Christian devotional literature has a long and rich history. One of the earliest and most widely distributed books of devotional writing is The Imitation of Christ by Thomas à Kempis, published in the 1470s. From the beginning, that work sets before the reader a clear purpose: Christian truth is meant not only to inform the mind, but also to stir the heart and shape the life.
Thomas à Kempis writes:
“What good does it do to speak learnedly about the Trinity if, lacking humility, you displease the Trinity? Indeed, it is not learning that makes a man holy and just, but a virtuous life makes him pleasing to God. I would rather feel contrition than know how to define it. For what would it profit us to know the whole Bible by heart and the principles of all the philosophers if we live without grace and the love of God? Vanity of vanities and all is vanity, except to love God and serve Him alone.”
That captures something essential about devotional writing. A devotional is not meant to replace serious theological study, careful Bible reading, or sound doctrine. Rather, it is designed to awaken spiritual longing in the heart and move the reader toward faithful, virtuous living. It is meant to inspire personal dedication, focus the mind on faith, and encourage daily prayer and meditation.
The psalmist writes, “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God.” That longing, however, is never meant to remain locked away in solitary meditation. If it were, the church would never have benefited from the Psalms at all. Spiritual longing, having been quenched by the wellspring of eternal life, is meant to overflow into the lives of others.
In that sense, a devotional is designed to fan our guttering spiritual flame back into a steady glow for another day. And if the flame is already strong, the devotional should fan it into an even brighter blaze—one that illumines the darkness and perhaps lights the flames of others afresh.
But if a work calls itself a devotional and yet seems to lack those spiritual qualities, then one of three things is likely true: either the work is not truly devotional, the reader is not reading it devotionally, or both are true.
A short meditation that turns the heart and mind inward—toward my suffering, my hurt, my grief—without reorienting the reader toward God and neighbor should not be treated as a true devotional. There is nothing inherently spiritual about cataloging our heartaches. A true devotional will recognize suffering as suffering, but it will not leave the reader either to diminish pain with hollow clichés or to embrace suffering as though it is a friend. Instead, it will turn the reader toward Love Himself, in whom all perceived vanity meets its proper end.
This is where many modern devotional writings can become frustrating. Some seem stuck in a repeated loop: “Are you suffering? Look to Jesus.” Round and round they go. And, of course, looking to Jesus is exactly right. But when suffering becomes the constant center of gravity, even that true answer can begin to feel empty.
What is profoundly fascinating is that the Christians who have suffered the most often seem to write about it the least. One could say, perhaps, that many of them did not have time to write about suffering because they were too busy being killed. Fair enough. Yet even the Apostle Paul, who endured enormous hardship, rarely spoke of his suffering without bringing it back around to Christ.
Life is hard. Following Jesus is harder. Jesus Himself said as much. But if we cannot move beyond either of those warnings, we may miss the deeper joy of following Him.
Meditations that focus mostly on earthly suffering and God’s sovereignty risk trading heavenly-mindedness for an earthly substitute. Suffering is part of the baseline of life in a fallen world. It simply is. Jesus said, “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” That promise should be enough to sustain every follower of Christ and propel us toward deeper love for God and others.
There is so much more to the Christian life than gazing endlessly at our wounds. My prayer is that the devotional writings of our day would remember and reclaim that truth.
Thomas à Kempis puts it powerfully:
“Jesus has always many who love His heavenly kingdom, but few who bear His cross. He has many who desire consolation, but few who care for trial. He finds many to share His table, but few to take part in His fasting. All desire to be happy with Him; few wish to suffer anything for Him. Many follow Him to the breaking of bread, but few to the drinking of the chalice of His passion. Many revere His miracles; few approach the shame of the Cross. Many love Him as long as they encounter no hardship; many praise and bless Him as long as they receive some comfort from Him. But if Jesus hides Himself and leaves them for a while, they fall either into complaints or into deep dejection. Those, on the contrary, who love Him for His own sake and not for any comfort of their own, bless Him in all trial and anguish of heart as well as in the bliss of consolation. Even if He should never give them consolation, yet they would continue to praise Him and wish always to give Him thanks. What power there is in pure love for Jesus—love that is free from all self-interest and self-love.”
That is the heart of true devotion and, thus, should be the heart of true devotionals: loving Jesus purely and for His own sake, not our own.