Counter-Formation
Summary
Worship doesn't just express what you love — it trains you to love it more. In part two of a two-week look at Romans 12, Matt Crummy picks up where last week left off and explores what worship actually does over time. Drawing on the Drake Relays, a failed high school track career, two British climbers who may or may not have reached the summit of Everest, and Alexander Schmemann's image of a stereoscope, he builds a case for why transformation is slow, embodied, communal, and worth it. Counter-formation isn't about being different for its own sake. It's about being slowly reoriented — body, habit, and desire — toward the kingdom of God, until you can see reality in a new dimension.
Questions for reflection
Matt describes worship as something that doesn't just express what you love but actually trains you to love it more — like the donut example. Where do you see that dynamic at work in your own life, for better or worse?
The story of Mallory and Irvine climbing Everest illustrates how story, practice, and imagination combine to form us — even when the story is incomplete or the decision was reckless. What stories have most shaped your imagination and sense of what's worth pursuing?
Paul's vision in Romans 12:6–21 is less a list of rules and more what Matt calls a positive moral vision of counter-formation. Which line from that passage feels most personally challenging or convicting right now?
Matt describes the Drake Relays as a glimpse of the kingdom — a culture of encouragement, inclusion, and shared joy that moved him to tears. Where have you unexpectedly caught a glimpse of the kingdom recently?
Schmemann describes worship as arriving at a vantage point from which you can see more deeply into reality — not an escape from the world but a new way of seeing it. What would it look like for worship to function that way in your life?
Paul's answer to failure, hurt, and evil in Romans 12:14–21 is not revenge or withdrawal but blessing, mourning with those who mourn, and overcoming evil with good. Where is that the hardest call for you right now?
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Last week we talked about what worship is — and maybe a little about what it isn't. About how it's deeply connected to both our desires and our practical actions, not just noble thoughts toward a higher power. How worship is less about thinking correctly about God, though that matters, and more about being formed by him and toward him — our bodies, our habits, our desires.
We noted how worship is proximate to our loves, and how those loves are both expressed within and shaped by what we called cultural liturgies — things like large concerts, sporting events, graduation ceremonies, all the way down to how you eat dinner with others or resolve conflict with people. I mentioned the philosopher James K.A. Smith, who describes liturgies as formative practices that shape and constitute our identities by forming our most fundamental desires and our most basic attunement to the world.
For example, the way we shop is filled with formative practices that shape who we are. I can order almost anything on Amazon from almost anywhere, and that shapes me. Maybe you're an Aldi person or a Trader Joe's person. You probably have a whole ritual around grocery shopping — what you get, the best chocolate-covered whatever you always pick up.
I also noted last week that even our misuse of good things can be instructive in understanding worship — revealing that we are drawn into the experiential, the sensual, the physical stuff of life, and that this twisting of things inward toward ourselves ultimately shows that we are already worshipers who long for more than noble ideas. Embodied practices are a crucial element in what shapes our imaginations — what we think about, what we dream about. Our failures and successes both reveal how supremely physical our world actually is. We are not minds longing for a ride in a body. We are not brains on sticks.
We considered how Paul addresses this throughout his letters — sometimes indirectly, sometimes head-on — in how we think about sexual ethics, food, hunger, drinking, baptism, clothes, disease, singing to God and with each other. The real physical stuff of life. And as a note, if you want to get to know Paul better, N.T. Wright's book on Paul is very good and available as an audiobook.
Lastly, we considered how worship is an embodied response to God, and how that highlights that worship is relational and social — and that that's a feature, not a bug.
Today we turn to consider how our response to God is formed over time and how it remakes us into a certain kind of person. Through this reorientation — what we're calling counter-formation — our loves themselves are reordered so that we can actually live in harmony with reality. Worship doesn't just express what or whom you love. It actually trains and retrains who you are and what you love.
To use donuts as an example — and you picked a bad day for that analogy, since there aren't any out here — donuts aren't just an expression of what I love. Eating them actually trains me to love them more.
