When Hearts Go Distant

Armor, Rote Habits, And The Nervous System

From a clinical standpoint, Isaiah 29:13 describes a pattern that trauma and chronic stress create very easily: the split between outer behavior and inner reality. Our nervous system learns to survive by doing whatever keeps us safe or accepted. Sometimes that means shutting down feelings and leaning hard into performance.

When we experience betrayal, abandonment, or spiritual disappointment, our body and brain learn lessons. “If I stay vulnerable, I get hurt.” “If I show how I really feel, I get dismissed.” “If I ask honest questions, I am shamed.” Over time, those experiences shape what therapists call “procedural memory” or “implicit patterns.” We do not consciously decide to keep things surface level with God. We just stop opening up. Our prayers become more formal. Our involvement becomes more mechanical. On the outside, we are still “doing the things.” On the inside, we are frozen.

One common survival strategy is the “fawn” response. Instead of fighting or running away, we appease. We become agreeable, compliant, pleasant. In spiritual language, that can look like being the “good Christian” who never rocks the boat. We say what is expected. We serve where needed. We keep spiritual peace. Underneath, there may be resentment, emptiness, confusion, or pain that never gets voiced. Our reverence becomes “learned by rote,” because the main goal is to stay accepted, not to stay connected.

Another pattern is emotional numbing. The nervous system, tired of being on high alert, moves toward shutdown. People describe feeling “blank,” “checked out,” or “like I am going through the motions.” This can happen even in worship environments. Music plays, people around us are engaged, and we are standing there feeling almost nothing. It is not usually rebellion. It is often a protective adaptation. Our system has decided that feeling less is safer.

If we grew up in religious environments where asking questions was treated as disloyalty, we can also develop a kind of spiritual perfectionism. We cling to right answers to avoid feeling wrong or exposed. We read the Bible mainly to confirm what we already think. We pray in familiar phrases because they feel safe. The result is a life of lip service without much internal movement. Our theology might be technically correct, but our nervous system is scared, shut down, or angry, and we are not bringing that part of us into the relationship with God.

Attachment theory also sheds light here. If our early experiences taught us that caregivers were inconsistent, controlling, or unsafe, we will often carry those templates into our relationship with God. Someone with an avoidant pattern might keep emotional distance, stay self reliant, and relate to God mostly at a cognitive level. Someone with an anxious pattern might use spiritual activity to try to secure closeness, but underneath feel terrified of rejection. In both cases, it is very possible to honor God with words while the heart is guarded.

The image of an “armored heart” fits these patterns. Armor is not evil. It is understandable. It was built to survive real and perceived threats. The problem is that armor does not know the difference between past danger and present safety. It treats God like He is just another threat. So even when we have come to faith in Christ, some parts of us still live in survival mode. Those parts keep worship at a safe distance. They keep prayer polite. They keep Scripture at the level of information rather than invitation.

Healing rarely starts by ripping off the armor. It begins with naming it. When we can say, “God, my heart feels far from You,” or “I notice I say all the right things but I feel frozen inside,” we have already taken a step out of rote tradition and into honest relationship. The nervous system begins to relax when truth is spoken. Honest awareness is itself regulating.

From there, trauma informed practice focuses on small, consistent experiences of safety and connection. That might look like simple breathwork that signals to the body, “I am safe enough to feel a little more.” It might look like journaling what we really think and then inviting Jesus into that space, instead of editing it down to what we think He wants to hear. It might include wise counseling, where we begin to connect our history of hurt with our present guardedness in spiritual life.

The important point is this: a heart that has been armored for years will not trust quickly, even if the mind agrees with a sermon. We need both truth and nervous system support. Isaiah 29:13 names the split between lips and heart. The gospel offers the power to be whole again. Clinical tools give us practical ways to walk that journey, so that our body, brain, and heart can slowly learn that it is actually safe to be real with God.