I have been considering what matters most in approaching God. I am not sure what noun to give it. A principle sounds like something to master; a discipline, something to repeat; even the word experience can turn our attention toward something we once felt rather than toward the One who was present.
Perhaps the word is taste.
There is a difference between knowing what others have said about food and knowing its taste. We can learn how it is prepared and how others describe it without ever receiving it ourselves. But once we taste something nourishing, we gain a recognition that description cannot provide.
Much of our difficulty in the Christian life may come from learning how to prepare the setting for a meal without learning to recognize the food. We learn ways to pray, sing, read, and gather. Someone tells us what opened his heart, and a group preserves the practice. Gradually, one person’s way of receiving the Lord becomes everyone’s expected way.
The essential question remains: What are we actually touching? The life of God, our excitement about God, the comfort of belonging, or a treasured memory? These may occur together. That is why we need to become familiar with His taste.
But we must make this clear: in Christ, we have not merely been offered an experience of divinity from a distance. We have been born of God. We have received the divine life. The active Triune God now dwells in our spirit. We do not approach divine life as something external that we must persuade God to give us. We approach the indwelling Christ—the Son with the Father and the Spirit—who is already our life within.
When an encounter becomes a method
Someone sings a hymn and finds its words becoming a living communication. His heart softens, and he remembers the hymn. The next morning he sings it again, expecting the same result. When it does not come, he tries harder, repeating the meaningful line and attempting to recover yesterday’s experience.
I recognize this in myself. A hymn may have been wonderfully living yesterday, yet today I may be attending mostly to my own effort. The hymn has not become false, and yesterday’s encounter was real. But the Lord has not bound Himself to meet us through the same means every morning.
More deeply, the Lord has not remained outside me, waiting for the right hymn to bring Him near. The Triune God is already in my spirit. The issue is not how to bring Him near, but whether I am turning to and receiving the One who is already present within me.
When I tell others what helped me, my experience can become their practice. Eventually, people may inherit a procedure while scarcely knowing the living encounter from which it arose. God can still meet us there, but an arrangement cannot transmit intimacy. It can preserve the form of an encounter without preserving dependence on the indwelling Lord Himself.
What I mean by Zoe
By Zoe, I mean the divine life in Christ—the life of God that has been imparted to us through the new birth. I do not mean a religious mood, heightened awareness, or refined human personality. John places this life at the center of his testimony: “In him was life” (John 1:4).
The life is in Him, and through Him this life has entered us.
This is essential. We have not merely been invited to admire divine life, imitate divine qualities, or receive occasional touches from God. We have been born of God. The life of the Father, in the Son, through the Spirit, has been given to us. The active Triune God dwells in our spirit as our inward source, our present reality, and our living supply.
I can still begin to think of divine life as something available apart from the living Person, as though the right atmosphere or inward adjustment could produce it. But Jesus does not merely offer a superior religious experience; He gives Himself. Eternal life is knowing the Father and the Son (John 17:3). This knowing is not merely future or external. The Father and the Son are present in us through the Spirit.
To taste Him is to participate by grace in the divine life already dwelling in us. What sustains me does not originate in my ability to inspire, discipline, explain, or improve myself. The source is the Triune God in my spirit. Sometimes His giving feels sweet; sometimes I recognize it more quietly: I can listen, acknowledge what is true, and remain before Him without presenting a successful version of myself.
The outward sensation varies. The indwelling God remains Himself.
The mixtures I have known
I cannot speak of mixture as though I have observed it only in others. I encountered the Lord through the King’s Teens, the Jesus People, Santa Barbara, other groups, and eventually the recovery. I remain grateful for the people I knew and the encounters with the Lord I experienced there. To say there was mixture is not to say there was no God.
There were also expectations, customs, personalities, opinions, and assumptions about what a faithful Christian should look like. Because the living part was precious, the surrounding parts acquired borrowed authority. Gratitude for an encounter became loyalty to the whole package.
Yet the Lord’s kindness in meeting me within a mixture does not make every ingredient divine. I can thank Him for what I received while allowing Him to clarify what came from Him. This need not become an accusation against those who helped me; it is part of learning to recognize the Giver more distinctly.
The Lord’s presence was not created by those groups. The divine life was not produced by their meetings, language, music, or practices. As a believer, when I encountered Christ there, I encountered the One who was already living in me. The Triune God was not imported into my spirit by a gathering. He was already there, active and present, even when my awareness was limited and my understanding was mixed.
Every Christian group has a human setting. The difficulty begins when we confuse the setting with the substance. A style of speaking, musical atmosphere, or minister’s manner may become inseparable from the truth communicated through it. Then someone speaks differently, and we struggle to recognize the same Lord.
Warmth and divine life are not interchangeable. A gathering may feel safe, powerful, or profound, yet those qualities do not prove that we are receiving Christ. When the music ends, the speaker leaves, and no one is watching, what has been nourished? Am I more available to Christ, freer to love, and more able to receive correction—or do I mainly want another meeting that produces the same sensation?
