The Cost of Comfort

Two years ago, my husband and I, in trying to pay off debt, began cutting back on unnecessary expenses—namely, quick trips to Starbucks for coffee and pastries. After weeks of living like a primitive person, making my coffee at home in a French press, I decided to treat myself by ordering a Venti (which I never do), an extra shot of espresso (which I never do), and a pumpkin loaf.

“Hi, welcome to Starbucks. What can I make for you today?”

“Uhm, can I get an iced, Venti Vanilla latte, with an extra shot of espresso and a pumpkin loaf?”

I glance at the screen before pulling up to the window to pay, and notice it says $8.

Wow, only eight dollars. That’s not bad.

“$12.15, please.”

“I thought it said $8?”

“I hadn’t added your pumpkin loaf yet.”

He hands me my “little treat,” while I reckon with what I’m spending, and reluctantly give him my card. I can’t believe I thought I was buying a $5 coffee and a $3 pumpkin loaf.

Why Do I Tell You This Story?

A simple food and beverage order from your local coffee shop is one thing, but if we dig a little deeper, what, really, is the cost of our comforts? How are we being shaped subterraneously, on a soul level, just by existing in a world with temperature-controlled rooms, hot showers, cushioned chairs, and ease of transportation?

I recently read a book called The Comfort Crisis by Michael Easter, and it’s got me thinking about how modern comforts subtly influence our daily lives. One concept in particular stood out to me. Easter noted that, “...as we experience fewer problems, we don’t become more satisfied. We just lower our threshold for what we consider a problem.”

Essentially, our capacity to do hard things disintegrates. Our ancestors not only had to deal with the same problems we do today—death, work stress, family struggles, etc.—but they also dealt with numerous other daily challenges that we no longer have to worry about. I.e., fetching water, hunting and gathering food, sewing clothes, navigation, plowing fields, you get the idea.

We, on the other hand, can’t handle a little traffic.

If we could view comfort on a spectrum, the far right would be complete ease and contentment, and the far left would be agony and distress. To paint a more vivid picture, the far right would be me sitting in a cozy chair sipping a heavenly latte without a care in the world, and the far left would be Christ on the cross.

To put this in the context of our lives as Christians, the more time we spend on the right side of the comfort spectrum—experiencing ease, indulgence, and luxuries—the more we consequently distance ourselves from the work of dying to self.

What’s the Cost?

The cost of comfort is: the more time spent in a #cozy world, the less capable we are to live the crucified life. More simply put: comfort keeps us from the call of Christ.

A.W. Tozer, in The Crucified Life, recognized this as well. He says, “Does it not seem strange that the generation with the most advanced technology and the easiest-to-read Bible translations is the weakest generation of Christians in the history of our country?”

It’s widely accepted in academia that a life of little challenge is a life of little resilience.

While cushioned chairs and cushy lives don’t directly equate to sin or unrighteousness, they indirectly affect our propensity to, as Romans says, “offer our bodies as a living sacrifice.” But this isn’t necessarily a revolutionary idea. Christians have always wanted Christ without the cross—look at Peter and Judas-Iscariot. Whether we frame it as our brain's protective mechanism away from pain, the pride of life, or the lust of the flesh, our natural bend toward autonomy has been bolstered by the various comforts we experience today. Hence, the cold plunges you see everywhere.

How Should We Respond?

Easter’s answer to conquering the comfort crisis was simple: intentionally embrace discomfort. Take cold showers, practice “Misogi,” settle into boredom, etc. And while I think these are sound principles, they don’t address the ultimate crisis of comfort—sin.

I could tell you to stop enjoying the warmth of your hot tub after work or give up your weekly trip to Starbucks, but I don’t think that’s the way. Just as Moses (who represented the law) didn’t get to lead the Israelites into the promised land, we don’t overcome sin with more rules.

Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God’s will is—his good, pleasing, and perfect will (Romans 12:2). Our pastor taught on this passage this past Sunday and explained that this verse is written in the passive imperative. Passive because we don’t transform ourselves (God does), and imperative because we have a job to do: be transformed. But how? Renewing our minds.

Consider this article as me sounding the alarm on the dissonance between your (and my) love of comforts and the reason for our lack of self-denial. As you become more and more aware of this, ask the Holy Spirit to help you have eyes to see all the ways you often choose convenience over obedience. And when you hear the whisper of the enemy, the cry of your flesh, or the noise of the world in your ear saying, “It’s just a cookie,” remember who your true comforter is, the Holy Spirit.