The Most Natural of All

While working through Dallas Willard’s suggested resources, I found this quote from Horatius Bonar in God’s Way of Holiness.  He lived from 1808 to 1889, was from a long line of ministers that served in the Church of Scotland for a total of 364 years, and was best remembered as a poet and hymn writer.  He penned the words of one of my favorite hymns which my family arranged on a music CD: “I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say.” (Click to hear it.)

I think he does a good job of explaining discipleship as a holy life.  He walks beyond a consumer concept of Christianity and it’s counter-part, super-Christianity.  Discipleship does not move towards a mere “liberal sympathy” nor a “punctual devotion,” but something entirely natural.  It is based on an unbroken fellowship with Jesus, with the goal of “not copying a copy, but copying [Christ] Himself.” What a joy to anticipate learning from the Master Teacher who will bring us to a place where we can become “like the most natural of all creatures, a little child.”

A holy life in man’s estimation may be simply a life of benevolence, or of austerity, or of punctual devotion, or of kindly geniality, or noble uprightness, or liberal sympathy with all creeds, all sects, all truths, and all errors. But a holy life in God’s estimation, and according to Bible teaching, must be founded upon truth, must begin personally, in conscious peace with God through the blood of the everlasting covenant, must grow with the increase of truth and deliverance from error, must be maintained by fellowship with God, in Christ Jesus, through the indwelling of the “Spirit of holiness” (Rom 1:4). Error or imperfect truth must hinder holiness. Uncertainty as to our reconciliation with God must cloud us, straiten us, fetter us, and so prevent the true holiness, besides also fostering the false. Fellowship must be preserved unbroken, that the transmission of the heavenly electricity, in all its sanctifying, quickening power, may go on uninterrupted. Nothing must come between: not the world, nor self, nor the flesh, nor vanity, nor idols, nor the love of ease and pleasure.

The Word must be studied in all its fullness. Over its whole length and breadth we must spread ourselves. Above all theologies, creeds, catechisms, books and hymns, the Word must be meditated on, that we may grow in the knowledge of all its parts, and in assimilation to its models. Our souls must be steeped in it, not in certain favourite parts of it, but in the whole. We must know it, not from the report of others, but from our own experience and vision, else will our life be but an imitation, our religion second-hand, and therefore second-rate. Another cannot breathe the air for us, nor eat for us, nor drink for us. We must do these for ourselves. So no one can do our religion for us, nor infuse into us the life of truth which he may possess. These are not things of proxy or merchandise, or human impartation. Out of the Book of God and by the Spirit of God must each one of us be taught, else we learn in vain. Hence the exceeding danger of human influence or authority. A place of influence in such a case becomes perilous alike to the possessor of the influence and to those over whom that sway is wielded. Even when altogether on the side of truth, its issue may be but an unfruitful formalism, a correct petrifaction, an intelligent orthodoxy, and both they who possess the influence or are under its power ought to be greatly on their guard lest the human supplant the divine, and the fear of God be “taught by the precept of men” (Isa 29:13)—lest an artificial piety be the result, a mere facsimile religion, without vitality, without comfort, and without influence.

One who has “learned of Christ,” who “walks with God,” will not be an artificial man, not one playing a part or sustaining a character. He will be thoroughly natural in manners, words, looks, tones, and habits. He will be like that most natural of all creatures, a little child. Christianity becomes repulsive the moment that it is suspected to be fictitious. Religion must be ingenuous. No affectation, nor pedantry, nor conceit, nor set airs, nor what the world calls “whining,” can serve the cause of Christ, or give weight to character, or win an adversary of the Cross. The “epistle of Christ,” to be “known and read of all men” (2Co 3:2) must be transparent and natural. In living for Christ, we must follow Him fully, not copying a copy, but copying Himself; otherwise ours will be an imperfect testimony, a reflected and feeble religion, devoid of ease, and simplicity, and grace, bearing the marks of imitation and art, if not of forgery.

(Bonar, Horatius. God's Way of Holiness (Kindle Locations 1308-1334). Chapel Library. Kindle Edition.)

Coming In Out of the Wind - Renewing the Mind

Discipleship to Christ cannot be described in merely negative terms.  “Do not be conformed to this world” is a necessary component of discipleship, but not a complete description.  Paul also says, “Be transformed by the renewing of your minds” in his letter to the Romans. The movement away from the world and its distractions must be matched by a corresponding move to Christ and his way of living. C. S. Lewis describes this movement well in this excerpt from Mere Christianity. Moving away from a life that is impossible – a sort of compromise with our old life and the new one – we find we can live a life powered by grace. We turn from our usual mechanisms for dealing with life to find that the kingdom of God is close at hand, utterly available to us. As Lewis says, “We can only do it for moments at first.  But from these moments the new sort of life will be spreading through our systems.”  Also he describes so well that such transformation often comes where we least expect it: “the very moment you wake up.”


