THE DISTORTION OF SPIRITUALITY

by John Ortberg
 

The misunderstanding of true spirituality has caused immense damage to the human race. Tragically, it is possible to think we are becoming more spiritual when in fact we are only becoming more smug and judgmental. Pseudo transformation means becoming what Mark Twain once called "a good man in the worst sense of the word." Winston Churchill, told that a political opponent of his by the name of Cripps who was widely disliked for his smug self righteousness--had just stopped smoking cigars, commented, "Too bad. Those cigars were his last contact with humanity." (Another time, the story goes, Churchill saw Cripps passing by and remarked, "There, but for the grace of God, goes God.")

         Getting clear on what spiritual life looks like is no casual affair. This is life or death to the soul. Sheldon Van Auken wrote, “the strongest argument for Christianity is Christians, when they are drawing life from God. The strongest argument against Christianity? Also Christians, when they become exclusive, self righteous, and complacent.”

Dallas Willard writes,

“How many people are radically and permanently repelled from The Way by Christians who are unfeeling, stiff, unapproachable, boringly lifeless, obsessive, and dissatisfied? Yet such Christians are everywhere, and what they are missing is the wholesome liveliness springing from a balanced vitality with the freedom of God's loving rule....” Spirituality wrongly understood or pursued is a major source of human misery and rebellion against God.

         So how do I know if I am settling for pseudo-transformation instead of the real thing? In the gospel according to Matthew, Jesus offers a list of warning signs in capital letters. Here are a few that I find helpful.  

Am I spiritually "inauthentic."

"Woe to you.... For you clean the outside of the cup and of the plate, but   inside they are full of greed and self indulgence."                    

Inauthenticity involves a preoccupation with appearing to be spiritual.

Someone once asked me whether I thought that the church where I worked might be worldly. "What do you mean by 'worldly'?" I asked him.  

         "Well, you use drama, and people are used to that in the world. And you play contemporary music just like they're used to hearing. So how will they know you're any different? Everybody knows that as Christians we're supposed to be different from people in the world by being more loving and more gentle, and everybody knows that we're not. So don't we have to do some thing to show we're different?"

         In other words, if we can't be holy, shouldn't we at least be weird?

         I act like that. I recently reread a letter I had written to a friend many years ago. Most of the letter was a review of current activities, and it sounded casual and natural. Then I wrote a few lines at the end about God and my spiritual life. But they didn't feel natural. They felt calculated and artificial; as if I were saying things I thought a spiritual person is supposed to say.

         I realized I have a hard time even talking about God without trying to convince people I'm "spiritual." I try to hide my sin. I work harder at making people think I'm a loving person than I do at actually loving them.

         A little boy went to Sunday school, where he knew the sort of answers you're supposed to give to questions. The teacher asked, "What is brown, furry, has a long tail, and stores up nuts for winter?"

         "Well," the boy muttered, "I guess the answer is Jesus, but it sure sounds like a squirrel to me."

         I act like that. I try to say spiritual sounding things, even when I don't know what I'm saying: "I guess the answer is Jesus. . .”   

Am I becoming judgmental, exclusive, or proud?

"They love to have the place of honor at banquets and the best seats in the synagogues."

Pride is a potential problem for anyone who takes spiritual growth seriously. As soon as we start to pursue virtue, we begin to wonder why others aren't as virtuous as we are. The great mystic St John of the Cross wrote:  

         “When beginners become aware of their own fervor and diligence in their spiritual works and devotional exercises, this prosperity of theirs gives rise to secret pride.... they conceive a certain satisfaction in the contemplation of their works and of themselves.... They condemn others in their heart when they see that they are not devout in their way.”

         Lee Strobel, my colleague at Willow Creek Community Church, is fond of quoting the reply Homer Simpson's fundamentalist neighbors gave when Homer asked them where they'd been: "We went away to a Christian camp. We were learning how to be more judgmental."

         Where is that camp, and why is it so well attended?

         I was in a small group with people I had just met, and immediately I found a little voice inside me categorizing everyone: "This one is needy and dependent--stay away. That one is bright and has much to offer--try to connect." Why do I constantly find myself rating people as if they were Olympic contestants and some one appointed me judge? Why do I so often compare myself with them as if we were in some kind of competition?

         This tendency is one reason why God sometimes graciously hides our own growth from our eyes. Jean Caussade said that while God is always at work in us, many times his work "is formed, grows, and is accomplished secretly in souls without their knowledge."  

Am I becoming more approachable, or less?

"They love ... to have people call them rabbi."

