When Spiritual Teachers Disappoint: Returning to What Is Steady

I recently reflected on a post about feeling disillusioned with modern spiritual teachers. It resonated deeply with me, because I have walked that path myself.

There was a time when I was drawn to authors like Doreen Virtue, a former New Age teacher who later embraced Christianity; Marianne Williamson, a spiritual writer and political activist; and Caroline Myss, a medical intuitive and author on personal empowerment. I was searching for something mystical, something beyond ordinary explanations of life, and their words spoke to that longing.

But over time, something shifted.

Spiritual teachers are human. They are not God. Some grow in humility and depth, while others may drift toward certainty that feels rigid or disconnected from the quiet spirit they once expressed.

When Doreen Virtue converted to Christianity, that did not trouble me — conversion is personal. What unsettled me was her criticism of Christian mysticism, particularly Orthodox mysticism, and what felt to me like quoting Scripture without its fuller context. I try not to judge her path. Still, I had to discern what was right for mine. Later, when she described her earlier work as influenced by darkness, I quietly let those books go — not in anger, but to protect my spiritual clarity.

With Marianne Williamson, I have a different experience. I still find insight in her writing, though I sometimes sense tension between spiritual language and political expression. I hold both appreciation and caution together.

With Caroline Myss, I feel something steadier. Even if I might disagree politically at times, I sense integrity — that she largely lives what she teaches. That congruence matters.

Living through disillusionment — whether with spiritual leaders, politicians, public figures, or even a local priest — has taught me something important: no human leader is infallible. Only Christ is steady.

My faith is grounded in Christ and in the life of the Eastern Orthodox Church, where we are constantly reminded of human imperfection. My mother often reminded me of this when I became critical of leaders or clergy: they are human.

Disillusionment, for me now, is no longer a crisis. It is an invitation.

In the Orthodox tradition, mysticism is not about ego or personal light. It is about grace — God working within the heart through humility and repentance. Saints like Gregory Palamas, a Byzantine theologian and mystic, taught that inner transformation is participation in God’s uncreated light — not our own brilliance.

This understanding is shared across the wider Christian tradition. In the Catholic Church, mystical saints such as Saint Teresa of Avila, a Carmelite mystic, and Saint Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits and spiritual guide, show that authentic mysticism is disciplined, discerning, and deeply Christ-centred. Their experiences were never about elevating themselves. They were about surrender — allowing God to purify the heart.

True mysticism, whether Eastern or Western, does not inflate the ego. It humbles it.

Public figures change. Spiritual movements shift. Political leaders rise and fall. Even priests can disappoint.

But my walk with Christ does not rise or fall with any one personality.

I am learning to stay anchored.

To grow quietly.

To pray more and react less.

To stop placing human beings on pedestals they were never meant to stand on.

Disillusionment has become a teacher. It strips away idealism, but it also deepens faith.

Because when the personalities fall away, Christ remains.

And that is steady ground.

Perhaps the deeper question is this: When the people we admire disappoint us, where do we ultimately place our trust?

Further Reading

If you enjoyed this reflection you might also like this:

When the World Feels Too Loud, and God Feels Too Quiet

Why Is Womanhood So Contested?

The Principle of Justice and Dignity

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking more deeply about justice and dignity—what they mean to me, and how consistently they are lived out in the world around us. As a Christian, I hold a deep belief in the inherent worth of every person. I believe true justice is not shaped by ideology or allegiance, but by a commitment to fairness, courage, and care for the vulnerable.

I try to hold my convictions with humility. I don’t believe in imposing beliefs on others, yet I do believe we have a responsibility to speak up when people are harmed. For me, the challenge has been learning how to do both at the same time: remaining faithful to truth while acting with compassion and restraint.

This sounds simple in theory. I’m learning how difficult it is in practice.

As Scripture reminds us in Micah 6:8, we are called “to act justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.” I find myself returning to this often—especially when justice feels uneven or difficult to apply consistently.

Noticing the Contradictions

As I’ve reflected more on conversations around women’s rights, I’ve begun to notice some uncomfortable tensions. Again and again, I see moments where the principles we speak about—justice, compassion, and human dignity—are applied unevenly. Some stories are elevated and defended with clarity, while others are quietly set aside or treated as too complicated to confront.

What has been hardest for me to sit with is the realisation that women themselves can sometimes, consciously or unconsciously, contribute to this imbalance. Often this happens within strong cultural, political, or ideological frameworks that reward loyalty and discourage dissent. Still, the outcome can be that policies, silences, or justifications end up harming other women.

