It started with a glance—and the glance turned into a gaze. Sam sat in the glow of his laptop in a room where only silence and shadows watched. No one else would know. No one else was being hurt. At least, that’s what he told himself. And besides, he wasn't doing anything physical… just looking. Just imagining.
But when the screen dimmed and the silence felt louder, something inside him whispered that more had happened than met the eye.
Jesus once said something that cuts right to the heart of this quiet, hidden place. "But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Matthew 5:28, NIV). Not with his body. With his heart.
That’s Jesus raising the bar—not to shame us, but to rescue us.
Most people tend to think sin is all about action. Stealing, lying, cheating. Something you do. But Jesus isn’t just watching our hands—He’s listening to our hearts. And when He talks about lust, He's not just laying down rules. He’s calling us into something deeper, something freer.
Maybe you’ve felt that pull too—the drift into fantasy when the world feels heavy. The scroll through images when real connection seems too risky. The idea that if no one gets hurt, it can’t be so bad.
But there’s a reason Job said, “I made a covenant with my eyes not to look lustfully at a young woman” (Job 31:1). Not just to protect her. To protect his own soul.
Because lust doesn’t stay small. It grows. What we feed in secret shapes us in public. The way we look at women or men in pixels affects how we see them in person—the way we talk to them, the way we measure them, even the way we value ourselves.
The apostle Paul went further in his letter to the Thessalonians. “It is God’s will that you should be sanctified: that you should avoid sexual immorality; that each of you should learn to control your own body in a way that is holy and honorable, not in passionate lust like the pagans, who do not know God” (1 Thessalonians 4:3–5, NIV).
This isn’t about being prudish. It’s about being whole.
Paul isn’t wagging a finger—he’s pointing to the path of life. He’s saying, “You’re made for more than this.” Control over our desires isn’t just about saying "no"—it's about saying "yes" to a deeper love, a cleaner heart, a life where we’re not slaves to hidden habits.
I remember talking with a young man once, tears on his face, as he admitted he didn’t feel connected in worship anymore. Felt like God was far away. Then he whispered the truth: "I can’t stop going back to porn.” He thought it was just about habits and willpower. But it wasn’t. It was about hunger. His heart was starving, and porn was fast-food—immediate, addictive, and empty.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That ache. That shame. That split between who you want to be and who you keep slipping into.
But here’s the hope: Jesus meets us there. On the other side of conviction is compassion. He doesn’t just call out our sin; He offers us a new heart. He doesn’t just tell Sam to stop looking—He invites him to look at women the way Jesus does: with dignity, with honor, with love.
That’s why Jesus raised the bar. Not to crush us under guilt, but to lift us into freedom.
The truth is, we are never untouched by lust—not in spirit, not in relationship, not in worship. Pornography doesn’t leave a bruise you can see, but it can harden a heart. It reshapes our appetites, dulls our intimate joys, and makes connection a performance instead of a gift. The consequence isn't just what’s on the screen—but what’s missing when someone looks in your eyes and doesn’t really see you.
But here’s the good news, friend: you are not the sum of your struggle. And you are never alone in the fight. There is grace—for real change, not just guilt. There is power—in your weakness, not in your hiding. There’s a better love—steadier than a rush, cleaner than a screen, deeper than desire alone.
Purity isn’t about pretending you have no temptation—it’s about bringing your longing to the One who shaped it.
And maybe that’s the very place Jesus is waiting. In the stillness after the screen goes dark. In the quiet cry of a heart that wants out. In the whisper that says, “This isn’t who you are.”
Holiness begins not when we numb desire—but when we let Christ remake it.
It started with a glance—and the glance turned into a gaze. Sam sat in the glow of his laptop in a room where only silence and shadows watched. No one else would know. No one else was being hurt. At least, that’s what he told himself. And besides, he wasn't doing anything physical… just looking. Just imagining.
But when the screen dimmed and the silence felt louder, something inside him whispered that more had happened than met the eye.
Jesus once said something that cuts right to the heart of this quiet, hidden place. "But I tell you that anyone who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart" (Matthew 5:28, NIV). Not with his body. With his heart.
That’s Jesus raising the bar—not to shame us, but to rescue us.
Most people tend to think sin is all about action. Stealing, lying, cheating. Something you do. But Jesus isn’t just watching our hands—He’s listening to our hearts. And when He talks about lust, He's not just laying down rules. He’s calling us into something deeper, something freer.
Maybe you’ve felt that pull too—the drift into fantasy when the world feels heavy. The scroll through images when real connection seems too risky. The idea that if no one gets hurt, it can’t be so bad.
But there’s a reason Job said, “I made a covenant with my eyes not to look lustfully at a young woman” (Job 31:1). Not just to protect her. To protect his own soul.
Because lust doesn’t stay small. It grows. What we feed in secret shapes us in public. The way we look at women or men in pixels affects how we see them in person—the way we talk to them, the way we measure them, even the way we value ourselves.
The apostle Paul went further in his letter to the Thessalonians. “It is God’s will that you should be sanctified: that you should avoid sexual immorality; that each of you should learn to control your own body in a way that is holy and honorable, not in passionate lust like the pagans, who do not know God” (1 Thessalonians 4:3–5, NIV).
This isn’t about being prudish. It’s about being whole.
Paul isn’t wagging a finger—he’s pointing to the path of life. He’s saying, “You’re made for more than this.” Control over our desires isn’t just about saying "no"—it's about saying "yes" to a deeper love, a cleaner heart, a life where we’re not slaves to hidden habits.
I remember talking with a young man once, tears on his face, as he admitted he didn’t feel connected in worship anymore. Felt like God was far away. Then he whispered the truth: "I can’t stop going back to porn.” He thought it was just about habits and willpower. But it wasn’t. It was about hunger. His heart was starving, and porn was fast-food—immediate, addictive, and empty.
Maybe you’ve felt that too. That ache. That shame. That split between who you want to be and who you keep slipping into.
But here’s the hope: Jesus meets us there. On the other side of conviction is compassion. He doesn’t just call out our sin; He offers us a new heart. He doesn’t just tell Sam to stop looking—He invites him to look at women the way Jesus does: with dignity, with honor, with love.
That’s why Jesus raised the bar. Not to crush us under guilt, but to lift us into freedom.
The truth is, we are never untouched by lust—not in spirit, not in relationship, not in worship. Pornography doesn’t leave a bruise you can see, but it can harden a heart. It reshapes our appetites, dulls our intimate joys, and makes connection a performance instead of a gift. The consequence isn't just what’s on the screen—but what’s missing when someone looks in your eyes and doesn’t really see you.
But here’s the good news, friend: you are not the sum of your struggle. And you are never alone in the fight. There is grace—for real change, not just guilt. There is power—in your weakness, not in your hiding. There’s a better love—steadier than a rush, cleaner than a screen, deeper than desire alone.
Purity isn’t about pretending you have no temptation—it’s about bringing your longing to the One who shaped it.
And maybe that’s the very place Jesus is waiting. In the stillness after the screen goes dark. In the quiet cry of a heart that wants out. In the whisper that says, “This isn’t who you are.”
Holiness begins not when we numb desire—but when we let Christ remake it.
