The previous winter, we had had torrential rain in January, which produced some catastrophic mudslides. Since I live in Maine, mudslides in January—when we are supposed to have a lot of snow—are never a good thing.

So the following summer, when we went out for a hike, we left the main road, heading toward the trailhead.

Except we couldn’t get there.

Several months earlier, the flooding had washed away part of the road. Then the months of drought had dried and crumbled the exposed earth even further. By the time we arrived, there was a gap in the road so big, there was no possibility of crossing it by car.

Or, as you often hear in Maine:

“Ya can’t get they-ah from he-ah.”

You can’t get there from here.

Share

(This obviously isn’t the hiking trail we were trying to get to, but it was one of the roads near our house that was unnavigable because it was washed away in the flooding.)

In retrospect, that gap in the road feels a great deal like some of the gaps we encounter in our own lives.

And, interestingly, this particular gap had been created by both too much and not enough. Too much water had destabilized the ground. Then too little water had made the damage worse.

Something similar can happen within us.

Subscribe now

Our relational responses are shaped over many years by experiences of both too much and not enough: too much pressure, perhaps, or too much responsibility; too much unpredictability or criticism or conflict. And sometimes not enough comfort, not enough freedom, not enough reassurance, or not enough opportunity to be known and loved simply for who we are.

So… we adapt.

Based on our personality patterns, we develop ways of protecting ourselves, staying connected, maintaining control, avoiding conflict, anticipating danger, or proving that we are enough. And many of those responses have served us very well.

Until suddenly, they don’t.

Share

When Knowing Isn’t Enough

There are many times when I know exactly how I want to show up in my interactions with others. I know that I want to respond with patience or curiosity or compassion. I know that I want to be Christlike even when I am frustrated, angry, disappointed, or hurt.

And then the moment arrives—and I can’t seem to get there from here.

Do you know what that feels like?

The distance between the response I desire and the internal resources that feel available to me in that moment is what I call the flexibility gap.

I may know what I want to do and still find myself falling into an old, familiar reaction, often one that is not helpful for my relationships.

I can’t respond thoughtfully because I’m too busy reacting thoughtlessly.

That phrase has become something of a mantra for me: I want to respond thoughtfully instead of react thoughtlessly.

And this is one of the places where discipleship becomes much more than simply knowing what Jesus said.

I choose to follow Jesus because I have increasingly discovered that the life he offers is a life that works.

That doesn’t mean it is easy. Jesus is certainly not promising a life free from suffering, disappointment, grief, or conflict.

But he does invite us into a way of being human that is deeply aligned with the way God created us to live: loving God, loving others, telling the truth, forgiving, receiving grace, living generously, seeking justice, and learning to remain present in love even when life becomes difficult.

Subscribe now

When my life is primarily organized around protecting myself, proving myself, getting what I want, or avoiding what I fear, that life eventually becomes smaller. My relationships become less free. My choices become more reactive. I become increasingly governed by what I need other people or circumstances to provide for me.

Jesus offers another way. “Abide in me,” he says. “Remain with me. Learn my way of living and loving.”

Following Jesus—being his disciple—isn’t merely thinking or believing the “right things”. It isn’t even primarily imitating what Jesus did.

It is about transformation from the inside out.

It is about becoming the kind of person who increasingly has thoughtful access to a Christlike response when that response is actually needed.

And that is much harder than just knowing what the Christlike response is.

I can know that I want to be patient… while still feeling my body prepare for battle.
I can believe that I am loved… while still scrambling for someone else’s approval.
I can know that God is trustworthy… while still desperately trying to control the outcome.

The issue isn’t simply knowledge.

Something in me has learned to walk another path.

Share

Finding Another Path

So navigating the flexibility gap requires more than will power. (“I will act like Christ right now… or else!”)

It begins with inner awareness: noticing and naming what I repeatedly think, feel, and do before the familiar but unhelpful reaction carries me away.

What is happening in my body?
What am I feeling?
Is this fear or anger? Or something else?

But bridging the gap also requires inner knowledge, which goes a little deeper. It’s asking why the reaction bubbles up so quickly:

What am I protecting?
What feels threatened?
What am I assuming will happen next?
What response feels almost automatic?

And then, gradually, another possibility opens.

Not because I have finally mastered myself, but because growing inner awareness creates enough space for me to begin cooperating with the transforming work of the Holy Spirit.

I can notice the old path without automatically taking it.
I can pause, listen, and remember who I am… and whose I am.

And perhaps, in that small moment of freedom, I can choose a response that actually does look a little more like Jesus.

This is one reason I no longer think of the flexibility gap simply as evidence that I haven’t grown enough. I’m discovering that the gap itself may be one of the places where spiritual growth is happening.

Now, every time I encounter that distance between the person I want to be and the response that comes most naturally, I am being shown something.

Something about what I fear, or long for.
Something about the strategies of protection on which I have learned to rely so heavily.
And perhaps something about where Christ is inviting me next.

The goal of discipleship isn’t to become someone who never encounters the flexibility gap.

It is to become increasingly able—by grace!—to recognize the gap, and to discover that the road toward greater freedom can be rebuilt. Just like the washed-out roads after the floods.

Subscribe now

It’s easy to wonder why we may deeply desire to live like Jesus while discovering that some of our most familiar responses still lead us away from the person God created us to be.

The flexibility gap is one important concept of discipleship and spiritual formation that I explore in my upcoming book, From the Inside Out: How God Forms Us in the Gap Between Wanting to Follow Jesus and Becoming More Like Him.

Sometimes, when it feels as though you can’t get there from here, that gap may be exactly where the work of formation begins.

It’s Your Turn

I’d love to hear from you in the comments:

Where do you most often notice the flexibility gap in your own life?

What helps you find a little more freedom in that moment?

Lately I’ve been wondering: Is having a “life with God” the same thing as living a “with-God life”, or is there a subtle difference between the two?

It may sound like nothing more than semantics. But when I separate the phrases, each evokes a slightly different posture in me.

“Life with God” can subtly become something I construct or pursue. In my mind, it can sound a bit like, I have a life. How do I include God in it? Do I need to work a little harder—pray more, read more Scripture, practice silence, observe Sabbath more faithfully?

Those practices matter a great deal. Yet even good spiritual practices can begin to feel like another set of obligations if I imagine their purpose is to bring God into a life where he is otherwise absent.

So I’ve been asking a different question:

Is life with God something I add to my already crowded life—or is it the reality from which my whole life is meant to be lived?

A “with-God life” turns my attention first toward God’s initiative.

God is already present.

God is already inviting, calling, loving, sustaining.

Share

The question becomes less, What must I do to have a life with God? and more:

How do I become increasingly available to the life with God that has already been given to me?

When Transformation Becomes Another Project

As I was working on this article, I made a note to myself:

Spiritual transformation is the whole point! Then I stopped.

Well, maybe not.

Union with Christ is the point, and transformation is the fruit of abiding.

And suddenly I realized how easily I had done what I am often tempted to do: turn transformation itself into another project.

I want to become more patient.

I want to stop being so reactive.

I want to trust God more.

I want to become more like Christ.

These are good and genuine desires but it’s not my “project” because I can’t transform myself.

Subscribe now

In John 15, Jesus gives us a picture of how that kind of transformation actually happens.

“I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing.”
—John 15:5, NIV

(by andrewhagen)

The branch does not manufacture fruit. It remains connected to the vine, receiving the life from which fruit grows.

That changes the way I think about spiritual formation.

Jesus’ metaphor helps me understand the with-God life. Union with Christ does not begin with my effort to reach God or transform myself. It begins with God’s movement toward me in Christ. I am invited into communion with him, and abiding is my ongoing participation in that gift.

Share

That is also where spiritual practices find their proper place.

Prayer, silence, solitude, Scripture, Sabbath, worship, listening—these practices do not summon an absent God. They create space for me to pay attention, receive, respond, and surrender to the God who is already here.

They help me continually notice:

God is here. Right now. Right where I am.

As abiding becomes more deeply woven into my life, turning toward God can become a daily or hourly posture—not something I remember only when I am overwhelmed or desperate.

I know abide can sound a little archaic. Some translations use remain. But the metaphor of a vine and branches helps me understand it.

Stay connected.

Receive life.

Remain present.

Let the fruit grow from the relationship.

Subscribe now

Come. Learn. Rest.

Jesus’ words in Matthew 11 give us another picture of this life of communion and participation:

“Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light” (Matthew 11: 28-30, NRSVA).

It’s easy to stop seeing something when it is very familiar. I invite you to really read this passage, as if for the first time. Notice how relational all four of those movements are: Come. Take my yoke. Learn from me. Rest. There is both gift and participation in that invitation.

We don’t need to strive or work harder to make something happen. Our participation is about learning to notice, receive, and respond to Christ’s presence in the life I am already living. Over time, simple rhythms of attention can help me return to that posture when I forget.

Share

ABIDE to Notice, Receive, and Respond

To help me notice God in my daily life I use an easily accessible practice I call the ABIDE examen.

Originally introduced as a spiritual practice by St. Ignatius in his Spiritual Exercises, an examen is a way of prayerfully noticing God’s presence and our response to him. For my forthcoming book, From the Inside Out, I created the ABIDE examen as a way to return my attention to Christ throughout the day, and notice how I am showing up in the life I am actually living.

A — Attend to God’s presence
B — Bless God for gifts
I — Identify what is stirring within you
D — Dwell on one prayer
E — Entrust the hours ahead to God

If you’d like a PDF of this practice, you can download it here.

Subscribe now

The God Who is Already Here

So what, finally, is the difference between a “life with God” and a “with-God life”?

Maybe there is no semantic difference after all. But pondering the two phrases has reminded me of a spiritual difference that matters.

I do not have to construct a life that somehow includes God. I do not have to work hard enough to persuade God to draw near. God is already present, already inviting, already giving himself to me in Christ.

My part is to notice. To receive. To respond. To abide.

The practices of prayer, Scripture, silence, sabbath, examen, and worship are not ways of bringing an absent God into my life. They are rhythms that help me become more attentive and available to the God who is already here.

And as I remain in Christ, the Spirit does the work I cannot manufacture for myself: slowly forming the life and character of Jesus in me.

Perhaps that is what the with-God life is after all—not another spiritual project added to an already crowded life, but learning to live this actual life from the reality that I am already with God.

What might that look like for you today—not someday when life becomes quieter or you finally have more time, but today—to live a with-God life?

Please share your thoughts in the comments.

You meant to listen.

You meant to respond with patience, honesty, courage, or love.

But then something happened.

You got defensive.
You shut down.
You over-explained.
You tried to keep everyone happy.
You took control.
You rescued.
You avoided.
You reacted faster than you could choose.

That does not mean you do not care.

It may mean something in you is trying to protect connection, manage anxiety, preserve safety, avoid conflict, or keep you from feeling exposed.

Share

But what once helped you cope and get through tough situations may now be keeping you from the person you most deeply want to become.

You may sincerely want to live and love more like Jesus—and still find yourself reacting from fear, pressure, resentment, or self-protection before you even realize what is happening.

This is not a place for self-condemnation.

It is a place for gentle, truthful attention.

Jesus meets us with truth and grace, so that what has been hidden can come into the light and become available for healing.

Subscribe now

(By Creativeraf)

Sometimes we do not need an entire life plan.

We need one focused conversation to notice the pattern, understand what it may be protecting, and discern one more faithful next step.

For one more day, I’m offering Thirty for Thirty, Relational Reset coaching sessions:

Reset your relationships with 30 minutes of focused coaching for $30

You may sign up by tomorrow night, Friday, July 24, and meet anytime before August 7.

Bring a decision, a stuck place, a leadership question, a writing or vocational discernment, a relationship pattern, or simply something you’ve been carrying around in your mind and heart.

Click on this link for instructions about how to schedule your Relational Reset Session.

What reaction in your life might be asking for compassion before correction?

We read good books.
We listen to thoughtful podcasts.
We underline meaningful sentences.
We collect quotes, practices, prayers, and ideas.

And still, we can feel stuck.

Not because learning is bad. It isn’t. I love learning. As an official “word nerd” I’m learning all the time!

But sometimes we try to solve a deeper ache with more information. I know; I’ve tried it myself.

I’ve learned that we are not only minds that need insight or information. We are embodied, relational, beloved people who need transformation. We need space to slow down, notice what is actually happening inside us, and bring our real lives into the presence of God.

This is one reason I love the Examen.

Share

The Examen is an ancient prayer practice, often associated with Ignatian spirituality, that helps us look back over a recent period of time with God. Not to critique ourselves or analyze everything. But to notice where God has been present, what has been stirring in us, and how grace may be inviting us forward.

In my forthcoming book, From the Inside Out, I offer a simple version called the ABIDE Examen:

A — Attend to God’s presence
B — Bless God for gifts
I — Identify what is stirring within you
D — Dwell on one prayer
E — Entrust the hours ahead

(By creativemahfuz)

This prayer practice is simple enough to use in a few minutes and deep enough to lead to an hour or more of attending to God.

Sometimes a few minutes of honest, prayerful noticing can begin to open something we could not think our way through.

I’ve created a simple ABIDE Examen flyer as a free resource. It’s my gift to you.
Click here to download it directly.

Subscribe now

And if, as you practice, you realize you would like someone to listen with you as you discern what God may be inviting you to notice, receive, or practice, I’m offering Thirty for Thirty coaching sessions for one more week:

Click here for 30 minutes of focused coaching for $30

You can bring a decision, a stuck place, a leadership question, a writing or vocational discernment, a relationship pattern, or simply something you’ve been carrying around in your mind and heart.

You may meet with me this coming week, or reserve a session by Friday and meet during the last week of July.

Where might God’s grace already be present in the place where you feel stuck?

It may be that a certain subject comes up, and something changes almost immediately. Our bodies tense. We begin preparing our response before the other person has finished speaking. We feel angry, anxious, defensive, dismissed, or simply tired.

Some of us argue.
Some of us shut down.
Some of us decide there is no point in continuing the conversation.

And sometimes we explain our reaction by saying, “That’s just the way I am.”

“I’m direct.”
”I avoid conflict.”
”I need to know where people stand.”
”I can’t stay quiet when something matters.”
”I don’t have the energy to deal with people like that.”

These statements may contain some truth about our personalities. But there is an important difference between saying, “This is an automatic pattern I often enter,” and saying, “This is who I am.”

An unconscious reaction is not an identity.

It may be familiar. It may be deeply practiced. It may even have protected us at other times in our lives. But it is not necessarily the truest expression of who we are—or of who we are becoming in Christ.

Share

(By Halfpoint)

What happens when we feel threatened

Our strongest reactions often arise when something important feels threatened.

Fear may surface when we feel unsafe or uncertain.

Anger may rise when our agency is blocked—when we feel powerless, ignored, controlled, or unable to influence what is happening.

Sadness may reveal a loss of connection, belonging, or hope.

Shame may whisper that something is wrong with us and urge us to hide.

In those moments, we rarely stop to ask what is happening inside us. We react to the person in front of us without recognizing the deeper need beneath our response.

That is especially easy to do in our current national climate.

We are surrounded by conversations in which people appear to be living in entirely different versions of reality. The stakes feel high because they are high. Questions of justice, power, human dignity, truth, safety, and belonging are not abstract.

