The Christ who rescues does not wait for you to be clean. He comes to clean you. He does not need your strength. He brings his own.
Modern pornography isn’t just a private struggle or a shameful habit, it’s a binding spell, a glamour cast in pixels and screen-light, crafted to mimic desire while hollowing the heart. It promises what it cannot give. It draws the eye with shape and shimmer, yet behind every flicker is a trap. What appears fair and warm is built of smoke. What seems to draw near leaves the soul aching and alone.
Each glance at the screen is more than a moment of temptation. It’s an encounter with something old, something that once haunted fireside tales and midnight prayers. The incubus has returned, not in whispered superstitions but in high-definition streams. It feeds not just on lust, but on deep griefs, loneliness, buried hunger, and silent fears. The soul, caught in its web, forgets what love is and hungers harder for what love is not.
Behind this struggle lies a holy ache. The pull toward false beauty is rooted in a longing for true closeness, a desire to be seen, known, embraced without shame. But this ancient longing has been taken, twisted, and sold back as a counterfeit. What was meant to bind two hearts in truth has been bent into a fantasy that isolates, corrupts, and leaves the body cold and the spirit weary.
Christian wisdom reminds us that strength is found in togetherness, not solitude. But pornography isolates. It sells the illusion of intimacy while feeding division; division between body and soul, between desire and fulfillment, between man and his own worth. What should lead toward union instead leads into silence, regret, and self-hatred. Still, this is not where the story ends.
There is one who walks even here. Not as a judge in a black robe, but as a rescuer. He enters not with scorn, but with gentleness, meeting us where we’re most tangled. He is no stranger to shame or shadows. He knows the names of our fears. He speaks into the silence, not to condemn the hunger, but to show it a better home. He offers bread that satisfies, wine that gladdens, and a kind of touch that heals rather than wounds.
A wise elder once wrote that pain, when poured out to God instead of dulled with distraction, becomes fuel for transformation. That ache you feel, that restless grief, that aching hunger, it is not something to be hidden or medicated. It’s a place the Savior comes and makes holy ground. In this way, a man’s wound can become Christ’s altar.
When we love our chains, we’ll never ask to be free.
And we should not forget the cunning of the world that profits from our despair. The systems of influence and entertainment are built to keep us in chains, not always by force, but by seduction. They feed our hunger just enough to keep us coming back, but never enough to fill us. They sell slavery dressed as freedom. And when we love our chains, we’ll never ask to be free.
So to those bound in this hidden war, hear this: the hunger inside you is not a path to hell. But you are being led astray. You were made to long for something true. That longing can still find its home. And the grace offered by Christ is not abstract. It is real. It steps into shame without flinching. It speaks healing into silence. It breaks chains not by scolding but by calling you out of the shadows.
The loss of the hearth, of true story, of kinship, of the warm fire where wounds were named and healed, that loss has wounded our culture deeply. In its place, we are fed entertainment that distracts rather than nourishes. We no longer tell true tales face-to-face. We consume images that make us forget how to speak honestly about love, about need, about hunger.
But even now, the true hearth waits to be rekindled. The story of rescue is still being told. Not with pomp, not with polish, but in the quiet, trembling places where the addict says, “I want out.” The Christ who rescues does not wait for you to be clean. He comes to clean you. He does not need your strength. He brings his own.
And that’s the difference between false desire and holy love. One takes and leaves you cold. The other gives and stays. One whispers you are broken and always will be. The other says you are wounded but wanted. That there is hope. That there is home.
Time will tell the story. Time always does. And in the end, it will speak of those who found healing not by hiding their ache, but by naming it. By bringing it into the light. By trusting that grace flows best through wounds left open to God.
So say it plainly. When you’re tangled, you’re not alone. When you’re ashamed, there is someone walking toward you. And he brings no shadow with him. He brings light.
Let the hunger lead you, not to another screen, but to a sacred hearth, to a table set for you. There’s bread there. Real bread. And there’s wine that was poured for your healing.
Come out from the silence. Walk into the warmth. And tell your story. Not one of failure, but of freedom. Not of binding, but of grace.
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