The question is also this: am I turning inward to the living Christ in my spirit, or am I waiting for an outward setting to give me what God has already placed within me?
“Taste and see”
The psalmist says, “O taste and see that the LORD is good” (Psalm 34:8). There is knowledge of God that becomes ours through receiving Him, not merely through collecting accurate statements.
Taste is not a private authority that makes every inward impression infallible. I can mistake avoidance for peace or intensity for depth. The invitation is to taste the Lord—not merely to taste a feeling about Him.
Peter speaks of those who have tasted that the Lord is gracious (1 Peter 2:3), connecting taste with hunger, nourishment, growth, and coming to Christ. Spiritual recognition matures through living participation. I do not need flawless discernment before approaching Him. I can come with a confused appetite, admitting that I have often preferred what was stimulating to what was nourishing.
Yet I am not coming to an absent God. I am coming to the Christ who dwells in me and lives in my spirit. I am turning to the indwelling Triune God, who is actively present even when my feelings are dull and my understanding is incomplete.
I am not seeking an experience with which to judge others. I am asking for a heart less satisfied with substitutes because it has begun to recognize the kindness and truth of the Lord Himself within.
Memory, repetition, and the present Lord
A true encounter can remain vivid for years. Such memories are a mercy, but they can also become substitutes. I may return inwardly to the room, people, songs, or season in which I met the Lord until remembering replaces receiving.
The sweetness was not imprisoned in that decade or owned by those people. Whatever came from Him still belongs to Him, and He is living now. More than that, He is living in me now. The Christ I encountered then has not merely remained available somewhere outside me; He has continued to dwell in my spirit.
A memory serves us best when it awakens present hunger rather than demanding that we reconstruct the past. It can remind us of what the indwelling Lord has done without becoming a replacement for what He is doing now.
The same is true of familiar practices. A hymn may open my heart one morning and feel empty the next. I do not need to discard it, but I must release it from the responsibility of being today’s source. The source is not the hymn. The source is the Triune God in my spirit.
God may meet me through an old psalm, a difficult truth, an apology, or an ordinary task. The issue is not whether I use a practice, but whether I ask it to guarantee an encounter. I can use the practice while turning inwardly to Christ, or I can use it while trying to manufacture an experience. The outward action may look the same, but the source is different.
Peace and joy beyond religious emotion
The peace of Christ is not merely relief when discomfort disappears. It does not require me to deny grief, avoid truth, or win an argument. I may still need to face a difficult conversation, yet find a quieter place within it where I am no longer ruled by the need to control it.
His peace may accompany the painful acknowledgment that I have hurt someone or mistaken stubbornness for faithfulness. The Lord’s life can be sweet in its truthfulness even when it exposes what I would rather conceal.
This peace is not something I must create by calming myself. It is the peace of the indwelling Christ. The Son’s peace, in fellowship with the Father and through the Spirit, is active in my spirit. I may not always feel it, but I can turn to Him and receive what He is.
Likewise, joy is not the same as excitement. Music, enthusiasm, and compelling messages can lift us, but the energy of a gathering is not the measure of spiritual life. Christ’s joy belongs to communion with Him and can coexist with sorrow. It may appear as quiet gratitude, an opening toward another person, or the simple assurance that He has not withdrawn.
He has not withdrawn because He is not merely visiting. The Triune God dwells in us. His presence is not established by our emotional condition. A racing heart, grief, illness, or exhaustion does not prove separation from God. His presence is received within our actual condition, sometimes felt clearly and sometimes trusted through tears.
We should not pressure ourselves or others to appear nourished. The divine life is deeper than religious emotion. We may be inwardly joined to Christ even when our soul is tired, our body is weak, and our feelings are unsettled.
The soul is not the enemy
Recognizing God’s life does not require us to become less human. Thought, feeling, memory, personality, and will are not enemies. The problem arises when they assume the place of source and authority.
Reason can explain surrender while resisting it. Emotion can imitate devotion while the music lasts. Will can produce impressive consistency while feeding pride. None of these capacities is inherently false, but each can imitate what it cannot originate.
The source of divine life is not the soul. It is the Triune God in our spirit. Yet the purpose of the divine life is not to bypass or destroy the soul. The Lord desires to spread from our spirit through our mind, emotion, and will until our whole being expresses what He is.
I must also be careful not to label whatever I dislike “soulish” and whatever resembles my preference “spiritual.” That would be my judgment wearing divine vocabulary. I cannot perfectly dissect every experience. My hope is not to become an expert at examining myself, but to remain open for the Lord to bring light from within.
As He does, my humanity need not be suppressed. My thoughts can be renewed by the life in my spirit, my emotions can respond honestly to Christ, and my will can consent to His inward leading. The question is not whether I have a soul, but whether my soul is being governed by the divine life in my spirit or by itself.
