“The difference between an admirer and a follower still remains, no matter where you are. The admirer never makes any true sacrifices. He always plays it safe. Though in words, phrases, songs, he is inexhaustible about how highly he prizes Christ, he renounces nothing, gives up nothing, will not reconstruct his life, will not be what he admires, and will not let his life express what it is he supposedly admires.”
ACTS 20:17-38
JOURNAL
Kierkegaard’s words sting like truth often does: “The admirer never makes any true sacrifices… he will not let his life express what it is he supposedly admires.”
It makes me pause—have I admired Christ more than I’ve followed Him? Am I more moved by worship lyrics than by the call to surrender my comfort, my preferences, my ego?
Paul’s farewell to the Ephesian elders in Acts 20 is not the sentimental exit of a man clinging to legacy or accolades—it’s the steady resolve of a man who has given everything to the task assigned by Jesus. “I consider my life worth nothing to me; my only aim is to finish the race.” That’s not admiration. That’s allegiance.
In contrast, I find myself often entangled in distractions—entitled to ease, allergic to discomfort. I live in a world where we have to schedule hardship to keep our bodies from atrophying, where pain feels wrong and sacrifice feels optional. It’s easy to confuse comfort for blessing and leisure for peace. But if I’m not careful, those very comforts dull my hunger for God and replace my obedience with passivity.
Psalm 27 reminds me what real faith looks like: “I remain confident of this: I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living... Wait for the Lord; be strong and take heart.” Strength and courage are not required for spectators. They’re needed by those who actually step into the arena.
So what does it look like to truly follow—not just admire?
It starts in the morning—with honesty. I come to God not with cleaned-up prayers, but raw ones. I confess what I want. I admit my fears, frustrations, and desires. And then, I lay them down. Not because they’re bad, but because they’re not ultimate. I bring them to the altar so they don't become idols.
Then I remember: life is a gift. Breath is a gift. My mind, my body, my story—it’s all been given so that I can steward it for something greater. “It is more blessed to give than to receive,” Paul reminds the elders. Not just money, but energy. Time. Presence. Purpose.
Only after this kind of surrender am I free to rightly love my family, engage my work, and walk into the world without being owned by it.
Paul knew what was coming. “Prison and hardships await me.” And yet, he pressed on. Not because he was fearless, but because he was faithful. That’s what I want—to reconstruct my life so that it matches what I claim to believe.
Not just songs on Sunday, but sacrifice on Monday.
Not admiration, but obedience.
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