What would happen next Sunday morning if God did not show up? Would the sermon still touch hearts and resonate with truth, if the Spirit of God didn’t illuminate the Scriptures as they are read and preached? Imagine a worship service where hands are raised but the music, absent of the Spirit dwelling richly, lacks its usual resonance. As people leave, would there be a noticeable void?
Perhaps the service would not look that different at all. That possibility is even more terrifying than the threat of God’s absence.
My journey into ministry began in 1999, in a small apartment gathering. As a group of displaced believers, we were spiritually homeless, seeking something we called “authentic spirituality.” Those simple meetings were some of the most spiritually enriching experiences of my life.
We would talk in an unstructured way with vulnerability about faith, doubt, loneliness, grief, and mental health. We would pray for one another and sing a hymn, chorus, or psalm. Rarely was there any formal teaching, yet we found ways to support one another.
Afterward, we could honestly say, “Surely the Lord is in this place” (Gen. 28:16).
From these humble beginnings came discussions about planting a church. Having outgrown the apartment, we eventually moved to an old church basement. The gatherings became slightly more formal as we grew, but the earnestness and simplicity remained. We prayed, sang, and supported each other through career decisions, relationships, miscarriages, and moves.
Several years later, the church resembled a large institution. The staff was splintered and exhausted as we launched our third capital campaign in five years. We faced a leaking roof and a sleep-deprived band. And yet we managed to conduct the service seamlessly. We could—almost literally—have done it in our sleep.
But does an altar call still draw people if the Spirit’s presence is missing? Even as we adeptly masked the behind- the-scenes turmoil, I wondered if our well-crafted services were as spiritually charged as those early gatherings.
Reflecting on these experiences, I often considered the difference between those days in the apartment and the realities of a larger church. It wasn’t just about being young and idealistic. Despite our lack of accommodations, we had an undeniable sense of God’s presence.
Yet, as time passed, the question of whether that same presence was as palpable in a much larger, structured church service often haunted me. I believe that both the simplicity of our early days and the complexities of our larger gatherings were authentic expressions of our faith journey, but there had clearly been a shift in my own sense of expectation and possibility.
The why behind that shift lies in disenchantment.
When Faith Became Functional
Max Weber, a 20th-century sociologist, was the first to describe the effect of modernity as disenchantment. As Weber saw it, a post-Enlightenment, post–Scientific Revolution world had been drained of mystery. One might board a streetcar, Weber said, and have no clue how it operates, but for a modern person, understanding is only a trip to the library (in his day) or a quick Google search (in ours) away. His point was that this default setting drains the transcendence from every moment. There are no mysteries in this world, only processes we do not yet understand.
Canadian philosopher Charles Taylor, building on Weber’s theme, suggests that modernity ushered in a pervasive skepticism, particularly toward the supernatural. Where belief in transcendence once underpinned daily life, with most individuals holding faith in God and acknowledging the existence of mysteries and forces beyond their control, the modern zeitgeist has shifted.
Today, much of the intellectual discourse within the modern world operates under the assumption of a godless reality, where everything can be explained through material means. Our understanding of the world has demystified many phenomena: Plagues are no longer the products of spirits or curses but the consequence of germs and viruses, and bad weather can be explained by air pressure systems, not acts of God. Much like Weber’s streetcar, even if we don’t understand the exact mechanics at play, we often believe there’s a logical explanation.
Christians, especially pastors and church leaders, share a common tendency to view spiritual life through a similar lens. We often frame religious experiences as the result of a process we can understand and manipulate. Anything that triggers a positive reaction in ministry, be it a Sunday service or a discipleship program, holds a particularly strong allure.
While this desire for control is understandable, it ultimately leads us down a path of pragmatism and, sadly, cynicism. Instead of seeking genuine spiritual growth, church gatherings become more focused on “meaningful moments,” by relying on evocative music or performative preaching. Worse still, congregations, starved for transcendence, readily accept and even reward these manipulative, emotionally driven gatherings.
This emphasis on production, performance, and energy can result in a hollow ministry that lacks several critical markers of health: spiritual maturity, wisdom, character, and love. As many large churches and denominations face the fallout of leadership failures, it’s worth asking, how did disenchantment lead to neglecting the character and spiritual development of leaders? And what price is the church paying for this oversight?
