Living Between Two Worlds: Faith and Daily Life

As I watch my grandchildren grow into adulthood—intelligent, sincere, morally serious, and outwardly faithful—I find myself both grateful and troubled. Grateful because they identify as Orthodox Christians, value the Church, and do not reject God. Troubled because I see a widening gap between the faith they profess and the life they actually live. They do not seem to have an awareness an aim of their life that is consistent with their religion, a union with God for eternal life. What unsettles me most is that I recognize this same pattern in myself, both now and especially earlier in my life.

This is not about rebellion or disbelief. It is a story of division—not always conscious, often unexamined, and deeply shaped by the world we inhabit.

My grandchildren live busy, responsible lives. They work hard, plan carefully, and pursue good things. They speak respectfully about prayer, understand the sacramental life, and know—at least intellectually—that God should be central. Yet spiritual practices like prayer are often postponed, squeezed out by schedules, or quietly assumed to be optional. Decisions about work, time, travel, and goals are made thoughtfully, but almost entirely without reference to God and His purpose for us. Faith remains real, but it does not appear to guide. Life appears spiritually aimless.

I don’t see this as hypocrisy. It is something far more subtle and far more common: a life lived with two parallel worldviews without a clear purpose of life. 

It is like we were born into a life with a spiritual purpose but dropped into a world with a different purpose. It's like we are in a some kind of cocoon with the need to be transformed but that needs transformation is hazy.

On the one hand, there is the sacramental worldview of their faith they claim and believe. God exists. The Church is true. The sacraments matter. Prayer is necessary. Orthodoxy is part of their identity. On the other hand, there is the worldview that actually governs daily life—a secular rhythm shaped by efficiency, personal fulfillment, experience, and self-direction. One that ignores any spiritual aim. God is not denied, but He is rarely consulted. Prayer is affirmed, but not relied upon. Faith is respected, but not operative.

In practical terms, it looks something like this:

• God is trusted with salvation, but not with daily direction.
• Prayer is seen as important, but not necessary.
• Life choices are made responsibly, but not prayerfully with spiritual aim.
• The world is experienced as a field of options, not a place of offering or spiritual growth
• Life is about success in societal terms, not preparing for eternal life.

This produces what I can only describe as a divided attention—a soul pulled between two ways of understanding reality.

What makes this difficult to address is that nothing appears “wrong.” Life is successful. Relationships are stable. Plans are exciting. Travel is enriching. From the outside, everything looks good. And because nothing feels sinful or destructive, the deeper question is never asked: What is my life for before God?

I see this clearly when I watch how experiences are planned, like travel. Trips are designed to see, enjoy, and consume what has not yet been seen—beautiful cities, famous sites, memorable experiences. There is nothing inherently wrong with this. But rarely is the question asked whether such journeys are meant to shape the soul, deepen prayer, cultivate gratitude, or orient the heart more fully toward God. The journey has purpose, but not spiritual direction.

I recognize this because I have lived it myself.

There were many years when I believed deeply, attended church, and affirmed the faith—yet functioned as if my daily life were something I had to manage on my own. I made good decisions, careful decisions, even moral decisions. But I did not always make the offered decisions. I did not instinctively bring my plans, my time, or my desires before God. Prayer was real, but it was not the operating system of my life—it was a support system.

This is perhaps the heart of the problem. Many Christians today, myself included, have been formed to think of prayer as something that helps life, rather than something that runs it. We turn to God when things go wrong, when we are overwhelmed, or when we feel the need for comfort. But we do not naturally turn to Him when things are going well, when opportunities arise, or when choices seem harmless and exciting.

The deeper loss in all of this is the loss of vocation. When life is no longer experienced as a calling from God, it becomes a project of self-authorship. Work becomes career-building. Travel becomes experience-gathering. Time becomes something to manage. Even faith becomes something we fit in rather than something we live from.

I do not believe this condition is unique to young adults. I see it in myself, in peers, and in entire communities. It is the air we breathe. We have inherited a world that teaches us—quietly and constantly—that we are responsible for creating meaning, direction, and fulfillment on our own. God may exist, but life is ours to design.

And yet, the Orthodox vision of life says something radically different: that life itself is an offering, that the world is sacramental, and that nothing—work, rest, travel, success, or failure—is spiritually neutral. God created us with a purpose to become like Him so we can return to His kingdom with eternalize what his life ends and a new one begins.

What gives me hope is that this divided life is not necessarily a final state. Often it is a stage, one shaped by modern conditions rather than conscious rejection. Integration tends to come slowly, sometimes through suffering, sometimes through stillness, sometimes through the quiet realization that self-direction has limits. I know from my own life that I have lived through many stages.

As a grandfather, and as someone still learning myself, I have come to believe that my role is to live, as best I can, a more integrated life. A life where prayer is not forced but natural. Where my acts become more like Christ's. Where I am constantly aware of His presence in me. Where decisions are discerned, not merely optimized. Where God is not invoked only in crisis, but consulted in freedom.

If my grandchildren—or anyone—are ever to bridge the divide between the sacramental faith they profess and the secular rhythm they live, it will be through seeing that such integration is possible, life-giving, real, and necessary for eternal life.

And that work, I am still learning, begins with me.