We tend to measure our lives by outcomes. We ask whether the job worked out, whether the diagnosis was favorable, whether the relationship survived. When the outcome is good, we call it a blessing. When the outcome is bad, we call it a trial to endure until better days return. This way of thinking feels natural, yet it quietly enthrones our circumstances as the true measure of our joy, and it leaves Christ standing on the sidelines waiting to be consulted only after the verdict is in.
The apostle Paul refused that arrangement. Writing from a Roman prison, uncertain whether he would live or die, he declared that he eagerly expected and hoped that he would in no way be ashamed, but would have full courage so that Christ would be exalted in his body, whether by life or by death. Notice what he did not say. He did not say he hoped for release. He did not say he hoped the charges would be dropped or that Caesar would show mercy. His hope was fixed on something no verdict could touch: the exaltation of Christ in his body, regardless of which way the trial went.
This is a strange kind of hope to modern ears. We are trained to hope for outcomes. We hope the treatment works. We hope the marriage is restored. We hope the prodigal comes home. There is nothing wrong with hoping for good outcomes; Scripture never asks us to stop caring how our stories end. But Paul shows us a deeper hope underneath the surface hope, one that does not rise and fall with the news we receive. He hoped that whatever happened to him, Christ would be seen as glorious through it. Life would glorify Christ. Death would glorify Christ. Either way, Christ would win.
This is what it means to say that every outcome becomes a win for Christ rather than a loss for us. The categories shift entirely. We are so accustomed to sorting our circumstances into wins and losses for ourselves that we rarely stop to ask whether Christ was exalted in the process. A promotion can be a personal win and a spiritual loss if it puffs us up and quiets our dependence on God. A diagnosis can be a personal loss and a spiritual win if it drives us to our knees and makes Christ unmistakably precious to everyone watching. Paul was not indifferent to his own fate. He genuinely wrestled with whether he would prefer to live or die, admitting he was torn between the two. But underneath that human wrestling was a settled conviction that the true outcome he cared about most, the exaltation of Christ, was never actually in doubt.
This reframing matters because so much of our anxiety comes from believing that Christ's glory hinges on our circumstances turning out a certain way. If we lose the job, we assume the story has gone wrong. If the prayer is not answered the way we asked, we assume God has failed to show up. But if our deepest hope is that Christ be exalted in us, whether by life or by death, whether by promotion or by loss, then no circumstance has the power to actually defeat us. It can steal our comfort. It can steal our plans. It can even steal our life. But it cannot steal the victory of Christ being seen as supremely valuable through however we respond to it.
There is a kind of courage that grows out of this. Paul asked for sufficient courage, not the absence of fear, but the strength to remain faithful regardless of what came. That courage is available to us in the ordinary pressures of our own lives long before we ever face anything resembling imprisonment. It shows up when we choose integrity over advantage in a difficult negotiation. It shows up when we speak truthfully about our faith even though it might cost us social standing. It shows up when we thank God in a hospital room instead of only in a sanctuary. Each of these moments is an opportunity for the same conviction Paul had: whatever happens here, let Christ be exalted.
We should also notice what this frees us from. If our joy depended on outcomes going our way, we would spend our entire lives anxious, because outcomes are almost never fully within our control. But if our joy is rooted in the exaltation of Christ, something that remains possible in every single circumstance we could ever face, then our joy becomes remarkably stable. It does not mean we stop grieving losses or stop working for better outcomes. It means our identity and our hope are no longer hostage to whether those outcomes arrive.
This is the invitation held out to us. Not a promise that everything will go the way we want, but a deeper promise that whatever comes, life or death, ease or hardship, can become an occasion for Christ to be magnified. When we begin to see our circumstances through that lens, we discover a joy that no outcome, good or bad, has the power to take away.
Dr. William C.K. Yomes is the founding apologist of Faith Makes Sense and the Senior Pastor of Catalyst Community Church in Wilmington, Delaware. This article is part of his ongoing teaching ministry at Catalyst Community Church.