THE CUT OF MARTYRDOM
DEATH BY 1000 CUTS
There is a kind of wound that is particularly difficult to recognize because, at first glance, it doesn't look like a wound at all. It looks like service. It looks like sacrifice. It looks like commitment. It looks like being the person who always shows up, always says yes, always stays late, always carries the load, and always does what needs to be done when nobody else seems willing to do it. Sometimes it really is those things. That is what makes the cut of martyrdom so sneaky.
The martyr isn't necessarily lazy. In fact, he may be the hardest-working person in the room. He may be dependable, generous, sacrificial, and willing to go the extra mile. He may be the person everybody calls when something needs to be fixed. He may spend enormous amounts of time and energy doing things for other people, and everyone around him may genuinely benefit from his service. He may even receive an award for it. Yet underneath all of that good behavior, something unhealthy can be growing.
The question for the martyr is not simply, “How much are you doing?” The deeper question is, “What are you getting out of this?”
That question can be uncomfortable because we tend to assume that if the behavior looks sacrificial, the motive must be sacrificial too. But Scripture repeatedly forces us to look beyond what people do and examine why they do it. Paul tells us in 1 Corinthians 13 that a person can give away everything he possesses and even surrender his body to suffering and yet do it without love. The outward sacrifice can be real while the inward motive is something entirely different.
The sacrifice may be real. The service may be real. The exhaustion may be real. And the motive can still be about me.
WHEN SERVICE BECOMES IDENTITY
Martyrdom begins to develop when sacrifice becomes part of our identity. We become the person who always says, “I'll do it.” Then, “I'll stay.” Then, “I'll take care of it.” Then, “Don't worry about it. I'll handle everything.” Eventually, we begin to believe, “If I don't do it, it won't get done.”
That statement may occasionally be true. The problem comes when it becomes our identity. We begin to notice what other people aren't doing. We notice who isn't showing up, who leaves early, who isn't willing to go the extra mile, and who doesn't seem to care as much as we do. Then the internal monologue begins: “I'm always the one they call. Nobody else is willing to do this. Why does everything fall on me? Nobody appreciates what I do. I guess I'll just have to do it myself. I'm the only one who seems to care.”
Eventually, we can arrive at the most revealing question of all: “What would they do without me?” At that point, service has become more than something we do. It has become something we need other people to recognize about us.
THE MARTYR NEEDS TO BE NEEDED
There is nothing wrong with being appreciated. There is nothing wrong with encouragement, recognition, or being honored for faithful service. The problem comes when recognition becomes the reward we are actually seeking. The question subtly changes from “How can I serve?” to “How can I become someone who is needed?”
Now sacrifice has become a means of obtaining significance. We begin comparing our sacrifice with everyone else's. “I go the extra mile. They don't. I care. They don't. I'm willing to sacrifice. They're not.” We may never say those things aloud, but we can begin living from them.
The people we are serving can eventually become the people we resent. We begin to feel that they owe us something because of what we have done for them. We may not consciously decide to keep score, but we start remembering the sacrifices, the late nights, the things nobody else did, the times nobody thanked us, and the times someone else received the credit. The martyr keeps receipts. And once we begin keeping receipts, we are no longer simply giving. We are creating a debt. Paul said in 1st Corinthians 13:5 … true love keeps no record of wrong.
THE SECONDARY GAIN
This is where the idea of secondary gain becomes extremely important. We have talked about secondary gain in other contexts. It is an idea put forth in settlement of workers' compensation injuries and in treating addiction. An unhealthy pattern can continue because, somewhere beneath the obvious consequences, the pattern is accomplishing something for us.
That does not necessarily mean we consciously designed the behavior. It does not mean we are pretending. It does not mean the pain isn't real. It means we need to ask a deeper question: What function is this behavior serving in my life? Or the Dr. Phil-ism, “What are you getting out of this?”
What am I getting? What am I avoiding? What does this allow me to believe? What does it protect me from? What does it give me permission to do?
An unhealthy pattern may be hurting us while simultaneously giving us something we don't know how to obtain any other way. The worrier may gain a sense of control. The perfectionist may gain protection from criticism. The independent person may gain protection from vulnerability. The cynic may gain protection from disappointment. The resentful person may gain a sense of justice. And the martyr may gain importance.
