This is going to be a speculative metaphysical series. The topic concerns the unity of human nature and the implications that has for soteriology.

Here's the backstory to why I'm interested in this question.

There's a very famous formulation from Gregory of Nazianzus in one of his Letters to Cledonius. Defending the Christian belief in the Incarnation, Gregory writes: "For what is not assumed is not healed, but what is united to God is saved."

Much of the patristic understanding of salvation is expressed in this succinct formulation: What is not assumed is not healed. As has been pointed out many times, the patristic vision of salvation was more ontological than forensic. Humanity, and indeed the entire created order, upon its separation from God began to suffer the effects of its finitude and contingency. Separated from God and lacking the power to hold itself in being, creation began its slide into non-existence. Witnessing this drift, God acted in the Incarnation to reconnect creation to Himself.

As Athanasius described:

Man, who was created in God's image and in his possession of reason reflected the very Word Himself, was disappearing, and the work of God was being undone. The law of death, which followed from the Transgression, prevailed upon us, and from it there was no escape. The thing that was happening was in truth both monstrous and unfitting. It would, of course, have been unthinkable that God should go back upon His word and that man, having transgressed, should not die; but it was equally monstrous that beings which once had shared the nature of the Word should perish and turn back again into non-existence through corruption.

Seeing this slide into non-existence, God acts in Christ to ontologically stabilize the created order. As Athanasius continues:

For this purpose, then, the incorporeal and incorruptible and immaterial Word of God entered our world. In one sense, indeed, He was not far from it before, for no part of creation had ever been without Him Who, while ever abiding in union with the Father, yet fills all things that are. But now He entered the world in a new way, stooping to our level in His love and Self-revealing to us... Thus, taking a body like our own, because all our bodies were liable to the corruption of death, He surrendered His body to death instead of all, and offered it to the Father. This He did out of sheer love for us, so that in His death all might die, and the law of death thereby be abolished because, having fulfilled in His body that for which it was appointed, it was thereafter voided of its power for men. This He did that He might turn again to incorruption men who had turned back to corruption, and make them alive through death by the appropriation of His body and by the grace of His resurrection. Thus He would make death to disappear from them as utterly as straw from fire.

Returning to Gregory of Nazianzus' more succinct description, humanity had become subject to dissolution. Thus Christ assumes human nature, and by assuming it—thereby reconnecting human nature to God—human nature is stabilized and healed.

Okay, all that is just a summary of the patristic vision, one I expect you've heard before. The key point, again, is that salvation in this view is ontological stabilization rather than a penal, forensic declaration of pardon. To be sure, the patristic tradition recognized the penal and forensic aspects of salvation, but its primary concerns were ontological. Human nature had been ontologically "wounded" in the Fall, made subject to the forces of dissolution. So in the Incarnation Christ assumes human nature, reunites it with God, and thereby heals its ontological wound.

And it's precisely here where I started asking some questions about the unity of human nature.

I asked myself, "What exactly does it mean that Christ 'assumed' human nature?" To be sure, Christ became a human being. But how, exactly, was what happened in Christ's body connected with, or implicated in, my own body? It seems to me that, as a matter of logic, the human nature Christ assumed in the Incarnation had to be connected to my own. And not merely as two individual members of the same class, but as participants in a shared ontological reality.

To make the point more clearly: Yes, Christ's human body defeated death. That's a truth about that one human body. But how or why would the resurrection of that single body have any effect upon my separate human body? How, to borrow from Gregory, was my particular humanity "assumed" in Christ's particular humanity? What's the connection between us? How does what happens to Christ's body affect or implicate my own?

It seems to me that if there is no shared ontological connection between Christ's body and my own, then what was assumed in Christ has no relation to me. And if that's true, then the entire patristic vision of salvation begins to fall apart. If Christ ontologically stabilized the whole of humanity, then the whole of humanity had to be connected to Christ's body. What Christ assumed in the Incarnation has to be the whole of humanity.

Thus, human nature is a single, shared ontological whole. While there are many human persons, those persons share one human nature. When Christ became incarnate as an individual person, he made ontological contact, through that individual point, with the whole of humanity. And when Christ's individual humanity was resurrected, the whole of humanity, as a single united nature, was resurrected with him.

In short, as I read the patristic vision, one of the logical implications of its ontological understanding of salvation—what is not assumed is not healed—is that human nature is a single, shared, united whole. There are many individual persons, but they all participate in one human nature. And yet, while this seems to me to be a logical entailment of the patristic soteriological vision, I've not come across much discussion of it. There is an anthropological issue here that, it seems to me, needs to be sorted out and nailed down.

"The nombre of the words passyth my witte and al my understondyng and al my mights..."

Chapter 26 brings us to Julian’s twelfth of sixteen showings. In this showing, the Lord appears more glorified than Julian has seen him before, declaring himself to her through a series of descriptions that identify him as the source of her love, desire, and joy. The words overwhelm Julian’s mind and understanding, and the joy she sees in them exceeds anything the heart can wish for or the soul desire. It’s a short chapter, so I’ll quote it in full:

And after this our Larde shewid Hym more gloryfyed, as to my syte, than I saw Him beforne, wherin I was lernyd that our soule shal never have rest til it comith to Hym knowing that He is fulhede of joy, homley and curtesly blisful and very life. Our Lord Jesus oftentymes seyd,

I it am,
I it am,
I it am that is heyest,
I it am that thou lovist,
I it am that thou lykyst,
I it am that thou servist,
I it am that thou longyst,
I it am that thou desyrist,
I it am that thou menyst,
I it am that is al,
I it am that Holy Church prechyth and teachyth the,
I am that shewed me here to thee.

The nombre of the words passyth my witte and al my understondyng and al my mights, and it arn the heyest, as to my syte. For therin is compre­hendid, I cannot tellyn - but the joy that I saw in the shewyng of them passyth al that herte may willen and soule may desire; and therefore the words be not declaryd here. But every man, after the grace that God gevyth him in under­stondyng and lovyng, receive hem in our Lords menyng.

Translation:

And after this our Lord showed Himself more glorified, as to my sight, than I had seen Him before. In this I was taught that our soul shall never have rest until it comes to Him, knowing that He is fullness of joy, intimately and courteously blessed, and true life.

Our Lord Jesus often said, 

“It is I,
It is I,
It is I who is highest.
It is I whom you love.
It is I in whom you delight.
It is I whom you serve.
It is I for whom you long.
It is I whom you desire.
It is I whom you mean.
It is I who is all.
It is I whom Holy Church preaches and teaches you.
It is I who showed Himself here to you.”