In Jesus' day, lepers and prostitutes and tax collectors were especially careful to steer clear of the rabbis, who were considered especially close to God. The rabbis' had the mistaken notion that their spirituality required them to distance themselves from people. The irony is that the only rabbi the outcasts could touch turned out to be God himself.

         Jesus was the most approachable person they had ever seen. The religious leaders had a kind of different ness that pushed people away. Jesus had a kind of different ness that drew people to him. True spirituality is that way.

Am I growing weary of pursuing spiritual growth?

         "They tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders 
          of others." 

The pursuit of righteousness is always an exhausting pursuit when it seeks a distorted goal. Steven Mosley speaks of how we trivialize goodness; becoming a "peculiar people" set at odd angles to the world rather than being an attractive light illuminating it. As a result, our morality calls out rather feebly. It whines from the corner of a sanctuary; it awkwardly interrupts pleasures; it mumbles excuses at parties; it shuffles along out of step and slightly behind the times.... It's often regarded by our secular contemporaries as a narrow, even trivial, pursuit.”

         Mosley captures the dynamic of the boundary marker quest: "Tragically, conventional religious goodness manages to be both intimidating and unchallenging at the same time."

         "Both intimidating and unchallenging at the same time." This is the hallmark of spiritual life defined in terms of boundary markers. Intimidating--because it may involve thirty-nine separate rules about Sabbath keeping alone--unchallenging--because we may devote our lives to observing all the rules and yet never open the heart to love or joy.

         This is why people inside the church so often get weary. Observing boundary markers, conforming to a religious subculture, is simply not a compelling enough vision to captivate the human spirit. It was not intended to be.

Am I measuring my spiritual life in superficial ways?

         "You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel!" 

uppose someone were to ask you, "How is your spiritual life going these days?" Quick what's the first thing that comes to your mind--praying and reading the Bible each day? If I had prayed and read the Bible for several consecutive prior days, I was likely to say that my spiritual life was going well. If not, I was likely to feel guilty and downcast. So prayer and Bible study became the gauge of my spiritual condition. As long as I did those two things I could go through the day confident of God's approval.

         I often use a journal in these quiet times. But I discovered that sometimes when I was in a hurry and didn't really want to take time to be with God, I would still get out my journal and scribble a few sentences simply so I had an entry in it for that day. (I'm not sure why I did this. Did I think I was going to have to hand it in?) I found myself measuring my spiritual life by the regularity of journal entries. I even devised a strategy in case there was an embarrassingly long gap between entry dates: I could keep two journals and merely write in one: "See other journal."

         But God's primary assessment of our lives is not going to be measured by the number of journal entries. I recently received a book of which the stated goal was to enable the reader to get up to "340 or 350 quiet times a year"--as if that were the point.

         I suspect that if someone had asked the apostle Paul or the apostle John about his spiritual life, his first question would have been, "Am I growing in love for God and people? “ The real issue is what kind of people we are becoming. Practices such as reading Scripture and praying are important--not because they prove how spiritual we are--but because God can use them to lead us into life. We are called to do nothing less than to experience day by day what Paul wrote to the church at Ephesus: "But God, who is rich in mercy, out of the great love with which he loved us even when we were dead through our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ."

         Many years ago I took one of my daughters to see her first movie: Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. For an hour and a half we lived in another world. I had forgotten how dark movies could be for a two year old. My daughter cried at the wicked stepmother, at the bite of the apple, at the coming of the curse.

         My tears came at another place. Snow White was cleaning out the cottage and singing," Someday, my prince will come." Suddenly it was as if it were my little girl on the screen, and I was thinking about the day when her "prince"--whoever that was to be would come and she would go away and they would be together.

         In that moment I had new empathy for the dwarfs. In this story they give their home and risk their lives for this foolish girl who eats the forbidden fruit and falls asleep and breaks their heart. And then the prince comes and awakens her with a kiss, and she runs off with him without a regret. But of course that is how it must be. That is her destiny.

And that is ours, too.

         Each of us has tasted the forbidden fruit. We have all eaten the apple. We have all fallen under the curse. We are all, on our own, in a kind of living death.

         But still the Prince comes, to bring freedom from the curse, life from death. Still the Prince comes, to kiss his bride. And every once in a while, somebody, somewhere, wakes up. And when it happens--that's life.

"Sleeper, awake!

Rise from the dead,

and Christ will shine on you..."  

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From, “The Life You’ve Always Wanted; Spiritual disciplines for ordinary people,” by John Ortberg, published by Zondervan, Grand Rapids Michigan.Used by permission. 

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