The martyr gets to be needed. The martyr gets recognition. The martyr gets sympathy. The martyr gets to feel indispensable. And sometimes the martyr gets permission.
“AFTER ALL I'VE DONE, I DESERVE THIS.”
This is where martyrdom can become especially dangerous. We can use our sacrifice to justify behavior that would otherwise trouble our conscience.
“After everything I've done today, I deserve this.”
“I've earned some time for myself.”
“Nobody understands how much I carry.”
“I just need something to take the edge off.”
The sacrifice becomes the justification. “Look at what I've given. Surely I deserve something in return.” Suddenly, the martyr isn't merely serving. The martyr is keeping score. And when we keep score, we are no longer simply giving. We are creating a debt.
MY OWN MARTYR STORY
There was a season in my own life when I had to confront this in myself. At our old church and the homeless ministry it supported, I was deeply involved in serving. I was doing sound, setting up the stage, stage-managing, showing up for events, solving problems, and carrying a lot of the responsibilities. I was the guy who would stay late and make sure everything worked. I was doing a lot, and people genuinely benefited from what I was doing.
The church and ministry recognized that service. I was even given a Volunteer of the Year award from . From the outside, it looked like a great picture of Christian service.
But there was another story happening underneath it. I would come home and complain to Brittany. Another event had been scheduled. Another thing needed to be done. Another night I had to be there. Another problem I had to solve. Another load that apparently nobody else could carry. And Brittany would see me come home exhausted and hear me talk about how much I had been doing. Naturally, she would encourage me, she would say the words I longed to hear from those I was serving… “You’re doing great work. God sees what you’re doing. I see it.”
Looking back, I can see something I couldn't—or perhaps didn't want to—see at the time. My service had become part of the story I was telling about myself. I wanted to be the guy the pastors could depend on. I wanted to be part of the inner circle of influence. I wanted to be important in their eyes. I wanted to be recognized. I wanted to be bragged on in front of other people. I wanted to be the guy who mattered.
Eventually, God showed me something painful: I thought I was serving Him, but I was really serving the pastors… and ultimately, myself.
That realization changed the way I understood that entire season. The service wasn't necessarily fake. I really did work hard. Things really did need to get done. People really did benefit from what I did. But underneath the service was the trinity of me, myself, and I. I wasn't simply asking, “What does God want me to do?” I was also asking, “What will this make people think about me?” Those are very different questions. And when the affirmation, acceptance and recognition didn’t come… It tickled an old wound. What appreciation I did get was never enough to balance the scale because I had all the receipts.
WHEN MARTYRDOM BECOMES A COVER
There was another layer to my particular story. At the time, I was also drinking heavily. The image of the tireless servant helped conceal what was happening. How could JD have a drinking problem? Look at everything he does. Look at how hard he works. Look at how much he serves. Look at how much everyone depends on him. And underneath that was another story: “After all I do, I deserve a drink.”
I could come home genuinely exhausted from hours of what looked like sacrificial service. Brittany would see that exhaustion. She would naturally want me to relax. She would encourage me to take my mind off everything that had to be done. And the bottle became a reasonable response to an apparently reasonable burden.
Whether I consciously intended it or not, I had created a situation in which my martyrdom helped secure permission to numb myself. That is one of the frightening things about unhealthy patterns. Sometimes we don't just use them to hurt ourselves. We use them to justify ourselves.
The martyr can say, “Look how much I sacrifice,” and then quietly conclude, “Therefore, I deserve this.” That is secondary gain. The behavior is hurting me, but it is also giving me something. Until I am willing to ask what I am getting out of it, I may never be willing to surrender it.
JESUS SERVED, BUT JESUS DID NOT NEED TO BE NEEDED
Jesus was the ultimate servant, but Jesus wasn't controlled by people's expectations. He withdrew from crowds. He walked away from demands. He did not heal every sick person in Israel. He did not answer every demand placed upon Him. He did not allow the needs of the crowd to determine His assignment.
Jesus knew why He was here. Jesus did not need to be needed. That may be one of the greatest antidotes to martyrdom. The martyr says: “Without me, this won't happen.” The servant asks: “Lord, do You want me to do this?”
