Illustration by Caitlin Kuhwald

"Is that normal?" Susan asked me, her head tilted, a slight grimace on her tanned face. I could tell this wasn't an academic question but an anguished one, not off the top of her head but surfacing from deep within.

She had just finished telling me how she felt of late: negative, discontent, spiritually dry, dull. She looked up at the ceiling fan, then at her husband seated beside her on the couch, then across the room at me in my pinewood rocker.

"Is it normal," she ventured, "for a Christian to feel like that?"

Susan had come to talk to my wife and me because she was afraid her struggles meant she might not be a Christian. So she seemed surprised when I (a pastor!) indicated I could relate.

Although I haven't experienced her particular circumstances, she and I both live in the same fallen world—a world where negativity and dullness creep into our lives like slugs on sidewalks after a spring rain, leaving slimy trails behind them. A similar trail emanated eastward out of Eden long ago and left its mark on our entire world. Since the realities of sin and evil slime us all, is it therefore normal to experience disillusionment, frustration, failure, dryness? Normal even for Christians—including Susan? And me?

I'm deeply committed to Jesus Christ and His gospel. I'm a lover and practitioner of God's Word and would be even if I weren't a pastor. Yet I have my own bouts with negativity and dullness, discontentment and discouragement. I battle an almost gravitational pull toward familiar temptations and besetting sins. And if you asked me, as Susan did, I'd tell you I think that's normal.

What is normal?

What is normal Christianity? The Bible details beliefs and practices that we regard as normal (expected) for the Christian life, such as the practice of self-control and integrity. It is abnormal for a Christian to steal, cheat, or lie—not that it cannot happen, but it is not considered normal Christian behavior when it does.

Similarly, all Christians must believe in Jesus Christ. Christianity without Jesus is more than an abnormality; it's a contradiction in terms. Generally, the "normal Christian life" is described in areas such as devotion to Jesus Christ, prayer, conformity to God's Word and will, the cultivation of solid character qualities, and good works. Even people outside the church routinely assess Christians according to these criteria.

Is there also room in normal Christianity for Susan's description of herself? She didn't like her soured attitude and listless devotion; indeed, it bothered her enough to talk to me about it. I consider that response evidence of the Holy Spirit's work in her. She wanted to contend with those things rather than concede them. Yet when she asked me if her moods were normal for a Christian, and I said yes, was I truthfully representing the experience of authentic Christianity or compromising it?

You leak too?

The famed 19th-century evangelist D. L. Moody was once asked if he was filled with the Spirit. "Yes," said Moody, "but I leak."

Many of the Christians I admire most would concur. These are not flaky people, but faithful heroes and heroines of the faith—people of godly character, pillars of churches, who produce "fruit that will last" (Jn. 15:16). They evidence God's Spirit fully alive and well within them while being quick to admit that they, too, "leak."

As a parallel, consider the car engine that leaks oil. The abundance of shiny black splotches in parking lots and garages testifies to this common motor affliction. Over time, an engine's gaskets and seals wear down due to intense heat, and oil begins to ooze out. This is expected (normal). But oil is essential to an engine's performance. Without oil, the pistons aren't lubricated and will crack their cylinders, resulting in a blown engine. So an oil leak must be monitored and attended to, for the very life of the engine is at stake.

God's Holy Spirit is not a substance within us like oil in an engine (although, interestingly, oil frequently symbolizes the Holy Spirit in Scripture). Rather, the Spirit is a person we relate to. To speak of "leaking" doesn't mean the Holy Spirit somehow seeps out through our pores; it is an acknowledgment that operating in a fallen world wears on my relationship with God.

As with the car engine, my "parts"—my heart, soul, and mind—are daily subjected to the intense heat of "everything in the world—the cravings of sinful man, the lust of his eyes and the boasting of what he has and does" (1 Jn. 2:16). When a craving goes unfulfilled, I wear down and develop cracks. I ooze the oil of frustration, even bitterness. A trickle of discontent leaves ugly puddles of grumbling and complaint. Pride seeps out and corrodes everything it touches. I leak.

Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it.

When I was younger in faith, these struggles ignited the same sort of internal conflict that Susan came to talk to me about. In the evangelical environment I've known since childhood, normal Christian life is often defined in glowing terms: decisive victory over sinful patterns and tragic character flaws, perfection of love and grace toward others, passion to witness, perpetual joy and peace, and so on. These are emphasized with plenty of biblical warrant, and a good many Christians' lives do reflect more progress than regress.

Yet, in one of those paradoxes for which Christianity is famous, it seems that a sharpened awareness of sin often accompanies spiritual growth. Remarkably, toward the end of his life Paul referred to himself as the "worst" of sinners—present tense (1 Tim. 1:15). He was weary of his own leaks and looking forward to the day he would be finally and forever free of them (2 Tim. 4:6–8). I am also. But for now, doubts and fears and pride bounce around in me, creating friction in the molecular structure of my faith between themselves and my holier desires.

The rub is that no one should sanction or excuse disobedience to God, mediocrity, or immaturity. I certainly don't. But neither should anyone denigrate the very real struggles we may experience as somehow less than authentically Christian.

