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Harmartiology for the Rest of Us
If someone were to ask me this in my normal everyday context — in my self-appointed role as Theology Czar — I would probably give them a machine-gun overview of sin from a doctrinal perspective. First, I might define it as “hamartiology.” (Yes, I might be doing this to impress them — which is not above me, even at 52.) But more than likely, I would want them to know the rich history Christian theology has with thinking deeply about sin.
Then I’d pull the trigger: personal sin, imputed sin, inherited sin, mortal sins vs. venial sins, sins of omission vs. sins of commission — and, for good measure, I’d drop in another fancy word with a lot of meaning: Saint Augustine’s concupiscence (you will have to look that one up).
That’s what comes to mind right now.
However, while these distinctions matter, they would likely only confuse the average person today. After all, in today’s world, the word sin isn’t just an old-fashioned term that makes you sound like a “fundy” (as it was in my day) — it’s almost a forgotten relic in time. It used to label someone as old-school, but now, it’s so seldom used that many people barely know what it means. They’ve probably heard it, but it’s as unfamiliar to them as the word “hamartiology.”
(Hamartiology, by the way, means “the study of sin,” from the Greek word ἁμαρτία (hamartía), meaning “sin.” There — I got my R.C. Sproul moment out of the way!)
Because of that, it’s usually best to start with the simplest and most practical definition:
Sin is missing the mark.
That is how I have always heard it defined. That is how my Greek seminary professor defined it. Think of it like shooting an arrow at a target, but missing the center. But in this case, it’s missing the mark of God’s hopes for His children whom He loves.
This definition is good — very good.
But honestly, I think there’s an even better way to frame it — a way that gets closer to God’s perspective. (Leave it to me to claim exclusive access to that!)
Here’s my definition:
Sin is a worthless choice.
Swallowing the Red Stuff
There is simply — in my mind — no more vivid illustration of this than the age-old story of Jacob and Esau. And yes, it really is age-old — but for most people you talk to today, it will probably be the first time they’ve ever heard the story. And that’s okay, because it’s unforgettable once you really see what’s happening. Plus, it’s hilarious in its own tragic way.
Characters: Two brothers — one cunning younger brother, Jacob, and one foolish older brother, Esau. As was the custom of the day, the older brother stood to inherit the family fortune, which in this case included a divine promise — a covenant blessing that would impact the whole world. This inheritance was called a birthright.
Setting: The day is assuming room temperature in the hills of Canaan (i.e., the day is dying). Jacob — the mama’s boy with soft hands and a knack for cooking (as one would expect) — is at home, stirring a pot of stew and stirring up a massive plot to trick his brother. He knows exactly what he’s doing, making sure the smell of his gourmet cooking fills the air.
Meanwhile, Esau, the rugged outdoorsman, comes busting through the door. He’s been out hunting all day (with no luck) — empty-handed, sweaty, starving, and half-convinced he’s about to die. He smells food. He sees Jacob stirring a pot of “red stuff,” as he calls it. And without thinking, he points at it and… well, let’s just read what happens next:
Genesis 25:29–34
When Jacob had cooked stew, Esau came in from the field and he was famished; and Esau said to Jacob, “Please let me have a swallow of that red stuff there, for I am famished.” (Therefore his name was called Edom.)
But Jacob said, “First sell me your birthright.”
Esau said, “Behold, I am about to die; so of what use then is the birthright to me?”
And Jacob said, “First swear to me”; so he swore to him, and sold his birthright to Jacob.
Then Jacob gave Esau bread and lentil stew; and he ate and drank, and rose and went on his way.
Thus Esau despised his birthright.
Esau trades the eternal for the immediate. He gives up the birthright — the inheritance, the blessing, the covenant promises of God — for something he can’t even properly name. He just calls it “that red stuff.” You know… “That stuff that’s red over there. Whatever it is. I don’t care. Just give it to me.”
This is exactly what sin is. It’s the best definition there is.
Because that’s what sin does. It lures us in. It convinces us we must have it — “or we will die.” It preys on our hunger, our weakness, our desperation. And in that moment, we ignore the worth of what we already have.
The trade always looks necessary. But afterward, the truth hits us:
We exchanged everything for nothing.
