Riches I Heed Not? The Battle for Contentment in a World of Comfort

This past Lord’s day, during our congregational worship, we sang one of my favourite hymns: Be Thou My Vision. It’s a beautiful and ancient prayer for God to be our everything. Our wisdom. Our true word. Our inheritance. Our treasure.

But as I sang along, came this line “Riches I heed not, nor man’s empty praise”, something in me paused. My lips moved. But my heart? It hesitated. Did I really mean that?

Would I be okay if all I had was God, no affirmation, no impressive career, and no cosy lifestyle? What about the things I quietly chase: a stable future, the right house, a large happy family? Would I gladly let go of all that and still say, “That’s enough, Lord”?

When Paul says in 1 Timothy 6:8, “But if we have food and covering, with these we shall be content.”, I wonder… Do I believe him? Do I believe God?

Or have I, somewhere deep in the folds of my soul, started to believe that happiness lives just a few steps ahead, a few upgrades away?

Satan doesn’t tempt me with evil alone; he tempts me with better. A better version of me. A better plan. A better pace. A better place. He waves it before me like fruit from another tree, and I, like Eve, start to believe that God is holding out on me. But He isn’t.

The Gospel of a Better Life

I’ve noticed something in me for quite some time now. A low-grade restlessness. A subtle dissatisfaction. The “Gospel of a Better Life”, whispering to me constantly:

• You’d be more secure if you had more money.
• You’d be happier if you lived somewhere else, or with someone else, or with just a little more… everything.
• You’d finally rest if your schedule were just a little less demanding — and your bank account a little fuller.

The message isn’t loud. It’s slow and smooth. And slowly, it promises a kingdom of comfort, one where Christ might still be present, but certainly not central.

I see my peers whom I studied with or grew up with, who seem to be ahead: Married. With kids. Climbing ladders. Masters degrees. Relocated. It’s not that I want to live their life. I just want mine to feel more like it, more secure, more settled, more impressive. And slowly, almost without noticing, I start measuring God’s goodness by how much my life resembles the one I imagined, rather than how closely it clings to Him.

I may say, “Be Thou my vision,” but deep down, I often mean: “Be Thou part of my vision, right next to my ambitions, my preferences, and my Pinterest board.” But here’s the truth I’m learning, painfully and slowly: “The more I crave the life I don’t have, the more I miss the God I do.”

Demas the Drifting Dreamer

Paul wrote with heartbreak,

“For Demas, having loved this present world, has deserted me and gone to Thessalonica….” (2 Timothy 4:10, NASB 1995)

What a tragedy. Not because Demas had some scandalous fall. But because he simply wanted the comfort and affirmation the world offered. He didn’t hate God. He just loved something else more.

And I get it. It’s easy to believe that the “present world” is what we really need. To measure God’s goodness by whether our lifestyle matches our dreams. But what if our craving for a certain life, not necessarily sinful on the surface, is slowly leading us away from the God who gives life?

I’m sure Demas didn’t walk away in a day. He drifted, one desire, one compromise, one misplaced love at a time.

And the warning is clear: not everyone who starts in ministry finishes in Christ. You can be “used by God” and still be seduced by the world. You can sing, preach, serve, and still slowly bow at the altar of worldly comfort.

Broken Cisterns

God’s words through the prophet Jeremiah hit a little too close:

“For My people have committed two evils: They have forsaken Me, The fountain of living waters, To hew for themselves cisterns, Broken cisterns That can hold no water.” (Jeremiah 2:13, NASB 1995)

That’s what I’ve been placing my hope in. Desiring to build a life that would satisfy, more financial security, more ease, while slowly forsaking the only fountain that could truly quench my thirst. The more we add, the emptier it feels. This is what lifestyle idolatry is: trading a spring for a hole in the ground.

We don’t always reject God loudly. Sometimes, we just quietly reach for something else. A better salary. A different house. A more impressive life. And slowly, we start drinking from wells that can’t hold water.

It feels harmless, even wise. But while we chase a lifestyle, we lose intimacy. We forfeit the fountain for a fantasy. And our souls stay thirsty. Because no matter how beautiful the cistern looks, it still leaks.

Not that these things are bad in themselves. There is such a thing as godly ambition, something I’m still learning to understand. But when we pursue them as our ultimate source of comfort and satisfaction, it becomes dangerous, even fatal, to our faith.

The Fountain of All Good

When the hymn says, “Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart,” it’s not asking God to be one good thing among many. It’s a cry for Him to be everything. How can God be all that?

St. Anselm of Canterbury (1033–1109), that great theologian, offers a helpful lens. He once asked: What makes all good things good? We enjoy so many kinds of good: comfort, beauty, friendship, rest, but Anselm pointed out that these things aren’t good by themselves. Their goodness must come from some ultimate Good. That Good, he said, is God Himself, the source behind every lesser joy.

“I said to the LORD, ‘You are my Lord; I have no good besides You.’” (Psalm 16:2, NASB 1995)

That’s the truth I often forget. The things I chase are only good if they lead me to Him. And if I have Him, I lack nothing of real worth.

A Better Promise

Hebrews offers us a better word:

“Make sure that your character is free from the love of money, being content with what you have; for he himself has said, ‘I will never desert you, nor will I ever forsake you,’ So that we confidently say, ‘The Lord is my helper, I will not be afraid. What will man do to me?” (Hebrews 13:5–6, NASB1995)

There it is. Not just a call to reject greed or ambition, but a call to rest. To remember who we have. Because:

“The secret to contentment isn’t having less desire, it’s having a better object of desire.”

The world whispers, “You need more.” Jesus says, “You need Me.”

“Jesus answered and said to her, ‘Everyone who drinks of this water will be thirsty again; but whoever drinks of the water that I will give him shall never thirst” (John 4:13–14, NASB1995)

Jesus doesn’t shame us for our thirst. He offers Himself to satisfy it. But it means surrendering our false wells, the shallow comforts we drink from in hopes they’ll finally be enough.

That line from Be Thou My Vision still lingers in my soul: “Riches I heed not.”

What if I could truly say that? Not because I’ve stopped working or dreaming or planning wisely. But because the pressure to build a life that proves I’m okay has been lifted. Because Jesus has already promised to be everything I need, in abundance or in lack, in recognition or obscurity, in luxury or simplicity.

Riches I heed not

The problem isn’t the desire for comfort. It’s believing that comfort is where life is found. God doesn’t call us to hate good gifts; He calls us to love the Giver more. To stop mistaking them for the Giver. To live loosely with earthly things. To sit with food and clothing and say, “With these, and with Christ, I have enough.”

But I’ve often desired a mirage, the life I thought I needed. One with just a bit more ease and convenience. A little more recognition. A few more affirming voices. The “right” environment, the “right” lifestyle, the “right” look.

And we’ve quietly baptised those longings. We call them Ambition. Vision. Drive. Desire for excellence. Wisdom. Sometimes they are. At times, they’re just disguised discontent.

I don’t want to be like Demas. I don’t want to trade the Living Water for sparkling mirages. I want to want the life God has already given me, not the one I think would finally make me happy. I want to sing every line of that hymn with honesty. And if I can’t yet, I want to ask God to change me until I can.

So if you find yourself like me, hesitating to sing to our Good and Loving God such words from the heart, exhausted by the hunger for a better life, let this be your wake-up call, as is mine. Not because you feel ashamed, but because there’s something better waiting: Christ Himself. The life we truly need isn’t somewhere out there. It’s here, in Christ Himself. And He is enough.