Maybe you relate to this scenario.

Led by a desire to go deeper with God, you commit to a spiritual practice like daily prayer, weekly sabbath, or monthly fasting. Initially the practice feels fresh and life-giving, but eventually the shine wears off. Still, you keep showing up, keep coming to the stream even when it seems dry. Maybe your practice even becomes a habit. Then life happens — a change of seasons, a diagnosis, boredom. Whatever the reason, one day you realize it’s been six months since you’ve done that thing you said you’d do every day.

And in that place, dusty from falling off the horse, you might discover revealing thoughts about yourself and God.

One podcast listener wrote: ​“Whenever it’s been a while since I’ve fasted, I start thinking about it frequently, even every day or every meal and fretting about whether it’s a good time or not.”

She added this context: ​“I struggle a lot in my day-to-day life with decision fatigue, second-guessing myself, and fears about not being ​‘good enough.’”

She’s not alone. Many earnest Christians fear falling short of God’s best. They want to be faithful and make the right decisions. For those prone to performance, spiritual practices should have some kind of warning label: Withdrawal effects may include guilt, shame, and obsessive thinking.

So what can we do? Do we throw out spiritual practices or only do them when we feel like it? No. They are called disciplines for a reason. Intentionality is required. But a tree is known by its fruit, and the long-term fruit of discipline should be peace and joy and freedom. ​“Rigidity is the first sign,” writes Richard Foster, ​“that discipline has gone to seed.”

Some of us are predisposed to rigidity because of our upbringing, our God-narratives, and our self-narratives. And for people like that, when spiritual rhythms unravel, the solution isn’t to double down on commitments. Building better habit systems isn’t bad; it’s just not the place to start. We start by receiving something we did not build and cannot earn and therefore cannot lose: Almighty acceptance. That’s easier said than done and easier imagined than talked about. 

Picture the prodigal son, tattered shoes and heart, walking slowly toward home. His sorry speech is cut short by the embrace of a father who had been watching and waiting and wanting to give what his long-lost son had spent everything to find anywhere else. During the feast that followed, the father waited again, this time for the older son, who had been wandering for years close to home, laboring with resentment for the inheritance of acceptance he already had and needed only the humility to receive.