Chapter One: The Art of Hitting Yourself with a Spiritual Stick
â
âLet us talk about a most exquisite, silent comedy: the secret, simmering grudge so many of us hold against the very thing we claim to be chasingârighteousness, holiness, all that jazz. Itâs like a man who announces to the world that he adores swimming, but every time he approaches the water, you can see his face contort into the expression of someone who has just swallowed a wasp. He splashes about furiously, grumbling, âI love this! So refreshing! Why does nobody else understand how delightful this is?â while visibly drowning in his own resentment. The man is not swimming; he is aggressively sinking in a devotional manner. As Scripture puts it, âThese people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from meâ (Matthew 15:8). Jesus said that about folks who had turned worship into a grim performance, and frankly, if Jesus were at the pool today, Heâd probably hand the man a life preserver and say, âSir, your lips are praising, but your flailing arms are telling a very different gospel.â
â
âCountless souls genuinely seek the truth. They roll out of bed each morning and lace up their spiritual combat boots for another day of holy trench warfare. But if you corner them with a sympathetic smile and a cup of tea, they will confess: righteousness feels like an exhausting, forced march through treacle. It feels like they have a second jobânight shiftâworking for a Celestial Supervisor, an Ancient of Days with a celestial clipboard, ticking boxes, muttering, âHmm, Wednesday's prayer lacked enthusiasm, minus three points. But that spontaneous act of charity had a nice flair, plus two. Weâll deduct it from your balance of existential dread.â To them, the spiritual life isn't a dance; it's a grim rebellion against a satanic kingdom, a tiresome war where the only point of the whole ridiculous fight is to secure a payout in blessings and a future mansion just beyond the cloudsâa sort of deferred heavenly pension plan. No benefit now, just overtime. And out of this sweaty, joyless striving, a deep loathing growsâa hatred of the very holiness they think they are chasing. Itâs like being a baker who despises the smell of bread. Youâd think the baker would just quit and become an accountant, but no, he stays in the bakery, kneading dough with the face of a man attending his own tax audit, and calls it âfaithfulness.â
â
âAnd here's the beautifully absurd critical point: every attempt to fight that loathing, to whip yourself into a better, holier emotion, will fail in the long run. You cannot, by sheer muscular will, permanently maintain a feeling against a deeply held belief. Thatâs like trying to hold a beach ball underwater. Itâs going to pop up and smack you in the face, and you will be terribly offended. Youâll blame the beach ball, youâll rebuke the beach ball, youâll bind the spirit of buoyancy, but the ball obeys a law higher than your panic. The cause of the emotion is a wrong view, a piece of false knowledge lodged in the mind like a piece of psychic popcorn in the gum. That, not the feeling, is what must be surgically, or perhaps humorously, removed. As the prophet Hosea lamented, âMy people are destroyed for lack of knowledgeâ (Hosea 4:6). Not for lack of effort. Not for lack of all-night prayer vigils where theyâve sweated through their prayer shawls. Knowledge. But weâd rather arm-wrestle our own amygdala at 3 a.m. than admit we might have been holding the map upside down. The feeling is just the check-engine light; you can smash the dashboard with a hammer, and the engine will still be on fire.
â
âThe core confusion is this: man treats the symptom as the disease, and then exhausts himself fighting the symptom while the disease quietly continues its work untouched, humming a little tune. Itâs like the old proverb: âAs a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his follyâ (Proverbs 26:11). But the modern version would be: âAs a fool attacks his own nausea while continuing to eat the same rotten wisdom, so a man rebukes his feelings while refusing to question his beliefs.â The dog gets called a fool for eating the vomit; the man gets called a theologian for fighting the resulting stomachache with fasting and decreeing. Itâs a very poor reward for a digestive system that was only trying to send a memo.
