Abstract
I grew up in a south Lancashire town where religion was important. It mattered whether you were Catholic or Protestant. When my parents announced their engagement, my lapsed Congregationalist father was expected to convert to my mother’s Roman Catholic faith. He didn’t, and I was brought up Church of England. In that low church environment, a word I never heard was ‘spirituality’. That was for Catholics and referred largely to ‘their’ religious practices, at which Protestants cast only critical glances.
Times have changed, and now Protestants, too, speak of spirituality. More a way of life than a set of distinctive spiritual habits, spirituality blends beliefs and values, devotion and action into a more or less coherent whole. It’s in this sense that the term is used more widely, both within and beyond religions.
For some people, spirituality is a DIY mix of elements that give meaning to life and help them to live well. It need not be particularly religious—indeed some make sharp distinctions between religion and spirituality, like we once did between Protestantism and spirituality. And in ‘me-centred’ consumer culture, spirituality is anything but organised. It is ‘my’ creation, ‘my’ path, ‘my’ way of living well and making sense of ‘my’ world.
It’s been suggested that the ‘philosophy’ condemned in Colossians 2:8 was more like what we now understand by spirituality than a set of ideas and beliefs. Verses 8, 16 and 18 (see also 2:20–23) suggest that it was a blend of Jewish and pagan elements: the belief that the world was controlled by invisible spiritual forces (‘elemental spirits of the universe’), eating or avoiding certain foods, worshipping at key times of the week or year, invoking the presence and power of angels, prizing visions as an entrée into the heavenly realm, subjecting the body to mutilation or acts of self-denial.
In the heady cultural mix of a Greco-Roman city like Colossae, perhaps it’s more appropriate to speak of a plurality of spiritualities. Gurus, magicians, astrologers, and healers could draw on a wide range of ingredients and combine them in any number of ways. The result: blended spiritualities that gave a measure of respite and control to those who felt powerless in the face of overwhelming psychological, social, or political forces. Even if converts to the Jesus movement had not previously been devotees of this or that spiritual path, their world opened them to a wide range of influences and alternatives that could easily dilute their confidence in the gospel of Jesus. This would certainly explain the letter’s emphasis throughout on the supremacy and sufficiency of Christ their Lord (v. 9; cf 1:15–20).
I once heard a man who had suffered a major mental and emotional breakdown speaking about his recovery. As a Catholic Christian, he certainly valued the resources he drew from his faith: prayer, worship, and the support of his church community. But he also spoke of how important running had become. Not only did this help him to keep physically fit, it also gave his life additional structure and rhythm. And a sense of belonging too: he was a member of a local running club. Running became an essential ingredient in what he called ‘spirituality’: his way of connecting different aspects of his life—physical, mental, emotional, social—so that he could learn once again to make sense of things and live well.
This is a good example of a contemporary blended spirituality, whose ingredients reinforced the man’s integrity and wellbeing. Which is a very different picture from Colossians, with its warnings against the ‘empty deceit’ of ‘human traditions’ based on the rule of ‘the elemental spirits of the universe’ rather than Christ (v. 8). Why such a strong insistence that the spiritualities on offer at Colossae could only captivate and dis-integrate?
On my way through the local shopping centre I see a window display advertising T-shirts. ‘Love. Want. Have’ is the strapline. Later an email arrives in my inbox from an online retailer. For only a few pounds a month, whatever I order will be delivered free within a day. ‘Love. Want. Have. Now.’ A friend wears an electronic device that records her heartbeat and blood pressure, and tells her how many steps she’s walked today. ‘I’m well short of my target ten thousand—again,’ she sighs.
I wonder whether obsessions with appearance and fitness and buying things are forms of contemporary secular spirituality, the latest in a long line of human traditions that dictate who we should be and how we should live. Their appeal is certainly captivating, and in some cases dis-integrating. It’s well documented that the mental health of teenage girls is hardly helped by pressures around body image and appearance. The addiction to shopping may drive our economy, but its environmental impact is anything but benign.
Only a hermetically sealed existence can protect us from the influences of popular culture. And in a me-centred environment, it’s inevitable that some of the secular spiritualities that insist on shaping our lives will make us more self-absorbed. Here then are two questions to put to the blend of Christian and secular spiritualities that many of us undoubtedly live by, simply because we don’t use our faith to construct a closed-off world. How much does our blending undermine confidence in the priority of Jesus Christ? And how much does it help to develop the integrity of Christ-like character in today’s world?
Jesus’ character and spirituality were rooted in his prayerfulness, which clearly made a deep impression on his disciples (Luke 11:1). The essential simplicity of the prayer he taught them reveals its strong centre: ‘Father … your kingdom come’ (v. 2). The stories that follow add some colour to the heart of his prayer. This ‘Father’ is like the friend who can be persuaded to meet a neighbour’s unexpected needs, or the parent who provides children with good gifts—only much more so. The heavenly Father is generous with his very self (v. 13). First impressions suggest that Abraham’s prayer in Genesis 18:20–32 is very different. Yet both prayers are illuminated by visions of God’s justice, the basis of spiritualities that overcome the captivations of me-centredness.
The acid test of any spirituality—religious, secular, blended—lies in its ability to help us to live wisely and well. For Colossians the secret lies in sustaining confidence in the priority of Christ and the formation of Christ-like character. He embodies God’s creative and reconciling wisdom (vv. 8–9; cf 1:15–20). His cross displays God’s victory over the invisible powers rule the world (vv. 14–15). His ‘fullness’ is available as the triumph of life over death (vv. 10–13), performed by a baptised community that is anything but me-centred (Colossians 3:12–4:1).
It would be surprising if Christians determined to engage in the everyday realities of life didn’t find themselves blending the spirituality that flows from baptism with some of its secular counterparts. But to what extent? And with what consequences? The days of casting critical glances at ‘their’ spirituality are far from over.