The Secret Place

Winn Collier’s award-winning biography on Eugene Peterson (of blessed memory) begins with a story about Eugene’s son, Eric, entering his dad’s study to let him know that breakfast was ready: 

Eric turned the knob slowly, silently. He peered through the crack. . . A small woven rug lay on the tile floor before his dad’s desk. . . Eugene rested on his knees with a tallit—the tasseled Jewish prayer shawl—wrapped around his shoulders, a Hebrew Psalter splayed in front of him. He rocked gently, engrossed in the world of the Scriptures, surrendering to ancient prayers. Eric watched, hushed. He slowly closed the door and crept back upstairs. . . Only a boy, but he knew he’d witnessed something holy.

Eric did not merely witness his father’s private devotion, but a life whose deepest reality did not need to be publicized. For many churches, ministry now consists of exposure—podcast or perish—leaders feel obligated to maintain an online presence and publish their church’s conversion rate, baptism ratio, average weekly attendance, and annual earnings. After all, how are they to hear without Mailchimp?

This need to publicize runs counter to the broader emphasis on spiritual formation among many younger Christians today. Increasingly, Gen-Zers are logging off and greyscaling their phones in the name of silence, solitude, and Sabbath. And yet, even amid the renewed interest in spiritual disciplines, secrecy itself has remained, fittingly, hidden.

But perhaps an antidote to the growing pressures on churches, pastors, and laypeople does not lie in posting clips, publishing content, or podcasting (which is a verb now) about how to practice the presence of God, but rather in being invited to participate in what Eric witnessed: the Secret Place. 

A Biblical Introduction to the Secret “Place” 

Paul the Apostle’s background and education have remained somewhat of an enigma to biblical scholars and readers for two millennia. There are moments when Paul is kind enough to provide us with minor details: he’s from the tribe of Benjamin and was educated at the “feet” of the Rabbi Gamaliel. Beyond these tidbits, we remain unclear about the man from Tarsus. However, what is clear about Paul is that he was a rhetorical, philosophical, and religious genius. He could quote and debate the best of Stoic and Epicurean philosophers. Exegete the Torah like a Rabbi. And convince people—be they Jew or gentile—that the Messiah had come, died, rose, ascended, and was descending (again) soon. Paul was a master with his prose.

This is why it is all the more striking when Paul, in his dispute(s) with the Corinthians, states that when he visited them, he intentionally chose not to testify about God with impressive rhetoric or sage wisdom. Just the bare bones for the Corinthians. But why would Paul hide his first-class rhetoric or rich wisdom? “So that your faith might not rest in the wisdom of men but in the power of God” (1 Cor 2:5). In other words, Paul intentionally restrained himself and hid his impressive qualities so that the Corinthians would not give him the glory that was due to God.

In a similar vein, Jesus was a man full of secrets. Throughout Mark’s Gospel, whenever Jesus’s power is revealed or imparted to others, a strict rule follows: don’t mention it. During the Transfiguration in Matthew’s Gospel, after his full glory has been revealed, Jesus instructs his inner circle of disciples to “Tell no one” (Matt 17:9). Yet Jesus also wants his disciples to tell everyone.

This tension exists even within Jesus’s mountain sermon. He instructs the crowd, “let your light shine before others,” and just a few moments later commands them to “Beware of practicing your righteousness before other people” (Matt 5:16, 6:1). There is an interesting dichotomy in Scripture, one’s faith is to be both public and private, publicized and yet personal. A follower is to hide the goods of the Kingdom and simultaneously give them out freely and publicly. So what gives? Are we to be secretive like Paul and Jesus, or perform show and tell for all the world to see? The answer to this question, at least in part, lies in Jesus’s words about secrecy.

When Jesus instructs his disciples to pray, he does so in a peculiar way, telling them to shut the door and pray in their “tameion.” Most translations render this Greek word as “room” or even “storeroom.” Traditionally, it has been understood to refer to a closet or any unlikely room for prayer. However, from what we know about rural Galilee, there were not many “extra” rooms in a peasant fisherman’s house for prayer. It’s akin to telling Manhattanites, “and when you pray, go into your fourth bedroom.” It is simply an unattainable place for his audience.

Scholar Carolyn Osiek has made the case that Jesus is rhetorically talking about a type of secret place that can be accessed anywhere. Osiek writes, “a secret chamber that is accessible anywhere by the one in whom it dwells.” That is, Jesus’s hyperbolic language is about secrecy, not privacy. Where you pray is not the issue; it is why you pray that matters. Anyone can pray in a closet for the wrong reasons, but it’s learning to cultivate a heart that desires to pray as if no one is watching. In other words, the Secret Place is less a space and more a way of living. If secrecy is rightly applied, one can let their light shine before others and pray in their “tameion” simultaneously. 

The Secret Place as the End of Self-Improvement

As a pastor, I am often in conversation with other men about their struggles with pornography. It’s a battle many men have faced, are facing, or are actively guarding against. Routinely, as I meet with other men, I hear the same sentiment when I ask them why they want to stop: “I hate how it makes me feel.” Most feel this is an acceptable answer. I almost always respond, “You’re not ready.” Not because shame is needed, but because self-disgust is too weak a foundation for holiness.

In this instance, the person’s primary motivator to stop doing something is how it makes them feel, not that it is an offense against God, His creation, and the life He has created them for. And this sentiment is not just a man’s problem. Sanctification has become the mechanism we use to satisfy our longing to be morally good.