â
âSee how the trick is played. A person holds a piece of false knowledge deep in their understandingâfor example, the belief that âGod is a cosmic headmaster who requires a flawless performance of spiritual gymnastics before He will even glance in my direction.â That belief, whether itâs your daily conscious monologue or a silent assumption hovering like background muzak, will produce a specific emotional harvest: dread, resentment, a heavy heart, and a sincere desire to run away from anything labeled âholiness.â The emotion is not the original problem; it is the fruit of the root. The emotion is simply the inner, felt experience of what the mind already holds to be true. Itâs the echo; the shout happened long before. You donât call the echo a liar; you check whoâs doing the shouting. And unfortunately, that inner shout often sounds like a twisted version of a memory verse: âThe Lord disciplines those He lovesâ (Hebrews 12:6) becomes âThe Lord is disappointed in you before breakfast, and you should feel bad about it permanently.â Thatâs not Scripture; thatâs a bad translation done by a committee of your insecurities.
â
âNow, what does man do when he feels that dreadful inner resistance, that âOh God, here comes another commandmentâ feeling? He does not trace the feeling back to the belief that caused it. Oh no. He declares a holy war on the feeling itself. He tells himself, âI should not feel this way. This resentment is a sin. I must launch a crusade against my own insides. I will try harder to conjure up authentic, Grade-A love for God and a sparkling delight in holiness.â He sets out to strangle the emotion directlyâthrough willpower, through suppression, through whipping up a forced enthusiasm that sounds like a game show host whoâs lost his cue cards, through generous helpings of self-condemnation. He approaches Godâs commandments by trying to copy and paste them into his own behavioral operating system, without ever understanding why God hates sin in the first place, or why he himself, in his own right mind, might find it detestable. But the underlying belief hasnât moved a single inch. Itâs like a hidden projector in the basement, still faithfully casting its dreary movie on the screen of his consciousness. And because the belief remains unchanged, it keeps silently manufacturing the same emotion day after day. The man, in turn, keeps battling the emotion, mistaking it for the enemy, never realizing he is doing the equivalent of snipping off the leaves of a weed while giving the root a nice, warm glass of water and singing âHow Great Thou Artâ to the gardening shed.
Chapter One: The Art of Hitting Yourself with a Spiritual Stick
â
âLet us talk about a most exquisite, silent comedy: the secret, simmering grudge so many of us hold against the very thing we claim to be chasingârighteousness, holiness, all that jazz. Itâs like a man who announces to the world that he adores swimming, but every time he approaches the water, you can see his face contort into the expression of someone who has just swallowed a wasp. He splashes about furiously, grumbling, âI love this! So refreshing! Why does nobody else understand how delightful this is?â while visibly drowning in his own resentment. The man is not swimming; he is aggressively sinking in a devotional manner. As Scripture puts it, âThese people honor me with their lips, but their hearts are far from meâ (Matthew 15:8). Jesus said that about folks who had turned worship into a grim performance, and frankly, if Jesus were at the pool today, Heâd probably hand the man a life preserver and say, âSir, your lips are praising, but your flailing arms are telling a very different gospel.â
â
âCountless souls genuinely seek the truth. They roll out of bed each morning and lace up their spiritual combat boots for another day of holy trench warfare. But if you corner them with a sympathetic smile and a cup of tea, they will confess: righteousness feels like an exhausting, forced march through treacle. It feels like they have a second jobânight shiftâworking for a Celestial Supervisor, an Ancient of Days with a celestial clipboard, ticking boxes, muttering, âHmm, Wednesday's prayer lacked enthusiasm, minus three points. But that spontaneous act of charity had a nice flair, plus two. Weâll deduct it from your balance of existential dread.â To them, the spiritual life isn't a dance; it's a grim rebellion against a satanic kingdom, a tiresome war where the only point of the whole ridiculous fight is to secure a payout in blessings and a future mansion just beyond the cloudsâa sort of deferred heavenly pension plan. No benefit now, just overtime. And out of this sweaty, joyless striving, a deep loathing growsâa hatred of the very holiness they think they are chasing. Itâs like being a baker who despises the smell of bread. Youâd think the baker would just quit and become an accountant, but no, he stays in the bakery, kneading dough with the face of a man attending his own tax audit, and calls it âfaithfulness.â
â
âAnd here's the beautifully absurd critical point: every attempt to fight that loathing, to whip yourself into a better, holier emotion, will fail in the long run. You cannot, by sheer muscular will, permanently maintain a feeling against a deeply held belief. Thatâs like trying to hold a beach ball underwater. Itâs going to pop up and smack you in the face, and you will be terribly offended. Youâll blame the beach ball, youâll rebuke the beach ball, youâll bind the spirit of buoyancy, but the ball obeys a law higher than your panic. The cause of the emotion is a wrong view, a piece of false knowledge lodged in the mind like a piece of psychic popcorn in the gum. That, not the feeling, is what must be surgically, or perhaps humorously, removed. As the prophet Hosea lamented, âMy people are destroyed for lack of knowledgeâ (Hosea 4:6). Not for lack of effort. Not for lack of all-night prayer vigils where theyâve sweated through their prayer shawls. Knowledge. But weâd rather arm-wrestle our own amygdala at 3 a.m. than admit we might have been holding the map upside down. The feeling is just the check-engine light; you can smash the dashboard with a hammer, and the engine will still be on fire.