Subscribe now

Remaining relational does not mean pretending that all beliefs are equally harmless. It does not require us to tolerate abuse, overlook injustice, or remain indefinitely in conversations that are manipulative or unsafe.

Jesus did not respond to every person in the same way.

He spoke sharply to leaders who used their authority to burden others. He confronted hypocrisy and defended people pushed to the margins.

But Jesus also refused to reduce people to their categories.

In John 4, he spoke with a Samaritan woman at a well. Their communities were divided by generations of religious and cultural hostility. She named their disagreement directly: her people worshiped on one mountain, while the Jews worshiped in Jerusalem.

Jesus did not pretend the disagreement was meaningless. He answered truthfully.

But he stayed in the conversation.

He treated her as someone capable of theological reflection, honest self-examination, and spiritual insight. He did not shame her or dismiss her because of her identity, her history, or the community to which she belonged.

He saw a person, not merely a position.

That may be one of the hardest invitations before us now: to hold conviction without surrendering curiosity, dignity, or love.

Share

A pause before the reaction

The next time you notice yourself reacting thoughtlessly instead of responding thoughtfully, try pausing long enough to ask:

What am I feeling?
What feels threatened right now?
Do I need to feel safe, soothed, seen, or reminded about who I am?
What would help me reconnect with God before I respond?

Physically, you might place a hand over your heart and slow your breathing, or step away briefly rather than answering immediately. (“Time outs” aren’t just for small children!)

Internally, you might pray, “Jesus, help me see this person as you see them” or remind yourself, “I do not have to prove my worth, control this person, or resolve everything in this moment.”

Sometimes the most Christlike response will be a gentle question. Or it could be necessary to set a clear boundary.

Sometimes it will be remaining quiet long enough to understand what is happening inside the other person beneath their words. Or maybe it’s time to name harm truthfully.

The goal is not to become passive or agreeable. It is to become free enough that we are not unconsciously controlled by our patterns of reacting.

The question is not only, “Am I right?”

It is also, “Who am I becoming as I respond?”

Subscribe now

From reaction to connection

I have created a simple one-page guide that will help you pause, identify what you are feeling, recognize what may be threatened, reconnect with God’s loving presence, and choose one small step toward greater calm, courage, and connection.

Download the free guide here →

From Reaction to Connection: A Relational Pathway for Fear, Anger, Sadness, and Shame.

A guide can help us notice our patterns. But it can still be difficult to see clearly while we are inside a painful relationship or recurring reaction.

That is why, through Aug. 7 (scheduled by July 25), I am offering thirty-minute Relational Reset Sessions for $30—less than half my usual rate. Click here to find out more and schedule a session.

You might bring:

• a conversation you are dreading;

• a relationship that repeatedly triggers you;

• a decision you keep circling;

• a place where you feel angry, anxious, hurt, or stuck;

• or a response you want to handle differently next time.

Together, we will slow down the experience, explore what might be happening beneath the surface, listen for God, and discern one grounded, faithful next step.

That may be the way you have learned to react.

But if you want to change, remember that it is not the limit of who you can become.

I’d love to hear from you: What is one reaction pattern you are learning to recognize in yourself—and what helps you return to connection? Please share in the comments below, or just reach out to me by email through Substack.

And if this article or guide brought someone to mind, please share it with them. You’re also welcome to pass along the From Reaction to Connection guide to a friend, colleague, small group, or ministry team who may find it helpful.

Even when that growing and changing sends the younger one, in particular, into some sort of tizzy because she isn’t getting what she wants.

It reminds me of when our three children were roughly the same ages and had their own ideas about when they wanted to cuddle with us and when they wanted to do what they wanted, no matter what anyone else might say.

I won’t name any specific children so I don’t get in trouble if they read this. 😉

On this Independence Day, 250 years after the Continental Congress adopted the radical language of the Declaration of Independence, I find myself thinking about a different kind of independence.

Share

Not the kind that means, “I don’t need anyone.”
Not the kind that says, “I’ll do it all myself.”
Not the kind that mistakes isolation for maturity.

I’m thinking about the kind of independence that grows from secure attachment.

A loving and caring attachment figure helps answer three deep questions:

Is someone available to me?
Will my distress be relieved?
Do I have agency to affect the outcomes of my own life?

Children need those questions answered in order to grow. So do adults.

We need closeness and trust. We need comfort and care. We need the reassurance that we are not alone in our distress.

And we also need agency. We need room to explore, choose, risk, practice, stumble, recover, and become.

Subscribe now

Geoff and Cyd Holsclaw refer to this as intimacy and independence. Todd Hall names it comfort and challenge. I often think of it as being rooted and reaching out.

A child who is securely loved can run out to explore the world and then run back into safe arms. A disciple who is securely loved in Christ can do something similar.

We abide in the Vine, and from that rooted place, we bear fruit. We are held by God’s faithful love, and from that secure place, we grow in courage, wisdom, and love.

We don’t grow by severing attachment, but by being attached to the One whose love does not manipulate, abandon, dominate, or withdraw.

Of course, human attachment is never perfect. Parents fail. Leaders fail. Systems fail. We fail each other.

And yet God’s love is not simply a larger version of human attachment. God is not a bigger parent, a better boss, or a more benevolent king.

God is the source of all love.

The One in whom we live and move and have our being.
The One who invites us to come close and then sends us out.
The One who roots us deeply so that we can reach courageously.

Maybe that is one way to think about freedom today.

Share

Freedom is not the absence of need or being untouched by others. Freedom is not doing whatever I want.

Freedom, in Christ, is becoming secure enough in love that I can grow into the person God created me to be, and have agency to bring God’s love into the world around me.

Like a child learning to ride a bike, we need both a steady presence nearby and enough space to find our balance.

Flourishing is what happens when rooted love becomes courageous movement.

(By lashkhidzetim)

So maybe the questions for today are:

Where do you need to be more deeply rooted in God?
And where is God inviting you to reach out?

For the first three weeks of July, I’m offering a simple way to explore those questions.

I’m calling it 30 for 30: a 30-minute coaching session for $30.

It’s a chance to bring one real question, longing, decision, stuck place, or next step into a focused conversation. We might explore where God is inviting you to deeper trust, where your nervous system is asking for comfort, where your agency feels blocked, or what kind of courageous reaching-out may be emerging.

You can schedule one session or several, by clicking here.

Payment is made in advance by Zelle or Venmo.

If something in you is stirring—if you are sensing that it may be time to become both more rooted and more free—I’d be glad to be fully present with you for 30 minutes and help you listen for what God may be inviting next.

And sometimes, yes, we do need spaciousness. But often, what we need first is much smaller than that.

We need a pause.
We need someone to listen carefully.
We need one good question.
We need a little room to hear what we are actually saying beneath all the noise.

One of the things I love about coaching is that it is not advice-giving. It is not someone else telling you what to do. It is not another person handing you a plan for your life.

At its best, coaching creates a focused, prayerful, attentive space where you can notice what is already stirring in you.

What is unclear?
What feels stuck?
What keeps circling in your mind?
What are you avoiding?
What desire or invitation keeps rising to the surface?
What might God be asking you to notice, receive, release, or practice?

Share

A good coaching conversation can help you move from vague overwhelm to a more honest next step. Not necessarily the whole path. Not a five-year plan. Not every answer.

Just the next faithful step.

And sometimes that is enough.

Subscribe now

I am always honing my skills and learning to serve better and more fully. This past week, I returned from several days at an intensive coaching training. It was stretching, humbling, and deeply clarifying. It reminded me again how powerful it can be when someone is fully present, listening not only for the problem, but for the person beneath the problem.

So for the first three weeks of July, I’m offering a simple summer special:

Thirty for Thirty
30 minutes of focused coaching for $30

My regular coaching rate is $150/hour, so this is less than half my usual rate.

(By Eggie)

You can use a session to explore a decision, a stuck place, a leadership question, a writing or vocational discernment issue, a relationship pattern, a spiritual invitation, or a next step you can’t quite name yet.

Sessions must be paid in advance by Zelle or Venmo. You may sign up for one session or several, depending on what would be helpful.

This offer is available only during the first three weeks of July, before I take vacation at the end of the month.

If you’ve been carrying something around in your mind and heart, wondering what to do with it, maybe this is a gentle place to begin.

Thirty minutes.
Thirty dollars.
One focused conversation.

It’s amazing what can be transformed in as little as 30 minutes.

If you have questions, reply to this email or send me a message on Substack.

If you’re ready to proceed, click here.

I look forward to speaking with you!

====

If this isn’t for you right now, who do you know who could use this? Don’t keep it to yourself! Please share with people you care about. :-)

It was not the word I expected to hear.

I had just received the gift of being away on a silent retreat for four days and nights. I walked alongside the seashore. I sat for hours in silence, watching seagulls swim and scavenge while the tides came in and went out. I read a book I had felt called to bring, one that became a great blessing. I spent long stretches of time with God’s word in Scripture. And I wrote many, many words of my own in my journal.

(Observing seagulls on the coast of Maine.)

On my last morning, as I was prayerfully gathering up what I wanted to carry home with me, I asked God for a word or phrase.

I expected something like trust.

After all, I am in a liminal space, standing at a threshold between what has been and what has not yet become clear. I recently completed my doctoral degree, which had shaped the rhythms of my life for the last three years. My husband and I are also, for a variety of reasons, newly “churchless,” which is its own kind of disorientation. We are not without faith or love for the Church, and not without longing for community—but we are, for now, without a settled place to belong.

So yes, trust would have made sense.

Or maybe faith.

When you stand in a threshold place, not quite where you were and not yet where you are going, faith is required. The temptation to control outcomes and manage uncertainty is strong. It is for me, anyway.

Subscribe now

Or perhaps the word would be patience.

After all, I have also been wrestling with what it means to be in union with God, to abide in Christ, to remain in him, to live as a branch attached to the vine. God has placed a longing at the center of my soul, a longing for more of him, and I often find myself asking God to move quickly. To not waste time. To make the path clear. To hurry the process along.

But no.

The word that came clearly to mind was not trust, faith, or patience.

It was holy.

Immediately, I thought of the definition I have heard so often: to be set apart.

And that is true. To be holy is, in some way, to be set apart. But as I sat with the word, I sensed that God was not inviting me into a narrow or rigid kind of separateness. This was not a word of pressure. It was not a command to become especially good, spiritually impressive, or morally polished.

It felt more like a reminder: You belong to me. You are mine. You are being formed in me.

Holiness is not first about trying harder to become acceptable to God. Holiness begins with belonging to God.

In his book True Prayer, Kenneth Leech writes,

“Holiness is not a static condition but a movement. It is not a matter of obedience to rules or observance of a moral code. Holiness flows from the relationship with Christ, built up and nourished by the word of God and the sacraments. To recognize holiness is to recognize the activity of God in people. More than that, holiness manifests the character, the nature of God. It witnesses to God’s transcendent glory, and to the Incarnation—to the immensity and the intimacy of God… Holiness never points to itself but always beyond itself to God. The saint is essentially someone who communicates and radiates the character of God, his love, his joy, his peace.” (1)

Holiness is a movement. I love that.

Share

It is not a badge we earn or a spiritual status we achieve. It is the movement of God’s life within us. It is the activity and character of God taking shape in ordinary human beings. It is Christ being formed in us—not so that we can be proud of ourselves for becoming holy, but so that our lives begin to point beyond us to God.

I had asked God for a word about direction.

God gave me a word about belonging.

That distinction feels important to me.

So often, when we ask God for guidance, we are asking, “What should I do next?” That is not a bad question. It is often a necessary one. But underneath it, there may be a deeper question: “Who am I, now that this season has ended? Who am I if I do not know what comes next? Who am I if I am not producing, leading, teaching, achieving, or belonging in the ways I once did?”

The answer that came to me was not a strategy.

It was an identity. Holy.

(By Giordano Aita)

Not because I am unusually spiritual or have things figured out. And not because I am untouched by ambition, anxiety, disappointment, confusion, or longing.

But because I belong to God.

Subscribe now

In John 15, Jesus tells his disciples, “You did not choose me but I chose you.” He says this in the same passage where he calls them friends, invites them to abide in his love, and appoints them to bear fruit that will last.

Before fruitfulness, there is friendship.

Before mission, there is abiding.

Before doing, there is being chosen.

Paul says something similar in Ephesians 1:4, writing that God “chose us in Christ before the foundation of the world to be holy and blameless before him in love.” Before we had done anything useful or impressive, before we had succeeded or failed, before anyone else knew our name, we were known in Christ. Chosen in Christ. Loved in Christ. Called to become holy in love.

That phrase matters: in love.

Holiness detached from love becomes harsh. It becomes superiority, striving, fear, judgment, or separation for the sake of separation.

But holiness rooted in love becomes radiant. It becomes the life of Christ quietly taking shape in us. It becomes patience that does not have to force outcomes. Trust that does not require certainty. Faith that holds even when the path is foggy. Love that remains because it is rooted in the love of God.

This is why, as I reflected on the retreat, I began to see that the words I expected—trust, faith, patience—were not wrong. They were simply not the root.

They were fruit.

Share

The closer we are to God, the more we cling to Christ as the branch clings to the vine, receiving nourishment and life, the more we become like Jesus.

Jesus trusted the Father with his life.

Jesus had faith that the Father was always present with him.

Jesus was patient with slow disciples, resistant crowds, religious opposition, and the hidden timing of God.

But Jesus did not manufacture these qualities out of sheer willpower. He lived from union with the Father. “I and the Father are one,” he said.

And then he invited us to abide in him.

This is the mystery of the Christian life. We are not merely trying to imitate Jesus from a distance. We are invited to live in Christ, and to have Christ live in us.

That means holiness is not an escape from ordinary life. It is not a retreat from the world, although sometimes we do need actual retreat in order to remember what is true. Holiness is learning to live our ordinary lives from another reality.

As soon as we say yes to Christ, something eternal begins in us.

We still live here, of course. We still live in bodies that get tired, relationships that need tending, communities that disappoint us, vocations that shift, houses that need cleaning, griefs that rise unexpectedly, and futures we cannot control.

We still live on earth.

And yet, in Christ, we already have one foot in eternity.

Subscribe now

We belong to the kingdom of God. We are citizens of a coming world. We are being formed, even now, for the life that will one day be fully revealed.

This does not make the present life less important. If anything, it makes it more sacred. Every conversation, every longing, every threshold, every act of surrender, every ordinary hidden yes to God becomes part of our formation in Christ.

While I was on retreat, the tides still came in and went out. The gulls still cried and scavenged. The wind still moved across the water.

Nothing dramatic happened outwardly. But inwardly, one word shifted something.

Holy.

Not as pressure or performance.

As invitation.

A reminder that I do not have to know everything about what comes next to belong to God now.

A reminder that I am not first called to be clear, useful, productive, impressive, or certain.

I am called to be God’s.

And because I am God’s, I am called to become holy—not separate in the sense of removed from love, but set apart for love. Set apart for union. Set apart to become more like Christ.

Share

Maybe you are in a threshold season too.

(By Anastasiia)

Maybe something has ended, and the next thing has not yet become clear.

Maybe you are asking God for direction, but what you most need first is anchoring.

Maybe you are longing for a word.

Rest.
Beloved.
Courage.
Surrender.
Begin.
Enough.
Remain.
Holy.

I wonder what word God may be speaking over your life right now.

Not as a demand or riddle to solve. And not as another thing to perform.