[Prayer]
Cruciformity
Romans 12:1–2 again:
I urge you, brothers and sisters, in view of God's mercy, to offer your bodies as a living sacrifice, holy and pleasing to God. This is your true and proper worship. Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. Then you will be able to test and approve what God's will is — his good, pleasing, and perfect will.
Paul's audience in Rome would have been taken aback by this image of a living sacrifice. In the Jewish temple system, the sacrificial animals were the ones that died. Paul is helping the Roman church reimagine their lives with a new narrative — one built on the death and resurrection of Jesus. This is where we get the concept of something being cruciform.
Cruciformity is the idea of being shaped by the pattern of the cross — marked by self-giving love, humility, sacrificial obedience. Paul goes to great lengths in Romans 11 to emphasize the mercy of God, and it is on that foundation of sacrificial love that he gives us this image of transformation. The cross isn't just an event in the story of Jesus. It's revealing a pattern of God's life and love toward us.
Remember Jesus' words in John 10, where he pictures himself as a good shepherd: "No one takes my life from me, but I lay it down of my own accord. I have authority to lay it down and authority to take it up again." With this background of genuine, freely given love, we consider what it means to be transformed.
Worship Aims Your Love
First: worship aims your love. It trains your imagination.
Our loves form and reform us — the donut example again. The question is how that love gets aimed. Remember that the various cultural liturgies throughout our lives contain within them implicit stories of what the good life is. This is largely what directs the narrative of our loves. We are shaped by the intersection of story, practice, and imagination. Where those three things converge, you should expect significant formative power.
This is why people feel so deeply about things like patriotism, family traditions — or, for my example today: climbing Mount Everest.
If you set out to climb Everest, you are aware of its history, its lore, and the sacrifice associated with an ascent. Roughly 7,500 people have reached the summit throughout history. Around 350 have died attempting it — not odds I'd take. In 1924, two British climbers — George Mallory and Andrew Irvine — set out to reach the summit. No one had ever stood at the top before. The expedition relied on heavy clothing that would have gotten wet, early oxygen systems, no reliable communication above a certain altitude. On June 8, 1924, they were spotted moving along the northeast ridge, not far from the summit. Clouds moved in. They never returned.
What followed was not only the loss of two climbers but the beginning of a question that has lingered ever since: did they make it? If they reached the summit before they died, they would have been the first — nearly thirty years before anyone confirmed it. To this day, we don't know.
Before the final expedition, Mallory had been asked why he wanted to climb Everest. He famously said: "Because it's there."
Their story — and the mystery surrounding their deaths — has become powerfully formative in the imaginations of climbers everywhere. Was Mallory reckless? Probably. He brought along an inexperienced climber, which wasn't very responsible. Has that dampened his influence? Not at all. Because we find their courage inspiring. We find ourselves, or want to find ourselves, in their bravery.
The Bible is full of people who made terrifying — and sometimes genuinely unwise — decisions, and yet put one foot in front of the other and pursued God against all odds. Moses is perhaps the most famous example. He was aimed at the promised land. That was his telos.
So the question is: what vision of the good life is embedded within the cultural practices that are forming you?
Paul sees this clearly. His instruction in Romans 12 is showing us that reorienting your steps and practices toward God — literally your body, your life as a sacrifice — will transform you so that you can test and discern God's will. You don't simply think your way to wisdom. Worship puts a picture before you of a life worth pursuing, and then your feet will move.
This is why it's important that we don't come to the Bible only as a textbook, but as a collection of stories that God uses to narrate and re-narrate our lives today. We find ourselves all together in a canoe — as my Canadian colleagues like to picture it — on the stream of history, each rowing toward and strangely with Christ. The stories we tell ourselves and each other matter. We want to row in the same direction, especially when the waves get bigger.
Worship Reforms You — Slowly
Second: worship reforms your life, but slowly and over time.
The hard truth is that transformation isn't instant. It's practiced. And the way we approach this in community is as important as the practices themselves.
