Greater Than Our Old Life

Watch a two-year-old in a nursery. The moment they can stand, they run — not because anyone told them to, but because it feels good. Open a door for a five-year-old and they are gone.

So why does running feel like punishment to the rest of us?

Jeff Sullivan is fifty and teaching himself to run again. Twenty minutes of warm-up for a twenty-minute run. Stiff hips from years of sitting. *I must look ridiculous to my neighbors.* The thing his body was built to do, he now has to relearn from scratch.

That is the honest shape of Colossians 3:5. Paul lists what has to go — the anger, the greed, the words you wish you could take back — and almost nobody reads that list and thinks *actually, I'd like to keep those.* We agree with the list. We hate the list. And we still cannot seem to kill it.

What should be natural has become the hardest thing you do.

That is not a sign you are uniquely broken. It is a sign you have been conditioned — one small compromise at a time, one year of sitting after another — until the thing you were made for feels impossible.

The question is not whether you want it gone. You do. The question is *how*. Hold that question all week. Paul is about to answer it, and his answer is not a better list.

Sullivan's mother had a rule: all four boys would learn piano. An hour a day, every day, unless you could get away with skipping it.

It worked. He learned to play. He was, by his own account, passably bad at it.

And the day he graduated, he never touched a piano again.

His son was never made to take a single lesson. Then, headed off to college, he decided he wanted to play guitar. Nobody assigned it. He sat in his room with YouTube tutorials, found someone to coach him, played whenever he could. Today he plays in his church's worship band.

Same family. Same house. Opposite outcome. The difference was not discipline — the piano had far more of that. The difference was *desire*.

This is why Paul says it twice. *Set your hearts.* Then, in case you tried to file that under feelings and move on: *set your minds.* He will not let you split them. What you love and what you think about are the same engine, and they are what drive everything downstream.

An hour a day of forced practice produces a skill you abandon at the first opportunity. A heart set on something finds a way to it. Jesus said it plainly: where your treasure is, your heart will be also.

So the question underneath *how do I stop sinning* turns out to be a different question entirely. Not *what should I be doing?* but *what do I actually want?*

Sullivan quoted a line from Louie Giglio that is worth sitting with:

*Sin doesn't make you bad. It makes you dead.*

Read that twice, because almost all of us have quietly filed sin somewhere else. We treat it as a character flaw to correct. A disease to heal from. A problem to manage. A bad habit with a better version available if we try harder.

Every one of those framings has the same hidden assumption: that the patient is alive, and needs improvement.

Colossians says otherwise. *You died.* Not you struggled. Not you underperformed. Died.

Which is either the most discouraging sentence in the chapter or the most freeing one, depending on what you do next.

Here is why it is freeing. If sin is a flaw, the cure is effort — and you already know how that has gone. But if sin is death, then no amount of effort was ever going to touch it, and your failure to fix yourself was never the scandal you thought it was. Dead people do not need coaching.

They need someone who can conquer death.

That is what the cross was. Not a good man martyred — history is full of those. The Son of God taking the sin of the world onto himself, the sky going black, the ground shaking. God putting his wrath on the thing that was killing you.

You were never going to out-discipline a grave. Someone had to open it.

Your story of coming to Christ probably does not look like the person sitting next to you on Sunday.

Some are Saul on the Damascus road — full of rage and certainty one moment, undone the next, turned so hard and so fast that everyone who knew them has to learn their name again.

Some are the disciples: three years of walking with Jesus in person and still, by every account, clueless, right up until the day the Spirit made sense of all of it.

And some of you cannot name a day at all. Church as a kid. Grandparents in church. Maybe a Christian school. You have never not believed, and you have quietly wondered whether that counts, because there is no dramatic before-and-after to hold up.

One of those is not better than the others. Sullivan's point is that every one of them has the same single factor in common: *Christ is the one who killed the sin.* Not the intensity of the conversion. Not the quality of the testimony.

And notice the image Paul reaches for — your life is *hidden* with Christ. Not gone. Not finished. Hidden, like something buried and valuable, being uncovered a little at a time as his radiance works out through you.

Which means the old self raising its head this week is not proof that nothing happened. It is what being uncovered looks like from the inside.

Here is the sentence from Sunday most likely to rearrange something in you:

Reading your Bible is not the goal. Learning Scripture is not the goal. Serving, giving, showing up — none of these is the goal.

That should not be a relief and a threat at the same time, but it usually is.

Look at what Paul actually tells you to put on: compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness, patience. Then forgiveness. Then, over all of it, love. Then the peace of Christ ruling in your heart.

Every item on that list is an *interior* thing that radiates outward. Not one of them is a task you can complete and check off.

So the disciplines are not the destination. They are how you teach your heart to become the destination — becoming love, becoming humility, becoming forgiveness, becoming kindness.

Which reframes what you did on Sunday, and what you will do again in two days. Gathering to worship is not attendance. Singing is how you set your heart. The Word read aloud is how you set your mind. Forgiving the person in the next row is how the thing gets worked in. These are the instruments Christ uses to kill what is dead in you.

So do not treat it lightly and do not skip it.

And then verse 17 stops being a slogan and becomes a description: whatever you do — your work, your family, your hobbies, your running — you do it to the glory of God. Because your heart and your mind are set on him who *is* your life.