Colossians 2:18

The apostle Paul wrote this letter to a church in a city called Colossae, which was under pressure from teachers claiming to have superior spiritual knowledge — elaborate visions of angels and strict religious rituals — that they insisted were required to truly draw close to God. Paul pushes back firmly: these teachers, despite their appearance of deep spirituality and self-effacing humility, were actually being driven by unspiritual thinking and inflated egos. "False humility" here refers to a performance of modesty that quietly elevated the teacher's spiritual status above everyone else in the room. Paul's argument throughout this entire letter is that Jesus alone is sufficient — no angelic intermediaries, secret visions, or religious add-ons required.

God, I don't always notice when my spiritual life starts becoming about me — about being seen as someone who hears from you, who has depth, who knows. Keep me honest. Let what happens between us stay between us, and let the only proof be a life that quietly looks more like love. Amen.

There is a particular kind of spiritual pride that is almost impossible to call out because it wears the costume of humility. The person who always has a vision to share, a direct word from God that happens to confirm their importance, an experiential depth that positions them — subtly but unmistakably — above the people sitting next to them. Paul isn't being cynical. He is being protective. He'd watched this pattern destroy communities before, and he knew how it ended: not with people drawn closer to God, but with people drawn into orbit around a self-appointed spiritual authority. The question this verse quietly asks you isn't whether spiritual experiences are real — they can be. The question is what those experiences are doing *to you*. Is your spiritual life producing a humility you don't need to announce, a love that doesn't require an audience, a service that doesn't keep score? Real encounter with God tends to make people less certain of their own superiority, not more. If you find yourself needing others to know how deep you've gone, it might be worth asking whether you've actually been somewhere — or just somewhere impressive-sounding.