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When we read the literature of spirituality, we vicariously experience the inner journeys of others. We absorb Henri Nouwen’s spiritual discoveries in The Genesee Diary, for example, without entering a Trappist monastery for seven months, as did Nouwen.

Vicarious spirituality, I submit, is neither good nor bad in and of itself. Its moral status depends on its function in our spiritual lives. It can be detrimental when it precludes our own spiritual pursuits; it can be beneficial when it spurs us forward and guides us by the reins of maturity.

The danger of vicarious spirituality occurred to me through two recent experiences. By gracious providence I shared a train to New York with Henri Nouwen. In an unusual display of boldness I moved to the seat next to Nouwen and enjoyed a delightful conversation. But my surprise in seeing him was exceeded by my surprise at friends’ reactions to the episode. I found great envy, even mock resentment of my fortune. I had brushed with spiritual greatness, and didn’t even get an autograph! One friend confided that she had read every word published by Nouwen but had rarely experienced anything new in her spiritual life. How close we are, I thought, to having heroes who live our spiritual lives for us.

Later, in directing an internship program for college students, I had the students read Richard Foster’s Celebration of Discipline. When we gathered to discuss the book, I was shocked to hear that my interns wanted to fast for a week—and to have me join them. I expected our reading about fasting—vicarious spirituality—to take the place of real fasting. How surprised I was by my interns’ desire to transcend secondhand knowledge. How disturbed I was by my own satisfaction with hand-me-down experience.

Vicarious spirituality becomes dangerous when it slips into substitutionary spirituality. As we read, we may desire to experience ourselves what we see in the piety of another. But our present spiritual laziness can overwhelm first attempts at change. In silence we confront a myriad of inner voices and fears. In meditation we fall asleep. How easy it is, in contrast, simply to read spiritual classics, to derive new insights, and to pick up a new mystical lingo. But if we allow contemplative classics to replace the experience they are about, we cheapen them into Harlequin romances of the soul. Just as dime novels are no substitute for love, so reading must not replace genuine relationship with God.

Please do not misunderstand me. Vicarious spirituality can be beneficial if we allow devotional writings to function as fine literature. Just as Hamlet might draw us into a profound encounter with indecision, or Macbeth can cause us to see the ambition in our own hearts, so Thomas Kelly’s Testament of Devotion may compel our exploration of the divine Center in our souls. Henri Nouwen, in The Wounded Healer, states that contemporary Christians need spiritual guides—those who can articulate their inner experiences so as to direct and encourage other souls. Indeed, we should accept devotional writers as tour guides, those who lead us in the inner journey of spirituality, rather than as missionaries who share slides of distant lands to which we will never travel.

I would like to suggest four practical steps that may help us to derive benefit from vicarious spirituality while avoiding its substitutionary pitfalls.

First, let us recognize and affirm our desire for depth in spiritual experience. We read contemplative literature because we yearn for intimacy with God. With Thomas Kelly we recognize that devotional authors “speak the language of the souls who live at the Center.” We seek to know, to speak this same language.

Second, we must recognize and confess our tendency to make vicarious spirituality a surrogate for the real thing. Let us seek to experience what we read about.

Third, once we have recognized the danger of vicarious spirituality, we ought to return to our spiritual reading with eager minds and hearts. We do need spiritual directors. In Christian literature, we can sit at the feet of the masters and mistresses. Thomas a Kempis in The Imitation of Christ encourages us to “read with humility, simplicity, and faithfulness.” But even as we “hear with silence the words of holy men,” we are reminded that “great words do not make a man holy and just; but a virtuous life makes him dear to God.”

Fourth, as we step out in the life of contemplation, we must allow ourselves to be who we are. Reading spiritual classics can be intimidating, even discouraging. Will I ever reach the heights and depths of Thomas Merton? Probably not. But I must begin where I am, with steps appropriate for a spiritual toddler. God will provide growth.

Devotional classics, properly apprehended, can lead us on to a new, fresh encounter with our living God. Vicarious spirituality, when it does not become substitutionary, is a springboard that catapults us up into the higher realms of heaven and down into the deeper pools of our souls. But we must be sure to jump off the board!

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