In the early 1940s, C. S. Lewis wrote in his famous book, Mere Christianity, “Already the new people are dotted here and there all over the earth.  Some are hardly recognizable: but others can be quickly recognized. Every now and then you’ll meet one. Their very voices and faces are different from ours: stronger, quieter, happier, more radiant.  They begin where most of us leave off…They will not be very like the idea of ‘religious people’ which you have formed from your general sense.  They don’t draw attention to themselves.  You tend to think that you are being kind to them when they are really being kind to you.  They love you more than others do, but they need you less.” 

Perhaps you have recognized some of these benevolent souls when you crossed paths along life’s journey: in a diner or shop, outside in a park or on a trail, or at a gathering or event.  If so, through a brief glance or verbal exchange, you got a sense that the individual operates on a higher level—maybe you saw it in the deep-seated eyes on the wrinkled face of an aged person, the innocent beauty or wonder of a child, or someone who reassures your belief in old souls, trail angels, or wisdom figures.  You probably left the encounter desiring the good of others—all others—and it registered that you just touched a sacred space to which we give names like nirvana, heaven, utopia, or peace.  These unique people reinforce our sense that we are primarily spiritual, not physical, that we are cosmic and relational more than finite and trapped, that we belong more to the whole world or another world than we do to this one existence or this one moment, and that we are one in God.  Through scenes like these we are made aware that synchronous love is woven into the universe’s fabric.

I contrast this with the many religious people who are content with the concept of a cultic God shaped by their ecclesial tradition, but who aren’t interested in knowing more or going deeper.  The twentieth century, western hemisphere, and organized religious structures molded them; but they are fewer now—a dying breed.  And they are being replaced by the people Lewis describes; people who’re aware that religion has, often enough, gotten in the way of faith. These “new” people are attracted to church as a godly community but are repulsed by church as a bureaucratic institution.  For them, the faith-filled path to happiness and wisdom is a spiritual journey but not necessarily a religious one.  They realize, as some spiritualists attest, that religion might only be in its infancy stage–adolescent at best.

While religion is a belief system, spirituality is not a belief.  It is an innate aspect of our human creation.  Everyone has faith but not everyone has faith in God.  It seems that Popes Francis and Leo want us to usher in a new method in which faith and religion become more united.  I think the synodal process of gathering, listening, welcoming the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and moving forward together is an effort to urge religion to more mature ways of existing, to help people ascend to transformative levels.

We know that, occasionally, a religious experience, Christian tradition, or Catholic ritual can spark a strong-rooted connection that awakens someone to a sense of peace, to a transcendent level, or to a unitive moment with the divine.  I have witnessed something like this at death beds where some had been unresponsive for days until a certain prayer awakened their oneness with God and those around them. Yet that end-of-life scenario takes place at other stages of human existence, too.  Every spiritually dormant human yearns for an awakening or invitation to an elevated state of grace.  I think that synodal people—or people who embrace a synodal style of living faith—will help religion and spirituality walk hand in hand so that more of us become the kind of people that Lewis describes.