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Note: This piece was originally presented at the May 2006 Regent College Tradition Conference featuring Gordon Fee and Paul Stevens, and was later published in CRUX, Vol. 44, No. 2 (Summer 2008).

This conference is about "everyday, down-to-earth" spirituality. It is an attempt on our part to take the air out of this word that is still plagued by misunderstandings of all kinds, having to do either with special people—the truly spiritual—or with special exercises or special disciplines. And since neither of these ideas is biblical, the concern of this lecture is to show how "down-to-earth" biblical spirituality actually is.

Indeed, one of the difficulties that we are trying to overcome today is related to something we both believe in: the so-called "spiritual disciplines"—prayer, Scripture study and application, meditation, contemplation. These are in fact Spirit-led activities that work for the good of the kind of spirituality that we are contending for today. It is the co-opting of our word for those disciplines that concerns me, since it implies that those who do not take time for these disciplines are not very "spiritual."

So the first thing I want to do is to take the air out of that word, since "spiritual" must mean at least eight different things, and is the fuzziest word in modern Christian vocabulary. Indeed, it is one of the buzzwords of postmodern talk, where spirituality is all about coming to terms with our inner self, and all kinds of nonsense that have nothing at all to do with the word as it used in the New Testament. Except for two appearances in 1 Peter 2, this is a distinctively Pauline word in the New Testament; and it invariably has the Holy Spirit as its only referent. Thus when Paul says in Colossians 1:9 that when he prays, he asks "God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all spiritual wisdom and understanding" (NIV, my emphasis), the TNIV has now correctly translated that to read: "I ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives," since the language is so clearly borrowed from Isaiah 11:2: "the Spirit of the LORD will rest on him [the Messiah]—the Spirit of wisdom and of understanding. . ."¹ And when Paul refers to our receiving a "spiritual body" in 1 Corinthians 15, an oxymoron if ever there was one, he means a body adapted to the final life of the Spirit.

I begin by noting that in the New Testament, meaning Paul and Peter, this word is not some fuzzy word about spirituality, it is an adjective that refers to the presence and work of the Spirit of God. So it is that sense of "spiritual" that I want to talk about in this address. And I want to begin by going right to the heart of things—but do so by calling attention to a little-noticed phrase in Paul's letters. In both Galatians 3:14 and Ephesians 1:13, Paul refers to the Spirit (literally) as "the Holy Spirit of promise," meaning, the Holy Spirit whom God had promised to give to his people. What is crucial for us is that Paul's understanding of this language goes considerably beyond what most people are more familiar with from Peter's speech in Acts 2, that what happened on the day of Pentecost was indeed the coming of the promised Holy Spirit on all of God's people.

To be sure, the coming of the promised Spirit included the renewal of the prophetic word from Joel 2. But for Paul, that is only part of a much larger whole. For him the experience of the Spirit especially meant that God had ushered in the new covenant, which had been anticipated as early as Deuteronomy 30:6, by the promised "circumcision of the heart." This later became explicit in the great new covenant prophecy in Jeremiah 31:31-34. This same promise was shortly thereafter picked up by Ezekiel in chapters 36-37, who expressly linked it to the Spirit, whom God was going to "put in you." Since Ezekiel was prophesying to a captive people in Babylon who had experienced the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the temple, above everything else, as fulfillment of the new covenant, the promised Spirit marked the return of something all Israel longed for—the lost presence of God.

The theme of the Presence of God is crucial to both the Old and New Testaments, serving in fact to "bookend" the Christian Bible.² It begins in Genesis 2-3 with the Creator of heaven and earth being present in the garden with the human beings whom he created in his own image; it concludes with the marvellous pictures of the renewed heaven and earth and the renewal of Eden in Revelation 21:1–22:5, in which John says expressly, "I did not see a temple in the city, because the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are its temple" (21:22). Whatever else, the people of Israel understood themselves to be "the people of the Presence," the people among whom the eternal God had chosen to dwell on earth.

The most prominent way God's presence is experienced in the Old Testament is in the tabernacle and the temple. Thus the Presence motif, culminating in God's glory descending on the tabernacle, is the structural key to the book of Exodus. In the incident of the burning bush (Exod. 3), the living God first shows himself present to Moses at Sinai, to which place he instructs Moses to bring the people to worship him. When Israel arrives at the holy mount in chapter 19, they thus come to the place of God's "dwelling," the place they are forbidden even to touch on the threat of death. Only Moses is allowed into God's presence.

