The Enduring Crisis of Utilitarian Faith: From Spectacle to Submission

The human heart harbors a pervasive temptation: to reduce the Creator of the universe to a mere tool for personal gain or comfort. This ancient spiritual pathology, deeply embedded in the narrative of faith, manifests whenever people approach divine revelation not with a spirit of surrender, but with a calculated appetite for self-benefit. From the ancient exiles to the crowds following Jesus, we see a consistent pattern: religious adherence masquerading as devotion, yet fundamentally driven by a pursuit of personal advantage.

Consider the Judean exiles gathered around the prophet Ezekiel. They listened intently, their bodies seated in pious attention, creating an outward display of reverence. Yet, God Himself declared that their hearts were actually far away, journeying after "unjust gain"—a term (betsa) implying aggressive, violent self-interest and exploitation. For these listeners, Ezekiel was not a watchman sounding a life-or-death alarm, but a "singer of love songs," an aesthetic object whose passionate delivery provided emotional catharsis or intellectual entertainment. They appreciated the performance, the beautiful voice, the well-played instrument, but they neutralized the message, divorcing the aesthetics from the demand for obedience. The prophetic word became a momentary diversion from their relentless pursuit of worldly wealth and security.

Centuries later, a similar dynamic unfolded with the Galilean crowds following Jesus. After experiencing the miraculous feeding of thousands, they were filled and satisfied. Their zeal, however, was exposed as fundamentally carnal. Jesus Himself revealed their true motive: they sought Him not because they grasped the spiritual "signs" of His divine identity, but because they "ate their fill of the loaves." The Greek term used for "ate their fill" (chortazo) carries the nuance of animals being stuffed with fodder, a stark and almost satirical rebuke. They wanted a "Bread King," a Messiah who would perpetually solve their physical hunger and political oppression, a constant provider for their bodily appetites. The miracle was seen as a provision to be consumed, not a sign pointing to a deeper, transformative truth about the Giver of life.

When we examine these two distinct historical moments, a powerful insight emerges: the spiritual consumer is an enduring archetype. Both the exiles and the Galileans adopted the form of discipleship—gathering, listening, pursuing—but their motive was entirely self-serving. They craved the benefits of God without the demands of His Lordship. Their ears heard, their eyes saw, their stomachs were filled, but their hearts remained untransformed, unwilling to embrace the deeper call to surrender.

This spiritual ailment—the objectification of God—is rampant today. The Prosperity Gospel, for instance, echoes the desire for betsa and chortazo , promising financial wealth and physical health as primary evidences of God’s favor. It encourages seeking God for the loaves and the gain , rather than for God Himself. Similarly, entertainment-driven models of church, focused on aesthetic excellence and emotional uplift, risk reducing the proclamation of God's Word to a "lovely song." If congregants leave a service feeling "moved" or "entertained" but their hearts remain committed to worldly pursuits and their lives untouched by obedience, they are spiritual kin to Ezekiel's audience. This spiritual consumerism creates a culture where people "shop" for the church that best satisfies their desires for comfort, programs, or emotional experience, rather than one that challenges them to die to self and abide in Christ.

The true disciple, like Peter, turns from the ephemeral "loaves" to the enduring "words of eternal life," recognizing that ultimate satisfaction and meaning are found not in what God can do for us, but in who He is and in abiding with Him. Let us therefore dismantle any idols of utility in our hearts and approach our Creator with sincere submission, seeking Him for Himself alone, and striving for a faith that is marked by radical obedience and genuine communion.