Have We Counted the Cost?
I’m a voracious reader of early American historical fiction. One thing those novels never allow me to do is romanticize the past. Life was brutally hard, especially for women.
They cooked everything from scratch, growing much of it in their own gardens. They washed clothes by hand, sewed garments, preserved food, cared for livestock, and often worked as servants. Many gave birth to five or ten children, and many also buried a child or two in the local cemetery. Through it all, they possessed a deep dependence on God because they knew they couldn’t carry life’s burdens alone.
I don’t share this to compare them with women today. In many ways, I think I would have been the first to crumble under those hardships. I pace impatiently when my microwave takes too long. Comfort has become so normal that inconvenience feels like suffering.
Truth be told, many forms of emotional upheaval today are magnified to unhealthy proportions. I’m not minimizing genuine grief. I know that pain is real. But those women of the past often had no choice except to keep walking through sorrow after sorrow. There was no time to linger, complain, or post it on social media. They expected life to be difficult. They counted the cost because hardship wasn’t the exception—it was the reality.
As I’ve been studying the book of Acts, I’ve found myself asking whether we’ve lost that perspective spiritually as well.
No matter how many times I read Acts, something new grabs my attention. Scripture truly is living and active. This time, I found myself repeatedly highlighting verses about the life of Paul—not simply because of the things he endured, but because of the way he endured them. I don’t think we can appreciate Paul’s steadfastness without first understanding what he gave up.
Paul had every earthly advantage. He described himself as “circumcised the eighth day of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee.” He was educated under Gamaliel, one of the most respected rabbis of his day, and he possessed Roman citizenship, a privilege that opened doors and offered legal protections throughout the empire. Before his conversion, he violently persecuted the church because he sincerely believed he was defending God.
Then Christ met him on the road to Damascus.
In that encounter, Paul didn’t simply gain a new purpose—he surrendered everything he had built his life upon. The Lord made it clear that following Him would involve suffering. From that moment on, Paul’s life became a living picture of what it means to count the cost. He not only said yes to Christ’s calling, but considered it an honor to suffer for His name.
What amazes me is the pattern of Paul proclaiming Christ, suffering for it, and then getting back up to do it again. He wasn’t growing bitter; he was becoming more faithful.
One verse has stayed with me. After the apostles had been beaten and ordered never again to speak in the name of Jesus, Acts 5:41 says, “So they departed from the presence of the council, rejoicing that they were counted worthy to suffer shame for His name.”
Rejoicing?
Not relieved. Not discouraged. Not asking God why. Rejoicing.
I have to ask myself if I’ve so confused comfort with blessing that I’ve forgotten suffering can also be a gift when it identifies us with Christ. We pray for boldness, but do we count the cost of living boldly? We want the resurrection power without the fellowship of His sufferings.
Perhaps that’s why Paul could rejoice. He had already settled the question long before the beating came. Christ was worth whatever obedience would cost him.
Perhaps that’s the question the book of Acts still asks us today: Have we counted the cost, or are we still negotiating the terms of our discipleship?