Sin is a worthless choice. It is rejecting that which God has offered us — the potential that God sees in us — for something worthless.
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A Father-Son Illustration
Let me give you a father-son illustration.
A father walks into his son’s room and finds him glued to a screen, locked into the latest game that everyone is playing. He calls to him:
“Hey, want to have a Bible study?”
“No.”
“Want to go hiking with your friends?”
“No.”
“Want to read a book?”
“No.”
“Want to grab a bite to eat with me?”
“No.”
“Want to work out, play basketball, go hunting or fishing, or just hang out with me for a little bit?”
“No.”
Anything the father suggests — anything better, anything deeper, anything more meaningful — gets the same answer. The boy is locked in, eyes on the screen, oblivious to what he’s passing up.
And the father knows.
He knows what his son is passing up.
He knows what they could have shared.
He knows the memories they could have built.
He knows the laughter, the connection, the growth that was waiting right there.
It’s not rebellion. It’s not hatred. But it still stings.
Because when you love someone, you ache for the good things you know they’re missing.
And in that moment, I see something bigger — something deeper.
Because I believe that’s exactly how God sees us.
God created us for something great. He created us to share in His very self — to bear His image, to reflect His character, to participate in His mission. He made us for glory, not boredom; for communion, not escape; for joy, not distraction.
He made us to receive grace upon grace and to walk in the purpose He laid out before time began.
This is the time for some verses to drive this in:
“The thief comes only to steal and kill and destroy. I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”
(John 10:10)
“You make known to me the path of life; in your presence there is fullness of joy; at your right hand are pleasures forevermore.”
(Psalm 16:11)
“He who did not spare his own Son but gave him up for us all, how will he not also with him graciously give us all things?”
(Romans 8:32)
He created us because He is abundant life. He knows what it offers, and He is excited about it — and can’t wait (relatively speaking for God!) to share it with His children. Just like a parent looks at their young infant and says, “I can’t wait to show you what is out there.” You don’t think of the worst stuff to share, but the best.
But every time we sin, we make a worthless choice. We throw that away.
We walk right past it.
We say, “No thanks.”
We take all that greatness — the eternal value, the calling, the glory He longs to share with us — and we trade it.
We trade it for something that feels easier, lighter, safer.
We say, “I’d rather have this… this stuff… that happens to be red.”
And God, like a Father, watches with a grieving heart.
Not because we’ve broken some abstract rule — but because we’ve rejected Him.
We’ve walked away from what could have been.
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My Own Red Stuff
Why did Esau make that trade?
I would like to say I don’t get it — but I do.
I’m as good as anyone (maybe better) at exchanging a birthright for anything red.
There was a season when God had clearly blessed my ministry. The Credo House was growing. The Credo House Coffee Shop — a dream I had prayed for and longed for — had finally become a reality.
I still remember sitting in seminary, in a church history class, thinking, “God, let me introduce everyone to this. Let me show them the treasures I’m discovering.”
It felt like I had found gold buried in a field, and all I wanted to do was share it with the world. I had a direction. I had a calling. And for a while, the fruit was beginning to show.
But then life got heavy.
It wasn’t just ministry struggles. It was deeper than that — harder than that. Family tragedies. A body that began to fail, especially my back. An overwhelming sense that everything was unraveling faster than I could fix it.
And that’s when I made a worthless choice.
I turned to pain pills.
At first, the pills were about the pain. My back hurt — bad. And the pills worked.
But they didn’t just numb the pain in my body. They numbed the ache in my soul too.
On the pills, life didn’t feel so heavy anymore. The pressure, the fear, the sadness — it all faded, even if just for a little while.
For the first time in a long time, I could breathe.
It wasn’t just physical relief.
It was emotional relief.
Spiritual relief.
The pills whispered promises to me — quiet promises I didn’t even realize I was listening to:
“You’re okay now.”
“You can handle it.”
“You don’t have to feel all of that anymore.”
And for a while, I believed them.
I wasn’t chasing a high. I wasn’t trying to rebel against God.
I was just tired.
Tired of hurting.
Tired of hoping.
Tired of feeling like I was drowning while trying to serve.