The number of the words surpasses my wit, and all my understanding, and all my powers, and they are the highest, as it seemed to me. For therein is comprehended what I cannot tell. But the joy that I saw in the showing of them surpasses all that the heart can wish and the soul can desire, and therefore the words are not declared here. But let every person, according to the grace that God gives him in understanding and loving, receive them in the meaning of our Lord.

In his book The Darkness of God, Denys Turner describes two different approaches to apophatic mysticism within the tradition. Following Turner, call these the Way of Contradiction and the Way of Verbal Exhaustion. The Way of Contradiction describes mystics who make and then contradict cataphatic (positive) claims about God. Through this process of assertion, negation, assertion, negation, and so forth, the mystic ascends toward God. 

Mystics who follow the Way of Verbal Exhaustion share a profusion of words attempting to describe the indescribable, a process that exhausts itself under the strain of trying to grasp God with the mind. You speak and you speak until, at last, you just run out of words.

Turner describes Julian as an example of this second type of apophatic mysticism, the Way of Verbal Exhaustion. Chapter 26 is a good illustration. Christ describes himself in his glory, and the profusion of words overwhelms Julian's mind: “The number of the words surpasses my wit, and all my understanding, and all my powers, and they are the highest, as it seemed to me.”

One more reflection as the spooky season comes to a close. What follows is a lightly edited selection from my first book Unclean, a book that become more and more relevant with each passing year. 

This comes from Chapter 6 entitled "Monsters and Scapegoats." 

Sociomoral disgust, experiencing people as a source of moral or spiritual defilement, can vary in severity. On the playground, “cooties” seems harmless and innocuous (unless you’ve been on the other end of that game). But sociomoral disgust can quickly scale up in intensity and become the engine behind the very worst of human atrocities. During times of social stress or chaos, those persons or populations already associated with disgust properties will provide the community a location of blame, fear, and paranoia. In short, sociomoral disgust is implicated in the creation of monsters and scapegoats, where outgroup members are demonized and selected for exclusion or elimination. As David Gilmore writes in his book Monsters, a monster is “the demonization of the ‘Other’ in the image of the monster as a political device for scapegoating those whom the rules of society deem impure or unworthy—the transgressors and deviants.” These deviants are considered to be “deformed, amoral, [and] unsocialized to the point of inhumanness.” Take, for an example, the Nazi propaganda film The Eternal Jew where an early shot in the film showed rats emerging from a sewer juxtaposed with a crowd of Jewish persons in a Polish city. In America, as another example, proponents of anti-gay legislation have circulated pamphlets claiming that gay men eat human feces and drink human blood. In each of these instances, sociomoral disgust is used to demonize and scapegoat populations, creating “monsters” who are threatening to society.

The “monster” tends to be the nadir of sociomoral disgust, the final outworking of its logic in which people are dehumanized to the point of being ontologically Other. Worse, monsters are sub-human and malevolent, a source of social threat and danger. This is important to note as the category of “monster” tends to mask the mechanisms of social scapegoating. Scapegoating has become, for the most part, morally transparent. When named we consider scapegoating to be a social evil. In contrast, the monstrous tends to obscure the scapegoating mechanism. It does this in two ways. First, the monstrous activates disgust psychology. And once activated these feelings of revulsion justify the acts of social exclusion or violence. Second, while scapegoats are considered to be innocent and passive, monsters are dangerous, malevolent, and threatening. Again, this threat justifies violence against the “monster.” In short, the category “monster” is a visceral and emotional category that fuels the acts of social scapegoating. By analyzing the monstrous in relation to the scapegoat we are able to focus upon the social psychology of groups where the real moral battle against scapegoating is to be waged. No one knowingly engages in scapegoating. But crusades against monsters are all too common.

The word “monster” has its origins in the Latin monstrum meaning “omen” or “warning.” Given this meaning we might ask, what are monsters warning us about? A start on an answer comes from the anthropological literature. David Gilmore notes that monsters are cultural universals. Every culture has its monsters. And across cultures monsters appear to share similar characteristics. Gilmore lists many of these:

• Aggressive
• Gigantic
• Man-eating
• Malevolent
• Hybrids
• Gruesome
• Atavistic
• Powerful
• Violent

Fear dominates this list. Fears of predation. Fears of destruction. But, as noted above, disgust also seems implicated in the monster schema. Monsters, visually and in their behavior, trigger revulsion and disgust. From Gilmore’s list I’d like to analyze how purity and disgust are implicated in the feature of hybridization.

Monsters are often ontological mixtures, blends, and composites. A quick tour through the world of mythology and legend shows us this: minotaurs, centaurs, fauns, mermaids, Pegasus, unicorns. But many of these hybrids are not very monstrous. They are strange, otherworldly, and uncanny. But unicorns and centaurs don’t seem to be monsters, widely understood. In short, monsters are not simply hybrids. They are a certain kind of hybrid. If so, what kind?

Generally speaking, the hybrid must be transgressive, illicit, and taboo. The question then becomes, what makes a mixture illicit? Why am I not repulsed by angels (i.e., the depiction of winged people) but find a man with a bug-head monstrous?

I believe the illicit mixing seen in monsters involves the mixing, and therefore transgression, of the sacred. Disgust regulates our experience of what moral psychologists have called "the divinity dimension," how we monitor of the mixing of the holy and the profane. Given that sociomoral disgust is implicated in the creation of monsters (e.g., stigmatized groups like the Jews in Nazi Germany) it should come as no surprise that monsters are divinity violations. Something “high” on the divinity dimension is being mixed with something “low.” A man with a bug-head is taboo as it mixes something sacred (the human person created in the Imago Dei) and brings it into contact with something low and base, in this example an insect. By contrast, in Western traditions wings are symbols of the heavenly and the angelic. Thus, when wings are seen in depictions of angels we find the human/wing hybrid elevating rather than monstrous. In the propaganda art of Nazi Germany the Jew was hybridized with rodents. This rat/human hybrid allowed the Nazis to create a monster out of the Jew and, as a consequence, create widespread sociomoral disgust within the German population.

In short, the monster is often a symbol of degradation and contamination. In this, the monster is sub-human. This degradation triggers disgust and activates the expulsive response. The monster must be expelled or eliminated. This means that, once created, the monster often functions as a scapegoat. Again, this was clearly illustrated in Nazi Germany. Not only were the Jews made out to be monsters, they were also blamed and scapegoated for the German defeat in WWI and the nation’s subsequent humiliation.

