Sin as a Sacred Wound
Richard Wiltshire *
I want to reclaim the word “sin” within our spiritual vocabulary, not by erasing its complexity or sanitising its implications, but by restoring its depth and resonance. For too long, the word has been burdened by moralistic reductionism, wielded as a weapon to shame and exclude. In many faith communities, sin has come to signify nothing more than behavioural infractions, a checklist of transgressions against an external code. But this flattening of the term obscures its more profound and urgent meaning.
In its original Greek, hamartia simply means “to miss the mark.” But this is not merely about missing an ethical target, it speaks to a more existential misalignment, a fundamental fracture at the heart of the human condition. To reclaim sin, then, is not to return to legalism, but to awaken to the truth of our being: that there is a gap at the core of the self, a lack that structures our desire, a wound we spend our lives trying to bandage through power, performance, and perfection.
Drawing upon Lacanian psychoanalysis and radical theology, I believe it’s possible to reframe original sin, not as an Augustinian inheritance from the fall, but as the structural lack that defines subjectivity itself. In Lacanian terms, we are not whole, self-contained beings. Rather, we are divided, decentered, haunted by an absence we cannot fill. This gap is not so much a moral failure, but an ontological reality. It is the space where language falters, where longing takes root, where the illusion of a coherent self begins to unravel. [1]
From this perspective, grace is not divine indulgence dispensed from above to cover over our shame. Grace is the radical acceptance of our fractured nature, a yes to the truth that Christ embraced on the cross. In this sense, God does not come to erase lack, but to inhabit it. On the cross, we do not see a divine fix, but a divine solidarity with the brokenness of existence. Grace, then, is not a transaction but a transformation: the unearned and unearnable affirmation that even in our weakness, we are not abandoned.
To say with boldness and sincerity the prayer “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” (as Eastern Orthodox Christians say) is not to grovel in shame. It is to confess the human condition with courageous honesty. It is to recognise that we do not need to be rescued from our lack, but within it. Only in this moment of vulnerable acknowledgment can true transformation take root, not the transformation that comes from ego-driven self-improvement, but the kind that flows from a surrender to our deepest truth.
In this light, salvation is not a reward for religious or moral conformity, but the present-tense liberation that occurs when we cease striving to be whole and instead rest in the grace that embraces us as we are. We are “saved from our sins” not by being made perfect, but by being made real, by being released from the exhausting performance of a false self and welcomed into the mystery of being known, seen, and loved in our lack.
To reclaim sin, then, is to reclaim our humanity, not as a problem to be solved, but as a sacred wound through which the divine breathes. It is to see our failures not as evidence of worthlessness, but as invitations into deeper dependence, deeper love, and deeper solidarity. It is to recognise that the cross does not eliminate the gap, it transfigures it.
[1] In Lacanian psychoanalysis, there is an ontological gap, split and asymmetry within our innate subjectivity. This is not a defect that needs to be fixed, but is the very structure of the self that is transformative if allowed to exist and unfold naturally. Whereas, Eastern philosophies tend to emphasise the renunciation of our egotistical desires to abide in the source of the self or reality as a state of wholeness and enlightenment, whereas Lacan might remind the Buddhist or Hindu that while there is truth in that view, the ontological structure of that self is better understood as a split, gap or asymmetry. That is perhaps why Christianity places a stronger emphasis on our brokenness, which is paradoxically the source of our breakthrough.
* Chaplain at The Salvation Army Australia: studied at UWE Bristol: lives in Perth, Western Australia; from Thornbury, Gloucestershire. This essay is reposted from Richard Wiltshire's Facebook page, with his permission,
In its original Greek, hamartia simply means “to miss the mark.” But this is not merely about missing an ethical target, it speaks to a more existential misalignment, a fundamental fracture at the heart of the human condition. To reclaim sin, then, is not to return to legalism, but to awaken to the truth of our being: that there is a gap at the core of the self, a lack that structures our desire, a wound we spend our lives trying to bandage through power, performance, and perfection.
Drawing upon Lacanian psychoanalysis and radical theology, I believe it’s possible to reframe original sin, not as an Augustinian inheritance from the fall, but as the structural lack that defines subjectivity itself. In Lacanian terms, we are not whole, self-contained beings. Rather, we are divided, decentered, haunted by an absence we cannot fill. This gap is not so much a moral failure, but an ontological reality. It is the space where language falters, where longing takes root, where the illusion of a coherent self begins to unravel. [1]
From this perspective, grace is not divine indulgence dispensed from above to cover over our shame. Grace is the radical acceptance of our fractured nature, a yes to the truth that Christ embraced on the cross. In this sense, God does not come to erase lack, but to inhabit it. On the cross, we do not see a divine fix, but a divine solidarity with the brokenness of existence. Grace, then, is not a transaction but a transformation: the unearned and unearnable affirmation that even in our weakness, we are not abandoned.