The insatiable need to feel “whole” has infected the West’s moral drive. People no longer give as a means to imitate the generosity of their Creator, but because it offers them a “mental boost,” as the Harvard Business Review argues. Sacred rhythms such as the Sabbath, practiced by many Christians today, have become insular practices focused on one’s mental well-being and on becoming a “non-anxious presence.” As opposed to a practice as a means to an end, namely to be with God and His people. To be a disciple of the Secret Place involves turning this model upside down. Yes, secrecy invites you into a rhythm of avoiding others’ praise, but it is also an intentional practice of removing yourself as the motivator for the good you do in the world. 

Practices

My wife and I have moved eight times in nine years of marriage. It’s as horrible as it sounds. In the most recent move, I was trying to find a place for my degrees. I had purchased nice frames for them and spent a lot of time and money getting them, so I thought our bedroom was the best place to hang them. (Didn’t feel appropriate in the baby’s room.) After putting some nails in the drywall, my wife came in and, without skipping a beat, said, “Our room is not a shrine for your idols, take them down.” She wasn’t asking.

I turned my hammer around and plucked. The practice of secrecy is the painful process of removing the proverbial degrees from the walls. It is entering into a process of asking God to rewire what drives us. It’s a type of life where what we’ve done, where we’ve been, what we’ve purchased, the job we have, the money we make, and the place we live becomes the least interesting thing about us. So how do we practice this life? How do we take down our “degrees”? Recently, I invited our church to practice two simple acts of secrecy, and perhaps you’ll find them helpful. 

In conversations this week, try Jesus’s approach. Again and again in the Gospels, Jesus answers questions by asking another question, telling a parable, or exposing the deeper desire beneath the question. Jesus often avoided making himself the topic of conversation and focused instead on the other person’s intentions or heart. And this is such a fun practice to try.

In conversations this week, take steps to avoid inserting your opinion, updates, or travel plans. Keep drilling down on the other person’s life. Ask a follow-up question. Then another one. And another one. If you try this just once, I promise you’ll be astounded by how much better you are at listening rather than merely hearing what they are saying. This practice is not just so that you appear to be a good friend, but you are testing out the practice of secrecy, trusting that your Father, who is in secret, knows you and hears you. Thus, you don’t feel the need to be the topic of conversation; you have the ear of the Creator of the universe. 

For the second practice, try answering these questions: 

1. What identity markers do you find the most pride in? 
2. What is the most interesting thing about yourself?
3. What do you spend most of your time thinking about? 
4. What good do you contribute to the place you live? 
5. What are your hobbies? 

To be clear, it’s okay to be proud of the accomplishments in your life. It’s just fine to think you are interesting; you are. But whatever your answers are to these questions, see how long you can go in a week or a month without mentioning them to others.

For example, I am a runner, and I love running. In New York, running has a particular subculture. We infest the streets, taking over sidewalks and bike lanes, doing our long runs on Saturday mornings, caking the streets with our sweat, hydration fuel, and slimy carbohydrate gels. We runners, tend to feel quite proud of our athletic abilities, so we talk about it a lot. I find it quite embarrassing when I think back how many times I’ve casually mentioned my weekly mileage or the race time I achieved to people who couldn’t care less. There is a desire in me to be applauded. It’s not enough to run because I enjoy it; I need others to enjoy it for me.

So the challenge for me is to see how long I can go without mentioning running, and, whenever someone brings it up, how quickly I can divert attention away from my hobbies to theirs. As cheesy as it might sound, God, who made me, sees my runs and understands my effort, and that should be enough for me. 

To Be Known You Must Hide

There is perhaps no better modern story of secrecy than Henri Nouwen’s. At the top of his field, Nouwen had spent over two decades teaching at elite universities, including Notre Dame and the divinity schools at Yale and Harvard. However, in 1986, Nouwen decided to quit the academy and move to L’Arche Daybreak in Canada, a community of people with intellectual disabilities. Nouwen abandoned a life of self-aggrandizement and the monotonous work of adding yet another line to his CV and decided to live with those who couldn’t care less about his accomplishments. In his thin but powerful book In the Name of Jesus, Nouwen reflects on Christian leadership in relation to all that God had taught him at Daybreak. He wrote the following:

The first thing that struck me when I came to live in a house with [intellectually disabled] people was that their liking or disliking me had absolutely nothing to do with any of the many useful things I had done until then. Since nobody could read my books, the books could not impress anyone, and since most of them never went to school, my twenty years at Notre Dame, Yale, and Harvard did not provide a significant introduction. . . I was suddenly faced with my naked self. . . These broken, wounded, and completely unpretentious people forced me to let go of my relevant self. . . and forced me to reclaim that unadorned self in which I am completely vulnerable, open to receive and give love regardless of any accomplishments.

Nouwen experienced the paradox of the Secret Place. No one at Daybreak possessed the ability to truly understand Nouwen as he wished to portray himself. The residents at Daybreak couldn’t have cared less about an Ivy League professor coming to live with them. And yet, in his inability to be known, he became stripped bare, able to be known in such a way he had never experienced before. This is the goodness of the Secret Place.

The spiritual discipline invites you into the ambiguity of choosing not to be known as you wish, and instead to be seen and loved as you are. It is bringing to light your scars, wounds, sins, and incompleteness, while hiding your successes. To live in the Secret Place is to live a life with God that is utterly exposed and frighteningly hidden. We hide ourselves, not because we are nothing, but because being seen, known, and loved by God is all that we desire and need.