What I Have Learned About the Cost of Freedom

Freedom is one of those words we use as if everybody knows what it means.

We say we want it. We celebrate it. We build songs, sermons, political speeches, and personal dreams around it. But the older I get, the less simple the word becomes.

I have learned that there is the declaration of freedom, the assumption of freedom, and the reality of freedom. Those are not always the same thing.

It is one thing to say, “I am free.” It is another thing to walk out the responsibility that comes with that freedom.

Freedom is beautiful. But freedom is not cheap.

Freedom always costs you something.

Sometimes it costs approval. Sometimes it costs relationships. Sometimes it costs money. Sometimes it costs the comfort of a system that was willing to reward you as long as you kept repeating what the system wanted to hear.

And sometimes freedom costs you the old version of yourself.

The safety of being told what to do

Years ago, when I was pastoring, I began to question some of the central doctrines and expectations of the religious organization that had shaped me. I had been raised in a holiness world where many things were already decided for you. What you wore. What you watched. Where you went. What counted as faithful. What counted as rebellion.

There is a strange kind of safety in that kind of world.

If someone else tells you what to believe, what to preach, how to dress, how to behave, and what lines not to cross, then you do not have to carry the full weight of discernment. You may feel restricted, but you also feel protected. You may feel controlled, but you also feel covered.

When I began loosening some of those restrictions as a pastor, I expected people to feel relief. Some did. But one person, younger than me and someone I thought had always wanted more freedom, came to me and said, in essence, “Take us back.”

Take us back to the rules.

Take us back to the safety of somebody telling us what to do.

That surprised me. But it also taught me something I have never forgotten.

Freedom scares people.

It scared them. And if I am honest, it scared me too.

Because once you stop telling people exactly what to do, you have to face the possibility that they may use their freedom badly. They may make mistakes. They may choose something destructive. They may walk in directions you would not have chosen for them.

That is one of the burdens of leadership. It is also one of the burdens of love.

Control can look like care when we are afraid of what freedom might produce.

Freedom costs approval

The decision to question what I had been handed cost me relationships.

Not because I stopped loving people. Not because I wanted to be difficult. Not because I woke up one morning and decided I wanted to tear everything down.

It cost me because some relationships are built on agreement more than love.

As long as you say the expected thing, preach the expected message, defend the expected doctrine, and stay inside the expected boundaries, you can belong. You can be useful. You can be celebrated.

But when you begin asking different questions, people begin wondering what happened to you.

That is one of the first costs of freedom. People who once understood your role may not understand your growth.

They may say you changed. And they may be right.

But sometimes change is not rebellion. Sometimes change is honesty finally getting enough courage to speak.

I could have kept preaching the same message to the same group of people. I knew the system. I knew the language. I knew what people were conditioned to support. I could have made a comfortable living telling people what they wanted to hear.

Many people do.

I am not writing that with arrogance. I understand the temptation. Comfort is a powerful thing. Approval is a powerful thing. A dependable salary is a powerful thing.

But there comes a point when you have to ask whether the life you are preserving is still telling the truth.

Freedom costs approval because honesty changes the room.

Freedom costs comfort

At 64 years old, I can look around and see people who once felt like my peers appearing to be settled into a different kind of life. Some seem comfortable. Some seem retired. Some seem able to play golf, travel, enjoy what they built, and live with a level of security I do not always feel.

I do not say that with resentment. I say it because it is true.

Some decisions cost money.

Some choices cost property.

Some turning points change your income, your stability, and your future options.

Divorce brought certain kinds of freedom into my life, but it also brought loneliness. It brought financial strain. It changed what I owned, what I could keep, and what I had to rebuild.

Leaving or losing certain roles in ministry brought freedom too, but that freedom came with economic consequences. When your income changes but your responsibilities remain, freedom can feel less like a sunrise and more like a bill coming due.

That is part of the truth we do not always tell.

Freedom does not always feel like flying.

Sometimes freedom feels like raking and scraping to get by while knowing you can no longer return to the thing that would have paid you to be less honest.

Freedom is not doing whatever I want

One of the mistakes we make is thinking freedom means, “I can do whatever I want.”

I do not believe that anymore.

Every choice creates a boundary somewhere. Every yes creates a no. Every priority closes some doors even as it opens others.