But as an invitation to notice where God is already present, already loving, already forming Christ in you.

This is part of the work I love to do in spiritual direction and spiritual coaching: to sit with people in the presence of God, to listen for the invitations of the Spirit, and to notice how Christ is forming a more beloved, whole, and holy life within them.

If you are standing at a threshold, or if you sense that God may be speaking a word you do not yet understand, I would be honored to listen with you.

You do not have to discern alone.

Sometimes we need another person to sit with us in the silence, notice the holy threads, and help us hear again the voice of Love saying:

You are mine.
Remain in me.
Become who you already are.

Please reach out to me either by replying to this email (if you’re a subscriber) or by sending me a message on Substack.

Reference

(1) Kenneth Leech, True Prayer: An Invitation to Christian Spirituality (San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 1986), 36.

Ruach is a Hebrew word that can mean breath, wind, or spirit. In the Bible, it carries the mystery of God’s life-giving presence—the breath that animates us, the wind that moves unseen, the Spirit who hovers, speaks, and brings new life.

Ruach

by Deborah Owen

When the glare of the sun
Turned the glass window
Into a near-mirror,
I gazed at my self,
Swearing I could see
The wrinkles in my soul
As easily as the growing wrinkles
In the skin around my eyes.

I opened my mouth, breathed in, and
Breathed out—HHAWW—Onto my twin,
Fogging the face that watched
Every move, every twitch,
Every evident imperfection.

Now her vision was blinded.
Now she couldn’t witness
The vein near my collarbone,
Pulsating almost imperceptibly
With uncertainty and perplexity,
And her eyes couldn’t follow
The formless void of purpose
That etched such an obvious hole
In the center of my soul.

When the mist on the glass began to clear
And my identical image
Again showed her visage,
I realized I was the one who
Was hiding in the hazily
Obscured truth in
The glazed glass.

But my damp breath couldn’t dim
The visual beneath the veneer
Of fortitude:
A lonely child leaning into
Her Father’s gathering arms,
Seeking his certainty of
Strength, tender belovedness,
And rhythmically beating heart,
Holding all her questions,
Doubts, and fears,
With gentle peace.

Rushing back to my self
I expectantly searched for
My parallel persona,
But the sun had shifted and the faint
Figure in the glass was vanishing.
All that was left were the fading
Fringes of my moist breath
And my own longing eyes
Seeking the soul-lifting solace
Of companions on the path
And the Father’s encircling embrace
Breathing into existence
New
Creation.
Ruach.

That can also be one of the uncomfortable parts.

When I write here on Substack, I am often working things out in real time. I am reading, learning, praying, testing language, listening to wise voices, and trying to name what I am seeing in the lives of leaders, churches, and people who long for deeper transformation.

And because I am still learning, there are moments when I need to pause and ask better questions.

Recently, several posts from Kyle Strobel have challenged me to look at my own writing with a more careful theological eye. Kyle writes often about spiritual formation, and one of his recurring concerns is that much contemporary writing on formation may use Christian language while the actual engine underneath the work is not theology at all. (His most recent post is here, “When Spiritual Formation Goes Bad”). Sometimes what is doing the real work is psychology, sociology, neuroscience, productivity culture, therapeutic individualism, or some version of “fix yourself” spirituality.

That statement has stayed with me. So I ask: What is actually doing the work in my writing?

Is the gospel central?
Is union with Christ central?
Is transformation clearly and repeatedly understood as the work of the Holy Spirit?
Do the tools I use — neuroscience, attachment theory, personality patterns, embodied awareness, coaching frameworks — serve the gospel, or do they quietly become the mechanism of transformation?

Those are not small questions.

They are the questions that determine whether spiritual formation remains Christian formation, or whether it becomes a religiously flavored form of self-improvement.

And so this post is, in part, a mea culpa.

There have been times when I have probably leaned too heavily into the neuroscience of formation. Not because I believe neuroscience saves us. I don’t. Not because I believe attachment theory or personality patterns or embodied awareness are the gospel. They are not.

But because I find them genuinely helpful.

Share

Neuroscience can help us understand why we remain stuck even when we know better. Attachment theory can help us recognize why we cling, hide, strive, defend, or withdraw. Personality patterns can help us notice the predictable ways we protect ourselves when we feel unseen, unsafe, powerless, ashamed, or alone.

These tools can offer language for what is happening in us, but they cannot tell us the purpose of our lives.

They cannot reconcile us to God, or unite us with Christ, or make us holy, or form the life of Christ in us.

Only God can do that.

The gospel is not simply that God forgives us and then asks us to improve. The gospel is that in Jesus Christ, God has come near, reconciled us to himself, united us with Christ, and given us the Spirit so that the life of Christ may be formed in us from the inside out.

That is the center.

Everything else must serve that center.

Subscribe now

Helpful tools are not the source of transformation

I care deeply about the integration of faith, formation, and what we are learning about the brain, body, relationships, and human development.

But integration only remains faithful when we remember the order of things.

Neuroscience can describe some of what happens when we change. It can help us understand why repeated practices matter and why relationships shape us. It can show us why our nervous systems often respond before our conscious minds catch up. And it can help us become more compassionate toward ourselves and others when transformation feels slow.

But neuroscience does not create transformation. It simply helps us observe, in embodied terms, some of what God has already woven into creation.

The same is true of attachment theory. When I talk about secure attachment to God, I am not trying to baptize a therapeutic concept and make it the gospel. I am trying to find language for something God has always been telling us through Scripture: that we are made for communion with God, that we are loved before we are useful, that we are held before we are sent, that we abide before we bear fruit.

Jesus does not say, “Try harder and eventually you will become fruitful.”

He says, “Abide in me… Apart from me you can do nothing.”

That is not a productivity strategy. It is the shape of the Christian life.

Share

Why I am changing some of my language

If you have followed my work for a while, you may have noticed that I am slowly shifting some of my language.

I still use words like self-awareness and self-knowledge because they are familiar, searchable, and often helpful. People know what they mean. They are the terms people use when they are looking for resources (once a librarian, always a librarian).

But increasingly, I am also using the language of inner awareness and inner knowledge.

That shift has been influenced in great measure by Dr. Daniel Siegel, whose work has challenged me to think more carefully about the word “self.” In his book IntraConnected; MWe (Me + We) as the Integration of Self, Identity, and Belonging, Siegel argues that our identity and belonging are not contained within the isolated individual alone. We are part of one another. We are part of creation. We are part of systems larger than the body alone.

From a Christian perspective, that should not surprise us. Scripture has never imagined human beings as isolated selves.

We are members of one body.
We are branches on one vine.
We are living stones being built together.
We are sheep in one flock.
We are beloved children of one Father.
We are persons-in-communion because we are made in the image of the Triune God.

So yes, we need inner awareness. We need to notice what is happening within us: our longings, fears, reactions, defenses, griefs, desires, and patterns. But the goal is not to become more fascinated with ourselves.

The goal is to become more available to God.

And more capable of love.

Subscribe now

The Good Samaritan and the illusion of the isolated self

Jesus’ parable of the Good Samaritan is a beautiful picture of this.

A man is attacked on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho and left half dead. A priest and a Levite pass by. These are religious people, people who should know what love requires. But they move to the other side of the road.

Then a Samaritan comes near.

He sees the wounded man. He is moved with compassion. He binds his wounds. He places him on his own animal. He takes him to an inn. He pays for his care. He sacrifices his own time and money out of compassion for another.

The Samaritan does not treat the injured man as someone else’s problem.

He does not ask whether compassion is convenient.

He does not imagine himself as a sealed-off individual whose life can remain untouched by the suffering in front of him.

He allows another person’s need to matter.

It is love. And love is always relational.

The Samaritan’s deep kindness reminds us that spiritual formation is never merely private. It is not simply about my peace, my growth, my healing, my clarity, my purpose, or my spiritual practices.

Christian formation makes us more deeply available to God and more truly present to our neighbor.

If our formation does not make us more capable of love, something has gone wrong.

Share

(By Alan)

What this means for the book I am writing

All of this is shaping the book I am currently writing.

The working title is: From the Inside Out: Union with Christ and the Way of Integrated Discipleship

At the heart of the book is a simple conviction: lasting transformation is not produced by information alone, effort alone, insight alone, or community alone. Christian transformation happens as we are drawn into deeper union with Christ and formed by the Spirit in the whole of our lives.

The book is built around three strands of integrated discipleship:

Inner Knowledge
Spiritual Formation
Sacred Companionship

Inner Knowledge helps us notice the patterns we bring into our relationships with God, ourselves, and others. This includes personality patterns, attachment patterns, emotional patterns, bodily reactions, inherited stories, and the ways we have learned to protect ourselves.

But inner knowledge is not the goal. It is a strand.

Spiritual Formation is the animating center. We are formed as we abide in Christ, receive the love of God, surrender to the work of the Spirit, practice the way of Jesus, and grow in communion with God.

Sacred Companionship reminds us that we do not grow alone. We are formed in relationship: with God, with other people, with the Church, and even within the wider creation of which we are a part.

That last piece has been stirring in me more deeply lately.

In a coaching class I attended recently, we talked about ecological coaching: the idea that we are not disembodied minds or isolated selves, but creatures located in a living world. We inhabit places. We are shaped by landscapes, seasons, bodies, limits, communities, losses, responsibilities, awe, and wonder.

That language could easily become vague or sentimental if it is detached from Christian theology. But rightly held, it can remind us of something deeply biblical.

We are creatures.
We are formed from dust.
We are placed in a garden.
We are dependent on breath we do not generate.
We belong to God, to one another, and to the world God so loves.

Subscribe now

Creation is not a substitute for the Church. It is not a replacement for Scripture, sacrament, prayer, worship, or Christian community. But creation can become a witness. It can call us back to creatureliness. It can remind us that we are not machines. It can invite us to receive, attend, wonder, grieve, rest, and praise.

And perhaps this, too, belongs within Sacred Companionship: companionship with God, with others, with our own embodied lives, and with the living world God has made.

The danger of spiritual formation without theology

This is why Kyle Strobel’s challenge matters.

If theology is not doing the work, something else will.
If union with Christ is not central, formation can become self-optimization.
If the Spirit is not the agent of transformation, practices can become techniques.
If the gospel is not the foundation, discipleship can become personal moral striving.
If the Church is absent, formation can become a private project.
If love is not the fruit, we may be mistaking insight for maturity.

That is both sobering… and clarifying.

Because I do not want to write another book that simply gives people a more interesting way to think about themselves.

I want to help people become more deeply rooted in Christ.

I want to help leaders, disciples, seekers, and weary faithful people recognize the patterns that keep them stuck — not so they can obsess over those patterns, but so they can bring them into the light of Christ’s love.

I want to help people see that their striving, hiding, producing, pleasing, perfecting, withdrawing, questioning, seeking, directing, or harmonizing may be ways they have tried to secure what only God can finally give: love, safety, belonging, agency, and rest.

And I want to keep saying, as clearly as I can:

The patterns are not the point.
The Enneagram is not the point.
Neuroscience is not the point.
Attachment theory is not the point.
Even self-awareness is not the point.

Christ is the point.
Union with Christ is the invitation.
Love is the fruit.
And the Spirit is the one who makes us new.

Share

A small course correction

So here is my course correction, offered publicly because I write publicly.

I will continue to use insights from neuroscience, attachment theory, personality patterns, coaching, spiritual direction, and embodied awareness. I believe they are helpful gifts when held in their proper place.

But I want to be increasingly clear: these tools are servants, not saviors.

They help us notice. They help us name. They help us understand. They may even help us cooperate more faithfully with grace.

But they do not accomplish what only God can accomplish.

The good news is not that we can finally understand ourselves well enough to transform ourselves.

The good news is that God has come to us in Jesus Christ.

God has reconciled us by grace.
God has united us with Christ.
God has given us the Holy Spirit.
God is forming a people who bear the life of Jesus in the world.
And God is doing this not from the outside in, but from the inside out.

Subscribe now

An invitation

So perhaps the invitation for all of us is to ask:

What is doing the real work in my understanding of spiritual formation?

Is it theology, or is it technique?
Is it grace, or is it effort dressed up in spiritual language?
Is it union with Christ, or is it self-improvement?
Is it the Spirit’s work in the Body of Christ, or is it my private project of becoming a better version of myself?

These are questions I am asking of my own work.

Maybe they are worth asking together.

Actually, it’s something I’d been thinking about for at least a year.

So this past weekend, my husband and I created a labyrinth in our backyard.

We live in the middle of the Maine woods, beside a lake, with a growing trail system out our back door, thanks to my husband. It already feels like a place made for walking, wandering, noticing, and praying. A labyrinth felt like a natural extension of what is already here.

In March, I was on a retreat for spiritual directors where we spent time reflecting on suffering—our own suffering, and the suffering of those who come to us for spiritual direction.

Share

It was a challenging but important topic, because every person suffers in their own way. As my friend and mentor Trevor Hudson often says, “It’s helpful to remember that everyone is sitting next to their own pool of tears.”

We all carry some version of sadness. Some ache. Some hidden grief. Some place in us that longs to be seen, tended, healed, and held.

At the end of that retreat, processing all we had discovered together and on our own, we walked a labyrinth.

A labyrinth is an ancient walking path used for prayer, reflection, and contemplation. Unlike a maze, it is not designed to confuse you. There are no dead ends and no wrong turns. There is one winding path that leads slowly toward the center, and then back out again.

It was the first time I had ever walked a labyrinth in community, and it was a precious experience.

(Walking the labyrinth at Glastonbury Abbey, Massachusetts)

One by one, we entered the circle, a few steps behind one another. While we waited for our turn, the retreat director said a quiet prayer over each of us.

When you walk a labyrinth in a group, you cannot simply move at your own pace. If the person in front of you slows down, you slow down. If they stop, you stop—and the person behind you stops too.

Eventually, some people are slowly retracing their steps outward while others are still winding their way inward toward the center.

And then you have to decide what to do.

Step gently aside.
Wait.
Make room.
Continue on.

There are so many metaphors one could draw from this experience.

Where are you being invited to slow down?
Where are you being asked to wait your turn?
Where might you need to step aside for someone else?
Where are you being invited simply to stop and pray?

Subscribe now

I returned home and told my husband about the retreat. Then, when it came time for my birthday last month, we agreed that he would give me bricks and mulch, and we would build a labyrinth together.

We examined different versions of labyrinths, because there are many. We discussed the best place to put it in the yard. We checked out bricks at the hardware store. We watched online videos so we could learn how to do it ourselves.

In the end, we used photos for the design and string from a central stake to measure the concentric circles.

The bricks were delivered last Saturday morning. By Monday evening, we had used every single one.

Exactly four hundred bricks. With none left over.

Share

On Tuesday, I walked our new labyrinth for the first time and then went inside for some quiet time. I was surprised to discover two—yes, two—articles about labyrinths waiting for me in my browsing. I wasn’t looking for them. They just showed up. Coincidence? I think not.

So what would I like to share about labyrinths?

Only this: my own experience, offered with a prayer that it may bless you.

I am in a liminal space right now. In many ways, this season is one of completion and endings.

I have just finished my Doctor of Leadership degree through Portland Seminary at George Fox University, which is both deeply satisfying and surprisingly disorienting. After such a long and meaningful journey, completion does not feel like an ending so much as a threshold. The experience has shaped me in ways I’m still only beginning to understand.