The terrible thing, the almost impossible thing, is to hand over your whole self – all your wishes, and precautions – to Christ.  But it is far easier than what we are trying to do instead.  For what we are trying to do is remain what we call “ourselves,” to keep personal happiness as our great aim in life, and yet at the same time be “good.” We are all trying to let our mind and heart go their own way – centered on money or pleasure or ambition – and hoping, in spite of this, to behave honestly and chastely and humbly.

And that is what Christ warned us you could not do.  As He said, a thistle cannot produce figs.  If I am a field that contains nothing but grass-seed, I cannot produce wheat. Cutting the grass may keep it short: but I shall still produce grass and no wheat. If I want to produce wheat, the change must go deeper than the surface. I must be ploughed up and resown.

That is why the real problem of the Christian life comes where people do not usually look for it. It comes the very moment you wake up each morning. All your wishes and hopes for the day rush at you like wild animals. And the first job each morning consists simply in shoving them all back; in listening to that other voice, taking that other point of view, letting that other larger, stronger, quieter life come flowing in. And so on, all day. Standing back from all your natural fussings and frettings; coming in out of the wind.

We can only do it for moments at first. But from those moments the new sort of life will be spreading through our system: because now we are letting Him work at the right part of us. It is the difference between paint, which is merely laid on the surface, and a dye or stain which soaks right through.

He never talked vague, idealistic gas. When He said, “Be perfect,” He meant it. He meant that we must go in for the full treatment. It is hard; but the sort of compromise we are all hankering after is harder – in fact, it is impossible. It may be hard for an egg to turn into a bird; it would be a jolly sight harder tor it to learn to fly while remaining an egg. We are like eggs at present. And you cannot go on indefinitely being just an ordinary, decent egg. We must be hatched or go bad.

(Smith and Foster, Devotional Classics, p.9)

A Life That Does Not Work - Conforming to This World

Standing opposite to being “transformed by the renewal of your mind” is Paul’s instruction “do not be conformed to this world” in his letter to the Romans. As we have been studying discipleship in our small group, we have found that conforming to the world is more than just doing the bad things everyone else is doing. It is trying to live a life that does not work. In this excerpt from Dallas Willard’s book The Spirit of the Disciplines, we see that conformity to the world not only corners us into moral ambiguities, it strikes at the very heart of who we are and what we are called to be.  It makes life a march instead of a dance, black and white instead of color, bound up instead of loosened. Discipleship is for life in all of its fullness, not just for church or charity.

The English philosopher and critic John Ruskin. . . said this of the human:  

His true life is like that of lower organic beings, the independent force by which he moulds and governs external things; it is a force of assimilation which converts everything around him into food, or into instruments; and which, however humbly or obediently it may listen to or follow the guidance of superior intelligence, never forfeits its own authority as a judging principle and as a will capable of either obeying or rebelling.  

Ruskin proceeds to contrast this “true” life with the “false” life that is possible, and too often reality, for human beings: a false life of custom and accident “in which we do what we have not purposed, and speak what we do not mean, and assent to what we do not understand; that life which is overlaid by the weight of things external to it, and is moulded by them instead of assimilating them.” How often do we feel like this in our day-to-day life, doing and saying things we don’t mean just to get along with the world around us?

 Once I counseled a sensitive and intelligent young woman who was quite miserable in her job at a department store. She told me that on the weekends she felt as if she had been “dug up” from being “buried” during the week. This graphically expressed the sense that her activities at work were not really hers, that she therefore was dead (“buried”) during that time, only to come to life (be “dug up”) on the weekends when her activities originated from within herself.

What constitutes the individuality and uniqueness that make living things precious? It is their inner source of activity. One brick or board may be as good as another since it has no inner life. But to treat one person as replaceable by another is not to treat them as persons at all. It denies the inner source, the originative power that is a human life. And that is why doing so is regarded as dehumanizing.

Some persons may indeed try to abdicate their life, disown their spontaneity, seek security by “conforming” to what is outside of them. But they don’t actually escape life or their responsibility for it. They only succeed in appearing “wooden,” unlively. We may know what to expect from them, but we have as little delight in them as they do in themselves.

Ever wonder why we love the frankness, the audacity of the little child? It’s because a child presents life in an unblushing directness that permits no mistake about its originality and therefore its individuality.

 It’s the same reason we delight in the frolics of a puppy or the lollings about of a panda. These are so utterly gratuitous that they could, we think, only be evidences of an inward life completely unrestrained. And we love them for it.

(Willard, Dallas. The Spirit of the Disciplines (pp. 59-60). Harper Collins, Inc.. Kindle Edition.)