I recently read about a spiritual formation program that went terribly wrong.
A cohort of men spent three years in intense formation learning about the way of Jesus. This wasn’t merely an academic program—it involved ministry apprenticeship, shared meals together, common worship, prayer vigils, and even retreats in the wilderness. The program was rigorous and demanding. Some of the students faced resistance from their friends and family. Even local politicians and leaders of faith communities began to take notice.
By the end of the program, many had dropped out. Only a few were still committed. When their formation was complete and their education at its most robust, they shared a festive meal. And it was during this time together that, despite years of intense spiritual formation, one of the students walked away from it all and left the faith in a bid to make some quick cash. The name of the student that threw it all away for a hefty payday? Judas Iscariot.
Not long after, the rest of the group abandoned Jesus too, at least for a while.
At first glance, this might seem like an extreme example of an isolated failure. But Judas’ story—and the story of the other disciples who scattered—raises an uncomfortable question for those of us who care deeply about discipleship: What exactly do we mean by spiritual formation, and can it shape people the way we hope it will? And further, if we trust Jesus’ wisdom in training the disciples in a process that led to mixed outcomes, why do we feel so frustrated when the people we serve seem to fumble?
When programs replace transformation
Spiritual formation is all about using everyday practices, such as prayer, service, and study, to make us into the kind of people we trust God is leading us to be.
It’s not as if any of us are saying, “Come to my Bible study on Romans. It will make you more like Jesus!” Or, “Participate in this Alpha course and you will be a more godly person!”
In our desire to see spiritual growth in the lives of the people we minister to, we might see participation in programs like this as a cipher for spiritual maturity. Conversely, we might assume that people who are not active in the programs of our congregation are not as far down the path of discipleship. It is easy to make these assumptions because to even gauge the level of another’s transformation in Christ involves deep listening and knowing.
Frankly, we don’t have the time to develop these relationships with more than a handful of people. So we start to assume that getting into some kind of Bible study, prayer meeting, or missional group means that someone is doing fine and, if they keep at it, will look more like Jesus.
This is because, as pastors, part of our vocation is to shepherd our congregations toward holiness—to urge our people onward on the path to discipleship. Often, the tools of spiritual formation are the means by which we equip our parishioners for their journey with Christ.
There is certainly tremendous value in practices that help us become more attuned to what God is doing in our lives. But as this retelling of Jesus’ relationship to his disciples reminds us, engaging in spiritual formation doesn’t guarantee transformation. There are problems with spiritual formation—problems that are rooted in the gospel itself—that are worth naming.
Now, I am not alone in my suspicion of spiritual formation. For instance, James Bryan Smith—echoing concerns raised by Dallas Willard—warns that it can become too focused on “techniques without transformation,” ultimately losing sight of the importance of true discipleship. Similarly, David Fitch expressed some of his own qualms. After giving a brief introduction to the spiritual formation movement pioneered by Dallas Willard and Richard Foster, Fitch cautions that spiritual formation can easily devolve into just another individualistic pursuit for betterment accessible only to an affluent few.
And then there is the perennial Protestant worry—that any kind of focused effort in the life of faith borders on Pelagianism. To these critics, spiritual formation feels like evangelicalism’s attempt to mimic Roman Catholicism—with all the effort, and none of the grace.
These critiques are worth considering. While I have some sympathy forthese concerns, they point to something deeper: the theological assumption underneath it all—that we can produce transformation through concerted effort and specific practices. This is where my concern lies.
As much as spiritual practices might increase the likelihood of becoming more Christlike, there are no guarantees. After all, Jesus spent three years with his disciples, and in the end, they all abandoned him.
This isn’t just a theoretical concern—it comes right from the heart of pastoral work. When our people don’t grow in the ways we hoped, we begin to question our methods, even ourselves. We start to equate our effectiveness in ministry with certain visible outcomes in the lives of our parishioners. But even our Lord did not achieve with all of his twelve disciples what we hope to see in the lives of the people we pastor.
For those of us serving in ministry, it’s easy to feel as though we’ve failed when people are not as committed to the faith as we’d hoped. We can feel frustrated when our discipleship programs are not producing the results we envisioned. But if even if our Lord didn’t see consistent growth from his small band of disciples, why would we assume our spiritual formation practices can ensure better results?