To say with boldness and sincerity the prayer “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner,” (as Eastern Orthodox Christians say) is not to grovel in shame. It is to confess the human condition with courageous honesty. It is to recognise that we do not need to be rescued from our lack, but within it. Only in this moment of vulnerable acknowledgment can true transformation take root, not the transformation that comes from ego-driven self-improvement, but the kind that flows from a surrender to our deepest truth.
In this light, salvation is not a reward for religious or moral conformity, but the present-tense liberation that occurs when we cease striving to be whole and instead rest in the grace that embraces us as we are. We are “saved from our sins” not by being made perfect, but by being made real, by being released from the exhausting performance of a false self and welcomed into the mystery of being known, seen, and loved in our lack.
To reclaim sin, then, is to reclaim our humanity, not as a problem to be solved, but as a sacred wound through which the divine breathes. It is to see our failures not as evidence of worthlessness, but as invitations into deeper dependence, deeper love, and deeper solidarity. It is to recognise that the cross does not eliminate the gap, it transfigures it.
[1] In Lacanian psychoanalysis, there is an ontological gap, split and asymmetry within our innate subjectivity. This is not a defect that needs to be fixed, but is the very structure of the self that is transformative if allowed to exist and unfold naturally. Whereas, Eastern philosophies tend to emphasise the renunciation of our egotistical desires to abide in the source of the self or reality as a state of wholeness and enlightenment, whereas Lacan might remind the Buddhist or Hindu that while there is truth in that view, the ontological structure of that self is better understood as a split, gap or asymmetry. That is perhaps why Christianity places a stronger emphasis on our brokenness, which is paradoxically the source of our breakthrough.
* Chaplain at The Salvation Army Australia: studied at UWE Bristol: lives in Perth, Western Australia; from Thornbury, Gloucestershire. This essay is reposted from Richard Wiltshire's Facebook page, with his permission,
Process Response
Jay McDaniel
Richard Wiltshire offers fresh insight into a key idea in Whitehead’s philosophy: that in every moment of our lives, there exists a gap between the functional subjective aim—the concrete, felt goal by which we orient ourselves to the world—and the initial phase of that aim, which is the living presence of God within us. The functional aim guides our actual responses, yet it almost always falls short of the ideal aim derived from God. And yet, this functional aim is what constitutes our lived experience. This gap is not merely psychological or moral; it is ontological. It lies at the heart of our existence as subjects of our own becoming. As Wiltshire puts it, “there is an ontological gap, split and asymmetry within our innate subjectivity.” This is not a flaw to be corrected, but a structural feature of the self—a site of potential transformation.
Sin as an Ontological Gap
From a process perspective, the good news is this: we are accepted and loved amid the ontological gap—not after it is closed, but within it. In each moment of concrescence, we prehend the lure of God—the initial aim—which invites us toward richer forms of becoming. Yet the actual aim we enact often falls short. Still, we are not abandoned in our falling short. As Wiltshire writes:
“In this light, salvation is not a reward for religious or moral conformity, but the present-tense liberation that occurs when we cease striving to be whole and instead rest in the grace that embraces us as we are. We are ‘saved from our sins’ not by being made perfect, but by being made real—released from the exhausting performance of a false self and welcomed into the mystery of being known, seen, and loved in our lack.”
In process theology, salvation is not about erasing the asymmetry between what is and what could be, but about recognizing that God is present in every becoming—offering acceptance, not after we succeed, but in the midst of our struggle. Grace is not reserved for the ideal; it permeates the actual. We are loved not because we are whole, but because we are in process.
Sin as Harm, Not Just Gap
While process theology affirms the ontological gap within subjectivity—the asymmetry between the divine lure and the actualized aim—it does not reduce sin merely to this existential condition. There is also sin in the more familiar and urgent sense: the actual act of harming others and oneself. Sin is enacted in violence—outer and inner. It takes the form of cruelty, domination, indifference, and deceit; of systems that crush dignity, and of choices that diminish life. It is found in unjust structures, but also in our habits of thought, speech, and action.
This kind of sin is not simply the failure to realize our ideal aim; it is the willful or unconscious distortion of relational life. It is the breaking of bonds—between self and neighbor, self and world, self and God. It is the rejection, however subtle or overt, of the call to beauty, truth, compassion, and justice. In process terms, it is a concrescence that shuts down rather than opens up; that narrows possibility rather than expands it.
