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Transformation is the evangelical mantra of our times. Everyone either hopes for it or promises it. Transformation of self. Transformation of church. Transformation of culture.

Faithful readers of this column know such talk makes me nervous, and I've not hesitated to puncture some of the inflated rhetoric surrounding the word. But as my loving wife is not hesitant to point out, I sometimes seem more interested in being provocative than in being clear. Fair enough—and that's only one of my character flaws. So let's see if I can be more clear.

(I fear, however, that being clear will only result in my being even more provocative!)

Whenever I suggest that transformation should not be main motive of the Christian life, many reply, "What's the point of being a Christian if it's not going to make a difference?" Or as one commenter put it, "Okay, so we just can't expect much to happen. … I'm off to the golf course." (That's not a bad suggestion, actually. Because golf, which I absolutely love, is one of the most useless sports ever invented. There is no justification for playing it. All of which fits perfectly with what I'm about to say about lack of self-justification).

To those who wonder what good is Christian faith if it's not going to make a difference, I reply: If you're a Christian mainly because you want to be changed, that's a problem. If you've given your life to God mostly because you are tired of yourself and want to be a different person—well, that may suggest you're merely using God to fix you. That's not faith. That's not love of God. That's love of self.

If you look into your heart and determine that you have given your life to God mostly because you are tired of the world and wish it were different and think that teaming up with God can make it so, then you are merely using God to fix the world you are sick of. That's not faith or love either. Again, you're just using God. 

Let's be clear: No one can look at another person and say that's what's going on inside them. They might be shouting transformation talk until they are blue in the face, but in fact they are red hot with passion for God and are submitted to God's will for them and their world, transformation or no transformation. And there are those who never talk about transformation but nonetheless are in the religion game because they really don't want God but just a better self or a better world. This is a dance that goes on in the depths of the heart, and no person can judge another.

That being said, I believe we are wise to ponder this inner dynamic from time to time. But not because we want to root out selfishness and purify ourselves so we can be transformed!  And not to lay a guilt trip on ourselves for not loving God as we should! Instead, the exercise is designed to help us recognize how great God is.

This examination of motive is designed to lead us to a crisis point. To put it theologically, there is no resurrection without crucifixion. And the crisis comes to a point like this: we look within and discover that despite our transformation talk, indeed our motives are corrupt, our hearts have been wicked and our wills perverse, and we recognize that we've been loving self rather than God. That dramatic incongruity—we thought we were serving God but we discover we were really serving self—is the point of crisis. It may make one cry in despair or laugh at the folly of it, but the reaction is not as important the fact of it.

The crisis is intensified, of course, when we recognize that there's nothing we can do to heal the incongruity. We don't like living in incongruity; it makes us feel uncomfortable. But if we are motivated by the discomfort, the very attempt to rid ourselves of discomfort by seeking God would only accent the incongruity—again we're using God so that we can feel better!  So even our repentance is tainted.

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January (Web-Only) 2010, Vol. 54

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