Whether I’m actually reading it or not, I always have a book tucked in my purse, stuffed in my backpack, or stashed in my car.  My favorite places are bookstores where I could easily wander for hours, as if flipping through pages somehow transfers knowledge into my brain.  My ipod is packed with podcasts; Scripture is plastered around my mother’s warm, secure home, and every Sunday morning words of truth are preached directly to my soul—and more often than not, these words of truth are preached directly into my sin.

Yet, none of these make me spiritual.  They’re merely actions.

The routine of these activities themselves means nothing apart from the entrance of God’s presence into them, and without His presence, they’re spiritual