On Friday, I took my kids to the Drake Relays, and I was struck by how remarkably positive the environment was — not annoyingly so, just genuinely good. A culture of encouragement. Leaving it all on the field. I saw Drake athletes cheering for Iowa athletes, which they probably shouldn't have been doing, but they were. Coaches and competing athletes in constant back-and-forth communication, tweaking. And the biggest ovation I witnessed was a moment of recognition for the Special Olympics athletes who were there competing — which we got to see. It was a total glimpse of the kingdom of God.
Now, I went out for track as a freshman in high school — I think. It's a little fuzzy. After two days of spring training, I quit. I had pushed my body to what felt like its absolute limit and decided that was enough. I just left. Ghosted the team entirely. But the head coach coaxed me back, and I was grateful for that. Sometimes we need that. We need a coach, encouragement, a spur to keep going.
What I'm not saying here is that we should approach worship instrumentally or transactionally — as a tool for self-improvement. That's not the point. We don't want our relationships to look like that either: using one another, despite the fact that we may grow from being around people. What I'm pointing to instead is that the power of embodied practices in community is built into repetition, training, and rhythm, within a social environment that is supportive and believes in ongoing formation.
This is why I was not good at track. I didn't let the community form me very much. My training practices were poor. I somehow convinced myself that running to the concession stand right before a race, eating a full hot dog, and then running the 800 meters was an elite training regimen. Needless to say, that was the conclusion of my illustrious track career.
Jamie Smith uses an old word to describe what's happening in genuine formation: habitus. A habitus is more than just a habit — it's an internalized disposition, a way your body and instincts and reflexes have been trained over time until something feels natural. It's part of why it's so satisfying to watch an elite athlete or musician. Their years of practice have shaped them into people who perform as if it's second nature.
This is true of individuals, but it can also be true of a social and cultural environment. When you step into a space like the Drake Relays, you're not just watching isolated athletic actions. You're seeing a whole web of interconnection — an environment formed over time across diverse peoples, creating what I can only call a culture of celebration.
As I sat watching people stand and cheer for the Special Olympics athletes, I felt tears welling up. I thought: this is what the church should be like. And I wasn't grieving over Gateway specifically — I was thinking more broadly. God's people were set apart to be priests to the nations, a blessing to all peoples, together from generation to generation, from rich and poor, young and old. We receive the good news of the gospel not just as information but as an invitation to a totally new way of life, formed into the image of God. It is a gift and an act of stewardship. A picture of inclusion embedded in the creational order and the foundation of the gospel itself.
I don't think it's an exaggeration to say, at least in part, this is what we're made for.
This is the tone of Paul as pastor and coach in Philippians 1. A question to carry through this passage: are our rhythms forming us to be people who think like this? More importantly, to be people who feel like this?
I thank my God every time I remember you. In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy because of your partnership in the gospel from the first day until now, being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus. It is right for me to feel this way about you since I have you in my heart and, whether I am in chains or defending and confirming the gospel, all of you share in God's grace with me. God can testify how I long for all of you with the affection of Christ Jesus. And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless for the day of Christ, filled with the fruit of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ — to the glory and praise of God.
Joy. Confidence. Feel. Heart. Affection. These are worship words. Paul sees love as what will abound into knowledge and depth of insight. Notice the flow of that logic. As we take on the practices of love, it doesn't only transform us — it transforms our communities. It counter-forms us away from competition and toward shared pilgrimage, toward a journey where your neighbor's joy becomes your joy and their sadness is your sorrow.
What Worship Does
So practically, and I think positively, what can this look like? Paul anticipates this question and paints what I'd call a positive moral vision of counter-formation in Romans 12:6–13:
We have different gifts, according to the grace given to each of us. If your gift is prophesying, then prophesy in accordance with your faith; if it is serving, then serve; if it is teaching, then teach; if it is to encourage, then give encouragement; if it is giving, then give generously; if it is to lead, do it diligently; if it is to show mercy, do it cheerfully. Love must be sincere. Hate what is evil; cling to what is good. Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves. Never be lacking in zeal, but keep your spiritual fervor, serving the Lord. Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer. Share with the Lord's people who are in need. Practice hospitality.