Subscribe now

And yet, even with that completion, I find myself standing at the entrance of a doorway. I can see that there are several paths on the other side. I cannot see them clearly, though, so I am uncertain which one is mine to take.

Thinking and praying about all this as I walked the labyrinth again yesterday morning, I found myself stopping at each of the turns, praying, pondering. But there was only one way forward, so eventually, I took another step, and then another.

(This is Ketel, our flat-coated retriever. She and our other flat-coat, Phoebe, tried to “help.”)

But even though there is only one way forward, the path still twists and turns.

Sometimes it takes you closer to the center.
Sometimes it carries you farther away.
Sometimes, when you think you must be nearly there, you find yourself circling outward again.
And then, eventually, after the last turn, you arrive.

Not that we ever fully arrive on this side of heaven.

Share

But for a few moments, I stood in the center of those concentric circles, and they felt like arms wrapping around me. I was held by the One who created me and loves me deeply.

“Yes,” I could almost hear him say, “there are twists and turns. And though you can’t see it from here, there are also ups and downs. There are obstacles and difficulties and challenges.

“But just like these circles, I am always at the center. I can see everything all at once. And as you travel this path, you are never alone.”

I thought of my friend Lacy Borgo’s recent post about building her own new labyrinth, and the “unraveling” to which we are invited.

And I thought about how the way out of the labyrinth does feel a bit like unraveling.

Perhaps next time, the way in will feel like unraveling. In in each instance, it may depend on where God is calling you.

After a few more moments in the center, I felt ready to wind my way out again. To be sent out, as all disciples are. But I left knowing that God was still right there.

Not actually fixed in one central place, but before me and behind me, beside me and beneath me, over me and within me.

Subscribe now

The center had not disappeared. The path had simply continued. And perhaps that is one of the gifts of walking a labyrinth.

It gives our bodies a way to remember what our souls so easily forget:

We do not always know where the path is leading.
We cannot always see the next turn.
Sometimes the way forward feels indirect, inefficient, or unclear.

But God sees the whole path. God is with us in every turn.

And we are never walking alone.

An Invitation

Perhaps you are in a liminal space too.

Perhaps you are standing at the edge of something new, uncertain which path is yours to take.

Or perhaps you are already walking—slowing down, stepping aside, waiting, circling, wondering why the way forward seems to be taking you farther from the center rather than closer.

If so, I wonder what it would be like to give yourself a little space this week to walk and pray.

It does not have to be a labyrinth. It could be a trail, a sidewalk, a garden path, a hallway, or the same small loop around your yard.

As you walk, you might simply ask: Where are you with me on this path, Lord?

And then listen.

Not for a map of the whole journey.

Just for the grace of the next faithful step.

At some point, a lack of understanding isn’t the problem anymore.

You can see your patterns.
You can name what’s happening.
You may even recognize where things break down—in your reactions, your relationships, your inner life.

So the question isn’t whether change is possible. It’s whether you’re willing to step into it.

Because this kind of transformation isn’t theoretical. It will ask something of you.

It will ask you to stay present when you’d rather react.
To remain open when you’d rather protect yourself.
To face what’s uncomfortable instead of moving past it.

And that’s where many of us hesitate.

The truth is, this kind of change is not something we are meant to figure out—or sustain—on our own.

Share

(By M Moller/peopleimages.com)

If you’ve ever tried to change something on your own, you know how this goes.

You notice a pattern. You decide to respond differently. Maybe you even do—for a while.

But then something happens. You’re tired. Pressured. Triggered.

And before you realize it, you’re back in the same reaction you were trying to leave behind. Not because you didn’t mean it and not because you didn’t try. But because in the moment that matters most, you’re left to rely on yourself.

And that’s where the process begins to break down.

The kind of transformation I’ve been describing in this series doesn’t happen through intention alone. It happens in the middle of real life—in the very moments when old patterns are most likely to take over.

Those are precisely the moments when:

• awareness is hardest

• connection feels least accessible

• and new responses feel least natural

Which means those are the moments when we most need something more than insight. We need support, presence, and an honest relationship.

We don’t just need to know what to do differently. We need to be in ongoing formation, so we become practiced in following the Spirit’s leading in the moments that matter most.

Subscribe now

What This Looks Like in Real Life

So what does this kind of transformation actually look like?

As I’ve been sharing recently, research shows that it doesn’t begin with doing more on your own. It begins with being in the kind of environment where change can actually take root.

Imagine having someone walk with you who can help you notice what’s happening beneath the surface—someone who can gently name what you might miss, and help you stay present when your instinct is to react or withdraw.

Imagine being in a space where you can speak honestly about what’s really going on in your life—without needing to perform, impress, or hold everything together.

Where you are not just learning about connection with God, but actually practicing it in real time—in the moments when it matters. Where you are reminded—again and again—that you are not alone.

In those kinds of relationships, something begins to shift.

You start to recognize your patterns more quickly.
You begin to stay present a little longer.
You find it easier to turn toward God instead of managing everything yourself.

Not because you’re trying harder, but because you’re being supported differently. This is what it looks like when the three strands begin to work together in real life.

Inner Knowledge grows as you become more aware of what is happening within you—praying, as the psalmist does, “Search me, O God, and know my heart” (Psalm 139:23).

Your relationship with God deepens as that awareness leads you back into connection.

And Sacred Companionship provides the context where both relationship and inner knowing can be practiced, reinforced, and sustained—because “two are better than one… if either of them falls, one can help the other up” (Ecclesiastes 4:9–10).

Over time, those repeated moments begin to form something new.

As Paul wrote, we are “being transformed… with ever-increasing glory” (2 Corinthians 3:18)—not all at once, but through a process that unfolds in relationship with God and others.

This is what makes change not only possible—but sustainable.

Share

What Discipleship Is Meant to Be

If this proven triad of sacred companionship, inner knowledge, and spiritual formation is how transformation actually happens, then it reshapes how we understand discipleship.

Discipleship is not simply about helping people learn more, do more, or participate more. It is not about imitating Christ for the sake of imitating Christ. It is the relational, participatory process through which real, life-giving transformation takes place—shaping how we relate to God, how we understand ourselves, and how we live with others.

At its heart, discipleship is about learning to live in ongoing connection with God—what Jesus describes as abiding: “Remain in me, as I also remain in you” (John 15:4).

But that connection is not meant to be lived out in isolation.

From the beginning, the Christian life has been relational. Jesus didn’t form people through information alone. He invited them into shared life—walking together, learning together, being shaped in relationship over time.

The same is true for us.

We grow in Inner Knowledge as we begin to see more clearly what is happening within us—allowing ourselves to be known in truth before God: “You will know the truth, and the truth will set you free” (John 8:32).

In Spiritual Formation, we deepen our attachment to God as we learn to return to that relationship again and again—especially in the moments when we would otherwise rely on ourselves.

And we are sustained through Sacred Companionship—relationships where we are known, supported, and encouraged to keep moving toward connection and freedom—so we can “encourage one another and build each other up” (1 Thessalonians 5:11).

This is what discipleship is meant to be.

It’s not a program to complete and it’s not a set of behaviors to master. Discipleship is a way of life.

It’s a relational pathway through which we are formed, over time, into people who are increasingly able to live and love like Jesus.

This is not something we achieve or accomplish. It is both a Spirit-enabled gift and something into which we are constantly growing—together, over time, in relationship with God and others.

Subscribe now

A Personal Note

I’ve experienced this kind of transformation in my own life.

It didn’t happen on my own. It grew through the sacred companions who walked with me—people who helped me grow in Inner Knowledge and gradually deepen my relationship with God.

It began when a friend invited me to explore what discipleship could actually be. That experience didn’t just give me new ideas. It began to change how I saw myself, how I related to God, and how I lived day to day.

Later, I began meeting with a spiritual director who helped me pay attention in a different way. She would ask simple but important questions:
Where is God in this?
Have you invited God into this part of your life?
Where are you noticing God at work?

At other times, coaches walked with me in ways that challenged me to stay present—to not avoid what was uncomfortable, and not settle for easy answers.

It hasn’t always been easy to face what is true inside my heart and mind. But over time, something has changed.

I’ve experienced a deeper attachment to God—a growing trust that even when God feels quiet, I am not alone. I am held in God’s steady, loving presence.

This is the kind of experience I now seek to share with others.

Once you begin to experience God’s love in this way, something fundamental changes. As Jesus says, “I am the bread of life” (John 6:35). When you begin to taste that life, you realize nothing else satisfies in quite the same way.

And it’s not something I’ve arrived at yet. It’s something I’m still learning to live.

Share

(By dsheremeta)

The Invitation

If this way of understanding transformation resonates with you, the next step is not to try harder. It is to begin stepping into it—intentionally, and not alone.

Because while this kind of change is deeply personal, it is not meant to be solitary.

It grows when you are in relationships that help you notice what is happening deep inside your heart, remain connected to God in the moments that matter, and gently practice responding in new ways over time.

For some, that begins with a single conversation—having space to slow down, reflect honestly, and notice patterns that are difficult to see on your own.

For others, it takes shape in a small group or cohort—walking with others who are learning the same way of life, practicing awareness, connection, and presence together.

Sometimes it unfolds through more intentional guidance—spiritual direction, coaching, or a structured environment that creates space for these kinds of relational experiences to take root and grow.

What matters is not the format. What matters is stepping into a context where this kind of life-giving, lasting transformation can actually happen. A context where:

• you can be honest about what is really going on

• you are not navigating your growth alone

• and you are consistently invited back into connection with God

If that is the kind of space you’ve been longing for, I would be honored to walk with you.

This is the kind of environment I seek to create through my work with leaders and individuals—spaces where Inner Knowledge, a Spiritually Formed relationship with God, and Sacred Companionship come together in a lived experience of transformation.

If you’d like to explore what that might look like for you, you’re welcome to reach out. You can simply reply to this email or click my name at the top of this article to start a conversation. Or you can even sign up directly for a 20-minute conversation right here.

There’s no pressure. Just an invitation.

You don’t have to take the whole journey today.
Just the next step.

Part 1 - Why You’re Doing Everything Right… But Still Feel Stuck

Part 2 - Knowing More About Jesus Isn’t Enough

Part 3 - How People Actually Change

Part 4 - From Reaction to Freedom

Part 5 - Never Walk Alone - This article! :-)

At some point, a lack of understanding isn’t the problem anymore.

You can see your patterns.
You can name what’s happening.
You may even recognize where things break down—in your reactions, your relationships, your inner life.

So the question isn’t whether change is possible.

It’s whether you’re willing to step into it.

Because this is where the real struggle begins—not in knowing what to do, but in what happens in the moment when your reactions take over.

And if you’re honest, you’ve likely felt that tension.

You want to respond differently. But in the moments that matter most, something automatic takes over—and you find yourself reacting in ways you were hoping had changed.

Because this kind of transformation isn’t theoretical. It will ask something of you.

It will ask you to stay present when you’d rather react.
To remain open when you’d rather protect yourself.
To face what’s uncomfortable instead of moving past it.

And that’s where many of us hesitate.

Because moving from reaction to freedom is not something we can force.

It is something into which we must learn to enter.

And the truth is, this kind of change is not something we are meant to figure out—or sustain—on our own.

Share

What I’ve just described isn’t theoretical. It’s something I’ve experienced firsthand.

Several years ago, I began to notice something shifting in my own life. Not all at once, and not dramatically—but enough that someone close to me could see it, even before I fully understood what was happening.

That raised an important question:

What was actually making the difference?

What We Assume Is Happening

It would have been easy to assume that the change I was experiencing came from greater discipline or consistency. I was spending more time in the Bible, praying more regularly, and engaging more intentionally in conversations about faith.

All of those things mattered. But they were not the full explanation.

I had done many of those same things before without experiencing the same kind of change.

Which raises a more important question:

If the practices were similar, what was different?

Subscribe now

What Was Actually Happening

What was happening, though I didn’t yet have language for it, was a different kind of spiritual formation.

The change I was experiencing was not the result of information or effort alone. It was unfolding through relational experiences that were gradually reshaping how I understood myself, how I experienced God, and how I responded to others.

At the time, it felt subtle—almost easy to overlook. But as I began paid closer attention, something became clearer.

I was becoming more aware of what was happening inside me. Instead of reacting immediately, I was beginning to notice my thoughts, emotions, and impulses in real time.

In those moments, I was also learning to turn toward God—not just as an idea, but as a present, relational reality. Sometimes through prayer. Sometimes through Scripture. Sometimes simply through a quiet awareness that I was not alone.

And those moments were not neutral. Little by little, they began to create something deeper: a growing sense that I was seen, known, and met by God in the middle of my experience.

Share

That sense of being met—what we might call relational joy—began to reshape what I expected to be true. I was not alone. I did not have to manage everything myself. I was not under threat in the ways I had once assumed.

At the same time, this was not happening in isolation.

I was in a discipling relationship with someone who was investing time and attention into my life and spiritual growth. She modeled what it looked like to read the Bible for formation, not just information. We met regularly, shared honestly, and did life and ministry together.

In that relationship, I experienced something I hadn’t known how to name before: the presence of a sacred companion—someone who could walk with me as I learned what it meant to know and love God.

These relational experiences were formative.

They modeled and gave shape to what I was beginning to experience with God, reinforcing new ways of seeing, relating, and responding. What I did not realize at the time was that these experiences were not isolated. They were part of a larger pattern of transformation.

And together, these experiences began to re-form my internal world—how I understood myself, how I related to God, and how I responded to others.

Subscribe now

Naming the Pattern

What I’ve just described reflects a pattern of transformation that is not unique to my experience. It appears consistently across Scripture, the history of Christian formation, and what we are learning about human development.

But this pattern is not something we simply observe. It is something in which we are invited to participate.

And when we look more closely, we can see that it is supported by three deeply interconnected strands.

Integrated Discipleship: Three Strands of Transformation

At its core, this process of change is sustained through three essential dimensions of formation—each one necessary, and each one strengthening the others. As I discussed in the previous articles—including research studies that support the concepts—what holds these strands together is relationship. And as these relationships deepen—with God, within our embodied inner life, and with others—they lead toward integration: a life in which what once felt fragmented begins to become whole in love.

In the language of both Scripture and relational neuroscience, we can describe this as attachment—or, in the language of the Christian tradition, union. Transformation unfolds as we grow in secure, life-giving connection: with God, within our own embodied inner life, and with others. These are not separate processes, but different expressions of a single, integrated relational reality.

Share

Inner Knowledge
Transformation begins with awareness—not as self-focus, but as truth-telling before God. We learn to notice what is happening within us—our thoughts, emotions, bodily responses, patterns, and impulses—and to name them honestly in the presence of God. This is what I describe as Inner Knowledge: the Spirit-led practice of becoming aware of our inner world so that what has been hidden can be brought into the healing light of Christ. The ARK of Integrity model gives language to this movement: Awareness, Reflection, and Knowledge leading to wholeness.

As this awareness deepens, we experience a greater sense of internal coherence—an integrated life where mind, body, and relationships align. In this sense, inner knowledge is not separate from attachment, but part of it: a growing integration that allows us to live truthfully before God and others. Without this kind of awareness, we cannot surrender what we cannot see.