The pills made it all feel manageable again — like survival was possible.
But it was survival without trust. Relief without restoration. A shortcut that led nowhere.
They offered me peace. But it was peace without a foundation.
Counterfeit peace — red stuff that looked good in the moment but left me emptier in the end.
I knew what God had laid out in front of me.
I knew the birthright He had given — the calling, the mission, the purpose.
But I traded it.
I traded it for red stuff.
For survival over trust.
For counterfeit comfort over real life.
And just like Esau, I learned the truth too late:
We exchanged everything for nothing.
“They exchanged the truth of God for a lie.”
(Romans 1:25)
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What’s Your Red Stuff: Everyone’s Got Their Own
I hate to introduce one more illustration, but I think this is one everybody can understand.
Sin isn’t just a worthless choice. It isn’t just “red stuff.” It’s also like spiritual impulse buying.
You know the feeling.
You’re walking through the store. You see something you don’t need, something you didn’t plan for — but it calls to you.
You put it in your cart anyway.
Maybe it’s comfort.
Maybe it’s convenience.
Maybe it’s just the feeling that you deserve it.
But deep down, you know it’s a bad decision.
And sure enough, the second you buy it, the regret sets in.
Buyer’s remorse.
We all know what that feels like.
And when we live according to our sin, it’s like living inside of buyer’s remorse — justifying it, pretending it was a good choice, even while deep down we know it wasn’t.
Sin promises comfort, but it delivers emptiness.
It promises relief, but it leaves us with regret.
It’s spiritual impulse buying at its worst.
We’ve all got it.
Something in our cart we don’t need.
Something we grabbed without thinking.
It’s sitting there — making promises, taking up space, and dragging us away from the better things.
What is it for you?
- A moment of lust when no one’s watching?
- The scroll that never ends?
- The shot that will make you forget?
- The grudge you love to hang on to?
- The dress that will make everyone love you?
- The explosive outburst that relieves your anger?
- The comfort you reach for instead of God?
We all have our “red stuff.”
And here’s the truth: God knows.
He sees it.
When the Red Stuff Turns to Hate
At the end of the narrative, it says these haunting words — words that are easily missed:
“Thus Esau despised his birthright.”
That’s what happens when we choose the red stuff often enough.
When we keep trading what we were made for in exchange for what we were never meant for, we don’t just prefer the lesser thing.
Eventually, we begin to, not just not prefer, but to hate the greater thing.
Let me repeat for emphasis:
Not just avoid it.
Not just say, “That’s not for me.”
But absolutely despise it.
Why? Because guilt reshapes our hearts.
When we know deep down that we’ve pawned something good — when we’ve numbed ourselves a citizen of the land of worthless choices — the only defense we have left is to turn against the good.
We see it in someone else’s cart, we laugh.
We see others walking in it, and we scoff.
We see truth, and we flinch.
We see beauty, and we vomit.
That’s what guilt does when it isn’t healed — it turns reverence into resentment.
God is Always Ready to Buy You Back: The Time is Now
Are you at that point?
Even if you are, God can still bring you back.
Even if you’ve traded your birthright a million times, even if your covered in red stuff— the grace of God, through what Christ did for you on the cross, still stands.
Let me introduce you to my favorite Red Stuff verse in the Bible:
“He made Him who knew no sin to be sin on our behalf, so that we might become the righteousness of God in Him.”
(2 Corinthians 5:21, NASB)
And now, if you’ll allow me a little creative license — here’s how I imagine it in the New Michael Standard Version (NMSV):
“He made Christ — who never bought any red stuff, who always chose what was right, who never traded the birthright — to take the red stuff that’s all over you and put it on Himself, so that it might be as if you never had any red stuff at all.
And then, He put the birthright back in your cart.”
(2 Corinthians 5:21, NMSV)
He hung on a cross to pay a steep price for your sin — for all your worthless choices.
And His resurrection proves that the deal is sealed.
Your Father stands ready, arms open, for you to trade it all back.
Just give it to Christ.
“In him we have bought back through his blood, the forgiveness of our trespasses, according to the riches of his grace.”
(Ephesians 1:7)
“Return to me, for I have redeemed you.”
(Isaiah 44:22)