A beautiful picture of love, devotion, and community. I'd recommend saving this passage on your phone and returning to it. It's helpful for me. It will look different for each person — Paul acknowledges that — but God will teach you how to walk with him through practice.
Eugene Peterson puts it plainly: there is a great market for religious experience in our world. There is little enthusiasm for the patient acquisition of virtue, little inclination to sign up for a long apprenticeship in what earlier generations called holiness.
So what does worship do? It knits us together to God and to each other, and it reorders our loves and desires in alignment with God's gifts, his generosity, and his righteousness.
But what happens when we fail? When someone hurts us? Do we pursue revenge? Paul addresses this directly in Romans 12:14–21:
Bless those who persecute you; bless and do not curse. Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn. Live in harmony with one another. Do not be proud, but be willing to associate with people of low position. Do not be conceited. Do not repay anyone evil for evil. Be careful to do what is right in the eyes of everyone. If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone. Do not take revenge, my dear friends, but leave room for God's wrath, for it is written: "It is mine to avenge; I will repay," says the Lord. On the contrary: "If your enemy is hungry, feed him; if he is thirsty, give him something to drink. In doing this, you will heap burning coals on his head." Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.
That's worship.
Now, using the Brian Windhorst image from last week — two fingers in the air: now why is that?
Because evil is crookedness. It is twisted goodness. And straightening a crooked path requires re-evaluating the means that got you there in the first place. Evil is always derivative and ironically has no power except from good things created in love and for love. It is the abuse of a thing, not the thing itself. It is the absence of light. Love always was and always will be the most powerful force in the universe.
Worship is where God meets us and teaches us to inhabit the world the way he does.
And of course, as Christians, we don't believe death has the final word. Jesus is alive — risen after three days, ruling and reigning with the Father even now, and returning both to enact justice and to renew all things. Complete and perfect renewal: social, personal, cosmic, political, environmental. And more. We call this reality the kingdom of God, and it is even now breaking into our midst — through our bodies, our actions, our words, our work, our prayers.
The Spirit of God is writing a story in your life. One great human story made up of billions of smaller, no less significant ones.
So: what stories do you find yourself caught up in? Who or what is narrating your life — your fears, your imagination, your anger, your desires, your affections, maybe even your worship?
Jamie Smith puts it this way: our identity and our loves are shaped liturgically, precisely because liturgies are rituals and practices that constitute embedded stories. Both secular and sacred liturgies are rituals of ultimate concern that form our identity and communicate particular visions of the good life. They are effective because they are absorbed into what I called our habitus — what feels effortless. We start to absorb these stories. Smith is not dividing secular and sacred into bad and good — he's simply highlighting that we are all worshipers, all formed by our practices, whether explicitly religious or not.
A New Dimension
I want to close with Alexander Schmemann, an Orthodox priest and theologian I've learned a great deal from. He sees communion as a representative picture of life with God. Here's how he reflects on where our lives of worship are headed as Christians:
"The liturgy of the Eucharist is best understood as a journey or a procession. It is the journey of the church into the dimension of the kingdom. We use the word 'dimension' because it seems like the best way to indicate the manner of our sacramental entrance into the risen life of Christ."
He then uses the image of a stereoscope — or a View-Master, if you grew up in the 80s. You put it up to your eyes, look through the lenses, and a two-dimensional image suddenly opens up into three dimensions. Depth appears, though nothing was added. You simply gain the capacity to see in a new way.
Schmemann says that's what worship is like. It's not an escape from the world. It's the arrival at a vantage point from which you can see more deeply into the reality of the world. Not a retreat into a private religious feeling, but an opening of a new dimension.
Counter-formation isn't about upsetting the status quo just to be different. The habitus of Jesus isn't a self-improvement program. The living sacrifice Paul describes in Romans 12 — your body, your habits, your desires — is slowly reoriented to God over time. And that is how God gives you the ability to see a fourth dimension. We call it the kingdom of God. And then somehow, we walk right into it and inhabit a new way to be human.