Those statements sound similar, but they come from very different places. One is driven by necessity and identity. The other is driven by obedience.
WHERE DID WE LEARN THAT WE HAVE TO BE NEEDED?
As with the other cuts in Death by 1000 Cuts, eventually we have to look backward. Where we learned that our value comes from being useful? Where did we learn that saying no makes us a bad person? Where did we learn that we have to take care of everyone? Where did we learn that if we don't carry it, nobody will?
Maybe you had to grow up too quickly. Maybe you became the responsible one in a chaotic home. Maybe you learned that being helpful earned attention. Maybe you discovered that people liked you when you performed. Maybe I learned that being needed made me feel safe. Maybe I learned that if I could solve everyone's problems, I could control what happened around me.
The child who learns “I am valuable because I am useful” can become an adult who cannot distinguish between serving and proving his worth.
Eventually, “I'll do it” becomes “I have to do it.” And “I have to do it” eventually becomes, “Nobody appreciates that I have to do everything.” That's the cut.
THE MARTYR CAN BECOME RESENTFUL OF THE BURDEN HE CHOSE
One of the hardest questions we can ask ourselves is: “Did anyone actually ask me to do all of this?” Sometimes the answer will be yes. Sometimes we really have been given too much responsibility and need to establish healthy boundaries. But sometimes the answer is no. Sometimes we volunteered for the burden and then resented people for allowing us to carry it. That's a bitter pill.
We said yes. We took it on. We didn't ask for help. We didn't establish a boundary. We didn't say, “I can't do that.” And then we became angry that nobody recognized how much we were carrying. The answer isn't necessarily to stop serving. The answer is to stop using service to establish our worth.
THE QUESTION FOR THE MARTYR
This may be the diagnostic question for the entire cut: “What are you getting out of this?”
What do you get from always being the one who fixes everything? What do you get from always being available? What do you get from never saying no? What do you get from being exhausted? What do you get from reminding everyone how much you do? What do you get from being needed? What do you get from being indispensable?
And perhaps the hardest question: “If nobody knew I made the sacrifice, would I still want to make it?” That question exposes motive.
THE BITTER PILL
Maybe I don't just resent how much I have to do. Maybe I secretly love being the person who has to do it. Maybe I volunteered for the burden so I could resent everyone for giving it to me. Maybe I am not serving because they need me. Maybe I am serving because I need to be needed.
TREATING THE CUT
The Six R's give us a framework for treating these cuts, but we don't necessarily need to use every R in exactly the same way every time. For martyrdom, several are particularly important.
RECOGNIZE: Recognize the identity underneath the behavior. I have made being needed part of who I am.
REPENT: Repent when service has become self-promotion, when we have complained about sacrifices we freely chose, when we have manipulated others through our exhaustion, or when we have used sacrifice to justify unhealthy behavior.
RENOUNCE: Renounce the need to be indispensable. I do not have to be the one who saves everything. The kingdom of God does not depend on me.
RESIST: Resist the automatic response, “I'll do it.” Give yourself permission to pray before answering. Sometimes the most spiritual answer is no.
REPLACE: Replace self-appointed service with Spirit-led service. Replace the need for recognition with faithfulness. Replace keeping score with freely giving.
REJOICE: Learn to serve when nobody notices. Learn to celebrate when someone else gets the credit. Learn to let someone else carry something. Learn to discover that being faithful is enough even when nobody applauds.
The goal isn't to become less willing to serve. It is to become free enough to serve without needing the service to tell us who we are. We can serve without being indispensable. We can sacrifice without keeping score. We can say no without becoming selfish. We can let someone else do it. We can walk away without everything falling apart. And we can finally discover that our worth was never determined by how much we could carry. Perhaps the greatest act of surrender isn't picking up another burden. It's finally putting one down.
ONE LAST QUESTION
The next time you hear yourself say, “I guess I'll just have to do it myself,” stop and ask why.
Did God actually ask me to carry this? Did anyone actually ask me to carry this?
Am I serving, or am I proving something?
And finally: What am I getting out of being the one who carries it?
Because sometimes the cut isn't that we're doing too little.
Sometimes the cut is that we have made doing too much part of who we are.