Spiritual Formation (Attachment to God / Union with God)
At the same time, we are being drawn into a deeper relationship with God—not only in belief, but in lived experience. This is what Scripture and the Christian tradition have consistently described as union with Christ: a life lived in ongoing connection with God.

As that attachment deepens, we experience God as present, attentive, and responsive. This relationship reshapes our identity, brings greater integration to our inner world, and restores our sense of belonging in relationship with God.

Subscribe now

Sacred Companionship
This kind of formation does not happen in isolation. It unfolds in the context of relationships with others who walk with us—sometimes as guides, sometimes as peers, often as both.

In these relationships, we experience what secure attachment looks like in human form: being seen, known, and supported without needing to perform or protect ourselves. It’s more than support; it’s belonging—a sense of being held within a relationship that is steady, life-giving, and real.

Sacred companionship both reinforces and embodies what we are learning in our relationship with God, strengthening new patterns of trust, openness, and love.

In other words, Inner Knowledge helps us notice what is happening within us, attachment to God roots us in love, and Sacred Companionship reminds us that we become whole together.

Each of these strands is essential. When one is missing, formation becomes unbalanced—insight without change, relationship without clarity, or intention without support. But when they are woven together, they form something stronger and more sustainable: a pathway of transformation that reaches the whole person.

Share

How Transformation Is Supported in Daily Life

Within these three strands, transformation is not driven by a single moment of insight or effort, but through a repeated pattern of lived experience.

We become aware of what is happening within us.
We turn toward God in the midst of it.
We experience something new in that relationship—often a sense of being met, known, or accompanied.
And gradually, that experience begins to reshape how we respond.

In practice, these strands are sustained through a set of relational and spiritual movements I describe as PRAISE:

Presence — Becoming still, aware, and rooted in Christ so we can meet God, ourselves, and others with openness and calm.

Rhythms for Life & Spiritual Formation — Sustainable practices that create space for rest, reflection, and consistent connection with God.

Attunement & Intimacy with Christ — Learning to notice God’s nearness, respond to God’s leading, and cultivate relational communion with God in everyday life.

Identity & Inner Awareness — Seeing ourselves truthfully—beloved, whole, and capable of reflection—so we can lead from integrity rather than reactivity.

Skills for Joy & Connection — Practices that strengthen relational presence with others, emotional warmth, and the ability to stay connected under stress.

Emotional & Embodied Integration — Bringing our thoughts, emotions, bodily responses, and relationships into coherence so we can choose wise, grounded, Christlike action.

These are not steps to master, but ways of participating in what God is already doing.

Subscribe now

A Pathway, Not a Program

What emerges from all of this is not a new set of requirements, but a clearer understanding of how transformation actually happens.

I describe this way of life as Integrated Discipleship: a relational, participatory pathway of being formed in the love of the Father, through union with Christ, by the Spirit. As we grow in Inner Knowledge, deepen our attachment to God, and walk with others in Sacred Companionship, we are formed from the inside out, learning to live and love more like Jesus.

This is not a program to implement. It is a pattern in which to participate.

Discipleship, in this sense, is not primarily about adding more information or increasing effort. It is about learning to participate in a way of life that aligns with how God forms us—from the inside out, through relationship, awareness, and embodied experience.

It is a pathway—one that can be practiced, not perfectly, but faithfully.

What Actually Changes

When transformation unfolds in this way, the change is often quieter than we expect—but no less real.

It does not usually appear as a sudden shift in behavior or a complete absence of struggle. Instead, it shows up as a growing capacity to remain present, stay connected, and respond more freely in moments that once felt automatic.

In my own life, and in the lives of others with whom I have walked, this change becomes visible in practical ways. Reactions that once felt immediate begin to slow down. Situations that once triggered defensiveness or withdrawal become more manageable. There is a greater ability to remain engaged without becoming overwhelmed.

This does not mean the old patterns disappear. They are often still there, recognizable and familiar. But they no longer carry the same weight or urgency. There is space—enough to notice what is happening, remain connected to God in the midst of it, and choose a different response.

Share

This is one of the clearest signs of transformation: not the absence of pressure, but an increased capacity to remain grounded within it. That capacity is relational.

It is also important to say that this kind of transformation does not simply make us more peaceful or agreeable. At times, it leads to greater clarity—and the courage to name what is not right.

As we become less driven by fear or reactivity, we are less controlled by the need to avoid discomfort or maintain appearances. We are freer to speak truthfully, set boundaries, and respond with both love and conviction.

Paul wrote about this kind of maturity: a life shaped not by fear, but by “power and love and self-control” (2 Timothy 1:7), and one that is able to speak the truth in love (Ephesians 4:15).

As our attachment to God deepens, we experience a greater steadiness—an internal anchoring that allows us to face difficulty without being overtaken by it. As we grow in inner knowledge, we are less surprised by our reactions and more able to engage them with honesty and clarity. What is growing is not just new behavior, but greater integration—a life that can hold together what once felt fragmented. And as we are supported by others, we are reminded that we do not have to navigate life alone.

Over time, these changes extend beyond isolated moments into the fabric of daily life. We become more patient in relationships that once felt frustrating, more open and courageous in conversations that once felt threatening, and more able to remain present in situations that once led us to withdraw or react.

And alongside these shifts, something else begins to grow.

Subscribe now

There is often a quiet increase in joy—not as a constant emotion, but as a deepening sense of being at home in the presence of God and with others. We become less driven by urgency and more grounded in connection. Love becomes less something we try to produce and more something that flows from who we are becoming.

This is why transformation cannot be reduced to behavior change.

What is changing is not just what we do, but who we are—and how we experience ourselves, God, and others in the process.

It is not perfection.

It is growing capacity, deeper connection, and a life increasingly shaped by love.

What This Means for Discipleship

If this is how transformation actually happens, then it reshapes how we understand discipleship.

Discipleship is not simply about helping people learn more, do more, or participate more. Discipleship is the relational, participatory process through which spiritual formation takes place—shaping how we relate to God, understand ourselves, and live with others.

This is why discipleship cannot be reduced to content or activity alone. It must engage the whole person. It must create space not only for learning, but for awareness, relationship, and lived experience.

Share

At its heart, discipleship is the spiritual formation process through which we grow in union with God—learning to live in an ongoing, relational connection with the Father, through Christ, by the Spirit. As that relationship deepens, our identity is reshaped, our capacity expands, and our lives begin to reflect the character of Jesus more naturally.

But this process is never meant to remain private.

From the beginning, Jesus’ invitation to follow him has always included a co-mission: “Go therefore and make disciples…” (Matthew 28:19). Discipleship is both something we receive and something we participate in with others.

That participation takes many forms.

At times, it may look like intentional, structured relationships—mentoring, spiritual direction, or meeting regularly to guide someone more directly in their spiritual growth. At other times, it may look more mutual: walking alongside one another, sharing honestly, and encouraging one another in the midst of real life.

In my own experience, what began as a discipling relationship gradually became a shared journey of growth—one marked by trust, presence, and a willingness to tell the truth. That kind of relationship does not replace the call to disciple others; it deepens it. It reminds us that formation is always relational, and that we are both recipients and participants in the process.

I have had the blessing of continuing to pass on what I have received—walking with others in their own journeys of growth, both in intentional discipling relationships and in more informal ways. What we receive is not meant to remain with us. As Paul wrote to Timothy, what has been entrusted to us is meant to be shared with others who will, in turn, carry it forward (2 Timothy 2:2). In this way, discipleship becomes not just personal formation, but a replicating, relational movement that extends beyond us.

Subscribe now

As we grow in awareness, in our relationship with God, and in our capacity to live differently, we become more able to offer that same kind of presence to others. Not perfectly. Not as experts. But as people who are learning to live this way ourselves.

This is what makes discipleship both accessible and powerful.

We do not need to have everything figured out in order to participate. We simply need to be willing to engage—to pay attention, to remain connected to God, and to walk with others in ways that reflect the love we are learning to receive.

When fully embraced, this kind of discipleship multiplies through patient, intentional relationships, invitational presence, and lives that are increasingly shaped by love.

A Way Forward

If there is one thing I hope you take away from this series, it is this: transformation is not something you can force. It is something in which you can learn to participate.

It does not begin with trying harder, but with paying attention—becoming more aware of what is happening within you, more attentive to God’s presence, and more open to the relationships through which your life is being shaped.

You may not always see dramatic change. In fact, most of the time, you won’t.

But over time, something begins to shift.

A pause where there once was reaction.
A sense of steadiness where there once was urgency.
A growing freedom to remain present, connected, and responsive in moments that once felt automatic.

This is how transformation unfolds—not all at once, but through repeated experiences that gradually reshape how you live, love, and respond.

And as that freedom grows, one thing becomes increasingly clear:

You were never meant to walk this path alone.

Share

Reflection

As you consider what you’ve read, begin with something simple.

Where do you notice even the smallest signs of change in your life? Maybe it looks like some new movement or a new direction.

Think of a recent moment when you responded with even a little more awareness, presence, or freedom than you might have in the past.

What made that moment possible?

Was there a greater awareness of what was happening within you?
A sense of God’s presence with you?
The influence of a relationship that helped you stay grounded and connected?

Embodied reflection:
Bring that moment to mind. As you do, notice what is happening in your body. Do you sense any openness, steadiness, or ease? Or something else?

What might this be showing you about how transformation is already taking place?

And finally, consider: Where might God be inviting you to take one small step forward?

Not toward doing more, but toward deeper awareness, greater connection, and a willingness to walk this path with others.

Subscribe now

What’s Coming Next

Understanding how transformation works is one thing.

Learning how to actually live it—day after day—is something else.

In the final article, we’ll look at what makes that possible.

What’s Your Next Step?

If this way of understanding transformation resonates with you, you don’t have to figure it out on your own.

The kind of change described here does not happen through insight alone. It unfolds through relationship, intentional practice, and being accompanied over time.

This is the kind of environment I seek to create through my work with leaders and individuals—spaces where self-awareness, spiritual formation, and relational connection are woven together into a lived experience of growth.

If you find yourself wanting to explore this more intentionally, I’d love to invite you into that kind of journey.

Please reach out for a conversation by replying to this email or clicking on my name at the top of this article. I look forward to hearing from you and exploring what this next step might look like.

Part 1 - Why You’re Doing Everything Right… But Still Feel Stuck

Part 2 - Knowing More About Jesus Isn’t Enough

Part 3 - How People Actually Change

Part 4 - This article

Part 5 - Never Walk Alone (coming soon)

Have you ever made a resolution—something you genuinely wanted to change—only to find yourself slipping back into old patterns?

You decide to respond differently in a difficult conversation. You commit to a new habit. You practice, even consistently for a time. And yet, when pressure rises, something familiar takes over. The reaction you meant to leave behind shows up again.

You are not alone in this.

Most people experience a gap between what they intend to do and what they actually do. In fact, the vast majority of those who set out to change—whether at the start of a new year or in a moment of clarity—eventually return to old patterns (1).

This gap can be discouraging. It raises a persistent question:

If I work hard at changing myself, why doesn’t it last?

There’s something about how we understand change that is incomplete.

The Misdiagnosis

Most of us have been taught to approach change in a fairly straightforward way: learn what is true, apply it, and practice it until it becomes a habit.

In other words, we assume change happens through knowledge and effort.

This way of thinking shapes much of how we approach spiritual growth. We treat it as a series of behaviors to improve—something we can manage with enough discipline, consistency, and willpower. If we try harder, stay focused, and remain committed, we believe we will eventually become the kind of person we hope to be.

And for a time, this can seem to work.

Share

But when pressure increases—when we are tired, overwhelmed, or stressed—these changes often begin to unravel. The unhelpful patterns beyond which we thought we had moved, return with surprising strength.

If insight and effort alone were enough, change would last. But it doesn’t.

Which means the problem is not a lack of sincerity, desire, or even discipline. The problem is that we are trying to change in a way that does not align with how change actually happens.

(By Mykola)

What’s Actually Happening

If effort and insight are not enough, then what is actually happening when we get stuck?

The answer becomes clearer when we look at what happens under pressure.

In moments of stress, we do not primarily operate from our intentions. Even the best plans and most sincere commitments can fade quickly when something feels at risk. Instead, we shift into something more automatic.

We operate from internal, subconscious patterns.

These patterns were not formed overnight. They were shaped over time—especially in earlier seasons of life—as ways of navigating stress, uncertainty, or disconnection. In those moments, your mind and body learned what to do to stay safe, to regain control, or to preserve connection.

Eventually, those responses became familiar. Then efficient. Ultimately, automatic.

Subscribe now

Psychologically, this is often described as implicit relational knowledge (2)—the internalized patterns your mind and body carry about what to expect from others, what feels safe or threatening, and how to respond when something matters.

Neurologically, these patterns are deeply embedded. When stress rises, the brain prioritizes survival. The reflective, intentional part of the mind becomes less accessible, and these well-worn pathways take over.

Which means that what feels like inconsistency is often something else entirely.

It is not that you are failing to live up to your intentions. It is that, in the moment, your nervous system is doing what it has learned to do.

We don’t rise to our intentions—we fall to our formation.

Why This Affects Faith

These same patterns do not stay confined to our relationships with others. They also shape how we relate to God.

In your mind, you may genuinely believe that God is present, trustworthy, and good. You may be able to articulate those truths clearly. But in a moment of stress, a different set of expectations can emerge—often without your awareness.

Instead of experiencing God as present, you may feel alone.
Instead of trusting, you may feel the need to take control.
Instead of resting, you may feel that something is at risk and must be managed immediately, or disaster will strike.

In that moment, your response to God is not being driven by what you believe at a doctrinal level. It is being shaped by what feels most real to you based on your past experience.

Research in relational spirituality helps explain this tension. Our relationship with God operates on both a level of belief and a level of lived experience—and those two are not always aligned (3). When the body and brain have to choose, it is lived experience that tends to guide our response.

Share

This helps explain why sincere faith does not always lead to consistent transformation. What we often label as inconsistency—or even failure—is not simply a matter of weak belief or lack of discipline.

It is formation.

Spiritual inconsistency is not hypocrisy—it is the result of deeply formed relational patterns.

Which means real transformation must go deeper than belief and behavior.

The Turning Point: What Actually Changes Us

If our patterns are formed through experience—and continue to shape our responses—then it follows that they will not be undone by information alone.

We can learn what is true. We can agree with it. We can even practice applying it. But information, by itself, does not reach the level where these patterns live.

What reshapes those patterns is something else: relational experience.

Transformation takes place when what we believe and what we actually experience start to come into alignment. Not all at once, and not in dramatic moments, but gradually—through repeated encounters that shift what feels real and trustworthy within us.

This is why change often feels elusive when we rely primarily on effort. We are trying to override patterns that were formed relationally without engaging the very context in which they can be reshaped.

Real change happens when we begin to experience something different—when, in the very moments where old patterns would normally take over, a new kind of presence becomes possible.

Subscribe now

Over time, those experiences accumulate and reshape our expectations, our sense of safety, and our responses.

Change, then, is not primarily the result of trying harder.

Change is the result of being formed differently through new relational experiences, until, as Paul describes it, “Christ is formed in you” (Galatians 4:19).

The Pattern of Transformation

When you look closely at how this kind of change unfolds, a consistent pattern emerges. It is not complicated, but it is deeply significant.

It often begins with awareness.