But God plans to "move" from the mount and dwell among his people by means of a "tabernacle." So after the giving of the Book of the Covenant (Exod. 20-24), Moses receives the instructions for the tabernacle's construction (25-31). The theme of the Presence of God is crucial to both the Old and New Testaments, serving in fact to 'bookend' the Christian Bible.But between the instructions and the construction (35-39), the disastrous episode in the desert occurs (32), followed by God's announcing to Moses: "My Presence will not go with you" (33:14, my emphasis); an angel will go instead. Moses recognizes the inadequacy of this solution and intercedes: "If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with me and with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish me and your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?" (33:15-16, my emphasis).

This in turn is followed by the further revelation of God's character ("compassionate, gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love and faithfulness," Exod. 34:4-7) and the construction of the tabernacle, all of which concludes with the descent of God's glory that "filled the tabernacle" (40:35). With that, they are ready to journey to the place that "the Lord your God will choose as a dwelling for his name" (Deut. 12:11), led by the Presence of God symbolized by the pillar of cloud and fire.

The Deuteronomy promise was finally fulfilled in the construction of Solomon's temple, where the same glory as in Exodus 40 descended and "filled his temple" (1 Kgs. 8:11). Thus Jerusalem and the temple are regularly described as "the place Yahweh chose for his name to dwell," and the temple, the place of God's dwelling, became the focal point of Israel's existence in the Promised Land.

More than even the law, therefore, or other "identity markers" such as circumcision, food laws, and Sabbath observance, it was God's presence with Israel that distinguished them as his people. And although they well understood that the God who created the heavens and the earth could not be contained by an earthly structure, nonetheless, because God chose to have his presence concentrate there, the tabernacle and then the temple became the primary symbols of God's presence among his people.

Thus, even though the temple also served as a place for sacrifices, the Old Testament people of God saw it primarily as a place of prayer and of knowing God's presence with them. This comes out over and over again in Israel's hymn book, the Psalter. Take, for example, the great enthronement hymn in Psalm 68, which pictures God's presence being enthroned on Zion, as the hope of his people and the envy of their neighbours. Thus he sings in vv. 15-16:

Mount Bashan, majestic mountain;

Mount Bashan, rugged mountain,

why gaze in envy, you rugged mountain,

at the mountain where God chooses to reign

where the LORD himself will dwell forever?

Of the "enthronement" itself, the psalmist goes on:

The chariots of God are tens of thousands,

and thousands of thousands;

The Lord has come from Sinai into his sanctuary;

When you ascended on high, you took many captives;

you received gifts from people

even from the rebellious—

that you, Lord God might dwell there.

This same theme is repeatedly picked up by individual Israelites throughout the Psalter, as they reflect on the glory of being in God's Presence in Psalm 84:1-2:

How lovely is your dwelling place, Lord Almighty,

My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the Lord;

my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God...

or Psalm 63 (v. 2)

I have seen you in the sanctuary and beheld your power and your glory.

But Israel's failure caused them to forfeit God's presence. This is what makes the fall of Jerusalem and the exile so full of pathos for them. The temple in Jerusalem, the place where God had chosen to dwell, was destroyed, and the people were not only carried away captive, but the captives and those who remained were no longer a people distinguished by the presence of the living God in their midst. The poignancy of it all finds its ultimate, symbolic expression in Ezekiel 10, where, just as with the ark of the covenant in 1 Samuel 4, the "glory of the Lord" departs from the temple in Jerusalem.

More than even the law, therefore, or other 'identity markers' such as circumcision, food laws and Sabbath observance, it was God's presence with Israel that distinguished them as his people.But all was not lost. Central to the prophetic hope was the promised return of God's presence. Through Ezekiel, for example, God promises, "My dwelling place will be with them; I will be their God, and they will be my people" (Ezek. 37:27); and Malachi prophesies, "Then suddenly the Lord you are seeking will come to his temple" (Mal. 3:1). This hope continues on into intertestamental Judaism among the apocalyptic writers, as, for example, in the Testament of Daniel 5:13: "And Jerusalem will no longer undergo desolation. . . because the LORD will be in her midst."

In keeping with Israel's earlier history, the motif of the renewed presence is tied directly to the hope of a restored temple, which finds its most powerful metaphorical expression in Ezekiel's grand vision (Ezek. 40-48), but its most memorable moment in the oracle of Isaiah 2:2-3, where the inclusion of the Gentiles is also a primary motif:

In the last days

the mountain of the LORD's temple will be established

as the highest of the mountains;

it will be exalted above the hills,

and all nations will stream to it.

