by Joshua L. Mullins

There is a war that doesn’t show on the outside—a battle between belief and behavior, between a heart that loves righteousness and a body that won’t cooperate. It’s the torment of the man who knows the truth but still tastes the chains. He hates what he does, but he does it. He cries out for freedom, but wakes up in bondage. He clings to the blood, but still smells the smoke of where he’s been. He weeps in the dark, afraid that maybe this time… he’s gone too far.

He isn’t hardened. He’s not boasting in rebellion. He’s not mocking the cross.
He is a man at war with himself.

This is not the rebellion of the reprobate; this is the agony of the redeemed whose flesh still remembers Egypt. The inner man has been made new, but the outer man still clings to old graves. His mind is weary. His conscience is sore. And the question that whispers at him in the dark is the same one that tormented David when he sinned: “Am I still His?”

And I write to tell you—yes, you are still His.

Paul knew this torment. He wrote with trembling honesty, “The good that I would, I do not: but the evil which I would not, that I do.” His confession didn’t come from weakness of doctrine or immaturity of spirit—this was the cry of a man who had encountered Christ face-to-face and carried the mysteries of the gospel in his very bones. Yet he still admitted that “there is another law in my members, warring against the law of my mind, and bringing me into captivity” (Romans 7:19, 23). That cry—“O wretched man that I am!”—was not despair. It was the admission of war.

You feel it, too. You fall, and you hate it. You indulge, then grieve. You want freedom, not because you’ve lost belief, but because you still believe. You still tremble. You still feel remorse. You still know it’s wrong—and that’s proof the Holy Ghost has not left you.

Dead hearts don’t cry. Hardened hearts don’t mourn. But yours does.
That means there’s still life in you.

The Scripture says that “whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth” (Hebrews 12:6). If you weren’t a son, He wouldn’t correct you. Conviction is not rejection—it’s the Father proving He hasn’t given up on you.

Jesus didn’t stutter when He said, “He that cometh to Me I will in no wise cast out” (John 6:37). In the Greek, the phrase “in no wise” is a double negative. It’s absolute. It means: “Never. Not ever. Under no condition.” If you come, He receives. Even if you’re bruised. Even if you’re guilty. Even if you failed again yesterday.

You may not feel bold, but the Word says to come “boldly unto the throne of grace, that we may obtain mercy, and find grace to help in time of need” (Hebrews 4:16). Not in time of victory. Not when you’re doing well. Not when the record is clean. In time of need.

This war you’re in—it’s not a contradiction of salvation. It’s the process of sanctification. Your spirit is alive. Your mind is in renewal. Your flesh still remembers. That’s why Galatians says, “The flesh lusteth against the Spirit, and the Spirit against the flesh: and these are contrary the one to the other” (Galatians 5:17). The battle is not proof you’ve lost. It’s proof you’re still alive to God.

You say, “But I sinned on purpose. I gave in. I knew better.” Yes, and afterward you grieved. You didn’t boast. You didn’t laugh. You broke. That’s not reprobation. That’s bondage. And Jesus still delivers captives, not just sinners.

“He hath sent me to heal the brokenhearted, to preach deliverance to the captives… to set at liberty them that are bruised” (Luke 4:18). He didn’t come for the polished. He came for the man who still smells like the fire he fell into. He came for men like you.

But let me be clear. You cannot make peace with the thing that’s killing you. Sin is not a weakness to be managed. It’s a serpent to be crushed. You must crucify it. “They that are Christ’s have crucified the flesh with the affections and lusts” (Galatians 5:24). This war doesn’t end through willpower. It ends through surrender—real, daily, weaponized surrender. Fasting. Prayer. Renewal. Speaking truth when your feelings scream otherwise.

You say, “But I’ve fallen too many times.” The Word answers, “A just man falleth seven times, and riseth up again” (Proverbs 24:16). The just man isn’t defined by how few times he falls—but by the fact that he still gets back up.

So get up.

Get up with tears in your eyes. Get up with dirt on your hands. Get up not because you feel like a warrior, but because you refuse to let your failure write the final chapter. Your High Priest is not pacing heaven in frustration—He’s still interceding for you. “He ever liveth to make intercession for them” (Hebrews 7:25).

You may have fallen—but you are not forsaken.

“If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:9). That verse wasn’t written to outsiders—it was written to believers. People like you. People like me.

You are not condemned. You are convicted.
You are not cast out. You are called to come closer.
You are not finished. You are in the middle of the war.
And the war itself is proof that you still belong to Him.

“Being confident of this very thing, that he which hath begun a good work in you will perform it until the day of Jesus Christ” (Philippians 1:6).

You didn’t start this work. He did. And He is faithful.

So take a breath. Wipe your face. Grab your sword. And fight again.

You are still His.
And He has not changed His mind.