Instead of moving quickly past what we feel, we first notice it. We recognize what is happening inside us—our reactions, our emotions, our impulses—especially in moments of stress. We pause long enough to acknowledge that something meaningful is taking place.

From there, something crucial becomes possible: connection.

In that moment, we are not left to navigate our experience alone. We begin to encounter God as present—not only as an idea we affirm, but as a reality we experience. This may come through prayer, Scripture, silence, or the presence of another person who reflects God’s care. What matters is the growing awareness: I am not alone here.

Moments of connection create a kind of internal safety. In that safety, the different parts of our mind begin to work together again rather than reacting automatically.

As this happens repeatedly, an internal shift begins to take place.

We are not only thinking differently—we are learning to expect something different. What once felt threatening may feel more manageable. What once triggered urgency may begin to soften. We start to experience God’s presence as steady, life-giving, and near.

And from that shift, something else emerges: new capacity.

Share

Our responses begin to change—not because we are forcing them, but because there is now space where there used to be reactivity. There is a pause where there used to be immediacy. There is a choice where there used to be compulsion.

We still feel the pull of familiar patterns. But they no longer have the same control.

This is what transformation looks like in real life.

Not immediate perfection, but increasing capacity—the growing ability to remain present, to respond with freedom, and to live in alignment with what is true, even under pressure.

In his second letter to the Corinthian church, Paul describes this kind of change as a gradual, ongoing work: “we… are being transformed… with ever-increasing glory” (2 Corinthians 3:18).

The Engine of Change: Joy

At the center of these relational experiences is something that is often overlooked, but essential to transformation: Joy.

In interpersonal neurobiology, joy is not simply a feeling of happiness or positivity. It is something far more specific and relational. Joy is the experience of being with someone who is genuinely glad to be with you.(4)

This may sound simple, but its impact is profound.

(By Camerene Pendl/peopleimages.com)

When you experience someone as present, steady, and glad to be with you, your nervous system begins to settle. What once felt threatening becomes more manageable. You are no longer navigating the moment alone.

This creates a sense of safety.

From that safety, attachment deepens. You begin to trust—not just intellectually, but experientially—that you are not alone, that you are held in something steady and life-giving.

And it is within that relational safety that change becomes possible.

Subscribe now

Because when the brain is no longer in survival mode, it becomes capable of integration—the different parts of your mind—thought, emotion, and body—begin to work together again. New patterns can form. Old patterns begin to loosen.

This is why moments of relational connection matter so deeply. Not just connection in general, but connection that carries this quality of joy—the sense that you are seen, welcomed, and delighted in.

Scripture points to this same reality when speaking of God: “In your presence there is fullness of joy” (Psalm 16:11).

When we experience God in this way—not only as present, but as glad to be with us—something changes at the deepest level of who we are.

We are not simply reassured.

We are reshaped.

Transformation, then, is not driven primarily by effort.

It is driven by love experienced as joy—repeatedly and relationally—until what once required effort begins to feel more natural.

The Big Reframe

When we step back and hold all of this together, we discover a different picture of change.

We are not transformed simply by trying harder, and we are not transformed simply by knowing more.

Both effort and understanding have their place. But neither of them, on their own, can reach the deeper patterns that shape how we live and respond.

What changes us is something more fundamental.

Share

We are changed through the experience of being met—consistently, relationally, and over time—in a way that reshapes what we expect, what we trust, and what we desire.(5)

We are formed through love.

Or, to say it more simply: We are loved into new ways of being.

And as that love becomes more deeply experienced—received not just as belief, but as lived reality—it overflows.

What we have received, we can share.

This is how transformation unfolds.

We are loved into loving. (6)

Implications for Discipleship

If this is how transformation actually happens, then it has significant implications for how we understand discipleship.

Discipleship cannot be limited to learning more, doing more, or participating more—though all of those have value. On their own, they do not reach the deeper patterns that shape how we live and respond.

If transformation is relational and experiential at its core, then discipleship must create space for that kind of formation.

It must include awareness—the ability to notice what is happening within us, especially in moments when old patterns begin to surface.

It must cultivate real connection with God—experiencing a presence in the midst of our actual lives, as consistent as deep friendship and as unconditional as a parent.

And it must involve relationships with others who can support and reinforce new patterns—people who help us remain present, who reflect God’s care, and who make it possible to experience that we are not alone.

Without these elements, discipleship easily becomes informational or activity-driven. It may produce insight and engagement, but not necessarily transformation.

But when these elements are present, something different transpires.

Discipleship becomes the pathway through which spiritual formation actually takes place—shaping how we relate to God, how we understand ourselves, and how we respond to the world around us.

Transformation requires more than intention.

It requires that kind of pathway.

Subscribe now

Invitation

So, the invitation is not to try harder. It is to begin noticing.

The next time you find yourself slipping into a familiar pattern—especially in a moment of stress—pause, even briefly.

Notice what you are feeling.

Instead of moving quickly to fix it or push past it, remain there for a moment. Pay attention to what is happening in your body, your thoughts and emotions, your reactions.

And in that space, gently bring your awareness to something deeper: You are not alone here.

God is present—not at a distance, but with you, in this moment.

You might take a slow breath and simply remain there, even for a few seconds longer than you normally would. Imagine yourself as the branch, graded onto Jesus, the vine, nourishing you (John 15).

You’re not striving or fixing. You’re just staying present.

Over time, these small moments begin to matter.

They create space where there used to be reactivity.
They allow connection where there used to be isolation.
They open the possibility of a different kind of response.

Transformation does not usually begin with dramatic change.

It often begins quietly—through moments of awareness, connection, and presence that gradually reshape what feels possible.

Which means that change may not be as far away as it seems.

It may already be beginning—quietly, relationally, and over time.

Share

What’s Next

If this pattern is already at work in your life, even in small ways, the next question is not whether change is possible—but how to participate in it more intentionally.

In the next article, we’ll explore a simple, integrated pathway for transformation—one that brings together self-awareness, relationship with God, and the role of others in a way that can be practiced in everyday life.

Shifts often happen most clearly when someone is able to walk with you—helping you notice what’s happening in your heart and mind, attend to your experience with God, and gently practice responding in new ways.

If that kind of space would serve you, I’d be glad to have a conversation. Just reply back to this email or click my name at the top of this article to send me a message. I look forward to hearing from you!

Part 1 - Why You’re Doing Everything Right… But Still Feel Stuck

Part 2 - Knowing More About Jesus Isn’t Enough

Part 3 - How People Actually Change (this article)

Part 4 - From Reaction to Freedom

Part 5 - Never Walk Alone (coming soon)

References

1 - Driver Research, “New Year’s Resolutions Statistics,” Driver Research, accessed April 14, 2026, https://www.driveresearch.com/market-research-company-blog/new-years-resolutions-statistics/.

2 - Todd Hall, M. Elizabeth Lewis Hall, Relational Spirituality; A Psychological-Theological Paradigm for Transformation (Downers Grove: iVP, 2021), 118.

3 - Edward B. Davis and Pehr Granqvist, “Theistic Relational Spirituality: Development, Dynamics, Health, and Transformation,” Psychology of Religion and Spirituality 13, no. 4 (2021): 401–415.

4 - E. James Wilder, et al, Joy Starts Here; The Transformation Zone (Holland, MI: Life Model Works, 2021), 7.

5 - Emine Yücel and Duygu Dincer, “Transformative Power of Friendships: Examining the Relationships among Friendship Quality, Self-Change, and Well-Being,” Personal Relationships 31, no. 2 (2024): 301–332, https://doi.org/10.1111/pere.12536

6 - Todd Hall, The Connected Life; the Art and Science of Relational Spirituality (Downers Grove: IVP, 2022), 38.

If you’re like me, you’ve thought it through ahead of time.

You expect to walk into a potentially challenging conversation, so you’re prepared. You already know that you want to stay calm, present, and patient. You know what matters, and you genuinely want to show up well.

And then something in you moves faster than your intention.

Your body tightens. Your thoughts scatter. And before you can stop it, you are reacting in a way that feels all too familiar. Even as it’s happening, part of you is aware: This isn’t who I want to be.

(By whyframeshot)

Does any of this sound familiar? It still happens to me more often than I would like.

I am more self-aware than I used to be, and I have grown in my ability to regulate my responses. But at times, I still find myself reacting instead of responding. Or, if nothing shows on the outside, I’m carrying tension, frustration, or defensiveness beneath the surface.

I’m learning to pause and ask myself: What is happening inside me right now?

Often, beneath the reaction, there is something more vulnerable—a desire to be understood, a fear of losing something important, or a sense of being overlooked. Naming that has helped me bring those moments to God in prayer and, at times, to process them with a spiritual director or trusted companion.

I can see real change. Others (like my husband!) can see it too. But the struggle has not disappeared.

Share

And perhaps that tells us something important.

Because this is not just my experience. It is a tension many of us live with. We know how we want to show up. We can even anticipate situations ahead of time and imagine responding differently.

And yet, in the moment—especially under pressure—we find ourselves reacting in ways that feel automatic and difficult to change.

So the question is not simply, What should I do? In many cases, you already know what to do.

The deeper question is this: Why can’t I consistently do what I already know is right?

The apostle Paul names this tension with striking honesty: “For I do not do the good I want to do…” (Romans 7:19).

The Gap No One Talks About

This experience points to a quietly persistent disconnect that many Christians carry.

We believe in love, patience, trust, and faithfulness. We can articulate what it means to follow Jesus. And yet, our lived experience does not always align with those intentions.

This is the gap we began to name in the previous article—the space between what you know is the best version of yourself and what you are actually able to live out in real time.

Subscribe now

I call this the Flexibility Gap:

The space between how you want to be present in the moment and what your nervous system is able to sustain.

This gap helps explain why insight does not automatically become action. You can recognize a pattern of reactivity, understand where it comes from, and even anticipate it—and still find yourself unable to respond differently when it matters most.

This is not primarily a failure of willpower or sincerity. Instead, it reflects how deeply your patterns have been formed within you.

(By khosrork)

The Assumption That Doesn’t Hold

Most of us have been taught—implicitly or explicitly—that change happens through some combination of learning more, trying harder, and practicing consistently.

In many areas of life, that approach works. If you want to gain knowledge or develop a skill, information and effort are often sufficient.

But spiritual formation is different.

Human beings are not only cognitive; we are also relational and embodied. This means that transformation requires more than information and intention alone. As the Psalmist reminds us, “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (Psalm 34:8). In practice, even our ability to learn and retain new information is strengthened in relationally safe and encouraging environments.

For generations, discipleship has largely been structured around the assumption that if we believe the right things and practice the right habits, change will follow. But research in relational neuroscience and interpersonal development suggests that something deeper is at work.

Beneath our conscious beliefs lies what psychologists call implicit relational knowledge(1)—the embodied patterns that shape how we experience love, safety, and connection. These patterns are not formed primarily through instruction, and they are not changed primarily through information. They are formed—and reshaped—through relationship.(2)

Transformation, in other words, requires formation at a deeper level than most of us are accustomed to.

Share

Recognizing the Gap

Before going further, it is important to say this clearly: if you recognize a gap between who you want to be and how you sometimes show up, you are already paying attention in a way many people never do.

You probably know people who simply conclude, “That’s just who I am.” It never occurs to them that change is possible. And you probably know others who assume the problem lies entirely outside themselves, with everyone else.

But if you sense that something more is possible—that your life could be more aligned with the love and character of Christ—you are already moving in the right direction.

The question is not whether transformation is possible. The question is how it actually happens, and the key lies first in our relationship with God.

Knowing God on Two Levels

Our relationship with God operates on two levels: what we believe about God, and what we actually experience God to be like.(3)

Those two are not always the same.

As Paul writes, “I pray that you… may have power… to grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ, and to know this love that surpasses knowledge” (Ephesians 3:18–19).

We may believe that God is loving, present, and trustworthy. Yet in moments of stress, failure, or fear, we may experience God as distant, disappointed, or absent.

And in those moments, experience tends to win.

Under pressure, we do not live out our theology; we live out our experience. We are formed not only by what we think, but by what we have repeatedly experienced in our relationships over time,(4) with God and with others.

Subscribe now

The Role of the Body and the Brain

This is where neuroscience offers helpful clarity. Interpersonal neurobiology describes the mind as both relational and embodied, meaning that our patterns of response are shaped through lived experience—”the energy and information flow within and between us”—not just conscious thought.(5) This means that our responses are not simply chosen in the moment—they emerge from patterns that have been shaped through repeated relational experience.

Under pressure, the brain does not default to our most recent insight or highest intention. It returns to the patterns that have been most deeply formed. So, in the moments that matter most, you do not automatically become the person you want to be. You live out what has been formed within you.

This is why the Flexibility Gap exists. It is not simply a gap in knowledge. It is a gap in relationally supported capacity—the ability of your nervous system to remain grounded, connected, and responsive under stress.

Why Trying Harder Breaks Down

When we notice this gap between who we want to be and how we actually show up, our instinct is often to exert more willpower and try harder. We commit to new habits, increase our discipline, or set stronger intentions. For a time, that effort can seem effective.

But eventually—especially under stress—it begins to break down. Not because those efforts were wrong, but because they were incomplete.

Let me be clear: willpower matters. Practices matter. But they are not the deepest drivers of change.

From both a theological and neurobiological perspective, what shapes us most deeply are the relational environments and repeated experiences that form our identity over time.

Share

When Practices Don’t Transform

This helps explain why discipleship can feel frustrating.

We may believe that God is loving, present, and trustworthy, yet still feel anxiety, distance, or pressure in our relationship with him. The issue is not a lack of faith or knowledge, but a lack of integrated experience.

Jesus’ invitation to “abide in me” (John 15) speaks directly to this reality. Abiding is not simply a spiritual metaphor; it is a relational process.

As we remain with him—through prayer, Scripture, and lived experience in community—we begin to have new relational encounters that reshape how we experience God.(6)

Gradually, by abiding in Christ, what we believe and what we experience begin to align. Trust deepens. Anxiety softens. Love of God becomes less an effort and more a natural expression of who we are becoming.

What Actually Leads to Change

At the center of transformation is not information, effort, or even practice alone. It is relational attachment that reshapes identity.

As psychologist and researcher Todd Hall often says, we are loved into loving.(7)

This means that spiritual formation does not begin with trying harder, but with personally experiencing God’s love in ways that gradually reshape our inner world.

As we encounter God as present, attentive, and responsive—especially in moments of need—our understanding of who we are begins to shift. We are not striving to become worthy of love; we are learning to live from the reality that we are already loved.

We belong to a God who will not let us go, who desires our good, and who invites us into a life of shared joy. We are beloved—not because of what we do, but simply because we are God’s children.

And as our identity shifts, our capacity begins to grow.

Longitudinal research supports this connection between relationship and capacity. Studies show that spiritual engagement and our ability to regulate our thoughts, emotions, and reactions develop together over time, each strengthening the other.(8)

As we learn to rest more deeply in our belovedness, our behavior follows.

We do not simply live out what we believe.
We live out who we understand ourselves to be—our identity—especially under pressure.

Subscribe now

A Different Way Forward

The challenge, then, is not that we lack knowledge or commitment.

It is that much of what we have learned about discipleship has focused on behavior and information without adequately addressing the relational and embodied processes through which transformation actually occurs.

As a result, we often experience:

• insight without integration

• practices without deep change

• effort without lasting results

We remain, in many ways, within the Flexibility Gap.