If Susan had posed her question in a slightly different way—"Is it OK for me to have this negative attitude?"—I would have said no. That's like asking if it's OK to let the water in the city reservoir stagnate. But to recognize her struggle, even to call it normal, is not to approve it. It is to acknowledge a tension the Bible recognizes. Paul wrote that we are set apart as "instruments of righteousness" (Ro. 6:13), and yet each of us is still living, working, and playing in a "body of death" (Ro. 7:24). David wrote that "the LORD has compassion on those who fear Him" and yet "remembers that we are dust" (Ps. 103:13–14). Jesus said, "The spirit is willing, but the body is weak" (Mt. 26:41).

These both/and recognitions are important because they simultaneously check conceit and self-excuse. Conceit is thinking of myself more highly than I should (Ro. 12:3). I'm apt to fall into conceit when I fail to remember that, in J. I. Packer's words, "holy people glory, not in their holiness, but in Christ's cross; for the holiest saint is never more than a justified sinner and never sees himself in any other way."

On the other hand, I'll make excuses for myself if I fail to remember that I am a justified sinner; meaning, as Peter wrote, "[I do] not live the rest of [my] earthly life for evil human desires, but rather for the will of God" (1 Pet. 4:2).

Those "evil human desires" have to be fought tooth and nail, though. If defections from God's standards aren't ever-present options, then how do we account for all the "don't do that" imperatives in the New Testament epistles?

"Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it," admitted Robert Robinson in his beautiful 18th-century hymn Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing. It's the anthem for normal Christian life in a fallen world.

Seeing My Shadow

I recently walked through a children's science museum and came to a darkened room where a single light shone from a wall. The instructions told me to walk toward the light and watch my shadow enlarge behind me, illustrating that the closer someone draws to light, the more defined his shadow becomes.

This principle is spiritual as well as scientific. Jesus Christ is light. The closer we draw to Him, the more defined our shadows become. It's expected. And seeing our shadow promises more struggle with the cold reality of being a sinner—a justified one to be sure, but still a sinner.

Consider the Puritan writer John Bunyan of Pilgrim's Progress fame. Although renowned for his piety, he admitted to times when blasphemous thoughts filled his mind.

Is that normal? It depends on what one expects. Some believers have little or no margin for a struggle such as Bunyan's. Blasphemy doesn't tempt them, and they can't understand why it would tempt anyone who loves Jesus. They have a hard time with Bunyan's authenticity. Other believers have more sympathy. Blasphemous thoughts may not vex them, but other things do, so they don't want to be too hard on him.

Bunyan didn't retreat when he saw his shadow looming. Convinced that the grace that saved him would also keep him, he kept moving toward the light. That's what I told Susan to do. "We do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses," wrote the author of Hebrews (4:15). He sees our shadows but draws us closer still.

Par for the Course?

One of my seminary professors said,

I've never forgotten it. What do I do when I'm disappointed? When I've failed? When my attitude is heading south for the winter?

Speaking of disappointment, failure, and bad attitude, I've recently taken up the grand old game of golf. On every golf course, a sign at each tee indicates the par for that hole. Par is the maximum number of swings you should take between the tee and the hole. But playing "par golf" on every hole is not the average golfer's experience.

I've yet to make par on any hole. My ball often sails into the woods, dribbles into the rough, or lands in the sand and water hazards. But I keep swinging. Sometimes I over-putt and watch the ball speed past the hole to the other end of the green. But I keep putting. Occasionally I lose my ball. I get another out of my bag and press on.

I think I'll get better from sheer tenacity if nothing else. I refuse to quit, though it has to be the most maddening pastime in existence. But improvement requires patience. Playing golf with good friends is helpful too, as they encourage rather than chide or mock. And I have to stay true to the fundamentals. A golf swing does not suffer personal innovations gladly—it just suffers.

I extend a similar philosophy to the mood swings, the attitude swings, all the swings of normal Christian life. Keep believing, keep trusting, keep company with friends who care about you, and stay true to the fundamentals of faith. The mark of a saint of God is not how well you are doing, but what you do when you aren't doing well.

Cole Huffman is a teaching pastor at Fellowship Bible Church in Murfreesboro, Tennessee.

Many people would be surprised to know that he is the proud possessor of some really groovy dance moves. (Is that normal?)

I'm OK, You're OK?

1. What ongoing questions or struggles in your life have caused you to ask yourself whether you're a "normal" Christian?

2. Which of the following phrases describe how you've responded to those issues? (Check all that apply.)

3. The Apostle Paul also faced discouragement over a long-term struggle. Read 2 Cor. 12:7–10, and answer the following questions: What did Paul ask for with regard to his weakness? How did the Lord respond to his request?

4. How might you entrust your area of weakness to the Lord?

5. Sometimes we're hesitant to talk about our struggles because we're afraid no one could possibly relate. Read 1 Cor. 10:13. How does this verse challenge the belief that no one will understand?

6. Ask God to help you identify someone you could talk to this week if you're discouraged about some aspect of your Christian life that doesn't seem "normal."