Many peoples will come and say,

"Come let us go up to the mountain of the LORD,

to the house of the God of Jacob.

He will teach us his ways,

so that we may walk in his paths."

The second temple, however, does not live up to all these expectations. Thus it evinces mixed feelings among the people. In light of Solomon's temple and the promised future temple of Ezekiel, Haggai complains, "Who of you is left who saw this house in its former glory? How does it look to you now? Does it not seem to you like nothing?" (Hag. 2:3). In many circles, therefore, the hope of a rebuilt, grand temple still awaited the people of God.

For Paul the most crucial matter regarding this motif lies with the fact that in Isaiah 63:9-14 the divine presence in the Exodus narrative was specifically equated with "the Holy Spirit of the Lord." In recalling Israel's past, the prophet says:

He became their Savior in their distress.

It was no envoy or angel but his own presence that saved them.

In his love and mercy he redeemed them;

he lifted them up and carried them all the days of old.

Yet they rebelled and grieved his Holy Spirit.

So he turned and became their enemy;

and he himself fought against them.

Then the prophet asks, recalling the days of old:

Where is he who brought them through the sea, with the shepherds of his flock?

Where is he who set his Holy Spirit among them, who sent his glorious arm of power to be at Moses' right hand?

And at the end he sings of their entrance into the Promised Land (vv. 13-14):

Like a horse in the open country, they did not stumble;

like cattle that go down to the plain, they were given rest by the Spirit of the LORD.

This is how you guided your people to make for yourself a glorious name.

This connection of the Presence motif with the Spirit of God is one with which Paul is thoroughly familiar, as is made certain by his deliberate echo of the language of verse 10 in Ephesians 4:30: "And do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, with whom you were sealed for the day of redemption."

Thus, when we turn to the Apostle Paul from these Old Testament antecedents, it is clear that he understands the Spirit's coming as "fulfilling" three related expectations: (1) the association of the Spirit with the new covenant; (2) the language of "indwelling"; and (3) the association of the Spirit with the imagery of the temple. By fulfilling both the new covenant and the renewed temple motifs, the Spirit is the way God himself is now present on planet earth, by indwelling his people.

The Spirit of God is not, in the New Testament, lightly called the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Just as Christ has put a human face on the Father, as it were, he has equally put a human face on the Spirit as well.The temple imagery is especially significant in this regard, since the temple was always understood as the place of God's "dwelling." For Paul, the Spirit is how God himself presently "dwells" in his "holy temple." Significantly, such "dwelling" takes place both in the gathered community, as one might well expect given the Old Testament background to this usage, but also in the "heart" of the individual believer.

The implications of this central matter for Paul's understanding are considerable for us, in two directions: both in our understanding of the Spirit, and therefore of the essential nature of God, as well as in our understanding of the Spirit as the coming of God's power in and among his people.

First, whatever else, the Spirit for Paul was not some merely impersonal "force" or "influence" or "power," as seems to be the case for so many Christians. This was vividly brought home to me many years ago now, when Russ Spittler and I were both on the faculty of Southern California College. He came into my office one day to tell me of a conversation he had just had with a student—a Pentecostal student in a Pentecostal college. "God the Father I can relate to, and God the Son I understand," the student had told Russ, "but the Holy Spirit is a gray, oblong blur."

I have often thought back on that moment and said to myself, "of course." How could it have been otherwise? All of our images focused on a single, initiating experience of the Spirit. Our talk about the Spirit was in terms of "wind, fire, water, oil"—impersonal images, drawn primarily from the Old Testament; we wanted God to send "the power just now"; and under the influence of the King James Bible we called him "it." No wonder the Spirit was just an "oblong blur" to our young friend. Who can relate personally and intimately with wind or fire?

The ministry of the Holy Spirit, of course, may indeed be imaged in these ways. But the Spirit himself is not wind or water or fire. The Holy Spirit is personal; he is the Spirit of the living God come present among us; he is the Spirit of Christ indwelling us so as to glorify the God of heaven. The Spirit of God is not, in the New Testament, lightly called the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Just as Christ has put a human face on the Father, as it were, he has equally put a human face on the Spirit as well.

To put this in my own terms: Before the close study of this material for the large book on Paul and the Spirit, I had always been a Trinitarian; but now I have become a passionate and impassioned Trinitarian.