As noted earlier, the “logic” of the scapegoat works if the scapegoat is seen as an object of defilement. This attribution activates disgust psychology which, in turn, makes scapegoating seem reasonable, intuitive, and right. Somehow, purification is accomplished by an act of expulsion. Something vile on the “inside” is forced “out.” Scapegoating is the religious and social analogue of the vomit response in disgust, a violent rejection of a contaminant from the body. This is the same dynamic seen with the expulsion of monsters from the community. Monsters and their ilk, representing degradation and defilement, must be expelled from the community to secure a “cleansing.” Thus, it is no coincidence that the rodent-like Jew (the monstrous hybrid) fit nicely with the Nazi notion of national, blood, and ethnic purity...

In all of this we see connections between purity and violence...

As noted above, the creation of the monstrous tends to obscure the psychology behind scapegoating practices. Again, scapegoating has become a fairly transparent process, morally speaking. When exposed we understand scapegoating to be a social evil. But the category of the monster is less transparent. We don’t think we are scapegoating when we go after monsters because, well, they are monsters...This is largely a consequence of the fact that the monstrous is an attribution fueled by the passions, very often the emotions of disgust and revulsion. Monsters are transgressive hybrids, objects of desecration and degradation. Consequently, sociomoral disgust makes it difficult for us to step back from monster-hunting crusades to expose the scapegoating mechanisms at work within our own hearts and minds.

But here is some good news: We moderns, in the wake of the gospel, have grown wary of scapegoating. We know “witch hunts” are often misguided and immoral. And this observation also converges upon the monster myths. Monsters are, strangely, both victims and victimizers. This imbues monster stories with a complicated ambivalence. At the communal level monsters are malevolent and dangerous. This provokes the expulsive response. But many monster stories, like the gospel accounts, have a subplot that sits in tension with the dominant expulsive narrative. Often, the monster is discovered to be kind, charitable, and human. The violent mob, in fact, is now the true monster. In a moral inversion we come to identify with the monster over those who seek to kill him. The stories of Frankenstein and Disney’s Beauty and the Beast come to mind. Embedded in the monster myth is the gospel-induced fear that we, in seeking to kill monsters, have become the monster. It is as Nietzsche warned in Beyond Good and Evil: “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster.”

As this year's spooky season comes to a close, I wanted to revisit three posts I shared last year, pulled together and reedited here, about why I think Bram Stoker's Dracula is one of the greatest Christian novels ever written. 

The reason for this claim concerns what I'll call Dracula's "Christian realism." By Christian realism I mean that the Christian faith provides the novel's account of reality. God, evil, heaven, the human soul, prayer, and the spiritual power of sacred things are all treated as objectively real. 

The Christian realism of Dracula is especially evident in the tension between faith and modernity. The novel sits at the cusp of the Old World and the New, poised between ancient superstition and scientific progress. The story dances between skepticism and faith.

That dance is mainly played out between Dr. John “Jack” Seward and his former professor Abraham Van Helsing. Seward, as a psychiatrist, is a modern man of science. But when he is stumped by Lucy Westenra's symptoms, he calls upon Van Helsing, his former professor. Van Helsing soon begins to suspect that something occult is going on, but he refrains from disclosing his thoughts to Seward. Knowing him to be a modern, scientific man, Van Helsing anticipates that Seward will be skeptical about his diagnosis of the problem. Consequently, as things unfold, it is between Van Helsing and Seward where the issues of faith and doubt in the modern world come out in the novel.

For example, early on, in discussing Seward's perplexity at Lucy's ailment, Van Helsing says to him:

“You are a clever man, friend John. You reason well, and your wit is bold, but you are too prejudiced. You do not let your eyes see nor your ears hear, and that which is outside your daily life is not of account to you. Do you not think that there are things which you cannot understand, and yet which are, that some people see things that others cannot? But there are things old and new which must not be contemplated by men's eyes, because they know, or think they know, some things which other men have told them. Ah, it is the fault of our science that it wants to explain all, and if it explain not, then it says there is nothing to explain.”

Later in this same conversation, Van Helsing asks Seward to open his mind, to set aside his scientific prejudices, so that Van Helsing can disclose what he thinks is happening:

“Well, I shall tell you. My thesis is this, I want you to believe.”

“To believe what?”

“To believe in things which you cannot. Let me illustrate. I heard once of an American who so defined faith, ‘that faculty which enables us to believe things which we know to be untrue.’ For one, I follow that man. He meant that we shall have an open mind, and not let a little bit of truth check the rush of the big truth, like a small rock does a railway truck. We get the small truth first. Good! We keep him, and we value him, but all the same we must not let him think himself all the truth in the universe.”

This exchange captures how Van Helsing is a man of two worlds, a man of science and a man of faith. Seward's epistemology, by contrast, is small and asymmetrical. Science, for Seward, has collected a pile of pebbles we call “facts.” But he lets those small truths, even a single pebble, derail the entire train. The granular, factual, and small blinds Seward to larger realities.

To be clear, Van Helsing values science. All those facts, those small truths, we keep and value them. But we don't let this handful of facts trick us into thinking we have in our possession all the truth in the universe.

In short, in the novel Dracula Van Helsing presents us with an epistemological ideal. As a man of science, he is firmly planted in the modern world and is at home there. But as a man of faith, Van Helsing is also able to perceive larger and greater realities that his more modern student, Dr. Seward, cannot. Seward can only see illness. Van Helsing can see both illness and evil, and this greater perceptual range makes him the champion of the story.

The Christian realism of Dracula is also evident in the understanding of the characters about what is at stake. The Harkers, the couple at the center of the drama, are Protestant. Professor Abraham Van Helsing is a devout Catholic. Consequently, the group trying to defeat Dracula pray together and explicitly view their battle against Dracula as a spiritual conflict. As Van Helsing says:

“Thus are we ministers of God's own wish. That the world, and men for whom His Son die, will not be given over to monsters, whose very existence would defame Him. He have allowed us to redeem one soul already, and we go out as the old knights of the Cross to redeem more. Like them we shall travel towards the sunrise. And like them, if we fall, we fall in good cause.”

Before the climactic encounter with Dracula, the group prays with Van Helsing: “O God, give me light in the darkness!”

The reality of heaven also plays a key role in the drama of the story. The status of Lucy Westenra's soul is at risk if the group cannot free her from the curse. As Van Helsing explains, “When this now Un-Dead be made to rest as true dead, then the soul of the poor lady whom we love shall again be free.” When Lucy's soul is freed, Van Helsing declares, “No longer she is the devil's Un-Dead. She is God's true dead, whose soul is with Him!”

