5 Replacing Inspiration with Intention: Rule of Life

5

Replacing Inspiration

with Intention

Rule of Life

For which of you, intending to build a tower, does not first sit down and estimate the cost, to see whether he has enough to complete it?

When people come to me for spiritual direction, I always assume that, at some level, they are concerned with formulating a rule of life. They may not use these words. . . . But they are concerned with the stewardship of their time and energy (as well as their substance) and are looking for help in shaping their days.

THE MUSIC SWELLS and the lights are low. Around me, hands begin to rise—some confidently, some halfway. I stand in the middle of it all, a fresh teenager, new to my youth group’s worship service. My own hands start to feel heavy in my pockets.

Should I lift them? Should I keep them down?

I’m not comfortable raising them. Probably because I’m an introvert and it feels like exposing too much of my inner world. But the repeating chorus and the emotional rise stirs something in me. So I close my eyes, let the song take over, and there they go—my hands in the air.

Moments like those felt powerful at the beginning of my faith journey. The music, the lights, the shared emotion—it all filled me with something electric. It was inspiring. And naturally, I wanted more. Not just more worship services, but any kind of inspiring experience I could get. So I started chasing the feeling:

Without realizing it, I started to equate inspiration with intimacy. If I felt moved, I assumed I was connecting with God. If I didn’t, I assumed I wasn’t.

Maybe you’ve been shaped by an inspiration-based model of Christianity too—one that thrives on the emotional high, the feeling of breakthrough, the sense that transformation happens when we feel it in the moment.

To be clear, inspiration isn’t bad. It can spark something real. It can ignite a journey. But it can’t sustain it. Feelings fade. Songs end. What we need for a lifelong walk with Jesus isn’t constant inspiration but steady formation—the kind that carries us across the long, slow terrain of the Threefold Way.

Half-Built Habits

I thought I had left this inspiration-based approach behind when I began practicing spiritual disciplines. But because it was woven into my transactional mindset, it followed me. The disciplines inspired me and I moved quickly from one to the next—journaling, solitude, acts of service, lectio divina.

The list kept growing and so did my enthusiasm.

But the further I traveled, the more my excitement turned into disorientation. I was running in multiple directions without gaining traction. Each new practice stole attention from the last, leaving a trail of half-built habits.

Looking back, it’s easy to see that I was chasing the next spark again. And like any project started without a plan, my spiritual life was beginning to resemble an unfinished construction site. Jesus’ warning about the incomplete tower was playing out in my life.

In the first century, building a tower took years. Every stone had to be hauled, cut, and placed with care. The real cost wasn’t just materials but patience. Without thoughtful planning, a half-built structure stood as a silent witness to poor preparation.

Jesus warns us not to let our apprenticeship be like that. Don’t set out toward union without a plan. Yet that’s exactly what I did—not deliberately. I just didn’t realize planning was part of the process. That realization marked a sort of beginning of my illuminative stage.

I needed more than inspiration; I needed intention.

And this, I think, was what Dallas Willard was getting at in The Divine Conspiracy, when he wrote about the need for a Curriculum for Christlikeness.

The Roots of a Rule of Life

I can’t recall where I first heard about it. But when I did, a Rule of Life immediately caught my interest. So I picked up a few current books on it, hoping to learn about this ancient framework developed from the Desert Fathers and Mothers. Unfortunately, most of what I found felt too contemporary. It was as if the monastic past had been nodded at, then escorted out of the conversation.

It brought to mind C. S. Lewis’s observation that people have this odd habit of treating ancient books like they require a graduate degree—best left to the experts while the rest of us stick to the newer stuff. So, taking Lewis’s advice, I went straight to the source and read as many ancient rules as I could find.

What I discovered was a story, a slow-growing way of following Jesus that took years to develop in the desert.

After Christianity gained legal status in AD 313 with the Edict of Milan, apprenticeship to Jesus began to weaken. The end of persecution was a relief, but something essential was being lost. Discipleship, once marked by risk and sacrifice, was becoming safe, respectable—even advantageous. Where following Christ had once meant renouncing status, now it could enhance it. Church leaders who once modeled self-denial were now drawn toward self-promotion. And worst of all, the world was now coming to know the cross as a symbol of influence and power, instead of humility and love.

And this is why men and women fled into the desert. In the wilderness, they stripped away every distraction, testing what it meant to follow Christ when there was nothing left to gain but God.

Out of this passionate group of Jesus’ followers emerged a Rule of Life. And what these desert dwellers practiced in the wilderness has influenced Christian spirituality for centuries. While many voices influenced the movement, three figures played a central role.

