Empty Futility

After reading Romans 8 for probably the fiftieth time, I still can’t get the phrase “empty futility” out of my head. The universe has had to endure empty futility resulting from the consequences of human sin. I finally asked Copilot what it meant, and it described empty futility as life shadowed by death — a life where our purpose gets buried under frustration that paralyzes us.

So when I imagine the universe enduring that empty futility, I picture a creation that didn’t choose brokenness any more than I chose to be broken. It didn’t choose frustration any more than I chose frustration. Yet both creation and I have to endure it because it’s part of the consequences of sin. Not just my sin, but sin itself. And if I’m honest, it doesn’t feel fair.

But who am I to pretend I would have been the “good girl” who refused the fruit? If Eve hadn’t eaten it, I’m almost certain I would have. When I think about Eve, I don’t picture her casually daydreaming about the fruit. I imagine the quieter, more dangerous process. That one little thought of desire when allowed to linger started small and then grew roots.  How long did she rehearse the idea in her mind, not just wondering but slowly persuading herself that it would be fine, that nothing terrible would happen, that she could manage the consequences? That part feels familiar. Not the moment of rebellion, but the long, subtle self‑negotiation and quiet inner persuasion that leads up to it.

And I doubt she had any sense of how far the consequences would reach, how long sin would linger in places she never intended to touch. She wasn’t thinking about generations or theology or the weight of history. She was human, just like me. So whatever I imagine she felt, the shock, the shame, the heaviness, is probably closer to the truth than I want to admit.

I’ve made choices I knew weren’t right, but they felt harmless in the moment. I told myself it wasn’t a big deal. I wasn’t having some scandalous conversation, but I was entertaining a relationship with someone and it felt scandalous. And instead of admitting it, I pretended I was the kind of person who would never do something like that. I even put down people who did, all the while hiding the same thing in my own heart.

What I didn’t understand was how long the consequences would echo in my mind. My thoughts became a kind of haunting, not just remembering what I did, but remembering who I pretended to be. It made me sick to my stomach. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, but the smallest thing could bring it all back. I felt like a traitor to the person I loved, because even after the behavior stopped, the lie kept living inside me. I couldn’t stop replaying it. I couldn’t stop feeling divided.

Eventually it became too heavy to carry. I remember finally asking Jesus to quiet the thoughts I couldn’t control. And He did. I didn’t notice it right away, but one day I realized the constant noise in my mind had gone silent. But silence doesn’t erase sin. The mess was still there, sitting in my heart like a weight I couldn’t ignore. And I knew I couldn’t keep pretending to be blameless when I wasn’t. So I confessed it to my husband, not because anyone confronted me, but because the Holy Spirit said I must in order not to carry something in my heart that kept me separated from him. I needed to be honest, even though honesty hurt.

The hardest part was this, the desire that once felt harmless wasn’t a desire I even wanted anymore. It had become the exact opposite of what I wanted. But by the time I realized that, it had already given birth to sin. It had already grown into something I never meant to nurture.

James 1:14–15 says it plainly:

“Temptation comes from our own desires, which entice us and drag us away. These desires give birth to sinful actions. And when sin is allowed to grow, it gives birth to death.”

In other words: our own desires can lead us places we never meant to go, and when sin matures, it can destroy what we love. I understand that verse in a way I never did before. If my desire is intimacy, I cannot hide secrets. 

That’s exactly what that sin felt like. Something small that grew into something that tried to choke the life out of me. Proverbs reminded me that whatever fills my heart will eventually come out of my mouth. I may not always control every word I speak, but I can choose what I hold in my heart and I can give that over to Jesus to help me hold to that choice.

I could spend my life blaming Eve for what she did to me, but I’d rather set my mind on what Jesus has done for me. Because something shifts when we finally see the fullness of Christ’s work. When I pause and consider the weight of what happened in the beginning and the weight of what Jesus carried to the cross, I start to see the world differently. I start to see myself differently. Christ didn’t just save me from certain death. He saved me back into the life I was meant to live before sin ever entered the story.

It’s almost like I need to be reminded that I had a Father. That I was made for communion with Him, for trusting Him, for spending time with Him. God didn’t create me with the expectation that Eve would fail. He created me with the intention that I would walk with Him in an unhindered, willing, father-daughter relationship.

So I refuse to live in the shadow of what I’ve done or what Eve did. I refuse to let sin have the final word over my story. Jesus has already spoken a better word. A word of adoption, of freedom, of restoration, of purpose. He didn’t just rescue me from death. He rescued me into life. Into intimacy. Into honesty. Into a relationship where I don’t have to hide behind leaves or lies. I get to walk with Him again, the way I was created to. And that my friend, changes everything.