One moment that stayed with me was in the aftermath of the October attacks in Israel carried out by Hamas. Reports described women being taken hostage and subjected to extreme violence. These accounts were widely available, yet in many public conversations—particularly among pro‑Palestinian advocates—the suffering of Israeli women seemed to receive far less attention than the suffering of civilians in Gaza.

I want to be clear: the suffering of Gaza’s civilians is real and devastating. Holding space for that should never be optional. What unsettled me was the sense that acknowledging one injustice required the minimisation of another. I found myself struggling with the idea that compassion could become selective—that some women’s suffering could be treated as secondary depending on the political narrative being defended.

I noticed a similar tension closer to home during the 2022 federal election in Sydney, particularly in the seat of Warringah. Katherine Deves ran as a Liberal candidate and became a highly controversial figure due to her views on women’s sport and single‑sex spaces. She argued that biological sex should remain central in these contexts. Her opponent, Zali Steggall, a teal independent, took a different position, emphasising inclusion and broader definitions of equality.

What struck me wasn’t simply that two women disagreed. Women disagree all the time, and rightly so. What troubled me was how quickly the conversation hardened into opposing camps, as though there were only two acceptable ways to speak about women’s rights—and any attempt at nuance was treated as hostility or harm. I remember feeling unsettled by how easily complexity disappeared, replaced by slogans and certainty.

More broadly, I’ve noticed how these tensions continue to surface in Australian public life around questions of sex, gender, and identity. There is still no shared understanding of what it means to define a “woman” across all contexts, particularly in law, sport, and public policy. Different political leaders and parties approach this question from very different perspectives, attempting to balance biological realities, gender identity, inclusion, and rights.

Watching these debates unfold, I’ve often felt that the lack of consensus is interpreted not as complexity, but as moral failure. Women in politics are frequently expected to stand united on issues affecting women, yet these debates reveal how unrealistic that expectation can be. When women take different positions, disagreement is sometimes framed as betrayal rather than good‑faith argument.

I want to say this clearly: I don’t share these reflections to blame women. I’m increasingly aware of how much pressure—cultural, ideological, relational—shapes the positions people take. Fear of exclusion, desire for belonging, and deeply held beliefs all play a role. Still, I can’t ignore the impact of these inconsistencies. When certain injustices are overlooked, the consequences can include silence, marginalisation, and, in some parts of the world, ongoing harm or violence against women.

Simply noticing these contradictions has been confronting for me. But I’m beginning to believe that this kind of honest awareness is an essential first step toward a more consistent and compassionate approach to justice.

Why Double Standards Persist

I don’t think there are easy explanations. Human societies are complex, and moral clarity is often clouded by ideology, fear, ambition, or group loyalty. Even people with good intentions can struggle to see injustice clearly when it threatens their sense of identity or belonging.

Recognising this doesn’t excuse harm—but it does help me approach these tensions with greater humility. I’m learning that naming injustice and acknowledging human vulnerability must exist together.

A Spiritual Perspective

For me, faith is not about standing above others with certainty, but about being willing to change—starting with myself. Growth, both personal and collective, often begins with discomfort. Even when situations feel deeply unjust, I believe there is still an opportunity to respond with courage and integrity.

As I sit with these reflections, I feel called to speak up for those whose voices are silenced, to defend human dignity without forcing my beliefs onto others, and to remain committed to truth even when narratives are conflicting or inconvenient. I don’t experience this as a call to judgment, but to alignment—between belief and action, conviction and compassion.

Thoughtful Action

I keep asking myself what faithfulness looks like in the face of these contradictions. For now, it means paying attention—especially to the moments that make me uncomfortable. It means resisting the urge to accept easy answers, and being honest about where silence feels safer than speaking.

It also means wanting to defend the dignity and rights of all women consistently and courageously, while choosing dialogue over dismissal and understanding over outrage. I’m learning that conviction does not require coercion, and respect does not require agreement.

Closing Reflection

I don’t believe that respect requires agreement, but I do believe it requires honesty. My own view is that no one can redefine what a woman is without doing real harm, even when the intentions are framed as compassionate or progressive.

What I cannot ignore is this: why is there such fierce controversy over what a woman is, while there is no equivalent debate about what a man is?

If equality is truly our goal, why does womanhood alone seem so open to revision?