The Seed, the Sapling, and the Tree

Anthony, a young man in third-century Egypt, gave up his wealth and moved to the desert to live fully with God. He spent years alone—praying, fasting, and learning what devotion meant. What began as one man’s pursuit grew into a simple, intentional way of living—and with it, the seed of a Rule of Life was sown.

Next came Pachomius, a former soldier from fourth-century Egypt who also sought God in solitude. But his military background inspired a vision for something new, something more communal. Instead of hermits isolated across the desert, he gathered them into a shared life—monks living, praying, and working in community. To hold it all together, he wrote the first known Rule of Life—a written document that governed their common pursuit, clarifying what they valued, how they lived, and the practices that sustained their love for God and one another.

If Anthony was the seed and Pachomius the sapling, then Benedict was the tree—the one whose Rule brought the movement to full maturity. A sixth-century Roman, Benedict left behind a collapsing empire and withdrew into solitude to seek God. But solitude wasn’t his final calling. When a group of monks, impressed by his austerity, begged him to become their abbot, he reluctantly agreed.

It didn’t go well.

Benedict’s vision—shaped by his early solitary life—proved too severe. The monks rebelled, even attempting to poison him. As the story goes, when he lifted the cup to bless it, the glass shattered in his hands. He took the hint and walked away.

But he didn’t abandon the idea of a Rule of Life.

Instead, he immersed himself in the Christian tradition—studying the Desert Fathers and the Rules of Pachomius and Basil the Great, among others. From their wisdom, and from his own hard-won experience of failure, he wove together a new Rule.

Completed around AD 516, The Rule of Saint Benedict became a lasting framework for following Christ in community. Structured yet flexible, disciplined yet kind, it has endured for the last fifteen centuries and is still in use today.

Willard called it one of “the most profound treatments of discipleship to Jesus.”

Catching the Spirit of Benedict

Benedict spent a long time developing his Rule. He didn’t write it in a rush or in a fleeting burst of inspiration. It was the slow, deliberate work of years.

And I think that’s the invitation for us: To become little Benedicts—to do what he did. To look back and honor the past while reaching forward to shape something new. To draw deeply from the wisdom of the Christian tradition and weave it together with our own lived experience—our failures and our successes—to cultivate our own Rule of Life.

What exactly is a Rule of Life? It’s a written document that articulates your identity as an apprentice of Jesus, names your values, specifies your practices, and orders the rhythms that govern how you live. It can be kept in a handwritten journal, a digital notes app, a shared document, or any format you can return to regularly.

It isn’t something you complete overnight, piece together on a retreat, or finalize during a sabbatical or summer break. You can begin it in those times, but you can’t complete it.

In truth, a Rule of Life is never finished. It’s a living document because our way of life is always in motion. Monks take vows of stability, so their Rule can remain fixed. But our lives are not static. Our seasons shift, and our Rule must shift with them.

So how is a Rule of Life structured? And how does it actually work?

Three Ingredients of a Rule

The more I read the ancient rules, the more a pattern emerged. No matter the time period, the person, or the place, three broad elements were there: A preamble, precepts, and a horarium.

The preamble. The preamble is an essential statement that clarifies why your Rule of Life exists and why you follow it. It can be as brief as a sentence or as expansive as a paragraph or a page. A good preamble speaks to both the universal and the personal—it grounds you in the shared calling of all Christians to become like Christ, while also expressing your unique personality. Mine is simple:

I live by a Rule of Life in order to love God and learn to love like God.

I often think of my preamble the way a sailor thinks of an anchor—it holds me steady. I need mine often, especially when I start treating my Rule as the end of following Jesus rather than the means. When that happens, I reread my preamble, and let it orient me again, reminding me of why I’m on this threefold journey in the first place.

The precepts. Precepts are a growing list of practical and formational principles. Each can be as short as a sentence or as long as an essay. They are living statements, continually refined—expanded, revised, or removed as circumstances change—like branches on a tree, some thrive, others are pruned.

Each precept begins with a clear title, followed by a description that gives it depth and meaning.

Benedict’s Rule eventually held seventy-three precepts, shaped by time and experience. After living with mine for over a decade, I’ve cultivated twenty-four branches that have stretched, strengthened, and, at times, been cut back to allow for something new.

The horarium. The horarium comes from the Latin hora, meaning “hour” or “time,” and refers to a simple schedule or calendar. The horarium is where a Rule of Life gets lived—taking the precepts that require action and anchoring them in time.

A wise horarium will include at least three rhythms, I call them the given rhythms—a day, a week, and a year. These rhythms are not arbitrary; they are the God-ordained cycles we inhabit. They invite us to move with time rather than against it.