The good news is that this gap is not permanent. It can be narrowed.

But doing so requires a different understanding of how transformation works—one that integrates spiritual formation, self-awareness, and relational connection into a coherent whole.

In the next article, we’ll look more closely at how transformation actually happens—and the relational pattern through which real change unfolds.

There is, in fact, a way to understand how people change—one that brings together what Scripture has always taught with what we are now learning about the brain and human development.

This is why knowing more about Jesus, on its own, is not enough. Transformation happens as what we believe becomes something we actually experience in relationship with him.

Share

Reflection

Think of a recent moment when you reacted more strongly than you wanted to. Perhaps you became angry, withdrawn, anxious, defensive, or shut down internally, even if nothing showed on the outside.

Before asking what you should have done differently, ask a more curious question:

• What felt at stake in that moment?

• Was there a desire to be understood?

• Did you have a fear of losing control?

• Did you have a sense of being dismissed, exposed, or unimportant?

Often our reactions make more sense when we begin to notice what deeper need or vulnerability has been touched.

Now return to that moment and pay attention to your body. As you remember it, what do you notice? Tightness in your chest? A clenched jaw? Heaviness, heat, restlessness, or collapse?

Subscribe now

Without trying to change anything, simply notice: your body may be telling you something your words do not yet know how to say.

Then consider this:

• What did you believe to be true about God in that moment?

• And what did you actually experience God to be like?

Were those the same?

If not, the difference may help you see why insight alone is not enough. In moments of pressure, we do not live only from our stated beliefs. We often live from what has been formed most deeply within us through repeated practice. Even if that practice was unconscious and unintentional.

So rather than asking, “How can I try harder next time?” perhaps begin here:

What might God want to show me about what is being activated in me—and what kind of presence I most need from God there?

If you’re beginning to notice this gap more clearly in your own life, you don’t have to navigate it alone.

These kinds of patterns are often difficult to see—and even harder to shift—without a space to reflect, process, and be accompanied with care. This is part of the work I do through spiritual direction and coaching: creating a relational environment where you can begin to notice what’s happening within you, attend to your experience with God, and gently grow in new ways of responding.

If that kind of space would be helpful for you, I’d be glad to have a conversation. You can reach out by replying to this email or sending me a message by clicking my name at the top of this article.

References

1 - Todd Hall, M. Elizabeth Lewis Hall, Relational Spirituality; A Psychological-Theological Paradigm for Transformation (Downers Grove: iVP, 2021), 118.

2 - Susan M. Andersen and Serena Chen, “The Relational Self: An Interpersonal, Social-Cognitive Theory,” Psychological Review 109, no. 4 (2002): 619–645.

3 - Edward B. Davis and Pehr Granqvist, “Theistic Relational Spirituality: Development, Dynamics, Health, and Transformation,” Psychology of Religion and Spirituality 13, no. 4 (2021): 401–415.

4 - Andersen and Chen.

5 - Daniel J. Siegel, Pocket Guide to Interpersonal Neurobiology (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012), 19-4.

6 - Davis and Granqvist, “Theistic Relational Spirituality.”

7 - Todd Hall, The Connected Life; the Art and Science of Relational Spirituality (Downers Grove: IVP, 2022), 38.

8 - Michael McCullough and Brian Willoughby, “Religion, Self-Regulation, and Self-Control: Associations, Explanations, and Implications,” Psychological Bulletin 135, no. 1 (2009): 69–93.

Why is it so hard to change—even when you know exactly what you want to do?

You walk into a conversation determined to stay calm, present, and patient. And then something in you reacts before you can stop it.

You’ve studied the Bible. You’ve practiced the disciplines. You’ve shown up faithfully.

So why does the gap remain?

For many of us, spiritual growth feels like this quiet tension: we know what is true, but we don’t always live it out—especially under pressure.

This series is an invitation to look more closely at that gap.

Across five articles, we’ll explore:

• why doing all the right things doesn’t always lead to real change

• what is actually happening beneath our reactions

• how transformation unfolds through relationship, not just effort

• and a practical pathway for participating in that process

The goal is not to give you more to do.

It is to help you see more clearly—so that change can begin to happen from the inside out.

“Why Did I Just Do That… Again?”

I have spent my whole life in the church. But it hasn’t always made me the kind of person I want to be—kinder, gentler, more like Christ.

I’ve listened to sermons, read the Bible, worked through books and studies, and met in small groups week after week. I’ve taught Sunday school and Bible studies, chaperoned youth groups and mission trips, sung in choirs, directed choirs, and helped with mission projects.

In other words, as an active disciple of Jesus, I’ve done “all the things.”

And yet, in stressful moments—the moments that matter most—I still sometimes find myself reacting in ways that feel both familiar and frustrating. I snap at someone I care about. I withdraw when I know I should stay present. Or I shut down altogether.

I’m not choosing these responses consciously; I just haven’t always recognized what is happening inside me soon enough to respond differently.

And afterward, I find myself wondering: Why did I do that again?

Subscribe now

I am growing spiritually, psychologically, and emotionally—and getting better at slowing my responses—I can see that. But even now, it is not always easy to let something go when it feels important, or to remain patient with people who don’t share my priorities. Growth is real, but so is the struggle.

Perhaps you’ve experienced something similar. In the moments that matter most, we don’t always become the best version of ourselves, the person we most want to be.

And that raises a challenging question: Why is it so hard to be the kind, understanding, patient person I want to be?

(By CreativeIMGIdeas)

A Tension We Recognize

Two thousand years ago, the apostle Paul described the tension of this experience with striking honesty:

“For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out… For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.” (Romans 7:18–19)

This is not only a theological problem; it is a deeply human one. Most of us don’t wake up thinking, I need to be transformed. And yet, that is precisely what Jesus invites us to do, as his disciples.

Another way to frame it is this: many people believe in God. Many participate in church life. But how many of those people are being deeply transformed?

As church leaders, if we think the number of truly transformed hearts is low, we tend to do what we know how to do: provide more programs, more content, more activity.

But what if none of those get at the real problem? What if the issue is not your activities or effort… but the model of discipleship you were given?

Share

What is the Goal?

Research from the Barna Group reveals a gap in how we understand the goals of discipleship.

When asked about their goals, church members and pastors answer differently. Church members tend to emphasize living a more consistent Christian life, trusting God more, and knowing Christ more deeply. Pastors, on the other hand, emphasize becoming more like Jesus and growing in spiritual maturity. (1)

These are not opposing goals—but they are meaningfully different, and that difference matters. We are not all aiming at the same goal—or even the same kind of change.

It helps explain another striking contrast: many churchgoers state that their church successfully helps people grow, while very few pastors are confident that their churches are doing well at actually making disciples. (2)

So which is it? Are we doing well… or not?

Some leaders are now naming what many have sensed for some time: we cannot build a pathway if we do not agree on the goal.

In The 7 Practices of Disciple-Making Churches, the authors put it bluntly:

“Our churches have adopted the functional mission of going into all the world and making more church attenders, baptizing them in the name of programs, and teaching them to volunteer a few times a month.” (3)

That line lands hard because it feels familiar. Church often becomes a place where people gather, serve, and feel connected. These things are crucially important. But something deeper is often missing.

Eventually, we discover that participation is not the same as transformation.

We know more about Jesus than ever before. But how many of us are actually becoming more like him?

Becoming more like Christ is central to discipleship. But what if it is not the starting point?

What if Christlikeness is actually the fruit—the evidence—of a deeper, more foundational reality?

Subscribe now

The Word We Use—but Rarely Define

In our churches’ efforts to help us become more like Christ, we frequently use the word discipleship. But there are as many definitions of “discipleship” as there are church leaders.

For some, it refers to Bible study, spiritual disciplines, or small groups. For others, it includes church involvement, serving, or learning theology. In the Barna study, the most common definitions of discipleship included phrases like “process,” “following Jesus,” “becoming more like Jesus,” and “living like Jesus.” (4)

When Jesus spoke of discipleship, he was not describing behavior alone. He was describing a life formed in a deep relationship with him. He did not invite performance to please him or even imitation of him. Before anything else, he invited connection:

“Abide in me.” (John 15)

Remain. Stay connected. Live in relationship.

After the resurrection, when Jesus restored Peter, he did not begin with correction or instruction. He asked a different question, multiple times:

“Do you love me?... Do you love me?... Do you love me?” (John 21)

Love comes first. Only then did Jesus entrust Peter with responsibility: “Feed my sheep.” Relationship precedes responsibility.

Share

(By Von)

When Our Assumptions Break Down

Most discipleship models operate with an unspoken assumption: if people know more, do more, and participate more, they will become more like Jesus. So we build systems around teaching, practices, and community.

In The 7 Practices of Disciple Making Churches, the authors identify several essential elements of discipleship: convictional leadership; obedience-based, reproducible models; prayer and Scripture; relational community; clear pathways and expectations; mission; and leadership alignment. (5)

All of these are deeply important, and many of us have been faithfully shaped through these practices. They provide structure, direction, and meaningful opportunities for growth within the life of the church. And yet, even together, they may not fully capture the kind of inner transformation Jesus invites us into.

When the goal is framed primarily as “becoming like Jesus,” it can subtly shift into something else: trying harder to be patient, loving, and more Christlike. For a time, that approach can seem to work. We become more intentional, more disciplined, more aware of how we want to show up.

But it often begins to unravel when pressure rises, fear is triggered, or old patterns surface without warning. In those moments, we discover something unsettling: knowing what to do does not always mean we can do it. If transformation were simply a matter of effort, wouldn’t it be working better by now?

The issue isn’t that these practices are wrong. It’s that we often assume people change through teaching and effort alone. But human beings are formed more deeply through relationship, attachment, and lived experience. (6)

Subscribe now

“I Thought, ‘Why Should I Bother?’”

I was leading a small group in a small group Bible study recently when one participant, Joe, stated, “This has been a revelation to me. I’ve spent my whole life, frustrated because I know that I can’t ever be good enough to earn God’s love. I thought, ‘Why should I even bother?’ But now I understand! God loves me and I can’t do anything to earn that love! It just is!”

Another member of the group added, “I’ve discovered that it’s so simple: Love. God loves me just because. And that means I can have an experience of God’s loving presence with me. It’s completely shifted everything in my life.”

I was practically jumping out of my chair when I heard these comments! After more than a year of meeting together, it was as if their eyes were finally open: When Jesus says, “Abide in me”, it is not a command about behavior; it is an invitation into relationship.

Throughout the biblical story, the relationship between God and God’s people is described in profoundly relational terms: a bridegroom and his beloved, a friend and companion, a weaned child with its mother, a God who dwells with his people.

Christian writers across the centuries have echoed this theme. In the sixteenth century, John of the Cross described transformation as the work of love and, more recently, Dallas Willard framed the Christian life as a “with-God” life.

In 1577, in her seminal work, The Interior Castle, Teresa of Ávila described the soul’s journey toward union with God as a movement toward spiritual marriage, writing that God “brings the soul into his own dwelling… in preparation for the consummation of the spiritual marriage.” (7)

Share

And seventeenth-century mystic Jeanne Guyon echoes this same reality in Experiencing the Depths of Jesus Christ:

“We come now to the ultimate stage of Christian experience: Divine Union. This cannot be brought about merely by your own efforts. Meditation will not bring it; neither will love, nor worship, nor devotion, nor sacrifice… Eventually, it will take an act of God to make union a reality.” (8)

We cannot manufacture this kind of transformation. But we are invited into it—through a deeply personal, relational life with Christ.

And now, even research across psychology and neuroscience is beginning to confirm what Scripture has long revealed: we are shaped most deeply through relationship. (9) Which means that transformation is not primarily about behaving differently or even imitating Christ by intention or willpower.

Transformation is about becoming different as the fruit of a deeply rooted relationship with God—and, from that, with others.

An Invitation

So here is a simple place to begin: Where do you notice the gap?

Where do you want to be the best version of yourself, yet find that you cannot live it out consistently? Where do you show up faithfully, but still see the same patterns of disconnection repeating?

And in those moments, what do you actually experience God to be like?

Present or distant?
Patient or disappointed?
Near or absent?

What if, instead of expending more effort, you began by paying attention—especially to your inner life?

And what if the reason this has felt so difficult… is not because you’re failing—but because you’ve been given an incomplete picture of how transformation actually happens?

A Gentle Next Step

If you’re noticing this gap in your own life, you don’t have to navigate it alone.

This is the kind of work I do with individuals and leaders—creating space to notice what’s happening beneath the surface, to grow in awareness, and to begin experiencing transformation not just in theory, but in real life.

If you’re curious about what that might look like for you, please contact me so we can start with a simple conversation. (Just reply back to this email or click my name at the top of this article to message me.)

Coming Next

If you’re recognizing this in your own life, you’re not alone. In the next article, we’ll explore why this gap exists—and why knowing what is true does not always translate into living it out in the moment.

References:

1 - Barna Group, The State of Discipleship (Colorado Springs: The Navigators, 2015), 18.

2 - Barna Group, 33.

3 - Bobby Harrington, Josh Howard, and Mason Eagle, The 7 Practices of Disciple Making Churches (Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2026), 14.

4 - Barna Group, 28.

5 - Harrington, Howard, and Eagle, 2-3.

6 - Edward B. Davis and Pehr Granqvist, “Theistic Relational Spirituality: Development, Dynamics, Health, and Transformation,” Psychology of Religion and Spirituality 13, no. 4 (2021): 401–415; Todd W. Hall and Liz Hall, Relational Spirituality (Downers Grove, IL: IVP Academic, 2021); Joshua Michael LeBorious, “Ties That Bind: A Study of Relational Networks and Spiritual Formation” (PhD diss., Liberty University, 2025).

7 - Teresa of Avila, The Interior Castle, trans. Mirabai Starr (New York: Riverhead Books, 2004), 261.

8 - Jeanne Guyon, Experiencing the Depths of Jesus Christ (Jacksonville, FL: SeedSowers, 1975), 125.

9 - Daniel J. Siegel, Pocket Guide to Interpersonal Neurobiology (New York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2012), 19-4. Supporting the concept that we are shaped through relationships with others, Siegel writes, “As the middle prefrontal region is also a general location mediating self-awareness, it becomes an important issue that we come to feel another person’s feelings with related sets of circuits with which we come to feel our own feelings… The ‘self’ is both embodied and embedded. These are not two separate domains of experience, but instead are the essence of how the mind emerges from the energy and information flow within and between us.”

There’s a moment most leaders recognize, even if they don’t always name it.

You walk out of a conversation and think, That didn’t go the way I expected.
Or you notice tension on your team that seems to come out of nowhere.
Or you find yourself slightly irritated—again—with the same person, for reasons you can’t quite explain.

And the instinct is almost always the same: What’s going on with them?

In this episode of Flourishing Leadership in Tough Times, social researcher Shaunti Feldhahn gently turns that question around. Her research points to something both simple and deeply disruptive:

“Whether you’re thriving is far more correlated to how you treat other people than how you are treated.”

That shift—subtle as it is—changes the starting point for leadership.

Subscribe now

Small Shifts, Massive Impact

One of the most consistent findings in Shaunti’s work is that small behaviors matter far more than we think. Not large-scale strategies or dramatic interventions, but everyday interactions—how we ask a question, how we respond under pressure, what assumptions we carry into the room.