If I choose to be present with my granddaughter during these years of her life, that is a beautiful freedom. But it also means I cannot be equally present somewhere else. I have a son in Taiwan. I love him. I would love to be near him too. But choosing one form of presence limits another.

That is not failure. That is life.

When something becomes important, it immediately places constraints on you.

Relationships do this. Family does this. Work does this. Ministry does this. Friendship does this. Love does this.

Even peace does this.

I can sit on the back porch in quiet and feel a deep sense of calm. There is peace in solitude. There is freedom in not living inside chaos. But solitude has a cost too. There are nights when I wish someone were there. There are moments when quiet feels less like peace and more like absence.

Still, I have learned that being alone with peace can be better than being surrounded by contention.

That kind of freedom is not glamorous. But it is real.

Boundaries are not always enemies

I think often about the top of Stone Mountain in Georgia.

Years ago, there were simple posts and wire marking a line you were not supposed to cross. It was not much of a barrier. It was not a wall. It was not dramatic.

But it was there for a reason.

If you went too far, you could slide off the rock.

That image helps me think about freedom.

Some boundaries are oppressive. Some boundaries are nothing more than fear dressed up as authority. Some boundaries exist because people in power do not trust the conscience, intelligence, or maturity of the people beneath them.

But not every boundary is oppression.

Some boundaries protect life.

Speed limits restrict freedom. So do guardrails. So do uniforms in certain professions. A nurse, police officer, firefighter, or member of a team wears something that limits personal expression, but the uniform may also identify purpose, role, and responsibility.

The question is not whether boundaries exist.

The question is whether they protect life or replace conscience.

That is where many systems go wrong. Religion can go wrong there. Politics can go wrong there. Families can go wrong there. Organizations can go wrong there.

Rules become dangerous when they stop serving life and start replacing the hard work of wisdom.

Freedom requires responsibility

My grandson is 18 years old and about to step more fully into the world.

He is gaining freedom. But with that freedom comes responsibility. Decisions that were once made for him will soon become decisions he must make. Provision that was once handled by others will increasingly become something he must carry.

That is exciting.

It is also sobering.

Every young person eventually discovers that freedom is not simply getting to leave the house. It is learning what it costs to have a house to leave from.

Someone paid for the room. Someone paid for the food. Someone paid the electricity bill. Someone created the space that made youthful freedom feel easy.

The same is true in adulthood.

Freedom without responsibility is not freedom.

It is exposure.

If no one is making the decision for you anymore, then the decision is yours. If no one is building the structure for you anymore, then the structure is yours to build. If no one is requiring you to do the work anymore, then the work still has to get done.

That is why freedom frightens people.

Because once the rules are gone, the responsibility remains.

Freedom gives something back

If freedom costs so much, why pursue it?

Because freedom also gives something back.

It gives back breath.

It gives back clarity.

It gives back a cleaner sense of self.

It gives back the ability to say, “This is who I am. This is what I believe. This is how I am choosing to live.”

That kind of honesty may disappoint some people. It may confuse others. It may cost invitations, approval, money, and comfort. But it also cuts loose the part of you that has been trying to shape every room so nobody gets upset.

I spent too much of my life trying to manage how I was seen.

Some of that came from shame. Some of it came from guilt. Some of it came from trying to please people in systems where approval felt like oxygen.

But a soul cannot stay alive forever by breathing borrowed air.

At some point, you have to tell the truth.

At some point, you have to stop doing things just to receive outside approval.

At some point, you have to ask whether the life you are protecting is the life you are actually called to live.

What I have learned

What I have learned about freedom is that it is never as simple as people pretend.

We are born into realities we did not choose: time, family, culture, body, history, race, language, expectation. We do not begin with total freedom. We begin inside givens.

Then life asks us what we will do with the space we actually have.

That is where freedom lives.

Not in the fantasy of having no limits.

Not in the childish idea that nobody can tell me anything.

Not in the illusion that every desire deserves permission.

Freedom lives in the responsibility to choose what is honest, good, disciplined, and life-giving within the real limits of our lives.

Freedom costs.

It may cost approval. It may cost comfort. It may cost relationships. It may cost money. It may cost the version of your life that other people understood.

But what it gives back can be sacred.

Peace.

Breath.

Self-respect.

Presence.

A soul that no longer feels dead from pretending.

So maybe the question is not, “Do I want to be free?”

Maybe the better question is, “Am I willing to pay the cost of becoming honest?”

The DKP Word 2026
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