“…Train yourself to be godly. For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come.” – 1 Timothy 4:7-8
Humans are quite capable of recognizing what is good for us while remaining unwilling to do what is necessary to obtain it.
We admire discipline from a distance, praise perseverance in others, and speak enthusiastically about the virtues of a healthier, more purposeful life. Yet when the opportunity comes to exchange our present comforts for those promised benefits, we suddenly discover a great many reasons why the undertaking is neither practical nor particularly appealing.
We want the fruit, certainly, but we are considerably less enthusiastic about the labor required to cultivate it.
Consider the person who, following a health scare or significant life event, determines that it is time to take better care of himself. He knows the research: regular exercise improves cardiovascular health, strengthens the body, sharpens the mind, and contributes to emotional well-being. And so, armed with newfound determination, he joins a gym.
At first, his enthusiasm is admirable. Yet almost immediately, he discovers that knowing something is beneficial and experiencing its benefits are two very different things. His muscles ache. His schedule protests. Progress seems painfully slow. Perhaps someone makes an unkind remark, leaving him feeling unwelcome. Meanwhile, the comforts of home, which have never demanded much of him, begin calling with renewed affection.
Little by little, his resolve weakens. One missed workout becomes two, then a week, then a month. Yet the most interesting transformation is not what has happened to his body, but what has happened to his reasoning. Exercise itself becomes the problem. It was too demanding. The results were too slow. The people were unfriendly. He may even begin to regard those who exercise faithfully as rather peculiar creatures, excessively devoted to an activity that interferes with life’s more pleasant occupations.
Notice what has occurred. The evidence supporting exercise has not changed. Its benefits have not disappeared. What has changed is his willingness to endure the discomfort necessary to experience them. Rather than examine his own reluctance, he has found it more agreeable to question the value of the very thing he once knew to be good.
Many understand the promises of Christianity. They have heard of the peace that surpasses understanding, the joy that remains even in suffering, the forgiveness of sins, and the hope of eternal life through Jesus Christ. They may even believe these things to be true. Yet when confronted with Christ’s invitation to follow Him, they discover that discipleship involves considerably more than admiring His teachings. It requires the surrender of the very thing we are most inclined to protect: ourselves.
Jesus did not conceal this difficulty. In Luke 9:23, He declared, “Whoever wants to be my disciple must deny themselves and take up their cross daily and follow me.”
Following Christ is not merely one grand declaration, but a thousand small decisions that steadily loosen our attachment to the comforts of the flesh.
Much like our reluctant gym-goer, we may begin with considerable enthusiasm. We attend church. We open our Bibles. We pray. Yet before long, difficulties arise. Prayer seems unanswered. Scripture challenges convictions we would prefer to keep. Forgiveness is required of someone we believe does not deserve it. Perhaps someone at church disappoints us or leaves a genuine wound. Such hurts should never be dismissed – but neither should they become reasons to abandon something that remains true.
Should we conclude that Christ is unworthy of following because those who claim to follow Him have sometimes done so poorly? We would hardly declare physical health a fraud because someone at the gym behaved rudely. Yet we are willing to judge Christianity by the failures of Christians rather than by the character of Christ. Sometimes another person’s shortcomings provide a convenient explanation for a withdrawal our own desire for comfort had already begun to encourage.
For the flesh is an accomplished negotiator. It rarely announces, “I would rather remain spiritually immature.” Instead, it presents a hundred respectable arguments for postponing obedience. We are too busy to pray, too tired to study Scripture, too wounded to participate in fellowship, and too overwhelmed to serve. Tomorrow, perhaps, when circumstances are more favorable. But tomorrow has a habit of becoming today, and the circumstances we await have an equally peculiar habit of never arriving.
The Apostle Paul understood this struggle. In 1 Timothy 4:7–8, we are instructed to train ourselves for godliness, reminded that while physical training has value, godliness holds promise for both the present life and the life to come. Spiritual maturity, like physical strength, does not ordinarily emerge from occasional bursts of enthusiasm. It is cultivated through repeated acts of faithfulness, often when the immediate reward is difficult to see.
There is a reason comfort is so attractive: it asks so little of us. A comfortable life seldom demands that we confront our selfishness, challenge our assumptions, or surrender our preferences. Yet the absence of discomfort is not necessarily the presence of peace. We may spend years avoiding difficult conversations, uncomfortable truths, and opportunities for sacrifice, only to discover that what we have preserved is not peace at all, but a rather fragile arrangement with our own fears.
Muscles strengthen through resistance. Endurance develops through continued effort. And character, shaped by the grace of God, is often refined in those very circumstances from which we would most readily escape. James reminds us that the testing of faith produces perseverance. Not because suffering is pleasant, but because God can accomplish something good within us even through difficulties we would never have chosen.
Nor is the fruit of faith always immediately visible. The person who begins exercising may look in the mirror after two weeks and see little evidence of change. Yet beneath the surface, important things may already be happening. Likewise, faithful prayer may not immediately alter our circumstances. Forgiveness may not instantly heal a relationship. Obedience may not produce the outcome we expected. But the absence of immediate evidence is not proof that God is absent from the work. Some of the most significant transformations of the soul occur quietly, long before they become apparent even to ourselves.
What if the peace we seek is found not in the removal of every difficulty, but in learning to trust the One who walks with us through them? What if the joy we desire is not dependent upon agreeable circumstances, but upon hearts increasingly anchored in something eternal? And what if the freedom Christ promises requires us first to surrender those comforts, fears, and habits that have held us captive?
We cannot expect to enjoy the fruits of a life surrendered to Christ while continually resisting the surrender itself. There will be days when we falter, when prayer feels difficult and obedience seems costly. But the answer to stumbling is not to abandon the journey. It is to rise again, trusting not in our own strength, but in the mercy of the One who called us.
For the great tragedy would not be that following Christ proved difficult. He told us from the beginning that it would. The tragedy would be to mistake that difficulty for evidence that the journey was not worth taking.
After all, we do not condemn the mountain because the climb makes us weary. We do not deny the value of strength because acquiring it requires effort. And we ought not reject the transforming grace of Christ simply because our flesh objects to the transformation.
The comfortable road will always beckon, promising rest without surrender, happiness without sacrifice, and peace without obedience. But Christ offers us something infinitely greater than comfort… He offers us Himself.
And perhaps, in the end, the question is not whether we are willing to endure the discomfort of following Christ, but whether we are willing to spend our lives without discovering what lies on the other side of our surrender.