The stakes of the story, then, are not merely biological. Dracula is not simply killing people. He is violating and corrupting human beings who belong to God.

And finally, Christian realism shows up in the weapons used against Dracula: holy water, rosaries, crucifixes and, most importantly, the Consecrated Host. The use of the Host might be surprising. In modern vampire stories you often see crucifixes held aloft. But in Stoker's story, the Host is Van Helsing's weapon of choice. The Host is used to repulse a vampire from attacking. The Host is used to despoil tombs and coffins so they cannot be used by vampires. The Host is used to determine if someone has been tainted by Dracula's blood. And crumbled bits of the Host are used to create protective circles that Dracula cannot enter.

In short, Christian realism suffuses the book. There are real spiritual powers at work, for both good and evil. Very early in the novel, before Jonathan Harker goes to Dracula's castle, a peasant woman, fearing for his safety, gives him a crucifix. Later on, upon finding himself trapped in the castle, Jonathan finds comfort in the crucifix. And its comfort causes Jonathan to question his Protestant misgivings about the object:

“It [the crucifix] is an odd thing which I have been taught to regard with disfavor and as idolatrous should in a time of loneliness and trouble be of help. Is it that there is something in the essence of the thing itself, or that it is a medium, a tangible help, in conveying memories of sympathy and comfort? Some time, if it may be, I must examine this matter and try to make up my mind about it.”

Jonathan is standing here, early in the novel, in that liminal space between the old, traditional faith and scientific modernity. He wonders if the crucifix possesses spiritual potency—“something in the essence of the thing itself”—or if it's just a comforting memory. And as the story progresses, Jonathan's doubts will be dispelled. The crucifix, along with other holy and consecrated objects, does possess spiritual power. There is, truly and powerfully, “something in the essence of the thing itself.” 

This is what I mean by the Christian realism of Dracula. Christianity provides the ontology of the novel, sets the definitions of the real. 

Simply put, in Dracula the Christian faith is true.

Throughout this series, I have been exploring the idea of "transplant shock" and how it helps us understand the challenges facing spiritual formation in low-church Protestant spaces.

The metaphor, I hope, is both straightforward and memorable. When you transplant a plant from one ecosystem into another, the transplant may be possible. But because the soil and climate are different, the plant can struggle to survive and thrive.

I have argued that spiritual formation practices in Protestant spaces can face transplant shock. Practices that originated within Catholic and Orthodox traditions can struggle when transplanted into low-church Protestant spaces. And in this series, I have described a few reasons why.

The first and most obvious contrast, which frames everything that follows, is the cultural contrast between Catholicism and low-church Protestantism. Specifically, the "protest" part of Protestantism needs to be attended to. Historically and culturally, Protestantism has defined itself in contrast to Catholicism, often strongly and aggressively so. Consequently, practices associated with Catholicism can trigger allergic reactions. Candles, liturgical seasons, prayers from historic traditions, and practices like the examen or Lectio Divina feel suspicious simply because they appear "too Catholic."

The second contrast concerned communal versus individualistic soils. Historically, many spiritual formation practices were communal expectations and experiences. Everyone was doing them together. But in low-church Protestant spaces, these practices are often optional and individualized, which can morph spiritual formation into self-help, wellness, and optimization projects.

The third contrast concerned sanctification versus justification soils. Catholic and Orthodox traditions view salvation as a process of transformation into deeper participation in the life of God. In this view, spiritual practices are integral to salvation. Protestantism, by contrast, has emphasized justification. As a result, practices focused on discipline, effort, and transformation can trigger a "works-based righteousness" anxiety in Protestant spaces.

Closely related to the third contrast is the fourth: unitive versus forensic soils. Catholic and Orthodox traditions understand salvation as a journey toward divine union and theosis. Consequently, purification and transformation are not optional but the very means of salvation, the path toward the Beatific Vision. Protestantism, by contrast, has emphasized a forensic vision of salvation, where salvation is God's legal declaration of righteousness. Thus, practices aimed at purification and union with God can struggle in spaces where transformation is perceived as secondary to a juridical verdict of pardon.

The fifth contrast concerned monastic versus domestic/vocational soils. Many of the practices Protestants are recovering originated within monastic traditions, where the practices were integral to daily life. But when these practices are transplanted into ordinary family and vocational life, they are experienced as something inserted into or added onto our already crowded lives.

The sixth contrast concerned synergistic versus monergistic soils. Historically, both the Catholic and Orthodox traditions understood salvation as human cooperation with grace. We work because God is at work in us. Protestant traditions, by contrast, tend to be more suspicious of human effort. Consequently, the effort, strain, and discipline involved in many spiritual practices are experienced as threatening to grace.

The seventh contrast concerned ascetical/penitential versus therapeutic/affirmational soils. Practices like fasting, confession, self-denial, and Lent grew within traditions that assumed repentance, mortification, and penance. When these practices are transplanted into therapeutic and affirmational cultures, their underlying logic and rationale can be lost or simply rejected.

The eighth and last contrast concerned merit versus imputed righteousness. Within Catholicism, prayer, fasting, almsgiving, and acts of mercy are recognized and rewarded by God. When transplanted into traditions where merit is rejected, however, one of the most straightforward rationales for engaging in spiritual practices—that God delights in and rewards good deeds—has been removed.

Okay, given all of these locations of transplant shock, what are we to do about it?

Here's the point I want to make. Transplant shock does not mean the transplant cannot work. But because the plant is now living in a new ecosystem, it will require intentional attention. For example, if the new climate is drier, you'll need to water it more frequently. The soil may need to be fertilized. There are different pests to deal with. The point is that the plant can grow, but it will need continuous ecological cultivation to survive and thrive in the new environment.

And the same is true of spiritual formation practices in Protestant spaces.

The transplant can work, and it does work. But because the soil is different, Protestant communities will need to attend to that soil consistently and attentively, especially if they want spiritual formation to become a shared ecclesial practice rather than an individualistic, opt-in, DIY project.

For example, Dallas Willard's point that grace is not opposed to effort but opposed to earning will need to be repeated over and over again. Just like watering a plant, Protestant communities will need to continually cultivate a theological environment where discipline, practice, and effort are understood as cooperation with grace rather than a creeping works-based righteousness.

Relatedly, while sermons preaching gospel assurance will remain, they will need to be supplemented with sermons about sanctification, transformation, discipleship, and participation in the life of God.

In addition, churches will need to cultivate these practices communally rather than leaving them entirely to individual choice and preference.

