It’s funny to imagine myself on my ship in a lounge with the Holy Spirit, discussing what martyrdom looks like for me in honor of the King—pipe in hand, coffee on the table—like we’re planning some noble saga together.

It doesn’t feel enough to suffer as I am—not that I would wish disaster, disease, cancer, homelessness, familylessness, or godlessness upon myself. It’s just difficult to accept an “abundant life” while being aware of how the disciples suffered for the sake of Christ and the gospel.

But maybe I’ve misunderstood abundance. Jesus doesn’t promise ease—He promises Himself. And if He is the Life, then “abundant” can’t simply mean comfortable. It can mean full, steady, and unkillable… even when it hurts. Jesus said, “If anyone would come after Me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow Me.” (Luke 9:23)

I mean, come on—here I sit, legs crossed, when I could be flogging myself or something. (Which, to be clear, is exactly the kind of religious nonsense I would come up with if I wanted to feel holy without actually being holy.)

The sad truth is that, in a way, I’ve done the flogging, as evidenced by the humor. Sometimes I use a joke to dress up pride, to feel significant, to posture as “serious” about God without actually dying where it counts. As though I could rejoice as the apostles did:

40 They took his advice; and after calling the apostles in, they flogged them and ordered them not to speak in the name of Jesus, and then released them.
41 So they went on their way from the presence of the Council, rejoicing that they had been considered worthy to suffer shame for His name. — Acts 5

How narcissistic of me!

And more than narcissistic—self-protective. I want suffering that looks holy. I want dramatic pain as a shortcut to significance. I want a badge that proves I’m real. But the Lord keeps putting the blade where it actually counts: ordinary obedience, quiet repentance, daily denial.

So what does my suffering look like today?

My suffering for the sake of Christ today often takes quieter, less visible forms. It looks like dying to my pride when I would rather defend myself, choosing humility when I am misunderstood, and holding fast to truth when compromise would be easier. It means bearing the weight of disappointment and delay while trusting that God’s timing is perfect. It shows up in the daily battle against sin, in the ache of longing for holiness, and in the willingness to be poured out for others even when no one notices.

My suffering is not dramatic, but it is real—a steady surrender of comfort, reputation, and control so that Christ might be seen more clearly in me. And Scripture doesn’t romanticize it. It calls it what it is: death. “I die every day!” (1 Corinthians 15:31)

This week I confessed to Laura my struggle with lust—not looking at pornography, but being vulnerable to primal, fleshly instincts and desires that conjure unhealthy thought processes leading to compromise rather than faithfulness. And that happened not long after sharing with my Christian brother-in-arms how faithful I’d been throughout the week to resist by the grace of God.

I didn’t confess to feel cleansed by honesty. I confessed because I needed to drag it into the light, call it what it is, repent, and ask for help walking in the Spirit. I needed prayer. I needed accountability. I needed to stop romanticizing my “strength” and admit my weakness. If I’m going to talk about suffering, I should probably start by suffering the humiliation of being known.

The leader of our community group does a weekly check-in on how the guys are doing with purity. I was glad to give a healthy report, but now that I think about it more, I remember getting angry over something small. I locked myself out of our patio storage door, and because I didn’t exercise the fruit of the Spirit—patience and self-control—I destroyed part of the door to break in, even though we had a key (which I couldn’t find at the time). Ohhh… the humanity!

That’s the thing: I can “pass” the purity check-in and still be failing at crucifying the flesh five minutes later. The martyrdom I imagine is big and heroic. The martyrdom God gives me is smaller and truer: confessing without excuses, owning my sin, and walking back into patience and self-control by the Spirit.

And here’s the central mercy: Christ’s suffering isn’t only a model—it’s my only hope. If my peace depended on the quality of my “martyrdom,” I’d be lost. But the Son of God was pierced for sinners. He suffered for the ungodly. He bore shame I deserved, and He gives grace I can’t manufacture. I don’t die to myself to earn His love; I die to myself because He loved me first—and because His Spirit is at war with my flesh.

Paul didn’t talk about suffering like a spiritual performance. He talked about it like communion: “That I may know Him and the power of His resurrection, and may share His sufferings, becoming like Him in His death.” (Philippians 3:10)

So what does martyrdom look like for me in honor of the King?

Martyrdom for me may not mean physical death, but a daily dying to self—laying down my pride, comfort, and desires so that Christ is exalted. It looks like enduring misunderstanding, rejection, or loss for the sake of truth, loving others when it costs me, and remaining faithful to Jesus even when obedience feels like a kind of death.

And if suffering comes in heavier waves than I imagined, Scripture prepares me without theatrics: “Beloved, do not be surprised at the fiery trial when it comes upon you… but rejoice insofar as you share Christ’s sufferings.” (1 Peter 4:12–13)

It is living and, if called, dying in such a way that the worth of the King and the power of His gospel are unmistakably displayed.