Sidenote: Why is “Theology” in This Book?

You may have noticed the subtitle of this book: A Theology of Work… Kind of. It’s a fair question to ask, “Why theology?” I mean, is this book some deep theological treatise on subjects like the Trinity, the nature of man, or the cosmos? Are we diving into the mysteries of heaven and hell? Well, kind of. If you squint, you might see those themes swirling in the background. But that’s not what this is explicitly about.

The reason I included “theology” in the subtitle is that I believe, at its core, this book is exactly that—a theology of work. To me, theology isn’t just something reserved for Sunday sermons or academic papers. Theology touches everything. It’s the lens through which I see the world, the framework through which I make sense of life, creativity, and yes—work.

So, why does this matter?

Because I believe we live in a post-resurrection world. A world where Jesus, the God-man, has come, lived, died for the sins of the world, and was raised to life on the third day. A world where He ascended into heaven and now sits at the right hand of the Father, ruling over everything, making every enemy a footstool. I believe in a victorious Gospel—a Gospel that wins. The devil has been defeated, and that changes everything.

We live in a world where that victory is unfolding, day by day, through the work of God’s people. But here’s the catch: the way God accomplishes this victory isn’t through ease or comfort. It’s through death and resurrection. Not just in the grand cosmic sense, but in the everyday grind of life, in the work we do, in the sacrifice we make.

Work, real work—the kind that matters—is always costly. It’s a dying. It’s a giving up of yourself, your time, your energy, your comfort. And that’s why being precious doesn’t work. When you’re precious about your work, your ego, or your comfort, you’re not willing to bleed. You’re not willing to sacrifice. You’re not willing to give yourself over to the process. And without that willingness to die, nothing of true worth gets done.

That’s what this book is about: letting go of the preciousness, the safety, the need to control, so you can actually do something.

Now, just because I’m confident in what I’m saying doesn’t mean I don’t wrestle with this in my own life. In fact, the reason I’m writing this is because I know my own heart. I know how lazy I am. I know how much I want to avoid the hard things, the uncomfortable things. My wife finds it funny when I talk about being lazy, because from her perspective, she sees me working all the time. But I know what’s going on inside. I know how tempting it is to stop, to rest, to find the easy way out.

I remember one night, exhausted after a long day of work, thinking to myself, “Wouldn’t it be nice if someone else just took care of everything? If the government just paid the bills, covered the rent, provided the food?” It was one of those fleeting thoughts that creeps in when you’re tired, but it scared me. It scared me because I knew, deep down, that part of me wanted that. I wanted someone else to carry the load.

But that’s not the world we live in. That’s not the way we were designed.

God created us to work. Not because He wants to punish us or see us struggle, but because work is how we grow. It’s how we learn. It’s how we become who we were meant to be. And in a post-resurrection world, where death and resurrection is the pattern for everything, work is where we experience that dying and rising.

There’s something profound about pushing through the exhaustion, the frustration, and the failure—because it’s in that process that we are being shaped. It’s in the work that we are being refined. It’s not just about what we produce at the end of the day; it’s about who we become through the struggle.

I know this personally because, like I said, I’ve lived it. I’ve had days, weeks, even months where I didn’t want to get out of bed, where I felt crushed by the weight of work, life, and expectations. I’ve battled depression, anger, and the sense that maybe, just maybe, it would be easier to give up. And yet, in those moments, something keeps pushing me forward. It’s not because I’m particularly strong or virtuous. It’s because I know there’s something better on the other side of the struggle. I believe that this process of dying to myself, of sacrificing for the sake of work, for the sake of others, is the path to real life.

So, why a “theology of work”? Because work, done right, is a form of worship. It’s a participation in the death and resurrection pattern that God has woven into the fabric of the universe. It’s where we die to ourselves—our comfort, our laziness, our desire for ease—and rise again, stronger, more refined, more like the people God created us to be.

And that’s why the subtitle of this book is A Theology of Work… Kind of. Because while this book isn’t a deep dive into systematic theology, it is about something deeply theological: the idea that real work, hard work, is good for us. That being precious, playing it safe, and avoiding the struggle only robs us of the opportunity to grow, to change, to become more than we are.

I’m writing this because I believe this message matters. Not just for me, but for you. I don’t know where you are in life, what your work looks like, or what you’re struggling with. But I do know that you were made for more than comfort. You were made for more than avoiding hardship. You were made to work, to create, to sacrifice—and in doing so, to experience the joy and fulfillment that comes from being part of something bigger than yourself.

So that’s why “theology” is in the subtitle. Not because I’m trying to impress you with theological jargon, but because I believe that at its core, this is what life—and work—is all about.