â
âThe core confusion is this: man treats the symptom as the disease, and then exhausts himself fighting the symptom while the disease quietly continues its work untouched, humming a little tune. Itâs like the old proverb: âAs a dog returns to its vomit, so a fool repeats his follyâ (Proverbs 26:11). But the modern version would be: âAs a fool attacks his own nausea while continuing to eat the same rotten wisdom, so a man rebukes his feelings while refusing to question his beliefs.â The dog gets called a fool for eating the vomit; the man gets called a theologian for fighting the resulting stomachache with fasting and decreeing. Itâs a very poor reward for a digestive system that was only trying to send a memo.
â
âSee how the trick is played. A person holds a piece of false knowledge deep in their understandingâfor example, the belief that âGod is a cosmic headmaster who requires a flawless performance of spiritual gymnastics before He will even glance in my direction.â That belief, whether itâs your daily conscious monologue or a silent assumption hovering like background muzak, will produce a specific emotional harvest: dread, resentment, a heavy heart, and a sincere desire to run away from anything labeled âholiness.â The emotion is not the original problem; it is the fruit of the root. The emotion is simply the inner, felt experience of what the mind already holds to be true. Itâs the echo; the shout happened long before. You donât call the echo a liar; you check whoâs doing the shouting. And unfortunately, that inner shout often sounds like a twisted version of a memory verse: âThe Lord disciplines those He lovesâ (Hebrews 12:6) becomes âThe Lord is disappointed in you before breakfast, and you should feel bad about it permanently.â Thatâs not Scripture; thatâs a bad translation done by a committee of your insecurities.
â
âNow, what does man do when he feels that dreadful inner resistance, that âOh God, here comes another commandmentâ feeling? He does not trace the feeling back to the belief that caused it. Oh no. He declares a holy war on the feeling itself. He tells himself, âI should not feel this way. This resentment is a sin. I must launch a crusade against my own insides. I will try harder to conjure up authentic, Grade-A love for God and a sparkling delight in holiness.â He sets out to strangle the emotion directlyâthrough willpower, through suppression, through whipping up a forced enthusiasm that sounds like a game show host whoâs lost his cue cards, through generous helpings of self-condemnation. He approaches Godâs commandments by trying to copy and paste them into his own behavioral operating system, without ever understanding why God hates sin in the first place, or why he himself, in his own right mind, might find it detestable. But the underlying belief hasnât moved a single inch. Itâs like a hidden projector in the basement, still faithfully casting its dreary movie on the screen of his consciousness. And because the belief remains unchanged, it keeps silently manufacturing the same emotion day after day. The man, in turn, keeps battling the emotion, mistaking it for the enemy, never realizing he is doing the equivalent of snipping off the leaves of a weed while giving the root a nice, warm glass of water and singing âHow Great Thou Artâ to the gardening shed.
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