A Startling Realization
Last night, I published a blog post about opportunity cost.
I wrote about a painful realization that has been staring me in the face for a long time: every “yes” requires a “no.” Every choice costs something. Over the past two years, I’ve said yes to building a fitness ministry, yes to pursuing my degree, yes to working full-time, yes to serving in various capacities, and yes to countless responsibilities.
The result is that some things have been sacrificed along the way.
One of those things has been my own health.
After I finished writing that post, I sat with that realization for a while. I thought about the choices I’ve made. I thought about the consequences of those choices. I thought about the irony of building a faith-based fitness ministry while struggling with my own fitness.
And then another realization hit me.
One that was even more uncomfortable.
I saw the Pharisee in the mirror.
Not the Pharisee who wore religious robes and sought public recognition.
Not the Pharisee who openly looked down on other people.
A much subtler Pharisee.
The kind who comforts herself with comparison.
For a long time, whenever I became discouraged about my weight, I had a way of making myself feel better.
After all, I wasn’t obese.
I knew the statistics. I knew obesity affects a large percentage of Americans. Whenever conviction about my own health started creeping in, I could quietly reassure myself:
“At least I’m not that bad.”
I never thought of that as judgment.
I never intended it as judgment.
In fact, I genuinely care about helping people improve their health, regardless of where they’re starting.
But as I reflected on yesterday’s post, I realized that I had been doing exactly what Jesus warned about in His parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector.
“The Pharisee stood and prayed thus with himself, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men…’” (Luke 18:11)
The Pharisee wasn’t finding comfort in God’s grace.
He was finding comfort in comparison.
And if I’m honest, so was I.
The more I thought about it, the more uncomfortable it became.
The question isn’t whether I’m healthier than someone else.
The question isn’t whether I’m doing better than the national average.
The question isn’t whether I fall into one category or another.
The question is whether I am faithfully stewarding the body God has entrusted to me.
And when I ask that question honestly, comparisons become meaningless.
Someone can be obese and faithfully working toward better health.
Someone can be overweight and neglecting the stewardship God has given them.
The comparison tells us nothing about faithfulness.
It only tells us who we’re standing next to.
The tax collector in Jesus’ parable never looked around the room.
He looked at himself.
He looked to God.
And he prayed, “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.”
That prayer leaves no room for comparison.
No room for excuses.
No room for statistics.
Only honesty.
What makes this realization especially convicting is that for the past two years I’ve been building Girded with Strength Fitness.
I’ve been writing about health.
Teaching about health.
Studying health.
Encouraging others toward health.
Yet somewhere along the way, my own health began slipping.
The situation reminds me of ministers who become so busy serving others that their own walk with God begins to suffer. They spend so much time teaching Scripture that they neglect applying it to themselves.
In a much smaller way, I found myself becoming so busy building a fitness ministry that I wasn’t consistently living out the very principles I was teaching.
Then, when conviction came, comparison helped quiet it.
“At least I’m not obese.”
“At least I’m doing better than many people.”
“At least…”
But God never called me to be better than someone else.
He called me to be faithful.
The encouraging part of Jesus’ parable is that the tax collector wasn’t justified because he was perfect.
He was justified because he was honest.
He stopped comparing.
He stopped defending.
He stopped explaining.
He simply told the truth.
Maybe that’s where real change begins.
Not with another fitness plan.
Not with another statistic.
Not with another excuse.
Just honesty.
The Pharisee in the mirror isn’t someone else.
It’s me.
And perhaps the first step toward becoming a better steward is admitting that I’ve been looking at the wrong person all along.
Instead of looking around the room, I need to look up.
And pray the prayer of the tax collector:
“Lord, have mercy on me. Help me become a faithful steward of what You’ve given me.”
That’s a prayer God can work with.
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