There's a moment in every weightlifter's journey when they realize something profound: the burn isn't the enemy—it's the invitation. That uncomfortable tension in their muscles isn't signaling damage; it's announcing transformation. As I've walked deeper into my own spiritual journey, I've discovered that this same principle governs not just our physical bodies, but the very fabric of our souls.
We live in a culture that teaches us to shriek tension like a child recoiling from thunder. We medicate discomfort, avoid difficult conversations, and craft lives designed to minimize friction. Yet somewhere in the quiet moments of honest reflection, we sense that something essential is missing. We've mistaken comfort for contentment, ease for growth, and in doing so, we've robbed ourselves of the very catalyst that transforms us from who we are into who we're meant to become.
The truth I've been wrestling with lately is this: to grow, you must be exercised beyond where you are now. It's a simple concept that cuts against everything our comfort-seeking hearts desire. When we exercise within our current limits—physically, emotionally, or spiritually—we maintain but never expand. We stay exactly where we are, which feels safe but ultimately leads to a kind of soul stagnation that leaves us wondering why life feels so flat.
As a disciple of Christ, I've come to understand that growth means moving off the milk—those comfortable, familiar truths that sustained us as spiritual infants but were never meant to be our permanent diet. Moving off the milk opens up disconcerting avenues, paths that wind through valleys we'd rather not explore. These are the places where our neat theological boxes get rattled, where opposing beliefs—both within ourselves and in our understanding of faith—create a tension that feels anything but holy.
Yet this is precisely where the real work happens. Working out our salvation, as Paul wrote to the Philippians, isn't presented as an option for those who feel up to the challenge. It's the natural progression of a life surrendered to something greater than our own understanding. It's recognizing that opposing beliefs within ourselves aren't necessarily signs of spiritual failure, but rather the raw material from which deeper faith is forged.
I think about the disciples walking alongside Jesus, constantly confused by His teachings, their expectations repeatedly shattered, their comfortable assumptions about God and kingdom and power turned upside down. They were living in perpetual tension—between what they thought they knew and what Christ was revealing, between their human understanding and divine mystery. That tension didn't disqualify them; it refined them.
The natural thing, of course, is to resist this process entirely. Our default setting is to seek the path of least resistance, to find the smooth road that doesn't challenge our assumptions or stretch our capacity for trust. We want discipleship without discomfort, growth without growing pains, transformation without the often-messy process of being remade. But nature itself teaches us that this isn't how life works. The butterfly must struggle against the cocoon; the seed must push through dark soil; the muscle must tear slightly to rebuild stronger.
What if we began to welcome tension instead of avoiding it? What if we saw those uncomfortable moments—when our prayers feel hollow, when scripture challenges rather than comforts, when our faith feels more like wrestling than resting—not as signs that something is wrong, but as invitations to something deeper?
This doesn't mean seeking out conflict or drama for its own sake. Rather, it means developing the spiritual maturity to recognize that the tensions in our lives, in most if not all areas, create the conditions necessary for growth. It means trusting that the God who calls us beyond our current understanding also provides the strength to navigate whatever disconcerting avenues that journey opens up.
Perhaps the most beautiful part of this realization is discovering that we're not alone in the tension. The same Spirit that raised Christ from the dead is actively working within us, using even our struggles and uncertainties as tools of transformation. What feels like opposition may actually be divine collaboration, shaping us into the people we were created to be—not in spite of the tension, but because of it.
The invitation stands before us daily: Will we embrace the sacred stretch, or will we remain safely stagnant? The choice, as always, is ours.
