The Anchor That Holds
We have this hope as an anchor for the soul.
– Hebrews 6:19
It is difficult to describe the effect of spiritual disciplines on your life, the way it is difficult to describe anything that is a collection of largely-unimpressive moments. Most days, reading my Bible isn’t intellectually or emotionally remarkable. Sometimes I sit in silence or prayer without feeling much of anything. There always seem to be reasons that come up for canceling the spiritual retreats that I mostly go on because I know I should.
But spiritual disciplines matter. Some people liken it to the diet we eat: one donut won’t ruin your health, but the long-term accumulation of what you put into your body will affect you. Others liken it to filling up a gas tank: when difficulty strikes, what you have to go on is what you’ve already got in the tank. Some liken it to practicing an instrument: just as we wouldn’t expect anyone to get on stage and play a masterpiece without doing hours of scales, we can’t expect ourselves to suddenly live like Jesus if we haven’t put in any of the work. Others say spiritual disciplines are like the sails of a ship: yes, God does the work in us, but no amount of wind will power a ship forward if its sails are not up in proper position.
“When you miss your devotions one day, you notice. When you miss them two days, your spouse and kids notice. And when you miss them three days, the world notices.”
One way to know something’s effect is to remove it, the way you design experiments with control groups. And what I’ve come to realize is that, when I refrain from spiritual disciplines for any reason, the first thing I become aware of is always the same: an increased degree of perturbation. The dictionary defines perturbation as “the deviation of an object from its regular state or path, caused by an outside influence.” I become more susceptible to external influences of any kind: I am lured more easily, and angered more easily. Something that would typically not cause much anxiety instead prompts a wave of angst. Something that I would typically see through instead submerses me in a cloud of doubt.
It feels exactly like being unmoored, as if I am a ship being tossed about by the currents, susceptible to every wave that comes my way, battling to keep my balance and sometimes losing my sense of it altogether.
And the thing is, we don’t live in neutral waters. Have you noticed that an ocean current at the beach can take you from your original point of entry so subtly and effortlessly that you hardly realize it until you get out and find yourself having to walk back to where you left your things? The ocean is never still. Similarly, we don’t live in a vacuum. There are spiritual principalities and powers, visible and less visible, always at work in the world. The social habits, norms, assumed truths and values of our culture are always at work around us, for better and worse. And our own sinful nature never completely leaves us. We don’t live in neutral waters.
Spiritual disciplines are the anchor that keeps us moored, moored to invisible realities that are greater than the more visible ones around us. They hold us fast to promises and truths that feel beyond what we can see or reach for on our own. Each time we do them, we build another link in the chain that keeps us centered on the God and the kingdom that we’re living for. We don’t do them to earn God’s love. We don’t do them to be better thought of by others. We do them because it would be otherwise impossible not to be undone by the life unfolding around us. It would be otherwise impossible to consistently live for what matters. That, I can testify to.
Anchors exist underwater. They are by nature not visible to the casual observer. But their effect is undeniable. It’s the same with the spiritual disciplines that we practice.
