I write not to preach, nor to bind thought to doctrine,
but to examine—as one examines a distant star—
an idea passed through minds and mouths across time.
Once told in the twilight of the 1980s,
now resurfacing like a tide returning to familiar shore:
that there are two kinds of sinners.
Not a classification for judgment,
but perhaps, for understanding.
The Sin of Condition
The first is the sinner who wakes already in error—
for sin is not merely something they do,
but something they inhabit.
A condition, not an event.
A state of being that lingers even in stillness.
It is like a stain absorbed into fabric:
present even when untouched,
persistent even when unnoticed.
Philosophically, this resembles habitual transgression—
actions ingrained into identity,
where continuity, not intention, defines the fault.
Examples, within a Christian ethical framework, are plain:
- Cohabitation without covenant,
- Livelihood rooted in illegality,
- Patterns of behavior defended rather than confronted.
These acts form not isolated faults,
but moral architecture—
a scaffolding of choices built repeatedly
until it becomes the house in which a soul resides.
Only renunciation—detachment—
can collapse such structure.
The Sin of Incident
The second type stands in contrast:
a sinner not by occupation,
but by occurrence.
As homicide differs from murder,
so intention separates accidental wrong
from deliberate corruption.
Here, sin is a moment—a rupture,
a fracture in one’s otherwise sincere striving.
A decision made in error,
a word spoken in haste,
a failure birthed not of appetite,
but of weakness.
Its weight remains,
for even unintended harm leaves a trace.
Yet this category reminds us
that fallibility is not synonymous with depravity.
Humans slip—not always because they desire the fall,
but because balance is a fragile thing.
And in quiet honesty,
I find myself here more often than I would like.
Not wicked—only imperfect.
Not spoiled—only human.
The Shared Destiny of Both
Two paths of wrongdoing,
yet both converge upon the same existential question:
Can one change?
The academic mind calls it transformation.
The philosopher calls it moral becoming.
The poet calls it redemption.
All three whisper the same truth:
that no one is permanently exiled from goodness.
Humans err—systematically or suddenly—
yet we are creatures capable of revision.
Our story is not fixed,
only written one line at a time.
We sin.
We recognize.
We return.
We rise.
And perhaps that is the lesson hidden within this old telling:
that categories matter less than what follows after.
For the value of a soul lies not in the fall itself,
but in the decision to stand again.
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Othello