What I am trying to say is this: Practices don’t transform us—only the grace of God does. And God’s providence remains a mystery.
Embracing the role of grace in spiritual formation
Spiritual formation as an individual pursuit is one thing. But with the increased focus on spiritual formation in evangelical seminaries and pushes to integrate spiritual formation into the life of the church, there is often an unspoken assumption that seminary deans and pastors can somehow shape their people through the right practices or, at the very least, shape the practices their people will use to shape their own lives.
The truth is, most of us can barely manage our own lives, let alone trying to foist some programmatic change on others. And if even our Lord could not (or would not!) force his disciples into being certain kinds of people, we should recognize the danger in thinking that we can and ought to. Faltering steps forward, missing the mark, drifting from Jesus, and returning in repentance—these are all parts of the journey toward being the kind of people God calls us to be. Peter, James, and John trod the same path with Jesus as their guide.
Don’t get me wrong—it’s not that I don’t see value in spiritual practices. As an Anglican priest, I pray the Daily Office each day, read the Bible regularly, observe fasts, and make a point to attend worship—even when I am on vacation! But I don’t do these things because I think they will boost my spiritual stature. I do them because they are ends in themselves, inherently worth doing. If they happen to change me for the better, that’s icing on the cake. Put another way, spiritual practices of spiritual formation are good and valuable, and they may even serve as a set of tools to prepare the human heart for favorable conditions in which God might bring about growth.
This shift in perspective can be traced to the wise counsel of Scripture. In his letter to the church in Corinth, Paul offers a beautiful and humbling metaphor that reminds us who is truly responsible for growth. When speaking of the wonder and sacred mystery we call the Church, Paul uses the analogy of a garden (amongst others) to illustrate the organic and often surprising ways that the church can flourish. Apostles don’t make growth happen; they simply tend to the conditions that make it possible. Paul can write that he “planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God has been making it grow. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow” (1 Cor. 3:6-8). It is God—not Paul, Apollos, or anyone with a master plan—who propels the church forward.
The same is true of personal transformation toward Christlikeness. We can create conditions in our lives in which the Holy Spirit’s renewing power may be most effectual, but we cannot form ourselves in the image of Christ. And how much more true is this for pastors or seminary leaders who are attempting to form others—often young and still growing—toward holiness. Our task is to cultivate an environment where growth is possible and then to back off. Spiritual formation is not ultimately our work—it’s God’s.
Unpredictable growth demonstrates God’s work
This approach to growth reminds me of something Ross Gay writes about education, which, surprisingly, offers a helpful way to think about spiritual formation. Gay, a poet and professor, chafes at the idea that college classes would have fixed learning outcomes. In his book Inciting Joy: Essays, he suggests that if talking of learning outcomes “makes you feel a little bit claustrophobic, or bored, you are not alone.” For Gay, real learning can’t be controlled or predicted because it is “unpredictable, improvisatory, and by definition, confounding. By definition, if the learning is real, the outcomes are unfathomable.” This means that teaching students is not a means of achieving some end but an invitation to do something beautifully, inherently worthwhile together.
I think if spiritual formation must be an emphasis, we need to see it more like Gay sees learning—something that is worthwhile with results that are “unpredictable, improvisatory and…confounding.” In other words, we as pastors must see that spiritual formation, like real learning, is unpredictable but that unpredictability isn’t a failure—it is a gift of grace. And that’s good news for pastors and people alike.
This has certainly been the case in my own life. The kind of person I am becoming—and I pray I am more like Jesus every day—has as much to do with what happens to me (what other people say, circumstances outside of my control, and so forth) as it does with any spiritual growth programs I’ve set for myself.
The practices of spiritual formation likely help move me toward Christlikeness. But they might not. And that’s okay. I don’t have to worry about how effective they are for me, and much less for those I serve. The grace of God does what it does, in God’s time. My job is not to manage outcomes. I must only be faithful to Jesus and stay open to his transforming grace.
Cole Hartin is an Anglican priest serving in Tyler, Texas and a fellow at the Center for Pastor Theologians.
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