Less of Me, More of Him

Sin wears many masks, but if you peel them back you’ll often find the same four letters stitched on the inside tag: S-E-L-F. We tend to reduce sin to a list of bad actions—lying, stealing, cruelty, impurity—but Scripture goes deeper, to the fountain that feeds the stream. “Every man is tempted, when he is drawn away of his own lust, and enticed. Then when lust hath conceived, it bringeth forth sin” (James 1:14–15). The emphasis falls on that quiet tyrant within—my desire, my way, my insistence on being first. Before the hands move, the heart has already crowned “me.” If we’re honest, self wants the front seat, the last word, and—on especially spiritual days—the biggest slice of humble pie.

Eden still echoes with this truth. The serpent’s pitch was a siren song to self: “Ye shall be as gods, knowing good and evil” (Genesis 3:5). It was not merely fruit on a tree; it was a throne in the heart. A hand reached, yes—but a heart rose up first. The tragedy of the fall was not just breaking a rule; it was grasping a crown never ours to wear. That grasp stretches through history—and we feel it when we bristle at correction, polish image over character, or quietly rewrite the story so we can play the hero. The prophet’s diagnosis lands hard: “The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?” (Jeremiah 17:9). Left to itself, self can justify almost anything—especially itself.

But the gospel answers the garden with a hill. At Calvary we see self unmasked and love unveiled. “Let this mind be in you, which was also in Christ Jesus… who… made himself of no reputation… and became obedient unto death, even the death of the cross” (Philippians 2:5–8). Where self claws upward, Jesus stoops downward. Where self demands to be served, Jesus girds Himself with a towel. Where self clings to its rights, Jesus opens His hands and pours Himself out. The cross is not only payment for guilt; it is the pattern for living. We are not rescued by training self to behave; we are rescued as self is dethroned and Christ takes His rightful place within.

This is why discipleship begins at a door marked deny. “If any man will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me” (Luke 9:23). Daily—because self is a morning person. It rises with the sun, offers to manage our schedule, and volunteers to run our relationships. It has opinions on what others should have said and how they should have treated us. It is eloquent when offended and strangely quiet when called to repent. Yet grace meets us at daybreak with a better way: “I am crucified with Christ… yet not I, but Christ liveth in me” (Galatians 2:20). The Christian life is not self-improvement; it is self-surrender. Not a shinier “me,” but “Christ in you, the hope of glory” (Colossians 1:27).

When self dies, joy lives. We fear the word deny, as if Jesus were shrinking our world to a gray hallway. But like a key turning a lock, self-denial opens into a large place. “And that he died for all, that they which live should not henceforth live unto themselves, but unto him” (2 Corinthians 5:15). Living unto Him is not losing ourselves; it is finally finding ourselves in the love we were made for. Think of the soul as a window: when self fogs the glass, everything beyond looks dim; when Christ clears the pane, the whole world brightens. We begin to notice people again—not as extras in our story, but as beloved souls in His.

Of course, self does not surrender politely. It does not pack a bag and wave from the porch. It lingers in respectable disguises: a zeal for truth that has misplaced love, a passion for excellence that has enthroned control, a burden for others that keeps score. Sometimes it even quotes verses—subtly keeping the camera on us. How do we answer such a chameleon? The way our Lord answered in the wilderness: with the Word, with worship, and with a settled refusal to bow to anything but the Father’s will. The path, though narrow, is plain: “If ye live after the flesh, ye shall die: but if ye through the Spirit do mortify the deeds of the body, ye shall live” (Romans 8:13). Through the Spirit—because white-knuckled religion can restrain the hand for a time, but only the Spirit can retrain the heart.

Consider Isaiah’s portrait of Lucifer and its cadence—count the “I will” statements: “I will ascend… I will exalt… I will sit… I will ascend… I will be like the most High” (Isaiah 14:13–14). Sin is not merely law-breaking; it is throne-taking. In contrast, hear the forerunner’s anthem of humility: “He must increase, but I must decrease” (John 3:30). Two songs, two kingdoms. One magnifies self; the other magnifies the Lamb: “Behold the Lamb of God” (John 1:29). One swells with self and collapses under its own weight; the other bows low and is lifted by the hand of God. The boast of the adversary is vertical—up, up, up; the confession of the forerunner is downward—less, less, less (Isaiah 14:13–14; John 3:30). Pride demands space; love makes room. And in that emptied space, Christ fills all in all (Ephesians 1:23). Which anthem are we humming under our breath? The answer shows up in small places: how we receive a slight, return a favor, or handle being overlooked. Self wants the last cookie and the last word; love is content to leave both on the plate.

How do we practice the decrease that makes room for His increase? Start where self prefers you not to. Choose a secret kindness that cannot be traced back to you. Return a gentle answer when a sharp one would feel so satisfying. Make room in your schedule for someone who can never repay you. Pray for the one who misunderstands you—not that they would finally see how right you are, but that they would taste how kind God is. Then take a quiet, courageous step in the place the Spirit keeps tapping—reconciliation you’ve delayed, a habit you’ve excused, an apology you owe. These are not works to earn favor; they are doorways through which favor flows. In each step you discover the strange arithmetic of the kingdom: as self subtracts, love multiplies.

And when you stumble—and you will—run to the cross, not to your scoreboard. Self loves tallies; grace loves testimonies. Confess quickly, believe deeply, rise thankfully. The blood of Jesus did not purchase you to live forever orbiting self-awareness; it purchased you to walk in God-awareness. Fix your gaze where victory was won and is won again each day: “Let this mind be in you… he humbled himself” (Philippians 2:5, 8). The more we behold Him, the more the spell of self is broken. Slowly the heart learns a new reflex: less of me, more of Him; less grasping, more giving; less proving, more praising.

In the end, sin truly is a four-letter word. Spell it out and you hear the hiss of the ancient lie: S-E-L-F. Speak the name above every name and you hear the music of a better world: J-E-S-U-S. The first reaches and falls; the second descends and raises us with Him. The first whispers, “I will ascend”; the second answers, “And I, if I be lifted up from the earth, will draw all men unto me” (John 12:32). Today, somewhere ordinary—a kitchen, a classroom, a checkout line—you will feel the tug to enthrone self. When it comes, smile gently, and turn the mirror outward and upward. Give Christ the chair at the head of the table—even if all you have to serve is a simple “yes.” By evening, the house of your soul may feel roomier, the windows clearer, the laughter easier. That is what happens when the King moves in and self moves out. That is not loss—it is life.

If this Fireside Chat warmed your spirit and sparked fresh resolve to live what you believe, fan that flame with Scripture—“Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly” (Colossians 3:16). Pull a little closer to the Light, and carry it into the week ahead.

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