I first heard about her at a Sunday service—her father, a cross-cultural mission worker home on furlough. His voice broke as he shared about his daughter's battle with ME/CFS (Myalgic Encephalomyelitis/Chronic Fatigue Syndrome). She had been eighteen, with dreams of studying abroad and serving the Lord. Then suddenly, she couldn't get out of bed. Basic functions—showering, preparing meals, even reading her Bible and praying—required more energy than she possessed.
After four years of intense therapy, she had finally started to regain the capacity to care for herself. Her father's testimony wasn't just about medical progress but about their spiritual journey through the valley of limitations. While her friends were doing big things for Jesus, she could hardly function.
When Our Bodies Betray Us
My own journey with Parkinson's has given me just the tiniest taste of what she endured. I've experienced a new relationship with energy—or rather, its absence. The difficulty sleeping night after night. The medications that sometimes work and sometimes don't. The brain fog that descends without warning, making even simple tasks feel overwhelming. There are moments when forming a coherent prayer feels beyond my cognitive reach, and days when fatigue settles like concrete in my limbs. Yet even this pales in comparison to the all-consuming exhaustion she faced daily for years.
Perhaps you have your own version of this story. Maybe it's age that's diminished your once-boundless energy, or a season of overwhelming caregiving responsibilities or the grinding toll of chronic illness. Whatever the cause, there's a particular ache that comes from wanting to serve faithfully while your body or circumstances simply won't cooperate.
The Hidden Burden of Shame
This diminishment often brings an added burden: shame. We've subtly absorbed the idea that spiritual vitality equals physical vitality—that serving Jesus faithfully requires high energy. No one explicitly teaches this, yet it permeates our church culture. We celebrate the missionaries who work tirelessly, the pastors who are always available, the volunteers who never say no.
Importantly, this judgment rarely comes from others. It's our own internal voice that whispers we're slack Christians when we can't maintain the pace we once did. We measure ourselves against our former capacity or others' abilities and find ourselves wanting.
Finding A New Source of Energy
I've found unexpected comfort in Colossians 1:29, where Paul writes about "strenuously contending with all the energy Christ so powerfully works in me." What struck me wasn't the "strenuously contending" part, but the source of energy Paul identifies. It isn't self-generated but Christ-supplied.
This distinction has become my lifeline. What if our energy limits aren't spiritual failures but invitations to experience a deeper truth—that the power for ministry never originated with us anyway?
Once while meditating on this passage during a particularly difficult day, God spoke clearly to my heart. He said, "Kurt, you can do no more or less than what I perfectly planned for you today." What God was pointing out was that somewhere along the line. I mistakenly believed the lie that I could do more and accomplish more than what God had planned for me to do. I was effectively saying to God I need more energy than what you've supplied because I need to do more than what you have planned for me to do. That was the beginning of God teaching me that my limitations weren't obstacles to God's plan but actually part of it.
The Greek word Paul uses—’energeian’—refers to an operative power with its source outside ourselves. Paul isn't claiming superhuman vitality; he's acknowledging divine empowerment. Remarkably, this letter was likely written when Paul was imprisoned, his external circumstances severely constraining his ministry activities.
Three Truths for the Energy-Limited
Three insights have helped me navigate this terrain:
First, God designed humans with limitations. Even before the Fall, Adam and Eve needed rest, food, and relationship. Limitation isn't punishment—it's part of our created nature. Jesus himself withdrew when tired and slept during storms. By honouring our limits, we're acknowledging God's good design, not failing Him.
Second, different seasons require different measures. In the parable of the talents, servants were entrusted with different amounts—five, two, and one. Each was judged not by producing identical results but by faithfulness with what they'd been given. The servant with two talents wasn't expected to produce five.
On my hardest days, I remind myself that faithfulness at this moment means striving to live according to my Jesus-given limits. I don’t need to bring the energy to every ministry situation or event. I can only bring the energy he has given me to do the good works he prepared for me before time began.
Finally, weakness creates space for God's power in ways self-sufficiency never can. Paul famously wrote that God told him, "My power is made perfect in weakness." This isn't a spiritual platitude but profound theology. When we reach the end of our resources, we experience God's sufficiency in new ways.
Since my diagnosis 7 years ago I have experienced this again and again. I've seen more people helped through my preaching and teaching, pastoral care and conversations than I ever did before Parkinson's. God has shown me that to care for his Red Sheep, I needed to become one of his Red Sheep, just like the great Shepherd.
From Shame to Freedom
The shame I once felt about my diminished capacity is slowly being replaced by a different truth: God's call has never been to constant activity but to faithful presence. Jesus invites the weary to come for rest, not additional burdens.
If you're struggling with limited energy, know this: your value to God has never depended on your productivity. His power has always been made perfect in weakness. And sometimes the most faithful act is simply to open your empty hands and receive from the One whose energy never depletes.