your story doesn’t end in shame. God won't leave you in the dark room or with the swirling guilt. He meets you there—and leads you out through grace.
And when you forget again, fall again, ache again, just remember: you are sacred. Not because of what you’ve done, but because of whose you are.
That’s what it means to stay pure.
Even here. Even now.