Burnt-Out Torchbearers
Imagining an alternative approach may seem daunting, but it starts by acknowledging the inherent doubt brought on by disenchantment. Not as a surrender, but as a challenge we must confront and grapple with. Only then can we lead our churches in ways truly reliant on the Holy Spirit’s active presence.
This is an invitation to switch from performance to presence. While the practicalities of ministry—like preaching, praying, leading worship, and visiting others—remain, we must learn to engage in these activities with an openness to the mysterious workings of God.
The good news is that this path isn’t shrouded in darkness. The Scriptures themselves resonate with this yearning for the divine. The psalmist’s words echo our own when he cries, “My tears have been my food day and night. . . . how I used to go to the house of God under the protection of the Mighty One with shouts of joy and praise” (Ps. 42:3–4). Our truest longing isn’t for a bygone era but for the presence of God himself.
Just as the psalmist sought renewal in moments of vulnerability, so too can we find our way back by nurturing spaces of personal communion with God. This quest, both individual and communal, lies at the heart of authentic worship in our disenchanted world.
Leading others toward wonder can feel like carrying a torch for an entire congregation. This burden underscores the need for pastors to carve out personal spaces for spiritual renewal and to pursue sanctuaries where they can shed the mantle of being a guide and instead take on the role of seeker. These safe spaces may not be grand cathedrals but rather small groups, friendships, or even quiet moments in a church basement.
Like all Christians, church leaders are susceptible to spiritual fatigue. These feelings, far from marking failures, mirror the struggles faced by countless prophets and saints throughout history. Recognizing this state is a step that aligns you with a courageous lineage of souls who sought God even amid doubt. The same is true for your congregations. Weariness and disenchantment don’t diminish faith or signal a spiritual deficit; rather, they present an opportunity for both leaders and congregants to seek understanding and renewal.
While there’s no magic formula for encountering God, actively seeking him is the lifeblood of faith. Caving to cynicism and stagnation means missed opportunities to experience the divine. But an open heart and vulnerable spirit can crack open the door to rediscovering the joy we yearn for. It’s in this intentional pursuit that the embers of enchantment are rekindled—not just for ourselves but for the communities we are called to lead.
The Death of the Hero
Many pastors have been cast as the hero of their church’s narrative by their members, mentors, and peers. They deliver inspiring sermons, offer wise counsel, and act as trusted guides. Playing that role can be emotionally rewarding for a time, but eventually it starts to wear thin—because when the church views you as the hero, the time may come when they start to wonder why you haven’t solved all their problems, and that pressure can take an enormous toll on your soul.
Instead, pastors need to rewrite the narrative. While Jesus is undeniably the overarching hero, framing it solely on that theological level won’t empower the church to overcome cynicism and disenchantment. The key lies in throwing out the hero paradigm and helping members understand their own roles as the protagonists in their spiritual journeys. Pastors, leaders, and mentors can illuminate the beauty of this journey and offer guidance through obstacles and challenges, but they cannot take or replace individuals’ own steps toward the kingdom of heaven.
Practically, this means inviting the church into a life of real, vibrant spirituality. It means equipping them with spiritual disciplines so that they can learn to pray, fast, and listen for the Spirit of God in silence and solitude. It means empowering them with tools and sending them out into the wilderness. It means embracing their own feelings of doubt and disenchantment and inviting them to pursue God through it.
As pastors, it also means putting to death some personal pride. Instead of chasing grandiose visions of “reaching the city” or “changing the world,” what if we welcomed the quiet moments of presence? Being there at a hospital bedside, celebrating life’s joys and sorrows, and encouraging church members to serve their communities in practical ways—these are the actions that truly matter. What would happen if we valued tears shed and meals served more than seats filled and dollars collected?
Of course, no one can guarantee a profound encounter with God. But that’s part of the point: We need to grow comfortable incorporating practices that rely on God to be actively present.
Only by learning to attend to God’s presence in a broken, hurting world can we find a sense of transcendence once we gather. Then, no longer arriving as individuals starved for something beyond ourselves but as people who have witnessed God’s presence in a myriad of ways, we can come together to share those testimonies through worship.
What if we traded standing ovations for the murmur of shared prayer in dim apartments? Not the performative prayer orchestrated with smoke machines and polished sermons, but the vulnerable kind that call back to the early days huddled together, seeking authentic spirituality. May our embers be fanned into a blaze that warms not just ourselves, but the world.
