On Spiritual Disciplines

“This is eternal life, that they know You, the only true God, and Jesus Christ whom You have sent.” John 17:3

I used to think that the spiritual disciplines were little different than their physical counterparts. Run a mile, loose a pound; say a prayer, overcome a sin. But these two types of disciplines—bodily and spiritual—are not equivalents. The first produces results in direct correspondence to strictly natural, non-relational laws of science. But the latter disciplines are ultra-relational, require heart involvement, and do not operate according to fixed laws.

For instance, if you do enough pushups you will get stronger. If you run enough miles you will loose weight. Regardless of your attitude or motivation, the laws of physics and chemistry necessitate a corresponding result. But the spiritual disciplines require more than rote obedience to a set of proscribed actions. Simply reading your bible won’t make you godly. The mere motion of fasting won’t increase your hunger for God. The spiritual disciplines necessarily deal with—and therefore must engage—the heart. Fasting is nothing more than skipping a meal if it is not a born out of deep longing to be filled with God.

And the differences between the bodily and spiritual disciplines reach even farther. Physical health is non-relational and can be accomplished via the physical disciplines quite independent of any relationship. But spiritual health is defined in direct relation to one’s communion with God, and thus the spiritual disciplines are relational endeavors—attempts to connect with Another. The fruit of the Spirit that defines spiritual health (i.e., love, joy, peace, patience, etc.) is a reflection of the divine life in us and with us, and therefore speaks to our intimate union with God. Spiritual health, unlike physical health, is not some abstract moral or spiritual quality of the soul—it is a measure of one’s relational intimacy with God. Spirituality devoid of relationship is bare moralism.

And finally, unlike the bodily disciplines, which require only one acting agent who willfully engages in a given discipline (e.g., Joe doing pushups), the spiritual disciplines require the involvement of a second acting agent—God. This distinction is crucial. Contrary to what many think, the spiritual disciplines are not God’s divinely appointed exercise program by which we sanctify ourselves. Rather the spiritual disciplines are trenches that God would have us carve out in the dry places of our soul while we wait for his rain to fall. But the pouring out of his grace remains his sovereign choice. He is not a cosmic gumball machine into which we drop our quarters of bible reading, prayer, and fasting. Ultimately, if God does not bless our spiritual disciplines with his presence and grace, our efforts are in vain. He honors our desire to know him, but only in his time and his way. Failure to understand this can quickly result in either prideful legalism or spiritual despair.

Social Justice and "Sticking It to the Man"

Sheldon Vanauken's book, A Severe Mercy, is a profound true story of love and loss. Vanauken and his wife were personal friends of C. S. Lewis, and the influence is noticeable throughout the book. The book has virtually nothing to do with social justice, except what is quoted below, but I found Vanauken's comments interesting. He writes,

I was one of those caught up in the mood and action of the 1960s, especially the Peace Movement. Christ, I thought, would surely have me oppose what appeared an unjust war. But the Movement, whatever its ideals, did a good deal of hating. And Christ, gradually, was pushed to the rear: Movement goals, not God, became first, in fact--not only for me but for other Christians involved, including priests. I now think that making God secondary (which in the end is to make Him nothing) is, quite simply, the mortal danger in social action, especially in view of the marked intimation of virtue--even arrogant virtue--that often perilously accompany it. . . . Hating the opppresors of my neighbour isn't perhaps quite what Christ had in mind (234-35).

I've often thought along similar lines. Social justice is good and necessary for Christians to engage in. But the occasional motivation check is vital. Are we motivated by a love for Christ, or by our own sense of disenfranchised bitterness? Too often those we purport to serve end up being little more than a means by which we can "stick it to the Man."

On Dealing with Sin

“Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed.” James 5:16

I had surgery last week. Not a big deal, really, and everything turned out fine. But the whole procedure was a bit more than I had anticipated. I had a small lump just underneath the skin, parallel to my spine. Rarely cancerous the doctor said, but given its location, it warranted removal. I had undergone a similar surgery a number of years ago, painless and easy. A quick trip to the doctor’s office—a little cut and a little stitch—and fifteen minutes later I was on my way. I expected more of the same.

Boy was I in for a surprise.

My first clue should have been that the “procedure” was scheduled at the hospital. Curious, I thought; wonder why we’re doing this at the hospital? But it wasn’t until the nurse handed me the dreaded robe that it began to dawn on me that I was in for it. You know the robe—ugly green with a full slit down the back. I hate those robes. And the stockings. And the hair net. She cheerily told me to strip myself of all dignity and drew the curtain shut behind her. I stared at the garments in my hand. What was going on here? In my judgment, I didn’t see a need to remove anything more than my shirt. I contemplated protesting, but knew that resistance was futile. With bitter resignation I donned the garments. Things only got worse.

After sitting in abject humiliation for an hour, my doctor showed up with two—count ‘em two—attending nurses. I was brought into a full operating room complete with massive overhead lights and whirring machines. Perhaps the ultimate nadir of the morning came when one of the nurses helped me onto the table. Don’t use your imagination. The pulse monitor was attached to my finger, the blood pressure gauge was wrapped around my arm, and I was covered head to toe in a surgical sheet (not shoulders to toe, mind you, but head to toe.) This last bit was a mixed bag. On one hand, it was nice to have the additional coverage. But on the other hand, it added to the stress of the moment. I was a pariah, isolated in my own little cocoon with nothing to do but listen to the whirring machines and the beeping of my (now elevated) heart rate.

“This is a bit more of a procedure than I had anticipated,” I said from underneath the sheet. “Oh yes,” the nurse replied. “Everyone thinks so.”

And so it is with sin.

Entrenched sin can only be taken care of with a full surgical team. Dignity must be laid aside; others must be allowed into your shame. There can be no self-surgery with such sin—no way around the humiliation of exposing yourself to others in a less than flattering way. We cannot have both dignity and repentance; both self-respect and freedom. Would you be released from the burden of sin? Then you must lose your pride and submit yourself to the divine surgery, knowing that the attending nurses in God’s operating room will be—quite awkwardly—your brothers and sisters in the Lord. It’s uncomfortable, humiliating, and the only way.

Getting rid of sin often turns out to be a bit more of a procedure than we had thought. But the other option is not much of an option.