Over time, these small moments compound. She uses the analogy of a plane that is only slightly off course; at first, the difference is barely noticeable, but over distance, it leads somewhere entirely different.

Much of this comes down to assumptions. We build layer upon layer of beliefs about how others think, what they mean, and why they act. Then we lead from those assumptions without ever pausing to question them.

Flourishing begins, in part, with a quieter kind of awareness: the willingness to notice where we may be misreading what’s actually happening—and to adjust, even slightly.

Share

Kindness Is More Than a Virtue

One of the most surprising themes in this conversation is the role of kindness. Not as sentiment, and not as something soft or optional, but as something deeply practical.

Shaunti’s research shows that kindness functions as an incubator for motivation, connection, and emotional well-being. It shapes how people experience their work, their relationships, and themselves.

And yet, as she notes candidly, most of us assume we’re already doing this well. “We value kindness, think we’re kind… and we’re basically deluded.”

Her response is not theoretical. It’s practical. The 30-Day Kindness Challenge invites people to practice three simple behaviors consistently: eliminating negative comments, offering sincere affirmation, and taking small actions of generosity.

The result is striking. In her research, 89% of relationships improved—not primarily because the other person changed, but because the participant’s mindset and attention shifted.

What we focus on, we begin to see. And what we practice, over time, begins to shape who we are.

NOTE: Click here for the directions for the 30-Day Kindness Challenge.

Subscribe now

The Leadership Work That Actually Matters

The conversation also turns toward burnout, and here again, Shaunti offers a grounded and somewhat uncomfortable insight: leaders often say they care about their people’s well-being, but hesitate to make the changes required to support it.

Creating a healthy environment is not just about acknowledging stress. It requires making space for honest feedback, welcoming difficult conversations, and being willing to re-evaluate priorities when people are stretched too thin.

If leaders are not hearing about overwhelm, she suggests, it may not be because everything is fine. It may be because people do not feel safe enough to say what is actually true.

And that brings the conversation back to something foundational.

Flourishing leadership is not built on large, dramatic moments. It is built in the daily, often unnoticed choices—how we respond, how we listen, how we create space for others to be honest.

Shaunti names two quiet but powerful anchors for that kind of leadership: kindness and hope.

Hope that change is possible.
Hope that our efforts matter.
And, for her, a deeper hope grounded in faith—that we are not carrying the weight of leadership alone.

Flourishing, it turns out, is not as far away as we sometimes think.

It begins much closer to home—in the next conversation, the next response, the next small shift.

Subscribe now

🎧 Listen to the full episode here.

🔗 Learn more about Shaunti Feldhahn and her work:

https://shaunti.com/

🔗 Listen to Shaunti’s podcast, I Wish You Could Hear This:

https://shaunti.com/podcast/

Read Shaunti’s books:

https://shaunti.com/books-and-studies/

If flourishing begins with small, daily shifts, the question becomes: How do we actually change those patterns over time?

That’s exactly what the Neuro-Based Enneagram Lent reflections are designed to support—helping you move from reactivity to awareness, one day at a time.

Find out more:

The Nine Lenten Pathways

Christ meets us within our sorrow—but He does not meet us all in the same way.

The pathways below reflect nine common ways we protect, cope, and hope. Each one is an invitation to walk Lent with greater honesty, trust, and gentleness. Which is right for you?

1 - Mapping — For those who respond to sorrow by trying to get it right, Lent becomes an invitation to loosen perfection and receive mercy instead. Paperback here. Kindle here.

2 - Caregiving — For those who carry others’ pain before their own, Lent offers a way to remain compassionate without disappearing. Paperback here. Kindle here.

3 - Producing — For those who cope by staying busy and effective, Lent becomes a season to rest in belovedness rather than achievement. Paperback here. Kindle here.

4 - Immersing — For those who feel sorrow deeply and personally, Lent affirms that grief itself can be a place of communion with God. Paperback here. Kindle here.

5 - Preparing — For those who seek understanding and clarity, Lent invites trust when answers are incomplete and mystery remains. Paperback here. Kindle here.

6 - Questioning — For those unsettled by uncertainty or fear, Lent offers a path toward faith grounded in God’s steadiness, not control. Paperback here. Kindle here.

7 - Seeking — For those tempted to outrun pain or distract themselves from it, Lent becomes an invitation to stay present and discover a quieter joy. Paperback here. Kindle here.

8 - Directing — For those who take responsibility and hold everything together, Lent teaches surrender as a different kind of strength. Paperback here. Kindle here.

9 - Harmonizing — For those who keep peace by staying silent or small, Lent creates space to remain present without numbing or withdrawal. Paperback here. Kindle here.

At some point, waiting ends.

Not gradually. Not always gently.

Sometimes it breaks open all at once.

After the stillness of Holy Saturday—after the silence, the unanswered questions, the long hours where nothing seemed to move—Easter begins with urgency.

In Bach’s Easter music, the first response is not quiet reflection. It’s movement.

After the orchestra opens Bach’s Easter Oratorio, the chorus sings joyfully,

Come, hurry and run, you speedy feet,
reach the cavern which concealed Jesus!
Laughter and merriment accompany our hearts,
since our Savior is risen again.
(Chorus, Kommt eilet…)

(There are many excellent recordings of Bach’s Easter Oratorio. A version of the lyrics in both German and English can be found here, courtesy of Emmanuel Music in Boston, MA.)

Everything changes. But not in the way we might expect.

No one begins Easter with certainty.

They begin with confusion.
With disbelief.
With a kind of fragile hope that doesn’t yet know what to do with itself.

And still—they run.

There is something deeply human about this.

After grief.
After failure.
After long waiting—

when something begins to shift, even slightly—we don’t stand still.

We move toward it.

This is what resurrection looks like at first.

Not clarity. But movement toward life.

We are delighted

that our Jesus lives again,

and our hearts,

which first dissolved and floated in grief,

forget the pain

and imagine songs of joy;

for our Savior lives again.
(Recitative, Bass)

Notice this carefully. The pain is not erased.

But something else begins to take shape alongside it.

Joy.

Not forced.
Not manufactured.

But returning.

From a human perspective, joy isn’t just a feeling we create.

It’s something that happens in relationship. It’s the experience of discovering that someone you love delights in you!

You are not alone after all.

This is why the resurrection stories are so personal.

Mary hears her name.
The disciples from Emmaus recognize Jesus at the table.
Thomas touches Jesus’ wounds.

Jesus doesn’t return as an idea.

He returns as a presence.

And this changes everything.

Over these past few days, we’ve followed a quiet movement:

You gave your heart to Jesus.
You tried to stay—and couldn’t.
You were met with mercy.
You learned to remain in the silence.

And now—something begins again.

Not because you’ve figured out everything.

Not because you’ve become stronger.

But because Jesus is alive…and still drawing near.

Praise and thanks

remain, Lord, your hymn of praise.

Hell and devil are conquered,

its gates are destroyed.

Rejoice, you rescued tongues,

so that you are heard in heaven.

Open, O heavens, your magnificent drawbridges,

the Lion of Judah approaches in triumph!

(Chorus)

This is not just celebration. It is restoration.

The relationship is still there. The connection was never lost.

The One you gave your heart to has not gone anywhere.

So here is the invitation for this day:

Where do you feel even the smallest movement toward life?

Just something.

A little more openness than yesterday.
A small return of energy.
A conversation that feels possible again.
A quiet sense that you are not as alone as you thought.

Don’t analyze it too quickly.

Don’t try to control it.

Just move toward it.

Come.
Hurry.
Run.

Not away from your life.

But toward the One who is alive within it.

Because resurrection is not only something that happened.

It is something that begins again, every day—in you.

Article 1 - Why Can’t You Find Rest—Even When You’ve Done Everything Right?

Article 2 - You Meant to Stay; So Why Didn’t You? (Maundy Thursday)

Article 3 - After You Fail, What Does Jesus Do Next? (Good Friday)

Article 4 - The Day Nothing Happens (And Why It Matters More Than You Think) (Holy Saturday)

Article 5 - What If Joy Didn’t Come Back the Way You Expected? (Easter)

If this journey through Holy Week has felt meaningful, and you’d like to continue walking this kind of path beyond these few days, I’ve created a series of Lenten reflections designed to guide you more deeply into this kind of attentive, relational life with Jesus.

You can explore those here in this article, “Lent Isn’t About Trying Harder.”

Although each book in this series follows the arc of Lent, they can be prayerfully read and experienced at any time of the year. I pray that whichever book you explore, that it may bless you!

“Wait!”
“I will send you the Comforter after I am gone,” Jesus promises his followers. They are confused. Where is he going?
“Wait!”
“Watch and pray with me, that you may not be tempted!” Jesus begs his best friends during his last, most frightening hours, wanting their company.

“From now on you will see the Son of Man sitting at the right hand of the Mighty One and coming on the clouds of heaven,” Jesus defies the religious leaders who care nothing for the well-being of those whom God has asked them to lead with love and truth.

“Today you will be with me in paradise,” Jesus tells the criminal beside him who longs to know and love him better.
Even now—
not everything waits.

Now!
The Sabbath approaches.
To honor Jesus,
Joseph moves quickly to protect his lifeless body.
He lowers the crossbeam,
pulls the nails free.

Not waiting,
he wraps skin and bones in a shroud.
There stands only
a stark, bloodied post pointing skyward.
The place where hope hung,
now empty.

The sky does not answer.

“Wait!”
The day after.
Jesus’ followers remember his instructions for the time after he is dead.
They don’t know what they are waiting for.

“Wait!”
Waiting is painful.
Maybe there’s nothing better coming
Maybe, with the best of intentions, I chose wrong.
Maybe I must accept that it’s all out of my control.
Maybe the threat I fear and pray about constantly
will still come to pass.
Maybe evil will win—
and keep winning.

“Wait!”
I am impatient.
I want resurrection now.
I want new life today.
I want to know what comes next.
I want hope.

And still—
you said,
I am with you.

“Wait!”
With the women of old, I walk slowly to the tomb, resolving to finish the job of caring for my friend.
With the women of old, I approach the tomb, where hope has been buried.
As I get closer to the tomb in the still-dark morning,
I wonder—
who will roll away the stone.

Waiting is one of the most ordinary parts of being human.

You wait in line for something to open.
You wait for your turn at TSA or the DMV.
You glance at the clock and wonder why time seems to slow down when you need it to move.

Some waiting carries more weight.

You wait for months for a baby to be born.
You wait beside a hospital bed, not sure what the next hours or days will bring.
You wait for news that could change everything.

And then there is another kind of waiting—quieter, but often harder.

You wait for God to show up.
To speak.
To do something about what feels broken.

You pray, and nothing seems to change.

Days pass.
Sometimes years.

Sometimes even… decades.

Share

(By Heng Heng - AI Stock)

We don’t like to wait. We have to learn how to do it when we’re young, and then keep practicing it.

In kindergarten, waiting your turn is one of the first lessons—not just about patience, but about recognizing that you are not the center of everything and you have to think of others before yourself.

Waiting asks something of us.

It asks us to let go of control.
To accept that things will unfold with or without our help.
To live, for a time, without resolution.

There is a day in the Christian year that we almost always skip.

We move quickly from the cross to the resurrection, from sorrow to celebration, from death to life. But in between, there is this day, today, Holy Saturday. So we wait…

Nothing seems to happen.

No miracles.
No movement.
No resolution.

Just silence.

Subscribe now

After Jesus dies, there is a kind of stillness that settles over everything. The excitement and urgency of Palm Sunday are gone. The noise has faded. What remains is the weight of what has just taken place on Friday, and the uncertainty of what comes next.

In Bach’s St. Matthew Passion, as we near the end, the singer reflects on resting with Jesus… wanting to be alone with the Lord.

Make yourself pure, my heart,
I want to bury Jesus myself.
For from now on he shall have in me,
forever and ever,
his sweet rest.
World, get out, let Jesus in.
(65. Aria, Bass)

And then in the very last chorus, the music does something striking. It doesn’t rush forward. It slows down, softens, and then comes to rest.

We sit down with tears

and call to you in the grave:

rest gently, gently rest!

Rest, you exhausted limbs!

- Rest gently, rest well. -

Your grave and headstone

shall, for the anxious conscience,

be a comfortable pillow

and the resting place for the soul.

- rest gently, gently rest! -

Highly contented,

there the eyes fall asleep.

(68. Chorus)

(There are many excellent recordings of the St. Matthew Passion. The full lyrics in both German and English can be found here, courtesy of Emmanuel Music in Boston, MA.)

It’s hard to know what to do with this.

We are so used to moving forward, solving problems, finding meaning quickly. Even in our spiritual lives, we often try to get to the “lesson” as soon as possible.

But Holy Saturday resists that. It asks something different of us.

Not action.
Not understanding.
But presence.

Share

This is the day when nothing changes—and you have to live there anyway.

When the prayer isn’t answered.
When the situation isn’t resolved.
When the future is unclear.

When all you can do is sit with what is.

There is a quiet invitation here that we don’t often recognize.

Not just to wait for God to act… but to remain with Jesus in his rest.

“Make yourself pure, my heart… I want to bury Jesus myself.”

There is something deeply personal about that line. It’s not abstract. It’s not distant.

It’s as if the response to everything that has happened in the passion story is this:

Let me make space for him.
Let me receive him here.
Let me hold what has just been given.

“World, get out, let Jesus in.”

We don’t often think of discipleship this way.

We think of following, doing, growing, becoming.

But there is also this: making room.

Letting go of what fills us up so completely—our thoughts, our plans, our need to understand—and allowing something quieter, deeper, to take its place.

Holy Saturday is not about progress. It is about surrender.

There are seasons in life that feel like this day.

You’ve done what you can.
You’ve said what needed to be said.
You’ve faced what was in front of you.

And now there is nothing left to do.

Except wait.

Subscribe now

This is where many of us struggle most.

We can handle action.
We can even handle suffering… in a way.

But stillness, without resolution, can feel unbearable.

And yet, this is where something is being formed.

Not through effort.
Not through insight.

But through remaining.

There is a kind of rest here that is not the absence of pain, but the willingness to stay with it—without rushing past it, without trying to make it mean something too quickly.

“Rest gently… rest well.”

Share

So here is the invitation for this day:

Where are you in a place where nothing seems to be happening?

Where are you waiting—for an answer, for clarity, for something to shift?

What would it mean not to rush through it?
Not to force resolution?
Not to move on too quickly?

But simply to sit, even with tears, and let this moment be what it is.

And perhaps, in a quiet way, to pray:

Make room in me.
Let everything else fall away for a moment.
Let Jesus rest here.

Because this, too, is part of discipleship.

Not only following.
Not only staying.
Not only carrying the cross.

But learning how to remain… when there is nothing left to do.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

But not yet.

Subscribe now

Article 1 - Why Can’t You Find Rest—Even When You’ve Done Everything Right?

Article 2 - You Meant to Stay; So Why Didn’t You? (Maundy Thursday)

Article 3 - After You Fail, What Does Jesus Do Next? (Good Friday)

Holy Saturday - The Day Nothing Happens (And Why It Matters More Than You Think)

Easter Sunday - coming soon

If you find yourself wanting to linger more deeply in this week,
last year I shared a series of reflections through the paintings of James Tissot—
another way of entering the story slowly, visually, and prayerfully.

You can find that series here, beginning with “The Cup and the Crushing.”