The Spirit, please, is not an "It"; the Spirit is none other than God himself, personally present in and among us. Paul pictures this in two ways. On the one hand, the Spirit has removed the veil—both from over our own hearts and from the holy place in the temple—so that God is no longer hidden from our eyes. Through Christ's sacrifice of himself on our behalf we now by the Spirit have access into God's very presence, not as cringing suppliants deserving just punishment, but as beloved children who can approach the Father and by his Spirit say "Abba, Abba, Abba," speaking forth the childlike faith of our hearts.

It is in light of the Spirit as the fulfillment of the Presence motif that we should read that most remarkable of Pauline passages, 2 Corinthians 3:1-18. Paul has argued that he needs no letters of commendation as do the peddlers, because he is a minister of the new covenant, the covenant of Spirit who gives life. In contrast to the peddlers, who are dealing in condemnation and death because of their attachment to the old covenant, Paul's ministry belongs to the time of the fulfilled promise, in which the Spirit is now available to all. The coming of the Spirit has brought the old to an end and has appropriated the work of Christ, through whom the effects of the fall have been radically reversed. Indeed, through Christ and by the Spirit we are being transformed so as to bear the likeness for which we were intended at the beginning. In the freedom the Spirit provides, we have seen the glory of God himself—as it is made evident to us in the face of our Lord Jesus Christ and we ourselves have come to experience that glory, and will do so in an ever-increasing way until we come to the final glory.

Only at great risk does one take the Spirit lightly in Pauline theology and Christian experience; for herein lies the "glory," that by the Spirit we not only come to know God, but come to live in his presence in such a way as to constantly be renewed into his own image.

On the other hand, not only do we live in God's presence by the Spirit—with the veil removed—we also experience as a lived reality that God himself, in person, has taken up residence with his people, indwelling both their individual lives and their corporate gatherings for worship and instruction. Here Paul's use of the temple imagery is the crucial matter. God has now returned to dwell in his temple—the church—while at the same time dwelling individually in his people. This is what sets us apart from all other peoples on the face of the earth.

Thus in 1 Corinthians 3:16-17, Paul asks the Corinthians, "Do you not know who you are? You, the church in Corinth, are God's temple in Corinth; and you are that because God's Spirit dwells in your midst" (my translation). Although there were twenty-six pagan temples and shrines in ancient Corinth, the living God had only one temple there; and it was not a building, but a gathered people, in whom and among whom he dwelt personally by his Spirit. "If anyone destroys this," Paul goes on, "by your trusting in merely human wisdom and dividing the community, God will destroy such a person."

So also in 2 Corinthians 6:16-18, in the context of his reminding them that they are God's temple and therefore must shun the feasts in the pagan temples, he cites the promise from Ezekiel 37:27—"My dwelling place will be with them; I will be their God and they will be my people." Thus, in a very remarkable shift of this image, in 1 Corinthians 6:19-20, Paul declares that the final theological reason the Corinthian men may not continue to engage in the life-long prostitution from their pagan past is that their bodies also serve as the temple of the Holy Spirit, whom they have received from God.

Thus the Spirit is God's own personal presence in our lives and in our midst to lead us into paths of righteousness for his own name's sake. It is the Spirit among us who "is working all things in all people," who is grieved when his people do not reflect his character and thus reveal his glory, and who is present in our worship as we sing "praise and honor and glory and power" to God and the Lamb.

The Spirit of God is not, in the New Testament, lightly called the Spirit of Jesus Christ. Just as Christ has put a human face on the Father, as it were, he has equally put a human face on the Spirit as well.It is for God's people in a time like ours to grasp once more these realities by experiencing them, if we are truly to capture Paul's understanding. Perhaps a beginning point for us would be to downplay the impersonal images (wind, fire, etc.), as rich as they are in terms of aspects of the Spirit's ministry, and to retool our thinking in Paul's own terms, where we understand and experience the Spirit as the personal presence of the eternal God. And this not just for our own sakes, but for the sake of the world. This is the good news, that by God's own Spirit we both live in the presence of God and know his Presence to dwell in and among us.

I would venture to suggest that when we are simultaneously filled with wonder and awe at being in God's very presence, and then by his Spirit moved toward intimacy with the eternal God, then are we prepared to take the good news into our world with the Spirit's power—and to do so with down-to-earth everyday Spirituality, in which we are aware of the living Presence of the living God as our abiding companion.

With Moses, but now also with our New Testament experience fully in hand, may we pray again: "If your Presence does not go with us, do not send us up from here. How will anyone know that you are pleased with your people unless you go with us? What else will distinguish your people from all the other people on the face of the earth?"

This, I suggest to you, is not intended for the super-spiritual; this is what Christian life is to be as an everyday reality, as down-to-earth Spirituality.