Those are the three essential ingredients of a Rule of Life. They’re simple to state but take years to cultivate. Again, a Rule isn’t built in a day—it grows, shifts, and deepens as you live into it.

The preamble keeps your vision clear.

The precepts give your commitments shape.

The horarium ensures your commitments are lived.

Together, they form the framework of a Rule of Life, but its substance—the part that shapes our living—rests in the precepts.

Precept Patterns

As I spent time with these ancient rules, especially Benedict’s, I began to notice patterns. Their precepts weren’t random but covered a range of essential aspects of life. Over time, I saw that they tended to fall into five categories:

1. Training tools. These precepts focus on spiritual disciplines and how to wisely practice them. Richard Foster’s Celebration of Discipline highlights many of these time-tested practices—prayer, fasting, solitude, study, simplicity, worship, and service—each playing a role in shaping a training life. Benedict and Basil understood that disciplines are not just tasks to check off but activities that cultivate habits of loving within us. It’s important to remember: Spiritual disciplines don’t change us—grace does. They are not a means of earning transformation, but of positioning ourselves to receive it, creating space for God to do the work only he can do.

Here’s one of my precepts from the training tools category:

Practice fasting.

I incorporate fasting into my weekly rhythm because it teaches me self-denial, and I don’t believe I can find true life without a continuous expression of the cross.

2. The holy ordinary. Some of the most life-giving precepts are found in what I call the holy ordinary—the small, everyday activities or rituals that ground us. A mistake people often make is assuming a Rule of Life is just a list of spiritual disciplines, but the ancient Rules teach otherwise. Following Jesus along the threefold path isn’t confined to prayer and fasting; it’s woven into all the ordinary moments of our lives—the meals shared, the walks taken, the puzzles completed, the creative work that brings joy. A Rule that ignores these things is incomplete, because God is not only found in religious activity but in the fullness of life itself.

Here’s what one of my holy ordinary precepts looks like:

Caring for potted plants.

Tending and caring for potted plants and flowers provides a sense of connection and responsibility. Every day, as I water, prune, and nurture, I am reminded of the beauty and growth that comes with patience and care. Just as the plants depend on me, I find myself relying on them. They ground me in the present and remind me of the continual cycle of growth.

3. Foundational teaching. These precepts capture the key insights that shape how we understand and live the Christian life. They serve as guideposts, drawn from Scripture, tradition, and personal experience, forming the convictions for our journey Godward. Some may come from books that left a lasting mark, sermons that spoke to us, or a simple insight from a conversation with a friend. A Rule of Life isn’t just about what we do—it’s about the truths we believe, the ones we return to when we need clarity and direction.

Here’s one from my own Rule of Life, a truth I first heard from Dallas Willard almost two decades ago:

Grace works with effort.

Grace is not opposed to effort, it’s opposed to earning. Earning is an attitude, effort is action.

That single statement changed the trajectory of my life. I never want to forget it. Because I read my Rule regularly, I’m reminded of it again and again—a practice Benedict also built into his Rule.

4. Relational wisdom. If a Rule of Life is ultimately about learning to become love, then it must include wisdom for living well with others. These precepts shape how we navigate relationships. A Rule of Life isn’t just about growing in love for God; it must also train us to grow in love for people.

Relational wisdom doesn’t have to be dramatic or grand—it often happens in unnoticed ways. That’s why one of my guiding precepts is drawn from Thérèse of Lisieux:

Small things

“I can prove my love only by scattering flowers . . . by never letting slip a single little sacrifice, a single glance, a single word; by making profit of the very smallest actions, by doing them all for love.”

Journeying across the Threefold Way is relational, not individual. As Maria Skobtsova said, “The way to God lies through love of people.”

5. Honoring the seasons. Honoring the seasons precepts thoughtfully consider the dynamics of nature, the seasonality of life, and the rhythms of the Christian year. Life is not static—it shifts with time, requiring a Rule that adapts.

Benedict understood this and built it into his monks’ prayer rhythm:

The arrangement of the night office in summer.

From Easter until the first of November, the winter arrangement for the number of psalms is followed. But because summer nights are shorter, the readings from the book are omitted.

Many precepts should flex with the seasons. I adjust my own Rule in the summer, waking up later to match the natural shifts of my kids being out of school and staying up later. The Christian calendar gives us the opportunity to think seasonally with rhythms of fasting and feasting, anticipation and celebration. A Rule of Life that honors the seasons allows us to live with greater awareness, embracing the ebb and flow of time rather than resisting it.