Words, ministers, and books
Even the word Zoe can become religious vocabulary rather than a doorway to reality. Words clarify, but they become dangerous when familiarity with them substitutes for acquaintance with what they name. Scripture itself can become a testimony we study without coming to Christ, the One who gives life (John 5:39–40).
The same is true of ministers, books, and communities. God ministers through people, but no servant can occupy Christ’s place. A servant can bring the cup; he cannot become the water. A book can open a window; it cannot become the light.
More precisely, no minister can give us the divine life as though he possesses it independently. The life is Christ Himself, and Christ is already in us. A minister may help us recognize, receive, and cooperate with the indwelling Lord, but he cannot replace the Lord or become the source of our spiritual life.
Healthy ministry deepens attachment to Christ and frees us to receive from Him beyond the minister’s presence. It helps us turn to the active Triune God in our spirit rather than remain dependent on a human channel. We can remain grateful without becoming dependent on one person, one vocabulary, or one community.
Purity without superiority
The idea of “pure life” can itself become a source of pride. I can become proud of having no method, organize myself around opposing organization, and convince myself that I have moved beyond the mixtures troubling everyone else.
Purity must first be located in God Himself. His love does not manipulate, His truth does not need exaggeration, and His holiness does not exist to preserve a group’s image. My reception of Him remains imperfect. I may receive something real while adding an opinion that did not come from Him.
Still, the divine life in me is not impure because my understanding is incomplete. The Triune God who dwells in my spirit is pure even when my soul mixes my reception of His life with my preferences, fears, ambitions, and interpretations. I am learning to distinguish the pure source from the mixture in my reception.
This should humble me, not persuade me that God has never touched me. I am learning to distinguish the gift from what I add to it. I can say, “This seems to be what I am receiving,” without demanding that everyone submit to my certainty. Purity grows in my living as self-importance becomes less necessary and I want the Lord for Himself.
The goal is not to become proud that I have divine life. The goal is to live by the divine life I have received.
Recognition grows in relationship
How can we learn this taste without turning it into another method? We can come to Him through reading, singing, speaking, listening, walking, gathering, or sitting quietly. None of these activities guarantees an encounter. Relationship is where recognition grows.
But this relationship is not merely between us and a God who remains outside us. The Triune God has entered us. We have been born of God, and the divine life is now in our spirit. Recognition grows as we turn to Him, fellowship with Him, and allow His life to spread through our inward being.
Acquaintance develops through communion. Scripture gives that communion truthful witness and correction. Other believers can expose where we have confused God’s leading with preference. The life of Christ will not teach us to cherish dishonesty, contempt, or cruelty while calling them spiritual freedom.
Still, we need not turn every moment into an examination. Constantly asking whether we are touching the right thing can make us more occupied with ourselves than with Him. A simpler prayer may be enough: Lord, I want You. You are in me as my life. Where I am confused, bring light. Where I am pretending, make me honest. Where You are giving Yourself, help me receive.
Our appetites may have been trained by years of stimulation, so a quiet encounter can initially seem insufficient. The Lord is not surprised by this. He meets us while we are learning, and His kindness gradually changes what we hunger for.
A few honest minutes before Him may nourish more than an hour spent recreating devotion. Receiving an unwelcome truth may bring deeper rest than defending our spiritual reputation. Small recognitions accumulate. We become less persuaded that pressure is power, noise is fullness, or belonging to the right circle is the same as abiding in Christ.
We also become more aware that abiding in Christ is not merely an outward practice. It is the conscious enjoyment of the One who already abides in us. The divine life is not waiting for us to create it. The indwelling Lord invites our cooperation, our turning, and our receiving.
What remains when the substitutes grow quiet
I do not want to replace familiar methods with a demand for extraordinary inward experiences. Some days will be dry, and some faithful acts will occur without recognizable sweetness. Christ does not cease to be our life when our capacity to sense Him diminishes.
The indwelling Triune God remains active in our spirit whether or not our emotions confirm it. Our feelings may fluctuate, but the divine life does not. We may lose awareness without losing the One who dwells in us.
What I hope for is freedom from confusion. I want to receive a hymn as a hymn, a book as a book, a minister as a servant, and a memory as a gift. I want to welcome whatever helps me come to Christ without asking it to occupy His place.
I want to remember that Christ is not merely the One I seek outside myself. He is the One who has entered me and lives in my spirit; in Him, the Triune God is actively present. I do not need to manufacture His presence. I need to turn to Him, open to Him, and live by Him.
The Lord desires to make Himself known. I am not discovering a hidden technique that He reluctantly rewards; I am responding to the One who has already given Himself. His life is not exhausted by the mixtures through which I first encountered it.
I want to know the taste of what comes from Him—its gentleness, truthfulness, and nourishment. I want to stop asking yesterday’s vessel to provide today’s living water. When He meets me through an old hymn, a quiet morning, another person, or a familiar word, I want to receive Him with gratitude without closing my hands around the means.
The sweetness belongs to Him.
So does the life.
And this life is now in us.