And lastly, churches will need to continuously explain the rationale and purposes of many practices. Every year, for example, the purpose of Lent will need to be revisited and clarified. For my part, I find these annual "explainers" repetitive and exhausting, but they illustrate how Lent is an exotic transplant in my space.

In short, our response to transplant shock isn't abandoning the plant. It is attending to the new soil and the needs of the plant within the new ecosystem. Spiritual formation in Protestant spaces will require ongoing ecological cultivation. The transplant can work, and even flourish, but only if we learn how to cultivate the new soil.

One more contrast between the soils of spiritual formation.

Historically, the practices of spiritual formation grew within a Catholic worldview that espoused a theology of merit. Now, that word “merit” is going to sound strange and very suspicious to Protestants. But merit is an important notion within Catholicism. Simply put, what we do, in cooperation with God’s grace, is both recognized and rewarded by God.

As the Catechism of the Catholic Church says: “Moved by the Holy Spirit and by charity, we can then merit for ourselves and for others the graces needed for our sanctification, for the increase of grace and charity, and for the attainment of eternal life” (CCC 2010). Now, to be clear, and this is very important, the Catechism is keen to describe how our meritorious acts are rooted in and flow from grace: “The merit of man before God in the Christian life arises from the fact that God has freely chosen to associate man with the work of his grace” (CCC 2008). Recall from earlier in this series, we’re within a synergistic context where human effort flows from and cooperates with God’s grace. Thus, the Catechism points out, “the merit of good works is to be attributed in the first place to the grace of God, then to the faithful” (CCC 2008). Grace does not erase human agency and effort. Grace empowers our agency and effort. “The merits of our good works are gifts of the divine goodness” (CCC 2009).

A theological vision of merit has biblical roots. The New Testament often speaks of crowns, inheritances, and treasures in heaven. Most significantly for our purposes, in 1 Corinthians 3:13-15 Paul describes the Day when each person’s work will be tested by fire. Some work will be burned away, while other work will endure. And those whose work survives, Paul says, “will receive a reward.”

Notice the spiritual formation soil this creates. Fasting, prayer, giving alms, the works of mercy, and self-denial are acts of obedience and love that God chooses to both recognize and reward.

Protestantism, by contrast, came to reject a theology of merit in favor of “imputed righteousness.” That is to say, Christ’s righteousness is credited to us through faith and nothing we do is “meritorious.” Consequently, Protestantism has been suspicious of language regarding eschatological merit and reward.

For the purposes of this series, the issue here isn’t theological, about who is right or wrong about merit. My concern is the historical soil where spiritual formation practices originated and the soil where we’re attempting a transplant. The contrast I’m highlighting in this post concerns how many of the practices Protestants are attempting to recover grew within a theological world where merit was assumed, beliefs that God rewards our good deeds. Consequently, when these practices are transplanted into Protestant soil there can be a subtle motivational shift. How so? Well, since merit is a suspect category, the disciplines must justify themselves as technologies of transformation rather than as something intrinsically pleasing to God. When this happens, spiritual practices can become vulnerable to self-help culture, morphing into tools of self-optimization. Simply put, the practices come to be justified through their effects upon us rather than through their virtue and value before God. A simple and straightforward motivation for engaging in spiritual formation—obedience and a desire to please God—becomes lost.

To be sure, this isn’t a huge issue. And spiritual practices are primarily aimed at transformation rather than collecting “stars in our crown.” But noticing the differences in the spiritual formation soil, even if slight, can help us understand why some practices struggle with transplant shock.

Okay, we’ve worked through many overlapping contrasts in this series. In a final post, I want to sum up and draw out the implications for what all this means for spiritual formation in Protestant spaces.

"Wilt tho seen in hir how thou art lovid?" 

In Chapter 25 of Julian's Revelations we reach her eleventh (of sixteen) showings. In this showing, Julian sees Mary, the mother of Jesus, standing beside the cross:

our gode Lord lokyd downe on the ryte syde and browte to my mynde where our Lady stode in the tyme of His passion, and seid, Wilt the se here?

Translation:

Our good Lord looked down on the right side and brought to my mind where our Lady stood at the time of His passion, and said, "Do you wish to see her here?"

From there, the showing dwells upon Christ's delight in his mother, and in that delight she comes to represent the delight Christ has in us:

And also to more understondyng this swete word our Lord God spekyth to al mankynde that shal be save, as it were al to one person, as if He seyd, "Wilt tho seen in hir how thou art lovid? For thy love I made her so hey, so noble, and so worthy, and this likyth me, and so wil I that it doith the." For after Hymselfe, she is the most blisful syte. 

Translation:

And also, for more understanding this sweet word our Lord God speaks to all humankind that shall be saved, as though it were all to one person, as if He said, "Will you see in her how you are loved? For your love I made her so high, so noble, and so worthy, and this pleases me, and so I will that it pleases you." For after Himself, she is the most blessed sight.

Julian sees Mary as a representative of all of humanity. As Mary is loved, so we are loved. 

Christ speaks to all of humanity, as if to a single person, and asks: "Will you see in her how you are loved?"

Julian’s devotion to Mary in her Revelations highlights one of the most significant contrasts between Catholicism and Orthodoxy with Protestantism. In August, on Substack Notes, I shared that my favorite moment of the day during my retreat at the Abbey of Gethsemani was hearing the monks sing the Salve Regina, one of the great Marian antiphons of the Western Christian tradition, traditionally sung at the end of Compline in monastic settings. Salve means “Hail” in Latin, and Regina means “Queen.”

Hail, holy Queen, Mother of Mercy,
our life, our sweetness, and our hope.
To thee do we cry, poor banished children of Eve;
to thee do we send up our sighs,
mourning and weeping in this valley of tears.
Turn then, most gracious advocate,
thine eyes of mercy toward us;
and after this our exile
show unto us the blessed fruit of thy womb, Jesus.
O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary.

The next contrast between the soils of spiritual formation concerns ascetical and penitential practices versus therapeutic and affirmational spirituality.

Historically, many of the practices Protestants are attempting to recover emerged within traditions that embraced asceticism and penance. Fasting, confession, self-denial, and seasons like Lent assume that the Christian life involves mortification. To be clear, the point isn’t self-hatred or self-punishment. Rather, these traditions assume that the ego must be disciplined in putting our sinful habits to death. These practices make sense within a spirituality that expects repentance, renunciation, and self-denial. As Paul says in 1 Corinthians 9:24–27:

Do you not know that in a race the runners all compete, but only one receives the prize? Run in such a way that you may win it. Athletes exercise self-control in all things; they do it to receive a perishable wreath, but we an imperishable one. So I do not run aimlessly, nor do I box as though beating the air, but I punish my body and enslave it, so that after proclaiming to others I myself should not be disqualified.