And yet, even here, in the thick of violence and violation, God is not absent. The divine lure continues to call us—not in blame, but in invitation: to turn, to begin again, to repair. There is no undoing what has been done, but there is always a fresh becoming, a next moment that carries with it the possibility of repentance, restitution, and reconciliation. The consequent nature of God receives even the most tragic distortions, weaving them into a deeper memory—not to erase, but to redeem.
Sin as Sacred Wound in Process
There is another way to speak of sin—not only as ontological gap, and not only as concrete harm, but as sacred wound. This is not to romanticize suffering or excuse the violence we inflict on others and ourselves. It is, rather, to recognize that even our most painful distortions—the betrayals, the addictions, the silences, the cruelties—can become openings through which God breathes. In process theology, God is not the author of harm but the companion to it: a transforming presence who does not erase the wound but works from within it, luring us toward beauty out of brokenness.
Every sin leaves a scar on the world and within the soul. But where there is rupture, there is also room—for reorientation, for healing, for deeper connection. In this light, sin becomes a site of potential transformation: not because sin is good, but because God is good—good enough to enter the wreckage and reweave what has been torn.
God does not wait for us to be healed before loving us. God is the breath within the wound, the lure within the damage, the tender voice saying even now, “Create again.” What we have harmed, we may help heal. What we have lost, we may reimagine. What we have broken, we may mend—not perfectly, but with compassion. God does not erase the cracks; but the cracks themselves are sites of creative transformation, of creating again, inwardly animated by divine love.
Sin as an Ontological Gap
From a process perspective, the good news is this: we are accepted and loved amid the ontological gap—not after it is closed, but within it. In each moment of concrescence, we prehend the lure of God—the initial aim—which invites us toward richer forms of becoming. Yet the actual aim we enact often falls short. Still, we are not abandoned in our falling short. As Wiltshire writes:
“In this light, salvation is not a reward for religious or moral conformity, but the present-tense liberation that occurs when we cease striving to be whole and instead rest in the grace that embraces us as we are. We are ‘saved from our sins’ not by being made perfect, but by being made real—released from the exhausting performance of a false self and welcomed into the mystery of being known, seen, and loved in our lack.”
In process theology, salvation is not about erasing the asymmetry between what is and what could be, but about recognizing that God is present in every becoming—offering acceptance, not after we succeed, but in the midst of our struggle. Grace is not reserved for the ideal; it permeates the actual. We are loved not because we are whole, but because we are in process.
Sin as Harm, Not Just Gap
While process theology affirms the ontological gap within subjectivity—the asymmetry between the divine lure and the actualized aim—it does not reduce sin merely to this existential condition. There is also sin in the more familiar and urgent sense: the actual act of harming others and oneself. Sin is enacted in violence—outer and inner. It takes the form of cruelty, domination, indifference, and deceit; of systems that crush dignity, and of choices that diminish life. It is found in unjust structures, but also in our habits of thought, speech, and action.
This kind of sin is not simply the failure to realize our ideal aim; it is the willful or unconscious distortion of relational life. It is the breaking of bonds—between self and neighbor, self and world, self and God. It is the rejection, however subtle or overt, of the call to beauty, truth, compassion, and justice. In process terms, it is a concrescence that shuts down rather than opens up; that narrows possibility rather than expands it.
And yet, even here, in the thick of violence and violation, God is not absent. The divine lure continues to call us—not in blame, but in invitation: to turn, to begin again, to repair. There is no undoing what has been done, but there is always a fresh becoming, a next moment that carries with it the possibility of repentance, restitution, and reconciliation. The consequent nature of God receives even the most tragic distortions, weaving them into a deeper memory—not to erase, but to redeem.
Sin as Sacred Wound in Process
There is another way to speak of sin—not only as ontological gap, and not only as concrete harm, but as sacred wound. This is not to romanticize suffering or excuse the violence we inflict on others and ourselves. It is, rather, to recognize that even our most painful distortions—the betrayals, the addictions, the silences, the cruelties—can become openings through which God breathes. In process theology, God is not the author of harm but the companion to it: a transforming presence who does not erase the wound but works from within it, luring us toward beauty out of brokenness.
Every sin leaves a scar on the world and within the soul. But where there is rupture, there is also room—for reorientation, for healing, for deeper connection. In this light, sin becomes a site of potential transformation: not because sin is good, but because God is good—good enough to enter the wreckage and reweave what has been torn.
God does not wait for us to be healed before loving us. God is the breath within the wound, the lure within the damage, the tender voice saying even now, “Create again.” What we have harmed, we may help heal. What we have lost, we may reimagine. What we have broken, we may mend—not perfectly, but with compassion. God does not erase the cracks; but the cracks themselves are sites of creative transformation, of creating again, inwardly animated by divine love.