Spiritual? Religious? A False Choice?

“I am spiritual but not religious.” If I had quarter for every time I have heard or read that phrase I could finance my own church. The phrase is popular, trendy even; so much so that groups who study important cultural and religious issues have researched those who claim such an orientation. It does appear that a significant shift is underway with regard to religious life in America.

Initially, the phrase resonated with me. I was raised on a diet of southern evangelical Quaker Christianity. It served me well enough in my youth, but I must confess to being exasperated with the institutional Church from time to time. The first occasion of this occurred during a semester of Church History in which I learned of the politics behind doctrinal decisions that were then promoted as Truth fresh from the mouth of God. Perhaps that is the price of establishing orthodoxy. The Crusades added salt to the wound—I just have a difficult time imagining God authorizing religious wars. The frustration continues today as organized Christianity often puts more effort into self-preservation than into constructive leadership that addresses contemporary Big Questions and Great Divides as people search to experience and know God.

Though the phrase ‘spiritual but not religious” may have initially resonated, I have since concluded that I have no desire to be counted among those ranks. For a while I joked that I was going to start a new trend for those who were religious but not spiritual, but that route is fraught with its own perils. It tempts people to participate perfunctorily in rituals without being transformed by them as they contemplate their significance. I would not be happy with that either. (I suppose my Quaker leanings are showing here!) Instead, I advocate for being both spiritual and religious. Perhaps religiously spiritual or spiritually religious!

We really should not be surprised at the sentiment of “spiritual not religious.” It is not a new leading edge trend; it is a rather logical by-product in an era where there is large scale rebellion against institutionalism and dominant narratives that overreach in their efforts to produce norms and encourage conformity. It leaves many of us in the proverbial “baby and the bathwater” conundrum; dissatisfied with organized religion, this trend opts to empty the tub completely before refilling it.

This is an extension of the raging individualism that consumes so much of the current mindset. From “these rules do not apply to me” to loud smartphone audio blasting without earphones in public places much of public engagement acts as if no one else is in the room, or if they are, they do not matter. Catchy phrases like “it takes a village to raise a child,” “Medicare for all,” or “think globally, buy locally” have good intentions. However they seldom ever really penetrate the core of our being to a point that individual sacrifice for the good of the whole replaces a focus on personal agendas. It is much easier to affiliate with mob mentality that reaffirms our personal preferences. Whoever coined the term “echo chamber” was spot on—by surrounding ourselves only with like minds we reinforce our point of view. The only significant challenges come from outside our group, and those voices can easily be discounted because they are not “us.”

It should also be noted that many who reject being religious have made that choice because of felt (and sometimes real) hostility and exclusion due to their political views, sexual orientation, economic class, etc. This, it seems, builds on the first two observations. The empowered individual and the questioning of dominant narratives encourage those previously silent to find their own voice. When those voices deviate too far from the norm (where is that invisible line located, anyway?), we may find ourselves faced with the choice to be quiet, fight for our place, or reject the system. The rejection of religion but not spirituality may indicate an internal repositioning but not a complete abandonment of a religious connection. If that is behind the move I, for one, can appreciate and applaud the effort. For all of its talk about love and acceptance, religions across the spectrum often demonstrate extreme judgement and exclusion. Again, I find it difficult to believe that God advocates the ugliness that comes from that exclusion.

I have to confess, there are parts of this “spiritual but not religious” perspective that do live and thrive within me. I insist on the freedom to define my own spiritual orientation and practices.  In good Quaker form, I resist being over-directed by a centralized authority. And, I attempt to exhibit generosity toward others who find truth and fulfillment in ways different from my own, including finding truth in other religions (Admittedly, that has its challenging moments!). Denominational affiliation and labels are not as important to me (and many of us!) as they were to earlier generations. More than those badges of identity, I find good teaching and sincere fellowship to be of higher importance. When those are present, I am even open to accountability to certain norms and expectations.  With that last statement, I realize that I value a little religion alongside my spirituality.

Why is that? First, it begins when I think about definitions of spirituality and religion.  The word “spirituality” can sound mystical and deep, but my heart paid attention the day a peer described it as nothing more or less than “lived faith.” Spirituality begins with inner connections where the Divine engages my whole being. It may be rich, heartwarming, or even unsettling; in every case it serves to ground my being in ways that let me know I am part of an enormous movement of life. Those connections or conversations (or however one describes them) affect everything. From values to attitudes to actions, I am forever changed by those spiritual truths gleaned along the way. For that reason, the idea that spirituality must be “lived” not merely privately held seems indisputable to me.

Religion, on the other hand, is often viewed as a cold system of rules that concentrates power in the hands of a few, taxes its participants, and imposes rules on its adherents, all while stripping the joy from life. There is no denying that it sometimes functions that way, but I do not think that is how religion is supposed to be. What passes as religion these days is the outcome of people living their spirituality collectively over time. What works once is repeated a few times. As several find a practice or a text valuable, they return to each other and to the practice. With time, their activities become regularized, even codified. Structures and authorities emerge. As repeated practice builds familiarity, the power and inspiration of the moment can fade. It seems even the best of spiritual practices lose some of their power in the transfer to the next generation who receives it as a given rather than experiences it as fire. For that reason, religion can feel trivial over time. It is like wearing someone else’s overcoat. It may keep you warm but does not feel quite right.

The part that is precious in the practice of religion is the community–the assembly of others who share a similar interest, passion, or commitment enrich the experiment. Together we multiply the opportunities of internal support and external service.

A summer school experience illustrates this for me. It happened in my first course in biblical Hebrew at the divinity school where I was enrolled. I loved languages and could not wait to learn that one. To my surprise, I was the only student enrolled. (I suppose there are more exciting ways to spend a summer!) The professor offered to teach me anyway. I jumped at the chance to have a private tutor. I learned the language well, but must tell you that learning in a classroom of one brings its own challenges. I had to be well-prepared for every class, as there were no classmates to shoulder any of the load. Every question from the teacher was directed at me. Every incorrect answer came from me. There were no study groups to encourage me during the difficult stretches. No camaraderie or peer resources to enliven the journey.  I am a guy who loves solitude and learning on my own, but I recall the weariness of undertaking this alone! No other experience has better illustrated to me the value of the corporate enterprise for certain things.

Spiritual practice is one of those things that benefits from a collective component. However precious and true my own spiritual experience is I am one among billions. Even as I can name things that embarrass or disgust me within the practice of religion, there are many more that amaze me. The richness of the writings. The magnitude of service. The insights. The humility. These resources cannot adequately be replaced by YouTube videos (but what a great resource for everything from refrigerator repair to harmonica lessons!). Thinking that they have nothing to contribute to the spiritual path or religious life is the kind of arrogance found at the root of brokenness and sin.  

My personal spiritual practice enthuses and shapes me. It is best fanned into flame by spending quiet moments alone, but as spirituality is lived, the communal connection found in organized religion is indispensable. It provides the opportunity to play with others. It provides a ready forum for the practice I need. My spirituality benefits from companions who help me see what I may otherwise not notice, or affirm what I have come to hold as true, or stand with me as we serve in difficult places.  The onus is with those of us who participate in religion to guard intently against the hardening of the spiritual arteries as a consequence of routine and ritual.

Religion without spirituality may not be worth the bother, but spirituality without religion is difficult to sustain. I will not say it cannot be done, but I will say it is too important to risk! Thankful for the tension between the two, count me among the spiritually religious.