Sit with that: “I punish my body and enslave it.”

In contrast to this ascetical mortification, low-church Protestantism, given its emphasis upon justification and gospel assurance, has tended to preach messages that lean toward the therapeutic and affirmational. The dominant pastoral concern is helping people trust that they are forgiven, accepted, and loved by God.

All that is to the good, but as Christian Smith’s research has famously described, such preaching tends toward “moralistic therapeutic deism.” That is to say, the gospel in low-church Protestantism—and this is especially true with the prosperity gospel—comes to function as a source of personal happiness, emotional well-being, and therapeutic support. The Christian life becomes less about repentance and mortification than about personal happiness and wellness.

So you can see the transplant shock brewing here. Practices that grew within ascetical soil can struggle when transported into a therapeutic context.

Think about fasting. Historically, fasting is an act of mortification. We willingly embrace discomfort. Hunger itself, its pain, is an integral part of the practice. But within a therapeutic culture, voluntarily embracing pain demands an explanation. Why deny yourself? Why choose this hardship? Why cultivate practices that frustrate your desires? Truly, I’ve struggled to explain the purpose of fasting in low-church Protestant spaces because these contexts simply do not understand self-mortification as a spiritual practice. Once again: transplant shock.

Another example is how low-church Protestants attempt to celebrate Lent.

Historically, Lent is a penitential season. Lent prepares us for Easter through fasting, confession, repentance, and self-denial. But Protestantism doesn’t have a theology of penance. Consequently, Lent morphs. Rather than being a season of repentance and mortification, Lent becomes a season to “be more intentional,” to establish healthier habits, deepen one’s devotional life, or pursue personal spiritual growth. And to be clear, all that is good stuff. But notice the change. Lent becomes a season of spiritual self-actualization rather than a season of penance. The practice has been retained, but its underlying logic has shifted. Here we are again: transplant shock.

One more example.

Many progressive and liberal Christians have embraced contemplative spirituality. But you often encounter subtle modifications to these practices that reveal another kind of transplant shock. For example, consider the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.”

Whenever I talk about this prayer, or hear it recited, in progressive and liberal spaces I get pushback about the final bit of the prayer, with people leaving off “a sinner.”

Why does “a sinner” disappear?

Well, the anthropology of the monastic tradition where the Jesus Prayer originated sits uneasily within the more optimistic, humanistic assumptions of progressive Christianity. The monastic tradition assumed that spiritual transformation begins with repentance. By contrast, contemporary progressive spirituality assumes that spiritual transformation begins with self-acceptance. Those are very different starting points! As you likely know, the language of sin in liberal and progressive spaces strikes many as morbid and psychologically unhealthy, even when the recognition of sin sits at the heart of the spiritual practice itself. So they modify the practice to suit the therapeutic and affirmational soil.

Again, it’s an example of transplant shock. Practices are being detached from the theological and anthropological worlds that produced them. And when those assumptions are no longer shared, the practices begin to change. Sometimes dramatically, making the practice almost unrecognizable.

The next contrast between the soils of spiritual formation I want to consider concerns synergism versus monergism, how we think about divine/human agency.

Historically, Catholicism and Orthodoxy have understood salvation as synergistic. That is to say, God initiates, empowers, and sustains, but human beings genuinely cooperate with grace. As Paul says, “Work out your own salvation with fear and trembling; for it is God who is at work in you...” Divine and human action are not in a competitive or rivalrous relation. Synergism espouses a non-zero-sum vision of salvation. God’s agency does not displace or shove aside human agency. Nor does human agency displace or shove aside God’s agency. The vision is that the more fully God is at work within us, the more fully we become ourselves.

As should be obvious, this synergistic vision is good soil for spiritual formation. Synergism makes perfect sense for practices like fasting, prayer, contemplation, confession, silence, and acts of mercy which require effort, discipline, and perseverance. Spiritual growth implies our cooperation with grace. We strain. We struggle. And we sweat. And we exert this effort not because God’s grace is absent, but because God’s grace is, in fact, empoweringly present. Human effort is not the opposite of divine action. Human effort is, rather, the very manifestation of grace in our lives.

Historically, however, Protestantism has tended to cultivate a different instinct. To be clear, there are important differences between Lutherans, the Reformed tradition, Wesleyans, and others in how they envision things like free will and God’s actions in our salvation. But particularly in the wake of Luther’s Bondage of the Will and later Calvinist emphases, Protestant spirituality has often been shaped by a monergistic imagination. Salvation is God’s work alone. Human beings contribute nothing.

Within this monergistic imagination, divine and human action are pitted against each other. The agency of God and humanity is imagined to be competitive. The more God does, the less I do. The relation here is zero-sum. Grace and effort are experienced as opposites. Thus, any human effort at all feels suspiciously like a works-righteousness.

Which brings us back to transplant shock.

Many of the practices Protestants are trying to recover were cultivated in synergistic soil. The practices assume discipline, work, effort, sweat, and toil. Spiritual growth involves real human exertion in cooperating with grace.

When these practices are transplanted into monergistic soil, however, all this effort becomes spiritually unsettling. This is why Dallas Willard had to say, over and over again, that grace is not opposed to effort. It is, rather, opposed to earning. Willard’s line has become one of the most quoted sentences in evangelical spiritual formation precisely because of what I’m calling transplant shock. Within a synergistic context, Willard’s clarification is unnecessary. Of course, effort and grace are not competitors. Prior to the Protestant Reformation no one imagined that fasting or contemplation would threaten grace.

The popularity of Willard’s distinction illustrates how invitations to the spiritual disciplines within Protestantism must overcome a default suspicion of effort in spiritual formation. That is to say, the monergistic soil of Protestantism is resisting the synergistic plant. The difficulty here isn’t persuading Protestants to practice the disciplines. It’s that many Protestants have inherited a theological imagination that makes the disciplines themselves feel spiritually suspect.

Another instance of transplant shock concerns the contrast between monastic and domestic/vocational forms of life.

Many of the spiritual practices Protestants try to recover—fasting, fixed-hour prayer, contemplation, silence, solitude, a rule of life—were cultivated within monastic communities. Consequently, these practices were not designed for ordinary family life or the demands of a modern workplace. These practices emerged within a social ecology where the rhythms of the day revolved around prayer.

This is easy to forget because we tend to think of spiritual disciplines as isolated techniques. But in their original context these practices were not stand-alone habits. They formed an integrated way of life within monastic communities. Everything revolved around prayer, work, silence, fasting, and worship.