All five of these precept categories—training tools, the holy ordinary, foundational teaching, relational wisdom, and honoring the seasons—point to a central truth: A Rule of Life is about balance. A well-formed Rule doesn’t lean too heavily in one direction while neglecting another; it holds together the many dimensions of a life that’s moving across the Threefold Way. These categories serve as a safeguard against imbalance, ensuring that your Rule remains holistic.

A Warning About Living Too Intentionally

In the 1950s, a journalist visited Thomas Merton at his monastery and brought his camera. Merton was fascinated by it. He spent the week experimenting with it, taking photos of whatever crossed his path—a battered fence, a run-down shack, weeds pushing through cracks. He wasn’t searching for the perfect shot; he simply gave attention to what was in front of him.

At the end of the visit, the journalist noticed how much Merton enjoyed using the camera and asked if he’d like to keep it. Merton shook his head. He had taken a vow of poverty and wasn’t allowed to own personal possessions. The journalist thought for a moment and then said, “Why don’t we make it a long-term loan?” Merton smiled and agreed. And from that moment on, the camera became a tool for his spiritual practice—helping him slow down, notice, and receive what was in front of him.

Years later, when he was in the woods with a young friend who was hurriedly snapping photos, he yelled across the forest, “Stop looking, and start seeing!” The story is told in Esther de Waal’s book on rediscovering the art of attentiveness:

Looking means that you already have something in mind for your eye to find; you’ve set out in search of your desired object and have closed off everything else presenting itself along the way. But seeing is being open and receptive to what comes to the eye; your vision total and not targeted.

I find it very easy to go through my life looking. I’m always looking at the next event on my calendar, the next book I’m going to read, the next project I want to work on—I’m always looking.

And looking isn’t all that bad—it implies intentionality. And a Rule of Life, if it’s anything, is deeply intentional. But I’ve noticed that I can become so intentional that I lose the ability to be open and receptive. In Merton’s words, I’m all looking and no seeing; I’m too rigid.

This sneaks up on me, usually disguised as discipline, or consistency to my Rule. For example:

When my precepts keep me from love, I know I’ve made my Rule the end instead of the means. I’m not seeing. I’m not open. I’m not receptive. And when that happens, I always return to my preamble, the very first words of my Rule of Life:

The purpose of my Rule of Life is to learn to love God, and love like God.

I can’t love if I’m being rigid. I may think I’m faithfully keeping my Rule of Life by sticking to it, but in reality, I’m losing the very thing it’s meant to cultivate: Love. So now, here’s what I do:

If we want to live well with our Rule of Life, we must learn how to balance looking with seeing, intentionality with openness and receptivity. It’s not leaning too far in either direction. Learning to love, it turns out, is a matter of learning to balance.

Piecing It Together

At the beginning of my transformational journey, I chased after practices without much direction, stacking stones at random, hoping that inspiration alone would eventually build something lasting. But inspiration without intention wasn’t enough. I needed structure, a lean framework. Not something rigid, but something steady, a way to bring shape to my formation rather than leaving it to chance.

Looking back, that was the quiet beginning of my entrance into the illuminative stage—the moment I began to see that formation required more than inspiration; it required intention. I wish I had discovered a Rule of Life sooner.

My Western evangelical upbringing didn’t know about it. They knew of the early church in Acts and then skipped over a thousand years to Martin Luther and the Reformation. But what about everything in between? What about the Desert Fathers and Mothers—the ones who quietly journeyed across the three stages, leaving behind a path well-worn enough for the rest of us to find our footing? These were the people who wrestled with the same questions I was asking, who laid stones with patience, forming something not just for themselves but for generations to come.

That’s not to say they were flawless saints. They had their blind spots, just as every generation does—including ours. But they understood something we tend to forget: Inspiration gets us going, but intention keeps us growing. They didn’t chase spiritual highs; they cultivated steady rhythms. They moved beyond spiritual excitement, settling into practices that rooted their lives in grace, in dwelling in Christ.

Not only that, they weren’t in a hurry. Their wisdom wasn’t built on quick results but on a long obedience in the same direction. So what I am trying to do now is cultivate my own Rule of Life that draws from their wisdom—while at the same time remaining open to the life I am living and the world I inhabit.

It’s not about rigidity but about bringing order to my days, weeks, and years—so that formation happens by intention rather than by accident. Because whether we recognize it or not, we are all building something.

The real question is whether we are constructing something that will endure or simply leaving behind a series of half-built towers.

Now that I had a Rule, I needed something to fill it, something that could bring it alive. So I pressed further into the journey—and as I did, I began to discover a quiet, steady practice that became the heart and breath of my Rule of Life.

In Sum

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