By contrast, modern Protestant life is very different. Our days are structured around work and family. Yes, we’re busy, and that’s a problem, but the crucial thing to note is how our lives are organized around entirely different rhythms and focused upon very different concerns. Consequently, many monastic practices can feel unnatural rather than organic. Fixed-hour prayer conflicts with work schedules and errand running. Silence is interrupted by children. Solitude competes with domestic chaos and busyness. We’re back to transplant shock. We’re trying to grow a plant in soil very different from where it first originated.

More, monastic disciplines were not intended to add to an already crowded to-do list. The practices were the to-do list. There wasn’t a challenge to find time for prayer within a busy schedule because prayer was the schedule. We, however, are forced to ask, “How do I fit some time for contemplation into my schedule today?” 

As a consequence, the practices we adopt can easily become technologies of self-improvement. Something we use to optimize our spiritual lives. In such cases, a rule of life can become akin to a productivity regimen with a spiritual twist. Contemplation is used for relaxation and stress management. Sabbath is a day at the spa or a weekend getaway. To be clear, none of these things are inherently bad. But the goal of the practices has subtly changed. Rather than a way of life ordered toward God, the disciplines become techniques for optimizing the self.

The issue, again, is transplant shock. That said, there is good work being done on this front. Tish Harrison Warren's Liturgy of the Ordinary. Ronald Rolheiser's Domestic Monastery. And Rabbit Room Press' Every Moment Holy. Holiness and sanctification have to be pursued in the midst of the domestic and the vocational. There is nowhere else for our spiritual transformation to occur. It happens there or nowhere. But at the same time we have to attend to the chronic desolations of trying to transplant monastic practices into the the soil of ordinary family life, neighborhoods, friendships, and daily work. The transplanting can happen, but it has to be done with thoughtfulness and care.

This post is really just a continuation from the last one, where we contrasted how spiritual formation is experienced within soteriological visions that emphasize either sanctification or justification. I want to dig a little deeper here.

In Catholicism and Orthodoxy the purpose of sanctification is union with God. As Jesus put it in the Beatitudes, the pure in heart see God. Thus, achieving purity of heart creates the capacity to see God. In the Orthodox vision, this journey is called theosis, our becoming like God. One can see, therefore, how ascetical practices are integral to this journey. Sin must be purged in order for salvation, understood as union with God, is to be achieved.

A literary example of this is Dante’s Divine Comedy, especially Part 2, The Purgatorio. In The Purgatorio the saints ascend the seven levels of Mount Purgatory. On each level of the mountain one of the seven deadly sins is purged. Consequently, as the saints go up the mountain, level by level, they are purified and cleansed of sin. They experience complete purgation when they arrive at the top of the mountain. And this purity allows them to ascend through the seven circles of heaven to finally arrive at the Beatific Vision.

Notice how, in Dante’s vision, the presence of sin prevents divine union. Holiness and purity are, therefore, necessary for salvation. In this sense, spiritual formation just is salvation. Without personal holiness, salvation is impossible.

In Protestant spaces, by contrast, salvation is framed not as divine union but juridically and forensically. Salvation isn’t personal purity but is, rather, a legal declaration. Crucially, this is a declaration that you are saved while yet being a sinner, and even as you remain a sinner. This makes sense if salvation is a legal verdict, but it is impossible if divine union is the goal. Our sin would always intrude.

I bring all this up because, within the spiritual formation tradition, there is a description of what is called the three-fold path: the Purgative Way, the Illuminative Way, and the Unitive Way.

The Purgative Way is the start of of our spiritual journey and it involves the soul being cleansed and purified from sin. Through repentance, ascetic practices, and prayer we distance ourselves from sin and our virtue is stabilized. Our disordered desires are gradually healed.

Next is the Illuminative Way. As our virtue is stabilized we become increasingly more aware of God. Better able to walk in step with God, more capable of seeing and hearing God. Our communion and connection with God becomes more constant.

And finally, the Unitive Way is the culmination of the journey. The purified and illuminated soul deepens its participation in the life of God. In the language of 2 Peter we come to share in the divine nature. An ontological transformation begins to take place.

So here’s the point. The three-fold path makes sense within the historical soil of Catholicism and Orthodoxy because those traditions have generally understood salvation as a developmental journey toward divine union. The movement from purification to illumination to union is not an optional add-on to salvation, it is salvation itself.

But when these practices are transplanted into traditions whose dominant soteriological vision is forensic and juridical, transplant shock can occur. Practices developed within a framework of theosis can be adopted in spaces where the underlying vision of salvation remains justification. The practices are transplanted, but their original purpose and logic can become unclear or misunderstood. Simply put, the integral relation between spiritual formation and salvation has been severed. When salvation is primarily understood to be a legal declaration then the need for purification and transformation becomes secondary and optional rather than as necessary and urgent.

"Lo, how I lovid the"

Chapter 24 of Julian's Revelations is a lovely chapter, worth sharing in full. 

Julian sees Jesus look into his wounded side. And in one of her more mystical insights, she sees within that wound all of humanity held in peace and love. 

Within the wound Julian also sees Jesus' heart, cut in two. This is one of the earliest descriptions of the Sacred Heart within the tradition. 

And finally, said multiple times in this chapter, is how Jesus wants Julian to understand his wound: "Lo, how I loved you":

Than with a glad chere our Lord loked into His syde and beheld, enjoyand; and with His swete lokyng He led forth the understondyng of His creture be the same wound into Hys syde withinne. And than He shewid a faire, delectabil place and large enow for al mankynd that shal be save to resten in pece and in love. And therwith He browte to mende His dereworthy blode and pretious water which He lete poure al oute for love. And with the swete beholdyng He shewid His blisful herte even cloven on two. And with this swete enjoyyng He shewid onto myn understondyng, in party, the blissid Godhede, steryng than the pure soule for to understonde, as it may be said; that is to mene, the endles love that was without begynnyng, and is, and shal be ever.

And with this our gode Lord seyd full blisfully, Lo, how that I lovid the; as if He had seid, "My derling, behold and se thy Lord, thy God that is thy maker and thyn endles joy; se what likyng and bliss I have in thy salvation, and for my love enjoy now with me." And also, for more understondyng, this blissid word was seyd: Lo, how I lovid the. Behold and se that I lovid the so mekyl ere I deyd for the that I wold dey for the, and now I have deyd for the, and suffrid wilfu/y that I may. And now is al my bitter peyne and al my hard travel turnyd to endles joy and bliss to me and to the. How should it now be that thou should onythyng pray me that lekyth me, but if I shuld fut gladly grant it the? For my lekyng is thy holynes and thyn end/es joy and bliss with me.

This is the understondyng simply as I can sey of this blissid word, Lo, how I lovid the. This shewid our gode Lord for to make us glad and mery.

Translation:

Then, with a glad countenance, our Lord looked into His side and beheld, rejoicing; and with His sweet gaze He led the understanding of His creature by the same wound into His side within. And then He showed a fair, delightful place, large enough for all humanity that shall be saved to rest in peace and in love. And with that He brought to mind His worthy blood and precious water which He let pour all out for love. And with the sweet beholding He showed His blissful heart even cleft in two. And with this sweet rejoicing He showed unto my understanding, in part, the blessed Godhead, stirring then the pure soul to understand, as it may be said; that is to mean, the endless love that was without beginning, and is, and shall be ever.

And with this our good Lord said full blissfully, “Lo, how I loved you”; as if He had said, “My darling, behold and see your Lord, your God that is your maker and your endless joy; see what liking and bliss I have in your salvation, and for my love rejoice now with me.” And also, for more understanding, this blessed word was said: “Lo, how I loved you.” Behold and see that I loved you so much before I died for you that I would have died for you, and now I have died for you, and suffered willingly all that I may. And now is all my bitter pain and all my hard travail turned to endless joy and bliss to me and to you. How could it be that you should ask me for anything that pleases me, and I would not gladly grant it to you? For my pleasure is your holiness and your endless joy and bliss with me.

This is the understanding simply as I can say of this blessed word, “Lo, how I loved you.” This showed our good Lord to make us glad and happy.

The vision that really strikes me, as I said above, is how Julian describes the Wound as a fair and delightful place, large enough for all of humanity to rest in peace and love.

A critical issue regarding spiritual formation in Protestant spaces concerns how spiritual formation relates to soteriology.

Historically, Catholicism and Orthodoxy have tended to emphasize a soteriological vision that privileges sanctification. Protestantism's soteriological vision, by contrast, has tended to privilege justification. The origin story of Protestantism illustrates the contrast. As a monk, Martin Luther struggled to perfect himself through the ascetical practices of monastic life. Luther, however, experienced these efforts as both wearying and guilt-inducing. In response to this despair, at least partially, Luther would come to articulate the doctrine of justification, which played a critical role in starting the Protestant Reformation.

Now, I don't want to distort or oversimplify here. So let me be clear. Catholicism and Orthodoxy believe in justification. And for its part, Protestantism believes in sanctification. But within Protestantism, there was a shift in soteriological emphasis that affects how spiritual formation is perceived and experienced in Protestant spaces.

Specifically, within Catholicism and Orthodoxy, salvation is understood as a developmental journey that draws us deeper into the life of God. The focus is on transformation. And importantly for this series, spiritual formation plays a crucial role in this transformation. Prayer, fasting, confession, contemplation, ascetic practices, and sacramental participation are the means by which God forms and transforms the believer. Spiritual formation is, therefore, not something added onto salvation. Spiritual formation is precisely the means of our salvation.

By contrast, Protestantism has tended to place its soteriological emphasis on justification. The central question concerns how sinful human beings can be declared righteous, from a forensic and juridical perspective, before God. The answer is God's gracious declaration of forgiveness, which we accept through faith. In this view, our forensic standing before God is not dependent upon our moral achievement or religious effort. Salvation is secured by grace alone. True, sanctification is an important part of the Christian life, but this transformation flows from our justification. Consequently, Protestant spirituality has often emphasized preaching, Scripture, and faith in Christ over spiritual formation practices. Gospel assurance is privileged over transformation.

This difference in soteriological emphasis helps explain why spiritual formation practices can trigger allergic reactions in Protestant spaces. Practices that developed within traditions where sanctification was integral to salvation can create anxiety and concern when transplanted into a tradition where justification is the focal soteriological concern. For example, language of spiritual effort, discipline, and progress, along with an emphasis on the necessity of transformation, can cause Protestants to fear a return to "works-based righteousness." A return to what Martin Luther was running from. Practices intended to cultivate transformation are, therefore, misunderstood as attempts to earn our salvation. Sadly, calls to spiritual formation can be resisted because they are experienced as undermining our salvation. And such misunderstandings are another example of transplant shock.

The next contrast between the soils of spiritual formation—the historical origins in Catholicism/Orthodoxy versus low-church Protestantism—is communal versus individualistic.

This is an obvious point, easily made, but it might be the most important contrast on the list.

Specifically, many of the spiritual formation practices within Catholicism/Orthodoxy are communal expectations and experiences. Everyone is doing it together. The practice is embedded in the community. The church is moving as one.

True, this is a bit of an idealization, as people in every Catholic and Orthodox parish might elect to opt out. Still, the experience is collective. The fasting. The holy days of obligation. These are expected of everyone, and they are done together.

This is not the case in low-church Protestantism. Since these practices are being transplanted, being exported from another ecclesial tradition, in low-church Protestant spaces the church is invited to participate in these experiences as individuals feel comfortable and interested. To be sure, many do participate, but the assumption is that you can elect not to. Because, again, the practice is foreign. For example, while my church celebrates Ash Wednesday, people who don't want to receive the imposition of ashes can elect not to. Relatedly, unlike the fasting norms in Catholicism and Orthodoxy, low-church Protestant churches typically do not fast together collectively. You, as an individual, are invited to adopt a fasting practice on your own, but that choice is up to you.

What this means is that, in Protestant spaces, spiritual formation is individualistic. And since people make different sorts of choices, spiritual formation in Protestant spaces is piecemeal and uneven, with people picking and choosing different sorts of practices, or none at all, as they please. Thus, while a church like mine might "celebrate Lent," that celebration isn't collective or cohesive. We're not doing it all together.

And again, this is due to transplant shock. A practice from a communal tradition is being transplanted into soil that has tended to privilege individual conscience over ecclesial authority and communal participation. And as we'll get to later in this series, this optionality regarding spiritual formation in Protestant spaces can actually have negative impacts. Specifically, it can play into the wellness-maxxing and optimizing tendencies found among achievement-oriented types. Instead of experiencing spiritual formation as a community, I select practices and disciplines for myself to optimize my spiritual life. And yet, perhaps the deepest rot at the heart of American Christianity is this very bias toward individualism and optimization. And if so, the way we do spiritual formation in Protestant spaces may actually be malforming us. Spiritual formation becomes a solo effort and an individual achievement rather than a collective experience of the church.